the magic chair

Ok.  I got a new chair.  I've tried a whole bunch of chairs through the years.  I was looking for the magic chair.

The first chair that applied for the position the tzaddik got for me at Clars auction as a surprise. He knew I was looking. He decided to act. It was about 200 years old. Intricately hand-carved, and it had an embroidered seat. Nobody would sit in it. They were all afraid.  But it was great to look at.  So Vladdie, our black kitty, took it upon himself to inaugurate it as kitties do. It lasted a number of years, and then it went back to Clars. Nobody appreciated it there, either.

The second chair was the Mormon chair. Hand carved, austere, and just plain awesome quarter sawn oak. Carved by a Mormon farmer in Utah about 100 years ago. I had dreamt this chair. And the next day it appeared to me in the flesh at the Alameda Flea Market, and so of course I had to bring it home. Nobody would sit in this chair either. I moved it from spot to spot for years. Until eventually it went off to auction as well. I miss it. Nice to look at.

The third chair was a bright orange Scandinavian Designs jobbie that was one of those trick chairs. It was comfortable as hell in the store, but when you got it home it crippled your lower back. So the solution, of course, was to order the matching ottoman, thinking that feet up might do the job. Uh. No.

I complained about the third chair to a good friend.  I had forgotten that I'd given her my dad's 'grading chair'—a cushy chaise that he never got to use because Mrs Tzaddik had stolen it from him because it was a thing of beauty.  She never sat in it either.  It was there to be looked at.  My friend, who was sitting in said bright orange back-breaker while I was complaining about it, said she liked it just fine, in fact quite a bit better than my dad's grading chair. I proposed we trade.

Why the bad colors in chairs? Floor models. Half price. You should see the couches. Purple. Now faded, so they embarrass my daughter less. She still thinks I should get rid of them. But hey, the dogs like 'em.

So the fourth chair to apply for the position for comfotable-chair-in-the-living-room was the tzaddik's pristine cushy Italian green chaise, same as my own old grading chair that sits across the living room. Also from Scandinavian Designs (a winner but they don't make it anymore). I now had two grading chairs virtually side by side, and they battled it out for the territory. The dogs preferred my old grading chair and had beaten it down pretty well. It was a glory of a broken in chair.  I had gotten it many years before as a present to myself for getting tenure. Or full professor.  Or something like that. But they duked it out and the Tzaddik's grading chair won.  It was a shock to me.  My beloved old grading chair had to go.

Luckily, I had a former student who was participating in our Beit Malkhut Study Group. Now in a PhD program. And she has claimed, (though I think she's being both sweet and sardonic and kind, and doesn't mean it at all) that she wants to grow up to be me. So. What better person to appreciate my old grading chair? After all, her own papers (generally turned in late or very late, but very well worth the read) were read and graded in that very chair. She accepted the wonderful old grading chair with all the pomp it deserved. And put it in storage along with her daughter's furniture.

We have ascertained that I am not good at this.

I sat down (low kitchen stool) to really analyze  my chair history. I had tried chairs based on beauty alone (as I'd been raised to do). As if chairs (and everything else) were only about aesthetics. I had purchased chairs because they were so hideous they were affordable. I had tried chairs because they were gifts and you couldn't turn them away. Because they were used. Because cats had already dug into them, so nothing to worry about them. Because they reminded me of someone I loved. Hm. Beauty and comfort didn't go hand in hand. And now my spine was making its own demands.

So. What are we up to, fifth chair. Now, in the Middle East, the number five has great protective value. Against the evil eye. For good health. You know the word 'hamsa' and maybe you wear a little hamsa that looks like a hand (five fingers) around your neck or on a keychain. Or have one up as an amulet about your desk.  At any rate, I now realize we had reached the fifth chair.

The magic chair.

I decided to go for the real deal. It had to be beautiful. It had to be new. The color had to be decent. And it had to be comfortable. And Stickley was having a sale. The tzaddik and the Mrs Tzaddik would be pleased in their graves. I think.

So I tried the fifth chair, a Stickley recliner. A piece of absolute beauty. And I'm not going to admit that it takes some adjustment and compromise to be truly comfortable. But it's good enough. I mean, my god, it's a Stickley. And it's not from the flea market. And it's not broken. A miracle.

So. I sat in it. I brought a tall glass of water with me to keep me put (I'm supposed to drink a ton of water. Ugh). I did not bring my iPhone or iPad. It was just me and the Stickley and the glass of water. All alone. Nobody home.

And I looked up. And I saw my living room. I saw the purple couches. The tzaddik's green grading chair. The old brass trays. The overgrown plants. The 'rescued' Moroccan armoire from the Middle Atlas Mountains. And the paintings.

I have two paintings in the living room. One over the purple couch. One over the (fake) fireplace. Over the couch is an 8' wide painting of an enormous red bull, and a person struggling to pull it in a direction it is not willing to go. Everyone I know hates the painting. It used to be kept in the red bull room (essentially, my closet) so it didn't disturb anyone. I'd wake up every morning, look at the painting, and think 'don't do that'  at least for today. Just. Don't. Do. That. And I'd be set for the day. No need of coffee. But no one else seems to 'get' the red bull painting. Some of them remember Red Bull Bob, a long ago student who had painted the red bull for a class project. He went to grad school. And stopped painting.

The other painting is a poster framed by the online poster company, but it does the job. It's La Belle Rafaela, by Tamara de Lempicka. de Lempicka was walking through the Jardin du Luxembourg one afternoon, and noticed that everyone was staring in a certain direction, and so she turned. And there was Rafaela. She approached. And the glorious odalisque painting that emerged shocked even 1920s Paris.

So. I'm sitting in my Stickley both looking, and seeing as if for the first time. The Red Bull that my friends despise. And the de Lempicka they adore. Or at least don't complain about. Two such different paintings. The red bull in bright thick strokes of red and red umber oil paint. The struggling white man (painted quite literally in white) trying to move the enormous red bull. A parable of colonialism and resistance. A domination game the white man will never win. And La Belle Rafaela, stretched out in all her orgasmic glory in tender strokes of evening colors.

And there they are, right there on my living room walls. The agony and the ecstasy. The paintings are perfect together. Neighboring figures emoting in accordance with the choices that they make. Blunt and to the point. Guiding us. Before, I saw them as individual works of art. Now I contemplate them together.

The Stickley. It's a keeper.

aliens ... with guns (for real)

Ok.  So I'm sitting here with the girlfriend and we're talking about camping with her parents in Montana.  And I'm like, fine, I can't wait.  That's good.  Haven't been camping since last summer, and I can't wait, and we're all equipment-ed up, because we're both camping-equipment whores. So. we're all set.  And I've cleared it with my Chair:  he says it's ok to quit my job after I get back instead of before. He's a good boss.  (Actually, there's no way I can clear out my office before then anyway.  Just want you to know I'm not a shirker or anything).

So.  Everybody's schedule finally fits.  Except the girlfriend's kitties need a good sitter.  But surely that'll work out.  Right?

So.  We're going.  Or rather, we're talking about going.  And I've never been to Montana.  But I hear it's beautiful and somewhat wild.

And she says that when camping with her folks each person makes a meal.  And she tells me what I should make.  And I think, you're joking, right?  Sephardi food isn't for camping.  But whatever,  it's my default setting, and if they like my yaprakas maybe they'll like me too.  Okay.  I can do that.  And we'll haul the ingredients all the way from California.  And she says I should make my grandpa's— well, it's a secret.  But I'm not sure you can get Bulgarian feta while camping in Montana, so that's gotta be packed up too.

I wanted them to come to us.  Big Sur. Pfieffer Beach.  You know the drill.  One of the most beautiful places in the world that's close by and drop dead gorgeous.

But there's nothing to kill around there.

Huh?

There's nothing to kill, and the timing I suggested was just right for killing pheasants and maybe grouse or some kinda upland bird season, something like that.

And I thought, well shit.  Every lunar cycle of the year has something to kill if you're an outdoorsman.

And the girlfriend says, I can't wait until you have this conversation with my dad when we're camping.

And I say, well no the fuck way.

Because there's an argument to be made for being able to hunt and fish your food all year round.  And I admire it.  It's one of those post-apocalyptic skills that I wish I had, but don't.

Right this minute, the girlfriend is firing up the smoker and filleting this enormous (wild) salmon. Great for the Atkins diet.  That's what Californians say.

But here's the sad part.  We bought this beautiful salmon at the fish market in well-appointed yuppy Montclair 'Village.'  (I'm not sure when Montclair became a quaint village.  When I was a kid, it was just rich, not adorable).

And now I'm feeling guilty about purchased meat, when there's a killer in the family who can supply the needs of a rather large extended family all year round, right?

This is not how I grew up.

You want meat?

You call the kosher butcher.

And he sends the butcher's son around to deliver the lox or brisket to your house so that the son can catch your daughter's eye, and maybe there's a shittach down the road.

That's kosher meat for you.

My father, the tzaddik, never killed anything in his life.  And while Mrs Tzaddik was good at throwing things, she never killed anything either.  Or certainly not something you could eat.

I think this is all the reason I tried to be a vegetarian.  But then there's Atkins.  And you'd end up living on eggs and cheese pretty much.

I've decided I'm ok with all the killing, when accompanied by eating.  And I'm in awe of the skills required.

But once, just once, I'm hoping there's an off season for everything on earth that can be shot or fished or snared or whatever.  And that I can get the girlfriend's parents camping California style.  In my beautiful Big Sur, with a stride down Pfeiffer Beach, with nothing, nothing for miles around to kill but time.

ding dong the witch is dead —

Ding dong the witch is dead — and Malkah cried some, but mostly was in shock.  Malkah was sure she'd live forever, in her witchy way, casting evil spells to disable opponents and take your breath clean away.  Her magic was formidable.

If you told her about a new girlfriend, finally one you'd thought she'd finally approve, she glared and gave her curse:


You'll only hurt her.

And from her mouth to God's ear, that would become the truth.

If she asked you, well, when she's dead do you promise to live in the house and keep it exactly as is, everything in its place? And you're evasive, and talk about how beautiful the dome of the Great Room would be with the ancient Egyptian goddess Nuit painted across the ceiling along with deep blue sky and gold and silver stars — she'd respond with her signature,

I'll curse you from the grave.

Scary shit.  Because when she said it, it sounded really real. Not something you could laugh at.  Not something she'd smile about afterwards.  More like you better duck right now because the sky is falling. Or it will be soon.

She liked to assert preemptive control from the afterlife a lot in those days.

But then, something strange happened as she lay dying for a few years.

She got nicer. Supportive.  Still scary. But scary helpful, instead of scary scary.  She insisted on helping.  On being there for you. On healing you. On telling you how to heal, like you had no idea how to take care of yourself.

Imperious never went away.

Demanding. Penetrating. Glaring.  Regally holding court from her hospital bed.  Looking all the queen of heaven and earth.  She glowed as she reigned. She captured and she captivated. And she still cursed, of course.  You don't give up power like that so easily, right?

But she softened.  Or rather, she let her soft side show.  Well, maybe not to everyone, but at least to Malkah, who was shocked beyond words.  She gave Malkah compliments.

Who knew you could be so competent? she'd say.

I can't believe you're still here taking care of me!  She'd say. Expecting her daughter to up and go poof any second now.

In truth, she had cause not to expect Malkah's care for her at all.  How many of the hired help had up and fled in tears after her rebuke and wildfire rage?  And these were trained professionals, or well, some of them were, with experience of the abuses the elderly can mete out on others.

Ah, that wicked wicked tongue! She was so proud of it.  She boasted of it. Repeated to Malkah over and over some nasty thing she'd said to some good friend or other. And Malkah always wondered why those folks they stuck around.

She loved cursing them. In writing, especially.  How many people have kept copies of her loquacious and lengthy curses?  She was a poet after all. She had a well-oiled facility with words.

Abra-ca-dabra.  I create as I speak. Just like God, the poet uses words to bring evil and good into the world. Which is why it's good idea to keep your mouth shut no matter what just in case you can't tell the difference.

I was silent.  For months on end, I could not write nor speak a word.  I was stunned at her departure.  Yes, I put my shovel full of dirt upon her grave, as did we all, still expecting her to rise once more. To direct me. Forbid me. Coerce me. Condemn me. Demand of me. And to critique my posture, when she just couldn't think of anything else to say.

And then suddenly she was nice. Just like that.

It wasn't her seductive nice that she saved for handsome men.  No, it was the nice that comes from just plain letting go of forcing the world into her mold, her blueprint and requisite dimensions.

Well, okay, I overspoke.  Suddenly she was nice to Malkah at least.

I wonder if this is what Confession is for in religious traditions not my own.  Does letting go bring purity or relief? Especially at the end of life?  I have no idea.  But she let go. She cut the umbilicus that tethered Malkah to her rages.

I'm left here with an emptiness, a dearth of evil.  It seems to be entirely gone inside my being.  No curses from the grave (not even mild admonitions) press down upon my shoulders.  The world feels emptier now.  And emptiness became a theme upon her exit from her gilded stage.

I emptied out her house and gave away or sold her things.  I took the orphaned plants into my garden and watched them up and bloom.  I got a lot of help dismantling her universe. The emptiness feels almost Buddhist in its peaceful glory.

Malkah sold her house to a family of Egyptians.

I'm hoping they'll paint the ancient goddess Nuit upon the dome of that extraordinary Great Room. With deep blue skies and gold and silver stars twinkling from above the vaulted hall.  Bringing peace on earth, of course, and good will to absolutely all.

the tzaddik and the negotiator

Malkah was in such awe of the tzaddik that she spent most of her time with him asking questions, and nodding at the wisdom of his responses. Of course, his responses generally started with the need to do more research. Look things up. Even go to the library, when he was stumped. But most of his real sources were at his fingertips.

His own library consisted of wall to wall volumes and treasured manuscripts. The paintings, he kept in the closet on the floor, inserted in rows exactly like the books. If he wanted to look at a painting, he'd slide it out from the row and lean it up against the bookcase for a month or two or three. And then he'd slip it back into place, and pull out another for contemplation.

Nothing was new. He never bought a new book in his life. Not even as a gift. Treasures were either old, vintage, or ancient. They were in dreadful, poor, or fragile condition. Some pieces required temperature control. Those documents he made sure were in the museum's library's rare book room. We were very proud when the climate control was installed, feeling the treasures were safe at last.

The textiles should have been there as well. Ach! What a mess. They'd be rolled up carefully — but textiles really need more care than cardboard boxes and rollers. ... They belong in a museum. I think Indiana Jones said that.

Every gift Malkah ever received from the tzaddik first belonged to someone else. Usually, a lot of someone else's. There was that stamp collection from the 1930's from the flea market. With strange-shaped stamps from all over the world. Malkah was expected to get interested in stamps and keep on collecting the ones that hadn't been included in the volume the tzaddik had given her.

Wow. Someone else's stamp collection! File under vintage, for it had been under 50 years old.

Then there was the gift, actually from Mrs Tzaddik, that took forever to receive.

"It's coming!" Mrs Tzaddik would announce. "Your birthday's only three months from now — it'll be ready by then!" she said excitedly.

Only it wasn't ready. And not three months after Malkah's birthday either. But at last the day came. The present, not quite a year later from the first tease — and there it was. A smallish object that fit in the palm of your hand, all wrapped in wrinkled white tissue/liner paper. You know, that paper they use on the inside of gift boxes. That stuff.

It was lumpy. And almost jingled. But didn't quite.

Malkah tore off the tissue paper.

"What is it?" she asked. It looked like — well, she didn't know what.

Mrs Tzaddik gave her a look of both expectancy and exasperation. She hadn't expected such a lukewarm response. But ingratitude was Malkah's default setting. What had she been thinking?

"A bracelet made of civil war buttons!" Mrs Tzaddik said excitedly. "Put it on!"

Malkah obeyed. The thing was enormous. About four inches wide and sewn together on some stretchy gold band. It felt like a hundred bulbous brass military buttons. It felt like a thousand. And it was too big for her. And it was heavy. And probably breakable. And the 'buttons' could fall off. And it was a 'treasure' — Malkah thought in dismay. Oh. And it was hideous — but you figured that one out already, right? Malkah was twelve. Where would she wear such a treasure?

"Thanks," she said. What else could she say?

When she grew up, Malkah had a child. Actually, she had two. But this story concerns the first and not the second. The second was too young to notice. Malkah's eldest must have been about four at the time.

It was Chanukkah.

The tzaddik had brought the little one a Chanukkah present.

"What is it?" said the Malkah's firstborn son.

"It's a — " to tell the truth, I don't remember at all what it was. But it was a great find at the flea market.

"How does it work?" the brilliant boy asked.

"Well it would go like this, but it doesn't work —" replied the tzaddik.

"You mean you got me something used and it's broken?"

And Malkah's brilliant firstborn took the tzaddik by the hand and went upstairs to his room. They came back down about 20 minutes later. Both with grins on their faces.

Malkah's firstborn had negotiated something Malkah would never have dreamed possible. The tzaddik was allowed to give his grandson something used — as long as it wasn't broken. Or something new. That also wasn't broken. Or a used book — but it couldn't be missing pages, especially the last page of a story. They had shaken hands on it. Deal.

Firstborn son went to the brass tray and picked up a tiny gift-wrapped something and handed it to Mrs Tzaddik.

"Here, noni, this is for you," he said.

She tore open the little wrapping with 'nona' crayoned on it.

"I don't want this," she said. "It's a Christmas tree ornament!"

Unnegotiable. She was already out the door.

Malkah's firstborn grew up to be a lawyer anyway. You just don't win every case.

mrs tzaddik's boyfriend

She brought him up today, telling the tale to E, so I guess I can say something about it. It was a very long tale, mostly about Tibetan lamas. And the teachings they gave in the house when they'd just come into exile. A number of the lamas were living at the house, upstairs. They'd painted the main bedroom up there red and gold.

Everything looked very alive when they lived at the house. Between their contagious smiles, the almost non-stop traffic of folks coming to visit or confer, the teachings that were given in the grand room, the hundreds of shoes lined up outside the front door — the colors and banners and cheer —

He parked in the driveway for months at a time. Lived in his vehicle. Was it a VW camper? Something like that. The quintessential hippy dippy vehicle that you could live in. Parked in Mrs Tzaddik's driveway.

She doesn't use the word boyfriend, of course. For her, the word is paramour. A much more Sephardi word. My word sounds so — well, banal. And there was nothing banal about any of it.

Tibetan lamas upstairs. Paramour parked in the driveway. Yeah. It was the 1970s outside. Berkeley. Most likely you could have guessed that time frame.

He'd been a lawyer. A very good looking guy. Still is, actually. But he dropped out. I think the goings on of 'our' generation just got to him. Why should he bang his head against the wall in law, when society was changing right before his eyes?

The tzaddik would come home from a hard day's work, with the New York Times tucked under his arm. He'd unlock the door, and walk through the house to the back and into the kitchen. There would be Mrs Tzaddik's boyfriend cooking up macrobiotic soup.

"Hello, tzaddik," he would say (though not exactly). "Come sit down and have my soup!"

And the tzaddik would sit. And have soup. And read the New York Times while sitting with the soup at the dining room table.

My memory of this is vivid. I have no memory of Mrs Tzaddik at all in this scenario. Was she even there? But my memory is really of two men who've made very different choices.

The boyfriend chose the hedonic life. Why shouldn't there be pleasure? Why shouldn't he partake? Why the incessant labor? Why not just cook soup?

The tzaddik chose engagement. Commitment to the service of others. Encouraging them. Helping them achieve their goals. Without judgement. Mentoring them. Pointing them in the direction of funding. Of collaboration. And always it was about the arts. Bringing creativity into the world. New projects. New works.

The boyfriend was a piece of work.

Eventually, Mrs Tzaddik had had it with the boyfriend in the driveway. And she tried to shoo him away. He was not terribly receptive. I remember it as taking years.

The lamas told Mrs Tzaddik that the boyfriend was a great lesson for her. She explains that according to Tibetan practice, each individual receives his or her own Teaching from the lamas. The boyfriend was hers.

Does that mean that they responsible for this? For the paramour who wouldn't go away when bidden?

What she got to learn from her Teaching was patience. Endurance. Commitment to trying to make a change.

They had traveled together. Mostly to South America. And Europe too. When, after many years, she finally got rid of him in the driveway, there was nowhere else in this country he really wanted to be. He fled to Mexico — and stayed. Maybe in someone else's driveway. Dunno. But he reappeared on the telephone instead. And still wouldn't go away.

Patience. Endurance. Commitment to making a change.

He visited not that long ago. Same charismatic smile. Same glow of macrobiotic health — although he said he wasn't that healthy.

He wanted to come back, he said. Calling fairly incessantly. Again. He's ready to come back.

Forty years of this!

Patience. Endurance. Commitment to making a change.

She told the caregivers not to hand her the phone any more. When he calls, that is.

In Aikido, they talk about forty-year techniques. Fifty-year techniques. Practices that seem so simple, you just do them every day. But they're not yet right. You practice and practice — and only get a glimmer of what is really there, the potential of the exercise, the lesson, the Teaching — at the end of 40 years. And even that's just the beginning.

Just the turn of a wrist. The stroke of a blade. The cut. The chop. The throw. And you do it over and over and over again. A hundred strokes a day. A thousand. And each stroke is different. And each next stroke an opportunity to learn to do it differently.

That's the lesson of Mrs Tzaddik's boyfriend. The opportunity to say no differently. To send him on his way. Get him out of the driveway. Get him out out out of her life. Some kind of integrity. Holding your own and not caving.

I'm not judging it. No. No, this is her call. It's always been her call. Her practice. Her forty year technique.

She's getting it. Learning it. It's not like you ever master a technique like this. You just keep practicing it. A hundred strokes a day. A thousand. With proper breathing to go with it.

And each day she gets a little stronger. She walks a little further each day. Her spirit reawakens. Each day, her memory resurges.

Tibetan lamas in the house. Lessons they would offer. Healings, if you're paying attention. Forty year techniques, or more. But only if you practice. That's what she was given — an opportunity to practice. Pour la longue durée.

Forty years!

The red and gold are gone from the house. The whole thing's shades of gray. Her hair is white — and so is his. The tzaddik's gone away. The blinds are drawn. The lights are low. The energy's calmed at last. And then — a gift an angel brought. A mighty French horn blast.

anyone who is hungry, let them come and eat

The tzaddik grew up in the Bronx, across from Yankee Stadium. That must say a lot about him, but I'm not sure what exactly. His family lived in a shvitzy little apartment, overcrowded with uncles and cousins and such. That was in addition to mamma, poppa, the tzaddik and his two younger brothers.

Of course, he wasn't a tzaddik yet was he?

But I have a feeling that this was the moment he began to learn what being tzaddik was all about. And that it wasn't about just one moment, but about a commitment pour la longue durée. And I think this story changed my life forever. But I didn't know it until much much much later.

It's all about a moment at Pesach. Probably around 1937 or so. The tzaddik and his brothers were kids. Their father was leading the Seder —

There's that moment when you open the door for Eliyahu ha-Navi. And of course, there's a cup of wine for the Prophet in the middle of the seder table as well. We invite Elijah in to share our Passover meal with us. I always thought this was a symbol of opening the door to anyone who might be hungry. They should come and eat.

According to Chabad, however, the Prophet Elijah oversees the bris of every Jewish boy on the 8th day of his life. Elijah acts a bit like a lawyer (or maybe a judge?) (or maybe a cop?) making sure that the kid has been circumcised correctly. On Pesach, Chabadniks say, we invite Eliyahu in so that he can check that all the Jewish men at your Seder table have been properly circumcised.

Did you know that? I didn't. Don't you just love Chabad?

So. In the tzaddik's house, they —like most American Jews, I would surmise— were unclear on the Elijah-door-opening concept.

Obediently, the tzaddik went to the door on his father's order. He opened the door of their overcrowded two bedroom Bronx walk-up apartment.

There, on the threshold stood a shabby beggar.

Of course, the tzaddik invited him in. The man sat at the table with them after he'd been brought a basin to wash his hands and face. He ate the sumptuous Bronx feast that was already stretched between so many mouths to feed. He took his broken shoes off and gave his tired feet a rest. Someone handed him a pillow so he could 'recline' — as Pesach dictates.

And he stayed.

He stayed the next day. And the day after. He stayed the next week. And the week after that. He stayed the next year. And the year after that.

Thirty three years, he stayed.

Long after the tzaddik had left for the Promised Land, California, the beggar stayed. He did errands for the tzaddik's family. Helped out a bit here and there. He was a master of the art of making people happy. And, after thirty-three years, he died in that apartment. He was, after all by then, family.

I think about this story not just at Pesach. I think about the boys my father found lying on the museum grounds, or panhandling in Berkeley. The boys he took in, nurtured and transformed. His unending line of lost-boys. He would give them a little push, and watch them thrive. Okay. Sometimes it was a big push.

I think about his non-judgmental stance toward each and every new encounter. His, "you never know what good a person will do —" approach to all who sought his blessing.

I could never be like that. I'm judgmental as hell.

But I too open that door. And let people in, in my own way, of course. Generally speaking, it's not the front door. And it's not beggars. But it certainly has been homeless people.

The wife of a student of mine called. They were desperate, she said. Neither her family nor his would take them in. They were just back from a year abroad in Bath. Could they stay with me for a few weeks, while they looked for a place to live in the City?

I'm pretty sure that at that point I had never met her.

They came. They stayed their three weeks. They found a place. They left.

The phone rang.

Can we come back, she begged. And so they came to stay. The next day, and the day after. The next week. And the next month. They stayed with us, along with their fat rabbit, Sherman Tank. And they had each a sense of humor that could not be denied. His, loud with waggling gestures. Hers subtle and sly. And they made us laugh — through a tough patch in our lives.

Three years they stayed. Until their growing family outgrew our house, and they moved on.

Since then, the door's been open for others. And each one brought some subtle texture to our house. Okay, sometimes a nutsy texture — like the Bolage episode. But most of those who came to stay, we came to love. And they came at odd moments. And they added some element that we hadn't known was missing.

Trust? Is it trust that let's them in? I don't think so.

I think it's just about opening that door — and letting this new person you didn't expect really come in. And you don't know why you're doing it. And I don't know why I'm doing it right now. But I am. And it feels right. A whole new adventure, by just saying yes. And a whole new project emerges, that changes everything. And here we are.

And maybe I'm the one who's really hungry. And maybe I'm the one at the threshold of the door. And maybe it's my turn to cross over and walk in — and say yes to things that I've said no to. And make a commitment pour la longue durée. And sure. Okay. You're right. It is about trust. And I trust you.

And maybe it's just a short Pesach story from 1937. No more than an anecdote, really. And maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.

And maybe the tzaddik's family made a mistake. And Eliyahu was just there to check the circumcision status of the males of the family. And by mistake, they invited him to stay. Oops.

this is going to end badly, she said

Malkah woke up, and she was healed of her despair. Her body felt light, like it could just float up into the ether — except for the fact that she already resided there to begin with. Her spirit was lighter too for a change. It was an indescribable feeling. She had even slept. Slept like a newborn babe in arms. Slept like she was cradled in the arms of God.

She was in love.

God himself had descended upon her and healed her. I mean, everybody knows this, right? What else could have happened?

The Almighty One saw her. Really saw her. He took it upon himself to enter her with Infinite Light and penetration of spirit. The Angel Gabriel himself attended, blowing his trumpet. I'm actually not sure about this last part, but that's what they say. What do I know from angels?

The point is, that Malkah was healed.

She decided to leave her place of occultation and descend into the realms of the living once more. She had been in exile so long in her despair over the actions of the humans below. The Earth had been rended by the warfare and bigotry, by ignorance and hatred one against the other. The Lord had brought down upon the Earth his own catastrophic wake-up call to humanity, to no avail. They had glanced up, joined hands briefly, and then had returned for their weapons lest someone else amass them while they were busy helping out a tsunami or two.

"Wake up!" the Lord had said. "See this disaster? May it teach you to be cooperative, one brother with the other." The Almighty had been reading Kropotkin again.

And the Shekhinah just left the world. Again. She couldn't take it.

Humans had tried to coax her back with ritual. Especially the Sabbath. Do the ritual correctly, and she would descend (however briefly) into the hearts of men, and they'd feel the awesome force of the beauty of Creation.

And then, they'd start bickering over the remote. Over a perceived maldistribution of goods. Over territory. "This land is my land —" they would shout, like it was a good and righteous thing to do. And she'd be sick of it again, and depart. She could hardly wait for Havdalah to get herself out of here.

But now. Now was different. She was (quite literally) floating on clouds. Peaceful, if not happy. What did she know from happiness? It wasn't her department. But she felt the buoyancy of possibility, and it felt good.

"This is going to end badly," she said.

Of this she was quite sure. 'Love' always ended badly. Always ended in loss, for there was death. The death of one led to the anguish of the other. The illness of one did the same. The hurtful feelings. Abandonment. Betrayal. Moving on. The higher the resonance, the harder the fall when it was gone. These were the invisible little parasites that inhabited the soft, delicious pelt of love. It was a force of nature. Part of the Law of Gravity itself. Grave, indeed.

But there it was. That dreaded love.

She tested it out. Tentatively seeking out the tendrils of her being. Nope. She still felt euphoric. She felt so good, she could barely contain herself. Endorphins of the Almighty.

A great pessimism descended upon her, but it couldn't quite penetrate the armor of her joy.

And then, out of nowhere, a vision.

The tzaddik came to her and spoke. His presence made her shake and cry, She was overwhelmed. Not even the Almighty Himself had this effect on her, so powerful was his sight.

"You must love," he said. "You must love whom you will."

"You must trust," he said. "You must trust — not that it will be alright — no. Not that, no. But that it will be worth the cost, no matter what you pay. You do not bargain with this one. Love is worth the price. Rather that, than go without."

And in that moment, the Shekhinah knew love, and named it thus. Tears flooded down her face, and rain poured down upon the land below.

She turned, and walked upon her way.

She was not, after all, ready to descend to the planet below.

the electrical fire — a parable

When Malkah was a little girl of seven or so, the tzaddik gave her a silver chain necklace with a star of David on it. The star was simple enough, and was surrounded by a circle. Malkah wore it every day. I don't think she noticed it at all. Someone put the thing on her, and so it was there. She didn't dare take it off. Not her department.

And so, as she learned how to take a shower, she kept the necklace on.

And when she got herself dressed, the star of David was tucked carefully inside her shirt so it wouldn't get lost. It hung right next to her heart. She took it for granted. She paid it no attention.

It was the mid 1950s, a curious time to be seven.

Someone had just given the tzaddik his first television set. I think it was his brother had sent it from New York. Strange gift indeed. For what does a tzaddik have need of such an abomination?

But he's a tzaddik, right? And sees the good in all things. He discovered the world news was not just in the New York Times or the Jewish Daily Forward — it was inside this box as well, with pictures.

Mrs Tzaddik wasn't so impressed. She knitted her brows and insisted that the abomination, as it was called in Malkah's house, was kept unplugged, except on the rare occasion it might be in use.

One evening, the tzaddik wanted to watch the abomination. He glanced at Mrs Tz for permission, and she consented with a grunt.

"Malkah," she called, from the kitchen, "go turn on the abomination."

And so Malkah went over to the thing itself. And picked up the thick black snakey cord. She had never done this before. It was a vote of confidence. She found the end of the cord with a bulbous head, and metal prongs sticking out. She bent over. She'd seen this done before; she knew what to do. She bent over and stuck the plug into the outlet —

And was thrown into the air across the living room into the furthest wall of the dining room behind it. A Dorothy in a hurricane — but Malkah knew nothing of Dorothy. She was lifted high into the air.

Her head smashed upon the wall, and she fell to the ground. There was smoke and a burst of flame coming from her chest, and a burning there. The whole house smelled of burning flesh.

The tzaddik stood frozen. The whole thing was less than a minute, and still he stood, unmoving. In shock, I think. Though clearly the shock had been Malkah's to bear.

Mrs Tzaddik ran to Malkah. Opened her shirt where now only the smoke and sizzle stood.

There, she saw what there was to see.

The star of David completely intact, with the circle around it burnt to a crisp. She held it up by the chain, and smiled a beatific smile.

"Look!" she said, to to the world at large. "You can try to burn us in a Holocaust, but see this? The Jewish People still survive!" She was ecstatic. Moved by the momentous quality of such a miracle of her People's continued existence. And then the moment was over. She stood up, left the room and went back to her cooking.

The tzaddik nodded. What else could he do? It was, after all, a miracle.

a kaddish for perfection

When I lived in the foster home, before being rescued by the tzaddik's intercession, there was more than one uncomfortable moment. I suppress them as best I can, but every once in a while one of them pops back up without permission and without apology for the intrusion. Like a jack-in-the-box wound way too tight, one of those memories stuffed way down came exploding out uninvited last night.

We went to see Black Swan. And this is not a movie review.

But let me get the movie bit out of the way with, hm, let's say three points:

a) this is a hard movie to watch
b) this is a hard movie to watch, and
c) this is a hard movie to watch ... if you've ever done ballet.

Or if you've ever done anything that you care about.
Or if you've ever become obsessed.
Or — and it's this last or — that led to the unwanted and heavily suppressed memory.

Or —

But let me start from the beginning.

So. Foster home. Nice, generous family with way too many kids on their hands. But only two girls, and we were very very young. And Mrs. Foster wanted to do the right thing by us, and so she sent my foster sister and me to ballet class. Not just that, but she sewed our little pink costumes all by hand, right down to the tutus. There's a picture of us to prove it. I, of course, look mortified. The deer-in-the-headlights look. I think I was all of three and a half. Maybe four tops.

And at the end of the year there was to be the performance of our little life-time. Weren't we excited? Our teacher made us do 'it' —whatever 'it' was— over and over. I don't remember any of it. Suppression, remember? But this one thing came back to mind. My foster sister and I were to perform a duet. And just before we went on to the stage, our teacher stared into our eyes severely and said:

"Remember, this is a performance. It has to be perfect."

And we got into position on the stage. And the music started. And the lights came up and focused on us. And we were facing each other. And I took a glance to my left, and saw a dark room with all these grown-ups that I couldn't see. And they were staring at us. And when the right note manifested, we began to move. And J, my foster sister glanced into the darkened audience as well. J lost her focus, and our little dance crumbled.

And we stopped, terrified. And the music kept playing. And I whispered with horror, "you made a mistake!"

And we both started crying.

And all those unseen grown-ups in the audience started to laugh.

And I never danced again.

Now. I'm a mom. I've been to these horrible things when my own kids have had their little recitals. And I've sat there hoping that my own little trauma would stay stuffed deep inside that tightly wound box. And now I know that we must have been adorable. Just like my own kids were adorable. And that those grown-ups must have been parents. But none of them were my parents. And with my kids there was another big difference.

My kids' teachers had a very different message for them:

"Have fun with it."

Just that, nothing more.

So. That last point about the movie last night:

Or—

this is a hard movie to watch ... if you're committed to perfection.

Which is not quite the same thing as obsession.

Black Swan is all about perfection. And that real perfection requires a modicum of imperfection to be just right. Too much technical precision feels wooden. It feels boring. And our eye strays anywhere else it can to escape. We need a touch of insanity in our art. We need to have fun with it. We need to be unpredictable and wild — without losing our form.

A painter friend of mine painted stencils on my ceiling and made every single repeated geometric a slightly different color. "The eye will not move, otherwise," he proclaimed. "It will have no reason to move if they are all exactly alike." What made his murals perfect was his carefully crafted imprecision.

Even Islamic art purposefully includes a flaw somewhere in the piece — saving 'perfection' for Allah alone.

And my horn playing partner in our kaddish in two-part harmony knows this as well. And somehow I too managed to stumble upon the liberation of imprecision along the way. And I embraced it.

I teach this way. It's one of the ways I use to keep it fresh. I forget words — and students find them. Find words that work, or might work. And the words they find are fresh and new, and the ideas get to change with the words they find. And we have, suddenly, a new angle to explore.

I tell them to have fun. Have fun with it. I don't think they believe me.

Black Swan has a perfect moment in it. When technical precision and ecstatic abandon merge — and everyone experiences the transcendence of that moment. The dancer. The audience. The audience watching the film. Everyone, at the same time. It's perfect.

With the usual consequences.

the tzaddik sells his daughter

Jerusalem, 1961

The tzaddik, as we know, was a great collector of Judaica: manuscripts, ceremonial artifacts, and ancient pieces of junk. For him, every single fragment was precious and worthy of preserving. Each broken piece of something had matching pieces yet to be discovered. Every object had a story that had to be uncovered.

If the Holy One, Blessed Be He created the world by separating all its parts — light from dark, and earth from sky ... — it was the tzaddik's job to put it all back together again. But you already knew this.

He took Malkah with him on many of his adventures. Up the Motherlode, looking for cemeteries (he collected cemeteries, but only if they were Jewish). They drove up and down the mountains searching out each and every single one. The tzaddik would then find a donor who would help purchase the rundown little plot of land and broken stones, and bring it back into a state of preservation. He taught Malkah to decipher the gravestones when she was about eight or nine.

But in Jerusalem, treasures were boundless. Either that, or they were fakes. He always seemed to know the difference. He would wander through the tiny streets (of west Jerusalem — the city was divided at that time) until he turned at last in through an open door. He'd find a grungy little stall, and look through absolutely everything with equal deliberation.

Every thing has a story.

And he was a great storyteller once he figured out the tale. The other thing that gave him pleasure, was giving away the pieces of junk. Once he unearthed the secret of an object, the next step was to find its home. There was always someone — or some institution — whose story it was. It was for them to preserve the thing and keep it safe.

He always assumed that once each object had found its rightful place in the world, that it would be honored. That others would treasure it as he did.

He was the most unmaterialistic materialist the world had ever seen. Of course. A lamed-vavnik, putting the universe of separation back in order, one piece at a time.

So. They turned down a cobbled alley, and there was this dirty little stall. And sitting in the dirty little stall was a dirty little man. An old and toothless man, wearing what looked to Malkah like rags inside the ragged stall. The shop was dark before her eyes adjusted. It only had one lightbulb hanging down.

There was a mournful horn playing in the distance, from somewhere further down the cobbled lane. It pervaded the very marrow of the stone walls all around.

Can you hear that sound?

The dirty, old shopkeeper was sitting cross-legged upon more piled up rags upon the cold stone floor. A woven blanket maybe. It was too dark to see. The tzaddik and his daughter sat cross-legged on the other side. There didn't seem to be much more room in the shop than that. Most of the light streamed in from the outside, and so they sat as near the doorway as they could. The shuttered doors of the shop were painted that blue — you know. Evil eye blue. The blue of protection.

The tzaddik's eyes were filled with equanimity. But Malkah knew he wasn't walking out of that shop without the crumbling manuscript now in his hand. The shopkeeper knew the same. He got up and disappeared into the darkness of the back of the shop.

The tzaddik didn't lift his head from deciphering the text below, even when the shopkeeper returned with the steamy little glasses of burning hot tea. The tiny glasses were old; the painted floral decoration mostly faded.

The shopkeeper eyed Malkah hungrily and with a wave of his hand insisted that she drink. She took a tiny burble and was struck by a syrupy jolt. Her body shuddered. There was nowhere to spit it out and she was forced to swallow.

The hours passed. More rounds of tea. The horn began another mournful tune. The haggling went on for hours. The grubby shopkeeper kept glancing at the tzaddik's daughter.

"I have a son," he said at last.

"Mazal tov!" proclaimed the tzaddik. "A blessing on your house."

"He and your daughter would make a pretty pair."

The tzaddik turned to another page in the crumbling folio sheets. He grunted.

"You could take my son with you," the old man said. "To Amrika."

"He could use an education," said the tzaddik.

"An education, yes!" the shopkeeper said, and started wrapping up the manuscript in newspaper, and tying it with brown twine.

A filthy boy just Malkah's age stepped into the shop, as if by magic. He had dark vacant eyes, huge teeth and sunken cheeks. His clothes were as tattered as his father's.

"An education," repeated the tzaddik.

"A shittach," said the shopkeeper.

The boy giggled, but with lack of comprehension. He cleared the teapot and the little glasses and off he ran. Malkah noticed that he was barefooted. As if he'd never worn a pair of shoes.

The tzaddik rose. The shopkeeper rose, kissed the tzaddik's right hand, and thrust the newspaper wrapped packet into the tzaddik's left. Malkah rose. The shopkeeper patted her on the head.

"An education," he repeated, looking the tzaddik in the eyes. The tzaddik grunted.

When they had left, Malkah was fuming. She had just turned thirteen.

"That's how it's done," the tzaddik said.

And he tucked the treasure under his arm and they walked on down the cobbled lane. Another piece of the cosmic puzzle was returning to its rightful home.

You could hear the horn finishing off its last five notes. Triumphal affirmations, finding their strength and hitting their stride.