Why do open-ended assignments leave me bathed in loneliness?
Why do I crave structure? Why does the freedom to schedule my day leave me feeling adrift rather than invigorated?
Why do I feel lonely in crowds and connected in a room with but another soul?
Two of my closest friends from Chicago are not here right now. And then I will leave before they return. It is a strange feeling to leave a city I have grown up in; to leave a community not really feeling a part of it anymore, without these people I love to send me off.
I suppose we are destined to travel, not only in pursuit of new connections but also to chase after the people we love.
And I realized recently that while I'm not always likable the connections I do make can amaze me. Conversations with some friends seem to generate wisdom, and enrich my understanding of my own ideas and questions.
I need to find peace with being alone. I need to accept time I spend alone as valuable. This is a goal.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Alice
I look at the woman who just walked in the door. She is tall, with wide hips and narrow shoulders. She has soft bangs, straight teeth and a hesitant smile. She’s waiting for the world to pounce, to tell her to go home and never come out again.
She’s a supermarket cashier, a woman with a lilting Midwestern accent, acquired from a childhood spent in Ida-ho, who is now 20 years in Israel, living and breathing Hebrew, and fumbling for words in English.
She has children here, an ex-husband too, whose car she borrowed to come this evening, to share Reiki with strangers. Amazing how she has the confidence to bring people together to heal each other, but not to leave her job and pursue greater challenges, challenges she hungers for but will not think herself capable of conquering. She tells me of her flaws, of her shortcomings, of all the things that hold her back. But never stories of triumphs.
Alice reminds me of a version of myself I have long since buried, a woman who believed in everyone else but herself. Who saw beauty around her but never in the mirror. And yet, I can sense in Alice a quiet intelligence, curiosity and resilience. I suggest to her jobs, that I sense instinctively she would succeed in, but she dismisses each with new sets of self-doubts.
Every day, I see people employed in jobs that seem stultifying and exhausting—as security guards, truck drivers…even cashiers. I witness lives of seeming monotony and I marvel. Maybe it’s not that we have jobs that suit our abilities, or our hunger for challenge; rather, we do what we are willing to believe we are capable of, or what society deems we have the education or experience to manage. Maybe we are differentiated more by our belief in our ability than by our ability itself.
She’s a supermarket cashier, a woman with a lilting Midwestern accent, acquired from a childhood spent in Ida-ho, who is now 20 years in Israel, living and breathing Hebrew, and fumbling for words in English.
She has children here, an ex-husband too, whose car she borrowed to come this evening, to share Reiki with strangers. Amazing how she has the confidence to bring people together to heal each other, but not to leave her job and pursue greater challenges, challenges she hungers for but will not think herself capable of conquering. She tells me of her flaws, of her shortcomings, of all the things that hold her back. But never stories of triumphs.
Alice reminds me of a version of myself I have long since buried, a woman who believed in everyone else but herself. Who saw beauty around her but never in the mirror. And yet, I can sense in Alice a quiet intelligence, curiosity and resilience. I suggest to her jobs, that I sense instinctively she would succeed in, but she dismisses each with new sets of self-doubts.
Every day, I see people employed in jobs that seem stultifying and exhausting—as security guards, truck drivers…even cashiers. I witness lives of seeming monotony and I marvel. Maybe it’s not that we have jobs that suit our abilities, or our hunger for challenge; rather, we do what we are willing to believe we are capable of, or what society deems we have the education or experience to manage. Maybe we are differentiated more by our belief in our ability than by our ability itself.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
11.7.2009: Jerusalem Hotel
Yesh l’cha esh? Do you have a light? She asked.
Yes, they responded. I don’t think I had heard Hebrew in the Jerusalem Hotel before, but my friend lives in Tel Aviv, and there they don’t think about speaking different languages on different sides of the city.
And he paused…”May I inquire, why did you ask in Hebrew?”
Her reply…”well, we’re in Israel…”
Yes, they responded. I don’t think I had heard Hebrew in the Jerusalem Hotel before, but my friend lives in Tel Aviv, and there they don’t think about speaking different languages on different sides of the city.
And he paused…”May I inquire, why did you ask in Hebrew?”
Her reply…”well, we’re in Israel…”
Saturday, July 4, 2009
22.6.09 Jerusalem Drag Show
Midnight in Jerusalem. The streets are quiet, dark, deserted. Peek around corners, though, and noise leaks out, betraying celebration.
This, too, is Jerusalem. Queens and kings parading and singing and flirting, cracking crude jokes. Laughter (some of it nervous) all around. Boys in kippahs, kissing. Girls embracing, dancing with abandon.
The show is over. In the corner, she removes her wig, bra, corset, stockings, and heels, and slips on her army fatigues. Furiously, she scrubs her face, ridding it of its proud femininity. In the morning, he is a soldier again.
This, too, is Jerusalem. Queens and kings parading and singing and flirting, cracking crude jokes. Laughter (some of it nervous) all around. Boys in kippahs, kissing. Girls embracing, dancing with abandon.
The show is over. In the corner, she removes her wig, bra, corset, stockings, and heels, and slips on her army fatigues. Furiously, she scrubs her face, ridding it of its proud femininity. In the morning, he is a soldier again.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
22.6.09 Bethlehem Checkpoint
4:30 AM. Wake up call for the overnight crowd. They’ve been sleeping—napping?—since 1 AM, their heads resting on cardboard, to soften the blow of the metal grates. Cardboard, isn’t that for homeless people? These men have jobs.
There are maybe 2000 men, 50 women. Where are all the women? What happened to feminism? No women in this workforce. And the men, they aren’t meant to be like this. They aren’t meant to be treated like this.
Like a human cattle call, men are herded through the queue. The clock strikes 5 and the push begins. No room to breathe. Bodies stacked vertically, limbs contorted, sticking out of the metal bars that rein them in. The queue is like a long and twisted prison.
Bodies slam into the turnstile, which spins like a carousel, until it brakes, with a start, unpredictably. At the whim of a child—sometimes the soldier, he falls asleep. How can you blame him? The monotony is exhausting.
Awaiting the metal detector’s rejection, the men remove their belts, shoes, watches. Good thing the floor is clean. Mess would be bad for tourism.
The final step—the handprint. So if you blow something up, they’ll know it was you?
There are maybe 2000 men, 50 women. Where are all the women? What happened to feminism? No women in this workforce. And the men, they aren’t meant to be like this. They aren’t meant to be treated like this.
Like a human cattle call, men are herded through the queue. The clock strikes 5 and the push begins. No room to breathe. Bodies stacked vertically, limbs contorted, sticking out of the metal bars that rein them in. The queue is like a long and twisted prison.
Bodies slam into the turnstile, which spins like a carousel, until it brakes, with a start, unpredictably. At the whim of a child—sometimes the soldier, he falls asleep. How can you blame him? The monotony is exhausting.
Awaiting the metal detector’s rejection, the men remove their belts, shoes, watches. Good thing the floor is clean. Mess would be bad for tourism.
The final step—the handprint. So if you blow something up, they’ll know it was you?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
15.6.09 Poetry reading at T’mol Shilshom
Haaretz reporter: The wall was a mistake. The Palestinians don’t belong there. This is ours. It should all be like this. Segregation is wrong. Don’t be racist. The Arabs can live here, too. I mean I want them to go. I want them to die. But I don’t hate them.
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