tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17172212498453411652024-02-19T03:30:45.389-08:00Shadow KnowsMy life with yoga, poetry, critters, and whatever else comes up.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.comBlogger1493125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-79896799497315837972013-03-25T15:16:00.002-07:002013-03-25T16:07:32.311-07:00Happy Passover!Passover has always been my favorite holiday--at least since I've been an adult. As a child, Passover, like the rest of Judaism, was something I could not quite claim as my own.<br />
My parents assiduously avoided religion, though my father was quick to condemn me for dating non Jewish boys and eventually marrying a non-Jewish man. They were maddeningly irrational, and I guess religion is irrational, and so is family in general, most of the time.<br />
We went to my Orthodox uncle's house for Passover, and while I have some fond memories of playing with my cousins, who were just a year or two older than me, the seder, conducted all in Hebrew, and thus incomprehensible to a child who had not been either to Israel or to religious school, was no fun. It went on and on, way past midnight. And it required me to drink thimbleful after thimbleful of cough medicine-sweet Kosher wine. A tiny, skinny child, I was usually asleep under the table before long. And I couldn't have sung the questions anyhow.<br />
Part of the seder features four sons (liberal Judaism like the branch to which I belong later changed this to "four children."), one of who was wise, one wicked, one simple. I don't remember the other. At various parts of my youth, I played the simple child, who didn't know how to ask, because I had been taught nothing, and playing the wicked child, who questioned the faith. And as I got older and began investigating Judaism, I did that questioning a lot. It was how I learned.<br />
It strikes me as odd, looking back, that this was a holiday whose major reason for being was to tell the story of the exodus, an event that scholars now declare never actually happened. Yet it is so important, so central to the tradition that it is repeated over and over in the Torah and in the prayers.<br />
How could they claim to be telling the story if one person at the table at least had no clue what they were saying at all?<br />
But once I was an adult, married to said gentile, and I had a son, he was going to be Jewish in a different way from the way I had been. I reveled in my new role as Jewish educator, for I had to educate myself first, and I did that, in the way a convert might have.<br />
I sampled lots of different kinds of synagogues, approaches to the faith, etc., and ended up with one that made me feel comfortable and unaccountably at home.<br />
I would preside at these seders and explain things to a table full of round-eyed innocents who didn't know what they had let themselves in for. They only knew I was a good cook, but not that they would have to wait for so long to eat.<br />
By the time the meal was served, they could identify with the rag-tag bunch of former slaves in the desert, wishing there'd be something to eat besides that damn manna stuff. Bitter herbs? Parsley in salt water? Enough already, Dayenu!<br />
I organized Jewish-Palestinian seders, anti-modern-slavery seders, feminist seders, peace seders... there was a seder for every day of the Passover week and then some. And most of the attendees were celebrating the holiday for the first time.<br />
My son was initiated into Passover from an early age, and although the haggadahs I used were child-friendly, in gender-free, nonsexist, polically correct English, and contained activities a young child could understand and enjoy (puppet shows! plays!), he also became bored and tended to wander away from the table.<br />
On the other hand, as he grew older, he brought his friends home to show them Passover at his house, obviously proud and pleased to have a tradition the others didn't have to show off.<br />
He attended religious school for a while before the teachers at the synagogue threw up their hands at him, and we allowed him to enroll in baseball, which became his refuge.<br />
Later, the frequency of the seders at our house tapered off. I sometimes didn't attend any at all. There was no use trying to have one at our house because I couldn't get anyone to cooperate, and having two or three people at a seder is just sad and pointless.<br />
Now that he is grown up, I attend the choir seder, and sometimes, if I'm lucky, am invited to a friend's first or second night meal.<br />
I don't organize these things anymore. I'm happy to sit back and be part of someone else's seder.<br />
Whatever celebration this season brings you, I hope it is a fine one.<br />
Chag sameach!<br />
<br />
<br />Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-29486818844408144952013-03-20T12:02:00.000-07:002013-03-20T12:02:07.585-07:00Another year, another trip through the TorahLast night in Torah class, our group discussed what is probably the greatest portion in the entire book: Genesis 18.1-22.19, AKA Vayira.<br />
This is the portion with the mysterious strangers, one of whom may be God, telling Sarah she is going to give birth, even though she's already 90 and her husband is even older. Of course, Sarah is listening through the tent flap.<br />
And the second time Abraham tries to pass Sarah off as his sister to save his own butt.<br />
We also see Sarah and Abraham sending Hagar and Ishmael off into the desert to die, where God rescues them.<br />
And Lot and his lot fleeing Sodom and Gomorra (sp), where his wife turns into a pillar of salt.<br />
And of course, the Akeda, the binding of Isaac... probably the greatest of greatest hits of the Torah, as far as I am concerned.<br />
It was a lively discussion, with lots of juicy disagreement, fertile questioning, great jokes. We went over our usual time, but no one cared. There was too much to discuss, to wonder about, to shake our heads over.<br />
What is Abraham being tested for in the Akeda? Is it, as traditional readings of the passage would have it, whether he will be scrupulously obedient to God, no matter what he is asked to do? In which case, these readers say, he passed.<br />
Or is it to see whether he will be as cold and uncompassionate to Isaac as he was to Ishmael and Hagar and Sarah? If so, he flunked that test. Maybe he's thinking that God promised him untold numbers of progeny. What's one fewer in the face of that promise?<br />
If Abraham was supposed to get the point, he doesn't seem to, but the text is so mysterious, so full of silences... more silences than not. That what makes it so irresistible---our desire to fill in those blanks.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-54503235687587061312013-03-18T16:43:00.001-07:002013-03-18T16:43:31.618-07:00Moses on TrialEvery year my synagogue stages an interesting mock trial of biblical figures for crimes committed (or not, depending how you view the status of Biblical texts) in the course of their lives, as recorded in the Torah.<br />
This year, it was Moses who was being tried for his murder of an Egyptian task master and subsequent flight out of Egypt.<br />
The lawyers and judges were real enough. In fact, Moses had a Ace in the hole. His defense lawyer was the famous expert in Constitutional Law, Irwin Chemerinsky, who happens to belong to my synagogue.<br />
The Prosecution was no slouch either, and neither was the judge. All did their jobs efficiently and well, making arguments that were clear and easy to understand and even amusing.The prosecutor, Laurie Levinson, even did a Power Point to accent her points.<br />
It was a privilege to be there to see how a courtroom is supposed to work, which was quite unlike the mockery of justice I recently witnessed when I joined my friend in the courtroom as she filed for an extension of a restraining order. And that was a real case. This was not. Ironies.<br />
As I sat in the sanctuary pondering whether this was justifiable homicide, by the California definition of the term that had been offered (and asking myself what law should serve as the measure for this case anyhow), I realized that this issue was really beside the point.<br />
Moses had his turning point in the moment he responded to the beating of his kinsman. Whether he had merely spoken out or, as he chose to do, outright killed the taskmaster, his life would have been forfeit by Egyptian law.<br />
Like a fugitive slave, he had decided to drop the act and taken on his destiny as leader to a bunch of whiny former slaves who loved their chains more than they realized.<br />
Since there were no courts or juries or jails at that time, and really not until quite late in human history, he had no choice but to run. He had become, defacto, one of the slaves he sought to aid.<br />
And where would we all be if he had decided to stay in Egypt?Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-24427801249671322702013-03-10T09:20:00.001-07:002013-03-10T09:20:45.983-07:00Spring ForwardI've lost track of time. This morning, I had to check the Internet to see that an hour of my life had indeed slipped away unnoticed while I was sleeping.<br />
Now I feel regret because every minute is precious, begging to be filled with something, and there are so many things I should be doing. But I suppose I'll be forgiven for not filling that hour at 2 AM, though my cats might have other ideas about this.<br />
Yesterday I had lunch with an old friend I haven't spoken with in years. I won't go into details here, but the rift was my fault. Instead of confronting this person with feelings I had about things that had happened in the past, I just quit talking to her.<br />I've done that before and since. And always I regret it. It's hard to understand why I do it because I'm hardly shy or short of words, generally speaking.<br />
This person reached out to me, and I accepted. She was gracious, saying nothing about what had passed between us. I didn't let the moment pass though.<br />
And when I got home, I heard from another such person on LinkedIn.<br />
It's the season of second chances. I've missed an hour, but not these opportunities to patch up old quarrels.<br />
<br />
Also yesterday I saw the film <i>Amour.</i> I can't say I was unwarned. I had read many times reviews on films by the director, Michael Haneke, speaking of his tendency toward relentless, almost diabolical film-making. Being emotionally squeamish, I avoided his films up to now, even though I admire fine film and he had won many an award.<br />
This time, I was drawn to the film because of my experience with my parents, I suppose, but I should have known how I would struggle with it, and I did.<br />
Like Bergman in his crisis of faith films, Haneke doesn't let the viewer off for a moment. There is no music swelling in the background. The camera remains on an image for an uncomfortably long time, though it is generally a middle distance from the figures on screen rather than being a close-up of the kind that Bergman favors. Haneke won't even give us this. Everything is distanced, and this makes it all seem much more cruel to me than Bergman, who is openly emotional and can veer sometimes in his films into sweetness. I can't imagine Haneke doing that.<br />
The acting was superb, the writing as well. And all the decor, costumes, writing was spot on. But did I enjoy it? I wouldn't use that word. Glad I saw it, even if it made me squirm.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-39305195945336519692013-03-02T07:45:00.001-08:002013-03-02T07:45:16.959-08:00End of the Tunnel When I was a small child, my parents often used to drive to Brooklyn to see elderly relatives. I loved to explore their musty apartment, with its smell of mothballs, footed hassocks, and the building itself, with its equally elderly elevator man, in his white gloves. However it wasn't the destination I remember most but the route.<br />
We would frequently drive through the Holland tunnel, which seemed to me nearly endless. Now perhaps it was not coming from Philadelphia but in the course of other travels that we actually employed it, but we often did.<br />
I was familiar with tunnels aplenty, since we often rode the Frankford Elevated subway in Philadelphia. These were frequent and short, plunging the rider into a totally dark world that would end as suddenly as it began when we emerged, blinking, back into the bright sunshine.<br />
This tunnel was something else, more elemental. Tiled and dimly lit, like an underwater world, the narrow walls would seem to close upon us, alone among the multitudes. The cars would nose forward, like startled fish, borne by the movement of their fellows, having totally surrendered any individual will.<br />
It went on and on, so long that I forgot the world before and after it, and when we finally emerged into the light, it was a shock and surprise, a glad one.<br />
In my current life, I have been in a very long tunnel, it has seemed to me. Years long. I felt that I must have wandered into it at night, and in the morning, lost, I was unable to find my way out.<br /> Mile after tiled mile the tunnel would wind, and I was in it alone. Once in a while, a light would wink somewhere, and hope would flare up, like a candle, then be gone.<br />
But now, I think, even this long dark route has started to give out. The faces of others are before me, and doors that seemed closed have begun to open.<br />
The chief thing about tunnels that I had forgotten is that they help a person to get somewhere otherwise inaccessible, the road hewn through a mountain, the portal from one world into another.<br />
I set foot on these new continents with trepidation, like an explorer, ready to map the new world.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-25821433601313842312013-02-24T06:32:00.002-08:002013-02-25T12:08:31.787-08:00New Open Reading In FullertonYesterday R and I went to a new reading in Fullerton. I had been invited to it by a young man who is a FB friend and did a featured reading there. He was among 7 readers originally scheduled to appear, along with musicians.<br />
As it happens, the majority didn't show up. Strangely, they kept texting the poor organizer throughout the three hours or so we were there at that restaurant, Steamers, where that reading took place, tantalizing her with promises that they were on their way, stuck in traffic, etc. I tend not to believe it, though traffic in L.A. can be horrendous.<br />
Open readings can be odd. You never know who is going to read. On this day, an 87 year old fellow with a vanity-press book was there. I hadn't run into him before, but I have never read in Fullerton before, so perhaps that explains it.<br />
There were also some people from Redondo poets reading work that was as unlike my own as poetry could possibly get, except for one fellow, Larry, who I had run into at the Mug previously, whose work I admired.<br />
Like me, he is waiting for his manuscript to be published, but I gather that someone has promised to publish his, though he didn't say who that was. He seemed to have proofs that he was reading from.<br />
Most of the poets read very emotional set pieces, with the emphasis on performance.<br />
Lately I am having trouble projecting myself and my voice when I read. The poems are fine, but for some reason, I am not getting along at all well with the microphone.<br />
Of course, I am so short that I have to maneuver it so people can hear. Sometimes I end up clutching the mic stand, just so that I can be heard. R thinks I shall have to grasp the mic itself from now on, leaving the pole to fend for itself.<br />
I hope for featured reading sometime, but first I will have to learn to deal with this problem.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-73560889662507006252013-02-17T07:17:00.002-08:002013-02-17T07:17:59.944-08:00I Never Saw Another ButterflyLast night I went with some fellow choir members and R to Laguna Playhouse to see a youth theater production that also featured my friend from choir, Steve Hirsch, the Holocaust drama, "I Never Saw Another Butterfly."<br />
The original book featured poems and paintings done by inmates of the Terezin Concentration Camp, most of whom subsequently were transported to Auschwitz, where they died. Only about 100 were left of the thousands who had gone through that camp. Most were all alone by the end of the war.<br />
Then in the 1950s, a nun, Hana Volavkova, who saw the poems and paintings in a bookshop in Prague, turned it into a short novel including the poems. By all accounts, it was hard to get Jews to talk to a nun so soon after the Holocaust. Some of the people she spoke too probably had bad experiences with the Church, which often was indifferent to their sufferings. But she did persevere, and wrote a lovely play making use of this material.<br />
There were many children in the audience, and the cast was largely composed of children as well, some quite young, as young as 7 or 8, I would say.<br />
It might seem shocking that a work like this, as frank and dark as it was, would be presented for children, but Jews have customarily taught quite young children about the Holocaust, and presented them with books and dramatizations without too much ill effect. It is all in the way it is done. I certainly know of people from my childhood whose parents were in the camp who terrified their children with stories of the camps, but told this way, it doesn't seem to have that effect. I know that though I was unusually sensitive as a child to horror films and frightening tales, it didn't trouble me that much, though of course it made me sad and raised a lot of questions.<br />
But the play was very well done. I was so impressed by the professional performances by the children, in particular. The lead in the play, a young Asian actress, expressed the enormous range of emotions the part demanded like a pro. At the start of the play, the character, Rya Englanderova, was totally traumatized by witnessing the death of her father at Auschwitz. The actress convincingly portrayed this, as well as the slow emerging from trauma with a child's resilience, to become part of the community of bereft children at the camp, then a young woman feeling first love. The other children also did a wonderful job with everything, from singing the snippets of the camp opera telling in story the tale of the imprisoned children to playing the roles of children later murdered in other camps.<br />
Steve, as Rabbi, expressed the gentle intelligence and cultivation of a lost civilization.<br />
The play was engrossing and well done. I think its run is now over, which is unfortunately, as I'd love to recommend it to you.<br />
After the play, a wonderful real-life character, an 86 year old concentration camp survivor from Berlin, spoke for a long time about his experience. Before he spoke, he showed a short documentary film made by his grandson about his experience in the Holocaust. His story was very moving because after his father deserted the family, when his mother was quite young and he was just a baby, she remarried to a non-Jewish German, who converted to Judaism just to marry her. She subsequently had three more children, who passed for non-Jews, as did she, somehow. And she cast out her 15 year old son to fend for himself because he would make it impossible to pretend that she and her young children were not Jewish.<br />
He was a young rebel who in the place of the yellow star sewed to his clothing, wore a dime-store star of a deputy he could take off whenever he wanted to, hiding out in department stores and using his quick wits to make escapes from the Nazis until that became impossible.<br />
That was the sort of spirit that helped him to survive, to cover over his tatooed numbers from Buchenwald with the tatoo of roses (tatoos are forbidden to Jews, but he clearly never let any orthodoxies stand in his way of living). And at 85, for his birthday, he went sky-diving with his grandson. He says he'll do it again at 90 if he's feeling good. I fully believe he will. I felt privileged to feel his zest and appreciation for life and to be among the last to hear from the mouth of a survivor himself about his experience in the camps.<br />
<br />Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-15375319237694871422013-02-15T06:24:00.001-08:002013-02-15T07:55:06.227-08:00Starting the Kar-ma The other day, my yoga teacher, Denise, asked me why I try to help people so often, eagerly reaching out to those who are in trouble even if it means trouble for me. I am not sure, but ever since I can remember, this has been a major part of who I am. One of my first memories is of perhaps the first time I tried to help a wounded creature.<br />
I must have been about 3 years old. As I recall, I was standing on the corner near my house, looking down at a shining pile of glass fragments. Someone had filled a jar with bees and thrown the jar at a brick wall, where it shattered, killing some of the bees, freeing others. One of the bees, mortally wounded, with a shard of glass protruding from its body on both sides, struggled on the ground.<br />
I didn't really know yet about bees. I wasn't afraid to put my hand down in the glittering pile and take it into my hand, feeling its soft fur against my cupped fingers. Of course, the bee didn't understand what I was trying to do, and there was really nothing I could have done anyhow, but as I brought the wounded creature toward my face for a better look, it stung me in the hand.<br />
I remember feeling betrayed. That hurt much worse than the sting, but it was a lesson well taken because sometimes, helping others can be a dangerous thing. They don't always want to be helped or understand what one is trying to do as helping.<br />
Despite this early lesson, a parade of wounded creatures ensued. There were fledgling birds at various stages, from featherless lumps, eyes still closed, to pin-feathered young birdlings, hungry cats, neighborhood strays. My mother, fearful of all animals, wouldn't allow me to take them into the house, but my father, more sympathetic to this effort, smuggled many of them in. There was even one swallowtail butterfly that might not have needed rescuing at all. I kept it inside, by the window, where it fanned its enormous wings in the sunshine.<br />
Most of the birds died. I didn't know what to feed them or how to care for them properly, and most were broken by the fall beyond all redemption. But just when the efforts extended to people, I am not sure.<br />
Early on, I was drawn to those who were outsiders, shunned and teased. I didn't have the courage to step fully into the breech, since it would have meant that I too would have been shunned, since the cruelty of the schoolyard dictated this. I would half-heartedly watch the teasing, meeting eyes with the victim, and both of us would know how wrong this was, but I said nothing, did nothing.<br />
Later, emboldened by my own more secure adult position, I would actually intervene to stop whatever cruelty I saw, to correct it. I flared up when I heard about injustices, and tried to remedy them.<br />
I can't say that my efforts ever had the success I hoped for, but I felt encouraged by them anyway, encouraged to continue. Probably I would have continued even if they had met with disaster. There was just some reason I had to do it.<br />
Working in a soup kitchen on a regular basis, as I once did, stoked that fire, but I craved the more personal connection of a one-to-one effort. Being friends was something I could do, knew how to do.<br />
Lately, this habit of mine has escalated. It was rare up to now to have more than one of these rescue missions going on at the same time. There are now two different friends I am trying to help, crippled by my own significant limitations, but using my wits as best I can to help these people out of their fixes.<br />
Even if it doesn't work, I will have made that connection, made the person feel less alone. Perhaps this is why I do it... I too need to feel connected, and of use.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-77494884446015220272013-02-13T13:14:00.001-08:002013-02-13T13:14:35.087-08:00Prompted by my friend Marly Youmans, I have returned to say a few words on this blog. If you do drop by and read it, please let me know. I had the feeling before that I was speaking into the cyber void. To know people are out there would be a help.<br />
During the hiatus, I have been writing... a lot. I've been writing poems, and some of them are collaborations with artists and other writers. I would post some of the work I responded to, but the poems are not published yet. It will have to wait.<br />
However, I did interview a friend, Judy Kronenfeld, a very fine poet from Riverside, CA, and the interview was recently published in <i>Switchback. </i>I can give a link to that.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://swback.com/interviews/poetry-performance-and-communication-interview-jud.ht">swback.com/interviews/poetry-performance-and-communication-interview-jud.ht</a><br />
<br />
I've also been writing for a freelance position writing content for an educational content site. It's required quite a bit of dragging old books off shelves, old notes out of boxes, creaky knowledge out of the dusty back of my mind. The topic I've been working on is Modernism. I've had to define it, analyze it,<br />
choose its major figures, do a timeline, etc. Quite a task for someone who has been out of grad school for 20 years and has not had the opportunity to teach literature in a class specifically on the period. It has been interesting. We'll see whether any of it makes it to the website though. I tend to write in my own style, because I can't help it, when there is a very particular style I need to emulate. That may well be the hardest part of the job.<br />
They asked me to design a class on Nabokov too, but having no experience in designing online classes, I declined. I would love to learn this task, but I think I'll need a bit of training first. I wouldn't mind teaching the class though, after working with a designer to put one together.<br />
Meanwhile, I've been keeping busy going to open readings, and now have interested a new friend from choir who joined the synagogue quite recently to come along! Last night we had a delightful time at Murray Thomas' monthly Barnes and Noble reading in Long Beach, where I heard an array of talented writers, most of whom I had never met before. Some of the usual suspects were there too.<br />
Richard and I read some new poems of ours we like a lot and I think that went pretty well. Now if only I could get a magazine to accept some! I've been getting them back non-stop for months, and I am still waiting to be offered a featured reading. I hope that wherever it is, when it finally arrives, there is a microphone. My voice tends to be quite soft, though I don't think of myself as a quiet person. Guess I'll have to work on projecting it toward the back of the room, where someone is checking his email on his phone, flipping through a magazine, and taking a quick nip from a hip flask. Or maybe a fire alarm is going off (this has happened) or the battery alarm is blipping periodically in an annoying way. Last night, the PA system periodically went off too. Hard to compete with.<br />
I get lots of invitations to attend readings, but most are hours away. Richard doesn't like to drive those distances much and I can't do it because of the freeways. So we stick to the few tried and true local ones.<br />
I'd go there to do a featured reading, but it's not worth it just to read at an open reading, where I can get it no more than two or three poems, fewer perhaps because I'm writing long stuff lately.<br />
But I'm having a pretty good time.<br />
Happy Valentine's Day to you! Drop a line and let me know that you're there.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-6409448796549264482012-11-05T05:36:00.000-08:002012-11-05T05:36:15.438-08:00voteWhatever your politics, however sick you are of the non-stop electoral nonsense, however discouraged, VOTE! To keep our power to choose, we must exercise it.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-31881353901314713722012-11-04T06:57:00.002-08:002012-11-04T06:57:46.984-08:00Nomination! I can't say I've never won anything. I've won a few bucks on scratcher lottery tickets (once it was $30, I think; another time, $100., but belatedly, after I had already thrown out the ticket after being assured that despite appearances, I hadn't really won at all), but I've never won a poetry contest, though I've entered my share. I have never been nominated for such an award either, until now.<br />
This morning I got a note from my publisher, Karen Kelsey Davies, that she was nominating my poem "Pranayama Lesson," forthcoming in her journal <i>Victorian Violets Press</i>, for a Pushcart Prize! I have followed the Pushcart nominations of friends for years, since the infamous edition years ago of the Pushcart anthology that thumbed its nose at the rest of us with its title: <i>All of Us, and None of You</i>. And I have voted for nominated poems from journals I have published in. But it is wonderful to finally see myself among the nominated!<br />
Maybe my luck is turning?<br />
Also, I am hoping to attend the L.A. book Launch for the anthology, <i>The Poetry of Yoga</i>, in which 4 of the poems from <i>Balance</i> will appear. I will paste the blurb for this anthology below:<br />
<br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Poetry of Yoga is a ground breaking book anthology expanding the literary
tradition of yoga to include the cultural perspective of the 21st century. A
modern day collection compiled and edited by artist, poet, and yogi HAWAH, this
second volume is distilled from over 1,900 pages of poetry, submitted from 19
countries.<br />
<br />
Shiva Rea calls the book project, "A great victory... through which we get
to see the somatic power of consciousness."<br />
<br />
The <i>Yoga Journal</i> writes, "Perfect for solitary
contemplation... this anthology is full of yogic wisdom."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Volume
2 contains a special foreword from Jivamukti's own Sharon Gannon and features
writing from: Hemalyaa Behl, Jeffrey Cohen, Seane Corn, Angela Farmer, Ana
Forrest, Dr. James Gordon, Judyth Hill, Faith Hunter, Alanna Kaivalya, Victor
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Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-25072478502240432562012-10-27T14:42:00.003-07:002012-10-27T14:42:52.373-07:00Tebot Bach reading, Oct. 26, 2012 Tonight was delightful not only because it was my actual birthday, but because I discovered a wonderful writer, Charlotte Innes. Charlotte read her poems at the monthly meeting of Tebot Bach, located in a dark and dingy room in Huntington Beach, CA. We didn't notice the darkness at all this time because Charlotte's work was so wonderful, so smack you between the eyes beautiful that my attention didn't stray for a moment.<br />
After her reading, Richard and I read at the open reading. We enjoyed ourselves immensely and had an appreciative room of fellow open readers, for the most part, though Robin and Manny did show up and neither were readers, as well as a few other people out there in the room.<br />
Charlotte and I traded chapbooks and talked about meeting again to explore other reading venues in San Diego and elsewhere.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-54798495926556264952012-10-25T07:43:00.001-07:002012-10-25T07:43:09.518-07:00Happy Birthday to Me--Dinner at Thuyen Vien Last night, eight of us met at a Vietnamese Vegan joint a few blocks from Disneyland to celebrate, though in truth my birthday isn't till Friday. I decided to go for a vegan place because although I adore Vietnamese food, I feel queasy about consuming certain pork products that this cuisine uses, such as "congealed pork blood" or the like. Yes I know that would probably be frowned on in haute cuisine circles or even among those who aspire to genuine authenticity, but I am who I am, and being Jewish, I never got used to eating or enjoying this sort of stuff, despite the fact that I do not keep kosher. Eating vegan or vegetarian food makes me feel free. I can order anything from the menu with the thought that there is nothing in it I would not choose to eat, given a clear idea of what went into the dish.<br />
I thought for a while we would never get to this place. It was rush hour, and the freeways were monumentally crowded, cars shuffling along in a parade or protest march all the way there, despite the fact that we tried to avoid the rush by not taking the freeway till we were about a quarter of the way there. It was the other 3/4 that took all the time, and the surface streets were also clogged with traffic made even slower by the inexorable and untimely traffic lights that snagged us just as we were about to roll free of the crowd for once.,<br />
Add to the difficulty the unreliable Google Maps we were using. There's is a lot of construction going on in Anaheim, and these changes had apparently not been noted on those maps. So we never did find the road we were supposed to get onto after we exited the freeway. And then my hapless map illiteracy didn't serve us well when I sent us in precisely the wrong direction, away from the restaurant, rather than toward it for miles and miles, because I was holding the map upside down.<br />
But eventually we found the restaurant. We arrived about the same time, most of us, and all but one of the invited guests who had rsvped showed up.<br /> Then the fun began. The menu, as is often the case in such places, was enormous, so we followed the lead of the Yelp reviewers and ordered recommended dishes. We began with a couple of orders of eggrolls (wonderful!) and spring rolls (very good, though I like my own rather lumpy ones just as well, as far as taste goes). Then we got our main dishes. Several of us, me included, got garlic "chicken," which was very convincing, having the mouthfeel, texture, and taste of real chicken. It did become cloying after half a plate though because the dish included no vegetables. They were much missed.<br /> Others at the table got a soupy sort of dish called "chicken and rice," which was more varied, and one person got a nori hand roll that was delicious. Yes, I know this isn't Vietnamese, but it was good all the same.<br />
Richard got a caramel shrimp and pork dish that was absolutely delicious!<br /> We didn't get any of the special drinks on the menu because the costs were mounting up, but we did spring for a couple of vegan flans at the end of the meal, shared around. Delicious!<br />
If I ever get back there, I will definitely order the pho, Vietnamese noodle soup, usually made from offal, assorted parts of the cow and pig, but here obviously not. That dish is supposed to be really wonderful.<br />
I love discovering "new" ethnic restaurants, and this was an excellent discovery.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-12176864609937983972012-10-23T06:03:00.000-07:002012-10-23T06:03:40.786-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-45394842403417684222012-10-21T20:26:00.000-07:002012-10-21T20:26:19.029-07:00New Gig My loyal reader, Marly Youmans, reminds me to tell the world that I have been appointed one of the editors of a journal of science and literature, <i>Slippage</i>. I have already had the opportunity to speak out about the new journal's aesthetic and to make a judgment about some poems. Today I also received a short story and an unidentifiable hybrid. I look forward to learning tons about publishing a journal and am sure that I will gain a new perspective on what it is like to be on the other end of the publishing game. Perhaps this will help me when I send out my own work. Perhaps not...<br /> But I'll keep you posted on the progress of the journal and will post a link to the first issue!Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-11464841432597794392012-10-21T20:07:00.001-07:002012-10-21T20:26:58.695-07:00Weekend Adventures My birthday week has opened with some travel. Because there are so few genuine bookstores and poetry venues behind the Orange Curtain, we decided to accept the invitation by a poet friend, Nicelle Davis, author of the chapbook, <i>Circe</i> and editor at Connotation Press, to share her reading up in Ventura, at Bank of Book.<br />
Ventura is over 100 miles from us, so this would require an overnight stay, but since we hadn't done any travel up the coast in some time, we were up for that. So we booked a stay at a motel with a free breakfast bar and apparently immaculate rooms that was still within our rather meager price range and traveled up the twisted freeway ramps of LA and beyond to Ventura.<br />
Luckily, it has cooled down quite a lot from last week's 95 plus weather, so the beach wasn't mobbed. We scored parking in a central place and walked to the bookstore, which turned out to carry mostly used books with a few local writers' books of poetry and fiction.<br />
Unfortunately, the bookstore hadn't publicized the event, so there was no one there except us, Nicelle, her 4 year old son J.J., and 6 of Nicelle's friends, two of whom were the children of her friends. There was really no place to put more people anyhow... just two rather worn sofas and a few folding chairs. Nicelle had made some chocolate covered cherries, but otherwise, there were no refreshments.<br />
Nicelle is quite a performer. She sews costumes and brings props to her readings, and this one was no different. Because of the large percentage of children in the audience, she didn't read her own poems, but rather performed Lear's "Owl and the Pussycat," and invited the children to take parts in the performance, which was charming and sweet, particularly one little boy who played the ocean, waving a blue streamer along the floor.<br />
But she had to spend most of the time pursuing her son during this event, and didn't get to listen to us read our poems.<br />
Nicelle lives in the desert, in Antelope Valley, and it turns out that she is friends with some old friends of mine who also live and work out there at the community college. It was a pleasure to see them again and to hear one of them read his wonderful poems. Since I last saw him, he has been up to all sorts of adventures and has written 9 books!<br />
Despite the small turnout, we had a wonderful time, and I sold a couple of books too. The bookstore also took some on consignment and invited me to contact the new store in Malibu to do a reading and signing there. Because that is considerably closer than Ventura, I think there will be more of an audience there, so I will call, as the bookstore manager suggested, in a month or so and sort things out.<br />
This morning, after a fitful night's sleep, we ate our free breakfast and drove down to the Getty Museum in LA, where we had a wonderful visit. The ride up the hill to the museum on the tram was spectacular, with all of LA below us like a model train village, with its constant flow of traffic inching up and down the roads and nary a person in sight.<br />
We took a spectacular tour of the museum's highlights, then walked down to the sculpture garden, carefully crafted to offer not only harmony of color and texture, but also olfactory stimulation. The flowers and foliage seemed spectacularly bright, though I think it was mostly the judicious combination of plants and contrast of colors that created this effect. I particularly liked the graceful vase-like metal vessels that trained bougainvillea plants to grow like trees. I will look for a picture to post here.<br />
Then we returned home, where I found tons of emails waiting for me.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-30625123647543838702012-10-05T13:32:00.001-07:002012-10-05T13:32:30.302-07:00A Dinner to Remember I have always loved Vietnamese cuisine. There are many fine restaurants of that sort in this area, especially up at Little Saigon, where more Southeast Asians reside and have businesses (many of them restaurants) than anywhere in the world outside of Southeast Asia. So maybe that's why I haven't cooked much Vietnamese food at home up to now.<br />
But since we aren't going to restaurants as much as we used to these days (especially since the price of gas has gone up to $4.50 per gallon again as of today in our area, and that's at the cheap place!), I decided to try a dish rather like one we had once at a restaurant and loved.<br />
A friend was coming to dinner. I planned four courses--vegetarian spring rolls with dipping sauce; Vietnamese spinach cooked in the same sauce as the dipping sauce named above; turmeric fish with dill; and banana fritters. Everything was fabulous, though my spring rolls were a bit misshapen.<br />The meal took a day and a half because of the cutting and chopping, assembling, and cooking. But that aside, I can't really say it was difficult to make, just time consuming.<br />
The fish was so beautiful. I wish I had figured out how to use my new camera (bought at a yard sale a few weeks back) so I could have posted the pic here, but I can describe it.<br />
On an oval black platter, I had covered a bed of thin rice noodles with fresh basil and mint leaves.The fish was filet of sole (very thickly cut), in chunks.These were marinated in a mixture of galangal, finely chopped , turmeric, red pepper powder, garlic, shallots, and a bit of oil. Then I browned some garlic in a half cup of oil, and cooked green onions and white onion wedges in the resulting oil, adding half the chopped dill to that. Then I took that out and browned the fish pieces in the oil. It was slow because there were a lot of pieces and I had to do them a few at a time. And the marinade tended to stick, so it took care not to break the pieces to bits. Then I put the onions/dill together with the fish, added a little fish sauce and the rest of the dill, and it was done. I poured it on top of the noodles, added a bit of chopped peanuts, and dinner was served.<br />
The balance of spices was so good and subtle, I was quite proud of myself, and impressed that the recipe came from online.<br />
The dessert fritters were wonderful too. I cooked them to order because with fried food, that's what had to be done. The halved bananas were coated in the batter, rolled in flour, and fried, becoming creamy. I meant to top it with vanilla frozen yogurt, but I forgot to use it.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-80559653497448787082012-09-28T12:49:00.002-07:002012-09-28T12:53:50.221-07:00More To Dos on the List Now the holidays are over, and I've got to do all the things I put off for after the holidays! There are two people I promised to fix suppers for, poems to write and send out, and several events. Tonight is Tebot Bach, and I am going to fix and donate some cookie bars to make up for not being able to donate generously to the organization. Sunday is a birthday potluck where I have been requested to make double portions of my savory pie, one of those tomato gallettes I made before and also a mushroom pie to go along with it. I might end up making two tomato gallettes instead since I found lovely heirloom tomatoes at the farmer's market.<br />
I am also studying up on copy-editing, since that's the next direction I'll be looking for work. I am not such a wonderful speller though. That worries me.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-64805521089855019342012-09-26T21:05:00.001-07:002012-09-26T21:05:10.758-07:00End of Day Reflection For a day during which we are supposed to reflect on our failings or what we are owed from others in the way of apologies, it was a very very busy time. I was with the choir or the congregation every second, not like usual, when I have time to do some yoga or sit quietly in some forgotten corner.<br />
But I enjoyed the day all the same, particularly the talk by the 103 year old psychotherapist, Hedda Bolger. She was totally amazing.<br />
It wasn't just that she was 103, or that she still practices her profession 4 days per week and teaches on the 5th, though that was something, since she evidently loves doing her work. It was that she is still learning, that she sees no reason to stop doing that and that she spoke about people from her past I have only read about, like Annie Besant and Krishnamurti. Fascinating.<br />
When asked what was her favorite moment in her life, she said, "Right now." We should all be that eager to live.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-7405436562871214252012-09-26T07:46:00.002-07:002012-09-26T07:46:30.674-07:00Finding What's Lost It's Yom Kippur again today. For those who aren't sure or just don't know, that is the day when Jews mull over all the promises they haven't kept in the past year, the apologies they need to make, the things (like relationships, personal potential, resolutions of the past) they have let slip or the apologies they would like to get from others and try to scratch these off the list by taking action.<br />
Most of notions about the New Year we have in the secular world of the west come from this holiday, New Year's resolutions, for instance. But like Ramadan, the holiday features fasting. We're lucky: in comparison to Ramadan, it's only one 24 hour period, not a whole month, but it's bad enough. You realize just how connected to the body you really are when you let the fuel run down. By the end of the day everyone is dull-eyed and listless, weak, leaning against the seat fighting to keep eyes open.<br />
For me, it's always been a spa-day, to think and sing (I'm in the synagogue choir), to listen to beautiful music, to engage in discussion with others and apologize for the inevitable failings. I'm grateful for it.<br />
But something happened last night at service that seems to me emblematic of my life at this time. It's a tough period for me. I don't know where I am, this late in my life, not feeling or being useful, anxious to find a place for myself where the odd, assorted skills I have gathered will be valued.<br />
As we were preparing for the service to start, sitting up in the choir section on the bimah (the stage of the synagogue), someone drew my attention to a small object on the seat behind me in the tenor's section. It was an iridescent silk kippah (yamika, skullcap). It happened to be the exact mingled tones of the tallis (prayer scarf, with fringes) I wore, which I bought for my bat mitzvah perhaps 7 years ago. I had lost that matching kippah almost immediately, and had gone through a series of various kippot. At the moment though, I was without one. On this holiday, everyone who has a tallis and kippah is required to wear one. In most kinds of synagogues, it's only men who are required to. But in our Reconstructionist shul, women do it as well, if they wish to.<br />
"That looks like yours," said Steve, pointing from the tallis to the kippah.<br />
I shook my head. "No. It's beautiful, but it belongs to someone else."<br />
In answer, Steve picked up the cap and put it on the back of the chair in front of me, where I scooped it up and put it on my head.<br />
I have decided it means something. Maybe all the things I believe I have lost are not gone at all. They are all around me, waiting to be re-found. I will take it as a message from the universe, and I am grateful.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-49836725033001551482012-09-22T07:12:00.000-07:002012-09-22T07:12:05.204-07:00It has been a while since I have written in this blog. Today is a good day, since we have entered the new year (at least the Jewish one!) and are about to experience yet another Yom Kipper.<br />I have been feeling down since my online class ended and nothing else has come up to take its place, but last night, I had an experience that should remind me that the unexpected can happen.<br />
My friends the Genestas have had a run of very bad luck, losing their business, their home, their health insurance, and, unfortunately, their health as well. They are self-employed artists, so that makes things doubly difficult. But it was so amazing to see their community step into the breach, giving a benefit concert and silent auction so that they can pay for the 6 operations that were necessary when John fell off a ladder earlier this summer, breaking his neck and back in several places.<br />
Though he is a Vietnam veteran, the VA didn't pay for his care because they couldn't accommodate him at the VA hospital. John was the person who took the cover photo for my book, so I auctioned off a couple of copies of the book (after hiking the price) and donated the proceeds to the cause.<br />
I don't expect this sort of do, but perhaps the essential decency of many human beings will come through in my case as well. I hope it is soon.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-5280565316431294852012-08-25T17:24:00.001-07:002012-08-25T17:26:25.204-07:00A lovely Saturday Today I accompanied Liz on a pre-birthday outing (her birthday, not mine!) to Denise Thibault's studio for her monthly 2 1/2 hour workshop, Pune Daze. It is always a wonderful class, and this was even more special because it consisted of the notes she took from Mr. Iyengar's classes at the Iyengar Institute in Pune India during her most recent trip this summer.<br />
The brand of English spoken by the Iyengars is always interesting and fun. Geeta's command that we must "shoulderize" when we stand on our heads has become de rigeur in the yoga classes I take. How else would one say this, in any sort of an economic fashion, after all? Mr. Iyegnar's latest words of wisdom are more mysterious and quirky. We are constantly reminded to turn back our "knee knobs," to transform the half-moons of our heels into full moons, to make our ankles "sharp." This, according to Mr. Iyengar, must be done "profoundly."<br />
As we endeavor to decipher these frequently repeated instructions, we focus on the pose, which is no doubt Mr. Iyengar's intention to begin with. We forget that our toes are cramping, our legs are tired, or that we are hungry for lunch.<br />
Afterwards, we stopped at the Loving Hut, a vegan joint not far from the studio, for a wonderful vegan lunch. If I knew how to make dishes like the ones I get there everyday at home, I would certainly become a vegan! I have the feeling it wouldn't be so simple though.<br />
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Though we went out to eat, I left my teacher Denise with a fresh tomato galette (not vegan but vegetarian) for her own lunch, if her husband hadn't eaten it all up by the time she finishes her pranayama class. I will post a picture of it above.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-43409866946093908172012-08-21T21:16:00.001-07:002012-08-21T21:16:36.892-07:00Almost the End The end of the semester is swiftly approaching in my online class. I have gotten used to the routine of commenting on the discussions and forums and grading the papers online. In fact, I like that sort of online grading quite a lot. It is a lot easier than hard copy, particularly since the posted grades go straight to the grade center without me having to post them, and the comments are easy to edit or to delete if I change my mind before exiting from the program. I also don't have to worry about my awful hand-writing! I hear though that the school is going to institute vocal comments on the papers. I'm not sure that's the best idea. I don't know that if I were a student, I'd like to hear some teacher's snarky comments expressed in her own voice though the tone might communicate shades of regret,irony, or humor that are not possible to discern otherwise.<br />
I have enjoyed working with these graduate students and introducing them to the discipline. It was interesting to recall being in their place when I began graduate school, studying critical theory for the first time. I never thought I'd be teaching that class, but I found it came flooding back, and I was lots more ready to do it than I had imagined. Even those theories I had not read because they only came later, after I had graduated, made lots of sense because of the ones I was already familiar with.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-83153280317207223362012-08-19T12:38:00.003-07:002012-08-19T12:38:26.292-07:00Music in the Dark Last night I went to the Great Park, a would-be future Central Park West, in Irvine. They have a free summer concert series, though admittedly they are now charging a $10. parking fee to boost the fund for completing the park, which is apparently and predictably coming in at way over the estimated cost of construction.<br />
Liz and I went to see Solas, an Irish-American band of some fame. I had never heard of them before, but it was instant engagement for me. I sometimes don't have the patience to sit through concerts. This happens a lot, in fact. But I have always liked traditional Celtic music when it is done well, and it was done well here.<br />
First, the Great Park is at this point a bit more built up than it was last year, but only a tiny bit. There is now an experimental farm, where vegetables and fruits are grown, much of the yield going to local food banks. There were pumpkins, yellow squash, strawberries, and that was only what I could see from behind the fence, in the half dark.<br />
A couple of buildings and a merry-go-round have joined the huge orange hot air balloon that sits beside the outdoor stage where the music was performed. As the band played, the balloon rose up and down, tethered to the ground by guide ropes, taking people on rides to see the world from above. I have never gone on one of these rides. The lines are always too long, and my innate fear of heights probably has something to do with it as well. The band leader remarked on this enormous "red planet" that he no doubt could see and feel in the background as the band performed.<br />
The band is an appealing assortment of personalities, two of whom still live in Ireland (plus the visiting vocalist), while the other two have immigrated to the States. The fiddle player lives in New York (Far Rockaway) while the band leader resides in Philadelphia.<br />
I particularly was interested in the fiddler, a young woman with strong arms and shoulders and a tendency to hop up and down on stage, her bow strings flying like unruly hair, in all directions. She was the only one of the band who did not sing, at least not in the capacity of lead singer, on any of the songs.<br />
I don't remember the band members' names, or I would name them here. They are tremendously energetic, as this style of music requires, and I was amazed by their precision, how the music, in all its variety, stopped and started so sharply, as if the notes were chiseled into rock.<br />
They also write their own music, and the band showcases its members' compositions, which reflect their disparate though harmonious personalities. As a group though, they have recently been engaged in writing a CD about the historical link between Ireland and Montana, where the band leader's great uncle immigrated in the 19th century to work in a copper mine owned by a countryman, and perished a few years later. The family never learned what exactly happened to him.<br />
After some research and help from fans in Montana, they learned how the uncle had died and where he was buried, and they began writing songs to celebrate not only this man's experience but that of thousands of other Irish immigrants who came to Montana to work in the mines.<br />
It was perhaps the most memorable evening of music I can recall.<br />
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Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1717221249845341165.post-33114007934424261712012-08-15T05:58:00.001-07:002012-08-15T05:58:22.233-07:00Dog Days August and September are the hottest times of the year in these parts, as in most. All summer, and it has been a very hot, dry summer for most people I know, I have read others' complaints about the parched grass, the unrelenting heat beating down on them, and felt immune, sheltered by sea breezes and the perpetual early summer of coastal southern California, but now, the heat has arrived, and the heat holds me in its fist, threatening to squeeze me into nothingness, a wet spot on the sheets.<br />
It is an in-between time, but unlike so many years in my earlier life, when I awaited the beginning of the school year as teacher or student, I am not waiting for anything in particular to unfold. Jewish New Year arrives in mid-September, I believe, and all the color of that season, crowded with celebrations.<br />
I am looking forward to the heat lifting, to being able to breathe again.Robbi N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04881145195435485238noreply@blogger.com2