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.  

Camp is For the Campers

To all parents/grandparents/aunts/uncles and other assorted adults who are currently experiencing child withdrawal because your kid is at overnight camp:

I say this with the utmost compassion and love....BACK THE HELL OFF!

Stop updating and refreshing those camp photo websites in a desperate search to find your kid. And when you do happen to find them, stop posting those pictures on social media. Cut out the daily updates. Cease and desist, parents. It's time to cut the cord.

It's fabulous that Johnny or Jenny had a great day waterskiing, sailing, or dancing. I'm so thrilled that they are settling in and enjoying their camp experience, but here's the thing....that was their day, not yours. This vicarious social media blitz really must stop.

I know. You miss them. I get it. I also get that you want them to be happy, safe, and comfortable. I get that you need to see tangible evidence of that happiness and share it with the world, but speaking from personal experience as a long-time camper, counselor, unit head, and parent of all of those aforementioned, you are doing a great disservice to both your child and yourself by peering into a world in which you absolutely DO NOT belong.

Overnight camp is about so much more than fun activities. It is the first place that many kids get to flex their independence and make choices that maybe mom and dad wouldn't necessarily make for them or even worse, disapprove of. They learn conflict resolution, how to clean up after themselves, how to deal with disappointment, success, failure, first loves, first kisses, new food choices, teamwork, self-advocating, friendships, dealing with people that can be difficult, and most importantly they are doing all of this without parents around to tell them how to do it. When you digitally spy on them (yes...I said, spy!) you are intruding on their privacy. Maybe they don't want you to see them holding hands with somebody? Maybe they had a bad day and don't want to be photographed. Maybe they are deliriously happy but they simply aren't interested in sharing it with you. I realize that might be difficult to hear, but it's true. There are things that happened at camp over forty years ago that I still haven't told my parents about, and that's as it should be.

My dear friend the camp director from my own camping days was always adamant in his mantra that "camp is for the campers." This constant obsession of parents scouring photo websites changes that dynamic. Suddenly, there are no surprises. Parents know far more than they should and kids will have less excitement to share with you when they return home.

Look. I understand that you worry. I know that there is a giant-sized hole. But trust me...if there is a major problem, the camp will contact you. Is your child homesick? Maybe. But trust the camp and their competent staff to deal with it. If it is more than they can handle, you will know. Has your child failed to write? Possibly. But that could be a good thing. When Older Son first went to camp at the tender age of 8, (by himself, on an airplane, and crossing an international border!) we didn't get a single letter, save for the introductory postcard. He was simply too busy and too happy to care.  

Use this time when your child is at camp to reconnect with your spouse or friends or yourself. My mother used to say that the only pots on the stove during the summer were flower pots and that the kitchen was closed. Have fun. Eat out a few more times and cook a few less. Sleep in on weekends. See friends. Enjoy a brief respite from parenthood and trust that your child is in good hands.

And write them letters. Campers love and need to get mail. It is fun for them and a gentle reminder of home. Tell them about the dog or what you have been up to. But seriously...stay away from those photo sites. They aren't helping either you or your kid. Content yourself with the odd picture that the camp puts up on Facebook to let you know everything is just fine and then go and let your camper enjoy his/her summer.

In my next post maybe I will tackle why Visitor's Days are a nightmare for all and should be abolished unless a camper is staying over sessions.

Everything is Connected

I am continually amazed by the power of camp. At least the one that I attended. It seems that no matter how far we have all travelled, how diverse our journeys, we all remain interconnected by that cow patch in Indiana. It has been a long time since I was there, and yet events keep popping up that somehow wield a magical force which transports me back to those days of sweltering heat, Shabbat walks, and sugar-laden bug juice. That confluence of happenings is occurring once again this Shabbat in Washington D.C.

This weekend, NFTY-The North American Federation of Temple Youth, is celebrating their 75th anniversary with an alumni concert, featuring my old GUCI buddy Dan Nichols. GUCI's Avodah '82 took it upon themselves to arrange for a reunion using the concert as the centrepiece of their weekend festivities. I was not a part of that Avodah crew. I was a counsellor and songleader that year, but their festivities did get me thinking about that summer, the summer of '82. That was the summer of "Everything is Connected."

Now if any of you have ever been inside of the GUCI gates, have had any connection to GUCI campers or staff, or have even been to a Dan Nichols concert or seminar, you will have heard about "Everything is Connected." It is one of those urban legend-type stories that is hardly believable some thirty plus years later. But, for those of us who were there to witness it, it remains one of the singular defining moments of our camp experience.

It all began with the legendary and remarkably gifted Bonia Shur. Bonia was a great composer and an unbelievable force in Reform Jewish music. His compositions are performed around the world, and he was a deeply respected professor of liturgical arts at Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati. In the summer of '82, Bonia and his wife Fanchon came to visit GUCI for a Shabbat to act as a sort of scholar/musician in residence. This was long before any of us immature teenagers truly understood what a gift it was having Bonia in our midst. Bonia was brilliant, but eccentric. He had a wild, unkempt look about him, a sort of shlubby-looking Beethoven, and he was so far ahead of his time in trying to convey new age ideas on liturgy and prayer circles, that most of us really didn't know what to make of him. We tended to giggle a lot and we were wholly unimpressed that Fanchon wanted to introduce movement into our prayer experiences. We had no idea what was to come.

After lights-out on Kabbalat Shabbat, the staff was directed to attend a special Oneg. Bonia and Fanchon would be leading the program. He had the entire staff stand in a large circle in the dining hall. Bonia then proceeded to take a long rope and asked everybody to grab hold of it. Fanchon insisted that we move the rope together rhythmically as one community. Now, just picture it. A group of sweaty, awkward teenagers and young staff standing in a circle clutching a rope and moving it forward and backward. There was a lot of laughing and a lot of mocking. But Bonia was undeterred. He just kept it moving. Finally, he asked somebody, anybody, to shout out a phrase as to how this made them feel. I honestly can't recall who said it, but somebody yelled "Everything is connected!" Bonia began to chant a melody. "Everything is connected. Everything is connected." Over and over again. It went on and on and on. We convulsed in giggles. He asked for another phrase. "It will work out!", another person yelled. Bonia began to chant. And he kept chanting. And he kept chanting. "Everything is connected. It will work out!"

Most of us had never heard the phrase 'mantra' before, and even fewer had ever been to a yoga class. But Bonia knew. He just kept chanting and kept the rope moving. It went on for what seemed like an eternity. I don't remember when it happened or even how it happened, but suddenly I realized that I was chanting too. And so was every single person in that room. "Everything is connected. It will work out." The laughter and mocking gave way to spiritual involvement. The discomfort at trying something new melted as we found relaxation in the prayer. There was serenity in the interconnectivity. Later that weekend, Bonia and Fanchon introduced our new GUCI mantra to the entire camp. Everything is Connected became the watchword for the summer.

I don't think that any of us could have foreseen social media and how intertwined we would still be in 2015. That Shabbat evening in Zionsville united us all in a way that can still be talked about, but never truly felt unless you were there to experience it. But, Bonia knew it all those years ago and he insisted that we share it. Interconnectivity is vital to everything that we do in our lives. We all have an impact and an import on those around us; those with whom we live, work, and love. We cannot and should not neglect those relationships, because in the end we are all we have. 

It has been an incredibly challenging start to 2015. Perhaps if we all just take a step back, breathe in and out rhythmically, and chant Bonia's mantra, we might find a bit more peace on this Shabbat. Have fun Avodah '82. Everything is still very much connected.

30 Years in 3 Hours

I have discussed in past posts my aversion to using the telephone. I am simply just not the type of person who could ever just pick up the phone and have a long and drawn out conversation about minutiae. It isn't that I don't care about you or love you or want to stay connected to you, it is just that the telephone is not and never has been my instrument of choice. Of course this was a source of great consternation and conflict between my father and myself when I was growing up as he lives on the phone. To this day there are two landlines and two cellphones ringing or vibrating constantly in my parent's home. It drives me crazy, but it makes him happy.

Surprisingly, I was also a pretty crappy letter writer in my younger days. It wasn't the actual writing that would stunt me, but rather the lack of immediate gratification. Think about it. You write a letter filled with all sorts of wonderful stories about family, friends, and events to share with your pen pal who lives hundreds of kilometres/miles away. You carefully address it, stamp it, and run it down to the mailbox and then......you wait. And wait. And wait. If a response ever did arrive it came weeks later, as you spent hours hoping and praying that your friend was a better and more dedicated letter writer than yourself, and the excitement you initially felt writing and sharing goes AWOL in a morass of anticlimax and disappointment. As a direct result of my irrational fears and procrastination I stupidly lost touch with a great many people from my younger days. And then....it arrived. My panacea. A cure-all for the crazy and lazy looking for a way to reconnect. The electronic and information age. Social media. E-mail. I know it isn't for everybody, but it works for me. One of the great byproducts of sites like Facebook is how it has brought old friends from all over the globe back into my life. It is like a giant reunion without ever having to leave the comfort of my couch. But we are human and we crave human interaction. Updating our statuses can only go so far. So when one of these old friend connections emailed to say that she would be in The Great White North this weekend on business and could we get together, I was excited. And nervous. And panicked. Stupid? Probably. But how do you pack thirty years into three hours?

I needn't have worried. She looked amazing-as if thirty years hadn't touched her-and I...well I looked like me! It is amazing how we fell into the same patter and easy conversations. Of course we shared pictures of our kids (Way to go iPhone! Another advantage over the Blackberry!!) and talked of our families, career paths, and the twists and turns that brought us to that dinner table last evening. I caught her up on all of the Toronto people that she knew and she shared why she left rabbinic school in her third year. (It is a great story that was triggered by being posted to a student congregation in Winnipeg. Just think about Winnipeg for a while and draw your own conclusions!) We laughed, we reminisced, we ate terrific food, and we talked about the future. I told her that we sometimes pass through her town on our way down to the Southern Home, so hopefully it won't be another thirty years before we see each other.

As I get older I have come to realize that relationships are transient. People flit in and out of our lives with a frightening effortlessness. Some put down roots and stay forever and others act like waves on the sand. But, they all have left an imprint on me and they all have strengthened me a person. It doesn't mean I will get any better on the phone or with snail mail, but I am ready to embrace the next reconnection.

Sweat Equity

This post was cross-posted to the URJ Camp & Israel Programs Blog-A division of the URJ!!

As strange as it might sound, many of my earliest and most intensely personal Jewish experiences are closely associated with sweat. No, I don't have a glandular issue that might cause me to break out in perspiration at the first words of the Shema. I am one of the multitude of the most fortunate who attended Goldman Union Camp in Zionsville Indiana. Anybody who has ever spent a summer in the midwest knows full well from where I speak. And yet, in spite of the three-a-day showers, the moisture running into my eyes and blinding me during song leading sessions, the constant water breaks needed during shiur/shicha to ensure that campers and staff wouldn't drift into dehydrated lethargy, and mosquitos large enough to saddle, this place is where the bulk of my Jewish identity was nurtured and formed. I do what I do today in large part because of Rabbi Ron Klotz and the experiences that I had as both a camper and a staff member at GUCI.

I have been an animated poster child for Union Camps ever since. Whenever I am asked where I received my training, my first answer is "camp". I put my oldest son on a plane to GUCI at the tender age of eight and a half. When I tell that to people they stare at me with dumbfounded looks that suggest perhaps calling social services, but I simply reply he was going to camp. (It should be noted that GUCI was our area camp here in Toronto until Camp George opened.) One or both of my children attended as campers and staff for the next fifteen summers. They became active youth groupers, both of them serving as TYG president and my younger son on the NEL regional board. They both were teachers in our synagogue religious school with the younger one still acting as our lead music teacher. My older son travelled with NFTY and the younger attended Kutz camp for leadership and song leading training. I'd like to think that my husband and I had a hand in all of that, but frankly it was the influences that they received at camp that pushed them harder than we ever could.

Years later, I am still one the biggest cheerleaders for Reform Jewish camping. My synagogue, Temple Kol Ami here in Thornhill Ontario has been at the forefront of encouraging and sending our kids to Camp George since its inception. We are a fairly small congregation, but we regularly see several dozen of our young people attend camp each summer. Many go on to staff positions and some attend other Union Camps throughout North America. We have been so successful at encouraging our families to make Reform Jewish camping their priority, that some of our adults have volunteered their summer vacations to act as camp doctors, nurses, and other faculty positions.

Several years ago, our rabbi at the time was looking for a way to tangibly demonstrate Temple Kol Ami's commitment to Reform Jewish camping. He invited Jeff Rose, the new director of Camp George, to attend our second day Rosh Hashanah services and honoured him with the first aliyah to the Torah. Almost on the spur of the moment, the rabbi decided to invite every single person in the congregation-young and young at heart-who had ever attended a Union Camp in any capacity to join Jeff on the bimah for the aliyah. More than fifty people gathered around as Jeff chanted the blessings. It was so overwhelming and emotional that we have continued the practice annually. This past Rosh Hashanah another fifty or so individuals, including some as young as eight and a half, made their way to the bimah to join Jeff for his aliyah. The excitement on their faces was easily visible and the physical demonstration of our community's commitment was on display for all to see and hopefully there to convince the next family to consider Reform Jewish camping for their kids' summer plans.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with friends and their daughters who had just returned from their rookie sessions at Camp George. Their mother complained bitterly that she had barely heard from the girls all summer. The girls of course ignored their mother, were deliriously happy, and have already made plans to return next summer. Theirs were the faces that I first noticed with me on the bimah this past Rosh Hashanah, along with those of my husband and grown sons. The sweat equity from GUCI has certainly paid off.

Too Fast

This past weekend as I noted in my previous post marked the 30th anniversary of the passing of Harry Chapin. Harry's music played a pivotal role in my ascendance from childhood to adulthood. His were the first concerts that I attended without parental supervision. I would sit for hours listening to his albums, (yes-ALBUMS!!) trying desperately to memorize the lyrics to every song-not an easy task as his shortest song ran over four minutes in length-while attempting chord progression after chord progression until I had a semblance of his sound. His poetry spoke to me. He was a storyteller set to music and I was enthralled. Harry Chapin was to me what John, Paul, George, and Ringo where to my friend the Beatles Fanatic. He and Debbie Friedman z"l were the soundtrack to my youth. This adoration only grew each summer as I headed off to camp to live, work, grow and share with an entire community of Harry-philes. GUCI was a veritable cornucopia of learning opportunities about Harry and his music. We would sing his songs at campfires and lights-out programs. We would use his music to enhance shiur and limmudim messages. We would talk of his work for World Hunger and his great philanthropic deeds. Harry was one of my first Tikkun Olam heroes. But most of all, we would just sit around and sing. There was always a new Harry song or album to learn and listen to.

The summer that Harry died, I was 18 years old. He was touring that July and was headed to Indianapolis later that month. Rumours were swirling around camp that "the powers that be" were in contact with Harry and his people to come to camp to visit, and perhaps perform a few songs. It was definitely in the talking stage, but it would tragically never come to fruition. When we heard the news of his horrific crash, I recall feeling as though somebody punched me in the stomach. We mourned for days as was befitting his iconic status. This past weekend marking the 30th anniversary, that feeling came back to me just as fresh and just as visceral.

It is truly odd to me that I can recall 30 years with such colour and vividness. 30 years. I have graduated both high school and university. I got married, had children, watched them grow and develop lives of their own independent from me. I have developed a career, built a life with friends and family, suffered loss and accumulated much. 30 years has gone by much too quickly. I am not trying to be wistful or maudlin, just stating a fact. Harry knew it. He even sang about it.


I let time go lightly when I'm here with you, 
I let time go lightly when the day is through.
I keep a watch on time when I've have work to do, 
I let time go lightly with you.


30 years is a long time and it has flown by in an instant.

***A quick addendum. It was actually Harry's brother Steve that wrote the lyrics for this song, but Harry was the singer.