tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

Continue under all circumstances; Don't be tossed away; Positive effort for the good. Natalie Goldberg, Villa Lina. October 2, 2012

One of my first writing exercises on October 2. The prompt from Natalie:

"Where have you come from?" 10 minutes – go:

I arrived at Villa Lina in a large red bus. It rambled slowly out of Rome along a highway, and as it rocked and rolled its way along the pavement, I stared out of the windows. My body ached with fatigue. The plane ride had been uneventful but sleep was fitful of thoughts and feelings about Ada. How I held her soft, sweet body in my arms, and how she laid her little head on my wrist, finally receiving some peace from the pain in her pancreas, the fear in her eyes from the stark, sterile, cold, linoleum floor of the emergency unit in the hospital. I slept for a few moments as the bus rumbled along, and felt relief from my pain at the loss of my darling companion only two mornings earlier. As I opened my eyes I realized the bus was driving through what looked like a narrow lane. "It is Italy," I thought to myself. "I am in Italy." I could tell by the olive trees in the distance, the pink blossoms of the oleander bushes, and tall Cyprus trees. "Are those Cyprus trees?" I almost wondered out loud. Ada slipped from my mind as the bus continued along the way. It felt like Israel – the narrow road and large, rambling bus – oleander blooming everywhere my eyes wandered. "I could be in Israel," I thought. And then we reached the small town of Ronciglioni, and I knew it was Italy, from the small, winding streets and signs in Italian. Of course I wasn't in Israel! The wall and gates of Villa Lina suddenly appeared right there in front of us right out of the blue of my ruminations. I listened. My aching heart had stopped weeping. The tall iron, grated gate greeted my anticipation, and I smiled to myself because no sooner had it opened, so it shut again. And then, it opened once more. We walked out of the bus and I could smell the air. It was warm, with a slight breeze in the trees fanning my face with humidity as I walked up the rocky path towards the barn and restaurant for lunch at Villa Lina. It felt like Israel again.

Seven years ago at Tamarika: The old me

Ada Mae spent twelve years with me, and allowed me to love her all the while. Indeed, my little Ada opened me up to love. Except for my son, I don't think I have ever loved like I loved her. My heart was breaking when I held her soft body yesterday as they put her to sleep in my arms. I look for her all over the house and hear her calling me all the time. So many people have been extremely kind to me. I realize that my love for Ada must have shone through to them, because they seem to understand the loss of her sweet, gentle presence for me. When I returned from the hospital yesterday, I intentionally put up a photograph of her and me on my Facebook page – letting all my friends know. I needed their kind words immediately. And everyone came through! It felt as if I was having a small shiva for my cat. It was like a Facebook memorial service for her. It softened the pain for awhile each time I read one of the comments of empathy and commiseration. 

This evening I leave for Italy to spend a week in an old estate about forty miles North of Rome with the famous author, Natalie Goldberg. Together with about thirty other people like me, who want to study more about writing from the master herself, we will learn about meditation and writing, and who knows what else! 

Timing is everything, because Ada's parting has opened my heart. I realize that she must have represented something very important for me, because our bond was deep, and my sorrow at times feels enormous – too large for one little kitty to bear. And so, I relish the idea of the week ahead meditating and writing, even as it scares me as well. For, who knows what will be released from this aging, aching soul of mine?

Memories of Ada: It's the little things; It's party time; Ada Mae

Quote of the day:

[Sign outisde the Unitarian Universalist Church]

It is always tempting to write a reflective piece around this time of the year: transitioning into fall, and the Jewish New Year. I probably have done so each year for the past seven that I have been blogging. Actually, the fall for me, is an anniversary of meeting the United States for the first time. Back in early October 1987, I arrived in Buffalo for a month to see if it was going to be a good idea to uproot my son and me from Israel and emigrate to the States – mostly for me to acquire a higher education. I will never forget flying into Buffalo from New York City. I looked down and saw a wild splash of fall colors reaching as far as my eyes could see. I had never seen anything like it. I gasped with amazement. It was as exciting as if I had fallen in love! Walking out into the crisp fall air of Western New York, I felt a chill that went right to the bone. It felt so completely foreign and new for me. And so, each year since then – 25 to be exact – I sense excitement and anticipation as the air becomes chilly and leaves start to turn and fall to the ground.  A reflective time to be sure because so much has happened since then. Indeed, I think I grew up and became an adult these past 25 years, even though I arrived in the States a year before my fortieth birthday.

Lately I have been thinking that I am tired of living out my history. Once, a memoir seemed like such a good idea, but these days I am thinking about looking ahead. History is important because it helps me understand how I came to be the woman I am today. It even helps me change some of my old self-destructive behaviors. But if I focus on the past I find myself longing to be young, or feeling regret for things I might have done differently. It is not helpful to living in the moment or looking ahead with hope.

Indeed, I am weary of nostalgia. Memory is so selective – determined by attitude, my emotional state of mind in the moment, or in keeping me locked in a vicious cycle, reliving an unchanging life script. And so, instead of wallowing in past transgressions of days gone by … this year, I would like to celebrate the joys of living right here and now, enhancing and enriching relationships with people I love, and who love me back.

And, to conclude … here's a right here and now thought on this, the eve of my "immigration anniversary:" I am an immigrant, a citizen … and I've got hope!

Seven years ago at Tamarika: Jack is back

Quote of the day:

… But we also believe in something called citizenship — citizenship, a word at the very heart of our founding, a word at the very essence of our democracy, the idea that this country only works when we accept certain obligations to one another and to future generations. (Barack Obama, September 2012)

The first thing I did when I became a citizen of the United States, was register to vote. I could never imagine living in any country being unable to vote. After all, this is a right that not everyone has – or has had. And along with attaining that right so many people have sacrificed, suffered, and died. This has to be the most precious natural right we all should have: The responsibility to think critically about who we choose to run our country, and represent our interests to the rest of the world – and then, act on it!

To me, citizenship has never been about whether a person has a birth certificate or not. After all, I was not born in the USA. I was born in Southern Rhodesia, a British colony. And then, after the rebel government of Ian Smith came to power, I lost my rights to citizenship in Britain because I came from his racist, what he then named, "Rhodesia." Even as a very young adult, I learned to think critically about the propaganda Smith fed us. Friends of mine were deported or placed under house arrest for speaking out against the oppressive government.

For me, it is not only the policies that the leader of a country strives for. More importantly, it is the tone and language used in rhetoric. Words matter. If the language is filled with bigotry breeding fear and hatred, the tone does not instill in its citizens the urge to accept responsibility for one another – no matter who the "other" is. Instead, it creates an atmosphere of anxiety, anger and blame. 

We don't think the government can solve all of our problems, but we don't think the government is the source of all of our problems any more than our welfare recipients or corporations or unions or immigrants or gays or any other group we're told to blame for our troubles … (Obama, September 2012)

Politics is personal. No doubt about it! I believe that a leader, who acknowledges his vulnerability, sets a tone of humility and compassion with his words:

And while I'm proud of what we've achieved together, I'm far more mindful of my own failings, knowing exactly what Lincoln meant when he said, "I have been driven to my knees many times by the overwhelming conviction that I had no place else to go." (Obama, September 2012)

Each day I realize how fortunate I am that I have the right to vote for what I believe in. Because I know that there are millions of people out there – out here even, who do not have the right to vote, and, unbeknownst to them, that right is being whisked away even at this very moment I write my blog post.

And so, on November 6, I will rise up as early as I can and try to be first in line to vote for four more years of President Barack Obama. I believe his language of acceptance and compassion for all people of the world, his speeches about "obligation to one another," or not blaming the "other" for our troubles set an important tone – a model that urges us toward responsibility and caring. Indeed, I still use every day, as my signature in my email address, one quote from his inaugural address back in January, 2009, that I consider says it all:

What is required is a new declaration of independence, not just in our nation, but in our own lives – from ideology and small thinking, prejudice and bigotry – an appeal not to our easy instincts but to our better angels. (Barack Obama, January 17, 2009)

Four years ago at Mining Nuggets: A dream realized

Seven years ago at Tamarika: A letter to my blog …

The idea of falling into the abyss has always terrorized me. Because it is invariably accompanied by the notion that I will never find my way up and out again. And yet, part of my emotional script includes tumbling into a downward spiral whenever I dare to feel powerful, successful or happy. So, I seem to have to negotiate this fear on a regular basis. 

This summer was no exception. And spiraled I did. Completely, hopelessly, and, it seemed, with full awareness as it happened. I tumbled into the abyss with all my being: trembling, sore stomach, endless sleepless nights, weeping – for weeks and weeks. Each day I observed what was happening to me as if peering down from some ledge above the deep hole I was falling into. 

However, at the same time I found myself accomplishing so much! And, even, laughing out loud at what was happening. It was as if the inside of my emotional memory was battling it out in public!

And so, before I knew it, there I was – here I am – six weeks later: regression recovered, and I don't remember ever scrambling my way out of the abyss. Indeed, all of a sudden, it seems that I have joined my Self peering down from the ledge and wondering how I magically climbed up and out. 

This morning I stood in my back yard and watched a goldfinch land on the Echinacea I had intentionally planted last spring, especially to entice him into my garden. I kept quiet and still as I observed the bright yellow bird feasting away. Such a hopeful little fellow he is for me. The excitement within me was palpable. After he had flown off I continued on to a different section of the yard when, behold! A luminescent humming bird dived down right in front of me and hovered for many moments as she observed me up close. I stood like a statue, holding my breath, and allowed the tiny bird to size me up and down. It was a long, many-moments too amazing and exciting to imagine.

I decided to take nature's glorious events this morning as signs of regression recovery. For, never have I achieved so much professionally and psychologically as these past six weeks. Even as I fell deeply into the abyss I have always feared, somehow, at the very same time, I was able to navigate it with awareness, tenderness and compassion, and beam myself back safely – intact, but perhaps, even a little bit stronger than before.

Suddenly I am reminded of a post I wrote many years ago, about Bob the therapist from back in my Buffalo days:

I remember a session with Bob the therapist a few years ago. "What are you afraid of?" he asked one time. "Of falling into the abyss," I replied. "Hm … It might be good to just allow yourself to fall into it then," he wondered quietly. I take a deep breath and feel a softening of the neck muscles.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Renewal

President Bartlett is about to address a gathering of radio talk show hosts in the White House. As he enters the hall, they all stand and applaud. All, except one: a blond woman, wearing a green suit. At first, her presence seems to rattle the President. He loses his train of thought several times before he finally speaks directly to the sitting talk show host. “Excuse me, Doctor,” he says. “It’s good to have you here. Are you an M.D.?” “A Ph.D.,” she replies. “In psychology?” he asks. “No, sir,” she says. “Theology?” “No.” “Social work?” “I have a Ph.D. in English literature,” she says."I’m asking,” continues Bartlett, “Because on your show people call in for advice and you go by the title Doctor, and I didn’t know if maybe your listeners were confused by that and assumed you had advanced training in psychology, theology, or health care.”

“I don’t believe they are confused. No, sir,” she responds.

I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. I’m interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She’s a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be?”�

This old post – this old episode of West Wing – still relevant today!

Quotes of the day:

I worshipped dead men for their strength, forgetting I was strong. Vita Sackville-West

The places, events and people in this book are all real … The names are real also. In writing this book I could not endure the thought of inventing anything, and therefore I could not alter the actual names, which I felt were an inseparable part of actual persons. Some may possibly not be pleased to find themselves described under their own names. To them I have nothing to say. Natalia Ginzburg from Author's Preface in Family Sayings.

One thing I learned growing up was that great people are great. They are admired, worthy, and important. If I wanted any attention, I thought, I had better strive towards greatness. "Oh my God … so and so … or … such and such … is/was … The most marvelous …" was an expression I heard daily – about everything: books, movies, shows, gardens, plants, animals, clothes, cars, artworks, music, plays, and, of course … people. I must admit it wasn't a conscious decision, but somewhere along the way growing up, in order to be noticed, I felt the need to be "the most marvelous," in some way. 

So, first I tried to be the most marvelous child. But, that didn't work out very well. Because, as a child I had needs and feelings like any typical child. And if I expressed those … oh dear! all hell broke loose. And so, I quickly learned (because if there is something I am most marvelous at – it is fast learning …) that having feelings or needs were very dangerous indeed. In fact, I learned to doubt the validity of anything that happened to me. Recently, in therapy, I realized that it's not that I have been told I am mistaken because I write what I write about my life experiences – in point of fact, I have been called a liar since I was a very young child when I expressed my feelings. For, when I was angry, lonely or afraid I was told that I was wrong to feel those things, because, in fact, my life was marvelous, and I was just making all those emotions up. And so I learned not to trust any feelings I had. Worse still, somehow when I was very young, I learned that I "invented" those feelings on purpose in order to destroy the adults who cared for me! What awesome powers were ascribed to such a small child!

Well, even after I failed so abysmally at being the most marvelous child, and still always hoping that someone might notice me, I continued to strive to be the most marvelous everything else: daughter, dancer, singer, tennis player, yoga instructor, sister, friend, student, mother, wife, scholar, gardener, teacher, lover, and, of course … person. And, oh dear … I failed at all those too!

For, honestly? What are the criteria for being the most marvelous?

There's the rub! 

There is no one truth in being the most marvelous anything. For it is in the eye of the beholder. And I think that perhaps – just maybe – the person, or people, who are so caught up with the marvelosity of things, probably, unconsciously, really struggle with their own fear of being ordinary. That, somehow, in being ordinary therein lies their worthiness, because perhaps their own parents had not found them very worthy when they were children?

And so, I have decided to stop striving for greatness, or in being the most marvelous anything. Instead, I want to become content at being an ordinary, complex, human being with all kinds of emotions. 

I marvel at an early morning walk on a beautiful beach, or swimming in a glorious, calm ocean. I wonder at friends who love and support each other, and am amazed with gratitude when my son remembers me on Mother's day. I feel joy in discovering a newly opened flower in my garden, or when little Ada calls me downstairs to the basement when she has completed her motions in her litter box!

I especially love it when I look across the room when I am teaching or presenting, and see bright eyes shining toward me from one or two people who really appreciate and learn something from what I am saying … something that might be helpful to their personal or professional growth … something that might change the life of one of the children in their care in the future. 

For, in the end, I want all young children to feel worthy because they are who they are: complex human creatures with all kinds of feelings, and ever so needy of our loving and undivided attention. And when they cry in rage or fear I want people to sit close by with tenderness and compassion, and allow them to feel safe and accepted for all those, oh so very uncomfortable and scary emotions. 

Seven years ago at Tamarika: Blog longing

Quote of the day:

It's time to get angry again … Germaine Greer

No – Todd Aken.

You can not take back those words you uttered, nor the policies you ushered.

Indeed, your "apology" is not enough.

Your ignorance, misogyny and bigotry knows no bounds.

You will not drag me back into the dark ages.

I have taken your statements personally, because I stand by all people who are marginalized and degraded.

You have spurred me onwards and upwards.

You have helped me rise – as a woman and as a fellow human being.

You have brought the policies and platform of the mean spirited and ignorant right wing right out in the open.

And it is rage, I feel, and pain at the enormity of your collective ignorance.

As a teacher educator, I realize that there is so much more to be done in my field. I must work to ensure that at least the students who come through my classes will be taught to think critically, deeply and analytically.

Sir, you have given purpose – nay, urgency to the work I do.

And let me just add here:

I am very, very proud to call myself a Feminist. The bell hooks kind: "Feminism is a movement to end sexism, sexist exploitation and oppression."

The Eve Ensler kind: "I am asking you and the GOP to get out of my body, out of my vagina, my womb, to get out of all of our bodies. These are not your decisions to make. These are not your words to define. Why don't you spend your time ending rape rather than redefining it? Spend your energy going after those perpetrators who so easily destroy women rather than parsing out manipulative language that minimizes their destruction. And by the way you've just given millions of women a very good reason to make sure you never get elected again, and an insanely good reason to rise."

Oh – and re: yesterday's blog post? I am hoarse right now – yes indeed, almost to a whisper …

… and yet … hear me ROAR!

Quote of the day:

I learned it was exhausting to write seriously. It's a bad sign if you're not exhausted. You cannot expect to produce something serious in any casual way, with one hand tied behind you, as it were, flitting around as the spirit moves you. You can't get off so easily. When you write something serious you sink into it, and drown up to your eyes, and if you happen to be assailed by strong emotions if you're very happy or very unhappy for some reason – call it terrestrial – which has nothing to do with what you're writing, then to the extent that the writing is valid and worthy of life, every other feeling will become dormant. You cannot expect to preserve your precious happiness fresh and intact nor your precious unhappiness; everything recedes, disappears and you're alone with the page; no happiness or unhappiness can survive that isn't intimately linked to that page; you possess nothing, you belong to no one, and if you don't feel this way, that is a sign that your page is worthless. Natalia Ginzburg: My Craft

Some mornings I wake up with an itch to write. Am not always sure what I want to write about. But the itch is there. In the tips of my fingers and with a buzz in my chest and lower abdomen. Not the coffee buzz type of feeling, although sometimes I do become confused between the buzzes. This morning is particularly strong. The itch. I sit at my desk and face the screen, hands poised over the keys, and then I decide – "the itch": write for ten minutes – go! Come to think of it I sense a burning in my eyes as well and a kind of excitement, as if I am going to give birth to something grand. I suspect that this has something to do with self expression in general, because I feel similar sensations just before I play the piano and sing along. Sitting on the beach in Cape May last week, I was reading an essay by Natalia Ginzburg and she described that feeling exhausted after writing something serious was a good sign. I wonder what she would say about becoming hoarse, which is what usually happens to me after I write a serious piece. 

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Revelation

Seven years ago at Tamarika: Let the show begin … am I ready?