Max Roytenberg

Being vs. feeling old

Being old! That is so different from feeling old. Being old is what I think of other people, or what others may think of me. Feeling old is so much more personal. Feeling old is something that has crept up on me so much more recently.

I have noticed being old for a long time, as the ranks of my contemporaries has been thinning out. But now, I am noticing how the distances I want to cover, have to cover, seem so much further away. I am much slower in my reach, slower to pick up things, slower to get up and go. When did I develop that tremor that I never noticed before? Why do I not recall the name, the word, that I used to instantly recall? What’s happening? I must be getting old. It makes me feel old.

I have always reveled in the richness of my memories – memories of things that so many around me have not the least idea about. My past has become an irrelevancy. I have had to comfort myself with the private knowledge that the present all of us so take for granted is based on what I and my contemporaries had built so solidly in the past. If we were to dare recount our triumphs, we would be written off as old bores.

I find I now have a reluctance to add new articles to my closet. What I have there are the things I put on like old companions, which wrap me in comfort. The odds and ends I have accumulated are the precious reminders of my days of derring-do, when I traveled to the heart of darkness without a thought to the dangers that were present on every side. Those days we knew we were immortal.

Like the just desserts for the conquering hero, I earned my reward, albeit at the age of 71. Correcting the errors and omissions of a callow youth, lacking the courage of my convictions, throwing caution to the winds, I gained the love and companionship of my true love after an interregnum of more than 50 years. Thereafter, I had to learn how to appreciate the needs of others as the road to ultimately meeting my own. It took the reasoning and wisdom of advancing age, and altered priorities, to gain the knowledge that enabled me to reengineer the person that I was.

Each day, we launch our enterprise to meet the challenges of life. If the objective is to fill the pantry or the fridge, we count it a victory if we return home without having forgotten any of the items on the grocery list we carried in our minds. If we meet up with others to share a community activity, we count ourselves brilliant if we remember the names of our comrades. We have taken to the practice of notation to ensure we do not miss birthdays and anniversaries of even our closest kin. If all else fails, we resort to internet searches to compensate for any breaches we may come across in the things we surely know by heart. It is always a joint product as we seek to light the fires of memory in each other.

We are engaged in the habit of doing puzzles. I hate puzzles, but they are one of the medicines I faithfully take to counter the breaches in my armour that have accumulated over time. We exercise. Ditto to my personal appreciation of the activity. We socialize. I am most happy at home with a book or an exciting mystery or bang-up violence on my TV.

I do like to be surrounded by younger folk. That gives me a charge. The spontaneity of children is just marvelous to behold. And they are so beautiful to behold. I am sure having them in one’s life keeps one young, even if they sometimes tire you out. It is a good tired!

Generally, I happily do all those things the doctors tell us are good for our health. But no serious food exclusions. I am sure I will expire consuming one of those things we have been warned is bound to bring us to the edge of existence. I bear these admonitions in mind but am an inveterate cheater. Even if the time comes sooner, we have had a good run and I will go out smiling. (Don’t tell my wife, because she absolutely won’t hear of my going off without her.)

Some of us may miss the cut and thrust of being out in the world, struggling with the demons we all have to face, but it is a relief, in the end, to no longer worry about what might be happening behind our backs. We gaze out at the world more or less secure.

Being old without feeling old is the secret, isn’t it?

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Solace in accomplishments

When I assess all the positive things that Jews have contributed to humanity, and contrast that with the treatment my people have undergone as recompense, I am at a loss.

Jews conceived a supreme being responsible for the creation of the material world. They also saw that this being insisted on moral laws to be obeyed by the humans He brought into being to be masters of the planet He had peopled. The Jews believed that this unitary deity, replacing the multiplicity of single-purpose idols and demigods, would reward the righteous who obeyed His laws with a future beyond the grave that all humans face. They also hoped these laws would make it easier for humans to live together in peace. The ideas were so powerful that, even though they were transmuted and altered through Christianity and Islam, they ultimately captured the hearts of millions and, today, billions.

In its early days, as they struggled for wider support, the Jewish followers of Jesus, and some of those they recruited, altered some of the tenets of Jewish observance and deified their leader. Further, the church established in Jesus’s name adopted the New Testament, which they established to replace the Hebrew Bible, containing the assertion, not borne out by available historical record, that his fellow Jews killed Jesus.

With the ultimate success of the new church, Jews have faced millennia of murder, forced conversion, exclusion and persecution from Christianity’s adherents. And Islam followed suit in condemnation because Jews would not accept their version of the story Jews had been telling.

Out of this crucible of trial by fire and sword, hate and exclusion, remnants have survived over the centuries, since most Jews left their native lands. Treated as strangers everywhere they ended up, they maintained a culture that has bred individuals of extraordinary talent, wisdom and ingenuity out of all proportion to their numbers.

When Jews were at last liberated from the restrictions placed upon them by various rulers of various lands, the contribution that Jews began to make to the welfare of their communities exploded across the whole range of human activity. Yet, hatred of Jews, official and random, remains a fact of life nearly everywhere.

As a youngster, I grew up in Canada, in a time when there were places in which Jews could not buy property. There were jobs from which Jews were excluded. There were courses in university where enrolment of Jews was limited.

One of my childhood acquaintances, the product of a Jamaican father and a German mother, lived in similar circumstance to ourselves, in an area on the edge of being a slum. We often spoke of our aspirations for future advancement. He had a talent for drawing. If I had a talent for anything, it was not obvious.

Almost a lifetime later, we reengaged and had a number of debates. When I mentioned some of the contributions Jews had made to humanity, making particular reference to recent discoveries made by scientists in Israel, they appeared of little significance to him. He cautioned me about being too tribal, indicating that national origins were irrelevant. Then, he stated that the creation of Israel had been a world blunder.

The contributions being made in Israel dispute that point. That it exists at all is a miracle. The current rallying of nations around the world to support Ukraine was not in evidence when Israel confronted the armies of seven invading Arab countries, in addition to internal terrorism, at the time of its birth in 1948.

An arid country, Israel converts seawater to freshwater with solar power. That solar power fills much of its energy needs, as it lacks natural resources. It is a pioneer in agricultural techniques that it markets to the world to conserve water.

It commits one of the highest percentages of the national budget to research and development, funding medical and technological advances that are being used around the world. Its medical advances have enabled people who couldn’t, for whatever reason, to walk, to hear or to see. It used its entire population to identify the best methods for preventing the spread of COVID-19.

No emergency anywhere in the world lacks an Israeli team if their aid is welcome, and they are often the first on the scene to save lives. It has one of the highest patent applications per million people in the world.

And Israel is a haven for any Jew in distress around the world. Its initial Jewish population was 800,000. After almost 75 years, it is more than six million, in a country of more than nine million, most of the balance being Arabs with citizenship.

Yet, some, even many, consider all this a blunder! And, as Jews, we face challenges to our safety and survival wherever we are located.

The outsize contributions made by Jews in every field, out of all proportion to their numbers, is a matter of public record. The explanation for it is puzzling. My conclusion centres on the nature of the Jewish community in the diaspora and in the Israeli national consciousness.

Communities in the diaspora inherited their format, as dictated by religious authorities in ancient Israel. Each community was responsible for meeting the needs all its inhabitants, children’s education and care for the poor included. This was reenforced in the diaspora by hostile surroundings, with internal literacy and educational priorities being in stark contrast to what existed in environments around them.

Most importantly, I believe, was a sense of common destiny, each Jew knowingly accepting responsibility for the welfare of one’s fellows. I believe that, when Jews entered the wider world, this individual consciousness was transmuted into a drive to be of service to the public as a whole. And these feelings dictated the choice of careers and the values of Jewish entrepreneurs. The community priority on education did the rest in the pursuit of excellence.

The wrongs of the past, it seems, will not be righted. We must earn our satisfactions from our accomplishments.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Singing for my supper

Do you sing? I’ve always fancied myself as one who had a good singing voice. I love to sing. I’m always ready to join in when there’s a sing-song, particularly if I know the tune and especially if I know the words. Although I’ve never had ambitions to be a singing star, I’ve always been first in line to make a musical noise.

For me, singing is associated with all those times around the campfire. The nostalgia for those times may be the underlying reason for the positive response I have toward the whole idea. Those memories carry a strong positive emotional content.

When I was a kid, I never had the least idea about singing. I never was a fan of singers. I never bought records or tapes. I was too busy reading all those delicious books.

My greatest exposure to singing was my experience in the chorus when my high school – St. John’s Tech, in Winnipeg – annually presented operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan. I loved that. I was in the chorus every year I was at that school. I appeared in HMS Pinafore, Yeoman of the Guard and The Mikado. It was a lot of work, and we spent many hours after school in practices before we could get things right. It shouldn’t be a surprise then that some of the tunes are still with me after more than 60 years. The excitement, and even the thrill, of the performance occasions lends a rosy glow to my memories of those days.

It was only in later life, in Montreal, when I tried to repeat my vocal exploits, that I really learned to appreciate how small my talents were in this area of endeavour. I discovered that I was prone to take up the tune of anyone who stood beside me. I found out that my capacity to keep strictly to the notes of the part I was supposed to sing was variable. I had no knowledge of how one could sustain a note. In short, it was a hazardous undertaking for anyone to include me in a respectable chorus. To make things worse, I was known to become confused as to where we were in a production, and to launch myself forcefully into song when the rest of the chorus was steadfastly silent. These were the only solos I ever performed.

To the detriment of those who might be concerned about sound pollution, these small negatives have never discouraged me from forcing my voice on an unappreciative public. I leap with lusty abandon at any chance to show off my limited abilities.

Over time, I have passed from tenor to muffled baritone, and I continue to be eager to share my gifts. While I have never been offered money to do this, I feel it is my duty, nonetheless, to do so, especially when participating allows me to share in the buffet that can sometimes accompany such occasions. It is only fair that I sing for my supper.

When I am engaged in my full-throated roar, I am too busy to note the pained expressions of those around me. This is just good fun for all of us, isn’t it? I am just entering into the spirit of things, and covering for those lacking a musical sense, aren’t I? Or perhaps they are just too shy, a failing from which I do not suffer. Surely, they are enjoying the noise just as much as I am? I worry only if people start to leave.

I sometimes sing in the rain, something like whistling in the dark, to keep up my spirits as I venture into unknown places. Let the winds blow the clouds away to deliver to us another sunny day, I say.

We were fortunate enough, at one time, to have had a second home in Arizona. Really only a trailer, it permitted us to spend the worst winter months away from the cold and dreariness of both Ireland, when we lived there, and the wet fall and winter seasons in the rain forest where we’ve lived lately. What had brightened our time even more was to have fallen in with a group of Canadians fleeing the winter cold. Wonder of wonders, one of them played the guitar and liked to sing.

Was I happy? You betcha! We were just a small group and when I was belting out songs as loudly as I could, it was as if I were back at camp. And they tolerated my enthusiasm. And, sometimes, they fed me. I was singing for my supper, again.

Now, in our current hideaway, we’ve joined a group, mostly oldsters, who meet weekly to reprise all the melodies reaching back across recorded history. My Bride is a witness – and if I perform as required, she will serve me a hearty brunch as a reward when we return home. I can do this!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Living is hard work

I have never been as old as I am today. I suppose that is true of everybody in the world who is alive. Nothing special, right? Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! It is special – special for everyone of us who are alive. Why is that? Well, aren’t you the lucky people, because I’m going to tell you why. Yes, I am. I know it’s a secret, and that nobody else has the answer – I know that because I just discovered it when I woke up from my afternoon nap. You may think I’m joking, but I’m not. This is deadly serious stuff.

This morning, a Friday, I went to exercises. I go to exercises three times a week: Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I used to kind of enjoy doing that, but I don’t anymore. Lately, I kind of hate these days. And the day I hate the most is Friday. I hate exercising because it hurts, and the day that the exercises hurt the most is Friday. So, I must hate the people who are putting me through these exercises, through that pain, right? Wrong, again. Wrong, wrong, wrong! I love them because they are helping me stay alive.

So, what’s this all about? Am I stupid, or something? If something hurts when you do it, you stop doing it, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong! If I stop doing exercises, I will have less and less control over my body in doing the everyday things that allow me to live independently. These are a bunch of secrets I am telling you, no doubt.

So, as I said, today I am as old as I have ever been. For most of my life, I never gave a thought to such things. I’m not that old, thinking about Methuselah and Moses, and Saparman Sodimejo. Sodimejo claimed to be 146 years old when he died in Indonesia on April 30, 2017. Kane Tanaka of Japan is reportedly 118 years old. Bob Weighton, in the state of New Hampshire, is recognized by Guinness World Records as the oldest living person, at 112. I’ll only be 88 on my birthday next April, so what’s the fuss?

The fuss is that staying alive is hard work. Some of the time, it hurts, particularly if you are trying to stay nimble and in possession of your faculties. If we don’t work at it, we just dry up and blow away, and it happens a lot sooner for most of us than it did for the guys I mentioned above.

Let’s face it, we are losing stuff as we fight the battle for longevity. I can no longer lift myself up to chin the bar like I used to. (The muscle mass vanished when I was looking the other way!) I need a pinch of spice to really enjoy some foods like I used to – I especially need more salt on my food or it seems tasteless. I sometimes need help with a name, and have to use my computer liberally to refresh my memory of things I used to know like the back of my hand. I’m really happy my kids remember my name and I have to be careful to remember all the birthdays and anniversaries. And did I tell you I take a regular regimen of pills, aside from the vitamins B, C, D and E that I ingest?

Today, my Bride asked me what’s on my bucket list. Surely, she said, you must have lots of things that you wanted to do but have not yet done. I thought about that for a moment, then I answered, I want to spend tomorrow with you, and the next day, and the day after that. That’s the real pinch of spice I need in my life.

Every day that we are alive, we are in a place we have never been before. In our world, everything within us, and everything outside us, is in a state of flux, essentially offering us a new experience every day. I intend to grab life by the throat, shake it and get the most out of it. To do that, I need all the strength I can muster. Exercise tomorrow? Hell, yes!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

We share same fate

Do you realize that everyone you know will die? Of course you do. All of us know that. But, most of the time, we don’t think about it. We forget about it insofar as it motivates our actions, our interactions with the people in our lives, and the people we meet. If we were wholly cognizant that some of these people were to be gone tomorrow, or next week, wouldn’t it result in some of our behaviours being modified?

We usually have no inkling of when our time will come, or that of our friends or neighbours. When tragedy strikes and we get the bad news, we often react in a drastic way. If we have hates on, we usually stifle them. If we care, we redouble our efforts to connect in ways that might be more useful to the object of our emotion. Even if we don’t have a real link to the person who has died, we may go out of our way to exhibit some form of kindness. We instinctively feel, there, but for the grace of God, go I. Imagining how we would feel in the same situation, we have the urge to do something, anything, to alleviate the pain, the fear, the horror, of the unknown forthcoming.

When the end comes unheralded, suddenly, without warning, it is a shock to the system. Somehow, that person’s passing puts us, ourselves, right in the target zone. The immediacy of something that could happen to anyone, the result of biology or chance, reminds us we are not ready to go. We are chastened by the event.

Attitudes to our final exit vary widely, and certainly evolve over time. When we see some of the reckless behaviour of young people, we have to believe they feel they are immortal. Many out there have the belief that this current “vale of tears” is but a temporary phenomenon, with the best of existence yet to come. My Jewish background and belief system offers no such panacea. We are enjoined to do all we can to get the most out of our current existence.

In my late 80s, I must, of course, accept that I am much closer to the exit scenario than many of the people on this planet. Acceptance is the closest emotion I can discern, having enjoyed a larger slice of life than most.

The people I know have very mixed feelings about the transition we all face. Many are apprehensive. Most of us are happy to do what we can to put off the “evil” day, worried about the experience, and more than reluctant to give up whatever shred of living that we may have in the now, all of our fleshly and mental pleasures, regardless of our pains, potential and real.

What exercises me much more than some of the above is the greediness I feel about engaging with the spirits of all those still around me. Knowing that the time we share is limited by circumstance, more than anything I want to reach out to those souls whose existence I value.

Many of the people I care about have not shared a word with me for decades. My fault, their fault, who knows what were the forces that caused us to drift apart. How strange might they feel about my making an uninvited approach, out of the blue?

If I were to write them a blog like this as a general invitation to reach out and make a contact, some might respond. We all share a common fate. Maybe we also share a sense of the value of our past contacts. Maybe some of you out there are thinking of doing the same thing, reaching out before it is too late? Every week there are some of my contacts that I must erase from my mailing list. So, here I go: how are things for you today? What’s the story? Will we make contact today before the unknown tomorrow comes?

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Delving into roots of memory

I have more years behind me than most of you. I remember what seems to me all the big events. While prominent in my mind, I do try to pay more attention to the daily round. Today, for example, I bought some plants to fill spaces in my garden in the sky, seeking yellows and oranges to harmonize with the bountiful presence of the red geraniums, fully in their flowering. We ate breaded chicken for breakfast, a gift of our Jimmy, Cookie’s son, while watching the Tokyo Olympics results – Canada is doing great! I spent Saturday morning at the community centre, playing with clay, creating fantastical faces I would not hope to meet on my street.

I think it’s important that we pay lots of attention to the minutiae of daily life, glorying in the simple things that fill our present, appreciating how they add to the pleasure of living. But I also worry about losing the detail about my life in the past, the bits and pieces that brought elements of that life into the now. It takes some work to ferret things out. I’m rummaging about in the closets of memory, poking into the corners to see what I can find.

Can I remember what it was like when I was a kid? I was the only boy, being raised with sisters. Didn’t I get the feeling that I was favoured as the male, as my older sister was called upon to help my mother with the housekeeping? My youngest sister was nevertheless the spoiled one, being considered the most vulnerable to mistreatment. I recall how I tried to keep my room neat and tidy, so that was where we had our family meetings. All this might be a figment of my egomaniac’s self-image, and the facts would have to be checked with living witnesses.

Can I remember what it was like to be the only Jewish kid in the neighbourhood when the family moved to Jarvis Avenue in Winnipeg? The kids next door tried to make our lives miserable by throwing stones at our windows, and parading in front of our house with catcalls deriding my mother’s Jewish names for us. How many times did I fight with Mikey, down and dirty in the mud? And Tony and Danny, from three houses over, scrapping in the schoolyard? And Eddie, who knocked me unconscious in front of a crowd, in Grade 7? I survived the blemish on my brain, and Eddie, too. Didn’t my tiny sister protect me when Big Harry on Dufferin was going to beat me up on our way to school? What did it smell like outside our house, with the coal yard in front and the junkyard at the back?

And yet, it felt like we, my family, lived a totally peaceful, private life inside our home there. Dad had his job shoveling coal at the Cold Storage Co. down the street. (He would end up a graduate engineer after years of home study.) We ate our three squares a day in our rented home, and went the four blocks to Aberdeen school each day. We celebrated the Sabbath every Friday with a special bread and the best meal of the week. I frequented the library every chance I could – maybe escaping the then-current world – and often spent the night reading by flashlight under my covers. We went to the neighbourhood synagogue for the High Holidays. I remember eating chicken in the back lobby on fast days. And, there, I had my bar mitzvah, wearing a suit and with a fedora on my head.

Somehow, I don’t remember much about greenery, though Winnipeg had a reputation for trees. I do remember holding my arms round the trunk of one when we played Buck, Buck, How Many Fingers Up? I remember sucking the honeysuckles I gathered off the hedges for their sweetness, and holding dandelions, which were so plentiful, under our chins to see the yellow there. I remember we liked blowing the dandelions’ heads off when they were ripe. And collecting bulrushes from the ditches, where they grew in the gathered water. Winnipeg had some of the deepest ditches. Winnipeg was famous for its lilac bushes, I remember their heavenly scent.

In the summer, gangs of kids used to gather on the street corner, I think it was Powers Street, and play road games far into the night. Sometimes, we’d end the night raiding summer vegetable gardens and have fights with the tomatoes we stole. And, yes, I do remember the mosquitoes.

Winnipeg was a city with a diverse population. There seemed to be large communities of people from a dozen different origins, from Iceland to the Ukraine, from France and, of course, England; Russia, Germany, the Middle East and Asia were all represented. While city government was initially in “English” hands, it changed over time to represent other ethnic communities.

What I remember above all was how active the Jewish community was, and how every political viewpoint and every internal community need was represented by some Jewish organization. I got the feeling that, although I lived in Canada, I could in some way be living within a totally Jewish environment if I so desired. It dispelled the feeling of isolation that I felt in my younger years. And, when I launched myself into the wider world, when I left Winnipeg, I felt totally at home in my Canadian persona. I really only appreciate that now in retrospect.

Digging into the roots of memory and coming up golden!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

To be heroes in our eyes

William Shakespeare designated a minor character in his play Hamlet to express and offer to us profound advice, something that is really an observation about the nature of the human animal. It rattles around in our minds, and probably has since time immemorial.

In Act 1, Scene 3, Polonius’s advice to his son, Laertes, is “This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

It may be that many people do not think about it, but some of us – those with aspirations regarding the roles they hope to play in the lives they will lead – have this buzzing around in their conscious and subconscious minds. And it begs the question, who and what is that self?

Some of us, and certainly it was true in my case, concocted, in the days of our youth, fanciful tales of the derring-do we would accomplish in our lives. Aided and abetted by library readings that detailed the accomplishments of heroes in past times, I painted myself into the foreground of these scenarios. Along with this, necessarily, went standards of behaviour that demanded selflessness and virtue. I not only had to be brave and courageous, but I had to be honourable and generous. A hero could not be otherwise.

So, to be true to myself, there were rigid standards of behaviour to which I imagined I should live up. I am sure many of us have been subjected to entreaties from parents, other adults and teachers, as to standards of behaviours that were to be expected of us, and some of these were incorporated into what we wanted from ourselves.

No standards are applied as rigidly or as harshly as the ones we inflict on ourselves. Taking them into account in our private moments, we are aware of every one of our transgressions. Totting up the score, we make judgments all the time as to whether we are worthy of the self-respect we would like to possess. We dearly want to like ourselves if we can. We wrestle with our failings and remember most of them.

And we judge our accomplishments, too, of course. How close did we come to achieving those deeds of derring-do, however we define them, that we promised ourselves we would undertake? Are we on the way to being heroes in our own eyes? Or, at least, can we enjoy a satisfaction for our accomplishments, including meeting our standards of behaviour towards others? If we didn’t make it all the way, did we fight the good fight sufficiently to make us worthy of self-respect? After all, it is ourselves with whom we cannot escape living. How much self-destructive behaviour can be traced to remorse in this arena?

Where have you been in life, you dashing daredevils? What mountains did you climb? What goals did you set for yourself, to reach or exceed? Were they modest and did you achieve them to your satisfaction? Were they vainglorious and did you feel the bitterness of defeat? Was public attention your goal, for good or ill, or did you not need acclaim? Did you find satisfaction in the effort itself? Did you have to be satisfied with only partial accomplishments? Were you like me, who blundered around until the moment caught me, rather than seizing these moments?

If you are just starting out, you have all this to look forward to. Go forth, you heroes and heroines of endeavour!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Blessing of love

I must make the disclaimer that none of the letters after my name qualify me to opine on matters of this kind but, as I have done too often in the past, I “rush in where angels fear to tread.” I just feel it is so important for our well-being to have a little bit of this in our make-up. I believe we have to be lucky enough that someone has loved us unconditionally, whether that be a parent, God or a partner. It can arrive from siblings, but siblings are more often competitive than fully loving.

But why is this so important? Because a person who loves us unconditionally is one who is naturally inclined to forgive us for our transgressions. We are hardly likely to get through life without making mistakes. If others we respect are ready to forgive us our trespasses, we are much more likely to forgive ourselves as well. And that, I believe, is a very big deal.

If we can’t forgive ourselves for our mistakes, for our misbehaviours, then we probably don’t like ourselves very much. Indeed, we are probably angry with ourselves most of the time. If it’s true, it shows. Everybody knows the saying, “love thy neighbour as thyself.” If you don’t like yourself, well, look out below!

But suppose you understand that we all make mistakes? Suppose you understand that mistakes are learning opportunities and the great thing is that you can learn to not make the same mistake again. Mistakes are a necessary way to get smarter about organizing your life. You don’t have to beat yourself up about them. Learn your lesson and move on. You are still a person worth loving. And, because you are getting so smart about things, why shouldn’t you appreciate and admire yourself? Your heritage of love gives you strength, self-confidence.

But what if your mistake is unredeemable? Ouch! Those, you just have to live with. And shouldn’t that make you kinder about the mistakes of others, more generous, more forgiving? If you could do such a thing, well, then, it could happen to anybody, couldn’t it? Sure it could! Forgive them as you forgive yourself.

A belief in your essential goodness will aid you when you are confronted with all those essential decisions one has to make in life. How will what I am thinking of doing impact the lives of those I care for? Can I square this action with the kind of person I want to be? Will I still be able to love myself if I do this thing? If not, then I must find another way to accomplish my ends. Loving yourself can mean having that kind of conversation with yourself.

In the past, I often assumed that what advanced my interests would obviously be in the interests of those I cared for, those whose welfare I was responsible for. It was only with the passage of time that I grew to appreciate that I often missed a step in making that calculation. Most decisions turned out well, but some bore costs paid for by others, costs of which I had not the slightest notion. It was only with time that I would appreciate that I had paid a price as well.

In the end, I believe that those of us who have been blessed with a heritage of love are better able to love ourselves and are better equipped to bestow that heritage on others. I think that is a wonderful thing.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Declaration of independence

In this year of 2021, someone born in 1948 is or will soon be 73 years old. This is a good round age, surpassing the fabled three score and ten. A Jew born in that tumultuous year in Israel has lived their whole life in freedom, unhyphenated, and not as a member of an ethnic minority, as they might be in every other country in the world. Yet it has not been a garden of roses – three formal wars, and continuous threats from without and within.

We have to look back to better appreciate the miraculous story of Israel. In the days leading up to its Declaration of Independence, after the Partition decision at the United Nations, it seemed the whole world had turned against the Jews. Britain sold heavy weapons to a number of Arab countries, which announced non-recognition of the UN decision, and plans to march on Jerusalem. The U.S. State Department urged David Ben-Gurion not to declare statehood for fear of a new Holocaust. The Palmach numbered under 1,000; the Haganah, just organizing, a few thousand; the state, with no heavy armour and no air force. The Jewish population, numbering 600,000, scattered through the region, faced a hostile Arab population in the millions and seven organized armies amassing on its borders.

Ben-Gurion, our reborn Moses, appreciating that it was now or never, went ahead with the declaration. American President Harry Truman, thanks to the intervention of a Jewish friend, announced U.S. recognition. Nearly one million Arabs fled the territory at the urging of their Arab compatriots and for fear of Israeli retaliation.

Fighting even with sticks and stones, the Jews threw back the worst of the onslaught. Their secret weapon – they had nowhere else to go. Some Jews arrived from around the world to join the struggle. Some pilots flew in with their planes to create a small air force that was effective in turning back the Egyptian army. By the time a ceasefire was declared, Jordan had retained the Old City of Jerusalem and Judea and Samaria, which had been allocated to the Arabs. Similarly, Egypt occupied the Gaza Strip.

Israel ended with a larger land area than it had been allocated under the Partition. The price, aside from the destruction of war, was 1% of its population killed and exponentially more civilians and soldiers wounded. The agony of that time, when the issue of Israel’s existence was in doubt, is painful to relive, even today.

Egypt, Jordan and Syria attacked again in 1967, but Israel was better prepared. Israel drove out the Egyptians and Jordanians, and occupied the Egyptian Sinai, the Jordanian-controled West Bank and the Syrian Golan Heights. Though surprised by the Egyptians in 1973, Israel held the Sinai, and bartered it for a peace agreement with Egypt, followed by one with Jordan.

Today, so many things remain the same, and so many things are very different. The recent Abraham Accords have heralded a number of normalization agreements with Arab countries in the Middle East and Africa. The altered status of Israel among the nations is now recognized. Those who are near the pinnacle of technological achievement in the world recognize the Israeli presence among them, recognize that the country’s knowhow can offer important economic and security benefits to any who wish to engage to pursue such benefits. For some Arab countries, these benefits now appear much more advantageous than the sterile pursuit of Israel’s downfall.

Consider how Israel has changed the landscape around it. It is now supplying energy to Egypt and Jordan and pursuing the building of a pipeline to Europe. Arab countries are forming alliances because Israel is keeping hegemonic Iran in check both in its nuclear ambitions and militarily. Israel is working on relieving water shortages and dealing with desertification regionally and on a worldwide basis, as well as sharing security technology.

What appears no different is the widespread development of an anti-Israel sentiment, which is currently the more-politic face of antisemitic feeling. A product of pan-Arabism cum Islamism and carried into the West, it feeds and rejuvenates the embedded historic religious origins of anti-Jewish attitudes going back centuries. It has made a marriage with the white-supremacist movements in many countries, as well as making inroads in ostensibly progressive movements.

Israel is exhibiting still the growth pangs of its democracy. It is confronting the many challenges with which it was born. It is trying to absorb the 20% of its population who are Arabs, some of whom have been encouraged to exhibit rejection and hatred, some of whom are coming to the realization that life is actually better in Israel than it is for their co-religionists in the region. It also has to deal with the 10% in Orthodox Judaism who find it difficult to coexist with a secular government. It has to deal with a political system almost designed for impasse. And yet, Israelis have created a nation whose accomplishments astound the world. They will solve these problems as well.

While Jews everywhere have adhered to the biblical injunction toward loyalty and devotion to the countries of their refuge, most have never ceased “to weep by the rivers of Babylon.” This sentiment ultimately led to a “return” by some of our brothers and sisters. And, as they are our brothers and sisters, we in the Diaspora cannot fail to be concerned with their welfare. However, these days, more and more, the shoe is on the other foot. With the rising prominence and relevance of Israel, it is we Jews in the Diaspora who will be receiving warmth from the reflected glory of that Declaration of Independence.

For 2,000 years, the Jews of the world have been making it more or less on their own. They have not looked to the sovereign powers where they had landed to provide for them. They have made common cause with committed Jews and, time and time again, they have rebuilt the biblical community model. When the climate became stormy in one place, those who could ran to other places where Jews had found shelter and their brethren facilitated this when they could. Those who despaired of their fate went underground and discarded their label, some forever.

Jews in America – taking over from the Jews in Britain – have attempted to act as a proxy in defence of Jews for the last hundred or so years. In spite of the enormous resources available, rescuing important numbers of Jews in serious trouble was always limited by political considerations but it was done where possible.

The impact of Israel globally is yet to be fully appreciated. After three generations, they now have six-and-a-half million Jews, 10 times the population at inception. What will their impact be when their numbers are 10 times again?

The coming world impact of Jewry rivals that which it had during the pre- and post-Christian era of the Roman Empire. As then, our influence is in the realm of ideas. Then, it was ethics. These days, it centres on the importance of innovation and technology, though is by no means limited to these realms. The existence of the nation state concentrates the impacts and provides focus.

We Jews in the Western world may not yet have fully internalized that we now have someone in our court, as we have never had before. Wherever we are, if trouble arises, we have someone to look to. Since Israel’s Declaration of Independence, a voice has been raised when Jews anywhere are found to be in distress. Israel has done more than talk; it uses its limited resources to make a difference wherever it can – and not just for Jewish communities but for countries with few or no Jews. Israel’s independence, in part, represents our own.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Chicken soup and life

I don’t know what the reason is, but I note a change in my attitudes, ideas and emotional makeup. Could it be my advancing age, or was what I’m feeling always there, hidden under the impedimenta of getting through life?

We all start out, when getting on our feet, stumbling about – in choosing our direction, determining a focus, finally forging the path or paths that will be the ones we follow through most of our lives. Our background cannot help but be important in that process and, for some people, it is the essence of who they are. For me, I never felt it was of much matter.

These days, however, as I advance toward the final curtain, with a burgeoning altered perspective, I become more and more certain that I am all about what I was when I started. This may mean nothing to so many of you out there who have re-made yourselves into the images of what you wanted to be, rather than that what you were, but this seems to be the truth for me. I am extremely conscious of this because I had a spouse who totally remade herself into what she wanted to be by conscious effort, but I find now that that was not to be for me.

I know that I am being arbitrary by appropriating the “chicken soup” theme as an ethnocentric symbol of my Jewish background. Surely it is available and present in the culinary arrays offered by so many cultural groups. Nevertheless, I have seized on it because of what it means to me and to so many of my co-religionists. How often was it a centrepiece of the Sabbath meal, when chicken was the only meat offering even in a spare week’s diet, in the shtetl and on the tables of recently arrived immigrants in the “new world”?

For me, no matter how important the item was in the diet, making the sparse stretch so much further, it has a context for me that goes much further, even beyond its important role as “Jewish penicillin.” For me, it speaks of home and hearth. For me, it speaks of a mother’s love for her children, her family and her home. It speaks to me of taking something small and making it into something big that had ramifications for a person all of their lives.

For many us, our lives are shaped by the happenstance of our early experiences. Child psychologists can confirm that the impressions we absorb in our early days can have important implications for the people we become in our later years. I believe that one of the important things parents can offer their children is to provide evidence to them of unconditional love. We absorb that into the essence of our beings unconsciously and it can set us up well for life.

Chicken soup speaks to me of unconditional love. Whoever we are, whatever it is, that love can impart a sense of self-confidence that can otherwise take years of positive experience to generate. It can give us the strength to try, and fail, and try again and again until we succeed, or choose to move on.

For me, the humble chicken soup speaks of that unconditional love. For me, in the Jewish home of my upbringing, that was the message I received. So, now, after many decades of pursuing a life in nonsectarian environments – for the most part, a Jew among non-Jews – I trace back my capacity to arrive and thrive, to the original environment from which I drew my strength.

Am I being too ethnocentric? Surely, working in an environment that was much more merit-based than the one my grandfather and father were born into made an enormous difference? All too true! And yet, for me, I feel the difference of how I grew up.

Whatever your background, from where do you draw the drive that powers you through life? Mine leads back to chicken soup.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.