Frume Sarah's World

My parents paid for 13 years of piano lessons…and I stink! I really do. Whenever I tell people that I am awful, they reply, “Oh, you’re just being modest.” No, I am being honest — there’s a big difference between modest and honest, let me tell you.

When I was nine, I saw the movie “Ice Castles” and as a result, I begged my parents for skating lessons. My mother bought me a blue ice skating dress, just like the one that Lynn Holly Johnson wore in the movie. That was the ONLY thing I had in common with her. She could skate…and I , sadly, could not. It was awful. I was one of the oldest in the beginning class and the clumsiest. It really was an awful experience. After much cajoling and pleading, my parents allowed me to quit after only a few lessons.

And I heard about it for YEARS….

Anytime I tried something new and wanted to give it up, I would hear “this is just like ice skating.”

So for 13 long and harrowing years, I stuck with the piano. Poor piano. Having to suffer my plunking away on the keys with no hope of improvement.

I like to blame my mother for her poor criteria in selecting a piano teacher, but it wasn’t really her fault. “Mrs. M” was a very nice lady with a great deal of patience. Could she read music? Sure. Motivating? Not particularly. Cruel? Absolutely not! What made her the perfect teacher? She came to the house! I am not kidding. With four kids, my mother needed to get someone who would come to the house and give the older 3 (and the baby eventaully as well) lessons so that she didn’t have to schlep us somewhere. Not exactly Carnegie Hall qualifications…but my mother’s goal was just for us to learn musicianship. And so…she reached her goal.

The truth is that Mrs. M was a softie and there were never any consequences for not practicing. In fact, I seem to recall that most weeks I was able to divert Mrs. M’s attention enough that she didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t practiced in months.

When I graduated college with Music degree in hand (voice, not piano!), I decided to quit. I really felt that I had given piano a true shot and no matter how much I did practice, I wasn’t ever going to get much better.

It turns out that I was playing the wrong instrument. Guitar is the one that I should have been playing, though I suspect that the only reason I’ve been able to figure out the guitar so quickly is in no small part to my years of playing the piano.

My current repetoire as of 07/21/05:
Shalom Chaverim
Bim Bam/Shabbat Shalom
Shabbat is Here
Hineh Mah Tov – 2 versions
Mitzvah Goreret Mitzvah
Lo Alecha
Elijah Rock – cool, huh Dad?!?
Ani V’Ata
Artik
Heiveinu Shalom Alechem
Sh’ma – Sultzer
Bar’chu – Siegal
Mah Yafeh Hayom
The Whole World is Waiting
HaMotzi
Etz Chayim Hee/Shalom

The upshot?

If my parents were hoping for a concert pianist, they wasted their money. But if they were hoping for a strumming Rabbi…well, it was money well spent!

[And the title?

An allusion to a true story about my father’s childhood friends, the Lucks boys. One day, Mrs. Lucks was doing her marketing when she was appproached by her sons’ Hebrew School teacher, Mrs. (Frances) Wilkotz (pronounced Veel-kotz!), who exclaimed, “Mrs. Lucks! You are vaste-ing your money!”

Rebgiraffe writes:
“Our first day in class, Mrs. Wilkotz began to call the roll:

Ber-ko-VICH? (meaning, Is Jeff Berkowitz present?)

Ein-SHtein? (meaning…you know)

At that point, we were all literally on the floor laughing.

Teaching a group of American Jewish boys (and a few girls) was no easy task for this Hungarian-born, Polish-raised woman who always said the word “scholar” with reverence. Zichrona liv’racha.”]

I have wanted to play the guitar for years. When I started rabbinical school, I was amazed to find that many of my classmates had been playing for years. And since I am a singer, I thought it was a skill that I should develop. For my 23rd birthday, which I celebrated during my Israel year, my grandparents “bought” me a guitar. I love how my grandparents work. They lovingly write a check, helping us to fund the desired gift. Easy. They don’t have to run around crazy, looking for the right gift — nor do they have to worry that we won’t like what they selected. They know that they are in fact presenting us with the opportunity to get exactly what we want.

In any event, I went to the music store in Jerusalem and despite the salesguy’s poor English and my awful Hebrew, I walked out with a beautiful guitar. My classmate Ellie Miller drew out the most important guitar chords for songleading, and I went to work.

If this was the movie version…well, let’s just say that it didn’t exactly take!!

No matter how much I practiced — and boy did I practice a lot that year — my fingers were killing me! Not the tips. I had that under control once I developed the all-important calluses. It’s just that my fingers didn’t seem long enough to play some of the necessary chords (like C and F!). I did stretching exercises — to no avail.

Over the years, I would pick up my beautiful guitar and try again. But I just couldn’t do it.

And then I discovered the problem — it was the guitar!

I’m not trying to put blame where it doesn’t belong. It really was the guitar. It seems that small hands require a smaller neck on the guitar and the guitar I had purchased was not the right guitar for my hands.

So for my 34th birthday this year, I purchased a Baby Taylor (lovingly funded by my grandparents and other family members).

And if this was the movie version…well, let’s just say that I was a little busy this year!

Camp started at the J this week, and I am the Camp Rabbi. We don’t have a songleader and on Monday, I decided that camp just wouldn’t be camp without a songleading Rabbi.

On Monday, I learned “Shalom Chaverim.”
On Tuesday, I learned “HaMotzi.”
On Wednesday, I learned “The Whole World is Waiting…”
On Thursday, I learned “Bim Bam/Shabbat Shalom.”
Today, I am working on “HaTikvah,” “Ma Yafeh HaYom,” and “Hinei Ma Tov.”

Pressure can be a wonderful thing 😉

Gut Shabbos to all!!!

It isn’t that I haven’t had anything to say these past months. It’s just that my life has been so overwhelming and overscheduled that I truly couldn’t find the time to sit and put my thoughts on screen.

And then I started running…

On 21 May, I began training for a marathon. And it was suggested to me by a freelance writer that I keep track of my journey online so that others can read about all my hard work. A great idea, I must say! And so the Running Rabbi was born. Yep — I have my own website — http://www.runningrabbi.com. And so I’ve started keeping a running commentary (thanks, C, for that clever little phrase!)about my journey from couch potato to athlete. Not really certain how many people are actually reading it, but it is keeping my family amused and when I read it over, I am reminded of the improvement I make each week of the training program.

What is truly amazing is that I can do it. I really didn’t think that I could. Even once I’d signed up for this program, I wasn’t entirely convinced that my body could be trained to do what I wanted it to do. Quite honestly, my body would much rather be in bed early on a Shabbos morning — or on the couch eating doughnuts — or expressing its slothfulness in some other fashion. My body is quite accomplished at all three of said activities. Amazingly, however, my body is beginning to acclimate to the constant motion.

And I am tired…

[This was a sermon that I delivered this past Shabbos. Many thanks to Rabbi Nina Beth Cardin, whose exquisite work Tears of Sorrow, Tears of Hope, formed the basis of much of this sermon. Listening to Neshama Carlebach’s recording of Return Again helped give voice to the anguish in my soul, and I used it in my sermon as well.}

[Hum the A section of Return Again]

My soul is aching. It has been all week. Ever since I arrived at work on Monday and was informed that one of the moms in our school delivered a daughter who was stillborn early that morning. All week I have tried to help our staff as they mourn the loss of life that was not to be. All week, I have felt the impact of a loss that I pray will never be mine.

Where can we find comfort? A baby born still leaves the family with no memories other than those tinged with grief. The fragments of dreams and unfulfilled hopes are strewn about, and we try to comprehend the reality of a life with such overwhelming sadness.

Our tradition teaches: “What does God do in the heavenly realm? God sits and teaches the little children who have died.” (Avodah Zara 3b)

How angry we are at a God who would allow such tragedy! What meaning can possibly be found in the death of one who has yet to take a single breath??

The rabbis were not immune to these feelings. Living in a time of high infant mortality, they were no strangers to the loss of children, and struggled with the same crises of faith as we do today. For them, and now for us, comfort was found in images of God as parent, teacher, and companion to the child.

When the rabbis imagined the World to Come, they often envisioned a yeshiva shel maalah, an academy on high, with God as the Consumate Teacher of Torah and themselves as eternal students. In the days of the World to Come, the rabbis say that the righteous will sit with crowns of light on their heads, basking in the radiance of God, who sits before them. And when the rabbis sought comfort over the loss of their children, when they tried to imagine where these perfect little ones had gone, they imagined that the children would live forever in the presence of God, the Parent of Parents and the Teacher of Teachers. More than that, the rabbis believed that it was not they alone who were comforted by this vision; God, the One who Weeps with us, was comforted as well.

[Hum the B section of Return Again]

Job wrote, “A life blossoms like a flower and withers, it vanishes like a shadow and does not endure…The length of our days are set; the number of our months are with You. You set limits that we cannot pass.” (Job 14:2, 5)

When a child is born still, that flower never blossoms. The mother and father arrive expectantly at the hospital, but return home with empty arms and a grieving heart. Ein od t’fillah bis’fatai, I am empty of prayer. That space is filled instead with tears. With shadows. We cannot yet form the words to praise Your Name, O God. So accept our tears instead. The Midrash teaches us that while all the other gates of heaven may close, the gates of tears are always open.

For many generations, traditional Jewish practice has long held that there is to be no official mourning for an infant who dies before reaching thirty days of life. There are historical reasons for this. In the Middle Ages, when Jewish Law was being codified, large numbers of infants did not survive birth. To the Rabbis of the time, relieving parents of the obligation to mourn a stillborn or an infant that was less than a month old was viewed as compassionate. Medical technology has advanced to the point that most pregnancies are viable and babies who are born with critical conditions can often be brought to health rather than die as they would have in the past. Therefore, the liberal Jewish community, recognizing that the prior Halakha robs the parents of the opportunity to mourn their child in an appropriately Jewish manner, encourages the burial of babies who are born still in order to provide their families an opportunity to begin the long healing process that often starts with burial.

[Hum the A section again]

My heart is breaking. When I am faced with a crisis, I respond by buying books. Getting my hands on anything that will give me an explanation. Some understanding. Guidance. Anything. I slip into my daughter’s room at night. Poppyseed, the lightest of sleepers, rouses and blinks in the dark as if to say, “Mommy, what are you doing here.” “I just wanted to be sure of you,” I whisper. Beernut catches me staring at him. “Are you OK, Mommy? You have a funny look.” I hug him tightly, thanking God for having him each day.

What could I possibly say or do that will bring consolation? What can I, as a rabbi, do to fill the emptiness? What can we do as a community do to acknowledge the loss of one who never knew the breath of life that comes from God? How can we provide comfort to the broken-hearted?

David Morawetz, a grieving father writes in Go Gently:
Some people give me advice:
“You must have another.
You must talk a lot about it.
You can grow through this.”
I am angry.
Some try to make it better:
“It could have been worse.
You must appreciate what you’ve got.
Life goes on.”
I want to yell:
“You are right, but that is for me to say.”
Some try desperately to avoid the subject:
I feel disappointed, disconnected.

Then there are those, the blessed ones,
who say in so many ways the only thing I need to hear.
“I am so sorry, David,”
“I am with you, David.”
The ones who, even five weeks later, ask gently, as if for the first time:
“How are you today?”
“How are you doing now?”
These bring tears to my eyes.
These you could not buy with gold.

Ultimately, it is our presence and acknowledgement of the child that can bring some amount of strength to the mourners.

El Malei Rachamin, God full of compassion, place these tiniest of beginnings, these slight and small beginnings, these tiny and tender roots, lacking form and countenance, but still desired and loved, among the holy and pure ones who shine brilliantly as the heavens. May You always envelope them in Your Eternal embrace.

[Sing lyrics of Return Again]

Return to who you are,
Return to what you are,
Return to where you are born and reborn again.

Return again,
Return again,
Return to the land of your soul.

It is that time of the month again! Well, yes that time of the month too. But I was actually referring to Migraine-time.

To say that I only started having Migraines would be only partially true. In fact, I suspect that I have been having them for years. What would be a more accurate statement is that I was only recently diagnosed with Migraines. It took a trip to the Urgent Care clinic over Thanksgiving weekend with a headache that no OTC medicine (or some other-wise prescribed pills in our medicine cabinet) could come close to touching before I realized that its not actually normal to have pain that brings me to my knees (quite literally, sometimes).

Friday night it began. I took my medication and made it through services. My head was still rather achy on Saturday and Sunday it was back in full force. One problem — I was out of Imitrex and didn’t get a chance to get refill it before my very long day started. PC (that’s Prince Charming for the uninitiated!) didn’t pick it up (too long to explain now) and during dinner, I just had it. The sounds, the noises, the smells — everything! I actually contemplated going to the ER for help. The vision of boring a hole in my temple (not the shul type…the one attached to my head) in order to release the pressure always arises at this point a a truly viable option.

After a run to the drugstore, relief was just one pill away. That and some Tiger Balm on the temples and a cool, quiet, dark bedroom. It still took about 45 minutes to kick in, but the relief is almost unbearable — if that makes sense. It is like removing a throbbing, searing band that has been constricting your brain — the pain is so constant that the absence of it can set one off-balance.



As I explained to Beernut that I wasn’t able to put him to bed and that he would have to come into my room for bedtime prayers, I wondered if he will look back on all the times that I need to lie down in the dark as having some negative effect on his childhood. Hope not. Can’t really help it, anyway. And he’ll need something to discuss with the therapist…

That is the motto of our regional softball team. Betcha didn’t know that rabbis play softball!!! To be honest, not all rabbi play. Actually, I don’t play. But I do own an official shirt because I support my colleagues that do play. Each year (well, last year) we play our Conservative colleagues. This year we were rained out, but I expect this crazy tradition to resume next January!

I love rabbis! I really do 😉 I look forward each year to our annual gathering in the local desert.

Coming back to reality, however, is always abrupt. Way too many things to complete and far too little time…

More after Shabbos!