TIFF-ing One Night In Miami

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

I am always in awe of the variety of voices I hear when attending TIFF. Sometimes, they come from audience members as they dissect a just-seen film. At times, I hear the words of the critics, whose job it is to lacerate art without a moment's hesitation. (I often wonder if we have been sitting inside the same theatre.) But it is the voices of the filmmakers themselves that intrigue me the most; the projects they choose, the stories they seem compelled to tell. And even though this year, I am unable to share in the communal experience of watching these fascinating new narratives unfold, I am still in awe of the bright and extraordinarily talented directors who have pushed through the confines of the pandemic to get their creations out into the public square. TIFF usually isn't the place where the next superhero flick is screened. It is a forum for the stories that fly under the radar of blockbuster-obsessed Hollywood movers and shakers. It is the space where the audience gets to see and comes to understand the blood, sweat, and tears that have gone into bringing art to life. 

I think that this struggle was exactly what we saw last night during our screening of One Night in Miami.... (Yes, the ellipses are part of the title. They inform the viewer that the struggle is ongoing.) This film is actor/director Regina King's feature debut, based on the stage play by Kemp Powers, who also wrote the screenplay for the movie. It is a fictionalized account of a meeting in 1964 of real-life friends Muhammad Ali, Malcolm X, Sam Cooke, and Jim Brown. King and Kemp bring together these strong, principled, and activist black men into one room during one of the most fraught periods of civil-rights history and have them discuss their responsibilities, not only to their respective areas of expertise but to their community as a whole. One Night in Miami... imagines a night in February 1964, when these four friends gather in a motel room to celebrate the stunning knockout of Sonny Liston by a raw but brash 22-year-old Cassius Clay. While most of the group is hoping to party, the banter, led by the sober Malcolm, eventually digs deep into the fraught questions surrounding all of them in their respective professions. That two of the group would be dead within a year by the violence that still swirls throughout the black community, is an overtone that is not lost at all. 

The film was shot before the murder of George Floyd this summer and feels uncomfortably timely given the incidents and protests that have followed. King refuses to allow comfort to her audience. She wants them to feel off-balance and claustrophobic so as not to be able to escape the very hard discussions. Unfortunately, there is something missing from the film. Maybe it is the feeling of expanse that a movie should have. The four men are confined to one room for most of it and King tries to have them wander the premises at times, but there is a stasis to their surroundings that chokes off some of the best dialogue. I can absolutely imagine this piece on a stage whereby the actors' powerful performances take over the spotlight. Every single one of these men is stellar in their respective roles. I was particularly enamoured with Hamilton alum Leslie Odoms Jr. as Sam Cooke. The man could sing the phonebook and I'd be with him.

We liked One Night in Miami... but left the home theatre wanting more from it. Regina King has more talent in her fingernail that most people could possibly hope for in three lifetimes and she asks the hard questions facing black celebrities today. I just wanted a few more answers.

Dawn and The Husband are both MEH on this film but understand that it is worth seeing.

See You Down the Road at TIFF

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered the way in which films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

There is a bleakness and profound sadness that can be seen in Fern's face in the opening moments of Nomadland. It is the visage of somebody who has seen pain and loss and understands them both to her core. But there is something else as well. There is a fulsome determination to move forward by a woman who has been left completely alone by circumstance and needs to find a way to survive. Her fierce need for independence is tempered by the community of nomads she meets on the road (most of them played in the film by actual members of the American nomadic fraternity) and the series of temp jobs she must take in order to keep her head above water. 

Frances McDormand's Fern is a woman who all at once grieves her previous life but also comes to embrace the road ahead. Her face, seemingly elastic as only the features of a person who is weathered by time and conditions can be, is like a roadmap into her deepest emotions. She smiles at her new friends, is touched by their acceptance of her, and shows real impatience when a fellow traveller takes a shine to her. She is on the lowest side of this sliding economic scale of nomads but it doesn't make her less than in the eyes of the community. In a question and answer section given after the premiere, McDormand is emphatic in her discussion of the real-life nomads.

"Each individual who goes on the road has to be self-reliant,” she said, “but they do gather for Rubber Tyre Rendezvous because they need community for knowledge. I guess you would call it a socialist situation, where it’s all for one and one for all. The choice of van they use for their mobile lives has a lot to do with the economic disparities in our country, but Chloe (director Zhao) is not trying to make a political statement. Instead, we are leading you to a community which is making very difficult decisions for themselves and she is telling their story.”

Nomadland is a visually stunning film with a score that perfectly captures the vistas from the road. It is a film that is almost poetic in how it captures this story of an average woman doing something that most of us would think to be extraordinary and yet, isn't. Chloe Zhao has created a masterpiece and Frances McDormand is absolutely one of the finest actors of her generation. 

We didn't go out of our way to choose films helmed by women directors this year at TIFF but rather, TIFF is going out of its way to feature more women behind the camera. It is to all of our benefits in hearing stories told with a different lens and a different arc. I chose Nomadland as one of our films this year because Frances McDormand is one of The Husband's favourite actors. It doesn't hurt that she is Coen Brothers-adjacent, but mostly it is that she is truly brilliant in her versatility and never hedges in her painful acting choices. To tell more about this magnificent film would be to spoil it for all of you who must see it when it is widely distributed in December.

Nomadland is at the highest level of two YUPS. We simply loved this movie.

Going Tiff-ing at Home This Year

 Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered the way in which films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

I really missed summer in Toronto this year. What is usually a time filled with neighbourhood festivals, street food fiestas, live music performances, and abundant theatre choices, my city was devoid of all character with only a handful of patios open and most people taking solace with picnics in the parks or friend's backyards. The buzz that accompanies the downtown core was absent this year and there was a palpable sadness as we walked along the main streets in our area and counted the legion of For Lease signs. There were heatwaves but little sizzle as my city seemed paralyzed by the ongoing effects of this miserable pandemic. So, when TIFF announced that they would find a way to operate a scaled-back version of the festival, we knew that we would find a way to participate, even if it meant refraining from in-person theatre screenings. Honestly, the idea of sitting in a Cineplex, even with appropriate distancing and masking, gives me the dry heaves. TIFF is showing some films in traditional settings but they are also offering drive-in options and in-home digital broadcasts, perfect for the cautiously lazy movie lover. The Husband was a bit concerned with the techy side of this idea. TIFF has never been known for excellence in its web purchasing or online fare. What if the hardware and software weren't compatible with our limited home theatre? After checking out the necessary requirements, we decided to take a chance with the purchases and scheduled ourselves accordingly. 

Our first film this year comes from a talented young director born and raised here in Toronto, Emma Seligman. Shiva Baby began life as an 8-minute short that was Ms. Seligman's thesis from NYU's renowned film school. The 2020 expanded version focuses on twenty-something Danielle, a confused and seemingly rudderless student, who comes face to face with every bad decision she has ever made during a short shiva visit she makes with her family. It is a caustically funny film and often cringe-worthy in that way that makes your teeth ache but you can't stop watching. Seligman expertly moves between the family relationships that shape and torment us and the series of anxiety-ridden chaos that Danielle has manufactured for herself. Seligman calls her film a comedy of discomfort. Polly Draper (thirtysomething) is excellent as Danielle's self-involved and aggravating Jewish mother. She might be in the awards mix this season if the movie gets a wide enough distribution. Rachel Sennott is a young actress to watch.

The Husband wondered if non-Jews would understand the claustrophobia and exhaustion that a shiva visit can often impose. I didn't feel that the cultural overtones were disqualifying for those who are not members of the Tribe because I think that any family gathering could adequately stand-in for the shiva. I mean, we never even meet the mourners in the film, rather it is all about the visiting family who can't seem to get out of each other's way. 

This TIFF experience is definitely different and not as planned, but that didn't take away from our enjoyment of a very good and self-assured debut from a vibrant young director. We are glad that we decided to support one of our favourite festivals in the city once again, even if we had to find a new way to do it.

Shiva Baby gets two enthusiastic YUPS from both Dawn and The Husband. 

How I Became One with Van Gogh

I FINISHED THE PUZZLE.

If you've been following this bizarre and obsessive journey with me over the last month on social media, you will know that this is a big fucking deal. I will explain why in a bit but in the meantime, you can insert any happy dance you'd like in the comments so that we can all celebrate together. We are so devoid of fun and silly interludes lately, that I thought that we all deserved the accolades, even though today really is mostly about me. So...bust a virtual move and fete my accomplishment, weak-assed though it may be. 

 I chose this one. 

Diversions are not easy to come by in the pandemic age. There is only so much cooking, cleaning, sorting,  and baking a girl can do. I have learned how to not kill a sourdough starter thanks to the expertise and patient tutoring of my lovely cousin/niece. I have turned said starter into so many carb-laden baked goods that The Husband has threatened me with two-a-day training sessions. I have perfected my Shabbat challahs. I have exercised so much that I have hit my move and workout targets for 112 straight days and I have the receipts to prove it. (I don't think I've lost a pound given the abundance of aforementioned baking.) I have binged watched television series and binged listened to podcasts. (Watchmen and Pose are phenomenal television viewing and the new season of the Slow Burn podcast about David Duke is simply frightening. Also, as a comedy kick and homage to the late Carl Reiner, The Husband and I have been rewatching the old Dick Van Dyke Show on Amazon Prime. It is fabulous and still really funny.)

I can't seem to focus on a book. I manage to read a chapter or two but my mind wanders helplessly to other less inviting thoughts and I stop. I've only managed to finish one all summer and it distresses me. Hopefully, this will remedy itself soon but in the meantime, there is always a jigsaw puzzle in progress on our dining room table.

I have been enthralled with puzzles for decades. Over the last few years, it has become a mother/daughter activity while we snowbird in Florida. Mom and I have spent hours bonding and chatting over thousand-piece jigsaws. They are fun, calming, and offer a concentration level that tunes up the mind and memory, a truly zen experience. The pandemic and quarantine have meant that Mom and I have been puzzling separately. Earlier this past spring, I noticed that The Husband was sitting from time to time and fiddling with pieces. It became a way for him to decompress after a particularly arduous phone call or Zoom meeting. So, I was thrilled when he suggested that we walk over to the toy store nearby and purchase some gifts for Molly and, maybe, a couple of new puzzles. 

He chose the Van Gogh. 

Don't let him tell you otherwise. This entire episode that has encompassed a full month of our wedded bliss is wholly and entirely his fault. We had just come from the Immersive Van Gogh experience that is playing here at the old Toronto Star building and we were wonderfully reminded of just how much we love and are mesmerized by Vincent's work. The man was a true genius. Tortured and lost in his own thoughts, but nevertheless, a genius. We have seen several of his paintings in person over the years. His Starry Night is probably one of the most recognizable pieces of art in the world and has been commercialized to such an extent that one can buy anything affixed with its image. (There is even a song written about it if you don't mind a Don McLean earworm.) If you haven't seen Starry Night up close and personal, I highly recommend a post-pandemic trip to New York and a pilgrimage to the Museum of Modern Art. I snuck this photo of it the last time we were there. 

It is hard to discern from the photo just how many colours and brushstrokes he used. The moon with the sun rising over it isn't merely yellow. It is yellow mixed with several shades of greens and blues and purples. The brushstrokes run in all directions. To the naked eye, the village below is a shadowed sketch of muted browns, greys, blues and blacks but upon further review, the greens and turquoises jump forward. And the very thing this masterpiece is known for, the stars, are muted in the photograph. Thousands of pinpoints of gold dot the entire canvass. Vincent painted it in 1889 during his stay at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole near Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Even though he was going through a particularly dark period, he wrote about this canvas in a letter to his brother Theo and about how beautiful the night sky and the village below his window appeared. 

This morning I saw the countryside from my window a long time before sunrise with nothing but the morning star, which looked very big. Daubigny and Rousseau did that, though, with the expression of all the intimacy and all the great peace and majesty that it has, adding to it a feeling so heartbreaking, so personal. These emotions I do not detest.

I am almost certain that Van Gogh never foresaw his painting being cut into a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece is a nightmare of colours and swooshes. Brushstrokes that appear to fit together, simply don't. What Van Gogh saw as an explosion of hues dancing across the pre-dawn sky, I saw as a dizzying array of shit. Each piece looks like thirty others and they all seemingly fit together. Some examples.

We were seeing colours and swirls in our sleep. We found ourselves holding pieces up to the window so that the light would better define the fit and the subtle tones. After week one, The Husband gave up. He wanted to throw the damn thing off the roof. I wasn't as willing to pack it in. It became an obsession, much like Vincent's need to paint the bloody thing in the first place. I posted my first update on social media almost a month ago and was stunned to find out how many of my friends had attempted this crazy-assed thing and subsequently abandoned the task. It was then that I realized that not only would I make every effort to finish it, but I would also attempt to find a small measure of peace while doing it. What looked and sounded crazy to many became a necessary escape for me. I found myself lost in paint swooshes and totally captivated by pinpoints of light. I could almost imagine myself walking across the hills in twilight or singing under the moon. I now know every single inch of this painting. I have become a master of its intricacies. While he was in a self-quarantine, Van Gogh painted his greatest masterpiece. During a month of my quarantine, I recreated his journey.

This puzzle was a struggle until the very last piece. A friend remarked yesterday that I was either extraordinarily patient or maybe a bit crazy. I don't usually like words like crazy. We are all feeling a lot these days and "crazy" seems like it should be reserved for something else. I will acknowledge struggling as are so many others. The struggles are baked in but patience is a learned virtue during this time of uncertainty. It has never been a strong suit of mine but I am getting there. A month of this puzzle has certainly broadened my equanimity.

I am planning on leaving it together for a few days. I think I've earned it. I am willing to pass it on for the fearless among you but only with the caveat that you see it through to the end. If you think that you might give up, this offer isn't for you. Let me know and we can arrange an exchange. In the meantime, I eagerly await the next jigsaw. I'm thinking something cartoonish might be best.

Don't forget to leave me a happy dance. I've earned it.

A Small Tale From Downtown

A small story to be added to my "Tales of Downtown" series.

The Husband and I have been doing our very best to get some badly needed fresh air on a daily basis during these cloistered times. We live in a loft apartment that doesn't have a balcony. The only outdoor space in our building is a fabulous rooftop patio that was, until very recently, closed due to the pandemic as was all common space in our condo. As such, taking a walk around the neighbourhood or down to the lake has been important in ways that I simply cannot describe to those of you fortunate enough to have backyards or patios. I am not complaining, just merely stating a fact.

We often combine our walks with other small errands that can be accomplished at the tail end of the sojourn. We might run into the local fruit market for a container of blueberries or the toy store for a new jigsaw puzzle. We only purchase that which we can carry between the two of us and without using a cart. Today, we stopped at Shopper's Drug Mart for a few essentials. (Read: chocolate and Diet Coke)

As we were returning from the store, we encountered one of the regular street people who reside in our neighbourhood. This fellow is a pleasant enough guy, very polite, and usually is just pan-handling for a few coins in order to get his breakfast or a coffee. One of the forgotten side-effects of this weird time in which we are living is that very few people are carrying cash with them any more. Nobody wants to have contact with money if they can avoid it and as such, people like my buddy on the street are really suffering. You can't very well swipe him your phone or credit card. The Husband remarked recently that he hasn't carried cash in his pocket since March and hasn't been to a bank machine since we returned from the Southern Home. Everything is touchless and non-contact right now. More often than not, I don't have anything to give him because the only things I carry these days are a mask and my phone. Today, he caught us coming home from Shoppers so when he asked for something to eat, I reached into the bag and pulled out a chocolate bar. Here is our exchange verbatim as The Husband is my witness.

Man: Can I trouble you for a few coins so that I can get something to eat?

Me: I'm sorry but I don't have any money but wait....(this is me rummaging through the Shoppers bag and pulling out a bar of Cadbury dark chocolate.)

Me: Here you go.

Man: Oh...a chocolate bar. Oh...it's dark. Don't you have milk chocolate?

Me: (Apologizing) I'm sorry. It's all that I have. Next time, I'll remember that you like milk chocolate.

Man: Ok. If it's all you have, thank you.

We laughed a bit about the discerning palate of our friend but in all seriousness, this is a real problem in cities with a homeless issue. As we move into a solely cashless society, how will we be able to care for our most vulnerable if we don't take steps to physically put ourselves out for them? Sending a few coins their way will no longer be the "very least we can do". It is fast becoming a non-option. I am going to start carrying around granola bars and juice boxes so that a few hungry people can have the dignity of a small meal because this new cashless world is excluding them. Maybe, I'll take him into Timmie's next time for a doughnut and coffee? But it does remove a certain amount of dignity from him in that he can't buy it for himself.

Every day, I hear my own complaints about isolation or boredom. Every day, I hear others describe the difficulties they have faced during this very weird time. Every single one of them is valid. Every person's pain is real. We are all going through something and all of it matters. Today, I saw somebody else's suffering and it was up close and personal. I'll try to remember that the next time I'm lamenting my situation.

My Brief Sojourn Back into Society

I stuck a pinkie toe into the life reintegration pool today.

As somebody who suffers from asthma and is therefore deemed "high-risk", I have managed to avoid indoor locations as much as possible over the past sixteen weeks.

Sixteen weeks. Sixteen fricking weeks. 

An entire season has disappeared into the ether while we have all been trying to learn what works, what's safe, and what is necessary. Some of us are braver than others and some are plainly just more reckless, but all of us are navigating through a new societal tsunami that will leave things changed forever. Don't kid yourselves. These are our new routines for the foreseeable future and possibly longer than that, whether we want them to be or not. Companies, businesses, and industries that don't adapt will most assuredly fail. People who see themselves as better than or more elite than their neighbours will be shunned. Never before in our history has the term "we are all in this together" been more truthful or apropos.

But we must live and we must do the necessary things to carry on and while I have been able to deal with essentials like groceries or medications online or with minimal contact, some things just demand an in-person visit, things like yearly medical tests at a hospital imaging clinic.

The hospital that I was booked at is one not near my home. I seriously considered driving uptown in order to avoid the potentially claustrophobic public transit but the city of Toronto has boxed in my neighbourhood with a morass of road closures, streetcar rail replacement, and bridge repairs. All at the same time. It simply didn't make sense to spend hours in my car, travelling through detours and "west to get east" alternatives when the TTC could get me there in a far more timely and less stressful fashion. And so, I pushed through my CoVID anxiety, packed my Purell and Wet Wipes, donned a mask, and headed for the subway.

Here are some basic and wholly anecdotal observations from a city still suffering from PTSD and in the very early stages of Phase 2 opening.

1. Most people on the TTC, both streetcars and subways, are masked up. That isn't to say it is universal, but it is certainly better than I expected. The full TTC mask bylaw doesn't go into effect until Thursday so I was expecting a lot of scofflaws. I was pleasantly surprised. There were a few 30-something dudes (all guys on my trip) who decided that they were above it all and who stink-eyed anybody who even so much as looked in their direction but all in all, it wasn't a bad trip north. The trains were fairly empty and everybody physically distanced. I'm not sure how that is going to work when the Bay Street Bros head back downtown but for now, it didn't suck. (Of course, I Purell' ed whenever I felt uncomfortable, so there is that.)

2. Hospitals are weird places these days. Other than access to the emergency department, visitors are all herded through a single entrance. I was met with a physically distanced line that led to a front desk behind plexiglass whereby I was questioned about my basic health and made to hand sanitize. (These people don't know me otherwise, they could have saved on the squirt.) I was directed to the elevators (no stair climbing allowed) and on to imaging. Everything in the hospital is now clearly a one-way street. God help the poor bastard who doubles back. The screeches from nurses and cleaning staff can be deafening.

3. After another physically distanced line, (We really need to stop calling it social distancing. There is nothing social about it) I was greeted by another masked manager behind glass. She sanitized a piece of foam rubber, slipped it through the opening in the glass and asked me to place my health card on it. She then did her thing on the computer, re-sanitized the foam, and slid my card back to me.

4. I was directed to a segregated waiting area whereby I sat alone until I was called for my tests. This is not the hospital experience I remembered from just last year. I found myself longing for the commiseration with other patients and the forlorn looks that said "I understand. Don't worry. We'll get through it together." But, there was nobody.

5. Just when I thought that human connection was impossibly lost forever, I was greeted by the loveliest ultrasound technician in the history of ultrasound technicians. I am convinced of it. Mary is warm, caring, talkative, and so in tune with the isolation that her patients are feeling. A former radiologist from India, (she was never able to get her medical license reinstated in Canada due to a lack of internships and that is a miserable shame for anybody who might have had her as their physician) she not only handled my tests with care and professionalism but she knew that I was craving a chat from somebody who wasn't yelling at me to mind my distance. By the time it was all over, she had offered to fix up Older Son with any number of lovely young women, asked me if there were any available units in our building for sale because she is looking to buy a place downtown for her kids, showed me photos of her family, and gave me her email address so that I could keep her updated on my life. I swear that I am not making any of this up. The post-it is still in my pocket. Mary reminded me why I love this city and why I believe that even though there will be more changes to come, some undoubtedly difficult, we all just want the best for each other.

6. I headed back home, still fully masked and still fully physically distanced. As I disembarked the subway at St. Andrew, I spotted the TTC employees handing out free masks for all riders. It's coming, people. Get used to it. If this asthmatic could spend four hours in a mask without removing it, some entitled Dude-Bro from Etobicoke can certainly handle it for an hour.

7. I was going to hop a streetcar home but it is just so lovely outside I decided to walk. My encounter with Mary switched on my positivity gene. I did notice that the fare collectors on the streetcar are back. Can anybody explain to me why their uniforms look like they are ready for Kent State circa 1970? I mean, they carry fucking billy clubs. They are FARE enforcement officers, not suiting up for Fallujah. Honestly, they need to dial this shit back a hundred notches. But...I wasn't about to let them ruin my mood so I walked. It was invigorating. Little by little, my neighbourhood is coming back to life.

I refuse to argue with anybody about masks. They work. It is obvious from the data. If you can't manage to help me out by wearing one, I have little use for you. Not wearing one isn't some resistance political statement but rather, it is a display of your ignorance. If this pandemic has taught me anything, it's don't engage the stupid.

I wouldn't say that I feel entirely comfortable yet. I'm still avoiding the grocery store and other high traffic areas but if today taught me anything it is that some necessary things are manageable and I won't live in fear of them any longer. I won't be in a restaurant any time soon but a Starbucks is not out of the question. Masked, pre-ordered, and picked up at the door. Mary made me feel like I can do it.

Happy Canada Day. 

An Eyshet Chayil For Today

***Note. Today during our weekly Torah study, we examined the end of Proverbs and the passage famously known as the Woman of Valour, or the Eyshet Chayil. The poem has been debated for generations as to how it should be accepted or denied by both women and men. It is my argument that in order for it to have relevance in a modern context, it is badly in need of a rewrite and reinterpretation for the time we live in today. And...so...I rewrote it. For me. It may or may not speak to you but I feel that if we are to find value in ancient texts, we need to add to them rather than reflexively dismiss them.  If you would like to read the original, it is Proverbs 31:10-31. Thank you to Rabbi Streiffer for his compassionate class today and to my fellow Torah study regulars for their wisdom. It is appreciated.

An Eyshet Chayil for Today

A woman of valour today is not rare nor is she fleeting. She is found in the face and soul of every woman.

She doesn't allow her value to be determined by her partner nor by anybody else. She alone is the determinator of her worth.

She is independent and confident and she measures her success by the company she keeps, the love in her heart, and the creativity of her own mind. She may choose to share her life with others or she may choose to walk her path alone.

She instinctively understands those things in the world that fill her with joy and brings her pleasure and she turns away from those who would defeat her dreams or harm her sense of self.

A woman of valour today engages in prolonged spurts of creativity and channels her artistry with a unique vision.

She grasps that her trajectory in life is hers to pursue and hers alone. She doesn't impose her preferences on other women, nor does she judge them for their choices.

A woman of valour today finds a balance between spiritual health and physical health. She feeds both her intellect and her emotions. She struggles with the precariousness of the equilibrium between the things she must do and the things she longs to do. She forgives herself when she fails.

She finds passion in her life's choices and she succeeds when she accepts both her talents and her limitations.

She is comfortable with her own sexuality and her agency is her own. 

She recognizes that hers is often a place of privilege and that engaging in Tikkun Olam is her obligation.

She finds peace in the comfort of her family and those whom she loves. Her home is her sacred space and she refreshes herself within its walls. She looks to her husband, wife, or partner for sustenance and she provides it in kind.

She is encouraging of other women and she acts as a mentor to those who are struggling and coming up behind her.

The woman of valour today embraces her wrinkles, grey hairs, and other signs of aging as they are born out of wisdom and hard experience.

She doesn't take more than she needs from the earth and she strives to care diligently for God's world.

The woman of valour today nurtures the relationships in her life with care and compassion; be they her spouse, her children, her friends, or herself. She cannot strive to help them achieve their own happiness until she herself is at peace.

She surrounds herself with a support system, a collective of like-minded women who will be there for her in times of need, and she for them. She will lift up the voices of these women so they are louder than her own.

A woman of valour today knows that all the people have value and that she must listen to them with attentiveness and compassion. Her pride in all that she does and for all whom she loves is boundless.