This Saturday Israel will celebrate Tu Bishvat, the Jewish Arbor Day, signaling the beginning of spring. It’s one of the nicer holidays, symbolized by blooming almond trees. Its main activities involve eating dried fruit and planting trees. Nice.
In the spirit of the day I’ve been negotiating with the gardener to replace a dead tree near the curb with a laburnum. The laburnum is a beautiful tree with spectacular clusters of yellow flowers. While yellow is not one of my colors I’m willing to overlook this because of its sheer gorgeousness. I’m even willing to pay for it even though strictly speaking the area in question is not part of my garden.
The problem – and there always is one – is the resistance of the garden guy. For some reason I cannot seem to convince him of the beauty of my vision. We’re even having trouble agreeing on the facts. When I first raised this issue a year ago, he tried to convince me that the tree isn’t dead it’s just dormant. The conversation continued in the spirit of Monty Python’s parrot sketch (if it’s been a while since you’ve laughed at the comedy classic, it’s on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oj8RIEQH7zA) and I was only waiting for him to tell me it’s pining for the fjords. A year later the tree just keeps getting more and more dormant.
Now we cannot seem to agree on exactly which tree we’re talking about. I’m saying the tree is at the end of a line of trees and so can be replaced with a different type. The garden guy says it’s in the middle and must be the same type to preserve the unity. Thus we arrive to the crux of the matter: the tree species. This is important because the trees that are there, and I have no clue what kind they are, are definitely unlovely. They’re spindly with little foliage – the ugly stepsisters of the tree kingdom. In fact, now that I think of it, they could easily be mistaken for dead. Maybe I should re-check my facts. Tell me, where do you find a tree’s pulse?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Resolved
I’ve never understood the thing about New Year’s resolutions. Everybody makes them, nobody keeps them and everybody is surprised. And then when the next New Year rolls around the whole process begins again. Talk about an exercise in futility.
It’s always been perfectly clear to me why no one keeps their resolutions. January is not a time to begin projects. It’s the coldest, bleakest, longest month when all you can do is hunker down with something pulled over your head and wait, no, pray for it to pass. It’s a time for over-indulging in mac and cheese and hot chocolate, anything for a bit of warmth and comfort. It is definitely not the time to start that diet.
The time to take stock and begin those improvements has got to be in the spring. The sun shines and warms the earth, flowers sprout, birds sing and it is finally possible to feel optimistic about the future. That’s when the new exercise regime actually seems possible. That’s when you have a fighting chance to make a change.
Whoever put the New Year in January and then added the resolution requirement got it horribly wrong. Timing really is everything. I suppose it’s far too late to do anything about it and we will continue to answer the obligatory questions about our resolutions with the usual stuff. And then by the week’s end, we’ve blissfully forgotten the whole thing.
It’s always been perfectly clear to me why no one keeps their resolutions. January is not a time to begin projects. It’s the coldest, bleakest, longest month when all you can do is hunker down with something pulled over your head and wait, no, pray for it to pass. It’s a time for over-indulging in mac and cheese and hot chocolate, anything for a bit of warmth and comfort. It is definitely not the time to start that diet.
The time to take stock and begin those improvements has got to be in the spring. The sun shines and warms the earth, flowers sprout, birds sing and it is finally possible to feel optimistic about the future. That’s when the new exercise regime actually seems possible. That’s when you have a fighting chance to make a change.
Whoever put the New Year in January and then added the resolution requirement got it horribly wrong. Timing really is everything. I suppose it’s far too late to do anything about it and we will continue to answer the obligatory questions about our resolutions with the usual stuff. And then by the week’s end, we’ve blissfully forgotten the whole thing.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Hanukkah Guilt
Now that Hanukkah is finally over – ok, it’s been over for quite a few days – it is time to confront the elephant in the room. Hanukkah guilt. And no, I’m not talking about the jelly donuts.
Eight days is a long holiday. 2000 years ago life had a more leisurely pace, unless of course you were busy running for your life from the Roman Legion. But most of the time things were kind of slow. You’d get up in the morning, milk the goat, tend the wheat field maybe, bake a bit of bread, but that was pretty much it. Lighting candles every night was no big deal because you had to do it anyway if you wanted to see anything.
But in the 21st century life is more hectic. With all the things that each day contains it’s hard to remember to light the candles every night, the candles that come thoughtfully packaged 44 to a box, the exact number you will need. This is especially true if you don’t have children around to tug at you and nag. So after Hanukkah is over, you’re stuck with the box that still has anywhere from 4 to 15 left in it.
What are you supposed to do with them? They’re too small to use in regular candle holders and too big to use on birthday cakes. And they’re multi-colored so they don’t fit in with any kind of décor. So the box hangs around in a kitchen drawer, reminding you of the simple ritual that should not have been too much to ask and still you forgot. Guilt. When I moved out of my old house I found a total of seven boxes stashed in various drawers. Guilt x7.
I can’t help but think that there are other people that this happens to. I can’t be the only one.
Eight days is a long holiday. 2000 years ago life had a more leisurely pace, unless of course you were busy running for your life from the Roman Legion. But most of the time things were kind of slow. You’d get up in the morning, milk the goat, tend the wheat field maybe, bake a bit of bread, but that was pretty much it. Lighting candles every night was no big deal because you had to do it anyway if you wanted to see anything.
But in the 21st century life is more hectic. With all the things that each day contains it’s hard to remember to light the candles every night, the candles that come thoughtfully packaged 44 to a box, the exact number you will need. This is especially true if you don’t have children around to tug at you and nag. So after Hanukkah is over, you’re stuck with the box that still has anywhere from 4 to 15 left in it.
What are you supposed to do with them? They’re too small to use in regular candle holders and too big to use on birthday cakes. And they’re multi-colored so they don’t fit in with any kind of décor. So the box hangs around in a kitchen drawer, reminding you of the simple ritual that should not have been too much to ask and still you forgot. Guilt. When I moved out of my old house I found a total of seven boxes stashed in various drawers. Guilt x7.
I can’t help but think that there are other people that this happens to. I can’t be the only one.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Staff of Life
The young people of the kibbutz are raising money to buy equipment, like a new TV, for their lounge. They do this by selling hot, fresh hallah at noon on Fridays. This makes me very happy. Bread always does.
Have you ever noticed that bread is the one thing you can eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner seven days a week and not get tired of it? There’s a reason for that: we’re hard-wired to love bread. Just the scent of it baking in the oven can inspire rapture. It’s the staff of life.
So you can imagine my consternation when my doctor innocently suggested that I cut my carbs by 20%. Eat less bread? You might as well tell me to breathe 20% less air. Nobody ever tells you to eat fewer cucumbers. It’s only the stuff you really love that you have to give up.
I’m already looking forward to the taste of the dense, sweet, braided loaf tomorrow. Some simple pleasures cannot be denied. I’ll make up the percentages later.
Have you ever noticed that bread is the one thing you can eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner seven days a week and not get tired of it? There’s a reason for that: we’re hard-wired to love bread. Just the scent of it baking in the oven can inspire rapture. It’s the staff of life.
So you can imagine my consternation when my doctor innocently suggested that I cut my carbs by 20%. Eat less bread? You might as well tell me to breathe 20% less air. Nobody ever tells you to eat fewer cucumbers. It’s only the stuff you really love that you have to give up.
I’m already looking forward to the taste of the dense, sweet, braided loaf tomorrow. Some simple pleasures cannot be denied. I’ll make up the percentages later.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Snapshots Not a Snap
As you can probably see, I have at long last bought a camera. I’ve taken a first few pictures of my house so I can show my dear ones in the States how I’m living, in the process adorning this page with a picture of my back door.
It’s a simple, little camera of the point-and-shoot variety (a Canon A1100) and not at all expensive. It takes lovely pictures to my untrained eye. But whenever I buy anything I feel slightly sick afterward. The more expensive it was, the sicker I feel. I suspect my husband of blessed memory had some nefarious operant conditioning performed on me while I slept because otherwise I can’t explain this. I used to love to shop.
But that is nothing compared to the sheer terror that awaits when you get the camera home and open the box. Then you have to contend with finding where the batteries go, how to open the place where they go, insert the memory card and figure out what all those little buttons with the unintelligible symbols instead of actual words do. And heaven help you if you press the wrong one. At least the instructions were mercifully in blessed English. Of course, in the olden days you just had to know how to load the film.
Oddly enough, the hardest part was transferring the pictures to the computer. I say “oddly” because I work with computers all day long and I’m not afraid of them and I’m not mystified by them. I actually like them. But try as I might I could not get the computer to recognize the camera. Two phone calls to the service department of the camera store were not much help. Then in desperation I rang my friend, Drora, who’s a wiz with all things technical. “Use the USB port at the back of the computer instead of the front,” was her advice. Presto, it worked like a charm.
I plan to illustrate these pages with my photos in the fullness of time. For the present, I’m still a little shaken and suffering from technoshock. It will pass. I will learn how to use all this stuff. But my question for the universe is this: why is nothing ever easy?
It’s a simple, little camera of the point-and-shoot variety (a Canon A1100) and not at all expensive. It takes lovely pictures to my untrained eye. But whenever I buy anything I feel slightly sick afterward. The more expensive it was, the sicker I feel. I suspect my husband of blessed memory had some nefarious operant conditioning performed on me while I slept because otherwise I can’t explain this. I used to love to shop.
But that is nothing compared to the sheer terror that awaits when you get the camera home and open the box. Then you have to contend with finding where the batteries go, how to open the place where they go, insert the memory card and figure out what all those little buttons with the unintelligible symbols instead of actual words do. And heaven help you if you press the wrong one. At least the instructions were mercifully in blessed English. Of course, in the olden days you just had to know how to load the film.
Oddly enough, the hardest part was transferring the pictures to the computer. I say “oddly” because I work with computers all day long and I’m not afraid of them and I’m not mystified by them. I actually like them. But try as I might I could not get the computer to recognize the camera. Two phone calls to the service department of the camera store were not much help. Then in desperation I rang my friend, Drora, who’s a wiz with all things technical. “Use the USB port at the back of the computer instead of the front,” was her advice. Presto, it worked like a charm.
I plan to illustrate these pages with my photos in the fullness of time. For the present, I’m still a little shaken and suffering from technoshock. It will pass. I will learn how to use all this stuff. But my question for the universe is this: why is nothing ever easy?
Monday, November 9, 2009
If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It
Late last week Maabarot voted to remain a kibbutz. You probably heard my big old sigh of relief. I expected the vote to go the other way and was very pleasantly surprised.
What am I talking about? A self-assembled committee put together a proposal to start paying wages for the work the members do just like in the real world. And just like in the real world, the more important your job, the more money you would make. Then the members would pay taxes back to the kibbutz to keep the place running. For months we’ve been bombarded with strident propaganda about how we could forge a better kibbutz. This got right up my nose: I think the kibbutz is already good enough.
Capitalism is a great system, especially for over-achievers, providing prosperity to its citizens. And for anyone who wants to live like that, there are plenty of cities to choose from. But it’s not the kibbutz way. Here we get a monthly budget, everybody gets the same no matter what they do and everyone’s equal. I like this about the place, the Fantasy Island aspect: no material worries, not much money, but enough to get by and even save a little. I didn’t want to give it up to start worrying about scraping by and paying bills in my old age. And I didn’t want to see the unemployed begging for food in front of the dining hall.
I thought I was in the minority, but apparently I wasn’t. The proposal was overwhelmingly rejected and I am grateful. Life is good here on Fantasy Island, so why fix what ain’t broke?
What am I talking about? A self-assembled committee put together a proposal to start paying wages for the work the members do just like in the real world. And just like in the real world, the more important your job, the more money you would make. Then the members would pay taxes back to the kibbutz to keep the place running. For months we’ve been bombarded with strident propaganda about how we could forge a better kibbutz. This got right up my nose: I think the kibbutz is already good enough.
Capitalism is a great system, especially for over-achievers, providing prosperity to its citizens. And for anyone who wants to live like that, there are plenty of cities to choose from. But it’s not the kibbutz way. Here we get a monthly budget, everybody gets the same no matter what they do and everyone’s equal. I like this about the place, the Fantasy Island aspect: no material worries, not much money, but enough to get by and even save a little. I didn’t want to give it up to start worrying about scraping by and paying bills in my old age. And I didn’t want to see the unemployed begging for food in front of the dining hall.
I thought I was in the minority, but apparently I wasn’t. The proposal was overwhelmingly rejected and I am grateful. Life is good here on Fantasy Island, so why fix what ain’t broke?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Season Shock
Nothing is harder than getting out of bed on a cold, rainy day. When the sun is shining in a clear, blue sky and birds are tweeting it’s easy to be optimistic about the day’s prospects. But this oppressive gloom does not inspire confidence.
Israel’s seasons turn on a knife’s edge. You flip from hot, sunny, sandal-wearing summer to miserable winter in the space of 24 hours. It’s a bit extreme and is, I think, the result of celestial bad planning. Seasons should transition gradually, almost imperceptibly, charmingly. Not this press-of-the-button, sink-or-swim method. It’s just not right.
Yes, all the people of Israel are rejoicing at the huge quantity of rain that has fallen in the last two days. All the people, except for me. My question is this: if everyone likes rain so much, why do they run for cover when it starts? I suspect this precipitation infatuation is just so much intellectualization.
It’s human nature to love sun and warmth and blue sky. We find it cheerful. We may know we need water and that is has to rain from the sky, but we’d really prefer it didn’t. It’s how we’re wired. Rain and gloom belong in England and upstate New York. This is the Mediterranean, for heaven’s sake.
Israel’s seasons turn on a knife’s edge. You flip from hot, sunny, sandal-wearing summer to miserable winter in the space of 24 hours. It’s a bit extreme and is, I think, the result of celestial bad planning. Seasons should transition gradually, almost imperceptibly, charmingly. Not this press-of-the-button, sink-or-swim method. It’s just not right.
Yes, all the people of Israel are rejoicing at the huge quantity of rain that has fallen in the last two days. All the people, except for me. My question is this: if everyone likes rain so much, why do they run for cover when it starts? I suspect this precipitation infatuation is just so much intellectualization.
It’s human nature to love sun and warmth and blue sky. We find it cheerful. We may know we need water and that is has to rain from the sky, but we’d really prefer it didn’t. It’s how we’re wired. Rain and gloom belong in England and upstate New York. This is the Mediterranean, for heaven’s sake.
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