Making Plans

There is an old Yiddish proverb that goes something like this:

.דער מענטש טראַכט און גאָט לאַכט

Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht.

In short, it roughly translates to "Man plans and God laughs". 

I have always loathed this bit of witticism. The idea that God would have a hand in the day to day actions of individuals is anathema to me, and even worse, that a caring and compassionate God would purposefully play Russian roulette with people's lives by bringing pain and suffering on a whim, runs counter to my entire belief system. Instead, I choose to believe that God exists in the spaces; a divine presence that remains close by in order to provide support and strength during those times when life turns sour. God is found in the comforting touches and glances of The Husband or in my children's voices. God is in my friends' phone calls and emails. The notion of a vindictive God with a personal agenda is unfathomable. The very idea that we shouldn't have longterm goals or intentions because of what the Divine Spirit might do is extraordinarily defeatist. We may as well just curl up into a ball right now and call it a day.

And yet...I have to admit it...I have been stuck for these past five months. My grief has turned into trepidation and it has caused me to spin my wheels on more than one occasion. I haven't been able to plan for anything further out on the calendar than a medical appointment. There have been more than a few Saturday evenings recently where The Husband and I have looked pitifully at one another and wondered aloud why we didn't think to organize an outing or a dinner with friends. It isn't that I don't want to plan, rather it is born out of a fear of what might happen if I ponder the future with too much gusto.

It was my mother who shook me out of my funk. My mother who has suffered a loss so wounding and visceral that even those closest to her can't completely comprehend it, was the one who categorically stated to me that she was looking at some new travel opportunities. To anybody who knows my mom well knows that this is a sign. She was signalling to me and to the outside world that  she needs to get on with her life, even if that idea is wrapped up in a minuscule gesture like looking on the interweb for globetrotting options.

"Life is about the touchstones and the memories we make", she said.

"We have to get on with the business of living."

(And people wonder why I worship and unabashedly adore this woman.)

So, I am back to planning. There will be trips and new experiences; New York this weekend and Newfoundland at the beginning of the summer. There will be simchas and wonderful times ahead this summer and fall celebrating with family and friends. (The marriage of one's child is an amazingly self-reflective event.) There will be new challenges for me to conquer as I embark on the next phase of personal growth and leave my old career behind, and undoubtedly much of all of that will be shared in this space.

And guess what?

I don't hear God laughing at all.

A Minor Epiphany

I had a minor epiphany this weekend. Believe me when I tell you that it won't change anybody's life and it certainly won't offer a cure for cancer, but it was a personal realization all the same.

What was this conscious understanding, you might ask?

Well...it was the complete and total comprehension that movies made in the last twenty years or so generally suck shit. This isn't something new nor is it groundbreaking territory for me, but a few random discussions over the Easter weekend has cemented this idea in my psyche.

Now before you get your knickers in a knot, please allow me to expound on my thesis.

Ready?

Quickly and without the use of Google, name the Best Picture Oscar winners for the last five years, including the one that was just handed out in March.

If you were able to name (counting backward) 12 Years a Slave, Argo, The Artist, The King's Speech, and The Hurt Locker then you deserve a prize. I am a trivia nut with a history of demolishing the competition and with a memory like a steel-trap, but even I couldn't remember The Hurt Locker. 

Let's take it back five more years. Did Slumdog Millionaire, No Country for Old Men, The Departed, Crash, or Million Dollar Baby come quickly to mind? No? Well you aren't alone. How about memorable performances from any of those Oscar winners? Does Hillary Swank's Oscar winning turn in Million Dollar Baby or Colin Firth's understated portrayal of George VI in The King's Speech rank up there with the greatest of all time? I would argue quite the opposite. I find it stunning that we live in a time whereby Hillary Swank is the proud possessor of two Oscars (the same number as Jodie Foster, Denzel Washington, Dustin Hoffman, Elizabeth Taylor, and until very recently Meryl Streep) while actors like Peter O'Toole, Robert Redford, Glenn Close, Thelma Ritter, and Richard Burton never took home the gold. It can be debated that she was the best in the years in which she was nominated, but I would argue that the movies in any given year have been extremely mediocre for so very long that we are merely rewarding that which sucks the least.

Now it could very easily be stated that the Oscars are not and have never been a true measure of excellence in the film industry. I would tend to agree with that premise. Any award that rewards a film like Shakespeare in Love over Saving Private Ryan or worse yet, gives its top prize to How Green Was My Valley instead of to Citizen Kane certainly has some explaining to do, but The Oscars are at the very least, a barometre of the tastes and spending habits of the movie-going public. Which brings me to my next question....

What was the last summer movie that you truly enjoyed? I'm not talking about a special-effects extravaganza. I'm talking about an actual film where the dialogue is audible above the Dolby Digital sound rumblings. Oh....and it can't be a remake or a sequel. Ready....go.

Tough, isn't it. This summer we will see the likes of The Amazing Spider Man 2, (which if you are keeping score is actually the fifth Spider Man movie in 15 years) The Protector 2, The Legends of Oz: Dorothy's Return, Wolf Creek 2, (I don't remember Wolf Creek 1) another X-men, another How to Train Your Dragon, another Jump Street, another Transformers, another Planet of the Apes, another Expendables, (the first two were expendable enough) and yet another Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And this is only a partial list. Do we really expect any of these forthcoming films to make any lasting impression whatsoever?

Which brings me to my question on Facebook this past weekend.

My brother and I have often entertained each other with the following question which I opened up to the masses on my Facebook page. "If you were stuck on a desert island, name three films that you would want to have with you that you could watch over and over again." They don't have to be the best films ever made, but they had to resonate with you enough that you could watch them repeatedly.

The results were fascinating. The answers came from all ages and generational divides; men, women, older and younger. Here are a few things that I learned.

1. There were only a couple of films in the dozens mentioned that were made after 1990. Even the Gen Xers and Millennials chose movies from an earlier time. I think this shows that our young people cannot and will not be bought off by the swill that Hollywood continues to spew. They are much more careful with their disposable income and would rather watch quality.

2. A classic is a classic no matter the generation. So many of my friends had The Princess Bride in their top three. It proves that quality writing and acting is timeless. (The same could be said about Hitchcock flicks.)

3. Musicals may not be the best movies ever made, but they certainly do entertain. Now given that I am a musical nut who probably surrounds herself with other musical nuts, I shouldn't be too surprised that many of my friends had at least one musical on their lists. What is interesting however is the diversity of these films.

4. Some of you are truly twisted. A rabbi friend of mine put Saw I and Saw 2 on his list. I am hopeful that these inclusions were part of a dark joke done at my expense, but I suspect they are true escapism for him, something that seems to be sorely lacking in modern-day films.

5. Watching Groundhog Day over and over and over again is the absolute definition of literalism.

6. Some of you have real trouble following directions. I said three films, not three series of films. (Yes Twin Son's Better Half, I'm looking at you!) Not every Harry Potter film is worthy of consideration. (Chamber of Secrets kind of sucked!) The Godfather III shouldn't even be mentioned in the same breath as the first two.

Now I am not suggesting that The Sound of Music or Mary Poppins should be ranked amongst the best films ever made, nor am I suggesting that they are everybody's cup of tea. I am saying that when asked this question, most people do not put many movies of the past two decades on their lists of all-time favourites and that should be a very loud wake-up call to the people who make these films.

There are some people out there doing quality work. Foreign language films and documentarians are exploring themes and settings that are rarely seen here in North America.  Pixar has been exceptionally brilliant, but even they need to explain the rash of mediocre sequels coming out lately. (Planes. Really??)

I get it. The film industry is a business and businesses are about maximizing profits. But I think that the art has gone missing. My simple and unscientific poll should serve as a conversation starter. Instead of plunking down 10 bucks a person for trash this year, check out some of the films that my friends recommended. I can guarantee you some fine viewing and very few wasted hours.

**If you are not my friend on Facebook and would like to know what some of these movies were, please comment and I will post a cross-section. 

The Ghosts of Pesachs Past

As we were setting up for tonight's seder at Sister/Cousin's home yesterday, The Little Bro and I found ourselves discussing seders past.

The sederim of my youth were anything but conventional. They were big, loud, brash, musical, and creative. (Actually...things haven't changed all that much.) We often used off-print haggadot (we still do), had several musical instruments at the table (we still do), and it wasn't unusual for a new experience or visitor to make an appearance.

My brother and I spent part of yesterday reminiscing about the time that our uncle decided to introduce kinetic energy to the seder table and how we kids couldn't help but foil his best-laid plans with our own brand of chicanery.  Or about the time that he read everybody's aura with a crystal. There was the year that he invited an odd "homeless-looking" (we never really did discovered his name or story) gentleman to join us. The chap ate like he hadn't in a month, but was so grateful and so polite that we all felt as though we had fulfilled the mitzvah of welcoming the stranger.

Then there was the time that I insisted that we place an orange on the seder plate and nearly set off WWIII. The political discussions that followed were forever banned from the seder table by my mother. There was the year after Other Father's dad passed away that we taught all of the kids how to sing Chad Gadya in Yiddish the way he always did as a surprise. We gathered them all around him and they just let it go. Other Father was so moved he could barely get through the first verse.

Our seders have grown so large that with next generations and significant others added in, we have had to find suitable locales to host us all. We have used condo party rooms and synagogue multi-purpose areas. We have developed seating charts and menu lists. We have measured space down to the last centimetre and we have detailed the event as carefully as any party planner. (A special shout-out for this stuff has to go out to my Little Bro's Yin to his Yang. She is unbelievable.) It isn't always easy and we don't all agree, (OY!!) but every year we seem to make it work.

I think that the reason that the two of us got a bit nostalgic yesterday and certainly a bit misty, was in part because of those who will not be with us this year. Some because it is the yearly trade off with other sides of family; some because of university exams; some unfortunately because of illness; and some because......

There is a great deal of complaining that goes with Pesach. It is so much work. It is so much cooking. It is so much cleaning. It is so much constipation. All of it true. But as my conversation with my brother reminded me yesterday, it is really all about the people. Those that are here and those that will always be here. They are all in my heart and soul this year and every year.

May your Pesach sederim be lovely, meaningful, fun, and filled with the stuff that makes memories.

Debate or Schoolyard Brawl?

I tuned in to watch a debate last evening and instead I witnessed a schoolyard brawl.

The first of what I imagine will be an endless stream of Toronto mayoral confabs to take place between now and October, aired yesterday afternoon on CityTV and we the citizenry of the GTA came away poorer for the experience.

I can't imagine what the braintrust at CITY were thinking when they developed this ridiculous format. Basically, here's what happened. Moderator (and I use that term loosely) Gord Martineau introduced a topic of interest, let's say transit. Each candidate was given a short period of time to make a statement elucidating their position. When all five were done, a cowbell rang and the free-for-all began. (At one point the useless Martineau even hollered the word "Go" as if this were a WWF match.) Everybody screamed talking points and slogans over the other with neither the debaters nor the audience able to discern who was saying what and when. He who screamed loudest usually came out on top in the scrum, and that person was invariably the bully of an incumbent. Rob Ford was allowed to spew his invectives and endless streams of mendacities that rarely went unchallenged by the others simply because the rest were so intent on trying to get their positions out into the ether. Even the media questions were easily lobbed softballs that permitted the mayor to belch his half a dozen previously rehearsed talking points and did not allow for follow-up questions by the reporters. Ford was grinning and puffing in mock triumph by the end knowing that very little damage was inflicted on him by his challengers, and the people of Toronto were left wondering is there a real candidate that can take on this straw man of a mayor.

I have a bit of knowledge in the art of debate. It is one of the many skills taught to me in synagogue youth group, and I am grateful for the experience. A debate is supposed to be an even-tempered, yet truthful exchange of differing opinions backed up by incontrovertible facts. Each participant is permitted a period of time to present their arguments, followed by uninterrupted periods of rebuttal by their opponents. Questions from the floor should be permitted follow-ups and challenges especially when lies are dispensed, and moderators should live up to their titles and step in when the discussions get out of control. A debate should never be a rugby scrum whereby everybody piles on all at once, and the winner is determined by who emerges from the bottom still breathing.

I have stated on many occasions that because I live one kilometre outside of the city of Toronto, I do not have a vote in the upcoming election. But that doesn't mean it doesn't affect or impact me as a concerned citizen of the GTA. My initial feeling very early on in this marathon of a campaign is that I am of an "ABF" mind....Anyone but Ford. I was hoping to hear something...anything....from last evening's debate to help me in my quest for a candidate. Instead, all I got was a lot of nothing from the challengers, more Ford headlines, and one less opportunity for the media to show this mayor for the fraud and failure he is. It is the first time in months that I actually thought that Ford could win reelection.

The only good news is that it is still very early in the campaign. But the debate coordinators better get their shit together so that this debacle isn't repeated. The bar set for election to the highest office in the city should be much higher than was on display last evening. The citizens of Toronto deserve better from all involved.

Packing

I have been doing a great deal of packing lately.

Some of it has been done with great excitement and great anticipation.

Some of it has been done with profound sadness and much stifling of tears.

Packing is one of life's true paradoxes. We want to transition to different experiences and exotic locales, but we can't seem to accomplish that task without dragging copious amounts of "stuff" along for the ride. We accumulate, we hoard, we collect, and we stockpile believing that we will need it all someday, but in actual fact we use but a small fraction of our accrued shit. (Check out the brilliant George Carlin's take on "Stuff" which I have included at the bottom of this post.)

And yet...

There is something about this paraphernalia that gives our lives balance and meaning. We rescue old and faded photographs from the back of a drawer, knowing that we can't bear to toss them in the trash for fear of forgetting. We rescue baking supplies and recipes so that we might recreate that which can no longer adequately be produced. But we so very desperately want it to be, so we pack them away. We compartmentalize. We move forward while one foot remains firmly embedded in the past.

When we journeyed to the Southern Home at the end of December, it was done in haste and with escape from misery in mind. There is no question that I was running away and I packed the way a 5 year old might if he was planning his getaway. There was no thought, no planning. Just a "get me out of town" mentality to go with some clothes, some toys, and my passport.

Packing to come home has been a very different experience. There is careful calculation and examination of what it all means. This place has always been my oasis, my haven, my retreat. But as I prepare to return to Northern climes, I find myself not simply packing tangible items like clothing, but also fond memories of this locale that has now been irrevocably changed for me. It is still my Southern Home, but it is a little less idyllic because she is no longer here to share it.

I pack to come home. I pack to move forward. I pack to remember.


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Ding a Car, Win a Chicken Sandwich

Baseball and poetry seem to go hand in hand. Writers much more eloquent than I have shared their hazy ethereal love for the pastoral game that seems to burst out of winter shadows like tulips in a spring garden.

Ok. Cheesy imagery really isn't my strong suit.
But there is something about baseball's spring training that inspires such insipid metaphors and similes. Maybe it's the fact that the winter has been interminable and the sight of young men shagging flies on an emerald field brings with it fantasies of life renewed. Maybe it is the blissful equity of every team's hopes and dreams of October competition still mercifully intact. Or perhaps it is the quiet simplicity of the game. Grown men, despite the corporate ownerships and billions of dollars at stake, playing like boys.

This is what I love most about spring training; delighting in watching the boy in every man come to the forefront. I love seeing Jose Reyes, he of the multimillion dollar contract, cavorting and kibbitizing with some awestruck rookie as he challenges the kid to a race across the outfield, and then devolving into giggles as the kid realizes that the fun-loving star gave him a 10 yard head start. There is the pure unadulterated joy in the face of the hulking farm boy as he belts his first home run off of a major league pitcher, while his hitting coach dad positively beams with pride from his perch in the opposing team's dugout.You can almost see the Little Leaguer in him as he bounces around third looking at dad for approval. There is first baseman/DH Adam Lind sporting a winter's worth of mountain man growth on his face that is more than worthy of his teammates' ridicule, and then playfully stroking the beard each time he comes to the plate to demonstrate his response to their good-natured teasing. And then there is former ace Ricky Romero, a lone and solitary figure taking to the mound as he struggles to remember what it was that used to make this game so easy and is now so terribly difficult. The forgotten man desperately trying to make himself visible once again.
And of course, there are the fans...kids every one of us. We jockey for position to watch our favourites and beg for photos and signatures. We delight when they stop to chat (which they do on occasion) and we wrestle for the balls tossed into the crowd. Grown men and women shell out hundreds of dollars for a number 43 jersey, hoping against hope that Mr. Dickey will stop, notice, and maybe converse.

Spring training reminds all of us of a time that was simpler. A time when playing outside was expected and baseball didn't exist on a video game console. It is a place where corporate sponsors don't attempt to buy our affections with bobblehead giveaways, but rather have us cheering for a ball leaving the yard to ding our cars so that we might partake in a free Chick-Fil-A sandwich. (Even the vegetarian me loved that.) Spring training touches that place inside where dreams have lay dormant and hope exists for even the most cynical. (I'm looking at you Older Son!) We set aside the steroid stories, the sabremetrics, our fantasy teams, and the financial inequity, so that we might, for a few hours or days, just enjoy the game and the boys who play it in a way we can only wish we could.

And for me...I get to have my very own Field Of Dreams moment with my adult son. The mother/son road trip version of playing catch. That alone makes the trip worthwhile.

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Musical Tears

Mandy Patinkin made me cry.

That in and of itself shouldn't sound so unusual. Beautiful voices and impeccably performed songs often have that effect on me. I openly wept during the first act finale of Wicked. That's the scene where Elphaba ascends to the heights while belting out "Defying Gravity." I've seen the show and the scene multiple times, but only Idina Menzel brought me to tears. There was just something about the way she sold it.

I sobbed uncontrollably at a Susan Werner concert when she first introduced "Manhattan, Kansas." She just sat alone at the piano and delivered this achingly beautiful rendition about an unwanted pregnancy. I have never experienced a life-changing event such as she was relating, rather I simply connected viscerally to her pain and my emotion was unharnessed.

Music has that kind of power over me. Specifically, certain artists singing certain songs in very special one-of-a-kind settings, have the ability to push me to tear-jerking moments.

Mandy Patinkin delivered that experience to me last evening...twice.

I have always been a fan of Mandy's. (It's ok that I call him Mandy. I think that he would want me to. We've bonded.) The Broadway geek in me has always been astounded by his clear, pure tenor that  truly hasn't lost much over the years. He never fails to challenge himself as an artist, musician, or an actor as is evidenced by his eclectic resumé. So when my parents offered me a ticket to his show in Fort Lauderdale as a belated birthday gift, I enthusiastically said yes.

It is the rare performer who can command a sold out crowd with nothing more than his talent. No props, no sets, no gaudy lighting, no orchestra. Just him. Oh...and he brought along a phenomenally gifted pianist playing a well-worn upright, and of course a willing audience.

My cry trigger has had a short response time lately. I tear up at Hallmark commercials. (I mean, honestly. Have you seen the one where the single mom works two jobs to put her incredibly gifted daughter through college? It's a wonder more of us aren't puddles of goo.) I blubber while viewing old pictures and I weep with abandon while imagining myself shopping for dresses for the upcoming wedding. My emotions are sitting firmly on the surface and small things tend to set me off. But, last night was different.

Surprisingly enough it wasn't his flawless delivery of any Broadway standard that initially turned on my waterworks. It was his cover of a Patty Griffin tune called "Making Pies" that had me going. He managed to turn this already beautiful song about life and love into a stinging reminder of our recent loss. It physically hurt to listen to it and I squirmed in my seat while tears streamed down my cheeks.

And if that wasn't enough, it happened again....at the end. He came out for a surprise encore. I say surprise because he had already been on stage without any break for an hour and 45 minutes. He closed with Sondheim's "Being Alive" from Company. Every time I have previously heard it performed, I have thought of it as a lament...a tale of lost loves and missed opportunities. Mandy sang it as though he were encouraging us to remember that we are still here and that we must celebrate every single moment.

I cried and it felt right. I needed that moment. That moment of pure musical connection. She was there in that moment. I felt her presence.


Note: I have no video from last evening, but you can search for Mandy's performances on YouTube. Here is Susan Werner singing Manhattan, Kansas. I still get misty when I hear it.