life

Life, beginning to end

Love is at the heart of three new children’s books that would make great Hanukkah gifts.

Many different types of families welcome their newborns in Mazel Toes!, written by Dr. Audrey Barbakoff and illustrated by Annita Soble. Each set of pages is a work of art with a rhyming poem that highlights playful gestures of love, like a kiss on the pupik (belly button), and more serious ones, like making sure baby is safe and warm in their schmatte (rag or, in this case, “a well-loved baby blanket”). Multiple generations of Jews are depicted, multiple family configurations and multiple cultures. It is a fun board book for both reader and listener – and can be as interactive as you want it to be. You can read it quietly, all snuggled up, or more raucously, with tickles of “mazel toes” and other giggles.

A more serious but equally adorable and educational book is Waiting for Max: A NICU Story, written by Emily Rosen and illustrated by Esther Diana. Based on Rosen’s own experiences of having had a baby who had to spend 16 days in the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), Waiting for Max centres around Louise, Max’s big sister, who is very keen to meet her new baby brother and doesn’t really understand why Max, who was born premature, can’t come home yet. So, she puts her mind to figuring out ways to help him escape from the “little plastic box” (incubator) he’s in. She puts a lot of imagination and work into drawing out her ideas. Each one she comes up with, she gives to her parents to take to Max, so that he can follow her instructions. She shows great perseverance, always thinking up a new idea when one doesn’t work. She keeps at it until Max eventually makes it home – no doubt, because of her idea.

Apparently, one in 10 babies in the United States must spend time in an NICU, and Rosen will donate a portion of her book’s proceeds, as well as copies of Waiting for Max, to NICU hospitals and nonprofits across the States.

At the other end of the life spectrum, author Kathy Kacer, who specializes in writing books to educate younger readers about the Holocaust, has come out with a different kind of lesson. In Memory Stones, which is beautifully illustrated by Hayley Lowe, we meet Sophie, who has just lost her beloved grandmother. We see some of the many fun things Sophie and Granny would do together, and how heartbroken Sophie is when Granny dies. Sophie brings flowers to Granny’s grave, but they never last long. When Sophie’s mom shares that people in some cultures, including Jews, place stones on loved one’s graves, Sophie figures out a special way to remember her grandmother.

Memory Stones, published by Second Story Press, is intended for readers 6 to 8 years old. Published by the Collective Book Studio, Waiting for Max is for readers 4 to 8 years old, and Mazel Toes!, for babies to toddlers.

Leaving something behind

I am human. I share many elements of my nature with other beings on this planet. I laugh, I cry, I aspire to things, hope for things, wish for things, work for things. No different than it is for others, I am the amalgam of what I brought into this world interacting with all the stuff that has been incorporated into me through all the years since I got here.

We don’t get through life without having things stirring around inside our heads. In my head, there have always been issues struggling to get out. I long to express them, if only to myself. Gabby to a fault, I have no trouble vomiting it all out.

But getting it right inside my head before I spit it out is the wise thing to do. I must understand what it is that’s itching, burning, stuck in my craw, before I bring it into the light of day. This process can take some time, even years, even a lifetime.

Part of the issue for me is that I am driven to share my thoughts with others. I have illusions of grandeur. I really believe it matters if my ideas are shared. I believe the ideas can change people’s lives, as they have changed mine. Ultimately, though, it is up to others to make that judgment.

We have the daily issues that are urgent, demanding our focused attention in the now. These things come back to the surface when we have the luxury of time for contemplation. Are we on the right track? The decisions we are making about our careers, our partners, our children – are they the right ones for the people concerned? Such questions rise to the surface like a bad penny. We mostly shove them away again and again, not prepared to confront them. Sometimes, they are just too challenging, disturbing the bases on which we live.

If we are fortunate, we get to enjoy our share of the wonderful things in life that give us pleasure. Something as mundane as a good meal, or even a crust of bread when we are very hungry, a glass of cold, clear water when we are very thirsty. How about realizing the achievement of a goal that we have dreamed of for a long time? How about when something that is very painful stops hurting? Isn’t that a joy and a relief?

Holding a newborn in your arms, sensing the potential of new life, how about that? How about when you feel communion with another creature, human or animal, that takes you out of yourself to a union with them? That can alleviate, at least for a while, the essential loneliness that is our fate as human beings.

So, with all the pleasures and pain we are heir to, with all the wonders and horrors arrayed before our eyes and flooding into our minds, is our function only existential, is that why we are here, simply to live? Can we find some comfort and purpose in the belief in a deity that has concern for us personally? Or are we simply another life form improbably trial-and-errored successfully on this one planet out of countless more in the cosmos. The mind reels with the possibilities if we abandon our human-centred hypothesis of a caring life-force paying attention to our minuscule spot in our galaxy.

I had such simple goals when I was younger. I was going to sacrifice myself to achieve something much larger, greater, than myself. Martyrdom was my method, blood and sweat cast upon the dry soil, watering it so that flowers would bloom. So many die for no purpose. My sacrifice would have a purpose, I thought. Wasn’t that a worthy price to pay for the gift of life? Thankfully, I grew up!

Still, surely life must have a purpose beyond just breathing in and out, shouldn’t it? Is it just to be a matter of surviving? Should it be? Don’t we have a responsibility to do something about improving the world around us? These were the thoughts in my head as a young man. So many other men and women have left something behind – invention, industry, music, art, literature, leadership. We read about them. Surely, we ourselves can make a mark upon the wall of time like they did, can’t we?

I went off, like Don Quixote, to do battle, trying to subdue all the windmills I came across for the betterment of my fellow man, and to make my mark, of course. I am looking back now, very much closer to the end of my journey than to my beginning. It is not too soon to assess the results of my crusade. I did all the ordinary things, worked at several jobs I believe contained value, got married, had children. All of these were important in their way. But have they built an immortal edifice to my passage on this earth?

I face my life partner and my children and tell them that my aspirations were elsewhere and essentially were for naught. How much of the attention that I owed to them was spent on pursuing my ego-driven drive to find the building blocks of the Giza-like edifice I was determined to construct? And how ironic! My only long-term claims to fame and immortality reside in the lives I was privileged to be a part of. All my vaunted achievements with which I had consoled myself, labeling them as being worthy of merit, have vanished like dust scattered by the wind.

I retain my nostalgia for those breathless instants at the barricades. I am one of the lucky ones. I believe I have left something worthwhile behind.

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.

Love is… being together

There is something somewhat intimate about being woken up in the middle of the night by rocket sirens. Feet and arms lightly intertwined with my wife’s, feeling a slight tug of the cover to her side in the never-ending battle-of-the-blankets, I am startled by the sound. I am slow to make sense of the sirens, which are coming both from outside and my cellphone, the latter also providing a strobe-light effect. I look to my wife, nudge her and say in a most loving but rushed tone, “Let’s go! Missiles!”

Remember those Love is… comic strips of the 1970s by New Zealand cartoonist and love culturalist Kim Casall? Well, how about Love Is… waking up snuggled together to a missile alert? Not the free love and innocence of the hippie generation, but for sure love!

And what about Love is… ensuring your wife enters the safe room first. How’s that for being a gentleman? As the sirens go off and we rush to our safe room, my wife goes in first, then I rush in after her, slamming shut the heavy iron door behind us. Actually, if our kids are home or we have guests, I will make sure everyone is inside – including our dog – before entering. Just seems like the right thing to do, danger be damned. How’s that for bravado?

***

Speaking of love. Returned from Tel Aviv with my wife the other day. Incoming missiles and a known routine. Pull over. Exit car. Move away from the vehicle. Crouch down on roadside. Cover your head with your hands (though I don’t know how that helps if a missile strikes you). So, there was my wife, huddled next to me, while the Iron Dome chased and intercepted its overhead target. In a chivalrous act of protection, I hovered over my wife, giving her a second layer of armour. I hugged her. Amazing how adrenalin works. Love is… shielding your wife from incoming missiles.

In a similar spirit. Love is… being alone with your wife in the safe room during missile alerts. It’s not for no reason that births spike during wartime.

***

Then there’s our morning routine. Prewar, it was pillow talk about the chores ahead. Now, the first thing we cross-check is Code Red missile alerts received on our cellphones overnight. Where were the sirens? Where did the missiles land? Or almost land? Other carnage or near-carnage? Other military developments? Not the most romantic of topics but that’s where our minds are these days – from the moment we wake up until we fall asleep. Love is… lying in bed together comparing missile alerts and military actions.

***

The other week, during Iran’s second cruise missile attack on Israel, where more than 180 missiles were fired at our little shtetl with the intent to exact maximum, indiscriminate death and destruction, there was significant news chatter about the attack. Under the fog of war, not fully clear what to expect.

My wife, who works in Tel Aviv, just completed her shift and was taking a bus home. She called to advise me that her bus was late and that her cellphone battery was running low, so I shouldn’t worry if she’s delayed and doesn’t answer. Shortly after our conversation came the news flash about a mega-casualty terrorist attack in nearby Jaffa and another attempted attack in Tel Aviv. I tried calling my wife back. No answer. Wishfully and optimistically, I attributed it to no battery.

Then the news flash that Iran had fired several hundred cruise missiles at Israel. Expected to arrive in our airspace within the next … 12 minutes. Not 10 minutes, not 15, but 12. This was for real! Where was my wife?! There was no way to call her, to learn of her whereabouts.

If she were on the bus during a missile barrage, what would happen? Would the driver follow Homefront commands? Would the bus pull over? Would the passengers get off the bus? Would they crouch down away from the bus with their hands covering their heads? Would someone hover over my wife … protect her?

Time is ticking – three minutes from the expected cruise missile impact. Anxiously pacing the living room, I keep looking to the news for some insight about something. Then, I hear the elevator. I run into the hallway, watching the red digits slowing climbing to my floor. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The door opens. There she is. In all her beauty. Somewhat frazzled-looking. I give her a giant, protective bear hug. Immediately, sirens go off throughout the city and our cellphones buzz and flash with missile alerts. My wife arrived literally in the nick of time.

We quickly make our way to the safe room. My wife enters first. I slam the door shut behind us. With her tension unravelling, my wife begins to cry – from exhaustion, from stress, from survival. Again, we embrace.

Love is… holding your wife near in the safety of your safe room during a missile attack.

***

Please continue donating to the Israeli war and revival efforts, or buy Israel Bonds. Twelve months after the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas terror attacks, the war is still raging, and on several active fronts. Sderot and Metula – and even Tel Aviv and Haifa – are Israel’s front lines. And Israel is the diaspora’s front line.

Bring them home now.

Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah more than 25 years ago. He works in high-tech and is happily married, with two kids. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.

Chai Quilt grows and changes

When I first entered the Zack Gallery to view its new show, the Chai Quilt, my first impression was that it was an amateur show. Only one wall of the gallery featured art, and it looked like the work of a kindergarten class, with several exceptions. I soon found out that that is indeed what it is!

In talking to gallery director Hope Forstenzer, I learned that this exhibit is different from most of the shows the gallery has produced. Many of the amateur artists are actually 3 to 5 years old and attend the JCC’s preschool.

“We sent out a call for participation in this show to everyone on the mailing lists of the JCC and the gallery,” said Forstenzer. “I wanted this show to connect the gallery to the community, to make it a mixed show. Whenever someone expressed an interest, we gave them the fabric squares and the craft kits. Some families received four or five squares for every family member. Our preschool at the centre had several, too. A few professional artists also responded to the call, as did some of the JCC staff.”

photo - A portion of the Chai Quilt at Zack Gallery — A portion of the Chai Quilt at Zack Gallery *(photo by Hope Forstenzer)*

The show takes place in conjunction with the JCC’s Festival of Israeli Culture and, therefore, shares the festival’s theme, which is celebrating life – chai, in Hebrew.

“We asked everyone to create their own celebration of life and spring,” explained Forstenzer. “No matter how hard the pandemic hit us all, there is still life worth celebrating.”

When the squares came back from the artists, Forstenzer created a quilt of them on one long wall of the gallery, a continuous artistic surface reflecting community members’ united vision of life. “The squares touch sides,” she said. “Even if we can’t meet because of the pandemic, we’re still in this together. Our art brings us together.”

The show’s unique blend of professional and amateur artists means there are several profound differences from previous Zack shows. One of those differences is that there are no name cards. If a participant signed their square, everyone can see their name; if not, the square’s creator is anonymous.

Another difference is that the show started a week later than planned.

“Many of the participants are families with children,” said Forstenzer. “They kept calling me and asking for more time. Even now, when the show is open, the squares are still trickling in. There are already over 70 on the wall. I had three new ones today, waiting on my desk, and more are coming, I’m sure. I’m going to add them on to the end of the quilt as they come.”

photo - Another part of the Chai Quilt at Zack Gallery — Another part of the Chai Quilt at Zack Gallery *(photo by Hope Forstenzer)*

The show, or rather the quilt, grows daily; resembling a living organism. And, it also changes. As I was speaking to Forstenzer, one of the participants, Jessica Gutteridge, artistic director of the Rothstein Theatre, came into the gallery. She wanted to rotate her square, which was already on the gallery wall. “It would look better the other way,” she offered, and Forstenzer agreed.

“I was excited to have an opportunity to participate in this community art project,” Gutteridge said. “Although my professional artistic practice is in the theatre, I have been involved as a hobbyist and student in visual arts and crafts, particularly needlework, for most of my life. During the early part of the pandemic, Hope and I created a virtual drop-in community art program called the Creative Kibbitz. It was based on a project I had started – to invite people to my home to socialize and make creative work. This show was a nice way to extend that work, and a theme based on celebrating life and renewal seemed very appropriate and inspiring in this moment.”

Although Gutteridge has never participated in a Zack show before, her pink square with its jolly cherry blossoms looks like it belongs on the gallery’s wall. “Cherry blossom time is one of my favourite moments of the year,” she said. “It is so ethereally beautiful for the short time it lasts. To me, it captures the rebirth of spring perfectly and the stirring of new life. I decided to make a spray of cherry blossoms using two of my favourite media, yarn and rhinestones, in an effort to make something that captures the shimmer and sparkle of spring.”

In addition to needlework, the quilt pieces have been made using an astounding variety of media. Photo collages and paintings. Feathers and beads and felt flowers. Dried leaves and confetti paper ribbons. Letters and abstract glitter splashes. Buttons and lace.

The creator of one square, which has dancers in lacy costumes, is Beryl Israel, a retired teacher. “I am a member of the fantastic JCC Circle of Friends program,” she said in an email interview. “Up to the start of COVID, I taught tap dancing at one of the local community centres.” Her love of dancing poured into her contribution to this show.

“My motivation for this work was to concentrate on the happiness and positivity around us in a gentle, hopeful way, with the inspiration from the dancing figures of Matisse,” she explained. “I wanted to record some of my old dress fabrics, laces from my mother, favourite photos, handmade paper, flowers, etc., plus the use of acrylic paints and stitching, which resulted in my composition.”

The imagination all the artists infused into their squares seems to know no bounds, as if they wanted to say, the ways in which we each see life is different, but, together, we can create a life as diverse and colourful as the Chai Quilt on the wall of the Zack Gallery.

The quilt is on exhibit until May 14.

Olga Livshin is a Vancouver freelance writer. She can be reached at [email protected].

Our past prepares us for now

“Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last for which the first was made …” begins the poem “Rabbi Ben Ezra” by Robert Browning. Meanwhile, his wife, Elizabeth, immortalized their relationship in her poem, “How Do I Love Thee?” which is an exquisite expression of love, and how it can change a life.

The couple met when Elizabeth was 38 and Robert was 34. After a courtship carried on primarily through letters, they married secretly in 1846, and Elizabeth ran away with Robert to live with him in Italy. Her tyrannical father disowned her – the family was fabulously wealthy from Jamaican rum and slaveholdings, and he thought Robert was a gold digger. The Brownings had a son in 1848.

Elizabeth died in 1861 after a brilliant literary career that, for a time, eclipsed her husband’s – she was considered for the post of England’s poet laureate after the death of William Wordsworth. Robert died in 1889.

“Rabbi Ben Ezra” was published in the collection of poems Dramatis Personae in 1864. Very briefly, it says that, whatever has come before in our lives is but a prelude to what our lives are, and will be.

How many of us have had some event in our histories that we can point to as a crossroad, such as that the Brownings experienced? For most of us, it is hard to think of our past as merely leading us to something even more important. And yet, there is a germ of truth here, whatever our experiences.

For me, I have reason to find some contentment in what I assess are my accomplishments after a life spanning eight decades. And yet, and yet … I know that the things I cherish as worthwhile are known best only by me. There are no plaques or monuments, no citations, few remembrances of my name. The physical evidence of my passage lies in the offspring I contributed to bringing into being. They, every one of them, are self-made, the products of the sum total of their individual efforts to which I can make only a small claim.

Truly, for most of us still around to gaze at life’s battlefield, all we have is what we can make of the day that lies ahead. We can take pleasure in the comfort of a leisurely day in the sun. We can intervene in the life of someone near and dear, or even a stranger, and try to help. We can become active on an issue of public import that we have in the past supported in our minds alone. Given our life experience at any moment in time, we have appreciations and understandings we never could have had before that time, even though our past is what led us to where and who we are.

Like Robert Browning, I do have a momentous event in my life to announce from the rooftops. And I take full credit for being an important party to the life-changing event. Truly, for me, it was “the last for which the first was made.”

For most of us, the lives we arrange do not turn out as we hoped. For example, we all seek relationships in which we can love and be loved in return. Regardless of the positive outcomes that come from pursuing these relationships in good faith, our aspirations are not always fully met.

I was entranced by a creature of the opposite sex in my teenage years, but a lack of self-confidence and courage prevented me from advancing my offering. We both passed on to other partners, and I did not seriously develop a plan of action until I reached widowerhood at the age of 70, some 55 years later. Knowing my intended was also unattached, after planning my approach, almost a year later, I strongly pressed my case. It was my good fortune that I was accepted as a marriage partner.

One does not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear without a good deal of re-engineering. We have now been together for more than 12 years, a period of learning by both parties.

What’s happening at your house?

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.

Celebrating the mundane

Why is it so bad to talk about the ordinaries of life? People often say the mundane is so boring, let’s talk about something exotic. Let’s gossip about somebody’s perversion. Isn’t there a scandal that’s just been discovered? Have you heard about the latest murder? Are the terrorists going to kill us all? Will they take over our world so that we will have to hide and practise our rituals in secret? Will our grandchildren ever get a paying job again? What’s the point of voting, they all tell us lies?

Turn down the TV, step away from the computer. Better still, turn them off! Don’t we wish it was that simple, but if we stop listening and are not active, isn’t what happens partly our fault?

I think I’d rather talk about how wonderful it is that the sun came out today. And this after many too many days of driving rain. If I organize my time correctly I will be able to sit on my balcony in the evening with a small glass of my favourite beverage, sending out smoke signals. We have had a late spring this year and the trees have been slow to leaf. I have a clear view of the water out by English Bay. It is too early in the season to see any sailboats. I have been rushing the season by stuffing the baskets around my balcony edge with colourful plants; red, yellow, blue, mauve and in-betweens. The dozens of tulips I planted last fall have let me down; lots of greenery, but only a handful of flowered heads.

It is not too early in the season for my blue plastic dragonfly to flutter with excitement as the sun pours over the balcony railing. I can feel the gentle blush of warmth on my skin if the breezes are not too vigorous. Sometimes I have to wear a leather jacket and a scarf to advance my challenge to the recalcitrant spring. I have cast off the rigours of a stuffy nose and a dry throat to insist on being in the pink of good health. We have even had a walk on the beach and ventured into Stanley Park to feed the ducks. We have abandoned the heat of the foreign and the exotic to embrace our ordinary life.

We are back to regular exercise at the community centre. Wasn’t it nice that people noticed we have been away and say they are happy to see us back? We are enjoying our regular shopping trips to the places we are used to. And dropping in on the new restaurants that have sprouted in our neighbourhood to vary our regular dietary habits. It was comforting to visit our doctors, dentists and pharmacists just to check in. And it was great to touch base with friends and family, finding occasions to meet and greet. In spite of technology that spans time and distance so effectively, even with those further away, somehow, people seem closer when we communicate with them from home. The ties that bind are so much stronger when we can see each other face-to-face.

For the next while, we will have gatherings bringing together family members and friends into our own locale, the ones not often in the same place at the same time. I look forward to these encounters. Life can be so fragile and we have had recent reminders of that reality. Sharing each other’s company in the flesh can be one of the rare pleasures we can enjoy in the peripatetic world we inhabit. I treasure each and every one of these opportunities. An appreciation of the passage of racing time gives these occasions added significance.

We ourselves will be traveling long distances soon to acknowledge important events in the lives of those near and dear. Travel is not what it once was, and is more of a challenge for us than it has been in the past. But the act of presence is important. Too often, for us, these days, it is about departing souls, so it is delicious when the trip is about new beginnings. And I will actually get to have all my children around me in one place. Wow!

I just had a birthday. I am too often careless about these times; I have had so many. It was heartening to have others make a fuss. And I got to have contact, and actually talk to, people it is often really difficult to reach in the ordinary course of life. I got to talk to some of my favourite people; that’s always a special pleasure. Appreciating how much of a treat it was for me makes me resolve to pay a lot more attention to this item in the lives of my friends and dear ones.

So here it is. We have spent all this time and space nattering on about so many mundane things. None of the topics has been about earth-shaking events. It does help soothe us, particularly when we have to go through some rough spots. You will have to judge whether it has been worthwhile. I think it has been.

I am looking forward to a sunny tomorrow.

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