I wrote about preparing. And I wonder. Am I truly preparing or merely preparing to be preparing? Or worse yet, pretending to be preparing.
I have to ask, because I feel a certain approach avoidance pulling me further away from my goals rather than nearer, at least of late. I wonder if a very old friend of mine--fear of success--is riding with me on this mission.
Among the things I am preparing for in this Season of Preparing is the Davening Leadership Training Institute (DLTI) in which I am enrolled and will commence classes in a few weeks. There will be four one week sessions separated by six months. DLTI is separate and somehow connected to the Jewish Renewal smicha (ordination) program. I am taking it, at least in part, because I found such great joy in leading our congregation in worship at my B'nai Mitzvah and Sixtieth Birthday celebrations last year, to enhance the skills I employ leading the residents at Lytton Gardens Senior Communities in Shabbat prayer each month, and to prepare me to bring a different ruach (spirit) to services at my shul.
One text I am reading to prepare for the class is The Path of Blessing by Rabbi Marcia Prager. It is a beautiful conversation about the deepest meaning of the six words common to virtually every Jewish prayer--"Barukh Ata Adonay, Eloheynu Melekh Ha'Olam"--commonly translated as "Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe." I will not do Reb Marcia the injustice of attempting to paraphrase her work in a few sentences. Suffice it to say that she infuses each word and each letter of each word with meaning that allows one to transcend the limits of our common understanding of the phrase. She unlock the prayer in a way that provides an opening to a deeply spiritual experience .
Why else would I be tapping the keys at 3:34 a.m.?
I read a few pages of her book before I turned the light off for the night. As it sometimes happens I awoke in the middle of the night and lay there wondering about the big issues in my life. It may come as no surprise that in the middle of the night I find everything to be a big issue. This night/morning I was drawn back to a few of Reb Marcia's words as a possible explanation of the resistance I am feeling in my preparation for the Israel Ride.
In the context of opening the word melekh to a richer interpretation than merely "King" she expands its meaning to: "movement of divine creative power through its pathway to fill the receptive soul." The specific words I reflected on when I awoke are these:
... We must be willing to let go of our attachment to negative habits of mind and body, to purify our desires and clarify our intentions. So many of us live with minds and hearts clogged with resentments, old angers and fears. We cling to old habits of thinking and being until those habits begin to define who we are. Yet we fear that without them we would lose ourselves.
Aspects of this statement are familiar to me from several other sources going back to the self-improvement best seller of the sixties--Psycho-Cybernetics by Dr. Maxwell Maltz. He was a cosmetic surgeon who wondered why people still saw themselves the way they were before the physical transformation his surgery provided. It is very hard to develop a new self-image despite evidence of profound change. In my case, I lose a few pounds, even as I gain some muscle, going increasing distances on my bicycle and not only harbor negative thoughts about my ability to perform my stated goal, I find my exercise and dietary habits lapsing almost as if to prove my worst fears.
Perhaps Reb Marcia's words call out to me now because they address not only the mental and physical realm, but a critical spiritual aspect as well. She continues...
The irony is, of course, that only when we let go of what is old is there room to receive the new. We are born to be whole, to be free, to be loved and filled by the presence of God. When we give up the obsessive clutter, we make room to be filled by God. Then we rise out of our petty mochin d'katnut, our small-mindedness, and receive in fullness the mochin d'gadlut, expanded mind.
With heart, soul, and mind open and receptive, we surrender control and ask only to be filled with God. We let go of expectations and find profound insight. We release our judgments and are filled with radiant divine light. We relinquish our attachment to external goals and discover true purpose. We exchange self-satisfied cleverness for the beginnings of wisdom.
Whew! I could sit with those three paragraphs for a very long time. Just three paragraphs out of an entire chapter devoted to the word barukh! Such a huge task to capture the essence of six words--and what it would mean in terms of personal transformation, spiritual growth, mental and physical well being to grok those six words even once when I recite them!
I often talk of the journey I am taking searching for Yeshaya. What would it take for me to live my life at a level of what I like to call my Yeshaya-consciousness. I wonder if this season of preparing or the actual Israel ride will bring me closer. I wonder if DLTI will move me further along. And then I coach myself as I would a friend and suggest that all of these are external events, enriching as they may be, and that I already possess everything required to engage in Yeshaya-consciousness. And then the little Boo Birds on my shoulder say, "Or do I?"
Shoo, Boo Birds!
Barukh Ata Adonay, Eloheynu Melekh Ha'Olam....
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Elul--A Time to Prepare
I was telling the rabbi about the nature of my cycling journey--that the challenges and the learning has been more than merely physical. He responded by asking me to write a piece about it for the September congregational newsletter. The deadline was four weeks away. Nonetheless that night it crossed my mind that the newsletter would be issued during the month of Elul--the Hebrew month that precedes Rosh Hashanah. Immediately I felt a connection between the preparation we are obliged to do for the New Year and the preparation I was doing for the Israel Ride. Even though it was midnight, and I was preparing to go to bed I had to stop first and see where these thoughts would take me. Even though it is still July--the month of Tammuz, that is--I have written the following Elul piece for the shul. Here is your sneak preview!
.........................................................................................................................................
A month to get ready.
That should be ample.
Every year we have this gift,
like football players going to summer training camp before the big Fall kickoff—
only ours is a spiritual kickoff.
You know what happens to the holdouts—the ones who don't show up for camp?
They are in no shape to play the game.
This is an excerpt from my ethical will (viz., www.Yeshaya.net). I included a page on Elul in my ethical will because the month preceding Rosh Hashanah usually has two levels of significance for me. Like all of us I have the opportunity to use Elul to make spiritual preparations for the High Holy Days. I can, and sometimes do take advantage of Elul to reflect on where I have missed the mark, and to seek forgiveness. As ba'al tekiah--the carrier of the shofar blast--I also use this time to prepare myself physically for the high honor and solemn duty of sounding shofar on Rosh Hashanah morning. In very practical terms it is time to get my lip in shape. As a former French horn player that means practicing scales and especially long tones.
This year there is a third focus in my practice of preparation. A few short weeks after the chaggim are complete I will, God willing, sound shofar again--this time in the Old City of Jerusalem to mark the commencement of a 300-mile bicycle ride in which I will be among over 100 cyclists wending our way to Ashkelon, then through the Negev to our ultimate destination, Eilat, to raise awareness and money to save the endangered environment of the Negev.
I have been preparing my heart, my soul, and most assuredly all my might since April for this journey. I have felt the significance of the Israel Ride and my preparations grow steadily since I took on this challenge. I have very high expectations, based on all I have heard from previous riders--our own Greg Sterling among them--that this will be more than an exotic tour. It will be a mission that will have lasting significance to me personally even as I make an important contribution to a dialog among Christians, Moslems, and Jews whose objective is not only to protect and preserve the Negev, but to enhance the environment for peace among the peoples of Eretz Yisrael.
I feel exceedingly blessed to have so much to look forward to. I experience an even greater blessing by turning the anticipation of the ride and the High Holy Days into actions that enrich the present as well as the future.
I recently received a teaching that said that even greater than to perform a mitzvah is to inspire and motivate others to perform mitzvot. In that spirit I ask that you visit www.Yeshaya.net. I hope you will be inspired to learn more about ethical wills and to create one of your own. While you are there, please click on my Israel Ride link and make a donation to be shared by two truly outstanding organizations--Hazon (www.hazon.org) and the Arava Institute (www.arava.org). Most of all, use the remaining days of the waning year to go to "training camp!" Once again, Naomi Palmer is leading an Elul workshop for the shul, this year using the inspiring text Forty Days of Transformation by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins.
Finally, I pray that we all have a meaningful and productive Elul that prepares us for teshuva, for a year of growth, a year of health, and a year in which we make great strides in repairing the world.
b'shalom
Yeshaya
.........................................................................................................................................
A month to get ready.
That should be ample.
Every year we have this gift,
like football players going to summer training camp before the big Fall kickoff—
only ours is a spiritual kickoff.
You know what happens to the holdouts—the ones who don't show up for camp?
They are in no shape to play the game.
This is an excerpt from my ethical will (viz., www.Yeshaya.net). I included a page on Elul in my ethical will because the month preceding Rosh Hashanah usually has two levels of significance for me. Like all of us I have the opportunity to use Elul to make spiritual preparations for the High Holy Days. I can, and sometimes do take advantage of Elul to reflect on where I have missed the mark, and to seek forgiveness. As ba'al tekiah--the carrier of the shofar blast--I also use this time to prepare myself physically for the high honor and solemn duty of sounding shofar on Rosh Hashanah morning. In very practical terms it is time to get my lip in shape. As a former French horn player that means practicing scales and especially long tones.
This year there is a third focus in my practice of preparation. A few short weeks after the chaggim are complete I will, God willing, sound shofar again--this time in the Old City of Jerusalem to mark the commencement of a 300-mile bicycle ride in which I will be among over 100 cyclists wending our way to Ashkelon, then through the Negev to our ultimate destination, Eilat, to raise awareness and money to save the endangered environment of the Negev.
I have been preparing my heart, my soul, and most assuredly all my might since April for this journey. I have felt the significance of the Israel Ride and my preparations grow steadily since I took on this challenge. I have very high expectations, based on all I have heard from previous riders--our own Greg Sterling among them--that this will be more than an exotic tour. It will be a mission that will have lasting significance to me personally even as I make an important contribution to a dialog among Christians, Moslems, and Jews whose objective is not only to protect and preserve the Negev, but to enhance the environment for peace among the peoples of Eretz Yisrael.
I feel exceedingly blessed to have so much to look forward to. I experience an even greater blessing by turning the anticipation of the ride and the High Holy Days into actions that enrich the present as well as the future.
I recently received a teaching that said that even greater than to perform a mitzvah is to inspire and motivate others to perform mitzvot. In that spirit I ask that you visit www.Yeshaya.net. I hope you will be inspired to learn more about ethical wills and to create one of your own. While you are there, please click on my Israel Ride link and make a donation to be shared by two truly outstanding organizations--Hazon (www.hazon.org) and the Arava Institute (www.arava.org). Most of all, use the remaining days of the waning year to go to "training camp!" Once again, Naomi Palmer is leading an Elul workshop for the shul, this year using the inspiring text Forty Days of Transformation by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins.
Finally, I pray that we all have a meaningful and productive Elul that prepares us for teshuva, for a year of growth, a year of health, and a year in which we make great strides in repairing the world.
b'shalom
Yeshaya
Sunday, July 20, 2008
My Word
One would think that after riding up and down the same hills time after time whatever lessons there are to be learned would indeed be learned by now. Why would a fresh assault on the same strip of asphalt yield a new lesson and more curiously why would I find myself metaphorically covering the same ground?
I don’t think I have an answer for that. I just know it to be true. The lessons I have to learn I have to relearn repeatedly--maybe with a slightly higher consciousness than previously.
Today I found myself revisiting the issue of uphill versus downhill. I noticed that I was feeling rather pessimistic about this whole venture while peddling up, and a good deal more optimistic pedaling down. I must note that the exhilaration of flying down the road has been somewhat diminished now that I have felt at a lesser speed the sensation of asphalt tearing my flesh. I am a good deal more cautious and observant than I was in my blissful ignorance prior to my fall a few weeks ago. Reminds me of the Garden of Eden.
One thing I have utterly no explanation for is why I found myself quite spontaneously and at first unconsciously humming Adir Hu as I climbed Sand Hill Road. I don’t usually sing Adir Hu at Passover, much less in the middle of July! It must be something about the relentless repetition of the song that got into sync with my determined pedaling cadence. Later, with as little conscious effort as I made chanting Adir Hu on the way up the hill, I found one of the joyous Lecha Dodi melodies that I recently learned accompanying me downhill. It is not Shabbat, but it did seem in keeping with the delight I was experiencing.
Another strange anachronistic reference went through my mind on the ascent today. Suddenly I had thoughts of Kol Nidre and how we disavow in advance any vows we might make in the year ahead. I think that was originally intended to defend us from being forced to convert during the Spanish Inquisition. I’m not sure it applies to promises and declarations we make in the normal course of our lives. Nonetheless, in the darker moments of today’s ride, the darker side of my soul was searching for a way out of my commitment to cross the Negev in November.
Some of this may be in response to my taking on an assignment from the rabbi to write something about the ride for the September congregational newsletter. The deadline is not for a few weeks, but I got an idea about what I might say just before I was going to bed last night so I jumped on creating a first draft. The newsletter will be issued during Elul, so I tied my preparation for the ride to our annual preparation for the High Holy Days. It is only a stones throw from Elul to Kol Nidre. I will assume my subconscious made that leap as I found the reality of the bike ride much harsher by day than the sublime theory I had savored the night before.
Therein lies a fundamental truth. It is so much easier to make the declaration than to deliver the goods. I suppose that that is one of the incentives for making declarations. Without them there is virtually no way I would have continued my climb today as far as I did. It turns out that hard as it is to do so, I feel the power of my word propel me to take on more than my legs or lungs want me to. The power of my word--it is a mystery why it should have such power given that words are so easily uttered and the performance they commit me to is often so difficult. What stake do my words have in the game? Why would I or anyone else pay them any heed at all? This tells me to guard my tongue as cautiously as I now guard my cycling descents.
I don’t think I have an answer for that. I just know it to be true. The lessons I have to learn I have to relearn repeatedly--maybe with a slightly higher consciousness than previously.
Today I found myself revisiting the issue of uphill versus downhill. I noticed that I was feeling rather pessimistic about this whole venture while peddling up, and a good deal more optimistic pedaling down. I must note that the exhilaration of flying down the road has been somewhat diminished now that I have felt at a lesser speed the sensation of asphalt tearing my flesh. I am a good deal more cautious and observant than I was in my blissful ignorance prior to my fall a few weeks ago. Reminds me of the Garden of Eden.
One thing I have utterly no explanation for is why I found myself quite spontaneously and at first unconsciously humming Adir Hu as I climbed Sand Hill Road. I don’t usually sing Adir Hu at Passover, much less in the middle of July! It must be something about the relentless repetition of the song that got into sync with my determined pedaling cadence. Later, with as little conscious effort as I made chanting Adir Hu on the way up the hill, I found one of the joyous Lecha Dodi melodies that I recently learned accompanying me downhill. It is not Shabbat, but it did seem in keeping with the delight I was experiencing.
Another strange anachronistic reference went through my mind on the ascent today. Suddenly I had thoughts of Kol Nidre and how we disavow in advance any vows we might make in the year ahead. I think that was originally intended to defend us from being forced to convert during the Spanish Inquisition. I’m not sure it applies to promises and declarations we make in the normal course of our lives. Nonetheless, in the darker moments of today’s ride, the darker side of my soul was searching for a way out of my commitment to cross the Negev in November.
Some of this may be in response to my taking on an assignment from the rabbi to write something about the ride for the September congregational newsletter. The deadline is not for a few weeks, but I got an idea about what I might say just before I was going to bed last night so I jumped on creating a first draft. The newsletter will be issued during Elul, so I tied my preparation for the ride to our annual preparation for the High Holy Days. It is only a stones throw from Elul to Kol Nidre. I will assume my subconscious made that leap as I found the reality of the bike ride much harsher by day than the sublime theory I had savored the night before.
Therein lies a fundamental truth. It is so much easier to make the declaration than to deliver the goods. I suppose that that is one of the incentives for making declarations. Without them there is virtually no way I would have continued my climb today as far as I did. It turns out that hard as it is to do so, I feel the power of my word propel me to take on more than my legs or lungs want me to. The power of my word--it is a mystery why it should have such power given that words are so easily uttered and the performance they commit me to is often so difficult. What stake do my words have in the game? Why would I or anyone else pay them any heed at all? This tells me to guard my tongue as cautiously as I now guard my cycling descents.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Maggid
I have a new word in my vocabulary--Maggid.
Of course it is not a new word--quite old in fact. (Wikipedia says dating to the sixteenth century--Maggid (מַגִּיד) is a traditional Eastern European religious itinerant preacher, skilled as a narrator of Torah and religious stories.) Reb Marcia Prager, my teacher last week in a class entitled The High Art of the Maggid, provided a much richer definition. She told us and then demonstrated how the Maggid's aim is far more than mere storytelling or even, like Aesop, providing a moral. The purpose of the story is to activate that part of the listener's heart that wants to serve God. The story becomes a merkava--a chariot that carries one up to the Holy throne.
Tonight a few of us gathered at my house in the presence of a Maggid. I'm not sure if he would self-describe with that term, but it fits nonetheless.
Nigel Savage, Executive Director of Hazon, the sponsoring agency of the Israel Ride, came and regaled us with stories. We learned of his personal history which connects directly with the history of Hazon, which he founded in 2000. The word hazon is Hebrew for "vision." Their vision is "to create a healthier and more sustainable Jewish community -- as a step towards a healthier and more sustainable world for all." We learned the history of the bicycle rides Hazon has initiated in the United States and in Israel to bring attention and resources to the cause of the environment. We listened to anecdotes of riders from past events--people whose bicycles have become merkavot. We listened to Nigel's stories and I, for one, felt a part of my heart activated to greater service.
I have sensed for some time that--as Buckminster Fuller would say--the "precessional effect" of taking on this Israel Ride challenge may not be known for some time. Without going into a lot of detail, that's Bucky's term for unintended consequences of a higher degree of importance than the aim of the original action. I suspect that through this venture I will make connections to people and ideas that will have lasting meaning. I got a small glimpse of that tonight in the stories of past riders. I got an immediate "hit" in our conversation that resulted in my being designated Ba'al Tekiah (the "carrier" of the shofar blast) for our ride. Each ride is heralded at the start with sounding of the shofar.
This has more overtones than a complex Cabernet (says the wine non-drinker). Only a few days ago I related a story to our Maggid class of why I so value the shofar that came to me from my father and came to him from an Israeli tourist guide almost fifty years ago. How they became friends is at the heart of the story which I will save for another time. To think that I will be carrying the shofar, its piercing vibrations, and the memory of these men back to their origin in Eretz Yisrael at the time of my father's yartzeit--this is rich.
Nigel said he would like me to tell the story again when we are together in Israel. It will be my opportunity to be a Maggid for my fellow travelers, which I look forward to as much as anything on the trip.
Of course it is not a new word--quite old in fact. (Wikipedia says dating to the sixteenth century--Maggid (מַגִּיד) is a traditional Eastern European religious itinerant preacher, skilled as a narrator of Torah and religious stories.) Reb Marcia Prager, my teacher last week in a class entitled The High Art of the Maggid, provided a much richer definition. She told us and then demonstrated how the Maggid's aim is far more than mere storytelling or even, like Aesop, providing a moral. The purpose of the story is to activate that part of the listener's heart that wants to serve God. The story becomes a merkava--a chariot that carries one up to the Holy throne.
Tonight a few of us gathered at my house in the presence of a Maggid. I'm not sure if he would self-describe with that term, but it fits nonetheless.
Nigel Savage, Executive Director of Hazon, the sponsoring agency of the Israel Ride, came and regaled us with stories. We learned of his personal history which connects directly with the history of Hazon, which he founded in 2000. The word hazon is Hebrew for "vision." Their vision is "to create a healthier and more sustainable Jewish community -- as a step towards a healthier and more sustainable world for all." We learned the history of the bicycle rides Hazon has initiated in the United States and in Israel to bring attention and resources to the cause of the environment. We listened to anecdotes of riders from past events--people whose bicycles have become merkavot. We listened to Nigel's stories and I, for one, felt a part of my heart activated to greater service.
I have sensed for some time that--as Buckminster Fuller would say--the "precessional effect" of taking on this Israel Ride challenge may not be known for some time. Without going into a lot of detail, that's Bucky's term for unintended consequences of a higher degree of importance than the aim of the original action. I suspect that through this venture I will make connections to people and ideas that will have lasting meaning. I got a small glimpse of that tonight in the stories of past riders. I got an immediate "hit" in our conversation that resulted in my being designated Ba'al Tekiah (the "carrier" of the shofar blast) for our ride. Each ride is heralded at the start with sounding of the shofar.
This has more overtones than a complex Cabernet (says the wine non-drinker). Only a few days ago I related a story to our Maggid class of why I so value the shofar that came to me from my father and came to him from an Israeli tourist guide almost fifty years ago. How they became friends is at the heart of the story which I will save for another time. To think that I will be carrying the shofar, its piercing vibrations, and the memory of these men back to their origin in Eretz Yisrael at the time of my father's yartzeit--this is rich.
Nigel said he would like me to tell the story again when we are together in Israel. It will be my opportunity to be a Maggid for my fellow travelers, which I look forward to as much as anything on the trip.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Watch the Road
One second I am excitedly pedaling to meet a friend a block away so we can begin a challenging ride on a picture perfect day. The next second I am catapulted uncontrollably in air, knowing in the slow movement of time that in a matter of nanoseconds I will be striking the unforgiving asphalt surface below in an unpredictable manner.
Gravity and inertia take their inevitable effect. I land tangled up in bike. The part of me that is still unaware or in denial wants to jump up instantly and carry on. The subconscious truly knowing part of me takes over and commands my body to stop, to lie still, to take stock before moving another muscle.
I lie there slowly realizing that in my haste to join Teri, as I cut through an empty parking lot early on a Saturday morning, I had totally missed seeing a steep unmarked speed bump. Faster than I could react to my spill, a cyclist 100 feet away ran to my aid. There is an elegant pervasive code in the cycling community. We take care of each other. We recognize the frailty, the danger that comes with this challenging sport. We take care of our fellow travelers. Even I who still feels like a visitor at times among the far more experienced cyclists do immediately feel this sense of kinship, affiliation—this bond.
I rose, not wanting to delay my group's 7:45 a.m. wheels rolling target any further. "I have to meet someone." I explained to the man offering aid." No. You need to take care of yourself first, " he insisted. "Did you hit your head?" he asked as he ran for his supply of antiseptic salve and bandages.
Slowly the reality of the moment sunk in. I was bleeding on hands and arms and knees. I took the first aid supplies from my benefactor. Thanked him. Knowing my group was only a block or two away I figured I would ride over to them, but then realized that my handlebars and shifters were in a strange new configuration. It no longer seemed prudent to mount the bike, so I called Teri, let her know that I had wiped out, and slowly walked back to my car, only a few yards away. I drove to the rendezvous point and wished the others a good ride before heading home. My cycling for the day, my cycling for this week was done.
I am loving this whole cycling adventure! Yes I am loving it, bumps in the road included. No I am not a masochist—at least I think not. I do not enjoy the pain. What I value is the learning. Today's message can be a simple one—keep your head in the game. Be awake. Be aware. Be conscious. Be present. Observe what is right in front of you. So many ways to say it.
Where was I when that bump arose from nowhere to attack my bike? Part of me was a few blocks away greeting Teri and her friends. Part of me was being held hostage by a state of haste. Part of me may have been in judgment and anger at being a few minutes late, at not giving myself the time to exit the house at a comfortable pace, to drive to Woodside, to park the car, to deploy my bike—all the little things I would like to have done consciously and deliberately, but was doing in a hurry. Part of me was proud that I showed up at all for any part of a ride heading up Old La Honda Road. Part of me may have been in fear of the same thing. Part of me may have been a saboteur knowing I had so many other things to do before traveling the following day.
Clearly none of me was watching the road, and that, I conclude, is a basic requirement of cycling. I just spit out a bunch of simple messages in the preceding paragraph. I like this one better. It is so pithy—"Watch the road."
I chuckle. It reminds me of how, as a young stickball player, each spring it would take me some time to remember, "keep your eye on the ball"—another basic tenet in the overall category of "watch what you are doing." My dad used to say it this way—"Doug, be careful." And that's what I plan on doing.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thanksgiving
Okay, I know. Today is The Fourth of July--Independence Day! And, like virtually every other holiday, it is a day to give thanks.
I always feel self-conscious, and a bit pushy, if not downright sanctimonious when I suggest that we actually express our thanks at the Thanksgiving table. I'm not sure whether the resistance is truly coming from those assembled or whether it is inside me. Regardless, I truly value the act of giving thanks, of recognizing one's bounty. I do it just about everyday in my morning "Walk 'n' Talk."
As I walked this morning there was a noticeable bounce in my step. I have so much to be thankful for. This is a great nation "conceived in Liberty," and I feel grateful that I am partaking amply in the harvest sown by the Founding Fathers.
I’ve been polishing up my website to launch it today, so its contents are prominent in my thoughts right now. I am grateful that I have had the space in my life to create an ethical will this past year, and to share it lovingly with my magnificent family. Moreover, I have had the good fortune to share this and more with many others through the use of this absolutely magical iMac and with the support of bright, beautiful, and energetic trainers at the Apple store who helped me construct my website and enter these blogs. I have had an abundance of opportunity to reflect, create, share, and love.
As much as I relish seeing my work take form, I look with even greater joy upon the contributions my family made to truly complete the ethical will. By each of them offering words that described what they had learned from me, my collection of blessings in a way became sealed. Hearing what they had learned gave the lessons back to me--sometimes by surprise! Did I teach them that? Did I demonstrate that value? (Some of these I liked hearing about more than others!)
So today is a good day to reflect on an item from Jake's list where he says he learned: “Independence – it is okay to go on your own when nobody wants to 'come with.'" As a Myers-Briggs extrovert I am curious about how I have been spending an increasing amount time alone, and enjoying it quite a bit. As alone as I may be at times, I feel as though what I do is always in relation with others known or unknown. I feel I have an audience even if this blog falls like a tree in the proverbial forest. I guess that’s where the Myers-Briggs thing comes in. Even if no one literally “comes with” I invent them. It’s like shooting 8-ball alone, pretending that Joel Cohen is stripes to my solids. Well, I don’t shoot much pool any more, but you get the idea. Now what I do is more an act of faith that what I do will somehow connect me to others in another time and place.
So far riding bike has been a relatively solo affair. I’ve talked occasionally to other cyclists in stores, at work, at cycling events, but I’ve done very little riding with others so far. Ultimately it gets down to man and machine and the long road ahead. That’s a pregnant metaphor, if ever there was one. I will leave it for you to ponder.
Lastly, at the risk of being a bit pushy, if not downright sanctimonious, I’ll suggest that we all express our thanks for whatever few or hopefully many blessings we can count today. Have a Fabulous Fourth!
I always feel self-conscious, and a bit pushy, if not downright sanctimonious when I suggest that we actually express our thanks at the Thanksgiving table. I'm not sure whether the resistance is truly coming from those assembled or whether it is inside me. Regardless, I truly value the act of giving thanks, of recognizing one's bounty. I do it just about everyday in my morning "Walk 'n' Talk."
As I walked this morning there was a noticeable bounce in my step. I have so much to be thankful for. This is a great nation "conceived in Liberty," and I feel grateful that I am partaking amply in the harvest sown by the Founding Fathers.
I’ve been polishing up my website to launch it today, so its contents are prominent in my thoughts right now. I am grateful that I have had the space in my life to create an ethical will this past year, and to share it lovingly with my magnificent family. Moreover, I have had the good fortune to share this and more with many others through the use of this absolutely magical iMac and with the support of bright, beautiful, and energetic trainers at the Apple store who helped me construct my website and enter these blogs. I have had an abundance of opportunity to reflect, create, share, and love.
As much as I relish seeing my work take form, I look with even greater joy upon the contributions my family made to truly complete the ethical will. By each of them offering words that described what they had learned from me, my collection of blessings in a way became sealed. Hearing what they had learned gave the lessons back to me--sometimes by surprise! Did I teach them that? Did I demonstrate that value? (Some of these I liked hearing about more than others!)
So today is a good day to reflect on an item from Jake's list where he says he learned: “Independence – it is okay to go on your own when nobody wants to 'come with.'" As a Myers-Briggs extrovert I am curious about how I have been spending an increasing amount time alone, and enjoying it quite a bit. As alone as I may be at times, I feel as though what I do is always in relation with others known or unknown. I feel I have an audience even if this blog falls like a tree in the proverbial forest. I guess that’s where the Myers-Briggs thing comes in. Even if no one literally “comes with” I invent them. It’s like shooting 8-ball alone, pretending that Joel Cohen is stripes to my solids. Well, I don’t shoot much pool any more, but you get the idea. Now what I do is more an act of faith that what I do will somehow connect me to others in another time and place.
So far riding bike has been a relatively solo affair. I’ve talked occasionally to other cyclists in stores, at work, at cycling events, but I’ve done very little riding with others so far. Ultimately it gets down to man and machine and the long road ahead. That’s a pregnant metaphor, if ever there was one. I will leave it for you to ponder.
Lastly, at the risk of being a bit pushy, if not downright sanctimonious, I’ll suggest that we all express our thanks for whatever few or hopefully many blessings we can count today. Have a Fabulous Fourth!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Open-faced Sandwich
They call us the sandwich generation. Many of us are in the middle of the sandwich -- caring for the two generations on either side of us. Debbie and I would then have to be an open-faced sandwich. The generation that preceded us has been gone for some years now. Perhaps, each of us, being the baby of our respective families, has moved us through the passage of losing our parents earlier than some of our peers. That only accounts for the more recent losses--my mom in 2001, and Deb's dad in 1996. It does not account for the early death of her mom in 1982 at the age of 66, nor my dad's death in 1974 at the age of 62. For us, the top slice of bread was unceremoniously removed from half our sandwich much too soon. In fairness to our adult children I should hasten to add that we really have little to do to care for them at this point either. We're more like a protein-style In-n-Out burger than a sandwich at all -- low carb, no bun!
Today is Fathers Day. I tend not to dwell on the significance of this day all that much. Nor do I tend to dwell on my father's memory significantly more on this Hallmark holiday than on other days. Today, however, in the midst of a thirty-mile training ride, it did occur to me that this year, with the emphasis I have put on Dad's birthday and, later this year, the beginning of my Israel adventure on the anniversary of his death, that perhaps this is a Fathers Day on which I might give more thought to my father than previously.
I have hinted at, but not officially declared that my ride in Israel is "dedicated" to my father's memory. Seems appropriate under the circumstances. If I were to do that, today would be an appropriate occasion to make such a declaration. As I pedaled along I began to wonder just what that actually means. What would it mean to "dedicate" a ride to my dad? I've seen athlete's dedicate games to fallen teammates. "Win one for the Gipper" and all that. I've seen Barry Bonds and other less notorious ballplayers touch their hearts as they cross home plate and then point up to the sky as if their beloved fathers or grandmothers or other guardian angels were perched somewhere above the stadium lights looking down on them and arranging the location of pitches and the force of the wind to assure a successful plate appearance.
Somehow that doesn't work for me. It doesn't even seem particularly Jewish. Even though we talk so little of angels and afterlife in Judaism I am not entirely convinced that some other-worldly help is out of the question. Then again, that sounds more like Dad would have to dedicate the ride to me than vice versa.
Still, I really tried to see if I could experience some of that mojo. As I approached my nemesis hill on Arastradero -- the one that claimed eleven small bites of flesh from my leg on a recent ascent -- I held a thought of my dad. On every previous assault of this really minuscule but menacing slope I have stopped midway to relieve the ache from my legs and to catch my breath. That's what I had done last week before I started up again and my foot slipped off the pedal thrusting my leg into the large gear's teeth. I have also tried a different tack on some days by stopping to rest at the bottom of the hill, thus allowing me the strength to make it to the top without having to stop in the middle.
Today I neither stopped at the bottom, nor midway, nor at the top (which is another favorite strategy). In fact I proceeded the entire length of Arastradero (which has been good for at least two or three pauses), turned left onto Alpine Road--a long more gradual ascent that has also caused me to take a break midway--and continued on without interruption until I was well down Portola Valley Road. My longest continuous climb to date!
Was it the methodical stretching I did early in the ride after I had warmed up a few miles? Was it the deliberate cadence I struck moving along Arastradero before getting to this point? Or, possibly, was I somehow buoyed by the powerful image of my father within me as one foot followed the other in relentless circles taking me beyond the pain, further than any prior performance?
Maybe it is simply that I have lost some weight and gotten a little stronger -- physically and mentally -- enabling me to do what inevitably I should expect to do with regular training -- outperform myself week by week. That is logical. That after all is the goal of training. I would be happy to leave it at that. That alone gives me hope that some how I will magically make it to November a transformed specimen of a cyclist.
Anyone who knows me knows just what a sentimental sap I am. I will continue to train, for sure. AND I sure as hell will invoke all the spirits that would be in any position to deliver me to my destination. AND, I am dedicating my ride, my training, myself to haRav Shimon ben Yisrael -- Rabbi Sidney Ballon, of blessed memory.
Happy Fathers Day, Dad!
Today is Fathers Day. I tend not to dwell on the significance of this day all that much. Nor do I tend to dwell on my father's memory significantly more on this Hallmark holiday than on other days. Today, however, in the midst of a thirty-mile training ride, it did occur to me that this year, with the emphasis I have put on Dad's birthday and, later this year, the beginning of my Israel adventure on the anniversary of his death, that perhaps this is a Fathers Day on which I might give more thought to my father than previously.
I have hinted at, but not officially declared that my ride in Israel is "dedicated" to my father's memory. Seems appropriate under the circumstances. If I were to do that, today would be an appropriate occasion to make such a declaration. As I pedaled along I began to wonder just what that actually means. What would it mean to "dedicate" a ride to my dad? I've seen athlete's dedicate games to fallen teammates. "Win one for the Gipper" and all that. I've seen Barry Bonds and other less notorious ballplayers touch their hearts as they cross home plate and then point up to the sky as if their beloved fathers or grandmothers or other guardian angels were perched somewhere above the stadium lights looking down on them and arranging the location of pitches and the force of the wind to assure a successful plate appearance.
Somehow that doesn't work for me. It doesn't even seem particularly Jewish. Even though we talk so little of angels and afterlife in Judaism I am not entirely convinced that some other-worldly help is out of the question. Then again, that sounds more like Dad would have to dedicate the ride to me than vice versa.
Still, I really tried to see if I could experience some of that mojo. As I approached my nemesis hill on Arastradero -- the one that claimed eleven small bites of flesh from my leg on a recent ascent -- I held a thought of my dad. On every previous assault of this really minuscule but menacing slope I have stopped midway to relieve the ache from my legs and to catch my breath. That's what I had done last week before I started up again and my foot slipped off the pedal thrusting my leg into the large gear's teeth. I have also tried a different tack on some days by stopping to rest at the bottom of the hill, thus allowing me the strength to make it to the top without having to stop in the middle.
Today I neither stopped at the bottom, nor midway, nor at the top (which is another favorite strategy). In fact I proceeded the entire length of Arastradero (which has been good for at least two or three pauses), turned left onto Alpine Road--a long more gradual ascent that has also caused me to take a break midway--and continued on without interruption until I was well down Portola Valley Road. My longest continuous climb to date!
Was it the methodical stretching I did early in the ride after I had warmed up a few miles? Was it the deliberate cadence I struck moving along Arastradero before getting to this point? Or, possibly, was I somehow buoyed by the powerful image of my father within me as one foot followed the other in relentless circles taking me beyond the pain, further than any prior performance?
Maybe it is simply that I have lost some weight and gotten a little stronger -- physically and mentally -- enabling me to do what inevitably I should expect to do with regular training -- outperform myself week by week. That is logical. That after all is the goal of training. I would be happy to leave it at that. That alone gives me hope that some how I will magically make it to November a transformed specimen of a cyclist.
Anyone who knows me knows just what a sentimental sap I am. I will continue to train, for sure. AND I sure as hell will invoke all the spirits that would be in any position to deliver me to my destination. AND, I am dedicating my ride, my training, myself to haRav Shimon ben Yisrael -- Rabbi Sidney Ballon, of blessed memory.
Happy Fathers Day, Dad!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Mercury Retrograde
I have a friend who will remain nameless--Barry, if you must know--who announces periodically the coming and going of the planet Mercury, ascribing to its sojourn through the solar system certain metaphysical properties. I can't say categorically that his claims are invalid. Well, I could I suppose. But I read it right here on the Internet that "at 15:49 UT (Universal Time), on Monday, May 26th, 2008, Mercury the cosmic trickster [turned] retrograde in Gemini, the sign of the Twins, sending communications, travel, appointments, mail and the www into a general snarl up!" So it must be true.
Now that you know this I'm sure you can think of many substantiating occurrences in recent days where you ran into trouble with communications, travel, appointments, mail and the web. I know I have. Debbie and I had words over a minor incident. I tried to book travel and couldn't get the flights I wanted. My boss and I set up several appointments and he didn't show. My mailbox has been flooded with junk mail. And believe it or not the Internet went down on Deb's computer. None of these things ever happen when Mercury is in whatever the opposite is of "retro"grade. As if.
This morning was a prime example. Wanting to beat the afternoon heat, I decided to take an early bike ride. I pedaled down Ross Road and headed up East Meadow toward the hills. I stopped obediently at the light at Middlefield, stood patiently beside a schoolgirl also waiting to cross. When the light turned green--ever the schoolboy wanting to impress--I attempted to peel out, but flailed helplessly as the cleat on the sole of my shoe slipped right off the pedal. Mercury retrograde.
I finally got in gear and was really taking in the perfect Palo Alto morning. Heading up a shallow incline on Arastradero I gently--or so I thought--dropped into a lower gear. Agggh!!! The chain slipped past all the gears and wedged itself inextricably around the axle. Man I tugged and spun at it, flipped the bike in all directions to grab it from a different angle. Finally. Finally got it unstuck. Mercury retrograde.
Then it was time to take on my greatest nemesis--the steep slope staring just past the 280 overpass. I decided today, if I were to do nothing else but ride up here everyday until I could ascend this hill without stopping it would carry me a long way to Eilat. Not unexpectedly the pain in my legs and the shortness of breath forced me to rest. Feeling restored I perched myself atop my tiny black bike seat to continue onward and upward. Debbie recently inquired about the difficulty of starting a bike on a steep incline. "No problem, " I assured her. "You're in low gear--you start right up." Not in Mercury retrograde. My right foot again slipped off the pedal. My weight went to the left where my foot was securely attached to the left pedal. I was coming to a standstill with no power and visions of toppling dancing in my head when to my great relief I extricated my left foot and rather than falling over managed to only mash my right leg against the front gears tattooing my calf with a black and red rendering of the teeth.
Mercury in retrograde--a three week malevolent fortune cookie that visits three times a year! It is easy to look at these occurrences in its reflection. And there is another side to it.
I fixed the Internet connection. So I'm a hero. The junk mail won't go away, but I got a great book on prayer from Amazon in very short order. My boss will continue to make and break appointments--it's okay. Better than having him breathing down my neck. I didn't get the flights I originally wanted, but what I ended up with will open up opportunities to meet different people and do unexpected things. Debbie and I made up faster than ever. We have learned that communications are not always what we want them to be. We have learned that our time together is too precious to get bogged down by our mistakes.
The next time Mercury goes retrograde will be September 24. Order will not be restored in the Universe until October 31. We fly to Florence on the 29th so we may just catch the tail end of the travel issues. Then again we'll be using miles and will be in first class--perhaps that will protect us.
As for the rest of our travels--Stockholm to visit Deb's sister Judi and family--Deb and Judi to Nairobi to visit our niece Liza--and me of course onto Israel--we'll just have to do without the excitement, the challenges, and the opportunities of confronting a Mercury retrograde.
Now that you know this I'm sure you can think of many substantiating occurrences in recent days where you ran into trouble with communications, travel, appointments, mail and the web. I know I have. Debbie and I had words over a minor incident. I tried to book travel and couldn't get the flights I wanted. My boss and I set up several appointments and he didn't show. My mailbox has been flooded with junk mail. And believe it or not the Internet went down on Deb's computer. None of these things ever happen when Mercury is in whatever the opposite is of "retro"grade. As if.
This morning was a prime example. Wanting to beat the afternoon heat, I decided to take an early bike ride. I pedaled down Ross Road and headed up East Meadow toward the hills. I stopped obediently at the light at Middlefield, stood patiently beside a schoolgirl also waiting to cross. When the light turned green--ever the schoolboy wanting to impress--I attempted to peel out, but flailed helplessly as the cleat on the sole of my shoe slipped right off the pedal. Mercury retrograde.
I finally got in gear and was really taking in the perfect Palo Alto morning. Heading up a shallow incline on Arastradero I gently--or so I thought--dropped into a lower gear. Agggh!!! The chain slipped past all the gears and wedged itself inextricably around the axle. Man I tugged and spun at it, flipped the bike in all directions to grab it from a different angle. Finally. Finally got it unstuck. Mercury retrograde.
Then it was time to take on my greatest nemesis--the steep slope staring just past the 280 overpass. I decided today, if I were to do nothing else but ride up here everyday until I could ascend this hill without stopping it would carry me a long way to Eilat. Not unexpectedly the pain in my legs and the shortness of breath forced me to rest. Feeling restored I perched myself atop my tiny black bike seat to continue onward and upward. Debbie recently inquired about the difficulty of starting a bike on a steep incline. "No problem, " I assured her. "You're in low gear--you start right up." Not in Mercury retrograde. My right foot again slipped off the pedal. My weight went to the left where my foot was securely attached to the left pedal. I was coming to a standstill with no power and visions of toppling dancing in my head when to my great relief I extricated my left foot and rather than falling over managed to only mash my right leg against the front gears tattooing my calf with a black and red rendering of the teeth.
Mercury in retrograde--a three week malevolent fortune cookie that visits three times a year! It is easy to look at these occurrences in its reflection. And there is another side to it.
I fixed the Internet connection. So I'm a hero. The junk mail won't go away, but I got a great book on prayer from Amazon in very short order. My boss will continue to make and break appointments--it's okay. Better than having him breathing down my neck. I didn't get the flights I originally wanted, but what I ended up with will open up opportunities to meet different people and do unexpected things. Debbie and I made up faster than ever. We have learned that communications are not always what we want them to be. We have learned that our time together is too precious to get bogged down by our mistakes.
The next time Mercury goes retrograde will be September 24. Order will not be restored in the Universe until October 31. We fly to Florence on the 29th so we may just catch the tail end of the travel issues. Then again we'll be using miles and will be in first class--perhaps that will protect us.
As for the rest of our travels--Stockholm to visit Deb's sister Judi and family--Deb and Judi to Nairobi to visit our niece Liza--and me of course onto Israel--we'll just have to do without the excitement, the challenges, and the opportunities of confronting a Mercury retrograde.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
One Hundred Seventy Days
Today is the 96th anniversary of my father’s birth. Happy birthday, Dad.
In 170 days it will be November 11, 2008—the 34th anniversary of his death, and coincidentally the first day of my bicycle trek across Israel. I do not have forty years of wandering in the desert ahead of me, but in some ways it may feel that way. Some days I will feel lost, hopeless, wanting to return to the comfort of the past. Some days I will find the sustenance unacceptable, the waters bitter, and certainly the uphill climbs strenuous and even painful. And, I pray, some days I will experience revelation, light, awe, truth. All of these, and more, will be the companions of my journey.
One hundred seventy is a big number. It represents too many days for me to hold in my awareness. I can understand today, tomorrow, this week, maybe even this month. Five months, twenty-four weeks is much too long for me to get my arms around. Although I have spent much of my career planning projects of longer duration, and creating annual plans, this is the result of applying concepts and tools that are inherently opposed to my nature. I see myself as a spontaneous, intuitive person. When Myers-Briggs inventories ask whether I like to have my Sundays planned (I transpose the question to Saturday) the answer is emphatically “No”. When Deb asks on Friday night, “Are you going to shul tomorrow?” The answer is typically, “We’ll see.” One of the reasons Deb and I have so much trouble planning and taking vacations is that the arrangements—especially using frequent flyer miles—demand that we transport ourselves too far out in the future.
And yet, God willing, in 170 days I know exactly where I will be and what I will be doing. Frightening. All the more so, because to do this thing I purport to do I must also do certain things on all or most of the days between now and then. I must ride increasing distances along increasingly challenging routes. I must experience the pain and exhilaration of climbing and descending the Santa Cruz mountains. I must continually monitor and adjust the delicate relationship between my body and the machine that transports me. I must find a pair of riding shoes or a saddle or cleat position that allows me to pedal more than an hour and a half without my pinky toes becoming numb. I must strengthen my legs and arms and torso. I must strengthen my resistance to self-medicate with food. I must reduce my body mass index—not for this ride alone, but for the forty-plus years of wandering I plan to do after the ride.
I have so much to do.
I know I can only do whatever I do in the discrete, indefinable moment of “now”. And while the self-help literature preaches the value of living in the present I still feel a need to put “now” in a context that includes November 11, 1974 and November 11, 2008. What was, what is, and what may be some day, frame a conversation of contrasts that fuel awareness and action in the present. My health is good, and I am the son of two parents who had heart disease. I am optimistic, and I must not turn a blind eye to heredity. I have had a better diet, more exercise, in a smoke free environment than did my parents, and I am obese, take cholesterol medication and have some tendencies that left unchecked could lead to diabetes.
So when I say “I am making a commitment to my own sustainability as well as the planet's,” these are powerful words. Yet there is a part of me that acts indifferent to my own declaration. I get it intellectually, that both the planet and my body are desperately seeking my attention and support. And at another level, I am acutely aware that I have done too little for either. I wonder what it will take. When will my heart and soul catch up to my mind?
One hundred seventy days is a long time, but not so long that I can fritter them away with thoughts that there are so many tomorrows that I can postpone doing today what can only be done today. Last December I spoke to the congregation about the symbolism of Chanukah and how lighting candles was a beautiful way to be mindful of the need to measure our days. Today my prayer, my charge to myself, my pledge, is to kindle a flame within that will illuminate my path and guide me to make conscious life affirming decisions today, the next 170 days, and all the days of my life.
In 170 days it will be November 11, 2008—the 34th anniversary of his death, and coincidentally the first day of my bicycle trek across Israel. I do not have forty years of wandering in the desert ahead of me, but in some ways it may feel that way. Some days I will feel lost, hopeless, wanting to return to the comfort of the past. Some days I will find the sustenance unacceptable, the waters bitter, and certainly the uphill climbs strenuous and even painful. And, I pray, some days I will experience revelation, light, awe, truth. All of these, and more, will be the companions of my journey.
One hundred seventy is a big number. It represents too many days for me to hold in my awareness. I can understand today, tomorrow, this week, maybe even this month. Five months, twenty-four weeks is much too long for me to get my arms around. Although I have spent much of my career planning projects of longer duration, and creating annual plans, this is the result of applying concepts and tools that are inherently opposed to my nature. I see myself as a spontaneous, intuitive person. When Myers-Briggs inventories ask whether I like to have my Sundays planned (I transpose the question to Saturday) the answer is emphatically “No”. When Deb asks on Friday night, “Are you going to shul tomorrow?” The answer is typically, “We’ll see.” One of the reasons Deb and I have so much trouble planning and taking vacations is that the arrangements—especially using frequent flyer miles—demand that we transport ourselves too far out in the future.
And yet, God willing, in 170 days I know exactly where I will be and what I will be doing. Frightening. All the more so, because to do this thing I purport to do I must also do certain things on all or most of the days between now and then. I must ride increasing distances along increasingly challenging routes. I must experience the pain and exhilaration of climbing and descending the Santa Cruz mountains. I must continually monitor and adjust the delicate relationship between my body and the machine that transports me. I must find a pair of riding shoes or a saddle or cleat position that allows me to pedal more than an hour and a half without my pinky toes becoming numb. I must strengthen my legs and arms and torso. I must strengthen my resistance to self-medicate with food. I must reduce my body mass index—not for this ride alone, but for the forty-plus years of wandering I plan to do after the ride.
I have so much to do.
I know I can only do whatever I do in the discrete, indefinable moment of “now”. And while the self-help literature preaches the value of living in the present I still feel a need to put “now” in a context that includes November 11, 1974 and November 11, 2008. What was, what is, and what may be some day, frame a conversation of contrasts that fuel awareness and action in the present. My health is good, and I am the son of two parents who had heart disease. I am optimistic, and I must not turn a blind eye to heredity. I have had a better diet, more exercise, in a smoke free environment than did my parents, and I am obese, take cholesterol medication and have some tendencies that left unchecked could lead to diabetes.
So when I say “I am making a commitment to my own sustainability as well as the planet's,” these are powerful words. Yet there is a part of me that acts indifferent to my own declaration. I get it intellectually, that both the planet and my body are desperately seeking my attention and support. And at another level, I am acutely aware that I have done too little for either. I wonder what it will take. When will my heart and soul catch up to my mind?
One hundred seventy days is a long time, but not so long that I can fritter them away with thoughts that there are so many tomorrows that I can postpone doing today what can only be done today. Last December I spoke to the congregation about the symbolism of Chanukah and how lighting candles was a beautiful way to be mindful of the need to measure our days. Today my prayer, my charge to myself, my pledge, is to kindle a flame within that will illuminate my path and guide me to make conscious life affirming decisions today, the next 170 days, and all the days of my life.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Precipice
I feel I am on a precipice.
Erev my first bike event--the Foothill Century--the only kosher century ride in the West! It is a fund raiser for the South Peninsula Hebrew Day School in Sunnyvale, with over 450 cyclists registered. I signed up for the 50k group--something like 36 miles--over 50% more than my longest ride to date and approximately 449 more riders involved.
I am excited. A little nervous. It will be a good step up from what I have been doing. A new experience. Hopefully pleasant.
Tomorrow is also the day I have committed to do the pre-launch of my fund raising campaign for the Israel Ride. It's my mom's birthday--which adds a nice connection to the day. My plan is to get some feedback from a few friends and family this week. Hopefully some donations as well. So that next Sunday--May 25, my dad's birthday I will do the full launch of the campaign. It's poetic. The ride itself starts on November 11, Dad's yartzeit. It seems fitting in several ways to dedicate this venture to him. The physical fitness part for sure. Actually he and Mom each had heart disease, but it was fatal for him. To exercise, lose weight, is important given my family history. The spiritual connection is another piece of family legacy, and one I embrace with pleasure. It really makes this whole crazy effort so much more powerful knowing that it will take me to the land and the people of Israel.
It is nice too that tomorrow's event, my first of this kind, is for a Jewish school, although I hasten to add that that is more a matter of circumstance than design. I have also signed up for the 50k section of the Sequoia Century on June 1 sponsored by the Peninsula's major bike club--the Western Wheelers.
I had a conversation this week with a staff member for the November ride. One thing led to another and I ended up buying their new training Jersey--with the letters emblazoned across the front "The People of the Bike." That should raise a few eyebrows at tomorrow's Jewish biking venue. In case anyone is curious I will have some handouts describing the Israel Ride and also giving them an opportunity to log onto my rider's page and make a contribution! Shameless marketing.
It has actually been a very stimulating bike week. A couple of highlights. With the temperature soaring to 100 degrees I decided to move my afternoon workout to early morning. Thursday when I headed up Arastradero Road I got to the intersection with Foothill Boulevard and discovered a bikers' refreshment stand supporting National Bike to Work Day participants. It was only a small stretch to say I was biking to work. Given that I work at home it was a 23 mile detour from my bedroom to my office, but it did indeed lead me to work. I gratefully accepted the Hobee's coffee cake and commemorative canvas bag they provided, regrettably eschewing some healthier alternatives.
I was amazed by the number of cyclists I saw commuting that morning--and the variety. Sprinkled in among what looked like the "regulars" was a unicyclist climbing (and later no doubt descending) Sand Hill Road. This is no small feat on a road bike, much less a unicycle. I reached my all time fastest speed that morning--40 mph on the way down Sand Hill. How someone defies gravity with direct drive pedals is beyond me. Maybe the other extreme was a women in a flowing dress, easily 300 pounds who I had to tacitly applaud for the extraordinary effort she demonstrated. From afar I silently wished her well on her quest, presumably toward fitness. It did set a context regarding my own obesity (yes, that's what all the body mass index charts label me).
Friday morning I went out for the first time with my friend John Carlsen who is a highly experienced cyclist. He gave me some great pointers such as how to stretch my calves on downhill runs, how and why I should increase my cadence going uphill, plus he took me through some magnificent back roads.
Shortly after John and I parted company I heard a loud pop from my rear tire--my first blowout! Gamely I applied the lesson I had received a month before at the bike store on how to change a tire. It came to me slowly, but I did manage to get it all apart and back together again! And simultaneously host a conference call for work that I had hoped to conduct from my office had I gotten home in time.
Tonight I am making final preparations for tomorrow's event. Freshly cleaned attire. New socks! Chilled water for my Camelback backpack hydration system. A fresh inner tube for my emergency kit. Carbo loading at my latest favorite Mexican restaurant. And some final touches to my website which will become publicized for the first time as part of the fund raising effort.
I am on a precipice, and that is one of the most exciting places to be!
Erev my first bike event--the Foothill Century--the only kosher century ride in the West! It is a fund raiser for the South Peninsula Hebrew Day School in Sunnyvale, with over 450 cyclists registered. I signed up for the 50k group--something like 36 miles--over 50% more than my longest ride to date and approximately 449 more riders involved.
I am excited. A little nervous. It will be a good step up from what I have been doing. A new experience. Hopefully pleasant.
Tomorrow is also the day I have committed to do the pre-launch of my fund raising campaign for the Israel Ride. It's my mom's birthday--which adds a nice connection to the day. My plan is to get some feedback from a few friends and family this week. Hopefully some donations as well. So that next Sunday--May 25, my dad's birthday I will do the full launch of the campaign. It's poetic. The ride itself starts on November 11, Dad's yartzeit. It seems fitting in several ways to dedicate this venture to him. The physical fitness part for sure. Actually he and Mom each had heart disease, but it was fatal for him. To exercise, lose weight, is important given my family history. The spiritual connection is another piece of family legacy, and one I embrace with pleasure. It really makes this whole crazy effort so much more powerful knowing that it will take me to the land and the people of Israel.
It is nice too that tomorrow's event, my first of this kind, is for a Jewish school, although I hasten to add that that is more a matter of circumstance than design. I have also signed up for the 50k section of the Sequoia Century on June 1 sponsored by the Peninsula's major bike club--the Western Wheelers.
I had a conversation this week with a staff member for the November ride. One thing led to another and I ended up buying their new training Jersey--with the letters emblazoned across the front "The People of the Bike." That should raise a few eyebrows at tomorrow's Jewish biking venue. In case anyone is curious I will have some handouts describing the Israel Ride and also giving them an opportunity to log onto my rider's page and make a contribution! Shameless marketing.
It has actually been a very stimulating bike week. A couple of highlights. With the temperature soaring to 100 degrees I decided to move my afternoon workout to early morning. Thursday when I headed up Arastradero Road I got to the intersection with Foothill Boulevard and discovered a bikers' refreshment stand supporting National Bike to Work Day participants. It was only a small stretch to say I was biking to work. Given that I work at home it was a 23 mile detour from my bedroom to my office, but it did indeed lead me to work. I gratefully accepted the Hobee's coffee cake and commemorative canvas bag they provided, regrettably eschewing some healthier alternatives.
I was amazed by the number of cyclists I saw commuting that morning--and the variety. Sprinkled in among what looked like the "regulars" was a unicyclist climbing (and later no doubt descending) Sand Hill Road. This is no small feat on a road bike, much less a unicycle. I reached my all time fastest speed that morning--40 mph on the way down Sand Hill. How someone defies gravity with direct drive pedals is beyond me. Maybe the other extreme was a women in a flowing dress, easily 300 pounds who I had to tacitly applaud for the extraordinary effort she demonstrated. From afar I silently wished her well on her quest, presumably toward fitness. It did set a context regarding my own obesity (yes, that's what all the body mass index charts label me).
Friday morning I went out for the first time with my friend John Carlsen who is a highly experienced cyclist. He gave me some great pointers such as how to stretch my calves on downhill runs, how and why I should increase my cadence going uphill, plus he took me through some magnificent back roads.
Shortly after John and I parted company I heard a loud pop from my rear tire--my first blowout! Gamely I applied the lesson I had received a month before at the bike store on how to change a tire. It came to me slowly, but I did manage to get it all apart and back together again! And simultaneously host a conference call for work that I had hoped to conduct from my office had I gotten home in time.
Tonight I am making final preparations for tomorrow's event. Freshly cleaned attire. New socks! Chilled water for my Camelback backpack hydration system. A fresh inner tube for my emergency kit. Carbo loading at my latest favorite Mexican restaurant. And some final touches to my website which will become publicized for the first time as part of the fund raising effort.
I am on a precipice, and that is one of the most exciting places to be!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Just Around the Bend
I love riding the bike. I love the bike. Its pristine black shiny frame. The spare spokes that I actually swiped with a cloth the other day. Rims. Gear thingies. Its utter bikeness.
I'm pretty sure all bikes look the same. I'm pretty sure that if I show my new bike to someone they see, "bike". After all, that's what it is. I was gonna say "that's all it is" and I caught myself. If that was all it was then I would not be tapping these keys right now.
Bike is an unfolding metaphor.
I say unfolding--no, it's not one of those collapsible bikes--because I am already sensing that its meaning in my life today is not what it was a month ago, and not what it will be six months from now. Oh sure, bike is vehicle. Vehicle is how I get myself from here to there (although when I am there is has become the new here so did I actually transport myself? or the Universe? Ouch. See how cosmic this contraption has already become!
So I headed up Arastradero Road today--the entire length. It is actually something I have done in the reverse direction with some glee. Glee is that emotion that I have noticed accompanies the act of pedaling at alarming rates downhill. Glee is not the emotion I experienced pedaling up Arastradero Road this afternoon, although in subsequent conversation with John at the Men's Group tonight he pointed out to me that many fellow cyclists actually experience more glee going up hills than down. Some of that may be attributed to another emotion that arises when experienced cyclists ascend increasingly steep slopes only to descend at increasingly alarming speeds, thus inducing more a sensation of fear than glee. In my short time in this avocation I have had tastes of that, previously noted.
So I was heading up Arastradero Road today, and perceived a slow and steady climb. "This is good," I most certainly sensed at some level. This is good. Pumping. Changing gears. Pumping hard. Changing gears again. Again. Until there were no more gears to escape to. Until a heaviness descended upon my legs, a pain to be sure, as deep labored breaths clamored for oxygen that seemed so plentiful only minutes before.
This is hard. I must remember this when I enter my biking log on MapMyRun.com tonight. The entire ride may not be hard, but this climb--this puny climb--is a real challenge. Visions of photos of last year's bike event flashed through my head. Panoramas stretching out for miles. Nothing but sand and sun and a serpentine stripe of asphalt going only one way--up. A quote from the promotional video is stuck in my head. "This was the most physically taxing undertaking I have ever experienced," or words to that effect.
And here I am on this puny little hill on a breezy balmy afternoon struggling with every rotation of my granny gear. I got some work to do!
I am developing a modicum of patience. I am willing to take on incrementally longer and more challenging rides. I am willing to watch my self grow in physical and psychological mettle. And gratefully I am willing to stop the bike on several occasions to catch my breath. That's the only sane thing to do. Of what benefit would it be to keep pushing to the brink of collapse or beyond it?
At one such stop I pulled out one of the dozen or so nutritional organic energy bars I stocked up on yesterday at the Country Sun--our local health food emporium. I got one of practically every brand. I'll try 'em. I 'll see which one combines best nutrition and taste. Well this first coconut almond bar was ambrosia. Each crunchy bite exploded with texture and flavor on my tongue--the absolute best morsel I have ever eaten in my life! Now it is possible that this was a result of simply being hungry. Yesterday, at Country Sun I took a small sample from a basket--a bread stick of sorts. All organic whole grain crunchy goodness. It was thin and brown, It had a marked snap. There were crystals of sugar on the surface. There were half burned currants embedded in it. There was, objectively little to recommend this, yet I thought most clearly that this was the absolute best morsel I had ever eaten in my life! Imagine--two days in a row!
Later, in the evening I shared this bread stick delicacy with Debbie, and neither of us could replicate the sensation I had earlier. We concluded that I must have been particularly hungry in the store. -Then again, maybe it had little to do with hunger and more to do with consciousness. The kind of consciousness that can make an uphill climb anathema to one and delight to another.
Oh yeah--"just around the bend"--the title of this piece. Well I could stop here and retitle the post, but I do want to remember the metaphor of "the bend". We were having a conversation about hope, despair, cynicism, skepticism--the usual light banter for a Thursday evening. I told the guys that as much as I find hope a pitiful illusion at times I also have found myself on occasion clinging to it in desperation. (That's a telling oxymoron!)
As I was pedaling a long slow climb this afternoon I looked ahead at the bend in the road and with no evidence to support such a notion I immediately allowed myself to believe that the road would surely crest at that turn. All I had to do was make it to the bend ahead and it would be downhill from there. That encapsulates the sinister deception of hope. You, reading this with a rational mind already sense the disappoint I would experience upon discovering that the turn in no way signalled an end to climbing.
The mind of an optimist is rarely defeated. After taking a little breather I hopped back on my magnificent machine thinking, "Next time I'll know better."
We'll see.
I'm pretty sure all bikes look the same. I'm pretty sure that if I show my new bike to someone they see, "bike". After all, that's what it is. I was gonna say "that's all it is" and I caught myself. If that was all it was then I would not be tapping these keys right now.
Bike is an unfolding metaphor.
I say unfolding--no, it's not one of those collapsible bikes--because I am already sensing that its meaning in my life today is not what it was a month ago, and not what it will be six months from now. Oh sure, bike is vehicle. Vehicle is how I get myself from here to there (although when I am there is has become the new here so did I actually transport myself? or the Universe? Ouch. See how cosmic this contraption has already become!
So I headed up Arastradero Road today--the entire length. It is actually something I have done in the reverse direction with some glee. Glee is that emotion that I have noticed accompanies the act of pedaling at alarming rates downhill. Glee is not the emotion I experienced pedaling up Arastradero Road this afternoon, although in subsequent conversation with John at the Men's Group tonight he pointed out to me that many fellow cyclists actually experience more glee going up hills than down. Some of that may be attributed to another emotion that arises when experienced cyclists ascend increasingly steep slopes only to descend at increasingly alarming speeds, thus inducing more a sensation of fear than glee. In my short time in this avocation I have had tastes of that, previously noted.
So I was heading up Arastradero Road today, and perceived a slow and steady climb. "This is good," I most certainly sensed at some level. This is good. Pumping. Changing gears. Pumping hard. Changing gears again. Again. Until there were no more gears to escape to. Until a heaviness descended upon my legs, a pain to be sure, as deep labored breaths clamored for oxygen that seemed so plentiful only minutes before.
This is hard. I must remember this when I enter my biking log on MapMyRun.com tonight. The entire ride may not be hard, but this climb--this puny climb--is a real challenge. Visions of photos of last year's bike event flashed through my head. Panoramas stretching out for miles. Nothing but sand and sun and a serpentine stripe of asphalt going only one way--up. A quote from the promotional video is stuck in my head. "This was the most physically taxing undertaking I have ever experienced," or words to that effect.
And here I am on this puny little hill on a breezy balmy afternoon struggling with every rotation of my granny gear. I got some work to do!
I am developing a modicum of patience. I am willing to take on incrementally longer and more challenging rides. I am willing to watch my self grow in physical and psychological mettle. And gratefully I am willing to stop the bike on several occasions to catch my breath. That's the only sane thing to do. Of what benefit would it be to keep pushing to the brink of collapse or beyond it?
At one such stop I pulled out one of the dozen or so nutritional organic energy bars I stocked up on yesterday at the Country Sun--our local health food emporium. I got one of practically every brand. I'll try 'em. I 'll see which one combines best nutrition and taste. Well this first coconut almond bar was ambrosia. Each crunchy bite exploded with texture and flavor on my tongue--the absolute best morsel I have ever eaten in my life! Now it is possible that this was a result of simply being hungry. Yesterday, at Country Sun I took a small sample from a basket--a bread stick of sorts. All organic whole grain crunchy goodness. It was thin and brown, It had a marked snap. There were crystals of sugar on the surface. There were half burned currants embedded in it. There was, objectively little to recommend this, yet I thought most clearly that this was the absolute best morsel I had ever eaten in my life! Imagine--two days in a row!
Later, in the evening I shared this bread stick delicacy with Debbie, and neither of us could replicate the sensation I had earlier. We concluded that I must have been particularly hungry in the store. -Then again, maybe it had little to do with hunger and more to do with consciousness. The kind of consciousness that can make an uphill climb anathema to one and delight to another.
Oh yeah--"just around the bend"--the title of this piece. Well I could stop here and retitle the post, but I do want to remember the metaphor of "the bend". We were having a conversation about hope, despair, cynicism, skepticism--the usual light banter for a Thursday evening. I told the guys that as much as I find hope a pitiful illusion at times I also have found myself on occasion clinging to it in desperation. (That's a telling oxymoron!)
As I was pedaling a long slow climb this afternoon I looked ahead at the bend in the road and with no evidence to support such a notion I immediately allowed myself to believe that the road would surely crest at that turn. All I had to do was make it to the bend ahead and it would be downhill from there. That encapsulates the sinister deception of hope. You, reading this with a rational mind already sense the disappoint I would experience upon discovering that the turn in no way signalled an end to climbing.
The mind of an optimist is rarely defeated. After taking a little breather I hopped back on my magnificent machine thinking, "Next time I'll know better."
We'll see.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Journey
...little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
First let me thank my meshuggenuh cousin Carolyn for popping up in G-chat or whatever it is called asking me:
Sat, Apr 19, 2008:
Let's step back.
A few weeks ago I sent a message to the clan who will be gathering at our home later this day. It was the day after the NCAA March Madness basketball tournament had ended. Last year I had used that as the theme for our seder since the final game coincided with the first night of Pesach. The focus was a 64-bracket "contest" between all the aspects of Passover. Match ups such as Matzah Brei vs. The Wise Son or The Afikomen vs. The Plague of Locusts. We spent the evening debating the pairings until we got to our Final Four Questions. I had picked some foods to win it all, like Chicken Soup with Matzah Balls over Chopped Liver in the final, but my enlightened guests led us to a loftier winner--"Feeling personally redeemed by G-d from Egypt".
My message to the troops this year:
So much can be said about that communication and the flurry of responses it spawned. The salient point here is that at some level I sort of expected that drawing analogies between Exodus and Sustainability would be a simple thing. And on some levels it is.
The fact that Passover and Earth Day coincide this year cannot be overlooked. The fact that we begin the seder with a blessing and then quickly move to celebrating what is green is most evident. Debbie took that idea and created the most magnificent centerpiece--literally and metaphorically. She arranged 18 2-inch pots on a large planter saucer. In each pot she planted a herb or lettuce variety. In the week since she put it together it has grown into a beautiful arrangement of greens which we will snip for the Karpas segment of the seder and then at evening's end each guest will depart with one of the pots to plant in their own garden!
Wow! One single act that encompasses the full meaning of the holiday and the discourse that I initiated--an artistic, generative, wordless summary of everything I would hope to say and in hundreds of words so far in this blog am still waiting to capture.
Then again, at another level the personal meaning of seder and sustainability has been hard for me to grasp--at least until I sprang from bed minutes ago.
My mind is teeming with so many aspects of the metaphor that I am grateful that Carolyn caused me to capture the gist of it in three sentences. I am also grateful and amazed that in my quick response to Carolyn, Mary Oliver's words came to me--words that also capture in a snapshot what ultimately may be chapters of introspection in my prolix vocabulary.
The outline that runs through my head is the Maggid--the telling of the story of the birth, journey and maturation of a people--as metaphor of any single person's journey, particularly my own. So many parts of the story align--some of which I began revealing to myself and others in my adult Bar Mitzvah d'var Torah last year--how I cast myself into a pit and sold myself into slavery, and so on.
Now I look at those 400 years of proliferation as the unbridled, unburdened years of childhood. I look at Pharaoh casting a dubious eye as that divine discontent that causes struggle, growth and maturation. I look at the plagues as evidence and encouragement to initiate change, to cast out the past, to move on. And I look at the many times Pharaoh reneges on the promise to move on as the natural tendency for me to lapse, and relapse into old behaviors.
The metaphor as it extends to the Earth is blatant. How many environmental plagues will we endure before we make a fundamental irreversible change? The fact that this is so hard for society reduces to the fact that while many if not most of us can see what we must do collectively, it is our individual actions which count. Mending the world would be easy if we were truly amenable to mending ourselves.
For a person, such as myself, espousing a commitment to Tikkun Yeshaya, the truth lies in the many small errors of omission or commission. It is in those moments when I as God-wrestler and as Yeshaya-wrestler win and lose. Every heavy rotation of my pedals up a steep slope is a victory. Every sneaky bite of something I just know my body doesn't need is a loss.
The journey took our people generations. The first to leave slavery found the transformation unbearable. They wanted to return to the "comfort" of slavery rather than face the challenges of freedom. God and Moses had to summon all their power to guide a reluctant people across the Red Sea, to Sinai where recidivism was worshipped in the golden calf, through the desert where manna and the promise of milk and honey did not provide contentment. And when at last the Promised Land was reached, Moses never quite crossed the finish line, suggesting that the work is never done.
So my quests--physical, intellectual, emotional and spiritual are a never ending journey.
The rabbi's also said, "The day is short, the task is great, the laborers are sluggish, the reward is much, and the Master of the house is urgent. It is not thy duty to complete the work, but neither art thou free to desist from it."
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Mary Oliver
First let me thank my meshuggenuh cousin Carolyn for popping up in G-chat or whatever it is called asking me:
Sat, Apr 19, 2008:
3:01 AM Carolyn: It's the middle of the night HERE -- what are YOU doing up?
And -- when are you going to Chicago again?
And -- How the heck are you?
3:05 AM me: You know the muse keeps her own hours. Gotta do some writing about the relationship between the global concept of tikkun olam and the only thing that counts--my personal struggle with tikkun Yeshaya. The rabbis say if you save one life it is as if you have saved the world. Mary Oliver says "save the only life you can--yours."
Then I have to ask Carolyn's forgiveness for not responding to her further conversation. Here it is, the middle of the night before seder, Shabbat, a good time to be resting--and being a Son of Israel instead of resting, I'm wrestling. That should be a fairly all-consuming matter in itself and yet so many distractions even at 3:29 a.m. It's all part of the same fabric. When intention meets Yeshaya there is struggle with all the parts of myself that do not want to be mended.Let's step back.
A few weeks ago I sent a message to the clan who will be gathering at our home later this day. It was the day after the NCAA March Madness basketball tournament had ended. Last year I had used that as the theme for our seder since the final game coincided with the first night of Pesach. The focus was a 64-bracket "contest" between all the aspects of Passover. Match ups such as Matzah Brei vs. The Wise Son or The Afikomen vs. The Plague of Locusts. We spent the evening debating the pairings until we got to our Final Four Questions. I had picked some foods to win it all, like Chicken Soup with Matzah Balls over Chopped Liver in the final, but my enlightened guests led us to a loftier winner--"Feeling personally redeemed by G-d from Egypt".
My message to the troops this year:
Well, we had one shining moment...that was the night of last year's NCAA final when Annette was the big winner of Nisan Insanity.
So this year we will do something entirely different. (Mah nishtana..)
Nothing will match the combination of sports and deep intellectual and spiritual probing that we achieved at seder a year ago.
As it says on the shield of the University of Rochester--Meliora!
The inescapable theme for this year is Green. Sustainability. It's the Environment, Stupid!
How we will connect that to freedom from 400 years of slavery, burning bushes that are not consumed, ten plagues, crossing the Red Sea and arriving on dry land, receiving the law at Sinai, wandering for forty years in the desert, Four Questions, Four Sons, Four Cups of Wine, the bread of affliction, manna, an only kid, dayenu, etc. is anyone's guess.
WE have 11 days to figure that out.
Do some research.
Come prepared for enlightening discourse.
I have no idea what we will do (when I know you'll know), but I'm sure it will be talked about for generations.
So much can be said about that communication and the flurry of responses it spawned. The salient point here is that at some level I sort of expected that drawing analogies between Exodus and Sustainability would be a simple thing. And on some levels it is.
The fact that Passover and Earth Day coincide this year cannot be overlooked. The fact that we begin the seder with a blessing and then quickly move to celebrating what is green is most evident. Debbie took that idea and created the most magnificent centerpiece--literally and metaphorically. She arranged 18 2-inch pots on a large planter saucer. In each pot she planted a herb or lettuce variety. In the week since she put it together it has grown into a beautiful arrangement of greens which we will snip for the Karpas segment of the seder and then at evening's end each guest will depart with one of the pots to plant in their own garden!
Wow! One single act that encompasses the full meaning of the holiday and the discourse that I initiated--an artistic, generative, wordless summary of everything I would hope to say and in hundreds of words so far in this blog am still waiting to capture.
Then again, at another level the personal meaning of seder and sustainability has been hard for me to grasp--at least until I sprang from bed minutes ago.
My mind is teeming with so many aspects of the metaphor that I am grateful that Carolyn caused me to capture the gist of it in three sentences. I am also grateful and amazed that in my quick response to Carolyn, Mary Oliver's words came to me--words that also capture in a snapshot what ultimately may be chapters of introspection in my prolix vocabulary.
The outline that runs through my head is the Maggid--the telling of the story of the birth, journey and maturation of a people--as metaphor of any single person's journey, particularly my own. So many parts of the story align--some of which I began revealing to myself and others in my adult Bar Mitzvah d'var Torah last year--how I cast myself into a pit and sold myself into slavery, and so on.
Now I look at those 400 years of proliferation as the unbridled, unburdened years of childhood. I look at Pharaoh casting a dubious eye as that divine discontent that causes struggle, growth and maturation. I look at the plagues as evidence and encouragement to initiate change, to cast out the past, to move on. And I look at the many times Pharaoh reneges on the promise to move on as the natural tendency for me to lapse, and relapse into old behaviors.
The metaphor as it extends to the Earth is blatant. How many environmental plagues will we endure before we make a fundamental irreversible change? The fact that this is so hard for society reduces to the fact that while many if not most of us can see what we must do collectively, it is our individual actions which count. Mending the world would be easy if we were truly amenable to mending ourselves.
For a person, such as myself, espousing a commitment to Tikkun Yeshaya, the truth lies in the many small errors of omission or commission. It is in those moments when I as God-wrestler and as Yeshaya-wrestler win and lose. Every heavy rotation of my pedals up a steep slope is a victory. Every sneaky bite of something I just know my body doesn't need is a loss.
The journey took our people generations. The first to leave slavery found the transformation unbearable. They wanted to return to the "comfort" of slavery rather than face the challenges of freedom. God and Moses had to summon all their power to guide a reluctant people across the Red Sea, to Sinai where recidivism was worshipped in the golden calf, through the desert where manna and the promise of milk and honey did not provide contentment. And when at last the Promised Land was reached, Moses never quite crossed the finish line, suggesting that the work is never done.
So my quests--physical, intellectual, emotional and spiritual are a never ending journey.
The rabbi's also said, "The day is short, the task is great, the laborers are sluggish, the reward is much, and the Master of the house is urgent. It is not thy duty to complete the work, but neither art thou free to desist from it."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Oy, now what have I done?
"Oy, now what have I done?"
Those words, often overlooked over the centuries, are exactly what Caesar uttered just after crossing the Rubicon.
Maybe you get the idea already that in the last few days, as I have started to do more than leisurely biking, I have had some doubts about where this whole thing may end up. I shouldn't be surprised by the fact that propelling my body even on a fine machine such as my Roubaix (I love saying Roubaix) across " long distances" and especially up hills is simply not an easy task. Come to think of it, this hill thing really doesn't make sense. If I were to set down a heavy object, say a 200-pound yam, on Page Mill Road it would be extremely difficult to push up the hill from Peter Coutts Road to Foothill Expressway. Moreover, if it were very round--and mind you, I never took physics, but--it seems to me the force of gravity would tend to send the yam hurtling down Page Mill halfway to El Camino Real. So what's the logic that encourages people to sit on two round wheels and think going up the hill is even possible? This has crossed my mind more than once this week.
This should not have come as a surprise. It wasn't so different when I was testing bikes and taking them up steep inclines. True, some bikes made the grade easier than others, but there wasn't a single one at any price upon which when I reached even a modest summit I did not find my legs burning and my lungs heaving. Now that I have my very own bicycle and a commitment to go ever-increasingly challenging distances and heights, I do wonder, "Oy, now what have I done?"
I suppose it is common to have this chatter in the mind constantly questioning the merit of one's undertakings.
I have done a reasonable job of pushing aside some of the not unreasonable fears of sharing the road with two- and three-ton machines hurtling along at speeds often four or five times faster than my own. The recent headlines about the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Deputy whose cruiser crossed the double yellow line and drove head-on into three cyclists is sufficient to give one pause to consider the dangers out there. And when experiencing what well may be considered the reward for climbing a hill--the opportunity to then speed down the other side--it has immediately occurred to me that there is some inherent risk here as well. Thirty mile an hour with no steel cage or seat belt wrapped around me--well that's different. But risks aside, when I find myself struggling along, as I did peddling the 9.4 miles to shul yesterday, I can't imagine what transformation will have to occur to allow me to accomplish 300 miles through the desert.
Getting to shul really wasn't all that bad. I tooled across Palo Alto's Bryant Street Bicycle Boulevard--pretty flat. Headed up University Avenue onto Palm Drive of the Stanford campus. Cut across the back of the shopping center to Sand Hill Road. Hung a right at Santa Cruz where one car seemed a little uncertain whether to brake or mow me down as I merged left onto Alameda de las Pulgas. This is a route that avoids any really big climbs, It has its ups and downs--overall a steady rise. Not too bad. It was a cool day. It took around 45 minutes--about the same as the circuit I have ridden for years from my house around the Baylands path. Definitely more of a climb than presents itself at the edge of the bay.
A few hours later, after answering the rabbi's request to facilitate a thorny meeting with parents from the religious school, I headed home. Since the return was overall more downhill than up I was a little surprised when I found myself running out of gas about halfway. Then again fuel may have been the issue. One thing I think I need to learn more about is just what to eat, how much, and when, in order to keep the furnace inside me cranking. Fortunately I had a power bar to give me a boost.
I took a different route home which included going down the Page Mill hill. Bummer that I hit a red light at the bottom instead of using my momentum to keep on gliding. Gotta figure out how to time that better. When I got home I was spent. The round trip--about twenty miles--was a very different twenty miles than Bruce and I enjoyed on Sunday. A little later, after dinner, I found myself experiencing a strange physical problem. Just for maybe fifteen minutes there was a hard to describe disturbance in my visual field--kind of an op art thing going on--that may or may not be associated with the physical exertion I had engaged in. I will literally keep an eye on that.
So there are no shortages of challenges in the early going. What this sixty-year old overweight guy was thinking when he decided to take this on sometimes baffles even me. And yet, despite some very real disbeliefs, a small part of me--the part that is often gasping for air--says, "Yes, I can."
Or was that Barack Obama?
Those words, often overlooked over the centuries, are exactly what Caesar uttered just after crossing the Rubicon.
Maybe you get the idea already that in the last few days, as I have started to do more than leisurely biking, I have had some doubts about where this whole thing may end up. I shouldn't be surprised by the fact that propelling my body even on a fine machine such as my Roubaix (I love saying Roubaix) across " long distances" and especially up hills is simply not an easy task. Come to think of it, this hill thing really doesn't make sense. If I were to set down a heavy object, say a 200-pound yam, on Page Mill Road it would be extremely difficult to push up the hill from Peter Coutts Road to Foothill Expressway. Moreover, if it were very round--and mind you, I never took physics, but--it seems to me the force of gravity would tend to send the yam hurtling down Page Mill halfway to El Camino Real. So what's the logic that encourages people to sit on two round wheels and think going up the hill is even possible? This has crossed my mind more than once this week.
This should not have come as a surprise. It wasn't so different when I was testing bikes and taking them up steep inclines. True, some bikes made the grade easier than others, but there wasn't a single one at any price upon which when I reached even a modest summit I did not find my legs burning and my lungs heaving. Now that I have my very own bicycle and a commitment to go ever-increasingly challenging distances and heights, I do wonder, "Oy, now what have I done?"
I suppose it is common to have this chatter in the mind constantly questioning the merit of one's undertakings.
I have done a reasonable job of pushing aside some of the not unreasonable fears of sharing the road with two- and three-ton machines hurtling along at speeds often four or five times faster than my own. The recent headlines about the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Deputy whose cruiser crossed the double yellow line and drove head-on into three cyclists is sufficient to give one pause to consider the dangers out there. And when experiencing what well may be considered the reward for climbing a hill--the opportunity to then speed down the other side--it has immediately occurred to me that there is some inherent risk here as well. Thirty mile an hour with no steel cage or seat belt wrapped around me--well that's different. But risks aside, when I find myself struggling along, as I did peddling the 9.4 miles to shul yesterday, I can't imagine what transformation will have to occur to allow me to accomplish 300 miles through the desert.
Getting to shul really wasn't all that bad. I tooled across Palo Alto's Bryant Street Bicycle Boulevard--pretty flat. Headed up University Avenue onto Palm Drive of the Stanford campus. Cut across the back of the shopping center to Sand Hill Road. Hung a right at Santa Cruz where one car seemed a little uncertain whether to brake or mow me down as I merged left onto Alameda de las Pulgas. This is a route that avoids any really big climbs, It has its ups and downs--overall a steady rise. Not too bad. It was a cool day. It took around 45 minutes--about the same as the circuit I have ridden for years from my house around the Baylands path. Definitely more of a climb than presents itself at the edge of the bay.
A few hours later, after answering the rabbi's request to facilitate a thorny meeting with parents from the religious school, I headed home. Since the return was overall more downhill than up I was a little surprised when I found myself running out of gas about halfway. Then again fuel may have been the issue. One thing I think I need to learn more about is just what to eat, how much, and when, in order to keep the furnace inside me cranking. Fortunately I had a power bar to give me a boost.
I took a different route home which included going down the Page Mill hill. Bummer that I hit a red light at the bottom instead of using my momentum to keep on gliding. Gotta figure out how to time that better. When I got home I was spent. The round trip--about twenty miles--was a very different twenty miles than Bruce and I enjoyed on Sunday. A little later, after dinner, I found myself experiencing a strange physical problem. Just for maybe fifteen minutes there was a hard to describe disturbance in my visual field--kind of an op art thing going on--that may or may not be associated with the physical exertion I had engaged in. I will literally keep an eye on that.
So there are no shortages of challenges in the early going. What this sixty-year old overweight guy was thinking when he decided to take this on sometimes baffles even me. And yet, despite some very real disbeliefs, a small part of me--the part that is often gasping for air--says, "Yes, I can."
Or was that Barack Obama?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Rumi says...
These spiritual window-shoppers,
who idly ask, How much is that? Oh, I'm just looking.
They handle a hundred items and put them down,
shadows with no capital.
What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping,
But these walk into a shop,
and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment,
in that shop.
Where did you go? "Nowhere."
What did you have to eat? "Nothing much?"
Even if you don't know what you want,
Buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow.
Start a large, foolish project,
like Noah.
It makes absolutely no difference
what people think of you.
who idly ask, How much is that? Oh, I'm just looking.
They handle a hundred items and put them down,
shadows with no capital.
What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping,
But these walk into a shop,
and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment,
in that shop.
Where did you go? "Nowhere."
What did you have to eat? "Nothing much?"
Even if you don't know what you want,
Buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow.
Start a large, foolish project,
like Noah.
It makes absolutely no difference
what people think of you.
Every time I have walked into a bike shop in recent weeks and told them my plan, this poem comes to mind. I say I am planning to ride 300 miles across the Negev desert. I tell them I have never ridden more than a dozen miles before. I mention that the ride will be in November. They give me a quick once over, and invariably say, "You've got time."
Implicit is, "You've got a lot of work to do."
That is why I have been so anxious to make this bike purchase as quickly as possible.
The learning curve has been steep since I walked into Palo Alto Bicycles it must have been Tuesday, March 18th asking them to repair a badly frayed and swollen tire on my third hand Gary Fisher mountain bike. (I was so far down the learning curve at that point that I didn't even know that what I was riding was a mountain bike.) The mechanic looked at the tire, the rusty components, the worn saddle, and the grimy chain and made a quick calculation in the hundreds of dollars to put the bike in operating order.
He listened to my story--how I liked to bike the 8 or 9 mile trail around the baylands, and how I aspired to take this immense road trip. His logic was flawless as he escorted me over to the hybrid bikes demonstrating that for a very few hundred additional dollars I could be riding a brand new machine far better suited to handle the highways and the hills as well as the trails. And it was red!
I would have been sold right there on the spot had I the time and the riding clothes required to test it out. I didn't buy the bike, but I did commit to myself to return ASAP.
Shomer Shabbes I am not, but I have always resisted most commercial activities on Saturdays as a rule. The following Shabbat I decided to invoke the exemption for "saving a life" and do everything I could to get a new bike--my passage to months, maybe years of exercise and improved physique. (That's the initial motivation of this particular foolish project.)
I started my search on Saturday at the shop I have frequented most in recent years--Mike's Bikes. It is closer to home than Palo Alto Bicycles and gets five stars from consumers. Palo Alto, on the other hand gets rave reviews from some and castigation from others. People see it as either the finest shop with the greatest commitment to excellence or as an effete purveyor to Peninsula elite.
I tried a few hybrids at Mikes--a Specialized and a Cannondale--both pricier than the bike I had seen at PA Bikes. I liked the Specialized. As soon as I rolled off the lot I sensed a lightness and speed I had not imagined possible when I had been pushing my mountain bike around. After trying those, I decided--just for the heck of it--to take a road bike out for a spin. I had no intention of buying one of these with their dropped handle bars. I liked the upright configuration of the hybrid. Trying the road bike was either the stupidest or the smartest thing I did in the past three weeks because one climb up Hanover Road and there was no going back to a hybrid. About six bike shops and many hundreds of dollars later I am the proud owner of a Specialized Roubaix Comp-Triple all-carbon frame road bike. Yes, there are bikes out there easily three and four times the price, but I am already in the stratosphere with this purchase. Remember, it all started with a bulging tire!
I'll spare all the agonizing details of my tortured selection process. At one point it seemed to come down to the design of the store jersey--in which case Palo Alto Bicycle with it's powerful green shirt would have won hands down. Ultimately, the bike I wanted there was not available in my size. After three lost Shabbats testing bikes I could taste a new bike and I wanted whatever bike it would be NOW. That menacing black Roubaix had just rolled into Mikes. One look at it and the dirty deed was done.
Today I took it for a leisurely twenty mile ride around and through Stanford with one of my biking mentors--Bruce Kahan. Riding the baylands paths in my beat up mountain bike had always rendered me a twelve year old. Climbing Page Mill road on this bad boy may be a bit too strenuous to have the same affect, but racing downhill at close to thirty miles per hour is a feeling all its own. Sweet!
I can't wait to slip my clips into the pedals tomorrow!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
