Battle of the Trees as appeared in the Binah

I’m the type of person who loves nature. Just the thought of traveling to the mountains, walking through the forest and communing with the trees brings out the positive endorphins and makes me feel calm and serene. I grew up in the big city (yes, San Francisco really is a city), surrounded by concrete, with postage- stamp size backyards boasting a few shrubs and a couple of blades of grass.

Every once in a while, my mother would decide to grow some flowers in a window box, but they never lasted long.  Even the geraniums, which we were told were had a weed-like tenacity and could survive anything, including my mother’s care, withered away before their time. We lived with plastic flowers, rather than the real ones, which is probably one of the reasons I crave nature.

As a teenager, I would walk the ten long city blocks to Golden Gate Park to explore its hidden lakes and sprawling meadows, and (oh, how I hate clichés, but this one describes it perfectly) taking the time to smell the flowers.

My husband, however, grew up in the suburbs, in a house (yes, a real house, not an apartment) with a large front and back yard, replete with squirrels, racoons and other interesting critters. Lots of trees, plenty of nature, which is probably why (you guessed it) as a teen he would closet himself in the library, and viewed parks or nature walks as a complete waste of time. After all, ןf you can read about it in a book, or see it in a picture, why spend time actually going there to experience it?

Many years ago, one of our children drove my husband and I down to Massada. The view from the top of the mountain is so spectacular that there are no words in the English language, or any other language, that can begin to describe it. The sheer magnificence takes your breath away.  I stood there, the wind blowing in my face, unable to speak (which is extremely unusual for me) when my husband commented, “Why can’t they just put all this in a museum, or even better, a book, so we wouldn’t have to waste our time coming up here?”

Our children are more or less divided on this issue. Some see anything having to do with the great outdoors as a complete waste of time. Others look for every opportunity to get out of the city and enjoy the beauty of nature. No one really comprehends the other mindset, but we’ve agreed to disagree on this.

All this brings us to the issue of trees. As mentioned, I love looking at trees, my husband doesn’t, and my kids are divided on the issue. All that’s fine, except when it comes to the one particular tree that is right under our living room window. It’s an olive tree, and my husband is highly allergic to olive tree pollen, as are several of our children.

And just to make life interesting, every apartment that we ever lived in had an olive tree in close proximity. Hashem really does have a way of testing us!

And all that brings us to the battle of the open window. Half of our family loves open windows. Air. Sun. A light breeze. The other half doesn’t. And when that air is full of pollen, it’s more than a matter of dislike. It’s a matter of being able to breathe. Which means that as soon as spring has sprung, the battle’s begun. Between giggles and exaggerated sighs of exasperation, the windows would either be flung open or banged close. Throughout the month of Nissan, half the family would be sneezing from the pollen, while the other half would be coughing from the lack of ventilation as they cleaned for Pesach.

They say that there is a resolution for every conflict (actually I just made that up, but it sounds true, doesn’t it?). So although the olive tree is still spreading its pollen beneath our living room window, thanks to the wonders of air conditioning, the  window is no longer a point of dissention.

I’m trying to think of a moral to this story. Something related to Tu BiShvat and its being the Rosh Hashanah for the trees.  But all I can think of is how much fun we had battling over the open/closed window, and that sometimes disagreements can make one closer.

It’s all about how you go about doing it.

It's All a Game of Cards as appeared in the Binah

Have you ever had a senior moment? It’s so, hmm… one minute. There’s a word for it. I know what I want to say; it’s on the tip of my tongue. Not upsetting, no, but… Oh, this is so frustrating. Ah, right. Frustrating, that’s the word I was looking for: frustrating.

The truth is, senior moments are not only frustrating, they’re also scary. Could this possibly be a sign of something that I dare not even think about, let alone mention? And when we do speak about it, usually in whispers, we discover that we all share the same fear.

I always thought that occupational therapy was all about improving fine motor skills. Doing things with the hands. Rolling out clay, threading beads, intricate handiwork. But recently, I learned that an occupational therapist also works on improving memory skills.

Twice a week I attend Tikvah for Parkinson’s four-hour rehabilitation program. One of our activities is Occupational Therapy. The last few weeks we’ve been working on various strategies for improving our memories. Last week, we played a game that had us laughing until our bellies hurt, while challenging our memory skills.

Ayala, our occupational therapist, placed eight cards in a circle. Each card had a different picture: a candle, a funny looking bird, a mushroom, a shovel, the sun, scissors, a cute duck, and a chair. She gave us a few minutes to memorize how the cards were placed, and then turned them over. Then she pointed to various cards and asked us what they were.

We flunked that assignment. Every single one of us.

Afterwards, she asked us if we could think of any strategies to help us remember how the cards were placed. One of the ladies suggested that we incorporate the cards into a story.

Ayala added that the more ridiculous the story, the easier it will be for us to remember. So me, being a writer (who loves anything silly and ridiculous), came up with the following story based on the cards: Come, my children, let’s gather around the light of the Shamesh of the Chanukah menorah (CANDLE) as I tell you about a Chanukah miracle. Once upon a time (isn’t that how all stories begin?) a very funny looking bird (BIRD) ate a poisonous mushroom (MUSHROOM). He became so sick that he died and was buried (SHOVEL) in a shallow grave. Everyone was sad, yet, the sun (SUN) continued to shine.

At this, one of the women quipped, “Of course the sun was shining. That’s because everyone rushed to finish the funeral before shkiyah, so there would be one less day of shivah.” We all cracked up.

On a side note I am a big believer in FUN. Laughter makes everything sweeter. And so, while we do physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy and all kinds of other things to keep us healthy, we also share jokes and laugh.  Yesterday, one of the ladies (in all seriousness) said, “If people knew how much fun we have in our Parkinson’s group, they’d also want to have the disease.” 

Enough digressing. Let me continue with my strategy cum story:  But then, a woman came and with tremendous mesiras nefesh grabbed her sewing scissors (I demonstrated with the pair of scissors that I was using for my needlepoint) (SCISSORS) and pried open the grave. But the bird was gone. Instead, out popped an adorable duck (DUCK) who immediately jumped on to the lap of the story-teller, who was (obviously) sitting in a chair (CHAIR).

It was a silly story, one that really makes no sense, but the crazy thing is that afterwards, when Ayala turned over the cards, all of us were all able to recall every single one.

But now the game became even more challenging. Each time one of the ladies named the correct item, Ayala replaced the original card with a new one, which meant of course that we had to change the story. The sun was replaced with an electric lightbulb (ah, they didn’t manage to make the levayah during the day, which is why they turned on the lights) the candle with a carrot (the carrot that we use to check that the oil is hot enough to fry the sufganiyot on Chanukah), and the scissors turned into ice cream (the bird who ate the poisonous mushroom, was buried by the light of an electric bulb, escaped the grave and then ate an ice cream cone. Lo and behold, it turned into an adorable duck). The story grew sillier by the moment, but it served its purpose. None of us forgot a single detail.

Forgetfulness is not all bad. After all, no one wants their minds clogged with endless unimportant details? Or with old hurts and grievances. But it’s good to know that when we do need to remember, there are proven, albeit silly strategies to jar our memories.

Just remember to use them.  

Juggling (as appeared in the Bina)

Yesterday, I learned something new, and it was not pleasant.

It began with a torn shoelace, which meant, of course, that I would have to replace it. I was lucky; I had a pair of spare laces in the closet. But for some strange reason, the new laces did not fit through the holes.  The original laces were rounded while these were not, so I assumed that that must be the problem. I asked one of my grandchildren to run across the street to buy me thin, spaghetti-like, laces that would fit done the holes. Instead, he took the laces that I thought were too big to fit into the holes and, within less than a minute, the laces were threaded through the holes and my shoes were ready to wear.

That’s when it dawned on me. The problem was me, and not the laces.

I know that Parkinson effects fine motor skills, but because the changes are gradual, I didn’t realize just how much. Yes, I make a lot more typing mistakes than I used to, and yes, it takes me longer to get dressed in the morning, but still, the shoelace incident was a not so pleasant revelation.

The day after I discovered the extent of my lack of dexterity I attended my Parkinson rehabilitation group. After we finished doing hand exercises with a special claylike material, Ayala, our wonderful occupational therapist, handed out sewing cards and laces, and instructed us to put the laces through the holes. Almost all of us had difficulty with this task.

Ayala explained that as we grow older, tasks involving fine motor skills become more difficult. That is true for everyone, and even more so for people with Parkinson, as Parkinson speeds up the normal degenerative process, in other words, aging.

All of that is absolutely fascinating, at least on an intellectual level, when the process refers to someone other than myself.  But when it translates into ME losing these capabilities, it’s hit a bit too close to home for comfort. I like myself just the way I am, thank you very much. No changes (at least of those kind), please.

That afternoon I had my semi-annual appointment with the neurologist at Hadassah. Of course he told me that I was doing great, but he also instructed me to graduate from a cane to two walking poles (all the better to walk, my dear), and upped my medicines. And that didn’t sound so great to me.

I work so hard to keep the status quo, but I don’t always succeed. It’s as though I am racing up the down escalator.  

Racing up the down escalator has caused my life to become extraordinarily busy; and sometimes, I feel that it’s a bit too busy for comfort. Tikvah for Parkinson, the organization that I opened to help people with Parkinson in Jerusalem, has grown at a dizzying rate. It seems as though the moment we open a new program, there’s need for another one. And as crazy as this might sound, although I opened these programs so that I could get the therapy I need, instead of participating in the program, I am constantly called out to take care of various emergencies.

It’s really a paradox. I truly and honestly believe that a person with Parkinson must make his health a top priority. And yet, I was so busy helping other people with Parkinson, that I lost my sense of priority. Forgot to take care of myself. I created a whole program to help people with Parkinson, myself included, yet I was rarely able to enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Did you notice that I wrote the last paragraph in the past sense? That’s because, after my shoelace wakeup call, I decided to become nasty and mean, well, kind of… Chessed needs borders. I am learning to say no, to tell people that they are going to have to wait until I finish what I’m doing before I can speak with them, to carve out time for myself, so that I can continue to be myself. 

We Jewish women are amazing jugglers. We spend our entire life multi-tasking, juggling our responsibilities to our families, to the communities, and to ourselves as we try to keep our priorities straight. And even as the number of flying balls become less, it’ remains an incredible balancing act.

At our Tikvah group, whenever Gili, our physiotherapist, challenges us with a difficult balancing exercise, she says, “You ladies are capable. You’re strong. You have so much hidden strength. I know that you can do it.”

And she’s right. We do, and we can. 

Expect the Unexpected

Expect the Unexpected

Sometimes (or maybe I should say, most of the time) things don’t do the way I expect them to go. And although sometimes (um, well, to be honest it’s not just sometimes…) when that happens, I get upset, or even angry, I’ve learned from experience that I shouldn’t. More often than not, I discover, either immediately or several years down the road, that what I thought was an unpleasant turn of events was, in reality, a surprise gift,

This last Rosh Hashana Hashem presented me with one such surprise gift. It was not one that I would have chosen, and to tell you the truth, it was only thanks to a shiur that I attended erev Yom Tov that I was able to keep reminding myself that if this is what Hashem is sending me, then that is what I need, and that it’s my job to focus on the avoda of Rosh Hashana.  But it wasn’t easy.

Okay, I know that you’re waiting to hear the story, so I won’t continue to keep you in suspense. Every year, my husband travels to Uman for Rosh Hashana, and every year, one of married daughters and I make Yom Tov together. This year, since neither of us were feeling well, I decided to splurge and go with my daughter and her children to a heimishe guest house for Yom Tov. I had heard from people who had been there in previous years that it would be a perfect blend of gashmiyus and ruchniyos: a slow, hertzidig chassidishe davening, lots of heimishe families, and traditional (Ashenazi) food. “You don’t have to bring a thing,” said one women.  “They take care of everything for you.”

I couldn’t wait.

  

The large “Bruchim Haba’im l’nofish Rosh Hashana” sign at the front desk was the first clue that I should expect the unexpected. We were a bit surprised at the very casual dress code – lots of teenage boys in cut-off jeans and thongs, and a number of women were (gasp!) smoking.

The elderly chassidishe couple sitting in the lobby looked as shell shocked as we were. “The hotel rented out all the rooms to two groups,” the man explained. “One’s a mesorti group from Kiryat Gat, the others an organization for divorced women and their children called ‘Em Habanim.’” The man shook his head and added, “I have no idea where I’ll daven.”  

Since davening “nusach Morocco” was not really an option for us, we opted for the Em Habanim minyan, comprised of half a dozen avreichim, a few bar mitzvah bachurim, lots of children, most under the age of ten… and one elderly chassid.

Between mincha and maariv, instead of words of hisorerus, an avreich told the children a simple story, a mashal about our love for Hashem. At first, I found myself bitter and angry. “Will I be spending Yom Tov listening to children’s stories?” But then I decided to stop fighting the inevitable and focus on Rosh Hashana. I was startled to find myself moved to tears. And although the davening was much, much  faster than I would have liked (after all, how long can little children sit?), the cries of these little children, growing up without a father, evoked a depth of emotion that I didn’t know I was capable of.

Throughout both days of Yom Tov, my little granddaughters sat at my side for most of the davening. Every few minutes, one of the madrichot, oblivious to the fact that they were not part of the group, patted them on the head or stroked their cheeks as they handed them a coupon (to be redeemed after Yom Tov for a prize) or a candy for davening nicely. Each time the children yelled “Amen,” or sang one of the traditional Rosh Hashana songs, I had to wipe away the tears.

I admit, this gift wasn’t without its challenges. We ate in the main dining room, together with the group from Kiryat Gat. The atmosphere was very (VERY) different from anything I had ever experienced. And of course the food was far from heimishe. Yes, we had our moments; one night two of the children vomited all over the hotel room. At some meals, we couldn’t take the noise and left after the first course. Sunflower seed shells were EVERYWHERE. By the third day, people were throwing chairs at each other.

But on the other hand (Debbie, remember, focus on the positive…)  I met some incredible women and made some new friends, hopefully for life. I am in awe of their bravery, raising children alone, instilling them with yiras Shemayim while providing them with a stable home. Shabbos, one of the boys celebrated his bar mitzvah. He wanted to make it there because, as he told his mother, “Em Habanim is our family. They’ve been there for us, and now I want to share my simcha with them.” After the davening, the men and children sang and danced as they accompanied the bar mitzvah boy and his radiant mother to the dining room. I understood how the boy felt. It really was one large, warm family.

This morning, one of the women that I met over Yom Tov sent me an email, It said, “When life hands you a script, write a better one.” Rosh Hashana I was handed a script that could have been a disaster. I could have spent the entire Yom Tov ranting at the unfairness of it all. Instead, I decided to rewrite the script, to focus on what I had, not on what was lacking. In doing so, I discovered precious gifts, women who can teach me lessons in courage, and who will hopefully become friends for life.

Our Upgraded Mommy Camp (as appeared in the Bina)

“Look, there’s another one!” My daughter quickly jumped up and threw her shoe at it. But before she could sit down, my daughter-in-law screamed, “Over there! Get it quick!”

It was another cockroach. Yup, a huge, shiny black makak.

Every year I host a “mother-and-daughter retreat” for my daughters, daughters-in-law, and, more recently, married granddaughters. It’s usually an overnight affair, in our house, in which we all sleep (or to be more accurate, don’t sleep) on mattresses spread across the living room floor. This year, I didn’t feel up to hosting so many people, so when I saw an advertisement for an overnight women’s retreat with a full program of top-notch lecturers, I decided to splurge.

I was looking forward to a delicious combination of ruchniyus and gashmiyus. And I was not disappointed. The food was delicious and the lectures were both practical and inspirational. That night, after we retired to our hotel rooms, instead of discussing the latest child-raising fad, or the pros and cons of using a microwave, our conversations centered on bringing the concepts discussed at the lectures into our daily lives. I was humbled by my children’s s desire to grow in their Yiddishkeit.

Let me add just one more detail: many of the lecturers talked about how challenges are good for us, as they act as an impetus for growth. Well,we certainly had our share of (minor) challenges that night. The cockroaches; the shower faucet that fell out of the wall the minute the water was turned on, bruising my daughter’s foot; the hotel room door that would not close. Oh, and the bath that was clogged, so that instead of going down, the water went up…and up.

After killing the seventh cockroach, we realized that we were vastly outnumbered and phoned reception to bring in reinforcements. Dudi arrived bearing a huge can of bug spray. He moved furniture, killed cockroaches, and the promised that the hotel would fix the shower and front door the next morning.

“Don’t bother,” we said with a laugh. “We have to return the keys by ten a.m.”

By the time Dudi left, it was after midnight. I tickled my two infant grandchildren, said goodnight to my two daughters, and returned to the adjacent room that I shared with two other daughters. And then we stayed up until close to two in the morning, laughing as we reminisced about the “good old days” when they were growing up (it’s amazing how we view our past with such rose-colored glasses!).

The next morning, I slipped out of the room and sat outside on the grass to daven. When I finished, I quietly opened the already partially opened door (the one that couldn’t close) to see how my two other girls and their two babies were faring.

The room was empty! Even the suitcases were gone. After they were found in the dining room, eating breakfast, my two missing daughters told me that after killing several more cockroaches, they realized they had no choice but to accept the hotel’s offer to move them to a different room without “pets.”

The crazy thing is that despite the cockroaches and the showers that didn’t work, the blister on my foot that made walking difficult, and the colicky baby that had to be held the entire time, we all felt that the getaway was a real success. We had been together for close to two days, spending quality time bonding and creating memories.

I don’t know about you, but my life is extremely busy. Between writing articles, running my organization Tikvah for Parkinson, taking care of the house and spending time with the grandchildren, I often find that I don’t have the time to just sit and talk with the people I love the most. Yes, my kids come for Shabbos, but between the seudos and being busy with the grandchildren, there’s little time for deep, meaningful conversations, the type that comes so much easier when it’s the middle of the night and you’re half asleep!

So take your own family on an upgraded mother-and-daughter camp. If you’re really lucky, you’ll also get to stretch your spiritual muscles with a few cockroaches and blocked drains, creating zany unforgettable memories that will leave you giggling at two o’clock in the morning, as you spend some real quality time bonding with your daughters and granddaughters.