The body knows

The mind may try to take control, using logic to describe reality, but the body knows.

The body reacts quicker than thought to day to day life.

The body signals physical changes – a sore toe, a bruised knee, an empty belly, a tender back, a body relaxed, a body tensed. The brain receives and sends out feedback. You’re impatient today – no wonder! Who can function with an ingrown toenail? You have every right to your new perception of the world.

Emotions kick in. One specially good connection with someone else, a serendipitous meeting that leads to a breakthrough and a fantastic team effort! Life is magical again. But a missed chance for interaction, a lack of communication with someone, a wall between us that just won’t crumble, and I’m tossed to the opposite side of experience.   My reactive emotions work on me – each minute, each day.

Or my observation of mental changes. “What’s his name?”  “Who is the composer?”  “Author?” I knew these things just a few years ago! Or, suddenly all kinds of minute details take their place in fired up synapses – no problem. I know the exact word, I recall that exact experience. Something I couldn’t recall when I so desperately wanted to, is now firmly within my lexicon. Day to day, my vocabulary shifts, my reservoir of clarity swells and diminishes. This I’ve come to expect, like the impossibility of a permanent weather forecast.

My condition is no doubt also yours. Each of us slides through a life forever in flux. Our own particular set of circumstance leads us through a unique experience of life.

What about the changes of outer experience? We can expect plumbing break-downs, power-outages, a leaking roof. I’ve become accustomed to a lack of leadership on the kibbutz, self-centered forces changing the brilliant idea of community into a common living zone where greed and envy are visible, where only the minority still believe in helping the whole before themselves.

I see changes in my school, from the personal tragedies of student or colleague, to a policy change decided upon by the Education Ministry or even our Principal. Where red-tape takes a teacher’s attention impinging on her ability to devote herself to her students.
Such changes are beyond my control, yet they immediately influence my existence and I have come to count on it.

All of the above are part of my life. So many factors that come and go, in and out.

Living beside the Gaza Strip, in what’s called the Gaza Envelope, I also live with the unexpected from beyond the border. These days, we are bombarded with incendiary kites, booby-trapped helium filled balloons. Our fields and forests ablaze, we breathe in the smoke, witness the blackening skies. There are alerts of rocket attacks or mortars headed our way. We know that we need to be 15 seconds distance from shelter, most of the time.

If we turn on our local news, we are graced with commentary suggesting imminent war, or shrieks for change of government.

My days are filled with invisible tensions as I wait for the next attack. The sounds of bombs, or helicopters or planes pervade my soundscape. The experience of quiet is a sudden shock to the system that takes a few minutes to comprehend.

Taking stock of all this, how is it possible to counteract the influences that daily, insidiously, seep their way into my bloodstream?

There are techniques, lots of them! Daily, I meditate, exercise,  breathe fresh air and bike. I do chi cong, t’ai chi. I chant, I paint, I write. I do what I can to keep the flow in motion, so as not to store up anxiety.

So, what happens when I leave my home for a trip to Canada?


The first thing is that I feel cool weather. I walk amongst green that I seldom see in the Western desert.  I witness people who wear pastels, who talk of simple life situations. Few of them are glued to a cellphone (something that is unknown back home as everyone wants to be reassured of everyone else’s safety at every moment).

At night, I rest easier. I don’t keep an ear glued for an incoming rocket, or the shriek of peacocks who often accompany the thud of a falling bomb.

My shoulders relax. My back doesn’t ache. As I find bok choy aplenty in the supermarket and lush varieties of lettuce, my body comes to realize that I needn’t tense up at the slightest sound, or constantly be on the lookout for random threats.

It’s a difference that I can’t yet fathom. It’s been 3 nights in Canada. I wonder what other changes will manifest?


a few moments to consider

Many years ago, in 1999, I began the ritual of writing morning pages a la Julia Cameron’s the Artist’s Way. At that time, I felt a surge of energy previously unknown.

Everyday, I’d pursue the adventure of watercolours. I’d sit in the light of a window, pull back my futon and play with water and pigment to see what would happen. Everyday a surprise, an experiment!


cavern, judih watercolour 2000

Evening walks under the stars, often shooting stars that would reaffirm the magic of living. Bursts of conversations with strangers that fueled creative fireworks.

Then, one day, I stopped. Why, I know now, was based on reaching the chapter in the book where it is required to give up reading for a week. That exercise seemed insurmountable and I just stopped working the course.

Watercolour painting stopped. The surge of energy kept going based on natural centrifugal force. I was no longer a battery.

Batteries have pluses and minuses.

The minuses were of dubious benefit to mankind. I had a long-distance cyber romance that ended a man’s employment as a computer teacher. I met up with a sad individual who expected the moon and received a handshake. While I applauded others becoming couples,  I felt my secret world pull me away from my own relationship. As I became vastly excited about my inner fantasies, I was less eager to blend with another.

Turmoil and re-evaluation. Bad? Good?

I learned that the super energetic revolution that I was experiencing was a phase, vital for me in order to embark on a new path. I went to my chosen therapy: psychodrama to work out the nuances of what I’d been repressing since childhood. I saw and understood what I wanted to do and I admitted that it could be achieved.

Energetic rebalancing. Not a matter of plus or minus but a matter of clarity of recognition.

I write this as I consider that period in my life when a young woman graduated into womanhood and that ‘maybe someday’ became “what the hell am i waiting for?”.

Not that everything immediately fell into place, but my intention became more clearly focused. I chose to reconnect to my dream of higher artistic education. I chose to deal with a morass of bureaucracy in order to fulfill that desire. Once the choice was made, the path followed.

Eventually, I enrolled in the Creative Arts in Education M.Ed offered by Lesley College and there I finally experienced school as it is meant to be. I found a lush ground for exploring my own curiousity, and found professors, authors and other students who were equally ripe for opening their minds and trekking past prior limitations.

I connected with my own love of research and the quest for answers based on real experiences.

My thesis on Using the Arts to Focus Pupils with ADHD was based on real-life interviews and research. I gleaned common ground from so many sources from various disciplines and, on the way, I learned of many therapists who work their method to help people with ADHD rediscover their own focus through art, movement, music.

My battery re-charged through the rhythm of the research and writing. And it still regenerates as I use mindfulness and creativity to help myself and pupils locate that inner pearl that hums within us all.

Morning pages began a process for me. Perhaps it could work for you.


midnight to do lists

Since I got back home from Canada, I’ve been waking up a lot, usually between one and two a.m.. Perfect hour for suddenly obsessing over something that I wish I could activate in my mom’s sphere of existence.

Two nights ago, I remembered her car and how it’s between owners. She wants it sold. My sister’s family wants to buy it. Between regulations and possibility there’s a no man’s land and only they know how to traverse it. I can do nothing. Yet, the situation chose to show up in my stream of consciousness and I somehow latched on. Meditation put it all to sleep.

Last night, I hooked onto the passing thought of my mom’s need for an emergency pendant or bracelet – something she can use to get help in a hurry. She’s alone. She needs the thing. Here I am 9000 kms away but there I was, visualizing her mounting the stairs, each day a new ‘phew’ of accomplishment.

“What?” harps the voice. “Are you going to wait for her to fall?”

‘Oh my god’ whispers the one a.m. conscience. “A pendant! A pendant!” it repeats. It imagines the shape, how to wear it. The weight of it.

Again I head off to the safe room, close the door and turn into a soothing meditation. This time, however, no sleep. Only delicious relaxation and then energizing. A few online segments of  “Younger”  and then the app got stuck.

Except for the digital stuff, I know that this kind of scenario is what my Mom experiences. An idea appears and then another, and another,  and her sleep situation crumbles to dust. She doesn’t do meditation but she tries classical music. No avail. Ideas gallop in a steady beat, bringing relatives to storm the corral.

Now, here I am, at five twenty a.m.  This is the hour of respite before the summer heat descends. The first birds begin their songs.

Over in Australia it’s already noon. My family is divided into seven hour time zones. Each of us in our own private time warp.

Perhaps one day, I’ll sync into someone’s deep sleep zone. Till then, the radar is on.

Blogging through the past – My dad’s funeral

Friday morning, June 2nd

Members of the family were ready at the house when the large black mini-bus pulled up. The driver set up the steps and helped us all in, slid  the door closed and then had to slide it open again, re-position the steps, close it up and open it again a few more times while we all remembered to bring along what we’d forgotten. Finally all packed in, we set off for the Funeral Home.

Inside the mini-bus, at each seat, there were bottles of mineral water and boxes of tissues. Larry sat up front with the driver to chat his way to the inevitable destination.

When we reached the Home, we were formally greeted and then ushered past the coffin with its ‘Shomer’, a guard who’d been watching over the body since Tuesday. The tradition is that someone needs to sit by the body constantly till the ceremony, at which time we’d officially thank him and take over the responsibility of guarding. When we looked at the 3-day roster, we found a few different names before the one who currently sat, wearing a keepah, and silently praying.

Our destination was an antechamber where we were to sit with the Rabbi of my parent’s Temple. He conducted a Q and A, asking us about experiences, memories, events that made Dad unique. We all had something to say. Jack, Dad’s brother, spoke how he’d always been a natural leader. How he’d led the gang of neighbourhood boys – they’d wait to see what he had in mind (stick ball or running through the Brooklyn water hydrants) and then they’d all do it. How in engineering projects, Jack was amazed to watch how he’d effortlessly organized hundreds of workers, offering respect and motivation, to guide the job being done.

My brother and sister spoke of Dad’s indication of anger – a raised eyebrow. One change in the symmetry and we’d know that there’d been a mis-direction of harmony. My nieces spoke of his openness and willingness to try new things. Ali and I had spoken about that on the way, how he’d learn from his past experience and reacted differently the next time.

After all our words, the rabbi culled a summary of Dad, which he later brought to his eulogy.

We went out to the hall, where we caught a glance of many friends, and faces I didn’t recognize. But, no time to gaze, as we were guided to our seats in the front row and the ceremony began.  *I should mention here that due to Shavuot, all funerals had been put on hold till that day. The Funeral Home was overbooked and we were told that we had to keep things to 30 minutes.

Our rabbi had said that we’d have time to say what we wanted to say, but it appears that the Funeral Directors hadn’t given their okay to that.

The 30-minute Ceremony

The rabbi stood up at the podium and announced the reason that we were gathered together. Then the Cantor, a tall fellow opened his mouth and with his first tenor tone, melted the hearts of us all.

Jack went up, first to speak. He offered his love, admiration and his farewell. Then it was my turn. I’d written out what I wished to say – a haiku and a few words.  Adjusting the mic, I looked out as I read my haiku and saw straight ahead of me the beautiful face of my friend, Jayne. She’d come and was smiling with empathy and I was touched.  I spoke of the idea that had been shared with me by Doron, my t’ai chi teacher, that to pass away just before a holiday was considered a sacred time. With each phrase, my heart grew into my throat and just before the final few words, when it was time to officially say “Shalom” to my Dad, I couldn’t speak through the tears that were about to cascade. I turned to my sister and found a perfectly normal voice to request that she read the final paragraph.

Then it was Larry’s turn to speak. He spoke from his heart, no notes. He, too, made it most of the way through before tears flowed. Andrea took her spot at the podium whereupon she started to shake. I clambered up beside her to hold her firmly, to keep her grounded, to help her voice find its base. She spoke in flurries of memories and emotions and managed to speak through the tears. We three sat down. My mom was stoic, tissues in hand, and I held her hand.

The next generation stood up to speak. Tears, words, observations – each of them; Ali, Dania, Lea, speaking from their own point of view.

Kenny, my father’s good friend spoke of his Wild Bill, a treasure of a friend who blessed all with his divine Bill’s Dills.

Then the rabbi spoke, filling in historical gaps like my dad being in Dead End on Broadway, about his engineering career and his mission to help other engineers worldwide to make the world a better place, FIT.

Then it was over. Another prayer and we were ushered back into the antechamber, quick bathroom break and then into the black mini-bus. In the parking lot, some of us managed to greet some of our guests, but Jayne? I couldn’t see her, or Randi? My cousin Ana found me and hugged me. Time was short.  We went to the bus. Those of us who managed to escape the firm hand of the Funeral Directors mingled a little bit longer, noticed a few more guests like George Brady, the brother of Hana (of Inside Hana’s Suitcase) and our dear friends Sam and Murray Cass.

Eventually, they rounded us all up and we travelled to the Cemetery. Two policemen guided us over the first intersections. Finally arriving,  7 pallbearers bore the narrow, but heavy coffin over the uneven terrain. Cousin Michael K was grateful he hadn’t slipped.

Around the grave, we were told that our role was to shovel dirt over the coffin after it was lowered into position. To indicate our lack of enthusiasm,  we could use the back side of the shovel. Jack refused to participate. My mother was loathe but shoveled in some earth. We each took a turn, but as time was of the essence, the Rabbi and the Funeral Director stepped up to energetically shovel the earth until the coffin was entirely covered.

Then, we were pointed back to the bus. On the way, I shook some hands, made eye-contact with several guests- the pianist Yuval Fichman  who had played a concert at Bridgepoint, my Dad’s hospital, a few weeks before, and his wonderful father who back in 1985 had worked out the astrological birthchart of Iris. I saw our old neighbours, who’d come to support us, and Alexina Louie and Alex Pauk, good friends of the family and composers involved with my brother’s films.

All the while I helped my mother navigate the way back to the bus where we sat and waited till the others joined us. We were to lead the procession.

The trip back home was quiet. We shared names of those we’d been able to see and wondered why we’d been so terribly rushed. If only we’d known that we’d have no time to be with our guests.

Arriving home, the driver slid open the door, set up the steps for our elegant disembarkation, and found ourselves greeted by cousin Michael W, the doctor, who quietly informed us that Bella the dog had left a few offerings in the house.shih tzu

Andrea rushed to clean up. I entered the house and was greeted with requests for serving spoons for our catered food that should have been ready on the serving table. And could I please share the secrets of how to make coffee in the three urns set up for immediate implementation. Meanwhile, I also had the task of printing out Boarding Passes for Uncle Jack and Susan, who would then be able to stay a bit longer before heading off to the airport.

And thus, life continued, as we began the process called ‘Shiva’ – the seven day period of mourning (which we would be compressing into three days).

Larry headed out to Starbucks to bring back cartons of Caffeinated and De-caf coffee for those in dire need while slowly but surely we began to work the coffee machines, and watch our guests (who knew so many could fit in Mom’s house?) help themselves to delicious bagels, cheese, lox and fruit.

Later we brought out the salads and quiches as more and more people came to fill the house with life and support.

Sara K orchestrated a few family pictures before Jack and Susan had to leave.

At seven p.m. the Shiva officially closed for the evening.  Only family members stayed on: Ana and Max, Sara and Michael K, and the rest of us. Cracking open pistachios, sharing red grapes, we sat back. My mother was okay. We were okay. Bella was not okay. She’d eaten something and kept us all busy making sure that her offerings were discovered before Mom found them.

We made plans to meet the next day for brunch and with that, people dispersed. Mom went upstairs to bed. I went downstairs to unroll my bedroll on the den floor. The surreal crept into our regular schedule.

As I write about it all now, I scarcely remember my dreams that night,  but the words of Jack’s wife, Susan, lingered. She told us that there would be signs of Dad; things would be moved, or would disappear and then reappear. Grain of salt situation, perhaps, but there were brief glimpses of Dad sitting in his chair, smiling, wearing his baseball cap. I’d smile to him and then feel the tears well up.

dad 1


After my father’s passing, part 1

My mother didn’t want to go look at my dad

I got the text message that he’d passed. I went upstairs to be with Mom when the call came from my sister, Andrea. But as soon as I walked in the room, Mom knew.

That was Tuesday morning, May 30th. She didn’t want to see him. She wanted to remember him alive.  We agreed that it was her choice.

I took the subway down to the hospital. My mom re-thought and decided that for closure, she should come down. Ben, my sister’s husband, and Eli, their son drove her downtown.

Meanwhile, I’d silently entered his room. Andrea and Lea, her daughter were there, both red-eyed. Larry was there and told me the story. He’d arrived shortly after 6 a.m and as he was taking off his shoes, a nurse asked him why. He’d said that he didn’t want to wake anyone. The nurse said that there was no need for caution. Larry understood.

He gently woke up Andrea and Lea,  still asleep in the room, to let them know.

He was so peaceful. I lifted up the bedsheet to look at his legs, his feet. They’d told us that prior to death, we’d see mottled skin or some discolouration. None of that was apparent.  His legs were pristine.

“What about rigor mortis?” I asked the nurse, who walked in. “It’s started,” she said. “Just lift his arm and you’ll notice the heaviness.” I did. There was a stiffness.

Then, Mom walked gingerly into the room, approached the bed. She kissed my dad, then sat down by his side, holding his hand, still warm.

We showed her how soft and silky his legs were. Then we covered him up.

My mom shook her head. “He looks like my father,” her voice was small in her grief. She cried by his side, looked at him, whispered some words and cried some more.

We waited as long as possible, then had to leave so that the nurse could zip my dad into a body bag. The team from the Funeral Home were on their way to pick him up.

We packed up our belongings: his clothes, a plant, sugarless halva, the wireless speaker, used for his favourite Porgy and Bess and standards by Ella. The flowers were given to the angelic nurses, then we left.  My brother and I headed off in one car, and my sister drove Lea and mom. We’d meet at the funeral home about an hour later.

There was some time before that appointment, so on the way, Larry, decided that we needed to do one thing: donate my mother’s bowling ball to the alley where she’d played in her bowling league. After all, it was on the way.

We pulled up and noticed a new logo over the door – the exact same colour scheme as my Mom’s bowling bag. We went in and when we told them that we’d like to donate the bowling ball, we were met with enthusiasm and grins. Never before had anyone come in  to donate a ball. In honour of the occasion, they turned on the lights of the alley and suggested that we bowl a few frames. Larry took a shot with my mom’s ball, but his fingers didn’t fit – gutter ball! I took a shot, gutter ball. He realized he’d have to take a picture of the event, so I posed, realigned my aim and bong, splank – a strike! First time I’d bowled in about 40 years. Not bad. …


We left with smiles on our faces and headed for the funeral home to go over the details of dad’s ceremony. It was Tuesday. That day at sundown, began the Jewish Holiday of Shavuot meaning that  there could be no funeral till after the holiday – Friday morning. Also, Jack, my dad’s brother had told us that he was busy in court and could only be free on Thursday. Good timing.

We sat and waited in the lobby. On the wall were the founders of the Home. The place was quiet, so quiet that Larry dozed off for a few minutes, his first peaceful sleep in probably a week or so. My mom and sister pulled in. And we began what was to be a 2-hour meeting including complimentary bottles of their own mineral water, some coffee and comfortable chairs. Then homemade cookies were brought in and my mother indulged.

Detail after detail – page after page. Re-affirming the coffin, the style of guestbook and whether or not we’d want a police escort for the funeral procession.


Midway, Andrea asked me in a text if I thought the curly haired funeral director used ‘No poo’ products for his style. The question was apt, as it was all bizarre. The coffin they’d selected looked so small. “Are you sure that Dad can fit into this?” I asked.

“Yes, no problem, it’s deceptively narrow but there’s room for his shoulders.”

And then, “Oh yes, there’s the matter of a suitable shroud. “

My mother mentioned “He has a salmon coloured sports jacket that he loved.”

“Yes, but it’s traditional to dress the deceased in layers of loose robes. My question is would your prefer muslin or Israeli linen”.

“Linen wrinkles,” I said. “Cotton muslin is fine.” Agreements were made, papers were signed.

We left the place knowing we’d reconvene Friday morning, picked up by a special van and delivered on time.

Larry and I left together and on the way decided to stop at the Dollarama to pick up paper plates and plastic cutlery for the meals we’d have to serve after the funeral.”

We arrived and while selecting a blue/yellow assortment, it began to pour, torrentially. At the sign of the forked lightning, we knew that Dad had left the earthly plane.



About my dad’s passing

Since his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer at the end of January, with details of treatment options given to him and some of the family in February, it’s been moment after moment of charged presence.

I showed up at the end of February to witness the Palliative Care team step into action. The social worker, the doctor, the nurses, the physiotherapists. I heard my dad go over and over his history – professional and personal. They needed to appraise him and we got to hear him conquer his innate feeling of exhaustion to elucidate his past. When the pain was great, he sometimes searched longer for the correct wording, but always the words appeared.

He’d sit on the couch slouched over, breathing heavily.

“Dad, are you in pain?”

“No,” he’d say. But the breath, the exhale and the position said something else. “Dad, from 0 (no pain) to 10 (horrible pain), what number would you give how you feel?”

When he finally admitted to something, he’d say “6 or 7”.

By then the drugs at his disposal back then were hardly enough to numb his discomfort. We’d begged him to tell us as soon as it was a “1” or “2”. He had other ideas. He’d never taken drugs for pain and I guess he was waiting for what he imagined would be the big guns.

His sister had died painfully of pancreatic cancer back in 2011. She’d gone quickly with agony. He knew it and knew it well.

One day he said, “What do you think? Should I pull the plug?”

I couldn’t deal with that. I cried, then tried to find my voice. “Dad, you’re so full of life. If you’re asking me, I’d say please no.”

Later on when I had to fly back home, I regretted my words. I felt that I should have withheld my own feelings and instead said: “Dad, it’s up to you. Do what you feel is right. It’s your decision and I’ll support whatever you decide.”

But the tears belied my ability to be logical. I was aching. My beloved father was beginning a path that could be outrageously torturous. But meanwhile, he was lucid.

My niece filmed him as she conducted interviews about his past experiences. She’d ask questions and he’d gather his forces and answer thoughtfully and energetically. When we watched the clips, we learned so many new things. He shared a fountain of experience.



cry, laugh, cry, repeat

There’s lots to cry about.

Trump – is he role-playing his wildest psychodrama fantasies? My heart weeps with fear.

People – promising their services, then doing nothing. Rug pulled out from under my feet.

Family – pitching in to support my parents in their hour of absolute need, while I’m far away with no real ability to be doing anything. How far, how heart-rending.

But laughter? Of course!

Bill Maher with his weekly: “What did he do now?!” segment pointing out the satirical absurdity of Trump’s doings for this past week. He manages to convert outrage to laughter of the bewildered sort.

People: When the one you count on doesn’t come through and others offer understanding, empathy. Funny how we forgive even though we’re f*cked.

Family: All the familial touches that make life worth living for my parents: bagels from the best bakeryBagels-bagels-and-more-bagels-at-St-Lawrence-Market.jpg

sugarless pie from the famous St. Lawrence Market, a colourful rollator that works for all shapes, sizes, genders. It all makes me smile.

Cry again

Wait a minute! What have I just admitted to? Insane USA president playing with fire. Is there anything in my power that I can do to change that fact? Helpless, I am.

People: If others forgive someone, based on liking them, no matter how little that person has actually done to fulfill their promises, then what can I do? Helpless, I am.

Family: Can I get up and leave to visit my folks? I could, but is it wise? Frustration grows as I wonder. Helpless!

yet, a day and a half and I’ll know more. The tears may slide, and then I’ll be stronger for the wait.

Laughter again

It all comes down to releasing emotions. Might as well laugh.

but, then again….

2010-11-18 09-02-08.384

Cry, laugh, cry….