The Imus Ifuss

Okay, the Imus issue.  My two cents.

 

There are really two questions here – the first is should Imus have been fired. The answer is quite simply – ‘absolutely’ – but NOT because of what he said. Imus should have been fired because, as they say in
Hollywood you are only as good as your last movie. Imus was a marketing commodity, a forum that may have had intelligence, insight, a place that may have encouraged radical thinking, but when the market gets pissed you stand to lose your place. He had 10 years of getting by. He’s an agent of free will, AND his job is to appeal to the public. For whatever reason, and there is alas no justice needed, NBC felt he had become more of a liability than an asset. What monies he made for NBC, what fame he carried was overshadowed by a case of public embarrassment and outcry. Bye-bye Imus.

 

The second issue is trickier and is what is REALLY getting everyone worked up. Was Imus  wrong? Let’s be clear, firing Imus was not a punishment for what he said, it was merely the reaction to how the audience responded. A business, not an ethical decision. He was not being punished for verbal transgression, he was being eliminated for losing a adoring fan base. Imus has been letting loose with vulgar and ‘ist’ (as in racist, sexist, classist) diatribes for much of his career – as have other ‘shock jocks’ (hence the name).  No news there at all. And yes, he is correct, hip-hop, comedians etc have been using such slang for a while now. In truth Imus was a cheap knock-off of ‘ghetto talk’.  People can love a movie star through flick after flick – and then one day they suddenly get tarnished. John Travolta and Tom Cruise are both Scientologists. Cruise takes up some pointless crusade against Brooke Shields and he becomes persona non grata (least for a while – as no doubt Imus will be re-incarnated). Cruise may be cute but the public didn’t like his attitude that day and he lost a lot of polish in the act.

 

So nowthere was another warp in the space time continuum and Imus’ comments rubbed too many listeners the wrong way;  maybe it was the words themselves, maybe it was the delivery (as many claimed) or maybe it was that he picked on a group of folks who didn’t have their dukes up and weren’t spoiling a fight, just some young women trying to do good. For what ever reason this time he tripped the land mind. But is it ‘wrong’?

 

Ethics and wrong are not the same. Right and wrong are about our ‘freedoms’, ethics is about how we act. Imus had the freedom to act as he did. Nor was he the first or the only person in the media to make such comments – as the well illustrated issue of rap stars and comedians demonstrates. He did not even act out of character, his whole career is made up of saying crude and insulting remarks. Somewhat akin to Simon Cowells put downs of the American Idol contestants (though without the obvious slurs). From a legal and social point of view Imus was just ‘doing his job’.

 

Let me be clear – I hate ‘ghetto talk’ – I hate vulgarities and abuse slang, I had slurs – racial, ethnic, gender or whatever – I don’t think it’s too sensitive or politically correct to hate those things. I hate them because they are sloppy and cruel, they are a form of bullying and demonstrate a mental status that resorts to the cheapest use of language. I hate them because words form the basis for actions and actions inform out values, our ethics, and ethics drive our deeds, our lives. I hate slurs and abusive slangs because they are like flies or mosquitoes – they carry disease, disease which can sometimes kill.

 

But yes, Imus has a right to say it – just like the hip-hops boys and the kids in the street and the author of the foul mouthed book or even the comedian.  You may say in response ‘but what about our rights?’ – well yes,  I know that  I too have my rights and they are as follows;  1) In my personal space I can forbid certain language, 2) I can expect and demand that the place I work is free of such talk (or behavior)  and 3) I can insure that my children do not say it.  It’s dicier when it comes to friends and relatives. I can ask that they not speak a certain way, but ultimately I cannot control that – and I must be prepared to make a decision as to how I want to react and how it will affect the relationship. When it comes to public places and perfect strangers, again, I can speak out, ask that others refrain – but other than leave the premises I cannot do anything else.

 

However, most significantly, when it comes to any form of entertainment or any economically based service I have one mighty force – I can refuse to listen, to purchase, to be an audience. So after one hearing of Imus I never listened to him again. I do not have hip-hop in my house, I would leave a comedy show that used abusive slurs (for the record I don’t go to Woody Allen movies either, not since he married his daughter).

 

But I have read Mark Twain. And I have listened to Wagner (though I wouldn’t in
Israel). I have paid to see Picasso. I have worn (and like to wear) diamonds. Choices.

 

Let me refer to two other stories that garnered some but far less spotlight. In comparison these stories speak even further to the rather confused sense of righteousness in the American public.

 

A children’s book, aimed at the 10 year old set, used the word scrotum. An uproar ensued, several libraries refused to carry the book and a small bit of heyday was created.  Whether he book was ‘appropriate’ or not seemed irrelevant; to the extent that libraries get to choose their books they choose their books. I would be sorry if my library refused to carry it, I would even write a letter asking them to do so and wondering why they made such a choice. No one visiting the library had to look at the book but those wanting to could. Such a fuss over a word that had absolutely no negative connotation. A word about a body part for goodness sake. If that was the worst that these kids heard they were in for a pretty smooth life.

 

The second incident was very similar. A group of young women in
West Chester, New York wanted to do a skit for their High School performance night. Problem was the skit was from the Vagina Monologues and they would have to say the word ‘vagina’ in public. The principal demanded they not use the word. The girls went ahead anyway. They were wrong to defy the principal but his desire to put the kibosh on the word vagina had a whiff of it’s own kind of sexism or ethic-ism or something-ism. Vagina is a body part, it is not an insult, it is used in health classes (I hope, at least, that they aren’t saying hoo-hoo in health class), it is used on TV, in the newspaper, in ads in magazines. It is not ungodly or violent or belittling or anything else. Yet at least one person in
West Chester, New York got all sweaty and nervous about someone talking about one.

 

After the West Chester incident I got thinking about words – how can we define them, how can we establish what’s right or wrong, what’s derogatory, what’s not – whether a student or a teacher gets expelled or punished for using any given word – is the n word worse than the k word? Are those words worse than ‘slut’ or ‘ho’ (which we are allowed to print).  A while ago an article in the Times talked about the casual use of the word slut among teenage girls, regardless of race or economic class – it had become a pal word, a defused negative. Or had it?

 

In the same week as that article another appeared with the results of an informal survey among young men. Slut still carried weight with them and furthermore it seems they could even define it. Twenty partners was the limit. Beyond 20, for a female, you earned the title. It just gives me an urge to buy a t-shirt and print ‘#21 and counting’ on it.

 

I don’t like the word slut and don’t want my daughter to use it, friendly or otherwise. It doesn’t matter if it’s girl to girl – when she uses it she votes for it, she keeps it alive. But I also don’t call it the ‘s word’ ; it’s used in print, it has a linguistic history and a meaning. It’s just a word and to keep it just a word I won’t sanctify it with euphemisms. Not all agree with me on this. Once upon a time to call someone a queer was a pretty powerful insult. Today gays have morphed queer into their own (and how, in the first place, did queer become ‘bad’ and ‘gay’ become good?).  Now we have ‘queer studies’, books about ‘being queer and proud’ etc etc – calling a homosexual a queer doesn’t amount to much.  Does the homosexual population have the right attitude towards words, take them over and soon they have no power?  

 

It would seem then that the use of a word was okay, so long as it wasn’t directed at an individual or individuals. But then what about idiot? Or ‘retard’? Or ass—-? Or for that matter calling someone a sphincter muscle? A dimwit?

 

To stir the pot further let’s consider our newest verbal antagonizer – Alex Baldwin calling his daughter a pig. Was it horrendous only because he was her father? (and how may parents live in glass houses?) Would it be horrendous for anyone to call someone a pig? Is it worse if the recipient is very heavy?  What about the mockeries made towards Mr. Cho, telling him to ‘Go back to China’ – regardless of the fact that he was Korean  (and please, I do not believe for one iota of a second that any of those taunts drove Mr. Cho to his crimes – but that is another essay). Bullying with ‘innocuous words’ is akin to abuse.  Groups that identify violence against women make the point – just because he doesn’t use his fist doesn’t mean you aren’t abused. Just because it isn’t a slang term doesn’t mean it isn’t a slur.

 

My only point here is that when you start policing words you start burning books. The public eye tends to have the tail wag the dog.  Get the dog to use it’s head, don’t buy the records or the movies or listen to the radio if you find it offensive. No matter if the reviewers say that this album represents the cultural icon of urban rage, no matter if the handsome senator from the liberal state spends an hour with the viewing audience trading genteel barbs on the show.  I assure you,  if Imus had stopped making money, if listeners had voted with their dials, turned to another station then the politicos and the movie stars and the authors would cancel their appearances. And then Imus would have quietly been sent packing a long time ago. Your almighty dollar can speak loud and clear.

 

Beyond that remember the Wizard of Oz – start in your own backyard. Don’t allow it with your children, make it clear to them that words are powerful – powerful for good and powerful for bad. Make them love words, appreciate words and seek words out in their richness and fullness. Don’t applaud sarcasm, don’t laugh at cutting witticisms – or make them yourself. Don’t encourage put downs, treat people with respect – even when, especially when, they can’t even hear you. Encourage your children to refuse to deal with people who put them down, whether through slurs or in any other demeaning way. Give you self and your children an appreciation for the diversity of language and they will appreciate the diversity of people.

 

Imus – he’s nothing, in six months it will be long forgotten. The boys in the mall will still be calling their girlfriends ‘ho’s’ and they girls will still giggle and put up with it. Hip-hop  albums will still sell. Folks in some places will ban the words ‘vagina and scrotum’ and in other places will ban Huckleberry Finn.  Some males will still think any woman who has had sex with more than 20 men is a slut while any man who has sex with more than 20 women is a stud, some will think it’s okay to call a girl ‘ho’ to her face and the c-word to her back. The n-word will still cause an uproar and the gays will all be happily queer.

 

The best I can do –  spend my dollar where I think it’s worthwhile and spend the coin of my time on what I believe enlightens not prejudices. There are rules in my home and my daughter knows she is not a ‘ho’ or a ‘slut’ or a ‘bitch’  - and she also knows that if she chooses to use those words outside of my range it’s, well, it’s her choice. I give her that. She also knows that every choice has consequences, that words can damage, but most importantly of all she knows the wonder and joy and excitement and beauty of words. And that too is her choice. May she make it wisely.

 

 

 

 

 

Hello world!

My writings have been a part of my life since I can remember – I suffer alas from cacoethes scribendi – an insatiable urge to write. Metta, Mitzvah and Morph however, arose, at least in part, from my 2007 New Years essay which I have added as my first post. At the suggestion of a few folks I decided to compile my work onto the public digital medium.

Though I have lived a day or two and seen a few things I don’t know more or less than most folks. At best I can say I am deeply grateful for this life, for the joy of being able to live it. Rare is the day when some comment, or sight, some bit of news or something I read does not give me pause for thought – the world is a fascinating place. 

 ’There is grandeur in this view of life’ wrote Charles Darwin in his last lines of Origin of the Species. Indeed, there is grandeur not only in the evolution of the species but in the intricate threads of our daily existance.  These pieces then are merely a minor assortment thoughts informed by whatever I have done or whatever I come to do - a conglomeration of experience, of memory and moment. Observations of life.

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide

H.D. Thoreau (Sic Vita)

A New Year

It is my custom, every January 1^st , to rise as early as I can and go for a run. However, unlike my runs the rest of the year, my New Year run has a rule – I may think only of those things for which I am thankful, only of the positive.   As I went for my run last year I struggled with finding any positive – the best I could conjure up was relief that 2005 (and 2004 for that matter) was over.  Fortunately for me the fates have me pegged and I was not permitted to merely wallow in self pity. As it happened, a mile or so into my run, still awash in bleak thoughts, a car approached me.  Pointing behind me the man driving asked ‘who is your friend?’ I turned to find a young fawn waiting at my heels.  As I stood there the fawn approached me, nuzzled my hand for some petting and we all smiled in wonderment. Then the man drove off saying ‘it’s a mitzvah for the New Year’ and I was left in attendance of the fawn – and responsible for its well being.  Therein followed a series of antics, which, no doubt, were quite comedic to observe, intended to get the fawn to abandon me and rejoin its herd. I ran up the drives of Gladwynnian estates, stumbled through briars (whilst the fawn looked bemusedly on) and had chatty and meaningful conversations with my new compatriot. One congenial human offered the use of his guest house for the fawn (to which I silently replied ‘only if I get to live there too’).  After a few miles it became apparent that the fawn was determined to stick with me and in a unanimous vote we decided to head towards the nature preserve where the likelihood of a deer family reunion was high.   So it was, after some deer-like leaps and scrambles that I found myself, on that bristly January morning, sitting on my meditation rock, in the middle of a stream, my arm around the shoulders of a fawn (do fawn have shoulders?).  In companionable silence we listened to the flow of the stream over rocks and I, filled with a silly, amazed and reverent spirit looked at the world anew, positive thoughts in abundance.  Thanks to a nimble legged fawn, in a couple of hours, my world had turned from grey to miraculous. I may have believed I was rescuing a fawn but in the end I wondered just who rescued who.  January 1^st proved prescient for all of 2006, a year that came to be filled with wonder, marvel and gratitude– a theme which I have recalled many times.  

Now it’s January 2007 and I keep coming back to what the man in the car said ‘it’s a mitzvah’.  At the time I assumed the colloquial meaning of the word, a blessing. In it’s more traditional sense however a mitzvah (and I beg forgiveness of all Judaic scholars in my interpretations) is a sacred command, an obligation to act. Obligation is not a word we embrace, it feels weighty, filled with visits to Aunt Ethel in the hospital, thank-you notes for shirts we won’t wear and attendance at very dull meetings. Obligations are things to get through and there is little pleasure to be found there. Yet, despite these perfunctory connotations, the root of the word obligation is ‘to engage’, that is to commit ourselves.  Parker Palmer, the author, writes of ‘letting your life speak’ – of living your life – that is, bringing yourself fully to what you do. Parker admonishes us not to live the life we think others expect of us but to live the life we are. In one of those odd paradoxes we can often uncover ourselves when we simply engage ourselves, fully engage ourselves; particularly when we get rid of all our buts, hesitations, justifications and grievances. When you bring yourself wholly to the task at hand you find yourself in the task. The world didn’t demand that I rescue that fawn (though my command from within is to respect living beings), but in doing so, in forgetting about me and tending to it, I found the very thing I had been looking for – gratitude.  We don’t learn who we are from what someone tells us or what we imagine we would like to be.  The things we seek cannot be found in our heads, answers are not rooted in the mystical and we cannot put off all obligations. Faced with the inevitable, feeling reluctant in heart, it might do well to recall the Outward Bound motto – ‘If you can’t get out of it, get into it’.  I recall a time when I had ignored the mowing of my lawn in favor of well deserved (in my opinion) self indulgent despair. Finally, at 6+ inches of lawn and after a warning from the landlord – who made clear that I most certainly had an obligation – I cut it.  I tackled that lawn as if it were my very last. Afterward, as I sat in fading sunlight, motes of grass falling through the air, admiring the lawns new military haircut, I found myself smiling – my despair had been sent packing.  I have often looked at what others have and felt heartache that it was not mine, yet I know too that when I looking at someone else’s life I am not tending mine. There is a Quaker concept of ‘way’, which says that sometimes our ‘way’ reveals itself only when the ‘way’ we sought closes to us. To find what we seek we must stop knocking endlessly on the door of what was or what is not ‘us’, we must turn around and see what is ours. As the Shaker hymn goes ‘by turning we will come round right’.  Obligations are not wants – a want is ours to dismiss, to fulfill or to keep within our heads whereas obligations are ‘commanded’ of us, they ‘ground our ideals in action’. Wants however, if they are to be met, do require a foundation of obligation. My friend Mxxxx did not become an Ironman simply because she wanted to. It took many mornings of rising in the dark and running or biking for miles with no hula dancers, no cheering crowd, no buff guys putting medals on her neck to bring her to the finish line in
Hawaii.  Along the way she also discovered another truth, just how very much she wanted it. (although I would like to add that incorporating buff males into obligations is not altogether a bad idea) Deer rescue aside, meeting obligations is not usually fun, and even the best of efforts may be perfunctory – okay, so I will put on a suit for the wedding, I will bake brownies for the PTA, I will give to this charity.  But perhaps the mystery of obligation is that it can start with little and expand. If we develop the habit of investing ourselves, from ‘within and with all’-  the landscape changes; we are able lose our judgment of people or the situation, we see more, we feel more, we forget our reluctance and discover that indeed we are – how did that happen? – enjoying ourselves, learning, looking at the world with a different set of eyes.  

All my life my grandmother was simply ‘an elderly woman who cooked’. We loved her because one loves ones grandmother. At a family party one day my friend Jxxxx saw my grandmother sitting alone and she went over to talk to her. After a lengthy period of time I went to rescue Jxxxx who waved me away. Later Jxxxx said to me ‘your grandmother is amazing, she has had such an interesting life’.  Amazing? Interesting? In that moment I looked at my grandmother and saw her in a different light, as a person. I had talked to her innumerable times yet I had never heard her. Jxxxx may have felt an obligation to speak to an elderly person, but she did so with her heart, and in that, she saw more in an hour than I had seen in all my years.  This past year I came to witness the deaths of two people. One of them was my friend Jxxxx, who was and is a profound part of my life and my heart. The other was a man I never met, never even spoke to, but who somehow spoke to me.  During the last year of Jxxxx’s life I was frustrated that, because of the physical distance separating us, I could not ‘do’ anything for her. Ultimately I decided that the best I could manage was to vow to call her every day. But I also made a deeper commitment – to not simply call but to make those calls count.  I decided that I would refrain from any of the multitasking we tend to do while talking on the phone – folding laundry, typing on our computers, etc. I was determined to be fully there.  A thoughtful conversation should hardly be difficult – but I suggest one try it. Don’t drive your car, don’t walk, don’t do the dishes or flip through a magazine. Just sit and talk to someone, really talk – or even more, listen to someone, someone from whom you want nothing but to listen. Give completely of your attention, your thoughts, for as long as they want.  Most of the conversations I shared with Jxxx were of the simplest nature, no profound truths, no great wisdoms, just the sort of insipid chat we often deplore. As it was with the deer –  I intended those phone calls to be for Jxxxx only to find that I was the one being given a gift – that which I initially thought would be hard turned into something I loved. In listening, in hearing, in being still I learned to pay attention and I forgot about me – and I heard and saw Jxxxx as I never had in 20 plus years. In those calls I was reminded of what mattered – my laundry may not have gotten folded but I was able to hold my friends hand.  Of all the daily messages transmitted over that shared fiber optic cable the loudest was one of love. Those calls may not have changed my circumstances or her circumstances, but these days I am reminded, each time I call my mother, that it is a joy to be able to do so.  There is a word in Buddhism – ‘metta’ – which means ‘in loving kindness’.  Like mitzvah it is a powerful word for it asks that we not only speak of love or kindness but we act in it – that that we give fully and generously of ourselves, from the heart – without judgment, without expectation, utilizing all of who and what we can be. At the core of obligation is metta. It is said that we ‘cannot defeat darkness, only spread light’. When we live our obligations with metta we spread light, no matter how small, no matter how flickering, we bring light.  There is a parable of a man who cries out to God – ‘the world is a terrible place, send someone to help us’. And God replies – ‘I did, I sent you’.  If we wish to make a change, within or without, it is to ourselves we must look first.  Obligation – what if it wasn’t a burden, what if it is a gift?  There is a sign in the Hand Institute of Philadelphia that reads ‘you never know how much you need your hands till you can’t use them’. So it is with obligation – to be able to act, to be able to engage is a gift, it is life.  For Jxxxx the obligations of work, of vacuuming, cooking and especially of changing her grandchild’s diaper – for her, every one of those obligations was a celebration of life.  The life of Bxxxx, and I beg the indulgence of his family and friends in speaking thus, also spoke of living our obligations. Though he and I never knew each other, who and what he was expressed itself through the words and the deeds of his family and friends – whether it was the effort he went through to return some money  he felt he owed to a man from years before, in his attention and dedication to others or in the love he had for his wife of 60 plus years. In every story told of him at its core was a man who believed that his obligations were opportunities – to live his values, to give to life, to give to the people he held dear, to know joy.  He was a man who knew, as they say in
Brooklyn, that one must ‘not only talk the talk, but walk the walk’. If asked ‘is what you have done your life?’ I suspect he would have said, without hesitation, a resounding ‘yes’.  

I have asked many times what makes us who we are – take away our possessions, take away our titles, our place, our jobs – even the people we know – and what are we? We are our obligations, we are those things which we are called to do, we are as we act, as we invest ourselves. And often, the quietest of acts speaks the loudest.   I have been the recipient of many a mitzvah this past year; I have known such kindness, such humanity, given freely and without expectation, that I sometimes think it was all a mistake, that it was meant for some other person with my name. These days I often say that in the book of  my life the dedication will be longer than the story. I have also learned much about having – during the holiday I was able to wrap up gifts for Toys for Tots – and I realized that as long as I had something to give I had enough. No matter how well we try to meet our obligations sometimes we don’t cross the finish line.  No matter how many books we read or essays we write sometimes we don’t engage ourselves very well. Trials, tribulations, loss, heartbreak – they do not go away simply because we are committed to doing the task at hand. Living can be brutal, we can face things that are beyond our ken and there isn’t always much room for waxing philosophic about obligation and letting our life speak. Sometimes all we have is our life – but so long as we have it then we must live it, for ourselves and for those who we love.   In the middle of theSchuylkill
River I discovered that despite my commitment to training the river was stronger than me.  Because, in my relentless pride, I wanted to show my daughter the meaning of perseverance I struggled to the point of nearly drowning. Then it hit me, my obligation was not to prove anything, my obligation was to show my daughter how to live not how to let one race be all of me. In that moment the swim changed and oddly I completed it.  There is an expression that time is money, but as one Rebbe said, time is life.  Though our obligations may be many to what avail is there to be less in meeting them? Why assume that obligation has nothing to give, why cut the feeling from them and lose the pleasure? If Jxxxx can find joy in vacuuming a rug, or Bxxxx in sending letters to his numerous grandchildren then why ask any less of yourself, why live less than your own life?  Rabbi Zusya, as the tale goes, said that in the coming world they will not ask me ‘Why were you not Moses?’ They will ask me ‘Why were you not Zusya?’.  Towards the end of her life I asked Jxxxx many times, ‘what, what can I do for you?’ She said only this – ‘Fulfill your obligations and do not postpone joy’.  In truth, they are one and the same.  

For Bxxxx and for Jxxxx bligation was not only the responsibility of life, but the joy of life.  Metta, mitzvah – they are hard words to fulfill, but in exchange you get life, your life.  May 2007 bring you many obligations.  This essay is dedicated to the memory of Jxxxx Mxxxx and Bxxxx Bxxxx.  Shalom.  

Postscript –  

This was a hard piece to write, hard because it seemed disingenuous of me to write of obligations, of commitment, to write as if I had any knowledge of those things.  I have failed to cross the finish line more often than most folks have started, I have lived in my head, not acted when I should have and have been pretty chintzy with my heart on more than one occasion. I also know how easy it is to get frustrated and lost, to want nothing more than to dis-engage, to be tired or overwhelmed, afraid (very)  and especially to think everyone else’s obligations are much more fun than mine. Yet it seems that every time I was about to drown in the Schulykill I looked up and saw a boat waiting patiently nearby – not to rescue me but to give me a moment to think, to breathe, to focus. Every time I thought that I couldn’t make it up one more hill there really were buff males in hula skirts (thanks,
Vigo).  And even more, when I saw someone else in need, or when I knew that it was important for my daughter or someone I love – that it was from my heart – I was able to put all of me into whatever I faced.  Rxxxx Vxxxx once quoted a poem to me, ‘Here’s To The Winners’ – there is a line in the poem –  well, I think it’s clear…  ‘Here’s to the battle, whatever it’s for,To ask the best of ourselves, then give much more.  I am certainly not a paragon to the lessons of obligation, merely a student, albeit a very bad one. I suspect the struggle to write this reflects the struggle we each have to some degree with living our lives intentionally, with giving wholly of ourselves, with opening ourselves to joy as it exists and not as we imagine it should be.  I started many times to toss off a simple hale and hearty New Year greeting but every time I kept coming back to that word – mitzvah - it haunted me. For many nights Rabbi Telushkin and Rabbi Jacobson sat with me trying to help me understand. Later they were joined by Parker Palmer, some Buddhists, a Shaker and a Quaker and goodness knows who else. (Fortunately for us all the quantum theorists, neuroscientists, biologists, astrophysicists and ancient Greeks were not available for comment).  My run this January 1^st was quiet, a gentle reminder of all that I hold dear (deer?). Again I went running by my nature preserve – it had rained heavily during the night and as I ran I noticed small tributaries and streams that I had never seen before and I realized that sometimes it takes stormy weather to change the way the landscape looks. Then I found a new path that led into the preserve – and for whatever reason I followed it. The path lead directly to my rock, the place I shared with the deer a year ago. The rock was nearly buried because the water level was so high – but I was compelled to sit on it. So I leapt – and, surprisingly (to me), I landed safely, not even a splash. Yes, sometimes we can take those leaps and hit the mark. Sitting there, looking around, I thought that the water had never sounded so lush, the wood had never been so rich with color and texture.  Then, as I walked back to the road, my eye was caught by an Andrew Goldsworthy-esque object, two perfect pyramids made of stone slabs piled onto of each other – each layer smaller than the one before until the whole formed this perfect pine tree shape. One pyramid sat on a rock in the river, the other was on a tree limb over the water.  Built by wood-nymphs? Deer?  No matter, they were beautiful in their simplicity, a gift.  Running on the road again I was surprised by three deer that jumped out in front of me and leapt over a fence – perfect jettes across the roadside, a private ballet. As I ended my run I walked past a twiggy tree strewn with a necklace of bright red berries and pearlized water droplets.  Throughout the run I tried not to impose any desire for any sort of miracle, I tried to put all of my thoughts on the moment – and I failed again and again – but in between the failures, in between there were these glimpses, these exhilarations, these smiles, these bursts of beauty, these paeans to joy, to being alive – and these too are ‘miracles’..  I recently made a comment to my daughter about being old – and she said to me ‘why do you feel that your age is a problem, why don’t you celebrate having lived this long’. It took my breathe away – indeed, celebrate living.  The past year has taken and given more than I could possible have imagined, more than I could possibly tell.  I thank every one of you, every one who has given, held my hand (or me), talked, read, listened, made me laugh and inspired (and especially those who attended all my daughter’s performances at school!) – I thank-you from the bottom of my heart, with all my heart. Mitzvah, metta, obligation, heart, love, life – the wonderful thing about words is that they reach out and touch each other, they run in circles until they join hands and make sentences, tell stories, weave lives.  To paraphrase Emerson a bit – these are my thoughts and now they are my words. It is my hope that my words will become my deeds, my deeds will become my habits and my habits will come to speak of my character – and that my character will enable me to spread light.   Post post script – I also apologize for the length of this piece – it was originally penned as I (wo) manned the disability desk during the long hours of the Modern Language Association convention – the first draft was over 30 handwritten pages. What can I say – I was commanded to write and did so with all my heart. That’s what happens.