Transcending Private Loss

MAR.07.2013 

 When we lose a loved one we constantly need to feel his presence in our life, and at the same time we worry that with time we won’t remember everything about him. I know a widow whose urge to keep her husband near her was so strong that she chose to eternalize him in a life-size oil portrait. This is an example of a private way of remembrance; it emphasizes what was important to that bereaved woman at the time. Some people use the cemetery as a venue where they express their grief, and realize their wish to be close to their loved one. Thus they go there often, talk to the deceased and tend the grounds-- cleaning and planting flowers.

While this way of remembering helps the bereaved to stay close to her loved one (and  keeps the grave beautiful), it does not transcend personal sorrow. But if, for example, she was to use that urge to tend the grounds and grow, in another plot of land, herbs and vegetables for everyone to enjoy, then the remembrance becomes public. It could benefit the community and at the same time commemorate the private person--the one that she has lost.

Some families choose a more public way of remembrance: they donate money to an institute, or to a cause which reflects the beliefs of the deceased, other give away a sum of money to start a scholarship fund. These are worthy deeds and by doing them the family members feel that, in some way, they continue the life-work of their loved ones.

To my mind the disadvantage here is that the connection between the giver and the receiver is limited, we often don’t really know what the money is used for, and in the case of the scholarship this act benefits only a few.

My late husband Tzvi was a professor in Tel Aviv University and the founder of a large professional organization in Israel. In his last months, when we talked about his legacy he said that he didn't wish  us to do anything. Like many people in his situation, he argued that it was enough that we, his family, remembered him, and that he stayed alive in our hearts. So we respected his wish.

But when I got an invitation from that organization to an annual conference in his honor, I felt that we were given our plot of land.  It has been five years since Tzvi's passing and I and my daughters still miss him very much. We grieve our loss privately, but in this case, his students and colleagues chose to commemorate him through an active way of learning, one which benefits his community. By doing so the gain has been extended to many.

Judging A Town By Its Library

 MAR.18.2013 

 I have always loved libraries, as a child I walked to the local library, a 30 minute walk, twice a week to check out books. In those days in Israel we didn’t own books but got them from the library. In my private collection I only had my most precious books, about 30, those that my brother bought for me; among them were all the children books by Erich Kastner. 

Although thanks to that library in Haifa I could read all the books that I ever wanted , it wasn’t a  real library, there was no place to sit or to hang out. Rather it looked more like a storage place for books. Only when I was 24 year old and my husband and I were graduate students  at the University of Toronto did I get to see, for the first time, a real public library.

The main public library in Toronto is a beautiful building that has every possible book. There I spent many hours listening to recordings of Shakespeare’s  plays so that I could understand the plays that I had to read for my seminar. To this day before I go to see a Shakespeare play I study it in the same way.

Later when we arrived to Iowa City IA(where my husband Tzvi got his first job as an assistant professor at the university), the public library was the first sign that we  arrived to a small yet civilized place. The public library in Iowa City is prominently situated in the center of town. When we lived there the library was a happy place full with children and their parents, teenagers on their own, retirees with time on their hands to read the papers and people who just came to check out books.

 When we moved away from Iowa City to, what seemed like, a similar small town in Texas, I should have read the signs that this place was quite different from Iowa City when I visited the substandard library. Indeed, to compensate for the void in the library and supplement my daughters’ general education, I had to spend  days in used books stores looking for good books for them to read.

Several years ago, Tzvi had to undergo a medical treatment in the Mayo Clinic. Together We walked through, what seemed like, endless corridors to get to the public library in Rochester MI. When we finally found it, the well-lit library was literally one ray of sunshine in an otherwise gloomy period. 

Whenever I visit a new town, I check out , forgive the pun, its public library; by doing so you could learn a lot about the place and its priorities. Moreover, I believe that judging a town by its library is actually an efficient way to evaluate  its merit. If the library is friendly, generous, well- stocked, well- maintained and well-lit you could be pretty sure that you have made a good decision and have landed in  a good  town.

The Power Of The Words "I Shall Try"

AUG.20.2013 

When my husband Tzvi was ill many friends offered their help. Some asked me explicitly what we needed, and others made different and thoughtful gestures. I remember a group of friends from work who came over and took my husband to sit by the sea.

One of my friends, a widow herself, called me and said how grateful she was for all the help I had given her at the time when her husband was ill. She said that she wanted to reciprocate, but added that, unlike me, she could not visit Tzvi at the hospital. She asked whether there was something else that she could do. Since she had asked, I tried to think of something appropriate for her to do and found, what I considered to be, a small thing. When I told her she immediately responded: ”this I cannot do.” I was really taken aback, as it wasn’t that I who had pursued her to ask for her help, she had offered it.

I am not saying that she had to help me with my request, but saying no especially at a time like that was very unfortunate. Rather than refusing she could have said that she would try, that she would see what could be done, that she would ask around.  Saying that she would try did not mean that she would actually do it, it only meant that she would not close the door on the chance to help. Often people ask you things that, at that time, you have no idea how you could help with their request. Not saying no allows for the possibility to keep on looking for ways to help so that eventually a solution for the problem could be found.

By saying no we just push the request away without ever thinking about it  again.

I like to think of myself as a helpful person, but as a result of that incident I became even more careful with my response to people’s requests.  Saying yes means that I try harder, it makes the person who is in need feel better, as it is not easy to ask for help. It also makes me feel better, and in general it brings good will and positive energy to the relationship, and helps it grow.

The other night a group of us sat together and discussed insights which we have collected throughout our  life. Mine was about the empowering effect of the words "I shall try." I acknowledge the importance of the word  'no' when we talk about violence, danger, the law and drugs, among others. However, in interpersonal relationships, when we do our best not to refuse another person's request we make our world a little better.

Kafka And The Art Of Glossing Over A Blunder

 AUG.23.2013 

Back when we were at university, a time when life was simpler, my husband  and I spent 2 months hitchhiking through Europe. Since I studied art history, Italy was our natural destination. We were a young and clean looking couple and never waited long for a ride. Drivers were extremely kind to us and always wanted to talk. For example, on the way to the tiny republic of San Marino, a woman slightly older than us gave us a ride. We started a conversation and she invited us to stay the night at her house. She said that she too had been traveling, and people had invited her to the their houses.

Another place which I wanted to visit was Riva Del Garda. In addition to art history I also studied literature, and the town Riva on Lake Garda is the setting for Kafka’s short story "The Hunter Gracchus.” On the way there we got a ride from a distinguished looking Italian gentleman, in his late forties. Perhaps he was younger but to us he seemed very old. He told us that he was a lawyer and asked what we studied. Upon hearing that I studied literature he said that he loved to read. Tzvi, looking for something to talk about, said “my wife is going to Riva del Garda because of a short story,” "Who is the author?" he asked me "Franz Kafka and the story is 'The Hunter Gracchus.'” "I have never heard of Kafka." he said. We felt very bad, as we were his guests and our job was to entertain him so he would feel happy that he had given us a ride. Suddenly I heard my husband  saying “Ah Kafka, he is a minor Jewish author, only Jewish people have heard of him."

We were relieved to step out of the car. After that unfortunate exchange we were quite worried that we would say anything which would make our driver uncomfortable.

When we went to see the lake in the late afternoon, I could imagine Gracchus’s lost boat getting into Riva del Garda. Gracchus the hunter insists that he has been dead for hundreds of years, but he is the protagonist and the narrator of this short story and his restless and endless death seems very much like life.

Throughout the years I have read this story many times without seeming to understand this exercise in futility any better. My memory of the story is mixed up with images of a hazy afternoon on the lake in Riva, the park by the lake, the driver who became anxious because he didn’t know who Kafka was, and poor Gracchus who is still looking for a port.

When I looked for some information about the story I came across this statement by Karen Bernardo, “Gracchus's role as a dead man in the world of the living ironically parallels Kafka's position as a Jew in a Christian and anti-Semitic society. He is an outsider, and there is nothing to be done about it.”

So now I have finally figured out the convoluted connection between Gracchus, Riva del Garda, a young Israeli couple and “a minor Jewish author.”

  

 :

“Tis A Fearful Thing To Love What Death Can Touch”

September 11, 2013

My husband’s last words to me were “drive carefully.” It was night at the hospital and my daughter and I were just leaving to go home for a couple of hours.  At that time he could no longer speak so he wrote those words in a little note book. He didn’t write that he loved me or asked me to take good care of our daughters. But when I looked at his words I understood that this was what he meant.

Living in the suburb for many years in the US and later on in Israel, driving was a central part of our life. Still Tzvi, my husband felt that when I got distracted or upset,  I didn’t pay enough attention to my driving. By making them his last words, Tzvi added  significance to his warning making sure that indeed I was being extra careful  at the time of grief.   

Tzvi’s instruction had a clear and literal meaning, he just wanted us to get home safely.  But I feel that these seemingly simple words have a broader, even symbolic meaning. 

In the past whenever our family went on vacation Tzvi and I always took turns driving, now I was the only driver, literally and metaphorically. I was left in charge and it became my sole responsibility to take care of my family in and out of the car.  

By instructing me to drive carefully Tzvi implied that he expected me to move forward, yet  at the same time he was warning me to pay attention. Six years later these words seem straightforward, but at the time it was quite impossible to focus on the world around me. It took time to be able to make sense of what was there, and then to commit to what lay ahead.

The inspiration to this  post was an episode of This American Life about last words which I listened to today 9.11 as I was skating in the park.

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/114/last-words

In the prologue Ira Glass states that last words often sum up who the person is. In the case of Tzvi  they illuminated one important aspect of his personality –that of a family man: the husband, father and educator. When he was diagnosed  he told me that he wished to conduct himself as a role model to our daughters.  He chose as a motto a paraphrase on Rabin’s declaration of intent: “we will fight terror as though there was no peace, and will make peace as though there was no terror.” In our case it was “we will fight cancer as though there was no death, but we will make peace with death by being prepared.”

We lost our battle, but it always cheers me up to think that even when death was imminent Tzvi did not miss the opportunity to take care of us one last time.

PS.  Although I heard the epitaph which  I chose for the title today on This American Life, it is part of a poem by the great  Jewish poet Judah Halevi, 1075 – 1141

“Tis a Fearful Thing

‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –

to be,
And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

And a holy thing,

a holy thing
to love.

For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.” 

 Judah Halevi

"Man Plans And God Laughs": Home Renovation And Bereavement

 NOV.06.2013 - 12:26 AM

After our two daughters had left home my husband Tzvi and I decided to downsize-- to move from our  house in the suburbs to a smaller one in town. It was going to be a happy move, an opportunity to be centrally located while still having a house with a garden.

In a green neighborhood  just outside Tel Aviv, we found the perfect house. It was an old semi- detached that needed a lot of work: in Israeli terms "old" means about 60 year old. We were thrilled, we knew that this was the place where we would spend many happy years together, and in February we signed the contract.

 However, as the Yiddish proverb goes “man plans and God laughs,” a week after we committed ourselves to buying the house Tzvi was diagnosed with lung cancer. Still we worked on the plans for the  new house together, it was our light in an otherwise very dark period. Originally we planned two studies, and  I remember my heart sinking when he told me one day “I don’t believe that you would need that second study,” I didn’t want to hear it.

On Tzvi’s last day in July he was busy saying good bye to friends and family, he also signed the final papers for the sale of our house in the suburbs to make sure that my move  to the new house would go smoothly.

Taking possession of the new house occurred on the day when I got up from the Shiva, and two days later, on the first day of August, the renovation began. I was grateful for this project, it forced me to be sharp and stay focused in order to take the necessary decisions and make the right choices. I was very fortunate because the architect and the builder, who were aware of my plight, were kind and generous. They took special care of me and we worked together in perfect harmony.

 I have not seen renovation mentioned as a prescribed medicine for bereavement, but for me, (although I was still angry with Him for laughing at our plans) it was “God sent.” It is almost a cliche as the word "renovation" has within it the root "renewal." Indeed as we demolished and built new walls gradually turning  a building site into  a home, I realized that my shattered life was also taking a new form. It gave me new hope for the future.

This was the beginning of my recovery, and  in less than three months, at the end of October, I moved into my new house. I remember waking up on that first morning -- boxes everywhere,  telling myself “this is where my new life starts.”

Each year, around this time,  when I mark another anniversary to my house, I reflect on my circumstances in the summer of 2007, and am thankful for the project and the kindness of people who helped me get back on my feet. But most of all, like Virginia Woolf, I am just happy to have “A Room of One's Own. “

Furnishing The Dollhouse: A Lesson About Money

It all started with a project: a dollhouse made out of wooden bookcase, which my daughters built together with their father. They had labored on it for weeks, and then when the dollhouse was finally done it was time to furnish it.

My husband asked the girls to make a list of the essential  items needed to furnish the different rooms of the house. Their wish list was very long: there were so many things that they just couldn't do without.

Then he said: “You did a great job, and we will be happy to  halve the cost of the furniture that you have chosen.”  He announced it ceremoniously, as though he was handing out a big  award, which in a way he was, it was just that they were caught off guard, our daughters were sure that we were paying for everything.

I was as surprised as the girls:  my husband had not divulged to me his plan;  he was probably worried that I would protest.  Indeed, although I said nothing and went along, I  secretly  felt that at the age of 7 and 8 they were too young to have their wings clipped in such a way. They were thrilled about the finished dollhouse and were looking forward to the endless possibilities of interior design.

It is not that he wasn't willing to spend the money, quite the contrary, like the rest of us he was anxious to see the dollhouse come to life. In retrospect I understand that this was a brilliant fiscal move. He seized an opportune  moment to teach our daughters the meaning of money  - value, making choices, taking responsibility, accountability and even patience. 

The girls were not even resentful, as rational creatures they just went ahead, made the calculation how much money they were willing to spend, and came up with a much shorter list of the most important items.

As a business professor,  My husband also wanted to demonstrate to our daughters the concept of an  "interested party -- any of the people or organizations who may be affected by a situation, or who are hoping to make money out of a situation.” In their case, it meant that if they wanted something  they had to take action. It was also an empowering lesson, the girls saved money to buy new furniture, and made some decorations themselves. The dollhouse has become more meaningful and valuable because we didn’t just buy all the furniture for them at once.

Victoria and Albert Museum of Childhood in London has a collection of Georgian and Victorian  dollhouses. Some of the large ones were used as an instruction device for young women to practice the subject of home economics in preparation for their future role as ladies of the house.

 http://www.museumofchildhood.org.uk/

Our dollhouse was used in a similar fashion, my husband believed that children should learn early about money so  that  they could grow up to be responsible adults. 

Soon Santa will be visiting many families, perhaps now, before he arrives, it is also an auspicious time to start talking to children about money .

Lonely In Jerusalem

12.31.2013 - 

After the army, my brother moved to Jerusalem to study at the Hebrew University. For me, seven years his junior, his life there seemed like pure magic, and I knew that this was exactly what I wanted for myself. So when the time came, I too enrolled at the Hebrew University, fully expecting the same.

However, in the meantime, between enrollment and the start of Fall semester, something significant and unexpected had happened. I fell in love with a young man who eventually became my husband. Tzvi was a student in Haifa, some 200 km north of Jerusalem. As Haifa was my hometown, the idea of attending school there seemed out of the question; besides, my boyfriend never explicitly asked me to stay.

Because of our new circumstances, Tzvi and I looked for an apartment in Jerusalem which could accomodate both of us on the weekends. We  found a studio apartment in a residential neighbourhood; there were no students around, but it promised privacy.

Together we fixed up the apartment and made it cozy and attractive; everything was perfect. But when the semester started and Tzvi went back to Haifa, I was left there all alone, and knew no one in  that city.

My brother was no longer in town, and he had left me the phone number of his good friends. I decided to call them and they invited me for dinner on  that same night.  I had never met them before, and thought that they were much older than me, they were married, had a little boy, in short they were a family. In reality they were graduate students in their late twenties, yet everything about them seemed sophisticated and glamorous.

They were also warm and hospitable, and encouraged me to come over as often as I wished. If I hadn’t had pride I would have gone there almost every day, but I spaced the days between my visits carefully so that I wouldn’t seem desperate. I didn’t want them to know that I was lonely.

I was a student at the university of my choice, and had my own studio apartment, and still I was unhappy. In my enthusiasm about having a place for us on the weekends, I had forgotten about all the days in between. I spoiled my university experience by isolating myself and ended up not living the life that I had hoped to have. But I was only 19 and didn’t know how to fix it. Visiting the lovely family and seeing their happy life emphasized all that was wrong with my own.

I decided to move  back to Haifa, and several months later got married. Haifa University wasn't that bad after all, and while we didn’t have a typical university experience, it was fine, and we were very happy.

Afterwards as an adult, I only saw the kind  family from Jerusalem once or twice.  I always believed that we would meet again, and yet we didn’t. On this day, December 31st 2006, the lovely lady whom I met as a student passed away. I deeply regret that I never got to tell her how meaningful she was to me as the time, and how those happy visits with her  family influenced my decision to marry and start my own family

My sorrow over this missed opportunity brought about change: as "tomorrow is promised to no one," I try, whenever possible, to see those who are dear to me today.

Between Victoria and Gatwick Or The Bearer Of Good News

As students we never had enough money, so when we were accepted to graduate school at  the University of Toronto, getting there from Israel was a challenge. We looked for a cheap flight and were lucky: a year earlier in 1977, the British enterpreneur Freddy Laker started the first low-cost, "no frill" airline, operating low-fare scheduled services between London Gatwick Airport and New York's John F. Kennedy Airport.

The option of booking tickets in advance did not exist, and in order to board a flight one had to line up for a ticket in one of the two Laker Airways centers --in Victoria Station and at Gatwick Airport.  We arrived at Victoria with our suitcases; the line for tickets was very long and we were told that we might be able to catch a flight in two days time. Efficiently people got organized into groups and each one had a coordinator who was in charge of communicating with the airline.  Since there so many people waiting, some  groups camped around the station in an orderly fashion.

My husband Tzvi and I didn’t look forward to the possibility of spending two days camping in the street. We asked our coordinator if he knew anything about the line at the other ticket center at  Gatwick Airport. He didn't, but said that he assumed that it was the same thing. We decided to check for ourselves; Tzvi took a  train to Gatwick and I stayed with the suitcases in Victoria. It took several hours but then he came back bearing good news: the line in Gatwick was short, there was a spacious waiting area,  and we could fly to NY that same night.

We were delighted and anxious to share this piece of good news with the rest of the. We were convinced that many people would choose to take the train to Gatwick. We were wrong, no one did, the two of us left and everyone else stayed behind.

The real reason why no one joined us remains a mystery, I still cannot understand why people preferred to remain outside the station in the heat and pollution of London in August.

But I could specualte, perhaps they didn’t believe us, most of them were Americans and we were strangers and spoke with a foreign accent. The sociologist Georg Simmel defines  "‘stranger’ as a person who comes today and stays tomorrow, whose position in a group is determined, essentially, by the fact that he has not belonged to it from the beginning, that he imports qualities into it which do not and cannot stem from the group itself."  Thus even though we were part of a group, we were viewed with suspicion.

Another reason could be that they felt comfortable and safe within their group and didn’t want to leave; it could be that no one wanted to be the first to go so they all stayed with their group.

Sometimes when I encounter people who are reluctant to do the one thing that, I believe, will get them out of a difficult spot, like leaving an abusive relationship, or quitting a job which they hate, I think of the Victoria vs Gatwick  story and reminded once more that what seems clear to me could be far from obvious to someone else.

PS. About Freddy Laker and Laker Airways.  http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk/2283244.stm

“I'll Think About That Tomorrow “: The Comfort of Denial

Sometimes I hear people remark “she is in complete denial,” several years ago that's probably how they described me. They could not have known, but at that time I chose denial as a way of life and as the best course of action. After my husband Tzvi was diagnosed with stage 4  lung cancer, and heard from the Oncologist about his prognosis, I decided to put that knowledge aside.

While normally we used to study every  foreseeable situation, this time we didn't. It was better  to spare ourselves, thus we purposely limited our exposure to information.  Strangely enough it was much easier than anticipated as it was clear that nothing good could come from that front.

It is amazing how the mind becomes a willing confederate in such decisions. Although I heard with my own ears that Tzvi had only  9 months to live, I did not listen.  I kept insisting to myself that he was young and strong and would get better. In addition, the doctors kept planting  comforting messages in our minds, or perhaps  we just thought we heard them.  Statements like "you are looking good," were translated into “the treatment works” or “he is going to make it.”

The other day I talked to a friend, who was witnessing  utter denial in similar circustances, and it sent me back to the time of Tzvi's illness. I believe that although it was hard, perhaps painful for others to watch my self-deception, it made life better for us. In a way it was like being in love: we placed ourselves in our small cocoon and tried to keep  reality out. Inside we were safe, active and even happy,  as there were many joyful moments in those bleak  months. But there were instances when reality refused to stay out, when Tzvi wanted to talk. Then I really had to listen and even wrote down what he said in a special notebook. Somehow writing made it seem less imminent as though it was something we had to record for future reference.

Another friend told me that when her husband was terminally ill, she knew that he was going to die and could not to deny it. I feel that such realization makes it easier to say good bye, to accept the situation and to get used to the idea of the day after. I chose not to see that far.

If there is an insight to share from my plight, it is that being energetic and hopeful  doesn’t mean that you don't know the truth. It only indicates that in the meantime you choose not to deal with it. In short, there are times when Scarlett O'Hara's technique of  “I'll think about that tomorrow,” is a recommended option.

Our Student Loans Or About Art And Culture

As a student of Art History, I landed a perfect job at the university art library. There I was surrounded by precious art books, and was even allowed to check them out. But the main attraction in that library were the other women who worked there.

The three librarians were, then, recent immigrants from Bucharest Romania. They seemed much older to me, but I guess they were only in their early forties. Elegantly dressed and tastefully made-up, in my eyes they were beautiful and glamorous.

They were also erudite and clever, spoke several languages and were well versed in all forms of art.   It was clear that they came from a highly sophisticated background, and were used to a richer life. It was the mid-seventies, Israel was a young country (less than 30 year old) with few resources, relatively short artistic tradtion, and limited access to real culture.

They spoke longingly about the concerts, the plays, the operas and the ballets which they enjoyed, almost for free, in their old country. I was very impressed, and even jealous, when they told me that in Bucharest they went out almost every night.

Even after they arrived to Haifa, my  provincial home town, they kept up their cultural persuits. They were critical of course of the inferior quality and the high cost of our local culture. But they still attended every performance and travelled to all the exhibitions at the museums in Israel.

 Their commitment to art and culture beguilled me; going home I repeated the librarians' stories to my husband Tzvi who became increasingly impatient with me. Soon I noticed that he had stopped listening whenever I started talking about the three refined ladies of the library. At first I didn’t understand why and couldn't see what bothered him. Their life style was for me a source of inspiration, and I wanted him to hear all the details.

 But then I realized that he disliked, what he perceived as, my hero worshipping, and was worried that the more I talked about life so rich with art and culture, the more dissatisfied I would become with our own reality. At that point we were both students and had no extra money at all, so consuming art or culture was out of the question.

But he had an idea: when we got our student loans Tzvi suggested that we would  use that money to go to Italy for the summer. He wanted me to see up close those works of art which I had only seen in my art books. So we consulted my text book, the Janson's History of Art: The Western Tradition and made a plan.

At that time Italy was still very inexpensive, and we ended up spending less than 300$ for a whole month (even back then it wasn't much). We hitch hiked our way across the country, slept in campsites, and got fresh food at the markets. It was a wonderful summer and an opportunity to taste life rich with art and culture.

Whenever we entered a museum, or a church, Tzvi reminded me to take my time and see "everything.” In the meantime he usually walked around for a short while and then sat down comfortably gazing at one object.

Tzvi was right, we couldn't find a more educational use for our students loans.

 P.S. This is a link to a post about our summer in Italy back in the seventies

http://redroom.com/member/orna-b-raz/blog/when-in-rome-do-as-the-romans-...

The Whales Know A Journey Through Mexican California By Pino Cacucci

The Whales Know A Journey through Mexican California: by Pino Cacucci, translated by Katherine Gregor

For years, few days before my husband's birthday, I used to go to the Travel Section at our local bookstore to look for the perfect book that would capture his imagination. Those were not the kind of books which I would normally choose for myself, but somehow I was always able to find the right book for him.

Earlier this week, as I was reading through The Whales Know A Journey through Mexican California, by the Italian writer Pino Cacucci (and beautifuly translated by our own Red Room blogger Katherine Gregor), I realized that this was the perfect book for Tzvi my late  husband. Even the name of the publisher was highly appropriate, “Armchair Traveller:”  Tzvi was an avid reader who loved to sit at home and learn about other people’s  journeys and adventures from books.

The Whales Know is a collection of 20 short charming and erudite essays that combine descriptions of Cacucci's travels through Mexican California with intellectual insights. The essays are rich with allusions and thought-provoking references.

Sometimes translations tend to be somewhat heavy and cumbersome, as the translator is eager to be as true to the source as possible, and in the process forgets that ultimately the book would be judged by its accessibility and appeal.  However, thanks to the sensitivity and talent of Katherine Gregor, The Whales Know in the English translation has a poetic and natural flow.

Books about travelling are great reading material all year around, but  this book is especially appropriate to take on vacation. Reading an essay or two a day gives plenty of food for the imagination for the rest of the time. Another unique quality of the collection is that the reader could open the book on almost any page and is sure to find an illuminating passage: for example: from essay number 19 “Frontera:”

“The border has shaped me from my very childhood and continues to teach me even now I am past fifty. . .The border, no matter how much wire netting and how many trenches are built, always ends up uniting rather than separating those who live in its shadow. “(p. 126) 

As an Israeli, the issue of borders is relevant and close to my heart. On the Mexican border Cacucci  meets the Mexican author Gabriel Trujillo Munoz  and quotes his writing on this subject (this time Cacucciis himself is in the role of the translator).

I took The Whales Know with me on my Passover vacation to the Ramon Crater in the Desert Mountain and was very happy with this choice. Since it is a small book, I was able to carry it long while walking on the edge of the crater. Every so often I would sit down read  an essay and then resume the walk. I couldn’t think of a better, or more stimulating, companion. This time I found the right book for me.

  Here is the link, and the details of the book: http://www.thearmchairtraveller.com/product/439

At 2,000 km, Baja California in modern-day Mexico is one of the longest peninsulas in the world, and certainly one of the most geographically diverse. Following in the footsteps of John Steinbeck, Pino Cacucci travels through endless expanses of desert, salt mountains and rows of cacti with thorns so sharp they can impale thirsty birds. He meets local characters ranging from greedy privateers to Jesuit missionaries - and a cameo from The Doors' Jim Morrison. Yet the cast of characters includes animals as well as people - sixty years ago Mexic became the first country to create a safe haven for whales, and even today these mysteriously intelligent animals play alongside the fishing boats in harmony with humans. Written with humility, humour and heart, The Whales Know is an insight into an ecosystem under threat.

Pino Cacucci was born in Chiavari, Italy. He is the author of over 20 works of fiction and non-ficto and has won over 16 awards for his writing since 1988.

translated by Katherine Gregor

Some Ask For Help Others Have Help Thrust Upon Them

Our cousin, a quite demanding young man, came to stay with us when we we were graduate students in Canada. After a challenging couple of days my husband Tzvi went shopping with him. He later told me that when they got to the beer section, the cousin announced: “I love beer,” Tzvi calmly responded  “so do I" and kept on walking.

We both knew that this statement meant only one thing: the cousin asked for beer and his request was denied. However, Tzvi’s unexpected reply demonstrated  that there could be other  responses in the repertoire. In that case he chose to treat the cousin's declaration as an invitation to engage in male bonding: The two of us are united in our love of beer.

As for the cousin, by voicing only the sentiment and omitting its subsequent request, he shifted the responsibility for fulfilling his wishes to Tzvi and counted on his hospitality and good-will. Unfortunately for the cousin, Tzvi, unlike most polite people, delighted in ignoring such hints. If it was I who had gone shopping with him, my response would have been quite different:  “Oh, so you love beer,  how about getting some for dinner” to that my ever civilized cousin would have responded  “But only if You Guys drink as well" and most likely I would have answered:" Of course we do."

Now is the time to disclose that I don’t even like beer and never drink it.

This was an amusing but inconsequential incident. However, more meaningful "beer loving moments,” are quite ubiquitous  in our life, especially in our relationships with those who are close to us. There are times when I too shy away from direct requests, and instead wait for my family to guess my needs. It may very well be that, to speed up matters, I also drop some hints.

And then there is the other side of those moments, we are so ready to preempt our children’s  needs and often are overly attuned to our loved ones‘ wishes that we rush to fulfill them before they were even formulated. Do you need a ride? Would you like some money? And of course you can take my car, are only few examples.

The problem with implied, unvoiced or indirect requests is their lack of ownership. Since the recipient never specifically asks for help, there is often no acknowledgement or appreciation of that help which was thrust upon him/her.

As a child I read  a story about a rich man who helped his poor neighbor. Later on he kept reminding the recipient of what he had done for him, thus making his life miserable. I guess that the moral  of the story was that you should never demand gratitude for your good deeds.  In  Hebrew the word for gratitude  is revealing, its literal translation is "a prisoner of thanks." Of course no one should be held prisoner, but an acknowledgement of that help expressed in a simple thank you is important to both sides.

My mother used to say that in our contacts with people who are close to us either we don't have to ask for help (because they will recognize the need themselves and address it), or it is of no use (since they won't lift a finger to help). It took me years to realize the error, and the danger, of such belief. If I need help it is my responsibility to let other people know my needs, and it is their right to refuse me.  And if I  receive help, I should not forget to acknowledge it and show my gratitude. 

Such an arrangement promotes simpler and friendlier world, it is a shame that I can't share this insight with my mother. 

A Good Memory Is Often A Curse

Recently in a meeting of my women’s group we discussed the question: who do we choose not to forgive, and why?  Somehow it feels like an appropriate topic for a post as today is the Holocaust Memorial Day in Israel.

The radio and television broadcast only Holocaust related stories of war, death and courage and soon at the sound of the siren we will stop everything and stand up for 2 minutes respecting those who perished.

During our discussion one of the women tried to bring up the Holocaust as an example. However, at that moment we all subscribed to the view of the historian Saul Friedlander, who regards the Holocaust as a momentous event outside history, and flatly refused to talk about it. We limited the scope to our ability to forgive those who have wronged us in a (relatively) small way. Ruining the evening with the Holocaust was out of the question.

Not surprisingly I noticed that it was harder for me to forgive those who have wronged members of my immediate family. It was especially true at times when they were vulnerable: a mother who yelled at my young daughter, a cousin who was rude to my aging father. And of course, the period when my husband Tzvi was terminally ill. I still remember a close friend who failed to come and see him even though he had been told about the severity of Tzvi's condition.

I used to believe that I was the kind of person who was quick to forgive, but sadly it is not always the case. In the first year after Tzvi died I too felt vulnerable, and to this day I remember, and find it difficult to forgive, those family members or (former) friends who did not stand by me at that difficult time. A good memory is often a curse, but it is also a blessing as it enables me not to forget those who were there.

I once read with my students an article about the different ways of dealing with conflicts. The writer claimed that in some cases, with people outside our immediate circle, a physical or emotional withdrawal is a good solution. And this is what I chose to do, I am not angry or hurt any more, but on the other hand, those people are no longer part of my life.

What I described above, about my responses to life-size grievances and the choices I made, has no connection to the Holocaust. However when it comes to the Holocaust I do not have the freedom to withdraw and stay away, and that memory remains a permanent fixture in my immediate circle, almost like family.

The Nazis killed my grandparents and one uncle, my other uncle had gone through the horrors of the death camps and survived. That uncle stayed in Germany after the war and until he died at the age of 88. He remembered the Holocaust when he was awake and didn't forget it when he was asleep.

So I, the grandaughter and the niece, have to keep that memory alive.

P.S I also remeber today the brave people who risked their lives to help the Jews:

One Day In May

Shavouot (Feast of Weeks or Pentecost) came early in 1994, right in the middle of May. It wasn’t as though in the diaspora, especially in Texas, such minor Jewish occasions were even noticed. But on that morning before my husband Tzvi left for work, we had made plans to take the girls to celebrate the holiday in the nearest synagogue.

Two hours later Tzvi was back; when he stood at the doorway, his ashen face made it clear that something was very wrong. He told me that he had just lost his job at IBM. It came as a shock; I was aware of of the problems at his lab. Still somehow I believed that he was needed and that his job was secure, and never even imagined a moment like that. 

We didn’t go to services that night, instead we talked with our daughters about future plans; there was a lot to discuss. I remember that one of our daughters said in dismay “I didn’t think that people like my father could lose their jobs,” neither did I.

It was all very sudden and confusing and we were not sure what to do: there was an option of transferring to another IBM plant in the west coast. But those were very hard times for the company, and from what Tzvi had seen in his own lab he was pessimistic about the future of the company (he was wrong). He didn’t want to take the risk of moving the family just to face another wave of layoffs. Also, there was another, very Israeli, reason, being in California meant being even farther away from home.

In contrast, 1994 was a wonderful year for Israel: Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin had just signed a peace agreement with Jordan and people were hopeful. The economy boomed and we heard encouraging accounts from our family and friends. Even the skeptic Israeli newspapers sounded unusually enthusiastic.

It took us only few hours to make up our mind, we were moving back to Israel.

Four years earlier when we had been transferred from Beer Sheva Israel to Dallas Texas, Tzvi had a job waiting, IBM took care of our relocation, and paid for the expensive transatlantic move. This time it was different,  nothing waited for us in Israel and we had to pay for everything ourselves.

Still we were  lucky that we had a place to go back to, and felt  especially fortunate to be part of the new optimism in Israel. After November 1995 when Rabin was assassinated Israel has greatly changed and I am not sure that we would have returned.

Although the day when Tzvi was laid off was one of the hardest in our family history, it brought about new life and different opportunities for all of us. That relatively minor loss, which required swift and flexible change of plans, also prepared me for the real tragedy of losing Tzvi. It may sound strange but at the time of his illness I often thought how much harder it must be to be away from home when bad things happen.

Every year around this time I am reminded of that morning in May, but then another, more cheerful, memory comes to mind. I see myself waking up the following day thinking “my world, as I know it, has come to an end," and then another thought: “but it is not really the end of the world." Next I get up and start making the necessary arrangements for the move.

Public Mourning Is Naked

In the first year of my widowhood I sought the company of other women in the same circumstances as mine. Being confused and overwhelmed, I felt  that if I spent enough time with experienced widows, I could learn from them how to cope. Perhaps I was also hoping to skip some of the steps of mourning, and to expedite the healing process.

So I contacted a woman, whose husband died the previous year, I had met her before at social gatherings since her late husband was a colleague of my husband. We liked each other, had a lot in common, and as we were both lonely, we became fast friends. It was comforting to spend time together: we took long walks along the sea, went to concerts, and couple of times even drove out of town for the whole day.

Then all of a sudden, without warning, she ended our friendship. She claimed that there were other obligations and that she was too busy and had no time to meet up. I didn’t understand what was wrong, and wondered if it was something that I had said or done. I wrote her a letter and apologized, in case I had hurt her feelings without noticing. She replied that it wasn't my fault, but never made alternative plans to meet or expressed any wish to see me again.

Not long ago I heard on This American Life that “public mourning is naked.” I don’t remember the context, but I found those words so moving that I recorded them in my notebook, and wrote underneath: desperation, neediness, empathy. 

In Biblical times the words "naked" and "public mourning" were connected, and had a physical/literal meaning. At that time tearing one’s clothing, especially in front of a crowd, was the custom of the land,  and  it was a powerful expression of pain and sorrow: Job 1: 20

“Then Job arose, and tore his robe, and shaved his head, and fell down on the ground, and worshiped.” (World English Bible)

Tearing the robe and shaving the hair were outward (public) signs of grief. Originally, people would rip their garments as soon as they heard the sad news. The mourner tore  his clothing until he exposed his heart.

In a more figurative sense,  these words paint a picture of deep sorrow. In displaying grief I expose my heart. Being naked also  means that the masks have been removed, leaving me unprotected, vulnerable and at risk. Expressing raw emotions (or as the idiom goes: wearing my heart on my sleeve) is probably too uncomfortable, and embarrassing, for those around me. Therefore, and since public mourning is no longer in fashion, it is probably prudent to do it quietly and privately.

It has been almost seven years, and I was fortunate  to find other women friends (not only widows), with whom I share my feelings. But every once and a while I think about that friend and the time we spent together. I don't blame her, after all her husband died only a year earlier, and she had her own mourning to deal with. I still don't understand why she stopped being my friend, but when I heard the statement: “public mourning is naked” I realized that this was part of the answer: it was probably the nakedness of my grief which felt too close and scared my friend away.