tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

Sometimes, especially on Saturdays, I wonder how non-bloggers cope with their lives.  Never Neutral

When I was a young child I was afraid of many things: dogs, cats, snakes, lightening, thunder, fireworks, even different kinds of foods. My father would laugh gently as he tried to encourage me to eat Aunt Rose’s interesting Sephardi dishes and I would shy away, withdrawing into my chair, shaking my head vigorously from side to side. Growing up and living life has made many of the fears disappear, although I am still afraid of heights, mice as they scurry through my kitchen, and snakes.

Some of my fears disappeared as I observed the world around and learned survival skills. With others I had help from various types of teachers. I learned to love interesting foods from connoisseurs and gourmet enthusiasts, Tom being one of the best at that! As for dogs and cats, I have learned to become very comfortable with them. In my early twenties I had a friend named Tali who taught me not to fear dogs. And, of course, can I say more about Molly and Ada that you have not already heard, about curing me forever of discomfort with cats?

Molly Mabel has changed since our move to the great Wissahickon. She has gone from being a shy, inhibited creature to a talented, swift, and courageous hunter. In a flash she stalks, runs down and catches chipmunks, moles, birds, butterflies and brings them home to me with great pride, laying them at my trembling feet and breaking heart. Recently as I was saving a number of these little creatures from Molly’s claws and teeth I realized how brave I have become. In the past I might have shrieked and yelled in terror, climbing up on the first table I could find as a chipmunk or mole would race through my house. Now I am able to scoop up any little furry fellow and release them away from our yard, making soothing and clucking sounds as I try to calm them from their near-death adventures with my ferocious feline. At times I hold their warm, limp bodies and bury them around the yard and into the woods below. My yowls of fear have changed to teardrops and sorrow at their demise.

A couple of days ago, I heard a commotion and noticed the cats were jumping up and down on the closed porch overlooking the woods. I joined them and saw a large baby woodpecker flapping its wings as it struggled to fly. Something was terribly wrong. Perhaps the bird had fallen from its nest or maybe the neighbor’s cat was responsible. I couldn’t tell. I quickly gathered a towel and raced outside. As I covered and scooped up the little woodpecker it became silent and ceased the panicked fluttering. I carried the bird out to the woods speaking softly and calmly. Gently placing my charge on the ground into a thick, soft bed of leaves, I withdrew the towel and found it lying on its back. Her eyes gazed back at me in terror, beak wide open with no sound coming out. I gasped as I anthropomorphically saw the silent terror in her eyes. The bird then turned over and scuttled away to who knows what fate.

That small event had an affect on me. For I realized that fear of death is deep indeed. Ever present it influences our thoughts, dreams, behaviors, and interactions. Sometimes silently and at others fluttering and squawking. Moving closer to elder-hood I do think about dying from time to time. Not as much as perhaps people in their eighties and nineties. I wonder if I have given to or told my son I love him enough to help him with his life’s journey. I think about what I have not yet accomplished that I still would like to achieve. And, of course, those old regrets niggle and nudge in my brain lately. I even ruminate on what it’s all about more than I used to. Mostly I realize that if I am honest with myself I fear death. The unknown-ness and finality of it. During jury duty last week we watched a video testimony of the patient a few months before she died. She talked about not wanting to leave the world just yet. There was more she wanted to do, see and participate in. She was reflective, sorrowful, quiet, a young woman, not quite fifty. Inwardly I was nodding in agreement with her. I think I am still fluttering and squawking like the baby woodpecker. The at peace feeling I seem to be striving for is elusive and distant.

I remember my old friend George who said, "Fear, the final frontier."

Well, well, Richard, don’t ask me why, although I think you probably know the answer … but I succumbed and bought the book!

And then I sat quietly with myself on the porch looking out at Fairmount Park, lush, deep green, sunlight filtering through the leaves of the huge oak tree and thought about feelings I want to work on.

So far I came up with four:

1. Constant feeling of loss
2. Feeling excluded everywhere
3. Always feeling homeless – searching for a home
4. Constantly feeling unlovable

Now, that seems like a lot of Work … no?

In the end the facts and evidence spoke for themselves and almost unanimously (in civil cases we needed 10 out of the 12 votes) we became objective after all.

After six days of hearing testimony our deliberations as a jury took about an hour and a half and the verdict was cast. As I walked away from City Hall I felt a twinge of melancholy bidding the other jurors farewell. I ambled slowly and thoughtfully towards my train leaving behind the work we had done together as a group of random individuals, plucked from the street, from different walks of life, professions, cultures, colors, ages, education levels, SES, genders, shapes and sizes.

It occurred to me that democracy in the United States is a beautiful thing. Indeed, it was an awesome feeling having participated in justice being done.

I wandered into my home and headed straight for the garden. Laying down my bag I reached for the hose and watered the flowers. Molly and Ada sat staring at me, sun shining all around. "I was a juror for six days," I thought to myself. During that time we were really important. In fact I think I will miss Mark, our Court Marshall, crying, "All rise as the jury enters the court!" Just as I will miss the judge’s gentle, firm and respectful demeanor, and sharing cough drops with Juror #2 who sat to my right each day from nine to five.

As I write this note I think to myself, "Citizen Tamarika …" And, well, yes … I am proud … really proud.

Quote of the day:

I miss the chance to meet with me. older, but no wiser

Back to the jury I go today. It occurs to me that so much of human tragedy is played out in the court room rather than a counselor’s office. I am facing some uncomfortable feelings as I sit in the jury box judging this or that. Have never been really good at judging others. Far too quickly, understanding the other point of view rushes in to cloud my judgment. That is one of the reasons why, in my personal life, I have stayed in abusive situations for too long. Why do we blame others for the mystery and challenges of life? How do we put a price on pain, anger, loss, confusion?

Mind you, I have always been a harsh and relentless judge of me. Very early in my childhood I took other people’s opinions of me to be the truth about who I was or how I felt about things. Counseling helped me understand this. Most of the counseling process with Bob was, indeed, a genuine chance for me to meet with me – not other people’s versions of me. Sifting through the illusions was the most challenging. Learning just to hold still and face my vulnerabilities and strengths was, at times, excruciating. Blaming everyone and everything outside was so much easier than confronting myself. So I can understand how people mock counseling or shy away from it. Blaming others was often a relief from the challenge of understanding myself, or taking responsibility for the choices I make.

Indeed, judgment is confusing for me – of others or myself. I do not like being in this position. It is just so difficult for me to be objective about these matters. My personal experiences, feelings and biases surely cloud any verdict I will participate in. For the facts of the case are so play-acted from every side clearly using emotional manipulations for the jury as well as biased witness testimonies. I wish there was a juror’s counseling supervisor type person who was on call for us to share these uncomfortable feelings and help put them in some kind of objective perspective.

There has to be something so comforting, so deluding in believing that one is capable of being objective.

Quote of the day:

He who plants a garden plants happiness.
If you want to be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden.
– Chinese Proverbs
( from Leikur og List)

Joke – (for the girls) from Reading Matters:

One morning a man returns after several hours of fishing and decides to take a nap.

Although not familiar with the lake, his wife decides to take  the boat out.

She motors out a short distance, anchors and  reads her book.

Along comes a game warden in his boat. He pulls up alongside the woman and says, "Good morning, Ma’am. What are you doing?"

"Reading a book," she replies, thinking, "Isn’t that obvious?"

"You’re in a Restricted Fishing Area," he informs her.

"I’m sorry, officer, but I’m not fishing. I’m reading."

"Yes, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment. I’ll have to take you in and write you up."

"If you do that, I’ll have to charge you with sexual assault," says the woman.

"But I haven’t even touched you," says the game warden.

"That’s true, but you have all the equipment. For all I know you could start at any moment."

"Have a nice day ma’am," he says before leaving pronto.

MORAL: Never argue with a woman who reads. It’s likely she can also think.

From the Internet and NPR (but really from Tom, who told me about it):

Diet Coke and Mentos

Hm … lovely lazy Sunday and blogging travels … come to think of it, I haven’t done this in quite awhile …

Dear members of the Israel Family,

As you know, I recently traveled to Rhodos. The main purpose of my visit was to explore my roots! For many years I have wanted to find out more about my father’s history but somehow the time was never quite right. Now, finally, at the grand old age of 57, I decided the time was right!

My personal family history is emotionally complex for me and I will not burden you all with that here (do I hear a sigh of relief out there?). However, I did want to write and share with you some of what I experienced in my journey into our family’s history. For me there were three major surprises. Probably they are not surprises for some of you because I feel sure that you heard more about our family’s history growing up than I did.

The first surprise was that our family – Israel – lived on the Island of Rhodes for at least 200 years right up until July 19, 1944.

Second, while I was always told that my grandfather Hizkiyah Moise David Israel was a Chief Rabbi on Rhodes, I was not aware that he came from a long line of Rabbis from our family. In fact, probably the first one was in 1715. In addition to that, at least five of them had a major impact on the Jewish community on Rhodes throughout those two hundred years. Our family was described, in the little museum of the only standing synagogue dating back from the 1500’s, as "prominent."

The third surprise and shock was that on July 19, 1944 the Nazis rounded up all the Jewish families of Rhodes and delivered them to Auschwitz, thus wiping out the entire Jewish community. Many of our family, Israel were exterminated at that time. Over 1600 people were killed.

The old Jewish Quarter which our family called "La Juderia" has old winding cobbled streets almost exactly as it must have been in the days my father was born and lived there. There is even the very gate that our forefathers called "La Puerta De La Mar" through which they would all go to the nearby beach for a swim! The ancient synagogue still has at least four of its columns dating back to the 1500’s. At the entrance to the synagogue is a plaque inscribed with all the family names of people who were killed in 1944. "Israel" is one of those names. I placed one of the beautiful cobblestones by the plaque in memory of our fathers’ fathers. The cobblestones are, in fact, beach pebbles which are used (and have been for hundreds of years) all over Rhodos for streets and mosaic floors of homes. Indeed, the black and white pebbles create beautiful mosaics, and, even water drainage systems, all these hundreds of years. I collected a few of those stones from the Jewish Quarter where I imagined my father walked and played as a young child.

One of the rooms of the synagogue has been turned into a museum with pictures and photographs. Many of the photographs have pictures of our Israel family members. I will scan the photograph I have of my grandfather and send it to the people who are organizing this exhibit. I do wish I knew the dates of his life. I only know that my father was born in 1894. I have no information about when our own Rabbi Hizkiyah Moise was born or died. There were two great rabbis called Moshe Israel before "our" Moise. One of them is buried in the cemetery just outside the old city where I went to visit.

Many families have returned to visit the synagogue and some have dedicated a memorial plaque to their family’s memory. Some of the names will be familiar to you, I am sure. You can see the photographs I took HERE, and you might get an indication of the names of all the different Sephardic families from the plaque I mentioned above – HERE (please forgive my weird facial expression – I was crying!).

In fact, from the moment I entered La Juderia and especially the synagogue I was unable to stop weeping for the next four days. It was amazing. I sensed the presence of heritage, family, roots all around me as I sought out my father’s story in the stones, the walls and narrow cobbled streets. Probably coming from a poor family but very dignified and well connected, perhaps my father always felt a stranger in a foreign land after leaving his homeland. In some way he was unable to share his story with me – probably thought I wasn’t interested or that he wasn’t important enough – who knows why. After reading "The Jews of Rhodes" when I returned, I realized that the Jewish Community was probably always fearful of terrible discrimination under Turkish and Italian rule, which perhaps explained to me my father’s retiring, careful attitude.

I was deeply moved by my visit to Rhodes. I felt connected to Ezekiel in an intensely emotional way and so much more understanding of what he might have gone through in his life. I "talked" to him in my mind, the whole time, telling him where I was walking and what I was seeing and feeling. I missed him so much. At the same time, I felt included, probably for the first time in my life, in a wonderful old, traditional, heritage with roots as deep as those of the largest, most ancient olive trees.

Of course what I would dearly love is if we could all pool in some funds to dedicate a plaque to our family Israel and then all meet up there for a family reunion of some kind. Even as I write this I know that not all of you feel anything like I do about this. Each of us have had such different life experiences within our family. But I want to share my dreams with you.

I reach out to all of you in the hopes that we might keep some kind of contact –  for friendship and family – but also because we have such an amazingly rich and wonderful heritage and this could be one way to honor it – by keeping connected.

Mostly, I am too moved emotionally, to be able to put into words the extent of my feelings. Maybe one day in the future I will elaborate even more.

I share this with you with great pride and love.

Tamar

Quote of the day:

Quick, name something wonderful about your body. Did the answer come easily, or are you stumped? (Oprah Winfrey)

1.     A friend from "down under" writes:

I am enjoying the new blog. Congratulations on Gilad’s graduation. I was crying by the end of that entry – you described your feelings so vividly. And the photos of the squirrel and puppies are fantastic. Wouldn’t it be nice if human beings could be so instinctively accepting of a stranger.

2.     Yes, Frank, THIS is amazing.

3.     WELCOME HOME, Ronni.

For about as long as she can remember, Debby Cantlon says, friends and strangers have brought her animals in need. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when someone asked her if she’d care for a newborn squirrel found at the base of a tree somewhere near Renton.

Debby Cantlon, who plans to release Finnegan, the young squirrel, back into the wild, bottle-fed the infant squirrel after it was brought to her house.

When Cantlon took in the tiny creature and began caring for him, she found herself with an unlikely nurse’s aide: her pregnant Papillon, Mademoiselle Giselle.

Finnegan was resting in a nest in a cage just days before Giselle was due to deliver her puppies.

Cantlon and her husband watched as the dog dragged the squirrel’s cage  twice  to her own bedside before she gave birth.

Cantlon was concerned, yet ultimately decided to allow the squirrel out  and the inter-species bonding began.

Finnegan rides a puppy mosh pit of sorts, burrowing in for warmth after feeding, and eventually working his way beneath his new litter mates.

Two days after giving birth, mama dog Giselle allowed Finnegan to nurse; family photos and a videotape show her encouraging him to suckle alongside her litter of five pups.

Now, Finnegan mostly uses a bottle, but still snuggles with his "siblings" in a mosh pit of puppies, rolling atop their bodies and sinking in deeply for a nap.

Finnegan and his new litter mates, five Papillion puppies, get along together as if they were meant to.

Finnegan naps after feeding.

Finnegan makes himself at home with his new litter mates, nuzzling nose-to-nose for a nap after feeding.

(Thanks, Susan)

Yes, it’s true although I can hardly believe it myself. I toodled along to appear for Jury duty yesterday, taking a book with me so that I could while away the time before they would send me home. And presto! I was selected. #1 juror for a week or more civil trial of one kind or another.

This is not what I had in mind to do for the next week of my life. And yet … it might be interesting. The case, process … you know.

After all, I was all excited back in 1996 when I became a citizen. And citizenship comes with responsibility. I mean, I know that. Just not this whole week and well into next.

Blogging will suffer … take it on the head … for this jury duty thing lasts all day long with witnesses, council, judge and what have you.

Didn’t I promise me a post about Rhodos and my father’s fathers?

Soon … real soon, Tamarika …

Arriving at the Buffalo airport nice and early for the Boston flight. Finding that the delay will be one hour and ten minutes. Just enough time to make me late for the graduation processional at U. Mass. Sucking in the disappointment. Drinking too much coffee, anxiety spreading to a wrinkle in the forehead. Taking off … landing … fifteen minutes to make it. Find a taxi and ask quietly, "University of Massachusetts please." Step inside and then repeat what I said for fear the driver did not hear me the first time. He is a large man, angry scowling face. Turns to me and starts to yell, "I heard you the first time! I know where to go! University of Massachusetts! Graduation there. I know, I know! For God’s sake!" I retreat trying to sink into the back seat further and further, tears start rolling down my cheeks as I fumble for sunglasses. "So sorry," almost a whisper from me. Tension from disappointment of delayed flights, anxiety and wanting to see my son, accumulate and rise up like an ocean wave and I weep softly into the side window, staring through the sunglasses at the gray, cold, dismal weather.  Driver looks into his rear-view mirror at me, face scowling and I try to become invisible, be as quiet as I can, pushing back the tears, thinking, "Soon I will be there. Everything is okay …"

We arrive and the taxi driver has a softened tone now. Retrieve my bag, pay the fee and rush onto the lawn. Processional missed but only by five minutes or so. I’m given a seat in the back but can see the large screens. Open the cell-phone and call Gilad. "Where are you?" he asks. "I’m here," I say excitedly. "At the back. But I can see everything. I’m here. I’m here!" "Great," he replies.

I see everything, hear all. Honorary doctorates for Sylvia Poggioli and Barack Obama. Obama tells graduating students to develop empathy and learn to walk in another person’s shoes. I think of the taxi driver and what a bad day he must have been having. I smile through tears of insight and inspiration from Barack Obama’s deep, magnificent voice and shared story.

"I’m here, Gilad," I think to myself and smile as it starts to rain.