spring

Welcoming guests again

There may not be magic at hand to prepare dinner or clean up afterwards, but the Weasleys’ home in the Harry Potter series, the Burrow, is a good model for how to welcome guests, with Mrs. Weasley’s always sharing her love, food, home, and even her motherly reprimands with others. (photo by Karen Roe / flickr)

This winter, I felt our household was in hibernation. Between endless viruses brought home from middle school and -30˚C temperatures in Winnipeg, I doubted we’d ever emerge. Then, our household caught a break. We’ve had a few weeks now where all four of us seem mostly healthy. Also, there has been a rare moment of “early spring,” where temperatures are around freezing, the sun is out and everyone seems cheerful about the deep, goopy slush.

We have started to dig ourselves out. Not from the snow, but from all the activities we piled up during the coldest time of year. One kid removed his slot car racers and a 3D printer project from the dining room. Another kid tidied up a huge set he’s building for his video production class. There are still too many books and knitting projects on the coffee table (my fault). My husband even cleaned up his piles of paper. Why all the hurry? Well, suddenly people are coming over again to visit. We’re hopefully emerging from our long retreat.

During our hibernation, we stayed home, went to work and school, and to synagogue. That was mostly it. But then I got an email out of the blue. When I walk my setter-mix dog, we often encounter a tiny dog, Lulu, and her human, and we chat. Deep into our winter sojourn, we weren’t seeing Lulu or her people much, it was just too cold. Yet Lulu’s people, thoughtful neighbours, invited us over for cheese fondue, wine and a warm chat. After a great night out a block from home, I realized how small our world had become. I decided we owed them a dinner invitation. They’re coming (probably without Lulu) for Shabbat dinner this week.

I’ve always enjoyed cooking big Shabbat and holiday dinners for friends and having great conversations at the table. I was raised with this kind of hospitality. My parents’ home was always open to my friends, who timed their visits to enjoy their favourite foods or discuss things with my parents or siblings, and their friends, too. However, over the years, I’d really cut back on these dinners. First, because my twins still go to bed early. Then, because of the pandemic. After Oct. 7, I felt wary about the outside world and wanted to feel safe at home. About a year ago, I stopped inviting people. I could say it was because I was concentrating on my twins’ b’nai mitzvah preparations or the event itself, with friends and family visiting, but that was last June. This winter, we’ve been sick and it’s been so cold.

On one Shabbat at synagogue, I heard an impromptu talk from a young adult visiting home. He was serving in the Israel Defence Forces as a lone soldier and spent part of his time at home talking to groups about what was happening in Israel, and we discussed how to combat antisemitism in Canada. At this event, a community member suggested that inviting friends and allies over, perhaps to Shabbat dinner, could help others learn about who we are and gather more support.

What happened afterwards, along with the warmer, slushy weather, is that some of our friends began to seek us out.

Last week, an amazing acquaintance, who used to run a gallery we loved, asked me to sign one of my books for her friend’s birthday. Of course, I said, come on over. I showed her our “new” historic house and she brought me tulips.

Then, a longtime artist friend in her 80s contacted me and decided she was coming over the next morning for muffins and coffee, so she could show off her newest marbled paper experiments.

Last week, a retired newspaper columnist that I really respect happened to spot my husband outdoors with the dog. He started to text with my husband and asked to come see how we’d renovated things. My husband said yes. Our neighbourhood’s full of old houses with interesting quirks, so visiting each other’s homes is always fun. They’re coming for coffee and cake on Sunday. It seemed like high time to pick up the dog toys from the living room carpet.

All of these encounters with warm people who sought us out and wanted to get back in touch? None of them is Jewish. All of them are people who want us to know they are safe, they care about us, and they value our company. This was an important realization, well worth the effort it takes to clean up the messy paw prints and kid fingerprints for a visit.

When I imagine how I want my home to appear to friends, or even strangers, I think of the Burrow, the Weasleys’ home in the Harry Potter series. Well, that’s not quite right. Our house doesn’t use magic to knit sweaters or stir pots of soup. Those are my hands, my knitting and my cooking, instead. However, whenever I think of the Burrow, I think of a warm, welcoming place where Mrs. Weasley feeds everybody and makes everyone feel welcome and loved, despite the normal clutter and chaos of family life.

My notion of hachnasat orchim (welcoming guests) comes from Jewish tradition, a much older playbook than the Harry Potter series. However, the meaning feels the same, even if my household menu includes hamantashen and chicken soup. Mrs. Weasley’s always sharing her love, food, home, and even her motherly reprimands with others, and it goes beyond her family. Her home, the Burrow, sounds like a retreat, but it’s not a hibernation. It’s an enthusiastic embrace.

I am hoping to get back to that safe and cheerful place, where our home is full again with fascinating friends, good food, stimulating conversation and an open heart. Our gardens are still under dirty snow here. It sometimes takes a heroic effort to rise above winter weather and the residual sadness of the war, but good things await. Things are warming up at my house in Manitoba. I’m hoping for happier days ahead.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for the Winnipeg Free Press and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Puddle splashing and balance

If you’ve ever slogged through a spring melt in a place, like, say, Winnipeg, you know about the odd balance … the one where it’s best if the snow melts slowly, even painfully, with a freeze at night. Why? Too fast a melt and everything is flooded.

On the prairies – or, frankly, any place without good drainage – basements, wellies and everything else can be in trouble if a big pile of snow hits a too-warm sunny spring. In these places, and I’ve lived in three, now that I think of it: Buffalo and Ithaca, New York, and also Winnipeg … spring is both desperately, sorely anticipated and, well, sometimes gross. It’s full of dirty snow, big puddles and treacherous ice.

Yet we continue, every winter, to long for spring and better weather to come. It’s like we have amnesia and forget this long dirty shoulder season. Years ago, I told myself that, obviously, the snowbirds had it wrong. The best time to travel, if it could ever be managed, would be during the puddle period.

I was thinking about the puddles, Passover and, also, the talmudic tractate I am currently studying as part of Daf Yomi, a page of Talmud a day. From now until the summer, that tractate is Yevamot – the tractate that deals with the notion of levirate marriage. What’s that, you say? It’s the ancient obligation for a childless widow to either marry her husband’s brother to produce a child after her husband’s death, or perform a ceremony called halitzah, in which she is freed from this obligation.

This is probably the first time in more than two years of doing this Daf Yomi study when I seriously just wanted to quit. Yes, studying an ancient text, no matter how holy or intellectually stimulating, can sometimes feel irrelevant. Yevamot goes way beyond “slightly boring” or irrelevant. It wanders into the gross, mucky puddles for me. It’s right up there in the news articles that come with trigger warnings because of issues containing abuse. For a modern person, particularly a woman, some of these rabbis’ discussions in Yevamot really wear me down – because rape, child marriage and other issues really unacceptable to the modern reader arise frequently.

I was proceeding, reading late at night out of duty, and using an approach I perfected in graduate school. This involves skimming the thing as fast as possible so that, if one day I am ever asked about this in a weekly seminar, I can nod somewhat knowingly and bring up the one or two points I can remember. This worked when the professor assigned three academic tomes a week and expected us all to discuss them. (Later, I learned he did this in hopes we would drop the course due to the workload. He felt guilty when we all took it anyway and bought us coffees while we soldiered onwards.)

Of course, I’m learning for the sake of learning now, not because I expect to be tested or, heaven forbid, asked to lead the seminar at a moment’s notice.

This is one of those few times when I was saved by social media. I was on Twitter and, because I follow others who are also learning this way, I started seeing their comments. Several of them summed up, in 280 characters or less (or a TikTok), that they too were struggling. Eye-rolling and other more disgusting noises may have come out of their mouths at some of this. I had a huge sense of relief. I wasn’t alone. Others felt exactly the way I felt. We were part of some internet club I’d forgotten I’d joined. Whew.

There’s a reason why, traditionally, Talmud is studied in a hevruta, a pair or group setting. Some of the topics are hard to understand, for all sorts of reasons. I don’t have a physical study group. Heck, that’s OK, I’ve done nearly this entire thing during a pandemic. I’m a busy mom who stays up too late to read this stuff. I’m lucky to have access to it at all, as a woman, and also for free, online at Sefaria. There’s a lot of support online now that got me to this point, since this kind of study was traditionally dominated by men.

However, I know that feeling a sense of camaraderie and the insights that come from studying with others are important. They certainly helped spur me to continue when I thought the subject matter of Yevamot wasn’t for me and I wanted to quit.

To bring this back to those dirty spring puddles, well, this time of year, while it can be a slog, is also prime time to prep for Passover. This, too, can feel like a struggle. However much preparation you take on for this holiday, it can feel too hard. Cleaning up and scrubbing and eating down your chametz (bread products) can get to be too much.

For many, there’s pressure from those more traditional. Have you cleaned between the sofa cushions thoroughly? How about the stroller?

Those who are secular or less involved pressure me in another way, asking why I make myself “crazy” with any of this.

Passover preparations can feel like one long walk through Winnipeg’s springtime: navigating endless icy puddles, black ice and snow mold.

What helps me continue? It’s that whiff of spring air, or maybe the matzah ball soup, cooked in advance of the holiday. It’s the photo or long ago trip to a warmer climate, where the flowers were already in bloom. Also, it’s taking myself back to the Babylonian Talmud, in Yevamot 13. That’s the page with the reminder that the rabbis teach us not to divide ourselves into factions. That is, we are to value our diversity, our various customs, rather than let our disagreements divide us.

Some people love Passover. Some people love splashing in puddles. Life is a balancing act, and we’re lucky that we’re all unique and different. There’s sometimes a huge sense of shame that rises up when we admit that, actually, no, this text/season/holiday might not be the best thing since, say, sliced bread. Finding out, via a study partner, a friend or even a stranger online that we’re not alone can be so reassuring.

We’re not all the same, but the rabbis encouraged us not to create factions or separate ourselves unnecessarily, either. This is useful wisdom because, after Passover, Shavuot’s not far behind. Pesach’s cold in Winnipeg, and even Lag b’Omer picnics can be snowed or rained out. But Shavuot? That’s a holiday I love. It takes all kinds, as we teeter totter our way through the Jewish year, balancing between seasons. That balance is what makes our holiday observances, and even the talmudic tractates I struggle through, rich indeed.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

It’s that time of year

Tu b’Shevat is a popular day to go into the fields and plant saplings. (photo from usa.jnf.org)

‘In Israel, just before the Hebrew month of Shevat, the landscape begins to change. It has been winter; the fruit trees bare, their leafless, light grey branches silhouetted against dark clouds. Then, as Shevat is ushered in, they begin to bud, and reddish leaflets burst forth. Fields that have been covered with pale crocuses, white narcissus and cyclamens give way to red anemones, tulips and broom bushes starred with flowers. And the almond trees burst into blossom – the first harbinger of spring. It is at this time we celebrate Tu b’Shevat, the 15th of Shevat, which is known as the New Year of the Trees.

Tu b’Shevat, which falls this year on Jan. 17, is mentioned in the Mishnah as one of the four “natural” new years. The first of Nisan is the “new year for Jewish kings and seasonal feasts”: that is, for calculating the reigns of Israelite kings and determining the cycle of calendar festivals. The first of Elul is the new year “for tithing cattle” and the first of Tishri is the new year for calculating septennial cycles and 50-year jubilees.

The new year for the trees was moved from the first of Shevat to the 15th in accordance with the opinion of Rabbi Hillel (30 BCE – 10 CE), for it is then that the sap begins to rise with the full moon, in Israel’s fruit trees. The Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds also designate Tu b’Shevat as the date to calculate taxes on fruit: “You shall tithe all the yield of your seed, which comes forth from the field year by year.” (Deuteronomy 14:22)

During the days of winter, Israel’s fruit trees are dormant. It is wet and cold and, because of the low temperatures, the trees cannot absorb the nutrients from the soil. But, regarding the 15th of Shevat: “Till this day [the trees] live off the water of the past year; from this day on, they live off the water of this year.” (Jerusalem Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 1.2)

This date is the start of the fruit’s formation. Arabs also mark it, calling it “the second ember,” when fruit trees begin to absorb water. According to Arab folklore, there are three “embers,” which began as fire falling from the sky and changed to caterpillars. The first falls from the sky when the earth begins to warm up; the second when the warmth spreads. They follow this with a third “ember,” as summer begins.

Tu b’Shevat is one of Judaism’s popular celebrations that does not involve special synagogue services. It is a day when it is customary to eat the fruits of Israel: apples, almonds, carobs, figs, nuts and pomegranates. Many scholars stay up late on the eve of the holiday, reciting biblical passages dealing with fruits or the earth’s fertility. They read from Genesis how trees were created along with all the plants of the earth; from Leviticus, the Divine promise of abundance as a reward for keeping the commandments; and from Ezekiel 17, the parable of the spreading vine, symbolizing the people of Israel.

Kabbalists hold a special seder for Tu b’Shevat and they celebrate, not so much the new year of the trees, but the New Year of the Tree, meaning the Tree of Life, which is rich with mystical connotations. At the seder, they drink four cups of wine, beginning with white wine and ending with red, with the second cup a mixture more of white and the third more of red wine. It is rather like how the landscape changes from white (the pale narcissus and crocus) to red (anemones and tulips) as Tu b’Shevat approaches.

Tu b’Shevat is a popular day to go into the fields and plant saplings. Over the last several decades, Israeli schoolchildren have helped Keren Kayemeth, the Jewish National Fund, plant 130 million trees, many of them on Tu b’Shevat, and these evergreens have become the backbone of the reforestation program.

Tu b’Shevat affirms that the soil of Israel is holy. And the New Year of the Trees reminds us annually of the wonder of God’s creation.

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She has written 14 books, including The Pomegranate Pendant, which was made into a movie, and her latest novella, Searching for Sarah. She can be contacted at [email protected].

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].

Israel’s wildflowers of spring

A collage of Israeli wildflowers. (MathKnight/Wikimedia Commons)

Every year, spring returns like a miracle and Israel is carpeted with wildflowers. There are nearly 3,000 types of wild plants in this tiny land, a wonderful profusion – among the most abundant on earth, growing in deserts and marshes, mountains and forests, and open fields.

We protect the wildflowers in Israel. Nature reserves prohibit picking any flowers, even the most common, which helps them propagate over wider areas. In turn, this brings the sunbirds, who feast on their nectar.

The Song of Songs, which we read every Passover, is the most beautiful love poem in the world. King Solomon wrote it as a dialogue between a young shepherd and his beloved: “Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away / For lo, the winter is past / The rain is over and gone / The flowers appear on the earth / The time of singing is come / And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.”

The flowers he refers to, nitzanim, still carpet the fields – red poppies flaunting scarlet beauty in the grass.

In the Jerusalem Forest, cyclamens bloom in the crevices between the rocks. Called “Solomon’s Crown” in Hebrew, they lift their pink, cream or lilac heads on slender stalks. Clumps of wild violets, the dew shimmering, add their touch of magic.

We had good rains this winter and they have left a bequest of green. The Sharon Valley is dotted with tulips and narcissus – “I am the Rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys.”

It is believed that King Solomon was referring to the black tulips of the Galilee. In spring, even the weeds are beautiful – the milk vetch (gadilan), which is just a common thistle, adds purple blooms to the roadside. The rock rose (labdanum) flowers abundantly in forest glades, and the orange ranunculus bursts forth. Like its velvety cousin, the anemone, it is a protected wild flower in Israel.

The perfume of daffodils, which delighted our winter, still wafts on the breeze, and the white, cream, yellow and blue noses of lupins are pushing through the soil. Oleanders are in bud, growing wild by the banks of the River Jordan and near streams in Galilee, promising summer. And the blue statice reminds us that we, too, have a Mediterranean coast like the famed Riviera – this sea plant flowers from spring until mid-summer, when its corolla drops off and only the sepal remains.

When you see the splendour of the land’s spring glory, the wildflowers glowing, you’ll echo the poet’s words: “Had I but two loaves of bread, I would sell one of them and buy white hyacinths to feed my soul.”

Beauty of spring in Israel

Spring. Every year, it returns like a miracle and Israel is carpeted with wildflowers. There are nearly 3,000 types of wild plants in this tiny land, a wonderful profusion, among the most abundant on earth. Israel boasts a variety of different ecological systems – deserts and marshes, high mountains, dense forests and open fields, with wildflowers to suit each habitat.

Wildflowers are protected in Israel and nature reserves prohibit the picking of any flowers, even the most common, which helps them to propagate over wider areas. In turn, this brings the sunbirds, which feast on their nectar.

The Song of Songs, which we read every Passover, is a most beautiful love poem. King Solomon wrote it as a dialogue between a young shepherd and his beloved: “Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away / For lo, the winter is past / The rain is over and gone / The flowers appear on the earth / The time of singing is come / And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.”

The flowers he refers to, nitzanim, still carpet the fields – shiny red poppies flaunting scarlet beauty in the grass.

In Jerusalem Forest, delicate cyclamens bloom in the crevices between the rocks. Called Solomon’s Crown (in Hebrew), they lift their pink, cream or lilac heads on slender stalks. Clumps of wild violets, the dew shimmering like diamonds, add their touch of magic.

Israel’s rainy season, mid-October to late March, leaves a bequest of green. Sharon Valley is dotted with tulips and narcissus. “I am the rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys” – it is believed that King Solomon was referring to the magnificent black tulips of the Galilee.

In spring, even the weeds in Israel are pretty – the milk vetch, which is a thistle, adds purple blooms to the roadside. The rockrose is abundant in forest glades and the orange ranunculus bursts into bloom. Like its velvety cousin, the anemone, it is a protected wildflower in Israel.

The perfume of daffodils – which suffused the winter – still wafts on the breeze and the white, cream, yellow and blue noses of lupins are pushing through the soil. Oleanders are in bud, growing wild by the banks of the River Jordan and near streams in Galilee, promising a burst of summer beauty. And the blue statica reminds us that we, too, have a Mediterranean coast like the famed Riviera. This lovely sea plant flowers from mid-spring to mid-summer, when its corolla drops off and only the sepal remains.

Who says Israel has almost no natural resources? When you see the splendour in the grass of the land’s spring glory, the wildflowers glowing like jewels, you’ll echo the poet’s words: “Had I but two loaves of bread / I would sell one of them / And buy white hyacinths to feed my soul.”