Can't stay away from that NY Times "Sunday Styles" section, much as I try. OK, I don't try. In fact, I lunge for that section the minute my hubby lugs in the paper, eager for the escape into that strangely savage parallel universe, where people carry $1,500 purses to hold the credit cards financing their unique adventures to the plastic surgeon, the Hamptons and Cannes.
One story grabbed me this week, aside from the entertainment of searching the wedding announcements for the gay couples, and gagging at the deliciously smug descriptions of nuptial couples' backgrounds ("The bridegroom, also 27, received a doctorate in chemistry in June from M.I.T., where he specialized in nanotechnology research." "His father is a financial adviser in the the financial services unit in New York of UBS, the Swiss bank, and from 1994-2001 was the publisher of Golf Digest...")
No, the wedding news only framed my favorite story, which was reprinted in our local Seattle Times the following day: "Life in the Time of Oprah," by Jessica Grose. Datelined Chicago, Ms. Grose described the life of Robyn Okrant (above), the 35-year-old wife who voluntarily has submitted herself for one year to everything Oprah, choosing to make all choices according to advice dispensed by the favored gurus or the World's Richest Woman herself. Ms. Okrant traces every decision she makes, from her clothing to her hair dye to her mental perspectives to an edict from the show, the magazine or the professional assistants of Oprah Winfrey.
Then she blogs about it. And seeks to get a book contract out of it. "Oprah's like the popular girl in high school who knows how to emotionally blackmail us," Ms. Okrent says in the article. "The way she'll deliver advice is, 'This will make you happy, unless you don't have enough self-esteem to do it...It's the illusion of free choice, but it's actually an absence of choice."
Ms. Okrent's husband, Jim Stevens, says the Oprah fixation has changed his wife toward being "hyperconscious about her appearance." Which might actually be okay, given that emulating Ms. Winfrey's personal life would leave him out of the picture. In fact, striving to become a clone of Oprah Winfrey--or at least a desciple--must leave lots of opportunity for failure. The Styles piece quotes Salon.com lifestyles editor Sarah Hepola: "I think there was a time when Oprah really lived her advice," she muses, "and I think that time was 1988."
What struck me about Ms. Okrent's undertaking was--forgive me--how much it smacks of the way pious people approach religion. OK, speaking as a Jew, the Torah puts forth down to the most minute details means to approach every aspect of life. Wake up and immediately say "Modeh ani" thanking God for reviving you. Wash off that "tumah" that sullies you during your snooze. Put on your right shoe first. Say your prayers, complete with blessings for taking each step, and wearing clothes. And that hasn't scratched the surface of the system that overlays on each and every decision to be made. True, like Ms. Okrent, you have free will to choose whether to abide by "the rules" or depart from them, but "it's the illusion of free choice, but it's actually an absence of choice," as Robyn notes. If you're going to buy into the system, be it Oprah's way or the Torah, then any veering off just means "you don't have enough self esteem," read, "discipline" or "strength of character," to succeed.
The difference is...well, first off, lots of people DO confuse Oprah with God. But not really. Second is that Robyn Okrent is doing this for just a year, for a kick, or, more likely, for career advancement. People who accept a religion do it not just for life, but for after-life. That's a real commitment. At the same time, the folk who accept religion, be it Torah or Koran or New Testament--think there's truly no alternative. They know what God wants, and after all, He's God; if he doesn't like your path, it's worse than sleeping with 'da fishes. If you're Hindu, you could be a fish.
According to the Styles article, the essence of the Oprah lifestyle is "a spiritual quest," and that's pretty close to what religion offers, too. You can replace the Oprah-ese "shlumpadinka" (which sounds pretty Jewish to me) which dictates fashion choices with the sartorial customs of Catholic nuns or Chasidic Jewish groups. You can substitute Oprah's refrigerator endorsements for physical accoutrements religions use--oh, say a succa, or elaborate rectories.
So, I chuckled at the silliness of Robyn Okrent's pursuit. And then I went to cook my kosher food, say the grace after meals and read my Aish ha Torah emails. Um....why do I feel weird about this comparison?
The summer is heating up. The weather here in the northwest this last five days finally felt truly warm, delightfully so, until today's chilling rain. And the candidates are heating up their confrontations.
Perhaps by the time this is posted, Barack Obama will have selected a running mate. John McCain, however, will probably wait to see who Obama picks, and then make his choice with his competitors in mind. Interestingly, Colin Powell's name seems to be floating in the politico-sphere as a possible GOP running mate, though Tim Pawlenty still seems to be in the lead, with Bobby Jindal a close second. With the steeplechase analogy, Gen. Powell would certainly be the dark horse, no pun intended. I didn't see the Saddleback Church candidate interviews because we don't have TV in our home, but the clips and analysis I heard suggested Obama's embarrassing pauses and dodges to questions concisely and knowingly answered by McCain gave the Republican candidate a decisive image boost.
Meanwhile, my husband and I took a fieldtrip to Mt. Rainier. The day was envelopingly, soothingly warm but not uncomfortable, and the verdant roadways with their pleasant curves snaked through old-growth groves of enormous cedars and firs that reminded us of our minuscule size in the grander scheme of things.
I'd bought a little portable BBQ in a box on sale, and we stopped at the kosher supermarket for supplies on our way out. After some exclaiming over the bo
untiful wildflowers, we set out to cook our vegetarian hamburgers and hot dogs, and discovered that we should have unboxed the BBQ, because it came with an ominous "instruction manual," aka means to use up the packets of "wingnut A, grommet B, hinge C..." all the way through thing-a-ma-bob G and H. Reminded me a bit of The Cat in the Hat Comes Back, minus the Vroom.
However, the combined brain power of my husband and I managed to put together the cooker and serve up some delicious mushroom burgers and Tofurkey Kielbasas before returning to roam the big mountain and tour, for the last time before its demise, the Henry M. Jackson Visitor's Center (above), which the friendly ranger told us is scheduled "to return to the mother ship" next spring, when its more architecturally-correct replacement is completed. We took a walk through the recently-refurbished Paradise Inn, built in 1916, with hand-carved and painted decor designed and built (according to the Inn's website) in 1919, by Hans Fraehnke, a German carpenter--including a rustic piano and a 14 foot grandfather clock.
And we also toured the National Park Inn at Longmire with its adjacent walk through forest and field with mineral rich springs gurgling up from the ground. My husband kept praising the great use of tax money for National Parks, and the wise foresight of officials to set aside this land in 1899.
What a great way to spend a summer Sunday.
Today I attended a meeting of a book club where the author, David Klinghoffer, made a presentation about his new book, How Would God Vote? Why the Bible Commands You to be a Conservative (Random House), which I found not only controversial but thought-provoking.
I admit to not yet reading the book, but the discussion was less about specifics in the text (which reaches into traditional biblical and Jewish sources for precedents that Klinghoffer applies to 20 hot-button issues), and more about why it's not arrogant to suggest that God has a point of view that He offers for our use.
The conversation got interestingly impassioned as it rolled around to the presidential candidates, with Klinghoffer suggesting that Obama's appeal is in how he makes voters feel--like they're open-minded, forward-thinking, in with the in-crowd. It's that cool image Obama peddles, even as he eschews specifics on many issues (the only promise being that he'll raise taxes) and offers only ephemeral abstracts like "change" and "hope" as his mantras.
But David wouldn't give a public biblical stamp of approval on any candidate, shying away lest his employer, the think-tank Discovery Institute, lose non-profit cred as a non-partisan institution. I, however, see Jewish biblical guidelines that point solidly to McCain.
If, as Klinghoffer suggests, Obama's lure is in how his followers feel, and the sharp-looking, youthful black face spouting those well-crafted words, then despite his Democratic credentials, Barack's waving a red flag. We say every day (at least twice!) in the seminal Jewish prayer "the Shma," "v'lo taturu acharai l'vavhem, v'acharai anaichem, asher atem zonim aharaihem..." which means, "and not explore after your heart, and after your eyes, which (make) you stray after them."
Or, as Rashi, (1040-1105) the great Jewish scholar puts it, "the eye sees, then the heart covets, and the body sins." That's the appeal of Obama--the eye, the heart--rather than the mind.
That's where McCain comes in. When you close your eyes to the image and look at relevant criteria for leading our nation, what should you consider? Experience. Record on issues. Track record. Proven dedication.
Yesterday I was struck by an illustration of this. I was listening to my favorite radio talk show, now on in New York 3-6 pm on AM 970, WNYM, and heard a clip of Sen. McCain discussing the Russian aggression into Georgia. This was hours before the cease-fire. He said he'd just spoken to his long-time friend, President Mikheil Saakashvili, on the phone: "I've been to Georgia several times, and the lesson here is one which is larger than a tiny country. The lesson here is that we are seeing a reemergence of Russia as a major player... I do believe that we need to stand as courageously as we can on behalf of this little country.” Meanwhile, Obama continued his vacation in Hawaii.
Now, I'm sure Sen. Obama deserves his relaxation in the tropical isles. But using logic to evaluate this situation, it's clear that experience and dedication, exactly the credentials of Sen. McCain, are the tools we need on this volatile world political front. "Hope" and "change" are of little help.
Maybe that isn't romantic; maybe that isn't exciting, but the kind of "hope" we need now is that the sense of the American electorate will prevail, to let their minds take charge of their eyes and their hearts.
Many of my fellow Jewish bloggers have written their impressions on this most somber of holidays, Tisha b'Av, a day God has imbued with danger and punishment for Jews throughout history. Both of our holy Temples were destroyed on this day; major holocausts throughout history are connected to it, and we are to focus our sadness for the failings that brought these events, and our own failings in this time of mourning. Few secular Jews realize that the calendar is balanced between joyous and sad days, but no time has the cosmic dread of the Ninth of Av.
I write this in the "home stretch," just three hours before the end of our 25-hour fast. Here in the Northwest, we can again hydrate ourselves and wear leather shoes and bathe (relief!) at 9:10 pm. I am already sitting on a normal chair, instead of the low hassock on which I wrote my previous post. But as with any of our six fast days...the home stretch is the most arduous part of the process.
Like my fellow J-bloggers, I have a tough time getting into the spirit of the day. Summertime is the most glorious here, with flowers in bloom and delightful temperatures and trees verdant and drooping. As we ate our "third meal" yesterday on Shabbat, knowing it was our last food until 9:10 tonight, God provided the most glorious rainbow across our view over Lake Washington, so brilliant it made me gasp. I know, however, that the rainbow is an ominous sign, suggesting that God upholds his promise not to drown us all as in Noah's time--though we probably are deserving of it. Similarly, the now-clearing summery day, with its cerulean sky, is not conducive to mourning, especially for historical events that intellectually I know are beyond what I can grasp in their horror.
It is for those reasons that we have the useful "home stretch." For if we fail in feeling sympathy for our people and our own lacks, our bodies remind us--we are needy. We are dependent. We are arrogant when we believe we can skate without the constant provision of God. In thirst and hunger, we can feel serious and even cry--understanding to the smallest degree the devastation about we read last night in the book of Lamentations--Eicha! A cry of desperation, the wail of the child being punished. I am connected with my people, if even for just a time, in realizing the depths of our errors and the significance of our losses.
Just a few more hours. I could sure use an iced Starbucks.
Now that I've returned to the world of the normal in every sense (relief!) I can begin to reflect on our journey to the Holy Land, as I start to edit my 1,300 photos. Friends ask what the best parts of the trip were, and there were many, but perhaps the most striking could have occurred anywhere in the world.
It did occur in the ancient port city of Jaffa, in a warehouse in a rather unimproved light industrial area at a place called Nalaga'at Center, which consists of two restaurants and a playhouse. Sounds pretty normal so far, but "sounds" and "normal" were central and not what you think.
Our group had rented out the entire Cafe Kapish for a delicious dinner before an evening of theater. But this eatery is staffed entirely by deaf people, and to order, it is our job to communicate with them. The fare begins with bowls of appetizers--hummus, fresh pita, chopped salads--watiting at the table, and a choice of entrees, either fish or vegetarian. Each table has a whiteboard slate, in case you can't sign or otherwise express yourself using pointing to the menu and your hands. The food was plentiful and excellent, and at the conclusion of the meal, customers paid the tab by sending a table representative up to the cash register.
Then we received our tickets for Nalaga'at Theatre's "Not by Bread Alone," a production by eleven deaf and blind actors. Yes--both deaf and blind. As we entered, behind a filmy curtain the actors stood--four women and five men--dressed in baker's aprons and toques, behind tables kneading loaves of bread. As the play progressed through scenes depicting their lives and feelings about normal events such as love, marriage, and family, they continued the baking process, placing their loaves in pans, leaving them to rise, putting them into on-stage ovens, and finally, removing the hot bread and, at the play's conclusion, inviting the audience on stage to meet them and consume the product of their efforts.
Two of the actors had lost their hearing after they had gained speech, and so were able to say their lines in that pinched voice of those who only remember the mechanics of talking. The others communicated via a narrator at side-stage who spoke for them in Hebrew. All the dialog was simultaneously presented by a sign-language interpreter, with superscript captioning in both Ararbic and English. In order for the actors to find their places throughout the show, guides dressed in black escorted them as they moved, one actor pushing a baby carriage, another swinging on a suspended swing, others dancing together, finally concluding with a wedding.
The content was illuminating, because one seldom recognizes or appreciates the complete isolation and yearning for connection that those removed from sensory input endure. One of the actors described holding her new
baby niece, and realizing that she would never see the child. Another described waiting and waiting to be touched, feeling abandoned until finally the expected helper arrived. A third told of his yearning to find a wife, to experience the companionship of marriage.
When the play ended and the audience provided a standing ovation the actors would not see, their guides applauded into their hands, mimicking our response. Then we were invited onstage. I admit to feeling a bit apprehensive, shy, intimidated, when approaching, though I certainly did want to thank the performers. Each stood with a guide; audience members took the actor's hand or hugged him, and spoke; the interpreter fed the comment into the actor's hand. Though most did not speak, they could sign a response that the guide relayed. The process is more complex to describe than its actuality. After all, the message of the show and our interactions was that these people smile, think and plan like everyone else. But from a different, dark and silent space.
We did not eat at the other restaurant associated with the Nalaga'at Theater, "Blackout--Restaurant in the Dark," staffed entirely by blind waiters. THAT would have been difficult, but, like the entire experience, eminently worth it. Memorable. Enlightening.
The Nalaga'at Theater's director, a woman whose name I don't know, came out after the performance and explained that the troupe has toured the world, including earning a standing ovation at Rockefeller Center in New York. She described putting together the play, the second production following the actors' very personal stories in "Light is Heard in Zig Zag." The amount of patience and practice in working with actors who cannot see or hear must be incredible. The amount of gratitude we, who have our senses intact, should feel for those very basic sources is inestimable.
As you can probably tell, this was not the usual touristy visit to Israel.
Photos: Above left, before the performance, taken from my seat, the actors knead bread behind a filmy curtain. Above right, Cafe Kapish, where the staff is deaf.
I'm still frozen in a hermetically sealed tube, hurtling through space.
I arrived back home in the Great Northwest, which, btw, had just endured/enjoyed pelting rain, less than 24 hours ago. Traveling 28 hours non-stop (does a three-hour layover and two hours on the tarmac at JFK count as a stop?) is probably the closest a being with a heart-beat comes to The Big Sleep. Thankfully, I was granted every intercontinental jet-setter's dream space, literally: business class. That meant that El Al provided me a nearly-flat seat in which to float in undefined time-space for twelve hours of twilight. Almost like sedation with trips to the bathroom.
However, once I arrived home, I did upload my photos. Haven't looked at them yet, but given that my entire trip to Israel of two years ago--all 1368 photos of it--were lost to a corrupt photo card, I was compelled even in my stupor to upload. To three computers. And back it up on my external hard drive.
Then, I tried to sleep for the first time since Jerusalem in my own bed. All I could do was lie there and think, "the last time I was truly horizontal was in the City of David." Or such. And of course, I woke up a couple hours later trying to figure out exactly which direction the bathroom was in.
I was pleasantly surprised, however, when, two hours afterward in the daylight, I looked over to see the large display on my digital clock-radio. In Israel, hotel rooms do not have any clocks. And, given that I left for my trip without a wristwatch, I'd spent ten days wondering if I was late. Or, what time it was. So used to relying on my cell-phone for the hour, I stupidly neglected to revert to the time-piece that used to reside where I now display wardrobe-coordinated bracelets. The angst of asking my husband for the time prevailed as my fear of irritating him grew with each request. Finally, I succumbed to watching others in our group, fox-like, for signs that we should hurry back to the bus. And I learned new flexibilities in order to read the watch on my husband's wrist while he slept.
The return flight, bereft of marked minutes or miles, was an experience of surrealism that undoubtedly is reflected in the dizziness of my present prose. I do hope my orientation improves, just as I look forward to improvement of another Israeli souvenir I unintentionally acquired, of the intestinal variety. Not a pretty picture, hurtling through space with a bacterial buddy.
Still, (though not for long) I must marvel at the bizarre yet miraculous ability, to go tubular from one continent to another halfway across the world in a single bound (okay, a couple single bounds--but the Superman allusion is apt). I am constantly amazed that we can not only FLY, but zip at 35,000 feet, high above the clouds. And I hope to share with you some of the other lofty events and anecdotes of the Holy Land, once I find my way down to earth and, ahem, to the bathroom...
Well, I should be packing. As in, cramming enough for nine days into as small a suitcase as I can, lest I pay more than necessary for airline baggage charges. You see, we're off to Israel.
This is the fourth annual tour that I'll be, um, "taking" to the Holy Land, and what I mean by that is that I'm accompanying the big draw for a group of 200 fans. Given that we have family in Jerusalem, and that my daughter spent a year in seminary there, over the past four years I've made this journey six times. Eight times in all.
Still, when you approach the kotel, the Western wall surrounding the Temple Mount, the ruach, spirituality, is palpable. All the headlines about danger lurking everywhere dissolve into normal days of touring and visiting family, whose daily routine differs little from ours at home. Jerusalem is a relatively small city, in a teensy country, and floating in the Dead Sea, climbing the scorched paths in Masada, peering out the air-conditioned bus windows at date palms and irrigated fields and sandy stretches has a special wonder to it, because this is the land of our forefathers, the land God chose as the microcosm of everywhere.
So, I won't be adding to my blog while away. I don't check email; I don't travel with a laptop. The days are action-packed and people-rich, and somehow when you tread ruins thousands of years old, the urgency of the Internet is less potent, and the importance of living and surviving--in a desert, as a people, and as a nation, become paramount.
We'll be traveling for 27 hours to get there, on a Jewish fast day (17th of Tammuz) so this should be interesting. I plan to stay up all night tonight on last 
minute laundry, folding and cramming, so that I can spend most of my non-imbibing hours asleep. There's always that pre-journey mix of excitement and reluctance that I feel now, but I'm readying my camera and spare batteries and plan to return with some fascinating stories to tell. In the meantime, enjoy the sweet luxuries of summer...
