tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

In the end, the writer has the last word … Nicole Krauss, Radio Times, NPR

Recently, while sifting through old papers in my memory box, I found a correspondence between my mother and I from 16 years ago. On this six month anniversary since my mother died, these letters reminded me of the complexity of relationships and emotions. Indeed, my letter to her back in 2001 was a tribute to her, and I wish I had read it aloud at her funeral in March this year.

On November 17th 2001, I wrote my mother a letter:

Dear Mom,

I have been thinking about you a lot. I thought about how much you always helped others and how you enjoy life through all your suffering. I see, in myself, pieces of you and I am so proud and happy that you are my mother. My strength, determination. The fact that I help anyone – doesn't matter who they are, where they come from – doesn't matter how much it costs or how risky it will be. That comes from you. My ability to not just accept what someone tells me – but check it out (research it!) – that comes from you. Although you were not a major political activist, I learned from you that injustice and intolerance is not right. I learned about brutal honesty from you! And I love that. I learned from you that one could always make things better. Even in my darkest hours, I always find a way out. I learned that from you. Money is no object! I learned that from you. Love of – no not love – passion for music – I learned from you. Passion for drama, I learned from you. All these wonderful pieces of you are inside me. I own them and have made them a part of me. And I am the richer for it. And so is my son.

I know that you and I – our relationship – have been challenged through the years. So many struggles and fights. But my love for you is strong and I am deeply grateful for so much of what I have learned from you. I admire your courage, Mom. You tirelessly search for happiness and find it in beautiful moments, beautiful gardens, beautiful books, movies, with interesting people, and with children. You taught us all to love children – to respect children – and to fight for them. Each of us fights for our children – in our family – in deep, respectful ways. Sometimes the love and fight for our children seems weird – but we all know that our children are the most precious. You taught us all that.

You are a work of art, Mom. And I cherish and appreciate you so much. I am writing you this letter in a gorgeous hotel in a beautiful wooded, park-like area of Washington D.C. It is early in the morning – sun shining through the windows and beautiful fall leaves – red, orange, rust-colored, are brilliant with the sun's rays. I will meet with the book editor today at noon to see what he has to offer/suggest. And I remember you giving me a typewriter for my 16th birthday! What a gift that was, I wish I had held onto it all those years. You taught me that writing, knowledge, education is so important. You were right!  And I have learned that it is very important to be yourself no matter what. It's tough. It makes people mad and we lose people along the way who can't take it – but being who we are is more important than anything.

Am going to do my workout and prepare for my meeting. I am so excited. And you are the only person I felt like sharing this with! I always remember you sitting by my bed when I was little and you would tell me the story of how, one day, I would dance at Covent garden – and you would be up in the box watching. Well – today sort of feels like that story.

I love you, Mom. Thank you.

Tamar

A month later, on December 19, 2001, my mother wrote me a letter in response. Here follows part of it:

My darling Tamar,

Here I am in  Manchester – it was lovely to find your pig on arrival [my mother loved pigs and I had sent her a picture of one] and he is on my table now instead of one of the family! Did you get my message on your phone the other day before I left? I travelled on British Airways and had to change planes in London as there isn't a direct flight anymore – perfect attention from start to finish and tasty fresh food – so different from Air Canada. This letter is meant to be an answer to the overwhelming letter that you sent me – the one that I am most terrified to touch – when I go back I intend to read it quite often and get used to it and what it offers, there have been many times in my life that I felt I was standing alone on top of a cold mountain with big winds roaring around – I am not being dramatic as I am not a morbid person. That is just the way I felt but now your letter has made me feel a warm soft blanket wrapped around me and great security. I wanted to write something down so that when I am dead you will have something to hold and look at and you will remember this happy time we had together. The telephone conversation is not solid enough. It will fade away.

[She then went on to describe news about her life in Israel and her visit in Manchester. She concluded:]

Happy Xmas and New Year – special love to [my son and husband] xxx

As ever

B/Mom

The pain I have been feeling since my mother's death has surprised me, because I thought I had worked it all out between us. But, somehow, the end of her life has given me permission to allow myself to experience feelings, which I had stifled during my childhood in order to survive and continue a loving relationship with my mother going forward. I realize without doubt that we loved each other, and that we competed with one another as women often do.

While I will continue to write and have the last word when it comes to my version of our relationship – I feel happily and with much emotion, that my mother has the last word in her moving response to my letter sixteen years ago in 2001, on the eve of my becoming a published author two years later.

She knew that putting words in writing would give me something to hold onto when she died. A testament to her understanding about life, and the fierce, complicated love she had for all her children – me, included.

[The lighthouse at Cape May Point]

Early this morning, before the sun could struggle through the clouds, I was on the beach breathing in the cool breeze of ocean air. Sea gulls were my companions as I looked out to sea. I am feeling happy. Coming to the ocean to celebrate Rosh Hashanah was the best thing I have done for myself in a long time. The new year is quickly becoming a time of healing and renewal. It looks like I might have reached the edge of the exit to the tunnel, and the light is clearly shining. 

Yesterday my husband joined me and we went for a swim together in the ocean. The water was still warm enough, and the salty sea washed over us as we splashed, swam and laughed out loud at the joy of it all. "Hey!" We exclaimed, "This is turning into a vacation!" 

I love to look in nature for symbols and signs that could have relevance for me. It's part of my spirituality. It's a sort of game I play, because I am not sure that I believe in these things. For example, like finding a Cardinal's feather under foot on a morning walk in my neighborhood in Philadelphia recently. I decided to take it as an auspicious sign. I mean, why not? 

In the fall, Cape May Point is a destination for migrating birds and butterflies. So, wherever I go while down here, butterflies are everywhere. Even on the beach. They fly around my head and flutter through the air. They are on bushes and flowers, and flittered around me on my four mile walk through the state park yesterday. I am using them as a symbol for the new freedom I am feeling from the shackles of my past emotional wounds. They remind me of a speech a very dear friend gave at the party for the publication of my first book in the fall of 2003. She compared me to a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, after having come to the states, acquiring three degrees and authoring my first book. At the time, her tribute to me moved me deeply. I placed the photograph of her giving the speech in a small crystal frame on my bookshelf accompanied by a "Willow Tree Angel of Freedom," of a young woman holding up a butterfly with her two hands. 

So, going forward, I choose to gather symbols and signs of all these "angels of freedom" fluttering around me as I wander through this charming ocean-side place, and hold them close, as I embark on a new life journey of freedom from past pain, and becoming healed and whole.

In a deep glass bowl I combine 4 ounces of butter with one and a half cups of sugar. I pound at the mixture with a wooden spoon until I can get it to be as smooth as possible. Then I add three eggs and stir and stir, sometimes whipping it as quickly as the wooden spoon allows. Now is the time for a cup of flour, three quarters of a cup of shredded coconut, three quarters of a cup of chopped walnuts, one teaspoon of vanilla essence, half a cup of baking cocoa, and about nine ounces of plain yogurt. All these ingredients are added in one at a time. This takes muscle to mix it all together – at first gently so that stuff doesn't get shaken out of the bowl, and then making much stronger stirring motions – round and round, and folding in with large circular movements. 

Now I prepare the baking pan by wiping it all over with butter, and then shaking over a light covering of flour so that the batter won't stick. Oven is heated up to 350 degrees and the cake is placed into the oven for about thirty five to forty minutes. When I take it out, I have to cut just a tiny piece, piping hot with steam coming out the inside, and taste it to be sure it has come out the way I remember. Sometimes it feels a tad dry, and others just right. The walnuts are an addition to the recipe only since I live in America. In Israel, when I used to bake this cake almost every Friday in preparation for Shabbat, I used "shemenet" instead of yogurt. In the States, I changed to yogurt as I wasn't sure what the equivalent to the Israeli milk product was. 

When I was a young mother living in Israel I wanted to create a home for my son. A place of comfort and stability. I was not really sure how to accomplish that. Did I imagine it from movies or books I had read – or perhaps from visiting friends in the neighborhood? Am not sure where I got the idea that cake was a way of making our small apartment a home. An old friend gave me the recipe, and for decades, until my son became gluten and sugar free in his diet a couple of years ago, he had always loved the chocolate cake. 

In any event, it has been years since I made it , and this summer I started baking it again – consistently – every ten days or so. Only this time I made one and a half the quantities so that it could fit into a larger pan. That way it would have to cook in the oven for forty to fifty minutes instead of thirty five to forty. Plus, it seemed to come out richer, more wholesome in taste. It has been going down well at home and in the neighborhood. A couple of people roll their eyes and say things like, "Oh my God. This is delicious!" And, it certainly is tasty early in the morning with our usual cup of coffee.

But, more than all that, it makes me think of days gone by, years and years ago, when my son and I lived alone in our tiny apartment in the little town of Ramat Hasharon, Israel, in a place called home.

Starting the new academic year with a new computer. This could be considered a minor traumatic event, for I have loved my MacBook Pro for six years. He has served me extremely well. Except he seems to have become quite the heavy dude especially when I am dashing through airports on my way to this or that state or country. So, me and my honey strolled into ye olde Apple Store yesterday and oohed and aahed at all the newness of a new MacBook Pro. A sweet little space grey three pounder. Hm … yum! I look around sheepishly as I type this blog post on my old trusty fellow – silvery, large, cumbersome, but very faithful to the end – I am admonished for never having backed up old faithful in all the six years – except for iCloud of course. So, as we speak, I am learning all about back up, migrating data, thunderbolts, hubs and more.

I always enjoy learning a new language.

My father spoke many different languages. I loved that about him. He relished different cultures, foods of every description – he was a gourmet, and taught me how to allow cheese to sweat before eating it. The taste is superb, rich, authentic, and ever so cheesy. He would use a fork and knife to eat an orange with a sprinkle of salt. He inspired and delighted me, and loved me gently. I dedicated my latest book to him. When my mother died earlier this year, I felt like finally I could come out of the shadows and love my father openly – no longer concerned about hurting her for fear of being "disloyal," for she disliked him so much. I wrote: I dedicate this book to my father, Ezekiel Israel, who loved his “Tamarika” gently.

So, here I am becoming acquainted with my new little sweetie MacBook Pro 13 inch. I started out these musings on my old dude and buddy, and am concluding with the new space gray. Skies are cloudy and there is a chill in the air. Driving around yesterday I noticed one or two clusters of autumn colors. Am feeling excited and happy – after a wonderfully intense working summer, and back to teaching next week … all bodes well, dear readers. There is a new year a-coming, and it starts this fall!

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Critical thinking is critical