Bare Willows
by Isabel Gates, USA.
The brown Dodge Dart up ahead had its blinker on for most of the last several miles, but Malana was too weary to be that irritable with the old woman about it. The world was pressed that day between the greys and the browns, and the blinker's steady rhythm had a hypnotic effect on her as the cars ahead began to slow for Middleton's late afternoon commute. Was the dreariness more acute that day, she wondered. She couldn't bear to listen to music and switched absent-mindedly to the talk station. The radio announcer's somber, droning tones kept a rhythm with the persistent blinker, and as he introduced an interview with the new chef at the Harvest Point Café; her mind sauntered off. She wondered what she could easily scrape together for dinner that would more quickly earn her a few moments repose in a cool bath. It was then that she heard the two words. Quite unusual that she would pay attention to them, but they sat alone together in the late afternoon air. "...ordinary vegetables..."
She wasn't sure if they were the chef's words, or her own. Such a long pause. Utter silence. What were Ordinary vegetables? Yes, she thought. She was heading home to fix ordinary vegetables for her unappreciative family in this overwhelmingly beige minion with its vinyl seats and airbags and standard issue digital clock. AGAIN. Unbearable, all the Agains. The Bare Willows Road sign came up: Exit Ahead 2 miles. A county road going off into the back woods of nowhere. Bare Willows. Images of nakedness teased her thoughts. Hemingway used to write in the nude, she mused. 33 years in this county, and Malana realized she'd never been down Bare Willows Road even once, much less ambled around her own house and gardens in full nakedness. The stifling heat of the day began to push in on her. Bare Willows. She imagined there were poets there, all sitting naked under willow trees, penning their deepest truths with only their skins on.
At that precise moment amidst her fevered thinking, the Dodge's blinking blinker stopped. And somewhere in that very second, she could no longer wear the black constricting cloak of her ordinary vegetable life. The garment was too heavy as it clung, stealing parts of each breath, pressing on her passion as if it could be contained. Needing air, she turned off the air conditioner and lowered her windows to the breezeless heat. Malana let out a soft groan and let the tears roll slowly down her cheeks, while the cars ahead rolled almost to a stop. The radio station, silent for so long, broke through, "Stay with us, we are experiencing minor technical difficulties..." Quite suddenly, the irony of this announcement broke through, and her tears began to melt into a deeply satisfying laughter that went on for some time. She was no longer asleep, she thought as the haze of ordinary vegetable faces in the nearby cars penetrated her with their gazes.
She closed her eyes deeply, turned her own turn signal on to irritate the Volvo behind her, and while the traffic inched towards the Bare Willows Road exit, Malana stripped off her clothes, one item at a time, until vinyl, bare butt and Hemingway shared the seat with her. Switching over to a music station, and making sure all her windows down, she began to sing in that scraping tin voice of hers, loud enough so that even the old lady in the brown Dodge Dart up ahead would be sure to hear. Bare Willows, next stop.
Tide Line
by Mardijah Simpson, Australia
Our common ground was that silky shifting zone
Where tide's swell sinks back Leaving the aching beach damp with desire.
From one angle: heavy and dark
From another silver opal sheen.
This was where our countries met;
I the shore and you the ocean
Water and light: shimmering shot silk
My skin tingling salt, my senses taut
Surrendering to each wave's rush
How was it that such soft water
Could curve and shape the land
Slipping away, squeezing between my legs.
Shape changing, mood changing
Biting spray, hard chop: southerly change.
Overlap / undertow
Overland / undertones
Transition, illusion, horizon
Far away among the waves
You were invisible - in your element.
I walked the tidleline/songline alone,
Singing for company,
Fossicking in that magic space.
Each surf rush, sand slip,
Unlaced new shells, old wood.
Hold fast or they are gone in the sand rush, surf slip
Shifts, drifts, lifts, sifts
The beach: a boundary,
Water's edge: world's edge
Over the horizon: boundless - timeless.
While the sand in my shore-time Runs out.
Interact, interweave, between waves
You rematerialise, returning sleek as a seal
To this woman who waits on the shore.
We meet in the middle ground
The surf scent sweet in the air.
Fire
by Mardijah Simpson, Australia
Like a peat fire, white ash, all quiet,
Heat gone, the moment passed.
A slight breeze touches the ash,
drifts flow, a pin prick red glow
still secretly burns within.
Draft grows - red grows
Spreads, flickers like a bird
Stretching for food,
the parched grass
feeds it - flame flows,
waving joyful flags: red and gold
Warmth spreads in the air.
Sometimes I wake at dawn
as the red light ignites the ranges
my body glowing like a log in the hearth.
Did my own dreams and desires ignite me
or is your radiance reaching me?
At other times the wind drops or swings,
the wood smoke drifts away in the blue air.
The sun, hot and biting white, high in the sky
Seems sufficient
"High Fire Danger" - "Total Fire Ban" says the world.
Then, gently, almost casually
Like two peeled sticks, our minds touch,
tease and rub - a word, an idea, a joke
and, easy as pulling on old slippers,
we warm each others worlds.
When you tell of old flames,
furnaces, explosions and disasters
can see your new skin; tense and fragile
as a petal - no longer able to bear the heat,
your eyes haunted, like a holocaust survivor.
Then I rub sweet oil on your aches
and pray that the scar tissue that binds your heart
will heal and vanish - one day.
You sit, quiet and surrendered
Your back slim and gold as a Buddha.
Are the days of bush fires passed?
And the crackling camp fires under the stars,
when the flames were as greedy as old loves?
Will we come home at last,
find a safe hearth to comfort us?
Love and the Pilgrim
by Lazar Lemberger, USA
He comes out of the thorns
hooded in black
barely touching the tips of her fingers.
His robe
stretches towards the ground.
He takes a step up.
His back hand holds a bramble stick behind.
He is afraid to let go, but leaning forwards.
She is surrounded by swallows
circling around her wings
a laurel wreath around her head.
She leans forward holding before her an
outstretched spear. Its tip pointing to heaven.
Yet, her center stands clearly with him, struck in repose.
She does not totter, does not move. A part with him.
A part to lead him away.
The Shul
A first installment of a short story by Lazar Lemberger, USA
It was an old synagogue near the Beach built by Rabbi Kalman two generations before. His congregants lived in a few one family homes and condominium apartments. During the winter the snow birds fled the frozen north and stayed in the small one room units that surrounded the synagogue. For forty years the wise Rabbi Kalman had pastured his flock with good cheer and wisdom and when he passed on, his son Jacob, inherited the Shul. Gradually over the years the neighborhood began to change. It happened after the political trouble on the island to the South that caused the exodus of thousands of refugees fleeing to the neighboring mainland. The doors of the prisons and insane asylums were flung open, during the second wave of the exodus, and many of those released settled on the Beach, terrorizing the older residents. The elderly that experienced the effects gradually moved a little further North. Those that stayed and lived out their lives here, no one of their kind moved in to replace them.
The newly arrived poor became the heirs to their small one bedroom vacation apartments. They that usually empty for six months but were now more increasingly vacant year round. The new -comers crowded in with as many family members would fit with a fervor having discovered the low rent Eden. Fewer older people were seen on the streets. In their place were the young children of nations, whose young parents sought to eke out an existence in a number of service jobs ,leaving behind the poverty and tyranny of their homelands.The beckoning ocean, only three blocks away , provided relief. The climate, almost always warm enough to take a stroll, alleviated the cramped quarters of their daily existence by providing relief from the servile service jobs and the monotony of staying home with the television. The transition became difficult for Jacob Zalman and his congregants, as the crime rate in the neighborhood soared. It seemed symbolic to Jacob that he could not find the ten men necessary required to recite the Traditional prayer for mourners. He decided to take his family and to fulfill his life's dream by emigrating to Israel.
The new Rabbi for the little Shul, Chaim Learner, had been sent by his Institution of learning, where he had been studying full time for the past five years They had purchased the property, from the Zalman family. Chaim was a tall, thin young man with an angular face and a jutting jaw and an open engaging smile. He knew a great deal of knowledge from the holy books and , would spend his days learning when he was not caring for the needs of the small synagogue. It required little maintenance. The Shul was in disrepair but without funds there was little he could do about it. The front of the synagogue where the scrolls of the laws were kept were covered with a hideous gold foil. The windows, once adorned with stainless glass, were now painted over with scenes of the Bible. They had been commissioned by a young artist from the streets with long hair and a large forehead and gaunt cheeks, who had replaced the traditional face of Moses with his own. The artist was now descending Mt. Sinai holding the holding the tablets on his arms, on the window to the right of the Arc.
Because of the decline in membership the synagogue was poverty stricken and could not afford to pay the young Rabbi a salary. He lived with his family in the two story family house next door to the synagogue. His position was tenuous. The neighborhood had deteriorated. Sometimes during the evening prayer services he could hear the sound of chickens or other animals that were kept in an apartment on the other side of the wall. He feared for Santerian sacrifices to idols and it seemed to him the screams of the animals seemed to increase with every responsive "Amen" uttered by the worshipers. In the morning there were just enough men for the prayers. They were all in the seventies or eighties with one or two in their nineties. They talked more than they prayed. They spoke mainly in the language of the old world. The world that had mostly been eradicated in Europe fifty years before. At times one of the older men would hum a song long forgotten. Often they would bicker with each other just as the new Rabbi entered the Shul and he could hear them as he entered.
"What's a matter. You can't say hello to me when I come in. You can't say good morning." The 94 year old cherubic baker David, would say.
" I said good morning" Oscar, the seventy six year old plumbing supplier a tall thin man with an large Adam's apple answered " I said good morning. You just didn't hear me." You need a hearing aide."
"I do not need a hearing aide. There's nothing wrong with my hearing."
"So how come you didn't hear my good morning to you?"
"You're late."
"I'm not late. What makes you say I'm late. Look what time it is. I"m right on time."
"You're five minutes late."
"You're clock's wrong."
"My clocks not wrong."
"Look at the time on the wall.
"Its five minutes slow"
"It is not. We have been starting at that time for as long as We've been been coming here."
The Shul was dying and the new Rabbi Chaim knew it. There was little he could do to save it and he was not even sure he wanted to. Part of him sought to return to his studies at the seminary for married men and another part wished to live up to the obligations and responsibilities he had been given by the elders of his institution. Sitting in his small office for a few hours each afternoon he tried to think up ideas which would keep the synagogue alive. Perhaps he could have an extended Sabbath weekend for singles. It was something that was done by other synagogues in the community. But the interior decor of the synagogue was prohibitive. The upstairs was an oven, filled with old books that needed discarding, and it would require great spiritual fortitude and excitement to excite a group of young people in this atmosphere. There was too much that was old age surrounding them. He couldn't tell his daily congregants to stay home while the Shul was invaded by a three generation gap of excited men and women who were looking for their predestined to marry.
Classes in the evening was another possibility. He would have to extend his hours, which he would be willing to do but who would come. He was not a well known speaker and it would take time for him to develop a reputation. He would have to compete with the enormous attracting power of the Rabbi of the North who, thirty blacks away and twenty years his senior, had mastered the art of enticement and enchantment by speaking in modern parlance and making the weekly portion relevant. He had heard this master speak once and was deeply impressed with his ability to reach the unreachable. It was the closest he had come to witness an evangelical preacher who could rant and rave and reach the mind, hearts and souls of his listeners with his personal tales of hobnobbing with the rich and powerful. He was filled with tales from the week of the astounding awakening and sometimes tragedies of the affluent, who of course he would never mention by name. "So Chaim, what's it going to be? Are we going to be able to save this synagogue or will we have to sell it? You know the last synagogue that was sold was turned into a discotheque. God Forbid." Rabbi Kellerman, with his neatly trimmed beard and gentle black eyes, sat across from him. He had been the head of the seminary for twenty years and was respected by everyone on the community for his wisdom and kindness.
"I don't know Rabbi Kellerman. It's hard to say. Its an old Shul. I think the youngest member is seventy. I've been trying to think of ways to attract new members from outside the area. There is a really well to do community on a connecting causeway within walking distance but I'm told that most of the Yidden there are not observant." Rabbi Kellerman stoked his graying beard.
"Then you have your work cut out for you. Its a great challenge but I think you're' up to it . I have a lot of confidence in you."
"I wish I had the same confidence in myself that you have."
"Remember Chaim that it took Hashem seven days to convince Moses to take the job to bring us out of Egypt. Moses also didn't think he was fit for the job. Hard jobs are not easy to come by and few are willing to take them. Consider yourself the messenger of our institution. There are plenty of souls out there who need a good rejuvenation, a new awakening. It wouldn't hurt for them to be a little more in touch with their souls and their Jewishness."
"I know. I know. But the neighborhood is so run down and I feel like I'm the Rabbi of a nursing home."
"Give it time. Sometimes miracles happen. Remember these Jews also need you. Its just that you don't feel as important like Moishe Rebbenu, our teacher. Is that it? "
"Yes, its something like that." Chaim responded.
Rabbi Kellerman leaned across his large desk and looked directly into Chaim's eyes and said.
"You don't want to be listening to the problems, the complaining. You don't want to have to convince others of what you know yourself to be so true. We are a stiff necked people, stubborn and unretractable. Its our strength and out weakness. It has held us together for thousand of years and it keeps us from truly doing our right job in the world. Yes? We don't go easily. Perhaps only to certain places. Its easier to convince someone to do the wrong thing than the right thing, No?"
"The right thing. The right thing." Those were the words that kept in his memory as he sat in his office listening to the door bell ring as he worried about his bills, his three children and his overburdened wife who had been patient and kind and was beginning to show signs of strain. How easy life had been in the seminary. The bell rang again and he rose to answer it. He struggled only briefly turning the lock and opening the large wooden door. The sunlight glanced off a copper metallic gutter edging an old two story rooftop and shone directly in his eyes. He pressed the side of his palm shading his forehead allowing him to see the larger stranger in from of him.
"Rabbi Chaim Learner?. I'm Moishe Katdosh." He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and offered his right hand as a greeting. "The Federation asked me to stop by to see you. They thought I might be able to help."
"Come in. Come in." Chaim offered his hand. The other man's hand was a firm knowing hand a hand that reciprocated the strength it was offered. "Please come in." Chaim offered. The Federation..." His voice trailed off as the tall stranger entered the synagogue and followed Chaim to the office.
"We don't have much, as you can see. It's an old synagogue but we are trying to preserve it."
"I've been told. My boss heard about your Shul and asked me to stop by to see if I could help."
"I see. I see" Chaim found himself repeating his own word as if trying to convince himself. "The Federation. Well it's a little unusual."
"I know what you're thinking. but there has been a slight change in policy what with the strong, how shall I say it, return to observancy among a lot of people, our directors thought that perhaps we should pay a bit more attention to that part of our community."
"That's good. That's good. What would you like to know about the Shul" Chaim looked him over. He was unusually tall but not slender. His height was noticeable even in the chair. His hairline was slightly receding he guessed he must be in his middle forties. He had a pleasant smile that seemed to encourage trust.
" How about telling me a little about its history"
"The Shul was built fifty years ago, when it was a thriving Jewish community. It was started in the days before air conditioning......" Chaim reviewed the Shul's chronicles over the last fifty years leading up to Rabbi Zalman's exodus and the Shul's present status. Moishe Katosh listened intently and then said:
"How long do you think you can manage here."
"No telling. I've been trying to figure out new ways of bringing in young people but I haven't really gotten past the planning stages. We're scheduled to have a beginning Hebrew Class in two weeks."
Moishe Katosh sat straight in the chair. He rubbed his beardless chin with the palm of his hand and shifted his weight. "Perhaps we can help. We're working on a recruitment plan that will bring in lots of young members and we were wondering if you might be interested in participating."
"A recruitment plan. What sort of recruitment plan?" Rabbi Chaim said. "You know the Federation' aims and ours are sometimes worlds apart. We are all part of greater Israel, yet we don't always see eye to eye."
"We are aware of our differences, but we are working hard to eliminate them. That's partly what this is about. We are planning a sort of conference and Fair. An ecumenical exchange of ideas. With something added. We hope to be able to give anyone who comes a taste of the real thing."
"An unusual choice of words. The real thing. I've always believed that what we do here is the real thing." There was a touch of challenge in his voice.
"Yes. Its a part of it. But as you know there are varying opinions as exactly what that means. I believe even within observancy there is a great deal of leeway in belief. There are those who hold strictly by the law and the Talmud and then there are many who are held by more mystical and spiritual tenets. A few even beleive in Reincarnation . Then there are others who think that is all Meshuga. That is just among the observant. Then there are the majority of our people who don't agree that the laws as it is stated in the Torah is applicable today. There are many new branches sprouting from the tree . We want to have a conference that allows our people to talk to each other. What we are proposing is a conference of all positions with something a little extra. We're going to call it "The Real Thing"
How does that sound to you?"
"It sounds a bit Hokey." Chaim had left his seat and was walking around the small office.
"It will work . Just wait and see. " Moishe looked at his watch. "So, do you think you're Shul will be interested?"
"Its not only up to me. I'll have to ask Rabbi Kellerman and the people who sent me here. Do you have anything on paper about this fair."
"We'll have the galleys for the brochure in about a week. You can look at them. We haven't included everyone's name yet because as you can see, we are still contacting institutions. I'll send them to you. We'd like to have part of it the conference here. We would pay to have the Shul prepared. It will bring lots of young people." Moishe rose to leave. "Wonderful. Send me what you have and I'll look it over and pass it on." They walked to the door and then Moishe turned around and offered his long thin hand once more.
"I hope that we can be of assistance to each other. I hope to hear from you when you receive our galleys"
As he opened the door a burst of sunlight passed over the large mans shoulder. A few of the new young immigrant children stood on the sidewalk staring at the new shiny black Mercedes. Chaim wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. A chauffeur opened the door, Moishe entered and the car pulled into the street past the staring children and was gone. Chaim rubbed his eyes in the sunlight.
"So I thought, Rabbi Kellerman I should ask if it was all right. You and I had been talking about a miracle and then this."
" Not all coincidences are miracles. I've looked over the brochure and I'm not familiar with all of the names. You know we usually don't participate in activities with the non-religious unless it looks as if we are in agreement with where they're holding.?
"I know. But there is a chance of bringing in new members and a chance for us to do outreach to a part of the community who we don't normally encounter."
"Yes. That is true. Then there is also the question of the Shul's new refurbishing. He did promise you that. You should be absolutely sure that isn't your true motivation."
"I can't deny that it isn't attractive. It is a consideration. But there is nothing offensive it what is being proposed. "A spiritual conference. Put your soul in touch with God."
"So what could it be. Could it be any different than they have been saying all along. Forget the law. Its the spirit that counts. Where does the spirit get them. Sixty percent intermarriage with other spirits. Children who's spirits are raised outside of the Torah. Spirit this and spirit that. Do what feels right. Do what feels good. They do it all."
"So your answer is no?" Chaim was a little disappointed.
"I didn't say that. I want to think it over and discuss it with a few of the Rabbis. I'll call you. Can it wait for a few days?" "I think it can."
At home reviewing the meeting ,he wished he had been stronger. He wanted it to happen. It was his first real chance to make something out of the Shul. He had almost stopped wishing he could return to his studies full time. Sarah, his wife thought it was a good idea but she was also hesitant. She didn't want to commit to a conference that could be interpreted as an insult to God.
"I know you'll do what's right Chaim." She told him over a cup of coffee, in the small kitchen with the little yellow curtains she had added, while the youngest was still sleeping and the other two were still in school. " It is a good way to fix it up and it can certainly use that. If we don't make it here we will always find something else. Our Master in heaven will take care of us. I'll still be teaching school and you can go back and learn."
"I know you like it here. You've told me so yourself."
"It's true. But I miss the feeling of community. Let's just see what happens."
It was three O'clock in the afternoon three days later. It had been on his mind every time he entered the Shul and stared at the gold foil near the arc. He had waited patiently and when Rabbi Kellerman called and gave his permission he was glad. It wasn't until a week later that the workmen began the alternations. It was more extensive than he dreamed. They posted the construction paper on the door and got to work.
"So what's going on here?" David the Baker, entering the Shul asked. "We need a new Shul. What's wrong with the one we have. From where is the money going to come? I've been praying here fifty years, fifty years since it opened. A new Shul is going to get me closer? He'll hear me better? Why is new always so good?"
"It's a gift, David. We're going to have a conference here and we are fixing up the Shul for the conference." Chaim assured him. "Conference, s-momference. How long am I going to have to listen to the banging?"
"Give it a chance. David" Oscar the plumber chimed in "You might like it."
"So who's asking you big shot?" David responded.
Chaim tried to save the day. I've been going over the plans with the architects."
"Ho HA,. Architects. Fancy shamancy. More than just a paint job then."
"I'm afraid so David. But I'm sure you're going to like it."
"Don't be so sure about him." Oscar retorted . . .
©Lazar Lemberber 1999
Subud Writers International Digest is published regularly online on sicalink listserver. The selections above are from SWI Digest 3. To receive a copy of the full ezine or to contribute items, contact Rasunah Marsden: rasunah@vip.net