Home Is Where I Am

Posted on July 23, 2015 by Nicki

When my son comes home from anywhere he bursts through the back door with dusty sneakers, bits of his day caught in his dark brown hair and on his thick eyelashes, and always an exuberant: “I’m ho-ome!”

His voice is strong and the singsong words bounce off the kitchen walls and reverberate up the stairs. Often there is nobody around to hear them, nobody in his physical space to receive him, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t pause with his hand on the door or stop to listen for rustling in the kitchen or footsteps in the rooms above, before announcing himself. It is the house he is telling about his homecoming. “I’m home,” he says to the taupe-colored walls and wooden floors, the dusty windows and the dishes in the sink. “I’ve come back and I am happy to be here.” And the house, his home, beams at the sound of his voice, gathers itself around his tall, gangly body and welcomes him. Home.

It’s not always easy, to come home: a sibling could be spoiling for a fight, a nagging mom might kill his buzz (Don’t bring those dirty shoes into the house. And wash your hands. With soap!), maybe we’re all out of his favorite snack, or someone’s playing their music too loud or watching an annoying show or borrowed his earphones without asking.

Still. Home is home.

“I’m ho-ome!” I murmured to the passport control officer at Ben Gurion airport. I must have said it too quietly. He didn’t even blink. “I’m ho-ome!” I told the guy at the rental car counter. He continued reading off the insurance policy and pretended I hadn’t said a word. Maybe he doesn’t like to be interrupted. “I’m HO-OME!!” I yelled at the top of my furious lungs to the women who claimed my chairs for their own at the pool. “Go away, you’re annoying us,” they replied with a condescending flick of the wrist, as if I was an irritating little sister. Ouch.

And yet. Home is home.

The radio in the car is set to Galgalatz, and the catchy combination of popular Israeli and other music makes it the best station to listen to. In my opinion. Biglal hamusika (for the music) is the tagline and a sexy, gravelly male voice fills the car every 15 minutes. That might also be a reason to listen. I turn the volume up when the news comes on and sometimes I even understand three full sentences. Last night on our way home they played Abba’s “Super Trouper.” Biglal hamusika. Every home needs a memorable soundtrack.

The kids kick the ball to each other and bury their legs in the sand as the sun streaks orange and pink above an inky sea. Their play transcends all language, time and distance: catch, giggles and hugs mean the same in English and Hebrew and all of the adults look at each other in wonder. “Next year he’ll know some English,” someone says. It really doesn’t matter, we all think. The sunset is magical and so are the connections.

And then it is Friday and we’re out of milk and pita. Maybe I’ll get a challah and creamy white cheese and the small, crispy cucumbers the kids like to eat whole. And popsicles. But the line is so long and the scanner stops working and now the cashier needs change so off she ambles. I think she forgot to come back. It’s been more than five minutes and I can see rivulets of icy juice pooling in my basket. “Tsk” and “Dammit” I mutter to myself. The woman behind me catches my eye and shrugs toward the heavens. Ma la’asot? What to do? I hear her thoughts. I shrug back. She’s right but really this is ridiculous, the line is growing longer and restless. I pay for and pack my groceries in a determined, not-so-quiet hurry. “Shabbat Shalom!” the slow-going cashier calls out as I turn to leave. It’s hard to be frustrated with someone who wishes you Shabbat Shalom.

Not everyone cares that I’m home. They honk at me if I linger one second too long at a traffic light and flash their lights if I drive too slow in the fast lane. Maybe I’m annoying with my expectations and my terrible Hebrew and my children who won’t eat anything with sesame seeds. But there are ways this place gathers itself around me and my family, holds us close in its warm waters and bustling markets, tells us stories about where we’ve come from and how we got here and inspires ideas about where we might go next.

And so… ma la’asot, what to do? I am home.

Parts of this essay were written during an online writing group with the incredible Jena Schwartz. Todah ve’ahava, Jena.

Squeeze Those…

Posted on April 23, 2015 by Nicki

source: RiDE Oakland

The room is dark and hazy. Pedals whir. Bright eyeballs and shiny teeth glow in the eerie blue light. I smile and say hello to everyone even though I recognize no one. I wonder if I’ve gone through the looking glass along the wall and stepped into an alternate world where the beat is heavy, the energy frenetic… and the language completely mysterious.

Before I know it, I join the one two rhythm and begin the ~~grueling~~ energizing ascent up an imaginary hill. The words I hear seem to have no meaning, and I wonder if all this activity is causing some kind of aphasic episode. Luckily my brain is smarter than I am. It refuses to acknowledge it doesn’t understand the enigmatic instructions, and by the time we reach down for the next quarter turn (um… what?) it is already decoding the cryptic phrases that only make sense right here right now:

Gimme a quarter turn. This does not mean with your body, your head, or any part of your anatomy. Whatever you do, please do not actually turn one quarter clockwise, counter-clockwise or any wise. It’s impossible to do that anyway since you are, hopefully, perched on your bike pedaling like crazy. One two one two one two. “Gimme a quarter turn” is the foundation of a spin class. It means reach down, grab the resistance knob, and turn it one quarter to the right to add resistance. And hope the instructor does not ask you to do it again. It’s a futile hope. Every quarter turn adds more resistance until pretty soon you’re pushing your bike up Mount Everest. Which is the point. It’s worth it.

Tap backs. Yep, that’s what he said. These sound elusive, confusing, and exciting: I’ll tap your back if you tap mine?! Or something. I’m going to leave it there. Some moves are better left unexplained.

Go to the hover. Right, now I’m really in an alternate world. Complete with Marty McFly, hover boards and that must be the easiest way up this hill. Almost. Not quite. What it means is squeeze those abs (more on that later), summon every ounce of strength you may or probably do not have, and hover hummingbird-style above your bike. Don’t stop pedaling! I promise, your thighs (and abs) will thank you one day. If they ever talk to you again!

Singles. I believe this is a shout-out to all the single people in the room. An invitation for them to do those awesome-looking push-ups and tap backs. Since I’m not one of them, I ignore this part. And pretend I don’t hear him say, “Gimme a quarter turn.”

Squeeze those abs. This is my favorite! The one I will never understand, no matter how loud the music. Because… how? How do you squeeze your abs? I’ve deduced that it does not mean grab the kangaroo-like pouch you will forever have after four pregnancies and give it a juicy squeeze with your hand. It has something to do with squeezing from the inside. The problem with this instruction is it assumes you have abs inside to squeeze. I don’t. See aforementioned kangaroo pouch. So I can’t. This is too much resistance.

I love this class. I love the loud music, the beat, and the tap backs. And also disco lights! I love the darkness (because the instructor can’t see that I’m not giving him a quarter turn. Sneaky!), and I love the vibrant, motivating trainer telling me I can do it, especially when I feel like I can’t. Which is almost every day. I believe him when he tells me. And then I do it. Mostly, I love these quirky phrases that really only make sense in this world. Because where else would you hear anything as fabulous as: Squeeze those abs!

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “I wonder…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Kerri of (Un)Diagnosed and still ok and Jill from Ripped Jeans & Bifocals. I wondered what it would be like to love spinning. Now I know! With very grateful thanks to Deb C, Helen, Jeremy, Luci, Deb R and all the riders at RiDE Oakland. 3, 2, 1… ride.

Life is Too Short for “Bad” Music

Posted on September 20, 2014 by Nicki

I can channel-surf like nobody’s business. A song comes on the car radio that I don’t like, and it’s gone before anybody even realizes it was a song.

Could be because it reminds me of things I’d rather not remember right then – old relationship gone wrong, bad break-up, an argument with a friend when I was 15 – or because it’s been played on the radio and on my kid’s iPod and the Disney channel too many times to still be enjoyable (anything by Maroon 5 immediately comes to mind), or because it’s simply not a very good song, in my opinion.

I listen to music mostly in my minivan. I spend a lot of time in that goddamn thing, usually schlepping someone to somewhere. Kids to karate, ballet, soccer, orthodontist. And also myself, to meetings, appointments, never-ending errands, lunch with a friend or drinks with the girls.

And honestly, I hate it. The schlepping, and the minivan. I hate that it’s so big. That it’s a minivan. That it has sliding doors, and seats that tuck away, and a trunk that opens and closes with the press of a button. It’s too convenient. It makes Costco runs and carting kids and two-bikes-two-scooters-and-room-for-more too easy. There’s no excuse not to do any of that. “We won’t fit” is never a reason not to schlep. So we’re always schlepping. Nothing screams Stay-at-Home-Mom like that mofo minivan – clearly I am struggling with both!

But I do love the sound system. The source of the music. It’s not state-of-the-art or fancy in any way. It came standard with the car, and is a typical 2012 Honda Odyssey system. CD player. Radio. AM, FM and XM. (Yes a DVD player too, but that is used only on long road trips and no, driving to Costco is not a long road trip).

I love that sound system because it makes the drive, any drive, feel worth it. Most days, most times, I need a soundtrack. Music speaks to me or speaks for me or just lets me be me, as I traverse the roads and freeways, U-turns and one ways. The lyrics, the beat, the melody… they elevate the moment, the mood, the task at hand (namely, schlepping) to something less permanent, less obligatory and more enjoyable. And life is too short to be mired in the mundane, the tedious, the boring. Schlepping, let’s face it, is exactly that.

I channel-surf so quickly because it’s all digital, and pre-programmed, and brightly displayed in pretty blue lights on the dash. The song, the artist, the genre and sometimes even the year. I know where my preferred channels are stored, and if my favorite alternative rock isn’t doing it for me on Alt Nation, there’s always Dierks Bentley crooning country magic over on The Highway or even a random chart topper on Hits 1 to get me through the five o’clock drive (love that new Taylor Swift!). This week I discovered that the hidden value of Rick Astley lies in helping me survive Highway 13 not once, not twice, but five times in less than two hours. Never gonna give you up, 80s on 8!

But the real reason I channel-surf at lightening speed like some amateur DJ is because life is just too damn short to listen to music I don’t want to listen to. Music that doesn’t enhance the moment I’m in some way, some how. Daily driving can be mind-numbing, exhausting even while I’m doing nothing more than sitting on my butt, stopping, starting, accelerating and opening a sliding door with the press of a button to let a kid in or out. When we suddenly, spontaneously all join Garth Brooks on the final verse of “Friends in Low Places” even the endless gray of Highway 13 looks a little brighter.

Yesterday my head-bopping, finger-snapping boy reached out to change the channel. (He channel-surfs faster than I do when motivated). “Don’t touch it,” I said, as the opening chords of Spandau Ballet’s “Gold” filled the car. “This is music from my childhood.”

“But Mom, I like to listen to music from my childhood too,” he replied with a smile. He’s only ten.

I nodded slowly, appreciating that for him too, life is too short for music he doesn’t like.

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post.
Hosts: Kristi from Finding Ninee and Stephanie from Mommy, For Real
Guest hosts: Kelly from Just Typikal and Katia from IAMTHEMILK

This week’s sentence was: “Life is too short for…”

For All These Things

Posted on July 20, 2014 by Nicki

(Hit play)

My music teacher in elementary school was Mrs Orr. She was a lovely, Israeli woman with a graceful neck and blonde hair. I liked her. She would stand on the stage and move her hands in time to the music, her face shining light and smiles as she introduced us to classic Israeli songs in Hebrew and English. Songs about hope, peace, and land. Songs that told stories of Moses, young pioneers, Jewish holidays. Shining sea, green mountains, sweet oranges and laughing children.

For all these things…

“Al Kol Eleh – For All These Things”: my favorite Hebrew song. Music and lyrics by Naomi Shemer. Performed by dozens of famous and not-so-famous singers, including the Carmel Primary School choir in Pretoria, South Africa circa 1984, 1985, 1986. Loved by me from the first moment I heard it.

The melody flows like a gentle stream, the words sound and feel beautiful and comforting even if they’re not understood, the tears pool in my eyes, and the back of my throat catches as a soft smile plays on my lips. In 1984. And in 2014. And all the times I’ve heard and sung it in between.

For all these things…

Al hadvash ve’al ha’okets
Al hamar vehamatok
Al biteynu hatinoket shmor eyli hatov.

Every bee that brings the honey
Needs a sting to be complete
And we all must learn to taste the bitter with the sweet.

So sweet. And so bitter. Wine and pizza and night-time play in the park. Siren. Boom. Then boom again. I never fear for our safety, but the siren is loud and the booms and interceptions are scary to hear. But #lifecontinues and Ze ma sheyesh the hairdresser tells me – this is what we have – with a shrug, a wry smile and pain in his eyes. The Red Alert rocket app on his phone beeps again.

Yes. This is what they have here, in this beautiful, tiny country almost entirely surrounded by enemies and hatred – not only on its borders but throughout the world. Two minutes in the bomb shelter in Herzliya is all day for the kids in the south, where the rockets fly too often and the 15-second window of safety is too small to risk corralling 50 little ones into a shelter over and over and over again. So this is what they have.

What they have is 13 Israeli soldiers killed in three days. Brave, heroic soldiers with wives and parents and children of their own, who are on the ground in Gaza protecting not only our children, protecting not only Israelis, but also the Palestinians from themselves. As those soldiers fight to the death, the Israeli Defense Force has established a field hospital on the Israel-Gaza border to treat wounded Palestinians. So bitter. So sweet.

For all these things…

I am here just for the summer. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here right now. It’s a crazy way to spend the summer and I could never have imagined it. But it’s an even crazier way to live, every day, every year, from babyhood and beyond.

Summers are for doing everything you want, and nothing if you don’t. Summers are for fun, and for carefree, for wind in your hair and sand in your toes. Not for bomb shelters and falling rockets and getting used to the deafening wail of the sirens. Summers are for too much screen time playing Wii and Xbox. Not for rocket alert apps and websites like israelhasbeenrocketfreefor.com (20 seconds and counting – it’s reset twice in the last 30 minutes). And there is not a child nor an adult in all of Israel that does not know a summer like this. That is a crazy, unimaginable, unfair way to live.

For all these things…

The road to Jerusalem is quiet. The bright orange letters on the overhead traffic signs tell drivers what to do when a siren is heard: Stop safely on the side of the road. I switch the dial on the radio. My favorite song pours out of the speakers. My eyes well as the gentle melody streams over me. My heart lifts a little and I start to sing along.

“Siren in Ashkelon… siren in Ashkelon,” comes the announcement over the music. Not once or twice. But over and over and over again.

The tears cascade down my cheeks. The words freeze in my throat. My heart breaks into a million pieces. For this tiny country and its blessedly unyielding army, protecting its borders, its people, no matter what. Year after year, decade after decade. For the children spending the summer in bomb shelters and not in the park. And for the children who have done so too many times before and who will again.

A crazy, unimaginable way to live.

Al kol eleh, al kol eleh,
Shmor nah li eyli hatov
Al hadvash ve’al ha’okets
Al hamar vehamatok.

For the sake of all these things, Lord,
Let your mercy be complete
Bless the sting and bless the honey
Bless the bitter and the sweet.

For All These Things written by Naomi Shemer, translated by Theodore Bikel

Every bee that brings the honey
Needs a sting to be complete
And we all must learn to taste the bitter with the sweet.

Keep, oh Lord, the fire burning
Through the night and through the day
For the man who is returning
from so far away.

Chorus:
Don’t uproot what has been planted
So our bounty may increase,
Let our dearest wish be granted:
Bring us peace, oh bring us peace.

For the sake of all these things, Lord,
Let your mercy be complete
Bless the sting and bless the honey
Bless the bitter and the sweet.

Save the houses that we live in
The small fences and the wall
From the sudden war-like thunder
May you save them all.

Guard what little I’ve been given
Guard the hill my child might climb
Let the fruit that’s yet to ripen
Not be plucked before its time.

Chorus:
As the wind makes rustling night sounds
And a star falls in its arc
All my dreams and my desires
Form crystal shapes out of the dark.

Guard for me, oh Lord, these treasures
All my friends keep safe and strong,
Guard the stillness, guard the weeping,
And above all, guard this song.

For the sake of all these things, Lord,
Let your mercy be complete
Bless the sting and bless the honey
Bless the bitter and the sweet.

Bless the sting and bless the honey
Bless the bitter and the sweet.

Quarter of a Cent-Cherry

Posted on April 19, 2014 by Nicki

Great conversation, loud laughter, fun stories. Inside jokes and quick-witted comments and the type of easy, comfortable banter that comes from many years together, from shared experiences and milestones, difficult times, tears, proud moments, pure elation and happiness. From close friendship.

The air is dry, and the trees are tall, and it’s rustic and gorgeous.

Tahoe, California. Spring. 2014.

South Lake Tahoe

Was it really twenty five years ago that I was half a world away, breathing air as dry, amongst trees as tall, hanging out in somebody’s rustic bunk, cocooned by esoteric jokes and hysterical laughter and the closest of friends?

Lapalala Wilderness, South Africa. Fall. 1989.

Fifteen years old, on a week-long wilderness program in the Limpopo Province with my tenth grade class, it was the very best of times. I loved all those school retreats to simple, woodsy places in the Highveld, where it was very, very cold in the early morning and at night, sweltering hot in between. When we were woken at the crack of dawn, and saw the mist rising with the African sun. Ate cornflakes and toast with thick peanut butter and bananas for breakfast, and then packed it all up for a long hike to learn about the Toothbrush Plant, and how to belay down a mountainside. Walking in smaller groups of twos and threes, paired off with my crush of the moment, or sharing wild hopes and dreams with my BFF while the hadedas called to each other in the broiling heat.

Lapalala Wilderness

Mixed tapes played Men at Work and Phil Collins, Roxette and Milli Vanilli on portable boom boxes. We dismissed every rule late into the night, breaking curfew the very least of it. The girls snuck into the boys’ bunks (never the other way around), and we told secrets and broke promises and huddled together to keep warm.

My 25-year-old memories haunt me lately. I keep coming back to that year, 1989, when life just worked. For me. It wasn’t always like that before, and almost never again, but that year the music was right, and school was okay, and my siblings were fun and my parents understood (or they pretended to) and, most important of all at 15, my friends were perfect in every way.

Twenty five years later many of those friends are still perfect to me in every way. As I gaze out at the impossibly tall Tahoe pine trees, I ache to have them closer to me – we are scattered all over the Earth – to share inside jokes, and laugh at nothing, and sing Land Down Under out of tune at the top of our lungs.

A burst of laughter pulls me away from 1989 – I focus on the faces around me. They are warm and happy, smiling and talking. Faces I know and love. Here I am, twenty five years later, half a world up and away, with friends that are perfect to me… in every way.