Stones in the Road (With Apologies to Mary Chapin Carpenter)

Last Shabbat morning, I had an opportunity to walk a familiar path at GUCI. It is a stroll I have taken hundreds if not thousands of times over the years. I shlepped my guitar along that well-worn gravel road that leads from the Chadar Ochel to the Beit T'fillah in order to prepare for services. But, what made this particular saunter unique is that it was the only time during the reunion weekend that I found myself completely alone.

It was a moment I used for some reflection. I wanted to take in the experience; to feel the stones in the road beneath my sandals, to smell the acrid August morning air. You see, when one reaches a certain point in life, the importance of such memories takes on a sense of deep and compelling urgency. I didn't want to forget anything about this place. This was the place of my youth. This was the place of my faith. This was the place of my deepest and oldest friendships. This was the place of decency. This was the place of true love.

As I trudged down that road, I could clearly recall the faces of hundreds, no...thousands, of campers and staff that had shared this sacred space with me in decades past. They were the pictures of tanned youth and sinewed strength. They had dreams and plans and hopes and ambitions. We were just coming into our own and the world would be stunned by our radiance. We rebounded from our disappointments far more gracefully and we hid our cynicism far more easily. We were idealistic and foolish in a way that only youth can forgive. Time was our ally and we had no thoughts of its fleeting.

I became acutely aware of the memories that each of the four-hundred of us has; those of us who made the pilgrimage back to this blessed, steamy cow-patch in weirdly but aptly Jewishly named, Zionsville. Each of us sharing those memories with others until the incomplete individual became the collective whole. A patchwork quilt of recollections woven together by laughter and prayer. It brought the holiness of this place into better focus for me.

As I came into the Beit T'fillah, I heard the din of conversations. People simply could not stop talking and sharing. I tuned my guitar and started to play the music of Shabbat morning with song leaders of my son's generation. We had only met the night before and had no idea if or how we might fit together but the sanctity of the space elevated our voices in perfect harmony. We all inherently understood how to do this because this is where we were tutored.

There is so much emotion wrapped up in a trip of forty-eight hours. It wasn't nearly long enough and yet it was perfection. I rediscovered a purity in my Judaism that had been sorely lacking lately. I heard The Divine Spirit whisper to me in the strings of a plucked banjo and I tasted Her kiss in the treacly Shabbos kugel. I sang until my lungs burned and I played until my fingers bled. I was more engaged in my faith during those two days than I have been in the past two years. This is the magic of Goldman Union Camp and it is a magic that every single one of the four hundred inherently understands. We are all just stones in the road of this place and for one weekend, we all came home.

Girls With Guitars

I learned to play guitar on my Dad's twenty-dollar, bargain purchase from Eaton's.

It was collecting dust in his closet and I thought I would give it a go. I really just wanted to play some of the old Peter, Paul, and Mary songs that he was so fond of so that we could sing together. I never thought of the possibilities or where that old six-string might take me.

When I was growing up, Jewish music was the sole purvey of men. Even in my Reform congregation, I had never seen a woman sing on the bimah with the exception of a choir solo or two on Yom Kippur. Men were the cantors. Young men were the song leaders.

And then one day, my parents gifted me with the first NFTY album, Songs NFTY Sings, and I heard her voice. Debbie Friedman z"l opened up the world to me. Here was a woman unapologetically singing, writing, and song leading in a way that moved people to think about Jewish music in a whole different way. Through that album, she told me that I could do it too.

When I first attended UCI (GUCI came later) in 1975 as a Gezah camper, I was enthralled by the music and the young men who were leading it. I heard Debbie's songs but I couldn't see Debbie in their faces and I couldn't hear her voice. I loved each and every one of them who became my guides and my teachers but I had to ask,

"Where are the women?" "Where are the girls?" "Can I do that, too?"

It was Ron who encouraged that simmering Jewish musician in me. He mentored me, pushed me, and set me up with a line of teachers whom I will carry with me forever. I will admit that he had some initial reservations about my small stature and whether or not I could be seen during a Shabbat song-session in the Chadar Ochel or if my voice could carry, but together we proved that girls with guitars could rock GUCI. In 1983 I became the first female head song leader in GUCI history and the pride and joy that I feel when I see young women today lead in the Chadar or the Beit T'fillah is overwhelming.

Music at GUCI is a defining core value. When we sing as a camp community we open ourselves up to the depths of our Jewishness. We find common ground in our spirituality, our language, and our love of the Divine Spirit. I never set out to be a trailblazer but watching and hearing all of those girls with guitars who lifted up their voices after me and found inclusion in the music, is something that I will always cherish.

Shiru L'Adonai Shir Chadash.