It's the Little Things that Count

Life is busy and everyone is entrenched in their own little worlds with their own little worries.  In this era of electronic over-connectedness and personal under-connectedness, it is a simple matter for someone to fall into the background and...disappear.

Sometimes these disappearing people are fine and busy and living their own lives.  And sometimes they are hurting inside, seething, broken, scared, lonely.  The funny thing is that it is such a simple matter to give someone a feeling of being cared for, and yet how many of us think of these people regularly and reach out for a simple "Hello" or "How are you doing"?

Case in point, a coworker from my online workplace hadn't spoken with me for a while.  We don't work closely together, but we had some nice life discussions and I got the feeling from her emails and backstory that she needed a lot of support, and typically received little to none.  One day I was thinking back and couldn't remember the last time we had spoken, so I just jotted off a quick email to ask how she's doing and say I was thinking of her.

Time to write three-sentence email:  under a minute.

Feeling it gave her to know someone remembered she existed:  priceless.

Everyone needs to feel loved.  We all show love and feel love in different ways, but all we really want in life is warmth and love and security.  It's the little things that count, in this hectic world of over-connectedness which is really the epitome of loneliness.

Haven't seen a friend lately on Facebook?  Give them a call.  Coworker feeling down lately?  A short email saying you appreciate their hard work can go a long way.  Acknowledgement that a person exists and is not forgotten can literally save that person's life.

You never know when by reaching out you can change their life...or yours.

Scarlet Fever

Born in the US in the late 20th century, there are many things about life that I take for granted.  Vaccinations, for example.  Antibiotics.  Health.  And a distinct lack of the illnesses that people die of in some of my favorite 19th century novels.

All of which is why I was utterly floored when my daughter was diagnosed with scarlet fever at the beginning of this week.

To me, it seemed like such an outdated illness to contract, though of course as soon as you open your mouth about it you find a dozen people saying their child had it, they had it, their first cousin's second wife's rabbi's son had it, etcetera.  But my daughter?  Now, in 2015?  She hadn't even seemed so ill, just a very slight fever of 37.5C and then a rash on her chest and back.  It's really the rash that made me take her to the doctor.

I try to imagine what would have happened to her had she contracted it a century ago.  Today it seems very minor; within 24 hours of the rash first appearing she was on antiobiotics, and 24 hours after that she was more or less her usual self.  How would it have progressed had antibiotics not been discovered yet?  What would happen if we were in an area with limited access to healthcare - or none at all?

Reading through the literature you find that the potential side effects and outcomes of untreated scarlet fever are actually quite scary.  With our family's easy and cheap access to healthcare, aside from the "scary" name of the illness, it just seemed like one of the run-of-the-mill things that kids catch and get over just as quickly.  There was never any fear for her survival or the potential future side effects for her.

Then I wonder about the large parts of the world where such health and access to doctors and medicines are not something that can be taken for granted.  When their child develops scarlet fever, what do they do?  What do they think?  How do they get through it?  The fatality rates of scarlet fever are around 1% nowadays, down from 15-20% pre-antibiotics.  But I can't help but wonder if the 99% / 1% split is 99 children in first-world countries who survive and 1 child in a third-world country who dies.

A century ago, scarlet fever would have spelled death for 1 in 5 children.  Such a diagnosis could strike fear into a parent's heart.  Now we're so cocky with our medical advancements that my daughter was diagnosed with it and I got home and laughed for an hour and the sheer absurdity.

I'm the parent of one of the 99, so I can laugh and be relaxed about it.  But who's the parent of the 1?

Throwback Thursday: A Gyro's Tale

Sometimes when you go back to read old things, you realize you were probably the bane of your English teacher's existence.  The following story was what I submitted when my 9th grade teacher gave us an assignment to write a story about a hero.  Of course I had to be cheeky, so not only did I write about a gyro (okay, I know it's not exactly the same pronunciation but close enough), I also utilized a book of obscure words that we had lying around the house.

Enjoy this strange and awkward story of 14-year-old me!

A Gyro's Tale

I have a problem with dromomania. It seems as if I haven’t stopped traveling since the day that I started. Well, not until now, that is. Someone found me and stuck me on this cold shelf along with some others like me. Except, they aren’t really like me at all. Sure, we all look the same (well, I do look a little travel-worn), but I am the only dromomaniac among us. I have tried speaking with the others, but they just do not seem to understand. After trying my best to explain myself to them numerous times, they ceased speaking with me. I feel so lonely….

My problems all started when I was banned from ever returning to my birthplace, Gyroshima. You see, I had a little too much zwetschenwasser one night and I got a little rowdy. I am ashamed to say that I turned cannibal; one of my fellow gyros was gone within minutes. He never even had a chance. Thankfully, my memory of this incident is rather sketchy, at least partially due to the fact that I was intoxicated. Unfortunately, however, no one else’s memory was sketchy at all.

My friends and family expelled me from my own home. They spit their sauce at me and made me all soggy. I left with my few belongings tucked into my pouch, and wandered from city to city. Word of my awful deed preceded me, and I found myself shunned by gyros that I had never even met. I grew more depressed by the day, even by the hour.

I soon found myself in the coastal city of Osaka. The docks attracted me, and I soon found myself among the hustle and bustle along them. I looked longingly at the water – it was just out of my reach – and contemplated getting someone to toss me in. The water would ruin me in a moment, completely destroy me in two. It seemed the quickest way to be out of my misery, but I decided against it. Even now, I have my regrets over that.

I managed to get passage on a ship headed for the United States of America, a far off place of which I had heard. I had to sell nearly all of my belongings in order to collect enough money for the passage fee, but I managed. I lost track of time on the ship; it could have taken me days or months to reach my destination.

We landed in the city of San Francisco. As I disembarked, I marveled at how different it was from Gyroshima and all the other cities I had seen. Everything was built in a completely different manner; nothing looked the same.

I remained in San Francisco for several days before moving on. I traveled from place to place for several months, unable to stay in one place for longer than a day. I began to suffer from halitosis, and I noticed that everyone started avoiding me. This greatly distressed me, so I decided to keep moving.

After many months of traveling, I came to a city called Chicago. It seemed even stranger to me than did San Francisco. I said it did; it no longer does. I have long since gotten used to it. But I get ahead of myself.

As I wandered around the city, I marveled at how many gyros I saw, and envied them when I saw them being eaten. Oh, how I longed for a life like theirs! A cool place to rest and an appreciative mouth waiting! I passed by places that had signs in the windows announcing that you could buy a gyro inside. After a few hours of aimlessly wandering the streets, I finally stepped into one of these shops. Tables and chairs were scattered about, and towards the back I saw a glass case full of gyros. Perhaps here I would find better luck.

I climbed up onto one of the many tables and settled down to wait. I hoped that eventually someone would come and eat me. As I waited, and waited, and waited, I observed the other gyros. They were in much better shape than I, and as I watched, people came into the shop and bought them. Not a single person even glanced in my direction.

I would have jumped off the table and ended everything right then and there, but an old man came over and picked me up. I recognized this man; he was the one that stood behind the glass case and handed people gyros. He handled me gently and probed my entire body. The man grimaced and carried me back behind the glass case. To my horror, he opened me up and removed my innards. I started trembling with fear as he threw them into a large, foul-smelling can. When he returned, he was holding a new set of innards. He carefully arranged everything inside my shell and closed me up again.

That is the story of how I ended up in this cold glass case, off to the side all by myself. The old man takes good care of me; he changes my innards twice a week, and always makes sure that I am comfortably placed in the case. But customers come and go, and my companions disappear and are replaced by new. I am never given a second glance.

Ah, here comes another customer. I have given up hope that anyone will ever want me. I am convinced that I will die here, rotting away with no one to mourn me when I am gone. I wonder which gyro this customer will choose. Maybe he’ll choose Fred, he’s nice and healthy. Wait…he’s looking right at me! This can’t be happening. Oh, the old man is picking me up! At last, someone wants me.

The customer is carrying me over to his table and setting me down. He is unwrapping me, being very careful not to spill out any of my innards. He is lifting me to his mouth.

See, the vanquishing gyro comes!
Stomach acid, beat your drums!

Babywearing in Danger

The times we live in, the times we live in...

What has the world come to when the local babywearing group discussion is about what's the best way to protect your baby if you're wearing them during a terrorist attack - front carry or back carry?  Back carry you can run faster, front carry you can use your arms to protect the baby.  Back carry and the child is protected from a frontal assault; front carry and the child isn't stabbed when the attacker comes from behind.  But what if it's not a knife attack, and instead it's a car attack?  Is a stroller better for that?  Are we putting the kids in danger by wearing them, or are we protecting them as best as possible?

My own children are beyond the stage of being worn, but now I walk around town pushing the heavy double stroller loaded with 35kg of children, plus the weight of the stroller itself.  I'm not going to lie, the two-and-a-half hours I spend pushing the stroller every day definitely has me worried.  Could I get the kids out of harm's way quickly enough?  Am I strong enough and fast enough to push them to safety?  Would I have the presence of mind to make the right decision about how to react and to where to run?

Have I gotten my life in order?

It's sad and distressing and pathetic that as I walk Child #1 to school in the morning I worry that I haven't written a will.  And while walking Child #2 to daycare I debate if we can fit life insurance into our tight monthly budget.  And then when I return home to work for my few precious morning hours without the kids, I suddenly feel guilty that my mind was preoccupied with those things and I wasn't being aware of my surroundings.

I'm scared to check the news.  Every time I check there was this successful attack, this thwarted attempt; this road closed or that company of reservists called to duty.  Parents demanding extra security around the schools, while other parents say a security guard would just be an extra person who could be stabbed and killed.

Ad matai?  Until when?

Throwback Thursday: Short Story

With the wave of terror attacks that has hit Israel over the past week-plus, I find it difficult to concentrate on writing for myself or writing anything remotely happy (not that my usual work is happy, I actually have incredible difficulty writing happy stories).  So for this Throwback Thursday post, here is a short piece I wrote right when I turned 19.  I don't remember what exactly precipitated this story but I have two distinctly different versions of it and I like this one better.  It seems fitting, for current events.  May we know sorrow no more.

In a Puff of Smoke

A never-ending column of concentration camp inmates, all ages and sizes, shuffling five-abreast down a road flanked by two barbed-wire fences.  There is no color; even the sun is cold and grey.  The column moves very slowly.  All sway side to side as a single unit, in rhythm with their footfalls, which sound as one.  The guards in the watchtowers are motionless.

Slowly, starting with a single inmate, there arises a low moan and wailing.  With each additional voice, into the hundreds and thousands and millions, a funeral dirge begins to make itself heard with uniquely intertwining harmonies.  All play some part in the dreadful song, down to the smallest Jewess dragging her feet at the edge of the group.  There is a beauty in the sound, and great, great sadness.  Such sadness and despair the world has seen too many times before, and shall revisit countless more times.

              

The road, like the column, seems to be never-ending.  But always in the distance can be seen a great smokestack, towering over the squat building at its base.  A steady black stream of smoke pours forth and separates into smaller puffs.  Upon closer inspection, each puff forms a name.  One says Freida; another reads Menachem.  But in the end, they all dissipate and disappear forever.  There are no exceptions.

          

Although each individual’s eyes are fixed ahead or on the ground, their hearts, as one, reach out to our Father in Heaven.

        

Some color begins to appear in the sky.  First one man sees, then two, then ten, then one hundred.  As more faces are upturned, the color begins to brighten and solidify into the shape of a city.  Mouths that have forgotten how to smile hesitatingly remember, and voices that have forgotten the sounds of joy are suddenly gleeful as all recognize the city to be Jerusalem.  Her radiance warms the hungry faces and brightens the dulled eyes.  The myriad footfalls become lighter and lighter until the column is dancing, newfound strength injected into spindly legs.

Jerusalem! they shout.  Here is our salvation at last!

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

Our Father has heard our prayers and answered us! they sing.

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

We shall finally be free! they cry.

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

The group surges forward, conscious only of the brilliant Jerusalem hanging in the ash-laden sky.  Their bodies, abused for so many years, yearn only to rest.  But their souls – their souls are yet strong.

              

And still they stream forward.

        

The first rows reach the crematorium, eyes still skyward.  It is but the work of a moment and their bodies come out the smokestack as nothing but a puff of smoke and a name.

               

But they don’t dissipate.

               

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed and intensity, the puffs of smoke stream towards the still-evident Jerusalem in the sky.  They see other puffs, other names, other souls approaching the city from all directions.

               
We’re going home, they say to each other in ecstasy.  Finally, we’re going home.

Heartbeats

I hear the music and dancing in the streets as midnight approaches.  A joyous and festive air permeates the neighborhood.  We are on a high right now for a religious celebration, but we've also been on a low with the recent terror attacks.  Two parents murdered in front of their four children.  Another child, a toddler, witness to his father's murder and his mother's serious wounding.  Many other attacks, some big, some small, some already "run-of-the-mill" for us.

How do we deal with these ups and downs, these highs and lows that dictate our lives here in Israel?  We even have this set into our national calendar - Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terror, the day before Independence Day.  We go from deep, deep mourning straight into ecstatic celebration.

A wise woman once said to me that nothing is a flat line.  Emotions in the normal course of life go up and down, desires go up and down, moods go up and down.  If you have something remaining the same then you have flatlined, and we all know what a flat line on a heart monitor means!

The heartbeat of our nation is such that we can be taken from the depths of despair to the peaks of happiness in a matter of hours, and we can go from the best day of the year to a national tragedy at a moment's notice.  It is this heartbeat that binds us together and keeps us alive.  It is the ebb and flow of our daily lives.

The heartbeat can be difficult to navigate and everyone shows the emotional wear and tear of it.  But I dread to think what life would look like without it.

Throwback Thursday: Poem

I find it so interesting to go back and see what and how I wrote as a child and teen.  For many of my stories I can still remember the writing process, the thought process, how the story actually looked in my imagination versus how it turned out on paper.  Why not have a little fun with it and share one of these old pieces every Thursday in the popular "Throwback Thursday" theme?

Poetry is not my strong suit, though I do have quite a collection of poems anyways.  This one was written around the age of 13, and the visual prompt was a Georgia O'Keeffe painting of a black iris.  I remember that a year or two later I also translated the poem into Hebrew, but my computer won't open the file so I can't revel in how basic my Hebrew was at the time.

So here's a taste of 13-year-old Devorah.

Black Iris

It is not easy being a black iris.

People step on me, walk right on, not caring. 

My pink and gray petals are stomped on,

Smashed into the ground.

It angers me, being treated so.

A small child looks down at me and sighs.

She carefully picks me up

And cradles me in her arms.

The girl gently rinses my petals.

She puts me into a pot of soil on the windowsill.

The sun shines on me and helps me grow.

She gives me water and tells me how pretty I am.

I know that she is my friend.

I am strong again, bigger and prettier than before.

The girl takes me out of my pot,

Being careful to keep me in one piece.

She plants me beside the sidewalk,

In the same place as before.

Now I am too pretty to step on or ignore.

The girl visits me every day without fail.

She builds a small fence around me,

Protecting me from uncaring feet.

Bees are always buzzing around me,

Helping me even as they help themselves.

Other flowers start to come alive around me,

And the girl makes a bigger fence.

I am part of a garden now, not just a lone flower.

People stop when they see me,

Bending over and gently touching my petals.

I am no longer something to be ignored.

I am something to be admired.

I am treasured for two months, perhaps more.

I start to feel drained, tired.

The girl has faithfully watered me all this time,

Faithfully pulled weeds from my soil.

I can no longer hold my petals up, and I start to droop.

The girl looks at me sadly and straightens my stem.

I am at the end of my short days.

I begin to be overlooked instead of cherished.

The girl digs me up from my soil,

Tears standing in her eyes.

She puts me on a heap of grass cuttings,

Detritus to be disposed of.

I plead with her in my mind, but she doesn’t hear.

I am collected into a bag of weeds and dead leaves

And deposited into the alley,

Awaiting the garbage men.

I cry silent and invisible tears.

I know my fate, and am ready to accept it.

I live out my last hours as a pretty flower

Sitting in a garbage can and thinking.

In the Beginning...

I still have the first story I ever wrote.  The pages are yellowing and a little crumpled, and partway through you can see where my six-year-old handwriting is usurped by nine-year-old handwriting when I decided to add on to the story later.  It's a beautifully awkward story, full of all the holes and jumping from thought to thought that you would expect from a child's imagination.

Ever since that first story, that first time I realized I could put transfer my hyperactive imagination onto paper and actually make something of it, I have been in love with writing.  I treasure the eight pages of a story from third grade, when I stayed up well past my bedtime to finish it in time for class the next morning.  I remember my teacher stopping me in the middle of my reading it out to the class, because already at that age I was long-winded.

I remember my seventh grade English teacher writing on one of my stories, "I can't wait to buy the first book that you publish!"  And my eighth grade English teacher not knowing what to say when I handed in a folder for a short story assignment because the story was too long for me to staple.  Then in high school I was exposed to new genres, including journalism (not my forte, to say the least) and new styles of creative writing I had never heard of before.

After that my writing got pushed to the side.  There's something about moving across the world by yourself at the age of 18, attending university in a foreign language, and having children and all that comes with them - or that doesn't, like sleep - that pushes writing and other enjoyable hobbies to the sidelines.

This blog is meant to be both a challenge to myself and a therapeutic outlet to express myself amidst my hectic life trying to balance motherhood, couplehood and work.  I challenge myself to write a weekly post, purely for my own edification, and along the way to explore new genres and styles of writing that I'm less comfortable with.  I was given a gift for words and words make me happy.  If I don't seize the opportunity to make something of this gift, then what was the point of having it to begin with?

"If I am not for myself, who will be for me?"