Tag Archives: Be Here Now

I’m Not Your Son: You’re Not My Father

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Four years ago James Blunt released a single called Monsters about his father’s life-threatening illness and his own relation to his father’s situation. A beautiful song with haunting lyrics, for some reason it escaped my attention until a young man named Iam Tongi performed it, struggling to sing through his tears, on America’s Got Talent earlier this year. Blunt’s father, Charles, diagnosed with stage 4 renal disease, received a transplant in response to the singer’s public plea for help and is doing well. Iam’s father, Rodney, Tongi’s musical mentor, died of kidney failure just months before the high schooler’s audition on AGT.

https://youtube.com/clip/Ugkx3u5ItnckHY_OfbO4WSGwkfpwL8ARPR-t

For me, the song reawakened feelings about my own experience many years ago with my father’s final illness and then death. It was shocking for me to realize that I was 39, a year younger than our youngest child, when my father died. I felt very grown up at that age, a mother of five, in a responsible position at work.

My father was a community rabbi, loved, admired, practically idolized by the people in his Texas congregation. Diminutive in height, maybe 5’6″ (167 centimeters), he was a giant in his personal stature of charisma, empathy, cleverness, and depth in his sermons and other teachings. Having grown up in Chicago in an ultra-Orthodox Satmar home, his ideological embrace of Conservative Judaism was anathema to his stern Satmar Rabbinical father. His adoption of Texas cowboy boots and, with time, a slight Texas twang belied his yeshiva background.

I was born the third daughter of three. It was a huge disappointment to my father that there would be no sons for him to sit and learn Torah with, in spite of his ambivalence, and a long love/hate relationship with traditional Judaism. He insisted for a while on giving me a boy’s name – back in the day when genderized names were the thing – but my mother’s wishes prevailed.

There was a period of time when he sat and learned Torah with me after school in the afternoons, time with him I cherished until family dramas of a different nature overcame us both.

I frequently accompanied him on shiva calls to grieving families in order to have more time with him. Our bonding during those drives stood us in good stead during the stormy years when my angry rebellion and his equally angry response drove us apart.

I left home just prior to my 17th birthday to join The Age of Aquarius in Haight Ashbury during the summer of peace and love in 1969. In the last minutes before my departure his final words to me were “If you walk out that door, I won’t have anything to do with you again.”

Five years later he danced at my wedding, a wedding he performed in my parents’ backyard. We took the opportunity to rekindle our mutual fan club of two, never actually talking about our estrangement, but expressing relief at reuniting.

Over the following years, he called on me many times to come take care of my mother so that he could visit his own mother in Israel or attend conferences or give lectures around the US.

We had ample time to share his regrets about his choice of vocation (he would’ve loved to be a political science professor at a top university) and his failure to make amends with his father before his death. We talked about my doubts about giving up a future in law in favor of moving to Israel, and my concerns about bringing children into a world of materialism and violence.

Two subjects we never discussed were his feelings about religion and his lack of skills as a father while we three daughters were growing up. I think we both sensed these topics to be too painful, possibly too divisive. to overcome.

Since his death, I’ve often wished we’d talked about both.

When he had his first surgery for lung cancer in the spring of 1991, I flew to Florida from Israel to be with him. Though my mother was often with him, he found excuses to her to leave us alone for quality time. We didn’t speak about heavy subjects. I remember him filling me in on his favorite television shows, mostly detective shows, and me sharing photos with him of my kids who were 9-16 years old at the time. We reminisced about their bar and bat mitzvahs he’d attended in Israel, talked about Gershon’s trials and tribulations in his orchards, about various people in his San Antonio congregation, and what was going on in their lives. I especially remember him talking about future trips he planned to make. He seemed optimistic that his illness was a blip in his life plan.

During the months between his first surgery and his final illness in the summer, we exchanged many letters. I’m so grateful today that this was before the age of emails and texting. My father was as eloquent in his correspondence as he was articulate as a speaker and teacher. In his beautiful cursive script, he shared his admiration for my life choices, his ultimate satisfaction with his own life, his worry about my mother’s life without him, and about my sisters. He wrote about being happy to have been able to say goodbye to people in Texas in a timely manner. He wrote sweet wishes for each of my children and expressed sorrow at not being able to watch them grow into adults and marry.

I flew in again, with a very heavy heart, when he was hospitalized for what would clearly be his final days.

Four days before his death he sent my mother on an errand and described a dream he’d had the previous night. In this dream, he was a very young child again, living in a railroad-type of apartment in Jerusalem. He could see from one end of the apartment to the other and described each room in great detail.

It was the first time he’d ever talked about his childhood to me. He related a simple, mundane memory of his mother scolding him for getting his shirt dirty outside.

On each of the three remaining days he again found an excuse for my mother to absent herself from the room and related another dream to me. In each dream he was older than the previous one. On Friday he described his wedding to my mother, where three rabbis – no less – performed the ceremony much to my maternal grandmother’s, an anti-religion atheist, chagrin.

I instinctively knew there would be no more dreams.

I recognized the process he’d been going through, as did he.

We spoke with my mother and the hospice team who were to help me care for my father in my parents’ home when we came home on Tuesday, but he and I exchanged understanding glances throughout.

When my mother and I left that afternoon I let my mother leave the room first and stayed behind to give my father, never a physically affectionate person, a hug. He gave me a squeeze with what energy he could summon.

We felt no need in those last days to discuss his mistakes and mine; we both understood them well enough. I felt no need to read him his rights and wrongs, felt so painfully as a child and then as an adolescent in a dysfunctional family with an emotionally detached father.

While I didn’t say to him that it was my turn to chase the monsters away, I think my reactions to his dreams said it as loud and clear as James Blunt and Iam Tongi.

When the phone rang that night, after the Sabbath had begun, though I don’t answer the phone on the Sabbath, I picked up.

Rabbi Amram Prero, 1915-1991

A complicated, magnificent life.

I miss you.

Dharamsala – Little Israel

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Ever since I can remember there’s been a rite of passage of sorts for Israeli young people when they finish their army service. There’s even a name for it – the trip after the army. (in Hebrew it sounds a bit better). Two of our five kids took their respective turns with this rite of passage. Each spent a year traveling the world. Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, New York City.

But for the past decade, the destinations of choice have been South America and India.

India often includes Nepal and SE Asia but the main component is India, and the main components in India are Dharamsala as the gateway to the North and on into the Himalayas – Manali, Leh, and Ladakh.

There’s a window of opportunity to be in Northern India. Many of the roads, not the safest mountain roads even in the best of weather, are closed for much of the year due to snow and ice. We’d planned on making it up there on our second trip but Covid had other plans for us. On our current trip, we were finally in the right place at the right time.

At the risk of sounding like a yoga heretic, I wasn’t at all excited about the idea of going to Dharamsala. Many of my students have spent time there. After Rishikesh it’s THE place to go. In my mind, though, it was a mountainous town with steep climbs every time you go out of your lodging, and hundreds of yoga wannabees. It’s also known for its varied workshops but I wasn’t really in a workshop state of mind.

At first, we planned 10 days there but as the time to make final arrangements got closer the less I wanted to dedicate such a big hunk of time – if any – to it.

Dharamsala is divided into four sections; the city of Dharamsala, the lowest point, McLeod is next, home to The Dalai Lama and the Tibetan refugees, then Bagsu, and finally Dharmkot.

The Dalai Lama and I had a falling out many years ago, though he’s not aware of it. I was disappointed in his statements about the Arab/Israeli problem which reflected an appalling lack of knowledge of the history of the area. He’s since carefully avoided speaking about the issue so I suspect that he recognized his oversimplification of a complicated situation. Nevertheless, I wasn’t interested in trying to schedule an audience with him.

I was, however, interested in learning more about the motivation behind the arrival of thousands of young Israelis in Dharmkot and Bagsu every year. So we decided to spend five days of investigation in Bagsu.

True to form but still a shock to our systems, the language heard most on the streets and in the shops of Bagsu and Dharmkot is Hebrew. The shopkeepers, restaurant servers, and hotel staff speak passable Hebrew. Many signs are in Hebrew. There are Israeli foods on the menus. There are two Chabad Houses, one in Bagsu and one in Dharmkot. Chabad provides a home away from home for traveling Jews, with kosher food, religious services, and a meeting place to schmooze with similar people, secular and religious.

When our youngest daughter was on her “trip after the army” she said she learned very quickly to keep her distance from other Israelis. It wasn’t a snobby thing or a dislike of her compatriots. She was interested in getting a feeling for the culture and people of the countries she was visiting. She said that Israeli young people tend to travel in groups of 12-14, speaking Hebrew enthusiastically (read: loudly), making it difficult to go places with narrow passages or restricted access and a challenge to get close to and speak to natives. She wanted to do volunteer work with families in need in Laos and in an institution for children damaged by landmines in Cambodia – acitivities not well suited for large groups.

As we traveled through India, even though we tend not to travel the “hummus trail” – the places most frequented by Israelis – whenever we saw Israelis they did, in fact, tend to be in groups and happily so.

But it wasn’t until we got to Dharamsala that we gained an understanding of the phenomenon.

As it turns out, people travel to India for several different reasons.

We, like our daughter, are interested in the many varied cultures and societies, the family structures, the generational trends, the various religions and religious practices, political positions, and how people get through the day, the month, physically, and financially. That dictates how we travel (on trains and other public transport rather than hiring a car and driver), where we stay (not in 5-star hotels too expensive for most Indians), and the destinations we choose. It means that my partner has been studying Hindi seriously and can carry on a bit of a conversation with Hindi-speaking Indians. (I rely on my excellent app) It means that over the years we’ve made friends in India with whom we now visit whenever we’re in the country.

There are people who go to India for spirituality. It’s in the very air people breathe there. For the hundreds of thousands of people who found and developed their inner spirituality in Buddhism or in India in general at one time in their lives, a few weeks in India revitalize and reinforce that equanimity and balance in their lives.

There are people who go to India for a variation of spirituality – inner peace, inner quiet, what’s called shanti in Hindi – an absence of the stress and tension of Western life. Although Indians drive like maniacs, hooting their horns for no apparent reason as well as when they’re passing someone with only 4 centimeters to spare, in other areas of their lives they project basic quiet happiness, peaceful acceptance, and interest without being intrusive. Coming as I do from a society where people not only drive like maniacs but exude an energy that vibrates like lightning, always running after the next thing, the better thing, rarely satisfied with what is, once I decompress during the first couple of days in India I can feel my emotional borders opening up, my natural curiosity blossoming, my breath deepening, my muscles relaxing. I sleep better. I feel lighter. My mind opens to all sorts of possibilities.

This time I learned to play the Indian flute, sketch, draw traditional Kolam chalk drawings and do hand and ear reflexology.

There are those who go to India for the incredible natural beauty found there. From the beaches of Goa to the heights of The Himalayas. There are one day easy hikes and two week treks with stopping points set up for spreading out a sleeping back along the way. There are awesome waterfalls hidden away, the sight of which is earned by days of climbing, lakes, rushing rivers, forests, all accessible to the strong of body and heart. There are tigers, leopards, bears, and the rare, verging on extinct, white rhinoceros of Kazaranga.

And then there are Israeli young people.

I’m sure there are Israeli young people whose motivation is found in one or more of the categories above but my impression after sitting and asking them and listening to their answers is that they’re in a category all their own.

They’ve just finished two years or more in a highly structured environment, the military, where they have little or no control over how they spend their time, how they dress, how they speak, when they sleep or eat. Not only two years with no control over their lives but, for many of them, a life interspersed with hours or days of danger and tension. Israel has one of the toughest military services in the world. Our country is always in a state of existence/non-existence and we rely heavily on these young men and women who spend at least two years training and guarding and protecting us every day. Without them our country would’ve ceased to exist long ago. It’s a heavy responsiblity to place on their young shoulders, but a necessary one.

Israelis at heart are a lively, joyful, energetic people. They don’t like discipline – in their families, in school, on the roads. They lack the spit and polish of the US Marine, the starched, ironed appearance of the British, the punctuality of the Germans. And yet they step up and serve for two years, suppressing (more or less) their tendency to scoff at authority.

And once it’s over – they’ve survived – they go to India.

India is so cheap, they can travel, spending the night in groups of 3 and 4 to a room, for a full year. No time restrictions. No dress restrictions. No family obligtions. They can wake up in the morning (maybe at noon or later) and decide to grab a sleeper bus to a place they’ve heard of from a fellow traveler…or not. And they can do all this in their native tongue with other young people just like themselves; who know what they’ve been through and where they come from. If the prices, accessible trasportantion, and natural beauty were available in a different country they might choose that country. It’s not India per se. Not the culture or the spirituality or the people of India.

They’re young people who have earned this amazing possibility to return to their exuberant selves.

Ultimately Dharamsala isn’t a destination I would return to. But I’m happy it’s there as a gateway to the North for these Israeli young people. And I loved getting to know some of them during our time there. We hear a lot about the Israeli “kids” who come to Northern India and sit around smoking dope. I’m sure those people are there, too, but the young Israelis we saw were wholesome in the way so many Israelis have managed to remain in this 21st century. Joyful. Caring. Patriots on a time out.

There’s plenty of time in life for school, work, building a family, all that serious stuff. And, yes, there’s a danger in getting carried away and not knowing when enough is enough, but the young people we talked to had plans for all that stuff. Later.

We worried when our girls took off for their “trip after the army” and now, two decades later, one is a partner in an accounting firm and one is a high school counselor. And we’re so happy for them that they had that time out of time.

The Enormity of Small Acts of Kindness

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A long time ago, during our second trip to the Peruvian Amazon forest, I had one of those eye opening experiences. You know the kind when all of a sudden one conversation makes you awaken to a different reality?

A bunch of us were sitting around the breakfast table and I don’t even remember what I said but a middle aged plus guy from California, former hippie type who made a bunch of money, said to me, “Wait. So I don’t get it. Every morning you wake up with the thought that you’ll try to be a better person that day?”

He was genuinely perplexed and I had one of those ah ha moments when I realized that what I had assumed to be a given for most everybody just…wasn’t. Sort of like when I realized that not everyone takes the skin off chicken before cooking it. But a little more disconcerting.

So I don’t know how you’ll take what I’m about to write. Maybe you’ll think it’s weird. Maybe it IS weird. I’ve certainly thought, said, and done much weirder stuff, though, so here goes.

One of the places high on our list of places to go in India has always been Amritsar in the Punjab region. We almost made it last trip but Covid pushed us in a different direction – homeward. Most people go to Amritsar to see The Golden Temple, as did we. Perhaps the only difference is that we weren’t interested in going into the temple itself. Aside from the 90 minute wait in line in 40 degrees (104 degrees Fahrenheit), my partner doesn’t go into temples for religious reasons so I choose the temples I go to carefully as he waits outside.

No, we wanted to volunteer in the langar hall which serves food for free to between 50,000-100,000 people every day. Open 24/7, food is served to whoever shows up, no questions asked, no judgement. Each “sitting” lasts 15 minutes. The food is simple but healthy – lentils, rice, chapatti (Indian flatbread), and water.

People wait on the long porch outside until they’re waved inside to collect their plates and cups and continue on to the hall where food is served. Women volunteers at various wash points sit in groups of six or seven washing the metal plates and cups

We told the Sikh at the entrance that we wanted to volunteer. It took a few tries before he understood. He directed us to Langar Hall. We got there, barefoot and after two foot baths, with our heads appropriately covered with orange material. The Sikh workers there tried repeatedly to push a plate and cup into our hands so we could join the others to eat.

What to do with these foreigners??

Each one pointed us up the next couple of stairs for the next Sikh worker to deal with us. The fourth or fifth turbaned guy realized what we intended and called a younger worker over who knew a few words in English. He beckoned us to follow him, which we did, up three flights of stone stairs at a very fast pace.


On the third floor he led us on a circuitous route which ended in a large room with 2 machines churning out chapattis and a low table where about eight women and a very stern Sikh man sat on low stools.

The room was stifling hot.

I was pointed to a designated stool and joined the women.

For the next two hours I schmeered hot oil on chapattis with a piece of cloth wound around and attached to a stick. A young man dumped the chappatis out of a basket onto the table straight out of the ovens. They were burning hot. I think the FBI will have a hard time finger printing me should they need to – my finger tips were scorched.

The chappatis came relatively slowly at first and I learned the routine and got into the rhythm. Then the lunch rush hour must’ve started because they started coming fast and furious. Remember Mickey Mouse carrying buckets of water in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice or Lucille Ball working in the bakery?

At first the other women were wary of the foreigner in their midst. But, like any group of women anywhere, it wasn’t too long before they were trying to communicate with me. At first the two women in charge of quality control, making piles of good chapattis and throwing misshapen or overly burnt ones in a bin, only sent a few chapatti my way. After 15 minutes or so they were throwing big stacks my way. Yep, I was one of the gang.

A young woman from The Netherlands joined us after about an hour, and then we were two.

The second day my partner decided to join in. He’d only watched the first day, feeling odd about the whole Sikh thing. We’d talked the evening after our first visit about how the Sikhs’ generosity of heart knows no bounds and makes no differentiation between foreigners, Hindus, Christians, or anyone else. I think he came out of the conversation feeling the beauty of the universality of it all.

In any case, we were already part of the work party by the second day, directed to stools and given our sticks and bowls of hot oil.

An Ayurvedic doctor joined us that day. My partner gained insight into the sad reality of many Indian families whose children emigrate and become Westernized and upwardly mobile and basically estranged from their families.

Before we’d found Langar Hall the first day we’d gone into the Sikh museum also within the temple complex. Sikhism has only been around for about 500 years. Their history is bloody and filled with martyrs killed in cruel and blood curdling ways.

To this day they carry a sword and are actually permitted to do so in public places, like banks and airports, by law.

It’s hard to reconcile their history of brutality with their unprecedented compassion and kindness shown in the Langar Halls in Delhi and Amritsar. Another if life’s inconsistencies.

We left after redeeming our shoes, passing by hundreds of people resting or, unbelievably, sleeping on the hard granite floors. Another unique Indian experience.

As for our Californian Amazon traveling companion, “Yes, Paul, I do in fact wake up every morning with the thought of how I can be a better person.” It’s not a burden or a hardship. It brings me joy and fills me with gratitude that I’ve been blessed with a life which allows me to open my eyes and my heart to other people who share this often challenging world with me.

The heat of the chapatti room, the loud music, the scorching chapattis, the shy smiles of the other women, the knowledge that those oil schmeered chapattis would help fill the bellies of people who might otherwise go hungry…as my delightful yogi in Rishikesh would say…and that.

Traveling with Family – Part 2

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Families are complicated. Large families are largely complicated. I used to think my own dysfunctional family – bipolar mother and clergyman father – was more complicated than most. Then I grew up.

My partner and I have five adult children and sixteen grandchildren. It goes without saying that each of the twenty-eight people in our family is a multi-faceted, quirky, fascinating person in her own right (we are 17 females and 11 males but I’ll be using all sorts of pronouns).

Just the fact that, to my mother-in-law’s great anger, we “turned our backs on the great country which gave us so much” and moved to Israel already sets us apart from mainstream USA. Add to that oh so many others of our personal traits and decisions and it becomes easy to see why I add the word ‘quirky’ to a list that otherwise applies to one and all.

But this isn’t about our family in entirety, just Tsippy’s family of 4 (not counting her soon-to-be ex-husband), and us.

As you read in Part 1, Tsippy is a successful career woman who has been raising her three children virtually on her own for the past two years. Her kids are 14, almost-12, and almost-8. Not particularly easy ages, but are there really easy ages? I think that might be a myth.

One of the things you didn’t read in Part 1 is that her oldest is a trans boy. There’s so much that entails. Heartache and joy, difficult challenges, serious crises and decisions, celebrated achievements, lots of introspection, acceptance, juggling, tears, eye-rolling, embarrassment, laughter, and, finally, and most importantly, love.

He and I are very close.

He doesn’t like a lot of people. He has no patience for bullsxxt.

He can take social situations like school (because he has to) and family gatherings (because he’s learned they’re theoretically healthy and relatives’ intentions toward him are good) but only in limited doses. After 3-4 hours he’s emotionally exhausted and needs alone time,

For whatever reason, he’s chosen me as “his person”. If his Mom is his coping strategy, as he’s told me, I’m his #2 (At least most days).

He agreed to come to India because I’d be there. I was flattered.

His almost-12 year old sister is the exact opposite socially. She has a gajillion friends, is a talented dancer, and a good student. She’s cheerful, physically affectionate (a great hugger), and has a killer smile. She drives her brother crazy and, at the same time, idolizes him. She’s ridiculously understanding of how hard his life is and the attention he requires from their Mom. She reminds her Mom that she requires attention, too…a lot.

The youngest is the kind of boy who wakes his Mom up every morning with “I love you, Mommy.” An amazing soccer player. Give him a soccer ball, pizza with lots of tomato sauce, and his Mom, and he’s good to go.

Add doughnuts to the list of things he loves

Tsippy herself is an inspiration. Many single Moms are. She’s learned the importance of balance the hard way – each of her kids’ needs, her own needs, work, home, friends, extended family, keeping up appearances and also not giving a crap, asking for help from the right people, accepting that she’s not in control of how a lot of stuff turns out – even the stuff she cares about the most.

So that’s the constellation, other than me and my partner. You’ve met us and gotten to know us here over the past umpteen posts. If you haven’t, you can go back and do your homework.

We met up with them after their 5 hour cab ride from the Delhi airport to Rishikesh. They’d slept in the car and were on a high. Excited about the cows wandering the streets, the kiosks with colorful clothes, jewelry, and bags of all sizes, and the diversity of dress and skin color of the people passing by.

They wanted to taste all the street food we saw and tell us all about their flights. Preferably at the same time. They tried on scarves and checked out the saris and salwar kameez. They only very reluctantly agreed to go to their hotel.

Food became an issue. We’d discussed it before the trip and prepared for it as well as we could. We chose restaurants with varied menus; Indian food but also pizza, chips (French fries), and cornflakes. The pizza and chips were a bit different than what they were used to so we often left 3/4 of every dish behind. They ate pringles, chocolates, rice, cornflakes, and doughnuts. Not a great way to sustain human life but it was only for two weeks.

They didn’t complain.

Not about the food, or the endless shopping, or the loud craziness on the streets, horns blaring, or the cow sxxt which required diligent attention, or the limitations we set on how much money they could each give to the ubiquitous (and deserving) kids and adults with their hands out and a sad look in their eyes.

There was very little bickering – much less than at home – and not many flare ups.

When the henna drawing on the oldest’s leg didn’t come out like he hoped, he took it out on his sister. Big time. Why? (what silly person asks a 14 year old why?)

So far so good…until it wasn’t

We all saw how much of an effort the oldest made to participate in all our activities. He really wanted to be a part of it all. Even the activities that strained his coping skills to the max. When his perfectionism ruined his pleasure in his miniature painting of a peacock during our 3-hour workshop, he barely mentioned it. He just set it down, wandered off, and found a place to sit with his phone.

When he chose to remain in the hotel in Agra, Tsippy and the others went to the Taj Mahal on their own and had a great time taking goofy photos. No guilt tripping. Everybody was happy.

The youngest was patient (long suffering) as we shopped. He had his grandfather to hang out with. He got compensation with a long dip in the (very cold) Ganges. The oldest was happy to hand out candies to all the village children in compensation for what he defined as the day from hell (4 hours of extreme heat). The sandwich kid who has a VERY hard time making decisions was allowed all the time she needed, even when (inevitably) she decided not to decide.

There was a lot of give and take. A lot of mutually respecting personal boundaries and foibles. A lot of appreciation for our time together; even if it required taking a few deep breaths from time to time. Even when the oldest said at one point, admirably, “You know, I’m totally restraining myself from yelling at you for that very annoying comment.”

Another shop???

And it wasn’t only an amazing bonding experience for the grandkids.

My partner is quite religious. He observes all the rituals; keeps all the restrictions. Our kids aren’t religious and have always had a strained relationship with their father around these issues. They see him as inflexible and putting religion before his relationship with them.

He feels that because he’s “the religious one” and none of the kids observe the rituals and restrictions, if he doesn’t make a point of observing them when he’s with our kids and grandkids there won’t be any room for those observances there. No one will make sure there’s a space for him to do what he needs to do.

I see both sides and understand the behaviors but it’s mostly not my story to rewrite. I know that he puts his family above and before everything else in his life.

Of course if no one felt threatened the kids would make a respectful place for my partner’s religious observances in their homes, and he would be more flexible and make space for them not to observe while he does.

Easier said than done.

Our time in India with Tsippy and her family coincided with the Jewish holiday of Passover. Lots of restrictions and observances.

Tsippy and the grandkids were positive and respectful at the Seder and my partner was understanding and encouraging when they’d had enough and asked to be excused.

We found out which of the many Indian bread options are not made with wheat, and made the decision to eat kitniyot (legumes and rice) which are not considered “not kosher for Passover” but are, for the most part, not eaten by Ashkenazi Jews (which we are). That made it possible for us to eat with our family, and for Tsippy to say towards the end of the trip that his flexibility made her very happy and feel very embraced by him.

No words were ever more welcome.

It was two weeks of grace; of kindness, love, acceptance, and gratitude. It wasn’t without its sad moments; realizing (not for the first time) that we can’t create a bubble of perfection and ease for the people we love. But it was two weeks we’ll all remember for the bonds we made.

There’s talk of a trip together to the Serengeti.

Sad Westernization

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Seven years ago, before leaving home for India, I received the name and phone number of a yoga teacher in Rishikesh. I’d been teaching yoga for six years and thought learning with an Indian master might add something special to my practice. As it turned out when I arrived in Rishikesh, that particular yogi was traveling abroad but his phone was answered by a young Sikh yogi and, since one unknown Indian yogi was the same as any other for me, I made arrangements to do yoga with him every morning of our five day stay there.

The studio was a large room with murals on one way and a large window overlooking The Ganges on another. We climbed a precarious metal spiral staircase outside to reach the room.

My newly-discovered teacher was very young and had only been teaching a year longer than me. But he was very sweet and I realized long ago that if I open my eyes, my ears, and my heart, lessons can be learned in unexpected places from unexpected people.

We met for 3 hours every day for the five days I spent in Rishikesh.

He taught me a long series of poses called Pawanmuktasana especially suited to loosening and strengthening our joints. My husband still begins every workout at the gym with poses from Pawanmuktasana and I often integrate some of the poses in my classes.

We exchanged interpretations of philosophical issues even if we didn’t always understand each other perfectly.

We learned a bit about each others lifestyles and cultures.

When our time together came to an end I asked him him how much to pay him. He said there was no payment to be made. At my urging he agreed to accept whatever I wanted to pay. I’d asked around and paid him a bit more than what was being paid at studios in the area, still about a third of what I would’ve had to pay at any Western studio for 15 hours of drop in classes.

Three years ago I was in touch with him before our return trip to India. We agreed that we would meet again for classes. By that time I’d been teaching for ten years and lost my enthusiasm for trying other styles of yoga and other teachers. I’d taken a two year yoga and yoga therapy course to receive Western certification, been to a dozen silent retreats of various lengths, been to yoga festivals, marathon sun salutation sessions, and taught hundreds of classes. Out of respect, I agreed to take two classes a week with him. My partner took an additional three classes a week.

This time he was teaching in a small, dark room with inadequate ventilation to save money and told us up front that there was a required payment per session. He’d begun teaching a few foreign groups from time to time and realized that it was possible to increase his income.

The classes were lackluster and the short dharma talks he gave lacked the depth of the hundreds of hours I’d heard over the previous four years from so many talented teachers.

Before returning to India on our current trip I asked for his input about lodging near Beit Chabad in Rishikesh. We were planning to be there for the holiday of Passover and needed to have easy access to a Seder, food according to the holiday’s restrictions, and prayer. The iconic Laxman Bridge is no longer in use and staying across the river is no longer a practical option.

He was very helpful.

During our first month in India we were down south at beautiful Thumpoly Beach at our friend Antony’s place, then Kanyakumari, Pondicherry, and Auroville. From time to time we got WhatsApp messages from him asking about our trip. Odd, but okay.

We spent a week in Rishikesh as planned, where one of our daughters and her three children joined us before we all headed off to Rajasthan for a week. While in Rishikesh our former yoga teacher asked to come by a few times. Out of respect, we agreed. Awkward, but okay.

On our first full day back in Rishikesh we happily explored learning possibilities for our month visit.

And then received progressively angrier and hostile audio WhatsApp’s from our former yoga teacher.

Inexplicably he was under the impression that we would be doing yoga with him every day for a month. He’d set aside that time for us and put off other potential clients.

He’d told us his days were filled with lucrative online classes of people from the UK, US, and Israel. We never dreamed he was counting on us for his monthly income. We weren’t even positive we’d be in Rishikesh for a full month because many people said it gets too hot to go outside (it doesn’t).

We were confused at his assumptions, dismayed by his feeling that we’d used him as a travel agent and misled him, and taken aback at his claim to be losing a 10-15,000 rupee payment. We offered to meet three times a week but kept getting more angry audio WhatsApp’s. Eventually we stopped responding, as did he, and we thankfully haven’t heard from his since,

My husband found an excellent yoga teacher just a five minute walk away, not surprising since if you toss a stone here chances are you’ll hit a cow or a yoga teacher.

Our new teacher. He’s also teaching me Ayurvedic massage and reflexology.

My partner is taking Hindi classes daily from the same pedantic teacher he studied with three years ago. He’s actually speaking Hindi to people already. He practices like a demon.

And I meet with a charming monk at a nearby ashram from time to time to learn to play the Indian flute, but mostly to listen to his stories, watch his expressive face, and soak in the atmosphere. He, also, by the way, refuses payment and is only willing to receive a donation according to what I feel is appropriate.

I feel sad when I think of the epitome of yoga I met seven years ago who taught yoga out of love and took payment only through Dana or Dan – personal giving from the heart.
I’m convinced that he became corrupted by his contact with foreign tourists and his online classes. He told us that he enjoys working with them since it doesn’t bother them to pay high prices. His Facebook is full of the new car he purchased and his many holidays. His messages to us were filled with ego and grasping.

Necessarily, in my opinion, the increase in the Westernization of yoga leads to a decrease in living and practicing according to the beautiful ideals of the eight limbs of yoga. It’s a huge challenge to combat that reality.

In my studio there are four teachers. Two of us are happy to charge little, encourage our students to attend class whether or not they’re able to pay, and remain flexible about keeping track of payment. One teacher lives with that approach comfortably but will probably be happy to earn more if she decides to work elsewhere. And one teacher constantly struggles with the studio’s approach.

They’re all excellent teachers. I feel that part of my role as the owner of the studio is that of helping all of us remain as much as possible within the healthy, self-nourishing framework of the philosophy of yoga. As I often remind them, and myself, we’re not an after school music lesson or drama group.

Being a yoga teacher is a commitment to a lifestyle.

Being a yoga teacher in this way is, first and foremost, a gift to ourselves.

It may be impractical and out of fashion in today’s world but I believe it still has a place that should be protected.

Travel Buddies: Ephemeral Windows into Other Realities

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Every single person on the planet has a story. We never even walk by the vast majority of them. Then there are those we walk by without seeing; the ones with whom we have brief encounters without really listening; those who share our lives in some way but whose hearts we rarely see into; and, if we’re very fortunate, a few with whom we exchange intimate confidences.

There’s an interesting phenomenon, a side effect of traveling, that involves the instant and inexplicably deep personal connection between people who meet, share a few hours or days, and never meet again.

A special bond is perhaps forged as a result of similar cluelessness about surroundings & cultural behaviors, or lack of routine and familiar faces. Or maybe the freedom of absolutely zero preconceived notions or previous acquaintance. Tabula rasa.

There was the family from Latvia who shared a lodge with us in the Peruvian Amazon. She confided that they’d been having marital problems & were moving to Boston where her husband had been offered a professorial position. Maybe a change of place would improve their relationship. They were traveling with their children for a year before the new academic year. He was determined to go to a shaman in the jungle to experiment with a special hallucinegen and unpleasant about her reluctance to join him. In the end, they left their young children and their passports with us – people they’d known for two days – and headed into the jungle.

In the morning they still hadn’t returned. Thankfully, they straggled back a little before noon. Hungover but healthy in body if not in mind.

And so it goes. We tell each other things we haven’t told close friends. We trust each other with confidences, money, and apparently sometimes our children. We enthusiastically join in adventures we might have had trepidations about. We listen to, tell, and enjoy vastly different opinions, occupational stories and familial foibles unselfish-consciously. We laugh a lot.

Antony (no ‘h’ in the many Antonys in Kerala, even St. Antony, and if you see an ‘h’, it’s not pronounced. There is no ‘th’ diphthong there.) was born in a very small fishing village in Kerala. Son of a fisherman, Antony loves nothing more than being out on the water in a small boat, meeting with childhood friends, hearing the waves lap the shore or crash on the rock barrier near his home. He chose a different life, though. Antony went to the military academy and spent 24 years in the military, retiring from his last position as Colonel, in charge of the anti-terrorist unit in northern India. He’s a hero in his hometown, and elsewhere. He went on to establish three businesses in the area surrounding his fishing village, employing over 90 people. It keeps him busy and away from his fishing village and the sound of The Arabian Sea. He’s not particularly interested in money for himself. His wife, Teresa, manages their bank accounts, saving what’s needed for their two children’s university educations, and gives Antony a small monthly sum to fill his motorcycle with gas and buy coffee during the day. He established businesses because he recognizes that along with employment comes dignity for his friends and neighbors. He’s also one of fifteen men who meet monthly to play games, share stories, and put money into the kitty for anyone who might be in need. His home is open to people at every level of society and they are happy to join him there for a drink or just a visit. Antony decided long ago that at sixty he’ll retire, he’s 49 now, and give himself the gift of The Arabian Sea’s whisper in his ear every day. An eclectic man, he never ceased to catch our interest or raise thought-provoking questions for discussion – philosophical as well as ‘what if’s’. We felt honored to be invited to his nearby home for dinner with his wife and son (his daughter was away at preparatory exams). It’s clear how much his son admires him and what a loving father he is (he told us that his wife keeps the kids in line because he can’t tell them ‘no’). I’m sure he was a tough officer in the military – he’d have to be – but in civilian life he has mischief and the sparkle of laughter in his eyes and a huge heart filled with kindness.

Katie’s only daughter lives in Pondicherry. Katie wasn’t much of a Mom. She was a flight attendant for Air France for her entire professional life, flying here and there and rarely at home. Her ex-husband raised their daughter. Retired now, she spends several months a year in Pondicherry, resigned to never being able to make up for lost time with her daughter, but determined to be a part of her life. A passionate woman, Katie’s views about French politics control a large part of her life. In the streets every weekend in her yellow vest, her harsh political rhetoric intrudes in almost every conversation. Macron, and Sarkozy before him, are the devil incarnate. And, yes, she does use those words. Enemies of the people, proponents of a new world order that disenfranchises everyone but the wealthy, robbers of the private benefits and income of the middle classes and the poor. Her political anger seeps into her extreme watchfulness in order to protect her from being taken advantage of, even by our sweet, accommodating host in Thekkady. We invited her to join us for a quiet day of walking in nature, surrounded by cardamom, coffee, and tea plants. Calmed by the sheer serenity of all that green, her political persuasions faded into the background, only occasionally peeking out to make a brief appearance.

Nancee was born and raised in a house in the forest, 40 kilometers southeast of the Kerala city of Munnar. She lives there still, in her house surrounded by fruit trees and passion fruit vines, and walks the kilometer to work as cook and cleaner in a three-story guesthouse/hotel owned and run by J.P. A quiet, shy woman, her smile can light up a room. When we commented on how much we loved the passion fruit that showed up on our breakfast table after we requested fresh fruit, she brought us a bag of the most delicious passion fruit I’ve ever eaten. I come from a country known for its plentiful, extraordinary fruit – picked in the morning and in the market in the afternoon. Passion fruit is one of my favorite fruits, but I’d never seen passion fruit so big, firm and tasty. She’d picked them from the vines surrounding her home, along with large cocoa pods (interesting, but not so tasty). She acquiesced graciously to my request to watch her cook our breakfast so that I would be able to replicate it at home, only a little embarrassed at first to have me looking over her shoulder. When we left, after two weeks at Arusakthi Riverdale, she approached me hesitantly, hugged me fiercely, then joined her palms at her heart and gave me a small bow. We didn’t understand each other’s verbal language but the language of our hearts was loud and clear.

Rav Yonaton wears a mixture of Indian and Hasidic clothing, along with his long payot (side curls) and large kippah (skullcap). Born and raised in London, the son of a totally secular family, he moved to Israel where he became religious, married, fathered a son, divorced, re-married, lived joyously in poverty, and shared in learning Torah with his new South African wife. Waking up to the necessity of providing for their upcoming baby, he lucked into a job as a mashkiach (kashrut supervisor) for a Baltimore company and relocated to Jewtown, India, near Fort Kochi (Kochin). His wife joined him there with their month old daughter two weeks later. Ever enthusiastic, ever sensitive to the cultural and social realities around him, Rav Yonaton has endeared himself to the largely Catholic community. A nice mural of him walking with his daughter can be seen on the wall of one of the newer, more comfortable hotels. The Hindu family across from a memorial headstone for a Kabbalist from the 17th century, located in an alleyway, helps to make sure the memorial’s burning light never goes out and joins the Rav there sometimes when he comes to daven (pray) there. We looked forward to having a bit of chicken after over a month as vegetarians, but there were only small bits of fish in the rice for Shabbat. Rav Yonaton explained to us later that he prefers to respect the poverty of his neighbors and not stand out as having the more expensive chicken on his Shabbat table. His contract will expire in the fall and he has no idea if he will be returning to unemployment, but his infectious smile precludes worry about his family’s future. As he walks us back to our hotel after havdala (the prayer to end Shabbat) at his house, he greets and is greeted by most of the passersby, each in his own language (and there are many). Loving and loved, he has no worries.

Vita and Ben are getting married in June after sharing their lives for over seven years. They’ve moved to Stamhope Hill in London, where she is a researcher for an NGO whose task is to evaluate the work of other NGOs and he is a youth worker in an adventure camp. They clearly both love their work and each other. She never wanted to marry and, in fact, when he proposed for the umpteenth time while on a romantic vacation in Japan (and was confident that she’d say ‘yes’), she told him to ‘Fxxk off!’ After a 20-minute conversation about why he wanted to marry, she was convinced, demanded he re-enact his proposal and afterwards said ‘yes’. He’s into the whole large wedding in a spectacular venue thing and she’s going along with only minor irritation in her voice as she reacts to his telling us the plan. Why marry at this point? Children are definitely on the horizon. They share a beer or two with my partner as laughter gets more and more raucous. Vita and I bond more over morning yoga on the balcony overlooking a tropical jungle. Our own temporary piece of paradise. We all swap hiking stories from beautiful Periyar National Park. They’re younger than our youngest child but age differences disappear easily among travel buddies.

Viktor is a solo traveler from Yerevan, the capital of Armenia. Somewhere in his late 40’s or early 50’s, he shares in the lives of his nephews but doesn’t see children in his future. A businessman, he’s not exactly rich but wealthy enough to help his extended family wage a decade-long (losing) battle for his ancestral home against the municipality, and pick up and come to a meditation seminar after an online Sadh Guru meditation course. Because of jet lag, he overslept and arrived two hours late to the seminar where he was turned away – ‘The Guru gave explicit instructions that no late arrivals were to be admitted.’ Offered an alternative – a 3-day retreat at the Sadhu Guru’s ashram in Coimbotore – he decided to attend and extend his time in India. That’s how we got the opportunity to make his acquaintance in Morjim Beach, Goa. We learned a lot about Armenia – he’s a super patriot. His only regret about living in Yerevan is that no one there is into spiritual meditation, or at least he hasn’t found anyone. He and my partner talked together for hours about Armenian history and politics. We visited the local fish market together and chose a big fish to have our cook fix for us one night. The cook didn’t like the look of the one we picked out so carefully, jumped on his motorcycle with it, returned it to the fish market, where he purchased a better fish for us. It was totally scrumptious and we shared a wonderful evening together with the sound of the waves and a lot of shared stories. Having fallen in love with Goa (What’s not to love? Beautiful, empty, clean sand beaches and gorgeous sunsets.), he extended his time there and we bid him adieu before heading for Kerala.

Ruth and Dieter, an Austrian couple, joined us for several days in Thekkady. We have a love of pure veg South Indian food in common that made walking down the potholed road outside our guesthouse together to The Hotel Aryas a given. They are as adventurous as we are when it comes to experimenting with new dishes and more so when it comes to eating with their hands. They went on a 20 km hike in Periyar National Park the day my partner went on a 15 km hike and I read for a couple of hours before meandering the streets and shops of Thekkady happily NOT hiking for hours and hours. They were to leave for a tree house hotel close to Ayursakthi Riverdale the next day but when they heard our praise for our amazing guide, Raj, on our 5 km nature hike earlier in the week, Dieter, a botanist finishing up his PhD, couldn’t leave without joining us on a return engagement with Raj. It meant they had to spend an extra 2500 rupee (about $40) to hire a taxi to get to their next town because they’d miss their bus, but they were game. We were happy to share the experience with them. Raj didn’t disappoint and it was so much fun watching how excited Dieter was to learn all about the flora in Periyar. Raj knows the common name and scientific name for every flower, tree and bush. Ruth, an occupational therapist, has amassed tons of botany from her many years with Dieter, as I have gained knowledge of bugs and crustaceans from my years with my partner. It was a pleasure spending time with such a like-minded couple, in spite of their being Austrian, barely thirty years old, and being in India for the first time.

Neema taught me to cook South Indian dishes, including the masala dosa my partner loves so much. More importantly, she and her husband, Prasad, spoke to us for many pleasant hours about their India, their family, and their experience working with many tourists. A soft-spoken, gentle soul, Prasad actually worked for many years as the captain of a commercial line of ships. Neema spent her first five years of marriage (an arranged marriage, of course) traveling along with him, visiting ports all over the world, even after their daughter, Olivia, was born. It was a special privilege only the captain’s wife enjoyed. Once Olivia was a bit older, they settled down in Neema’s parents’ historical landmark home in Wypeen Island, just a short ferry ride away from Fort Kochi (Kochin). Neema’s parents live in the house as well, though we never caught sight of them. Prasad is well-read, andknowledgeable in many areas including history, Indian and world politics, world geography, ichthyology, a bit of botany, and many languages. As Neema taught me to cook, Prasad and my partner kept each other entertained. Prasad was the one to open up the, formerly unknown to us, history of Jews further north in Kerala. After cooking class, Neema put her feet up and we chatted about being mothers of independent, strong-minded young women, building a business which relies heavily on customer service, the trials & tribulations of developing and maintaining a social media presence, remembering to give back to the community, and, of course, where to shop for clothes and gifts close by for good prices and quality.

Raj Kumar is a member of the indigenous mountain tribe called the Munnan. To this day they live in small villages in the mountains with a king and village elders. When outsiders approach one of the villages, an elder meets them outside the borders of the village to decide whether or not to allow them to enter. The Munnan have control over Periyar National Park, though it’s technically a government park. The Munnan have always had control, considering it their tribal land. Of the the 357 square mile park only 118 square miles are accessible to tourists, in order to properly conserve the fauna and flora. As a result, elephant herds live in their natural age-old way, goddesses of their territory, are infrequently sighted, and make it clear with threatening noises and agitated behavior that they should never be approached from less than 100-150 meters. The park rangers are all Munnan. They guide small groups on nature hikes from 5-18 kilometers and carry out night patrols to be sure that poachers cannot harm the animals or protected flora, including sandalwood and mahogany trees. Raj Kumar was randomly selected to guide us on a 5 km hike. As we waited for a British couple, Peter and Sara, to join us, their hotel agent having asked if we agreed to add them to our private hike, Raj began to describe the park to us. We were immediately impressed by his knowledge, English, and ability to field queries. As we watched him pull the raft to shore for us to cross the small lake, he suddenly dropped the rope, patted me on the shoulder and said, excitedly, ‘Come! Come!’ He took off up a small hill and we took off after him. Once we hit the peak, our eyes followed his pointing hand across the water where a mama elephant and her baby were grazing. A beautiful sight that his sharp ears, hearing the older elephant cooing to the younger, made possible. We were to learn to trust his ears, eyes and instincts, which directed us to the huge Malabar Squirrel, two glorious Hornbill birds (who took off in flight and flew overhead, exhibiting their full colors and shapes), beautiful butterflies of many different colors, caterpillars of all sizes and monkeys high up in the branches (before they began throwing things at us). There was not a common name or scientific name of any flower, bush, or tree that he didn’t know and recite easily. He was happy to allow us to sit silently, without moving, for five minutes, at my partner’s request, in order to hear the increased sounds of forest birdsong and the noises of animals in the trees once their wariness disappears – a moving experience to try if you never have – but hold out for 20 minutes! My partner, a water biologist and ecologist with a PhD, and Raj, an autodidactic naturalist, found kindred souls in each other, swapping facts and vignettes from nature. Raj proudly told us, neither modestly nor arrogantly, that, though it was commonly believed that the jackal lived in Periyar, it had never been proven until he took a photo, at his own peril, after stalking a jackal for many hours. We arranged a second hike with him two days later and, had we stayed, would have been happy to go out with him a third and fourth time. There just seems to be no limit to the changes in the forest from day to day or to his understanding of nature’s glory.

Only a third of the way into our 6 month trip in India, I could add many more travel buddies to this already-too-lengthy post:

Abdul, our host, our twins’ age, who graciously took us on the worst road we’ve been on in India so we could have the day we wanted walking through quiet fields, unharrassed by tour guides or crowds, and was nonplussed when something important fell down from under his car after one particularly deep hole in the road. He found a piece of cardboard in the trunk and a tshirt and tied the cardboard under the car before happily climbing back into the driver’s seat and taking off. He explained one morning, with a chagrined smile, that his guesthouse, motorcycle, and junky car all belong to the bank – loans he hopes to pay off someday. A familiar cross-cultural story.

J.P., another host, perplexed that most days we just hung around the river behind the guesthouse or took the 8 km walk across the bridge, circling back through the small village. He never stopped asking eagerly if we wanted a tuk-tuk to go into Munnar each morning (we went 3 times during our two weeks there). He loved that he and I share a daily yoga practice and smiled with a small bow each time I came back in, though his own daily practice was long over (he does a half hour at 5 a.m.). When we left he gave us a brightly colored red and gold something or other (??) and said we would always be family. He’s since sent Whatsapp messages asking how our trip’s going and then wishing us a happy 2020.

Kavarappa maintains an art gallery on the third floor of his home on a sleepy residential road in Mysore. We found the Bharani Art Gallery online, hired a tuk-tuk to take us there, found the gate locked and no one around. Our driver called the number we found online and Kavarappa opened the gate and then the gallery for us. Some of the art was fascinating. My partner is contemplating buying a piece of Vedic art by a Finnish painter. Kavarappa then invited us into his home for coffee. The conversation was great and quite informative. He is Coorgi (Coorg is about 130 km from Mysore) and still has a coffee and pepper plantation there which, sadly, his two children will not take over from him. The way of things in India today.

The list goes on, but this post doesn’t.

One common denominator of travel buddy relationships is the desire of human beings to be really seen by other human beings. And it may be that reason that relationships are telescoped while traveling – because of their necessarily ephemeral nature.

The very sweet young waiter, who served us dinner for 13 nights, spoke almost no English but summed it up far better than I can explain it when he said shyly, as we departed the rooftop restaurant for the last time,

“Please remember me.”