Category Archives: Gratitude

Ilia Malinin on Loss

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By Robert Snow 

1845

When to his feet the skater binds his wings,

As of Jove’s messenger the poet sings,

He, like the hare, outstrips the Northern wind,

And casts, in doubling, a keen glance behind.

By art that to the frozen lake conveys

A glowing interest in winter days,

Before the gazer now he seems to fly,

Now with a backward stroke deludes the eye;

Precipitating curves on curves anew,

Retuning ever, to his centre true.

With air of noble ease, and swan-like grace,

He balances awhile in narrow space;

Then sweeps far round with power not shown before,

And on his crystal plain does all but soar.

Yet is his pastime brief; the solar heat

Grows strong; again the lapsing waters meet,

And to dull, plodding earth confine his daring feet.

I fell in love with the free skating clips shown endlessly in the weeks leading up to the Olympics in Milano Cortina. Specifically I was mesmerized by Ilia Malinin, Alysa Liu, and Maxim Naumov. I watched spellbound as they executed quad axels, back flips, and splits in the air all to beautiful music. I had fun watching Ilia’s creative performance inspired by Hope by the rapper NF two years ago.

And then…the Olympics. 

Alysa Liu took the gold with a breathtaking performance after years off the ice to experience normal life focusing on school, socializing, and traveling to Nepal. (Good for her!)

Maxim Naumov, the emotional favorite, didn’t win a medal but he won the hearts of all who watched his tribute to his parents/coaches who were killed in a plane crash just one year ago. His winning a place on the Olympic team was an odds-defying accomplishment. 

Ilia Malinin was the perfection everyone expected in his short program, performed to the music of a video game (Prince of Persia). 

And then came the men’s single free skate event; the one so many of us were waiting for. To see the “Quad God” thrill and enchant us. 

He chose to use his own voice and his own message for the music; something never done before. When interviewed prior to the big event he spoke about the importance of being 100% committed and focused when following a dream with a need to excel. His practice run through, while lackluster, was technically pristine.

When Ilia walked onto the ice for his big event, his demeanor seemed strong but once he took his first fall it all fell apart. His concentration was lost. He fell again. He popped three jumps (unexpectedly reducing the number of rotations while in the air – often caused by fear, nerves, or technical errors). It was clear he was in his head and not on the ice.

We’ve all been there.

We’ve all taken on a task, a job, an outing, a relationship, an educational goal and lost our focus. We’ve all fallen, “popped” our expectations, disappointed ourselves and others. Sometimes it’s a small, even inconsequential loss – a missed deadline at work, picking up falafel for the dinner there’s no longer time to prepare. Or it might be a bit larger – the forgotten birthday of a grandchild. It might have small consequences – hurt feelings, losing a client, having to take an exam over. Or it might have big consequences – a broken leg, divorce, going bankrupt, coming in 8th place instead of taking home the Gold at the Olympics.

Generally speaking, these kinds of losses are a result of being in our heads and losing focus of the task, job, outing, relationship, or goal of some other kind; just as Malinin explained his failure on the ice. “All the traumatic moments of my life really just started flooding my head.” He noted that “negative thoughts” flooded his mind, leading to a freeze response.

Sound familiar?

“I’m not good enough.”

“It won’t be good enough.”

“I fell last time I tried to hike this kind of trail. I won’t make it this time either.”

“I’m not really what he’s looking for. This relationship is doomed.”

Whether or not we could succeed at the task, job, outing, relationship, we’ve made it much less likely when we open the gates of our minds to these thoughts.

We fall. We pop. We disappear into a narrative that erases our potential…and our joy.

While the first Noble Truth states that “Life is suffering.”  The third Noble Truth encourages us by telling us exactly how to calm or even eradicate that suffering. And again here we can learn a lesson from Ilia, emulate his reaction to his loss, and reduce our suffering in the face of inevitable loss in our lives.

He explained that he’d decided to treat the experience (of loss) as a “lesson in humility” and vowed to “regroup for the future.”

I know a man who is currently lost in the loss of his 90+ year old father. He’s lost focus. He’s taking on strange new habits including absences from his family for odd stated reasons.

I know a young woman who has created a huge loss in her life based on events that may or may not have happened 30 years ago. The reality of her life today is covered over by a thick fog – suffering – that she is unable or unwilling to relinquish.

I’m blessed to know many, many more people who are able to let go of narratives of loss which have dominated their minds in a way that’s created chaos and suffering. 

May we all precipitate curves on curves anew

May we find the courage to return to our true center

With air of noble ease, and swan-like grace

And sweep far round with power not shown before.

Going Over, Around, and Through

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I used to think my family was exceptional in its dysfunctionality. I would often tell people that I grew up in a dysfunctional family. It never really impressed anyone, not even me. It was becoming a common description even back then, forty-five years ago. It took me a while, but I finally internalized the fact that it would be tough to find the family that wasn’t what I was calling ‘dysfunctional’.

And then, just the other evening, I heard my youngest son say the same thing.

He said that for many years, well into adulthood, he thought his family (the one I raised!) was exceptional in its dysfunctionality, but he’s come to realize over the past decade that our family is quite normative in its beautiful dysfunctionality. And, in fact, that we may even excel in our normalcy. In a good way.

There’s no lack of quirky personalities among the now 24 of us, three having become disconnected by divorce as they were once connected by marriage. And the divorces themselves only serve to make us more the norm than the anomaly we’d be these days if all five of our offspring (and we ourselves) were still married. But, as he said, each and every one has chosen professions to do good in the world in one way or another, and each excels in that chosen profession. Each and every one married and brought children into the world. In spite of very different parenting styles, all the grandchildren are thriving, each with her or his own wonderful talents and quirks. All our grown children have an active, close social life together and are there for each other.

We had a long, friendly chat about the whole question of normative and dysfunctional, and how we view the difference between the two. The examples from our own family, and some from friends’ families who are close enough to be like family had us laughing, but affectionately. Not in a judgmental way. Those who populate our lives are, after all, funnier than most other areas of our lives, although almost everything can be pretty funny in retrospect.

There was also more serious talk, though, each of us sharing our thoughts about the ways our closest and dearest have navigated and continue to navigate the challenges, obstacles, tragedies, and near-tragedies in their lives. Like, as it turns out, most families, we’ve encountered it all, and we’re not only still standing but flourishing. Not an easy task considering that seven of our grandchildren are teenagers at the moment.

So why is it that some of us find joy, gratitude, fun, passionate interest, adventure, empathy, emotional strength, and good humor in the face of all the craziness, noise, dissonance, disappointments, and failures, and others of us…not so much.

I’ve been participating in a wonderful writing workshop for the past few months. The stated theme is loss, and we’ve come at it in many different, and mostly indirect, ways. This week one of the prompts was to take five minutes to write a list of sentences starting with ‘What if’. It wasn’t an immediately easy prompt for me, and I realized that was because I rarely think about the ‘what ifs’ in life. I managed to write a list of fifteen or so ‘what ifs’ in the end. Some were a little silly, like ‘What if I were five inches taller?’ or ‘What if there were more natural light in my home?’, but there were some more serious ‘what ifs’, too, like ‘What if my husband hadn’t agreed to move to Israel?’

Looking over them while listening to my colleagues’ ‘what ifs’ I realized that one thing each of the ‘what ifs’ on my list had in common with the others on my list was that I didn’t really care. The outcome of each as is in reality is just fine with me. I’ve adjusted. I’ve accepted. I’ve received. I’ve reframed. Even the one that read ‘What if all five of my kids were happy in their marriages?’ I trust my children to have made the best decisions for themselves and their families.

As I looked over my list, I heard the lilting lyrics of a song called “It’s Okay” by a talented young woman who called herself Nightbirde. She had terminal cancer and, since her appearance on America’s Got Talent, died from the disease not long after her appearance on the show. With her pixie post-chemo haircut and big beautiful smile she sang about her situation with a refrain of ‘it’s okay’ and ‘it’s alright’ and I think we all believed her.

It’s not that bad things don’t happen to all of us. Nightbirde’s cancer was certainly a bad thing.

Bad things happen in life; the inevitable first arrow piercing each of us. But some of us don’t loosen the second arrow toward ourselves; the optional second arrow of suffering.

We feel the loss, the challenge, the pain, the tragedy to its fullest. We internalize, perhaps interpret, then put it in perspective and, when the time is right, we let it go. It might be a minute or a day or a week or a month, but the intensity lessens, and we find the joy again. The pain doesn’t turn into suffering.

It doesn’t control us. We don’t get swept away.

We live our lives recognizing that the hard things may make up ten percent of our lives, regardless of how painful they may be, and the other ninety percent of the time our lives are neutral – okay – interspersed with magnificent.

I think the difference between normative and dysfunctional is that recognition; that acceptance. That authentic voice inside saying hello to another day with optimisim. That unspoken belief that in spite of the challenges, and some of them are doozies, or maybe in a way because of them, our lives are amazing in their unpredictability and surprise.

Just yesterday on my daily walk I had a talk with myself. I said ‘Self, everything physical that you do is an effort. It all entails discomfort or pain. But it’s okay. It’s alright. Luckily, none of it is going to kill you. So you just need to get on with it.”

Keep walking. Keep traveling. Keep growing. Keep changing. Keep loving.

It’s not a spectacular thought.

It’s normative.

But Nobody Died!

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Our youngest son, Rafael, moved with his family to New Jersey last night. We don’t know how long they’ll be there. We don’t know why they moved.

Neither of their excellent jobs requires the move. They have a beautiful house here that they renovated just 5 years ago to their exact specification. Their garden is flourishing, as are their kids. All four kids have many friends and are happy here. They have an active social life with friends and with their siblings/cousins. The other grandparents live a 15-minute walk away, are retired, and are always happy to have the kids over, pick them up, and take them places.

The given reason is that they get itchy when they’re in one place too long. They seek adventure (in New Jersey? 😂) They seek a challenge when things are too settled and smooth. Our son fears getting stodgy (he’s 42). At 40, having made partner at the most prestigious law firm here, he quit to do something else. He didn’t want to get stuck in a rut.

I sort of get it. I was that way myself. But once we had kids, I reframed my need for change into something more compatible with having first one and then, within 7 years, five kids. I changed professions six times; just about every 2 or 3 years. I wrote a few books. Once the kids were a bit older we traveled…a lot.

And, of course, the biggie – we moved from the US to Israel.

Rafael and his family moved to the US once already. They spent 5 years in Silicone Valley. He’s a hi-tech lawyer so that made sense. It provided him with the lift he needed to become one of the younger partners in his law firm. We missed him. The 10-hour time difference and 16-hour flight were brutal. But it made sense. And once was enough.

This move makes less sense to us.

Of course, we’re ten years older.

My in-laws were devastated when we moved our own young family to Israel. My mother-in-law literally keened and wailed when we parted at the airport. But, we felt, we were moving toward something. It was an ideological move. It was living our dedication to Zionism. We still feel that way.

What kind of ideology could possibly warrant a move to New Jersey – the state Americans love to mock? Clearly (to us) they are moving away from something and not toward something.

I get that, too. Living in Israel is not for the faint of heart.

Although it has one of the strongest, most stable economies in the world, wages are relatively low, real estate is ridiculously priced out of most young families’ reach, and many families struggle to get through the month. None of this applies to Rafael, who is blessed with financial stability.

Israel has been at war from the moment the state was established in 1948. Sometimes the war is more volatile and sometimes less, but it’s a constant threat. Our neighbors make no bones about hating us and have consistently made clear their goal of destroying our state and killing us all. The past two years, since the atrocities of October 7th, have been traumatic for every single family in Israel, and continue to be so.

Hard times, however, seem to strengthen Israelis’ resolve, not weaken it.

The divisiveness in Israeli society over politics and religion seems to be more of a factor in people leaving Israel than the war. The exaggerations and fears on each side lead to a lack of tolerance that feeds on itself.

For those of us who left comfortable lives in the US (or other Western countries) to live in Israel, we take a dim view of those who leave. It would be more accurate to say that many of us look upon it as betrayal of an ideal; betrayal of the country. In addition, given the current ugly anti-Semitism in the world, we believe that Jews should be aware today more than ever that Israel is the place for Jews to live.

We worry about our children and grandchildren’s safety. We worry about our grandchildren being taken out of a place where they are like most everybody else – it’s not an issue – and put in a place where they are ‘the other’.

We believe that our son and daughter-in-law have a tremendous amount of talent and skills to give to our country, and that our country needs people exactly like them.

And, perhaps most of all, I’ll miss being able to drive an hour whenever the spirit moves me and enjoy a good cup of coffee and great conversation with my youngest son. He’s the best! I’ll miss all the many special things about each and every one of those four delicious children. And, yes, sometimes, of course, I feel that strong twinge of sadness and loss in my heart.

Tisha B’Av is the day that our first two holy temples were destroyed. The date is commemorated with a 25-hour fast and special prayers. When tragedy strikes and someone is very sad we might say she has on her Tisha B’Av face.

That’s the face I see on many of our friends lately when considering our son’s departure with his beautiful family.

And, ironically enough, I want to console them.

“But nobody died! They’re only going to New Jersey!”

As hard as it is for us to imagine, they’re off on what they see as an adventure for their family. We made our choices. Some of them were great and some not so great, but they were ours to make. And if they turned out to be not so great, we readjusted and reframed and began a new adventure. Or at least I hope you all did, because we sure did. Why be stuck when life is so fleeting?

I, personally, believe they’ll be back in a couple of years. After all…New Jersey. And in the meantime, how fortunate that in this day and age there’s Facetime and WhatsApp and convenient flights.

They’re a happy, successful, healthy couple with four amazing, funny, quirky, interesting, healthy kids. We’ve had them near us for five blessed years and, G-d willing, we’ll have them near us again one of these days.

So chin up, friends, no Tisha B’Av faces, please.

Do We Really Get It?

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All told, we’ve been in India almost a year. We’ve spent over two months in Kerala, four months in Rishikesh, and a week to ten days in Hampi, Meysore, Delhi, Goa, Mumbai, Varanasi, Darjeeling, Khajuraho yogashram, Kaziranga, Puri, Shimla, Dharamshala, Dalhousie, Chennai, Pondicherry, Auroville, Bandhavgargh, Rambagh, Jim Corbett, and the Andaman Islands.

My partner has been learning Hindi off and on for 7 years. Between his Hindi and Google audio translate we’ve had many conversations with people about their lives and their opinions about many issues – geopolitical, philosophical, sociological, religious, and how they view the future.

We’ve observed familial interactions, public and less public behaviors, hygiene and eating habits, changing clothing preferences, and acceptable and less acceptable commercial activities.

We’ve experienced the kindness, patience, and acceptance of Indians in many different situations from driving to waiting in line to communication difficulties to cultural misunderstandings.

When asked how many children an Indian has they will invariably give a number that reflects only male children. Mothers as well as fathers respond in this way. Sexist? I don’t think so. It seems that in traditional Indian families (and in spite of rapid and visible change it’s estimated that over 90% of Indian marriages are still arranged marriages) sons remain in the nuclear family home after they marry. Their wives become subservient to the matriarch who travels with them on vacations and sets the tone for parenting. Daughters move on to their spouse’s family. They are only temporarily part of their parents’ lives. I’ve come to believe that is why they’re not included in the natural spontaneous reply about the number of children in the nuclear family.

Is this belief accurate? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing I’ve learned is there’s no point in asking for clarification. Such requests are met with puzzled expressions followed by acceptance of my theory regardless of its accuracy or inaccuracy.

Here’s a much more prosaic, but much more day to day question I’ve been asking in vague euphemistic terminology since our very first visit in 2016. Why don’t Indians, especially women, use toilet paper? It’s excellent for the ecology of every country and certainly one with a billion and a half people, and yet… What’s the deal? It’s all well and good that our tushes and other intimate places are actually cleaner after that spritz from the bidet but what is it about walking around wet that doesn’t annoy them? And is it even hygienic?

They’ve learned that foreigners need toilet paper. Hotels provide small rolls of it and are happy to replenish it as frequently as their patrons allow themselves to make the request (we tend to buy our own to avoid the issue altogether). But when asked why they don’t require it themselves I’ve been met with puzzled expressions and literally no answers, They don’t understand why I do require it but accept it and I don’t understand why they don’t require it but still ask from time to time.

The nearest things I’ve received to an answer have been (1) the concept of the comfort of dry being preferable over damp is a Western concept (really?!?) and (2) you can carry a small towel to dry off, keep it in a small plastic bag all day and wash it in the evening (a nice solutionbut I doubt Indian women actually do that).

That may be similar to something an Indian friend of ours said recently. He owns an amazing guesthouse literally 50 meters from a pristine Arabian Sea beach. He’s made lots of improvements over the past few years. Indian tourists are accustomed to ordering their meals and eating in their rooms. They seem to prefer it. It might be a question of the chicken and the egg. Maybe at one time hotels didn’t have restaurants. So our friend didn’t have a restaurant but realized that the (mostly foreign) guests preferred not to eat in their rooms so he added a really nice place to eat.

His showers had no hot water. Granted it’s quite hot in Thumboly Beach and the locals see no need for hot water but others do. As a result, he decided to arrange hot water and told us he had done so. In most Indian showers there’s a shower head and also a faucet beneath it about a foot annd an half off the floor with a bucket and plastic cup below it. Turns out he set up water in the lower faucet and not in the shower head.

When we laughed about it with him he said something quite true and profound. He said that one of the differences between Israelis and Indians is that Israelis look at something and immediately start figuring out ways to improve upon it while Indians look at the same thing, accept it as is, and immediately figure out a way to live with it. There are pluses and minuses in both approaches.

And what about respect for personal space, acceptable noise levels in public places or in hotels late at night, what it means to be a couple, the relative merit of avoidance or honesty in confronting legitimate disagreement or misunderstanding; the cultural differences go in and on.

Even when we think we get it we have to keep asking ourselves if we really get it.

There’s no escaping the fact that part of the joy in being in India is the adventure of the Western shrug of shoulders or the Indian wag of the head. The humor in “I don’t know.” The puzzled expression followed by a smile.

You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. And ain’t that grand?

South India Revisited 2025

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Our third week in the small fishing village of Thumboly Beach, half an hour by tuk tuk to Alapphuzha (aka Alleppey) about an hour from Kochi (aka Cochin). Our third time here at Colonel’s Beach Villa. It gets better every time and harder to leave.

Our room has an upstairs balcony that looks out onto The Arabian Sea. The sound of the waves provides constant companionship – gentle in the morning and more forceful from afternoon on into the night.

My partner goes out around 6 every morning to watch the fisherman carefully removing their catch from their nets. It’s a careful process. Some days there might be over 50 kilo of sardines and some days maybe a paltry kilo or two. Dogs and crows wait patiently nearby waiting for the rejects to be thrown their way.

Later in the day, after a delicious, simple vegetarian breakfast, and after reading and chatting on the balcony until the day cools off, we go for a walk around the village or take a tuk tuk to Alapphuzha.

People in the village have become familiar with us. They smile warmly and speak with us in the limited English they know. When I hurt my arm and had a bandage on it they seemed to all know about it and expressed concern. We stop in to say hello to Tomas at his market and Elsbet at her small store. The people at the corner fruit store let us know if they have pineapple because they know how much we like it.

Villagers are quite laid back. Many women walk together in pairs or more in the cooling day holding umbrellas to protect them from the sun. They wear light long dresses with slits up the side and leggings underneath. Most women do not work outside their homes and the daily socializing is a pleasant part of their day.


Many men can be seen sitting together on plastic chairs or on the sand under trees on the beach playing Rummy. They go out at 4 am in their small boats, fish until 6, gather their catch from the nets until 7, and then take their share of the day’s catch to sell on the nearby highway.

The guesthouse calls their tuk tuk to take us to Alapphuzha when we go there. He charges less than the tuk tuks we might flag down in the village. He drops us off in the commercial area where we like to absorb the colorful atmosphere and sometimes pick up a few things. There are aromatic spices, fresh garlands, fresh fruit and vegetable stands, kitchen shops, clothing shops including places to choose material, get measured, and have clothes made and ready in 24 hours. There’s an excellent bookstore and our favorite coffee shop by the river. We always stop in to say hello to Raul there, have a good cup of coffee and some fresh cold cut up watermelon.

The two young men from northeastern India – a 3 or 4 day train ride away – who do just about everything around the guesthouse are very quiet but have warmed up to us. They make us special little treats when they can. They know how we like our tea and coffee and when. They’re happy to see us in the morning and when we come back from our wanderings. Our customs, especially our Shabbat observance, are unusual for them. But they accept and adjust to everything with interest.

The serenity of The Arabian Sea, the beautiful garden, and the peaceful nature of the people provide the perfect background for my yoga practice. A small patch of red cemented patio just outside my door, shaded by a outhanging is just the right size and atmosphere. Teaching for 15 years, I often feel a staleness creep into my practice. Time spent in Southern India always inspires me to change it up, deepen it, renew the spirituality of it.

No hot water comes out of the shower head. At first we were taken aback. What?! No hot water for our shower? There’s a bucket and a big plastic cup inside. Hot water comes out of a spigot into the bucket. Cold water from the shower head to soap up and hot water from the cup in the bucket to wash off the soap. What!?! But we’re ENTITLED! Get with the program. This is India. You’d be surprised how quickly the system makes perfect sense in this climate.

Adapt. Adjust. Accept. And be pleasantly surprised when a cabinet shows up after you mention it’d be nice.

The city can be a cacophony of people and vehicles but absolutely serene and clean compared to Delhi.

It’s difficult to explain my love for Southern India and this area specifically. I wish my words t could make you smile and feel as happy as I feel when I’m here.

In a world so full of strife, confusion, fear, aggression and diviseness, Southern India is full of the opposite of all that. A local friend here thinks it’s because there have been no wars here for centuries. The culture looks askance at hostility and unkindness. Perhaps. Whatever the reason, I wish I could package this place and gift all of you with it.. .

Cody Nite Rodeo

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I grew up and went to school with kids who were members of the 4H club. Each one of them had a project every year so that they could enter a competition at the annual State Fair. Back then, one year it might be raising a pig from birth to market weight (300 pounds/136 kilograms or more). Another it might be growing the largest cucumber or melon.

There were pie contests at the State Fair and games and rides. But the main attraction for me was always the rodeo. I never tired of the suspense of that 8 seconds of bone-rattling ride on the back of a bucking bronco or bull ride. (the bull ride was reduced to 6 seconds this year) I always sat on the edge of my bench until the girls rounded the last barrel in the barrel race event without knocking over a barrel and cheered them on that last super fast race back to the finish. When I worked at a horse stable for a summer in my teens I imagined myself one day entering the barrel race myself.

So it’s no wonder that while making plans for our American road trip, getting tickets to the Cody Night Rodeo was high on my list of priorities. It was written right there on the site that there are always enough tickets and every ticket is good for any date during the summer. But I read it over several times to be absolutely sure. This was one event I wasn’t going to miss. More importantly, my partner wasn’t going to miss it. A New York City boy, he stutters when asked if he’s been to a rodeo. I think his not being sure is a sure sign that he’s never been. Once at a rodeo, there’s no forgetting.

The Cody Night Rodeo is held every night during the tourist season. There are thousands of people every night. People come from all over the United States and from some foreign countries. The competitors are amateurs but many are well-seasoned amateurs. There are some father-son teams for the calf roping or tie-down roping event and some siblings who compete against each other in other events. There are entries from states as far away as Texas, over 1000 miles southeast, and home-grown entries.

The American flag was flying high in numerous places around the stadium. Horses paraded around the stadium with a flag-holding rider as the stadium filled. People stood as the flag went by them. A large screen showed scenes across America as accompaniment to the poem Why We Stand by Maury Tate read with a heavy cowboy accent. Google it. It doesn’t get much more patriotic than that.

The MC called out the names of states one by one asking if there was anyone from each. People cheered when they heard the name of their state. After Californians cheered for their home state the MC said ‘ “Welcome to America, Californians!” It got a big, good-natured laugh. This was a crowd well aware of the political divide.

We chatted with the couple sitting behind us on the bleachers as we waited for the first event and in between events. They were a Minnesota farming couple; farming the land their parents and grandparents had farmed before them. Two of their 7 kids (all grown and married) work the farm with them today, and the others live close by. Turned out that the man had recently begun a process of semi-retirement so he and my partner had a lot to discuss. The women, Kim, and I shared stories of our children and grandchildren. She was used to people being surprised to hear she has 13 grandchildren and two on the way. She was just as surprised to see that I wasn’t and that we have 16 grandchildren of our own.

She talked about the degeneration of the American school system and the introduction of gender education in elementary school. All of her school-age grandchildren are home-schooled as a result of both of those issues. She expressed dismay at the schism between the woke population (which confuses her) and what she believes to be the majority of Americans who value family and remain staunch patriots.

They both expressed empathy and sorrow about the atrocities of October 7th and the war with Gaza. We’d heard that a lot so far on our trip and it sounded very genuine.

The best, most exciting bucking bronco rides are, of course, on the backs of the wildest, craziest broncos. If you’re wondering why those horses buck like maniacs, a flank strap or bucking strap is used to encourage the horses to kick out straighter and higher when bucking. The strap is about 4 inches wide, covered in sheepskin or neoprene, and fastens behind the widest part of the horse’s abdomen. But that doesn’t entirely explain why some bucking broncos are truly uncontrollable to the point where the two wranglers whose job it is to get them back in their stalls after their run struggle to accomplish the task. Some horses are just maniacs, I guess.

The barrel racing, a woman’s event added to rodeos in 1931 in Stamford, Texas, was tense. Trying not to knock over barrels and to be the fastest at it at the same time is an exact contradiction. Some of the girls were high school students. They’d probably been barrel racing since elementary school. Those girls and women could fly!

Only one competitor managed to stay on his bucking bronco for the entire 8-second ride. A clear winner. None of the competitors stayed on the bulls for the full 6 seconds. The horns on those animals are daunting. You’d think the riders would stay on just to avoid them, but it ain’t easy.

One of my least favorite events is also the one many people would like to see eliminated because it seems to be especially cruel to animals. Riding on the back of a horse or bull might be annoying to the animals or it might be a thrill for them to get back at human beings. I remember in Norway the dogs were rearing to pull the sleds – they were mostly annoyed that it took us so long to get started. Really – who are we to presume that we know the druthers of animals. But calf-roping doesn’t look like much fun for the calves. The lassoing part takes skill. I can vouch for that. The main skill of the girls’ marching group in my high school was lassoing. I never ever got the hang of it. Tying the calves’ legs as fast as you can just seems cruel.

Everyone had a great time. Lots of beer. Lots of smiles and laughter. Lots of strangers talking to each other and cheering side by side. An evening of good, clean fun. Small kids, teenagers, adults, and old folks (like us). At one point kids were invited into the ring for a quasi-treasure hunt. Dozens of them joined the game, running to and fro. The winners, a boy, and girl who looked to be about 10, couldn’t smile big enough holding up their small trophies.

A fun respite from phone screens and politics.

If you can find a rodeo to go to, do it! You might be surprised how much you enjoy it.

The big winner of the evening by far was this guy…

The Winner

The Wild Wild West circa 2024

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Moving on from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn, still under the influence of the drama of the Native American tragedy, we pulled into the town of Cody, Wyoming, population 10,224, home of the Cody High School Broncs and Fillies.

Still the wild west, home of the American Cowboy.

We found our B&B easily and were immediately enchanted by the deer in the neighboring yard who stared at us for a minute and returned to munching on someone’s lawn, and the cheerful Black Eyed Susan flowers winking at us from the yard of our B&B.

We knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore (or maybe we WERE in Kansas – another Great Plains state) upon entering the Robin’s Nest B&B. It turned out that the hosts were long-time transplants from Colorado. Robin herself greetied us.

On the wall in a strategic spot was a plaque stating clearly the values and beliefs of the couple. There were also anti-abortion bumper stickers in a pile on a shelf by the door and various books of scripture on just about every flat surface.

Robin was chatty – in a good way – and cheerful, abounding with good things to say about her adopted town and her experiences as a b&b host. She had all sorts of recommendations for our brief stay in Cody, all of which were on our to-do list. It was helpful to receive tips, though, such as devoting two days to the Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum (we did and you really need 2 days), and parking near the exit to the parking lot at the Cody Night Rodeo.

Our room was crowded with memorabilia and equipment from the Old West. The big bed was very comfy. It was hot in the room when we arrived. The lack of air conditioning in this part of the country was something we’d have to get used to during our trip. Robin insisted that the desert cooler would suck the hot air out of the room making the room sufficiently cool for sleep. I was skeptical but she proved to be totally right.

Anyone who’s been to a classic B&B knows that breakfast is often the big attraction. Most hosts make a big effort to prepare elegant and special breakfast food. It’s a point of pride. Robin’s Nest was no exception. There were homemade pancakes with a cream cheese filling, a refreshing, thick berry juice, plenty of toast with fresh butter and homemade jams, and freshly cut fruit. What made this breakfast stand out, though, were the 2 minutes before the meal. Once the food was on the table Robin’s husband asked all six of us to bow our heads in prayer. A first for us. It was quite a nice prayer of thankfulness. The last sentence was in reference to Jesus – we could’ve done without the last part – but it was so genuine on his part, with total cluelessness and lack of concern for political correctness, and absolutely no malice – that it was like a breath of fresh air.

In general, we repeatedly ran into an unabashed love and commitment to family, country, and God during our travels in this part of the country.

Later he mentioned to my partner that they’d had two guests from Israel the previous month. He was shocked to learn that they didn’t believe in God. I wasn’t present for that conversation. I would’ve loved to have known if he thought all people in Israel believe in God or all people in the world. I think it’s the former but it could be the latter. Living in Cody one can be forgiven for thinking that everyone in the world believes in God because I venture to guess that everyone in Cody does.

And, yet, not everyone in Cody is totally as one would expect in the town of Cody we mostly experienced. We ended up in a coffee shop that was right out of California culture. Run by aging hippies, they keep laid-back hippie hours. They open mid-morning and close in the early afternoon. Dogs sleep on their floors. They serve coffee with alternative milks and offer non-gluten pastries. The coffee was great and the pastries were even better. Local artists were given prominence on the walls and the bookshelves.

The Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum was a huge surprise to us snobs of the big cities of America. Our expectations were low but the reality equals some of the best museums we’ve explored. There are five distinctly different wings to the museum –

  1. Natural History of the West
  2. History of the West
  3. History of Guns
  4. Art of the West
  5. Native American History

We both learned a lot of new information about the American West; the pioneers’ way of life, the difficulties and accomplishments of rugged individualism, and a more in-depth knowledge of the lives of the famous (and infamous) people memorialized in tv series, movies, and songs. The central figure, of course, is Wild Bill Hickok (even the accurate spelling of his name was news to us) -Bill Cody.

We were surprised to learn that Wild Bill, a stagecoach driver, lawman, spy for the Union Army during the Civil War, scout, actor, and professional gambler, was a proponent of women’s rights and compassion for Native Americans.

As a result of learning so much about Wild Bill, we took a bit of a detour later in our trip to Deadwood, South Dakota, to see the place where he was shot and killed by an unsuccessful gambler, Jack McCall, during a poker game. The hand he was holding at the time – two pairs; black aces and eights, is known to this day as the ‘dead man’s hand’.

The first day at the museum I chose to go to the wing with art of the west while my partner, a water ecologist, chose to go the natural history wing. We were both tired and ready to leave after our three hours at the museum, each having only seen two wings. Both he and I were super enthusiastic about what we’d seen separately. We decided to take Robin up on her recommendation and come back the next day. We got there bright and early the next day and spent an additional two hours there.

It was shocking to experience the professionalism, original and well-thought-out approach, and depth of presentation exhibited in the natural history wing of the museum. Going to natural history museums all around the world is a must for us. My partner spends many hours of enjoyment in each while I bail after two hours tops and indulge my love of museum shops and coffee hangouts. This museum, located as it is, nevertheless rivals all the natural history museums we’ve seen around the globe, including Manhattan (clearly there’s less on display but the quality and presentation are equal). Someone or several someones with deep pockets must have had a special place in her/his heart for the topic and the location.

We had purchased tickets for The Cody’ Night Rodeo almost seven months earlier. It was that important to us. I grew up in Texas where state fairs and rodeos, 4H competitions of pig raising and pie baking, were common and always lots of fun. My partner grew up in Brooklyn and then Long Island. The closest he’d ever come to a rodeo was watching Stoney Burke on t.v in the early 60s. We knew that no matter what else we did in that part of the United States, we were going to a rodeo. Cody’s Night Rodeo is famous. We actually chose to be in Cody, which turned out to be my partner’s very favorite town we visited, because of the Cody Night Rodeo.

But more about that in my next post.

Life in The Great Plains

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The Great Plains of the United States is a vast area with few people and beautiful vistas. You can drive on the open roads in Montana, North and South Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska, and Kansas for hours and see only a handful of cars. The houses are few and far between and without exception have an American flag flying in front. Each town’s population sign boasts between 29 and 1500 residents.

On our way from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn to Cody, Wyoming, where we’d be spending the night before heading into Yellowstone Park, we stopped in for some lunch at a small diner in the town of Lovell, Wyoming, population 2320.

During our travels, we’ve come to expect quirky, odd people and sights, but so far in this part of America what’s stood out the most is the utter normalcy of the people and towns. The diner was quite ordinary. Plain tables and chairs. Around one table were four middle-aged women having a girls’ lunch. Otherwise, we were alone. The menu was also nothing special. Hamburgers, french fries, pizza, tuna salad sandwiches.

And then there was this sight –

No one seemed to think it strange. I guess man and bird are regulars.

Our teenage server was a fresh-faced, blonde girl. No tattoos. No piercings. No make-up. Just a few freckles and a friendly smile. I found myself wondering about her life. Being a teenager in a town of 2000 people in the Great Plains. The nearest city, Cody, boasting 10,000 residents, is an hour away.

After we’d eaten our sandwich and were waiting for coffee, I approached the girl and asked if she’d be open to talking about her life. She nodded with a respectful ‘yes’ and a shy smile. I started with an easy question.

“What do kids your age do for fun around here?”

She didn’t hesitate. She told me the obvious – there’s nothing to do in Lovell – but went on to say that, as a result, kids make their own fun. They sometimes build a campfire and sit around talking and telling stories. They go fishing. Most teenagers work in the summer and often after school during the school year.

I mentioned that I’d noticed the lack of tattoos, piercings, and make-up and asked if that was the norm. She replied that most families in Lovell are Mormon (she’s not), and have been brought up not to find those kinds of things attractive. There’s a strict dress code at her school, which is fine with her, but she wishes they were allowed to wear leggings. (that was her only objection)

I asked if she saw herself settling down in Lovell after school or moving to a bigger city. With a mischievous smile, she said that her dream was to go to New York City and become a cosmetologist but added that she’d likely get married and settle down in Lovell, or maybe as far away as Cody.

Interestingly enough, her parents divorced when she was 10 and after a year living with her mother in Denver, Colorado, she chose to move to Lovell to live with her father. Of course, the explanation may lie simply in a troubled relationship with her mother, but I wondered later if it was the siren call of a simpler life surrounded by stark natural beauty.

There are undoubtedly inconveniences living in a tiny town with limited options. But in the towns of the Great Plains states, there’s also the inspiration and peacefulness of being surrounded by natural beauty. The rush and tension that people love to hate in the big population centers are absent. There’s virtually unlimited space. Zero crowding on the roads, in the restaurants; no long lines in the grocery store or the post office (which each town has!). From our limited experience, no one is in a hurry. They have time for conversations with the neighbor ringing up their purchases and the customers in the diner.

At our server’s age, I was also a server in a restaurant. I worked in an Indian restaurant, wearing an elegant sari, where the choices on the menu were exotic and expensive. The restaurant was on the river that ran through the tourist area of San Antonio and was constantly packed with people. Without a reservation, people were out of luck. I saved my tip money to get the hell out of Dodge. San Antonio, a city of over a million people, was too familiar. I wanted nothing more than to strike out, on my own, for more interesting pastures.

It took me 50 years to reach the point that our server reached by 16. The point where I appreciate the empty open road, the farms where the closest neighbor is at least a kilometer away. When I can often think of nothing better than sitting in a wooden chair looking out at a calm lake for an hour or two with an unopened book on my lap.

Lubec, Maine

I used to think that living in the city provided more opportunity for connection to other people. I imagined living in rural areas to be isolating. Living in a small community of 5000 people created doubt in my mind and observing people and talking to people in The Great Plains sealed my recognition of my faulty reasoning. I now think that, while it clearly depends on the individual, living among fewer people may very well encourage kinder, more intimate connection than living in a city.

As the miles rolled by, we were finding the sheer size of the open, empty plains comforting. Neither my partner nor I being particularly stressed out or hyper people, we were, nevertheless, experiencing an inner loosening in our very souls.

I often thought of travel from Wisconsin, where I was at university for more years than I care to think about, to San Antonio, as boring. Lots of wheat fields. Lots of cornfields. they go on and one and…on.

The boredom of the 70s through the 90s is today’s meditation.

And So It Begins – America Summer of ’24

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After seven and a half months of planning and reserving flights, cars, hotels, and activities, we were on our way to our month-long road trip in America. Ten-month-long war in Israel notwithstanding, flight cancellations all around us, our El Al reservations held firm, and we woke up in Boston at a hotel near the airport on July 16th.

We reserved Premium Economy seats for every flight; something we never would’ve done even as little as five years ago. With age comes compromise. We arrived in Boston well-rested and likewise in Rapid City, South Dakota, after two flights; Premium Economy on all. Worth every penny. Of course, if you don’t have it, you can survive Economy, even in your 70s, and if you’re addicted to travel as we are, it becomes a moot point. But the extra comfort meant starting our vacation without needing a rest day after each flight. In fact, minutes after we landed in Rapid City we were at the Alamo Rental Car counter to pick up our comfy Hyundai Elantra and hit the road.

The Rapid City airport is tiny compared to most of the mega airports we’re used to. Delhi, Chicago, Houston, Miami, Rome, Tel Aviv. The two men staffing the Alamo Rental Car desk provided foreshadowing for our entire trip. They received us with smiles and kind words. They offered us maps, listened to our plans, and made helpful, gentle suggestions. They offered basically all the cars on the lot (not all that many) at no extra charge and only reluctantly waved goodbye when we drove off.

I’m always a little surprised that there is such a thing as rental cars. Mostly brand new cars in perfect condition. I get it that insurance will cover any damage we manage to do but they don’t know us. At all. Maybe we’re the worst drivers EVER. If they’d spent a few days driving the highways in Israel they’d probably charge a lot extra for Israeli drivers. But, no, they happily waved goodbye and we were on our way.

Our first Walmart experience had me laughing at my partner. He’d actually never in his life been in a Walmart. Yes, he was born and raised in the United States. He lived there until he was twenty-eight and has been back for visits many times over the past decades. And, yet, he’d never been to Walmart. He was in shoppers’ heaven. Despite having been on two flights that day, he wandered the aisles in amazement. We stopped in to buy a cooler, ice, and basic food for the next week. We ended up checking out every aisle, from appliances to clothing, to shoes, to over-the-counter medications. Of course, being a man, we walked out with only a cooler, ice, and food for the next week, but he also walked out with a new-found respect for that American icon, Walmart. We were to visit Walmarts in several cities over the next month.

An hour later we arrived at our hotel which boasted a view of Mount Rushmore from our room Unh hunh. You know how that goes. If you walked to the end of the outside balcony and stood on tiptoe, craning your neck around a corner, you could vaguely make out the famous foursome in the distance.

No matter. We were psyched.

At the front desk, we learned that in half an hour there would be a nightly flag ceremony. Half an hour. Yikes! We’d been traveling since about ten o’clock a.m. and it was seven-thirty p.m. My partner wanted nothing more than a shower, food, and sleep. But – a flag ceremony! – come on, dude. We’d be leaving the next morning after seeing as much of Mount Rushmore as we could absorb. He’s nothing if not a great traveling companion. We were in the car quick as a flash and on our way.

If you’ve never been to Mount Rushmore: it’s in the middle of absolutely nowhere. It’s not on the way to any place you want to be unless your Great Aunt Martha lives in South Dakota. And nobody’s Tante Shoshana lives in South Dakota or any state within three states of South Dakota. For some reason, it found its way onto my bucket list decades ago so here we were.

And if you ever do find yourself there for some very mysterious reason, DO NOT MISS THE FLAG CEREMONY!!!

It was amazing. Moving is too small a word. Thousands of people every night during the tourist season, and they are all – each and every one – patriots. They’re proud Americans. They stand for the National Anthem (and seem to know all the words) and even for America the Beautiful, with hand on heart. When there’s a call for anyone who’s served in the military or has a family member who’s served in the military to come down to the stage, the stage is filled to overcrowding with people.

This is Trump Country. It’s the other America. It’s an America with which my partner and I are not familiar.

It’s an America where a teenager offered me her hand (unasked) to help me rise from the stone wall seating. Where children behave and sit or stand quietly while adults speak. Two things, sad to say, we didn’t see in Boston or Florida, later during our trip.

We both learned new information about Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and, especially, Teddy Roosevelt.

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The next day at breakfast at a diner one of the owners suggested we drive the back way into Mount Rushmore. He was as friendly, without being intrusive, as the Alamo Rental Car staff, and we took him up on his recommendation. It was one of the most beautiful, impressive pieces of road we traveled. Beautiful forest on either side of us. A quiet, windy road through the Black Hills with two short tunnels. One of the tunnels framed Mount Rushmore in the distance.

Breathtaking.

We spent another hour or so wandering around Mount Rushmore and then headed to our next stop – the nearby Crazy Horse Memorial.

A short half-hour away, we parked and climbed on a mini-bus to go up the gravel road to see Crazy Horse chiseled into the mountain. Only the head of the famous (or infamous) Oglata Lakota warrior and one of his arms – pointing ahead – is finished. Commissioned by Henry Standing Bear to be sculpted by Korczak Ziokowski in 1948, the Native American Nation refuses any financial support from the United States government on principle. Not hard to understand given their history. The constant lack of funding has made it challenging to employ enough workers to make serious progress over the decades.

Considerably larger than each of the heads of the four presidents depicted in Mount Rushmore, perhaps 4-5 times as large. It is an impressive undertaking.

Crazy Horse fought at the Battle of Little Bighorn – Custer’s Last Stand – and surrendered to US troops the following year. In yet another broken promise by the US government, he was killed by the military guard after surrendering.

It seemed only fitting to continue on from there to the Battlefield of Little Bighorn. But it was time to rest a bit so we slept overnight at a motel with little cabins in the town of Buffalo,

So far the trip had been everything I’d hoped…and more.

Like Father; Like Daughter

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I was looking for something in an old file the other day and came across a letter my father sent me 33 years ago. It was the day he found out that his cancer had returned and the prognosis was not good. In fact, within six months he would be dead.

When I showed it to my partner, he said that it looked exactly like something I might have written. The sentiment is mine, Even the language is mine. And it’s very 2024, even though it was written in 1991.

My Dad. What a special person. A complicated man. A man never quite at home with his emotions. Quick to smile; slow to hug. A very active inner life. A very active public life. But most often not emotionally present for those of us he shared a house with.

I like to think things would be different today.

So here’s that very special letter, with those very special thoughts, lessons for us all, from that very special man who was my father.

  It was an idyllic morning in sunny Sarasota.

  I stepped outside the hospital, blinking in the sunlight. The everyday sights and sounds were different; they were as never before. The deep blue sky, the gently moving leaves, the traffic flow, the people — all seen in a new light.

  I reflected on how casual I had been, before my traumatic experience, to such common phenomena and to so much else in life — indeed, to life itself. And so I resolved to spend wisely whatever of life was yet to be mine; not to squander it. For life, I saw with stark clarity, is an incalculable gift. It should be held close, made the most of, constantly enriched, and cherished.

  That is one half of the lesson I learned there, standing in the sun. There was another.

  The wondrous sunlight enveloping me, could I retain it? Could I keep that sun from setting? Had I tried to halt its slipping away, and inevitably failed, how frustrated and saddened I could have been. But if that were my reaction I’d have transformed the glorious moment into one of regret and sorrow.

  But it is not only the sunlight which must slip away. Our youth and our years, our senses and our lives, these must go also. And we must accept their inevitable departure; be ever ready to let go.

  That is the other half of the lesson.

  This, then, is the paradoxical conclusion. Hold fast, hold close the precious gift of life, but with arms so loose as to be ever ready to release it; with arms virtually open.

  Is this an impossible challenge? Physically, yes; mentally, emotionally, of course not. We do it repeatedly throughout our lives. We give away our hearts in love, and we have more heart to give. We wear out our minds in deep thought, and we have a better, sharper mind. We are smitten by pity for the deprived, and we are the stronger for it.

  The key word in the conclusion about life is ‘inevitability’.

  Aware that life must and will inevitably end, each of life’s moments becomes all the more cherishable. The sole unknowns are the when and the how; when and how these moments will end. The choice is between succumbing to fruitless agonizing — fear and dread of the when and how — or living those moments richly, fully, gratifyingly; savoring them and saying, in effect, “I’ll relish this as long as I may, and whenever it ends I’ll be grateful for having had it — and hope there are some others who will be grateful that I had it also.”

  I imagine nodding heads. It does seem logical. But is it unduly difficult to transfer from the thought process to one’s inner being? To transplant the idea into actual, living reality? To live by it?

  It is not difficult. We do it again and again in our daily lives.

  Look. We are enthralled by a spectacular sunset. We are immersed in passionate expression of our love. We are transported by a rapturous violin concerto. Do we destroy such moments by dwelling upon their transitory nature? Our minds tell us these moments will pass. We know it. But do we permit that knowledge to suck out our enjoyment? How infinitely sad that would be. And in truth, we don’t, do we?

  So it is, or so it should be, with life.

  Life, that wonder-filled possession, is ours to keep for a while. Think of it as the wise sage Bruriah, wife of the Tanna Rabbi Meir, did, as a divine loan. How wholesome, how sensible, to make the most of the temporary gift while accepting that one day, any day, it will be taken back; that one day, as in Joshua Leibman’s lovely Day in the Park fable, the Great Nurse will beckon, “It’s time to go home now.”

  And, so, hold life close, with open arms.

  Of course, I have had frequent occasions in my life to recognize life’s precious worth — in peak moments of joy, or when escaping serious dangers. And, of course, I have long known that being mortal, my life must end at some time. But my acceptance of both of these truths was tucked away inside me somewhere. They were concepts I did not question. They were “givens”. I was never challenged to affirm them. I was never tested. How, then, could I be certain? When the Angel of Death confronted me, how would I really react?

  I have been tested now.

  And I thank God that I found, find, myself in total accord with the balance; with the synthesis of holding life close and readiness to let it go — of holding life with open arms. And in cognizance that I really believe this, that it has penetrated my inner being, I am warmed, strengthened, grateful, at peace.

  For you who may read or hear this, I pray that you find the wisdom to enjoy life, to cherish it, to make the very most of it for yourself and for those with whom your life is entwined; to hold it close — all the while accepting its inevitable departure without fear, frustration, or dread; prepared to let it go.

  And if you do that, if you really make that belief your innermost conviction, you will be among the most fortunate of mortals. For you will not only rob death of its anticipatory fright, replacing that with inner peace, but your life will be enriched beyond measure.

Amran Prero, March 1991

Addendum: I was with my father for the last few days of his life. We watched television together, chatted about my kids and about Israel, and he told me about a series of dreams he had on the nights leading up to his death. He was calm, at peace, happy, and in good spirits. He laughed at Tom Selleck’s Magnum P.I. as usual, giving him a constant barrage of advice.

He truly held life close with open arms.