Bus Ride Reading (Ignorance is bliss - The Hebrew Version)

ב 2009 כשהורי ביקרו אותנו כאן בוונקובר, יצא לי להבין בהפתעה קלה משהו, שהטריד את יוחנן בתור אבא לילדים שגדלו בבית דובר עברית. באחד מטיולי הבוקר הוא ציין את תחושת היתרון שיש לנו בהשוואה אליו, שגדל אצל הורים דוברי שפות זרות. בשיתוף הזה מצידו, היה משהו מעורר מחשבה. זו אמירה שמכילה רבדים של תחושות כמו תסכול, קנאה והערכה. לפעמים אנחנו עיוורים למכלול המציאות בה אנחנו חלק, עד שמי שאיתנו חולק מה שאצלו. את יכולת ההבעה והכתיבה אני ממילא מנסה לשפר ולזקק בלי קשר. אבל היכולת הזו מיועדת גם לקהל, שבלעדיו אין לה הרבה תכלית.

אולי פרט אירוני במחשבות העולות תוך כתיבת הדברים שכאן, הוא שאף פעם לא הבחנתי אצל אבא במגבלה ביכולת ההבעה. אבל השיחה שבה הוא הצליח להביע את ההכרה שלו באותה מגבלה, ממשיכה להעסיק אותי במפגשים עם אנשים אחרים. אלה שאני מעריך את יכולת ההבעה שלהם כטובה משלי, מהם אני מנסה ללמוד. אלה שיכולת ההבעה שלהם אולי פחותה, איתם אני מנסה להקפיד, מצד אחד על סבלנות ומצד שני על תמיכה. סבלנות בהקשבה ותמיכה במאמץ לנסות.

לקראת יום השלושים לפטירת יוחנן שטרן, הייתי עסוק בכתיבת החיבור בהמשך תוך נסיעה בתחבורה ציבורית. הקשר לפתיחה שלמעלה אולי לא מיידי אם כי טבעי עבורי במכלול החוויות העוברות עלי.

קריאה בתחבורה ציבורית (בורות היא אושר)

במה אנחנו מחפשים תעסוקה? אני קורא ספר בשם 'קריאת רשות' ('קריאה בלתי נחוצה' בתרגום לאנגלית) שאת שם המחברת אולי יום אחד אצליח לזכור ולהגות. השאלה שלמעלה מעסיקה אותי בזמן הקריאה ואחריה. אני תוהה מה מוצא חן בעיני בשורות אותן אני קורא ומה גורם לי להירתע.

בהמשך אני קורא פיסות מידע על ויסלבה שימבורסקה. הבירור הזריז הזה מחזיר אותי ל'קאמפר' הראשונות שקניתי.

ברחובות מילנו 1999, עברתי ליד חלון ראווה שבו הוצג זוג נעלים שגרם לי לעצור. כאילו מצאתי משהו שכל החיים חיפשתי. הן היו יפות באופן לא מובחן כמעט. היופי שלהן הכיל שלוה, נינוחות, ביטחון עצמי. אפשר היה לעבור לידן מבלי להרגיש בכלל. ובכל זאת הן כאילו חיכו לי. כשמדדתי, הנוחות שלהן הפתיעה רק על רקע נסיון העבר, בו מה שנראה נוח מסתבר בדרך כלל כפחות אם בכלל.

הכתיבה של שימבורסקה, המתורגמת לאנגלית, מרגישה מוכרת, בכל זאת זרה, אולי בגלל התרגום, אולי בגלל התחביר. היא "נשמעת" קצת כמו עולה חדש מרוסיה שנמצא בישראל כבר הרבה שנים. השפה רהוטה וקולחת עם מהמורה קלה פה ושם בנגינה. כשאני מדבר אנגלית, מדי פעם חסרות לי מלים. אני ממציא ביטויים שמסבירים את מה שאני מתכוון בצירופים שחדשים לחברה מסביבי. מעמדת הקורא, אני מתרשם שהשפה של שימבורסקה מעוררת בי התרשמות דומה אולי לזו של השומעים אותי במקום בו אני נמצא. מהמקום בו אני נמצא, אני מתחבר חזרה לויסלבה.

כשחזרתי מאיטליה עם הקאמפר החדשות, הסתבר לי שזה מותג ספרדי חם בשוק האפנה האירופאי, כולל ישראל. תהיתי איך הייתי מתייחס לנעליים בחלון אם הייתי יודע על כך מראש. לא מפריע לי להסתובב עם מותג. מפריע לי לקנות אותו רק בגלל שהוא זה. עודד, שקרא לי בעברית חיבור אחד מתוך הספר, חסך ממני את הפרט הלא רלוונטי של פרס הנובל בו זכתה שימבורסקה. כשפניתי לקנות את הספר חשבתי לעצמי, האם אני קונה אותו בגלל שאני מושפע מהמפגש עם עודד או כיוון שמשהו בטקסט היה באמת חזק מספיק עבורי.

אחת השאלות ששאלו את ויסלבה, משוררת פולנית ידועה, שנפטרה בת 89 ב 2012, היתה למה לא פרסמה יותר שירים. התשובה שלה מחזירה אותי לקרוא את החיבורים שלה, "הבלתי נחוצים": "יש כבר סל מיחזור אצלי בחדר".

Bus Ride Reading (Ignorance is bliss)

In 2009, my parents visited us here in Vancouver. Somewhat unexpectedly I realized an issue that had bothered Yohanan, my dad, for years. In one of our morning walks he mentioned the advantage we’d had over him. Being Israeli born to immigrant parents, he always felt that his exposure to language was compromised. He expressed awareness to the fact that we, his children, grew up in a Hebrew speaking household. That confession provoked layers of thought in me. I could sense the frustration in him, the envy as well as appreciation and respect. We are sometimes blind to the complex reality we live in until the person with us shares their own. My drive to improve and distil my own process of expression and writing is already established. However, my skills are deemed futile without an audience.

As I am writing these words, the irony in my dad’s state of mind has not escaped me. I have never considered his level of expression as missing much. But our chat in which he managed to express his awareness to that perceived fault, keeps me alert in my encounters with other people. From those I appreciate the level of expression as superior to mine I try to learn. With the ones whose level might be lower I try to be careful, on the one hand with patience and on the other - support; being patient in listening and supportive of the effort to try.

This memory came back to me as the thirty days from my dad's passing away (on 21 November 2015) approached. I was just about to complete a piece of commentary following a few days of commuting on bus to work. The link between the opening above and my commentary seems natural to me if not immediately obvious.

Bus Ride Reading (Ignorance is bliss)

What do we occupy ourselves with? I am reading a book, named ‘Non-required Reading’ (initially introduced to me in Hebrew as ‘Optional Reading’). One day I might remember its author’s name and manage to pronounce it. The question above rolls in my head as I am reading and beyond. I wonder what it is that attracts me to it and what turns me off.

Later I read snippets of information about Wislawa Szymborska. This quick exploration throws me back to the first ‘Campers’ I have purchased.

In the streets of Milan, 1999, I passed by a window where a pair of shoes made me stop. It was as if I found something I had been looking for my whole life. They were beautiful in an almost unnoticeable way. And yet they were waiting for me. When I tried them on, their comfort was only surprising in light of past experiences, where what looks comfortable turns out to be less so or even not at all.

Szymborska’s writing, translated into English, feels familiar yet still foreign. Maybe because of the translation, maybe due to its syntax. She “sounds” a bit like a new comer from Russia who’s already been away from homeland for many years. The language is fluent and flawless with a screech here and there in its music. When I speak English, occasionally my vocabulary fails me. I invent expressions that explain my ideas in combinations that are new to my listeners. From the reader’s point of view, my impression of Szymborska’s language is probably similar to that of my audience, in the place where I am. From where I am, I re-connect with Wislawa.

When I returned from Italy to Israel with my new Campers, I realized that they had been a hot Spanish brand in the European fashion world including that of Israel. I was wondering how I would have treated the shoes had I known about that in advance. Not that I am worried about being dressed in a brand name. I am simply averse to buying a brand name just because of it. Oded, my friend who introduced ‘optional reading’ to me, read one of the book’s pieces in Hebrew. He had spared me the irrelevant knowledge of Scymborska’s being a Nobel prize for literature winner. Still, when I considered buying the book I asked myself whether I was buying it just because of my meeting with Oded or thanks truly to the strength of the book’s text.

Wislawa, who died at 89 in 2012, was a well known Polish poet. She was asked once how come she hadn’t published more poems. Her response draws me back to her “non-required” essays: “My room already has a recycling bin.”

Embracing death as a joy of life

On my recent visit to Israel I had the honor of escorting my dad through some of his last days in life. I’d shared my thoughts and insights with my family, as part of our daily updates. The first one below was written early one morning following a few days of traveling and social encounters. About a week after my return to Canada my dad embraced the hold of death and passed away seven days later, Saturday, November 21 2015. My eulogy below was written in response to our last conversation.

I am grateful to have family and friends supporting us in this process of growth.
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Each of us carries an invisible load of baggage. This includes what I think of the other and what I think people think of me. My conversation with Gali, my niece, raises the notion that some issues might not require discussion. Tamar, my sister in-law, knows in advance what would offend her. We face a daily effort of dismantling this baggage of landmines and firebombs.

In one early moment of the Sterns’ visit to Vancouver last year, I waived a threatening finger in front of Yohanan. His response made me wonder what exactly happened there. My parents’ stay with us, transformed into a realization, that we can all enjoy it. With my raised finger I’ve exclaimed “If you don’t trust my good intentions and Yardena’s good intentions, we have no communication.” Yohanan jumped from his spot at the other side of the table. He then charged into the bedroom. A few seconds later we could hear him screaming at the tenant in Israel to pay his rent.

I am fascinated by our use of the comic in relating to life. Laughter relieves our breath and introduces a healthy dose of oxygen to our brain. In embarrassment and hardships it seems like laughter gives me a break. Instead of sliding into depression, laughter allows me to remove the tough issue from its threatening context. It doesn't always succeed. But a small story from my acquaintance with Gerstman, one of Yeheskely Clothing's suppliers, keeps inspiring me to employ laughter and insist on it.

Yoav, the designer I used to work with, was Gerstman's tenant for a few years. He's told me that they'd always had pleasant conversations. Some of them even included stories from the landlord's past as a Holocaust survivor. The man, bearing a smile on his face, was always happy to share amusing anecdotes. In one of Yoav's encounters with Gerstman the gentleman had confided: "So, in the concentration camps have I stopped laughing? Of course I had laughed." This was enough for me.

Yohanan Stern has been collecting clown figurines for years in a variety of forms: paintings, dolls and other creations. Some of them are sad, some are smiling. They all, in my view celebrate the light hearted side of our personality; the part that helps a healthy perspective of life. The sad clown might be mumbling "What's the point in being pessimistic; life's hard enough." The happy one is saying "Every situation entails a glimmer of bliss; the joy of life stems from that." You can notice the two clowns manifested in my dad. Occasionally I cringe embarrassedly from his fooling around. In the rest of time I tell myself that I am the same.

So where is Yardena in all of this? Let's not talk about Yardena. Taking care of Yohanan is currently top priority. She chunks a couple of pain killers in the morning and the day is settled. Never mind that their influence is receding. Just make sure they are Extra Strength. My effort in finding out how I might be the same gives me a headache. There you are, I made it! Now I can relax. We agreed that with all the difficulties we have a history and present of cooperation. In all of us, the good intentions overcome our frustrations. True, I know how to be turned off by Yohanan. And the point is that I am the one who is turned off. The other side in the story is not guilty of my being turned off but, alas, he is part of it.

So here is an idea for a scientific research in sociology: our life is built upon reducing our amount of turn off from people, especially those closest to us. Once I have already told mom that my success in life results "thanks to you as well as in spite of you." And then, doesn't Meni turn me off? Sharon? Erez? Ah,… Erez doesn't turn me off. And Yardena understands immediately. At the same time she is dead wrong. Erez doesn't turn me off because we hardly speak to each other. Yardena counts the ‘hardly’. YarOn counts the ‘speak’. Sharon comforts us in saying "that's OK." And Meni? He stopped reading in the first paragraph. And that too is OK.

This update has no immediate concrete implications. It is an intermediate summary in my line of impressions from what's up in the family. I am trying to bring to light some thoughts in hope that they allow a small window into space and a breath of fresh air. In the tough and serious situation we are all experiencing, the suffocating feeling of hopelessness might sabotage the delightful effort we are all involved in. My aspiration is that these words manage to amuse the moment a bit, until the next day.
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Yohanan,

Indeed we ate the last of the humus on your last day. Like some kind of a Hanukah miracle where you were the sacrifice. And we will continue to make humus and bake pitot (pita bread) and think of Nablus Gate, the falafel that we had to bring from the adjacent stall and the coffee that the guy poured from the boil. Much of what I could know about you came to me indirectly. Like a side observation. Something I had said off hand turned out months later to be significant to you.

Your lust for life has always entailed a measure of frightened, somewhat childish concern. As my ability to express my impression in words improved, your desire to give and nurture overcame any insult. I am grateful for the opportunity to learn something out of this. Looking from within, our life feels almost boring. Why even my effort to extract family stories for your fiftieth anniversary confronted a variety of objections from its members.

But life goes on and the memory will play its part. Much of what I will hear about you will fill the void. “I am the strongest dad in the world,” I told the impressed boy one day. At the same breath I continued “and my dad is even stronger.” Every joke has a component of truth in it. I am grateful for the opportunity to continue the joke.

are we there yet?

The park is slowly being completed. We’ve been away for the cold and wet winter. The forecast for excessive snow was mostly true for regions north of Vancouver. A few days after starting with the first piece though it did snow and from then on the weather kept playing between low temperatures and wet days.

A night walk in December. There wasn’t a lot of

snow this year but it was cold enough to prevent installation.

Yoko and I tried to stick to working together so that we learn from each other as much as possible. Until now it worked vey well. This week Yoko flied to Japan for a family visit. It is too early to conclude the degree of destruction following the earth quake a week ago. Nevertheless this is a moment in history that puts our lives into a grim perspective.

An aerial view of tsunami damage in the Tōhoku region.

From the first tile installed in October of last year we saw that the stained mortar band needs to be applied differently. If any of it rubs out onto the path surrounding the recess we are bound to spend more time and effort cleaning the mess. The solution is quite easy in theory: apply the paste carefully. In reality it was relatively easy but still challenging. A combination of cold weather, wet concrete path and crouching down to work were found to be a nice workout.

Into a one inch wide gap the mortar is applied in small amounts to

gradually create our desired band.

There is no way we can rush things even though we want to. As we move into spring more days are available to work on installation. The world around us is shaking in multiple directions. I think it’s a matter of re-imagining the excitement from last year that will help us shift gears. This is still a celebration of life.

Even with this impressive display of process the

grouting stage is still ahead of us.

visit to israel

Aya died (30^th of March 2009). From the stories of her diabetes, the infection in her leg, her hospitalization, it seemed to me that her days were numbered. Maybe it was easy for me to feel that way because I am away, in Canada, while they are back in Israel. When Aya died there was wonder as to what had killed her. 65 is not considered old age these days. A day or two before her death she was diagnosed with cancer.

Death is a straightforward reminder of the insignificance of our existence. 'How we die' by Sherwin Nuland describes the six most common processes that bring our bodies to the moment of death. A fascinating book that shows how boring and predictable death is. The author's intention in writing this book came from the realization that lack of information is at the base of the emotions surrounding death. My grandfather, who I have never met, died at 56. Before my father turned 56 he seemed to have been counting the days.

When I was riding my motorcycle a few years earlier, at 29, I was hit by a car. This near death experience was more frightening to everyone around than to me. For the first week, although regarded conscious, I was completely disoriented. I have virtually no memory of that time. If anything stays with me from that time it's the fear of injury and not the fear of death. So what makes so many of us cling to life so badly?

Before we die we want to leave a mark, to create meaning. In death our value can be calculated. Initially that value is described in terms of loss. Eventually memory is gathered to become a legacy. Aya's legacy is hard to describe in elaborate words. It's one that is less of her own life yet belongs to her life.

She really liked us, her nephews. We made her happy and she wanted us to be happy.

In her death, I remember her fondly.