"Hey! You Speak My Language!"

While waiting for the bus to take us home from Thanksgiving shopping from my husband's work at Giant Eagle, my husband and I took advantage of the twenty minutes or so to watch the rainpour and chat in our language...Hebrew.

Suddenly, an African American guy turned to us and asked, "What language are you speaking?"

"Hebrew," we replied.

"Shalom," he said.

"Shalom," we said back.

"Mah zeh? - what's this?" he said. "Mah zeh!"

I couldn't help but laugh. "You're laughing," he said. [That was something my dad would of course, have said....]

Little did he know that I was really laughing because I was surprised to find myself utterly connected with a stranger through language at that very moment.

I swear that the fact that he spoke just those few words in HEBREW lit the way during that stormy night. The light gave me "voice" - my language was recognized. I wasn't melting with all the other voices.

It would be one thing to "blend" with all the other voices. "It would be another thing to blend with all the other voices and still stick to my own voice and story.

But because I tend to shrink under my own light, I don't even get to the part where I allow my voice be woven in those colorful and rich strands of diversity.

So that moment allowed for some inter-cultural exchange and communication that also just happened to be grounded in a diverse setting.


That I wasn't alone. That I wasn't emotionally isolated. And that it is possible to find a connection. Somebody was actually speaking our language. OUR language. MY language.

"I know just a few words from when I worked with Israelis in New York City. They would always say, "Mah-zeh, mah-zeh, all the time."

"Yep," I said. "I can see that happening."

"What kind of business were they in?" My husband asked. "Clothing or electronics."

"Uh, clothing," he said thoughtfully.

"Shloshim v'shalosh. Shloshim v'taysha," - Thirty-three, thirty-nine.

I laughed again.

Ivry, my son said, "Shloshim v'shalosh."

"I was working at the store in 1995," he said. "I was a security guy."

"Oh man," my husband said.

"I was making $4.20 cents an hours and lived out in Queens."

"And you travelled two hours by train each way."

"Yep. That's right."

"And I was paying 85 dollars a week for renting this room," he said.

"A room?" I asked.

"Yeah, a room. That's all I needed at the time."

"How old were you, 18?" Ivry asked.

"Smart boy," he said. "Give me five."

As they high-fived, he said, "19. I was nineteen and that was all I needed."

Haim and I went back to our chat, but the moment wasn't the same. We knew that even though other people like this African-American gentleman couldn't understand our conversation, he was, at the very least, privy to a connection that also brought him connected to his past and memory and who he was.

"You're a good man," Haim said. "I can tell."

"Thank you - TODA."

And on the bus ride home, just before he finished up his cell phone conversation and exited the bus, he turned to me and said with a smile for all the people on the bus to hear, "SHALOM."

Voicing Smallness and Bigness and Other Mangeable Emotional "Chunks"

Smallness and Bigness seem to be the two US themes that emerge in my writing. And they are often part of the darkness of my being.

Let me share with you an anecdote:


To avoid sinking small and letting the size overwhelm and distract and get in the way of relationship building, I have made it my intention to connect with that element or elements that are approachable and "digestable." By "digestable," I mean, I don't look at the pain of the scenario, but I bring my awareness to the more subtle things that could potentially uplift the situation as I look past the pain.

For example, at yesterday's ELI Pre-Thanksgiving potluck, despite the fact that there wer so many nationalities, there was something about the BIGNESS of that room that made me feel uncomfortable. The combination of a familiar cultural context and huge spatiality (that is so typical of US architecture and infrastructure) completely disoriented me.

One of the main reasons why I am still having a difficult time coping is because of this physical and cultural BIGNESS. Towards the last few years of living on the most beautiful kibbutz in Israel, (our kibbutz, Sde Nehemiya) the scope of my world was within a 360 degree radius and I would bike the 1 kilometer to school every day alongside the Jordan River. I never needed to venture beyond what was emotionally and physically unmanageable and life became quite routine and comfortable and I felt good in my own American-Israeli skin.

However, with that said...

Too much unfamiliar sometimes creates the familiar.

At an event for all students at the English Language Institute at the University of Pittsburgh where I work, I sat around a big round table and in a big and tall hall with chandeliers and pink painted walls with golden mirrors - something like a palace.

And in that big room, I quickly found comfrot in the voices of children - Ivry's age. Children don't need to be reminded to have fun and they find pleasure in the most amazing things. Within seconds literally, these three Chinese boys and Ivry were already making paper airplanes and wizzing them with glee. Of course, they managed to throw them up into corners and nooks and cranies of huge columns that were unreachable without climbing a long ladder.

Ivry, my son, quickly made friends with Chou-Chou, a sweet Chinese boy who is also in first grade. Although his English is quite good, I was quickly transported to that "other BIG cultural context of language learning" of what it felt to feel "SMALL." And although manageable is desireable, feeling "small" equates to me nowadays, the "silent voice."

We run into a medium sized hall where I can still keep eye contact on the boys. And miraculously, in this clean, well-lighted hall, I am "home."

And it is at this medium sized hall, where I suddenly catch the sight of a young woman who has joined us - probably 23 or 24 years old. She seems to stand out from the parent-kid scenario as she leans against a column and texts. She looks at us constantly and when our gazes lock, she smiles as if she tries to fit in. Her smile is specifically directed at me. Why? And why is she here and not with the hoards of people inside eating yummy ethnic foods?

When we move into the next adjoining hall, she follows us again. In fact, she continues to follow our movements as if we are a flock of birds migrating south for the winter. And all the while, she looks at us. At one point, she disappears entirely and when I remember her, I am already on the bus back home with Ivry - planning already the routine in my head for the upcoming week as we both muster a yawn or two.

So this is the voice of myself echoing "smallNess" from the BigNess. At the end of the day, we are all the same size no matter where we come from.

In fact, this nondescript young woman reminds me of myself many years ago - perhaps at one of the Israeli army bases I served on - and I tried to connect to different peoples of different units. And how quickly I wanted to avoid feeling small by fitting in. And how quickkly I wanted to grow up. Only this woman is to me "quite big" because she stands out from the crowd.

She Would Have Been Born Today

It's hard to believe that I would have been a mother for the second time had I not have to go through that awful procedure back in May. In fact, that is a part of me I cannot believe actually happened. It seems so surreal and so not a part of who I am today despite the fact that it happened six months ago.

But now I realize that all happens for the higher good. Maybe my job right now is to concentrate on my writing and the "birthing" of two books while giving my son everything he needs.

This creation of this loved baby girl came from a place of "VOICE" - of confidence, trust and courage in this universe knowing that in spite of being far away from home, I was at "home" with my decision. And I felt loved and had a strong enough support system in the United States to believe I was strong enough to expand our family.

When I first got the terrible news, I felt that VOICE was gone. I did not have words to convey the pain of what I felt. I wanted to scream, but couldn't. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. I even wanted to write, but couldn't. Our intentions to expand our brood were honorable, so why this terrible dooming fate? It was the unlucky experience we had to deal with that drove that "voice" away.

I also have to remember though that life for us is complete right now, too. With just the three of us and my many other "babies." And we need to give thanks for those things too.

I often wonder however when I'm not occupied with other stuff, how that baby girl's voice would sound. She never had a chance to cry in this world, be held or feel loved. How Ivry would respond to being a bigger brother.

She was part of my voice of helplessness and compassion. Our voices strung together like a melodic heartbeat.

Our grief has eased but I know it will last a lifetime because she is gone - she was the product of love between my husband and I.

The decision we made to terminate the pregnancy came from our own hearts, but in essence, she is "voiceless" because she never got a chance for her to make her "mark."

I can only imagine what it would have been like to hear her cry and dress and feed her - but at least I have the voice of this blog to share what this experience means to me.

Why the Birthday Project is More than Just a Project

Many of you have commented on my facebook page and "liked" some of the status updates associated with "The Birthday Project," which I discovered recently. This woman is a walking "lamplighter" and mitzvah maker. However, it is clear though that the concept of doing 41 random acts on my birthday, there is much more significance for me beyond the random concept of giving.


It is when we give, we truly have the potential to make the greatest impact. This may seem like a no-brainer, but we get so caught up in our busy lives that we lose sight of the moment and the infinite possibilities.

I took on the Birthday Gift project from a place where I finally felt comfortable with my surroundings. That I could say I belong to a community. But it hasn't always been this way.

In a small community such as ours, you need to grow roots. Redefine connection – not be afraid to ask for help. But it's not always easy, especially when you feel the strong relationships of other younger women to their mothers.

Through giving, I am creating a "new archetype" for motherhood. I can't rely on a mother figure because that's just not going to happen. And not rely on other people to fill in the gaps. By giving, I create my own "new reality" - my own catalyst for change.

Having a reason to give makes it also easier to bond with strangers. But when you have a reliable support system, you don't always need to think outside the box, because "the box" is always there.

In a new community, your friends are your family.

By helping the blind person cross the street this afternoon or taping coins to the vending machine or mailbox, I am sending a message to myself that the "unfamiliar" is slightly less "unfamiliar."

That it IS possible to find a connection.

That it IS possible to feel less of a "stranger."

That there ARE other options to this "strangerhood" to help me cope with the isolation.

That I CAN find my tribe after many years of living in Israel where I HAD my own tribe and support system.

Through giving, my world view is shifting. My attitude used to be: “people pay more attention to you when you put up an emotional, needy or suffering mode."

Not anymore.

I was determined to put away those voices that made me feel “small.” And in a diverse setting, this can be tricky. It’s so easy to feel isolated and unappreciated. The streets are wide and lonely. Everybody has their own culture, language, TV and SUV.

But not me. I'm part of a universal dimension that goes beyond the computer screen.

When I first came to Pittsburgh, I knew full well, that I had a big challenge of emotional and social isolation to overcome, but I didn't realize how HARD it would be.

When I go for example, to someone else’s house here – they speak so much more “connectedly.” The families that hosted us in the beginning wanted us to feel at home so badly, but they didn't realize (and still don't) how isolated I felt. I still feel lost, empty, sad. Even though we were blessed with abundance the minute we arrived, I still thought "lack" or "empty” thoughts.

There was one thing I needed to build that was missing from my environment – trust.


So today, I put outside two BIG bags of canned and boxed goods. Since we don't have a car to bring it anywhere, that was the only viable soltuion. So I just grabbed the two bags and brought them downstairs. We weren't using them anyhow. When I came back an hour later from reading stories to my son's classroom, the bags were gone.

I saw one man carrying the clear through plastic bag with some perishables. The ones I just left on the street. I quickly passed him, and said nothing. I sized him up. He spoke Russian.

And for a moment, I felt "the community" just spoke to me.

It was the first time that my presence rubbed off me and unto somebody else in such a short and fleeting moment. Could it be some kind of impact?

"It seems," I thought. "People are hungry all over. People need to be nourished. People need a voice - not just food."

I know I can get excited when I see something I want and it's free.

But I also can appreciate the feeling that there is somebody outside who is "thinking of me."

Now it's MY Turn.

HOW I Serve and Support My Current Life Theme of Emotional Isolation

Just the other day, I realized that a major life theme running through my life right now is "finding a home - a center" and "building connections with those people" who energetically center me.

After years of building roots in Israel, I found myself suddenly "uprooted," when we came back to the States in 2007. As two professionals, we experienced the "brain drain" and needed to leave.

It took me four years of living in the States to get to the point where I felt safe enough to reconnect with like-minded people, who have diverse backgrounds, think in diverse ways. Facebook is a good place to start - only it is hard to ascertain who is real and who isn't. Our busy world doesn't allow for much more than casual conversation than that that often comes across as "impersonal" because it's so "virtual."

Once I started writing about this emotional disconnect and loneliness as I found myself trying to find a "center" again after living so many years on a beautiful kibbutz where I had everything including a support system, I realized it was time to "heal" myself in ways I had never even considered.

What's working right now in my life to support this need to build "a healing center in a world of diversity?

Diversity at the core of its universal meaning, is a beautiful and wondrous thing - language, culture, mentalities, traditions, values, attitudes. In Israel, this concept played out wonderfully. Because I was unique and special as an Anglo Saxon immigrant, I was able to bring something unique to the cultural and linguistic rural landscape of the Upper Galilee. For example, I taught English to Israeli schoolchildren and university students.

As one who is deeply drawn to the diversity of this world, I found it threatening and sometimes still do when I came back full-circle to my US roots as a mom and a wife. How could I build a support system in a community of people I hardly even know? How can I trust a complete stranger? How do I get out of my comfort zone - taking into account that on a kibbutz, you don't have to venture beyond the 360 degree radius; work to school was a 1 kilometer bike ride away, and visiting my parents were a mere 30 minutes drive away down a comforting and familiar road - in-laws were another hour.


I started to write "meaningful stories" that started as "rambles" and "observation snippets" about things that were working in my life. If I went on a Pittsburgh city bus for example and I was feeling isolated and lonely, I would describe how the bus experience felt. I'd observe the faces, what struck me about lonely and isolating in that moment of time. Over time, this way of recording experiences first as a ramble and then in a more organized form, helped me overcome the silence and isolation.

Through writing, I felt more connected.

Through meditation, I felt more connected.

By becoming a part of Christine Kloser's Author Mastermind Program, I found my tribe.

All these "pieces" when together, helped me find my own voice in a world of diversity.


Through writing, I was able to poinpoint also what areas of my thinking and feeling were keeping me "stuck."

Writing these stories not only gave me greater clarity, but also allowed me to FEEL the transition and vision. What is still needed in order to serve my vision? (support it)?

What I Learned from the Transformative Process of Writing: Feeling to Write and Writing to Speak

Since signing up for the Transformation Authors and Mastermind Program, I knew I was in store for something good that would change my life. What I didn't know was exactly how my life would change.

Perhaps that is why the transformative process is so damn exciting - you go "in" expecting one thing or "thinking" one thing and then something else completely happens... and with different life forces!

In my case, as I wrote, everything I experienced whether it was meditation and connecting in stillness and quiet or recalling the silent "voice" of living in Israel, became the threads of the story. As I lived it, I was evolving and writing it - pretty cool, if you think about it.

This is what exactly happened when I wrote "The Best Time to Get in My Way," for the Anthology to be published in May 2012, "Pebbles in the Pond: Transforming the World One Person at a Time." By the time I finished the 20th draft version, I was transformed by the writing process - I was committed to the process.

And I noticed that many different levels peel and unfold at every stage. These levels didn't evolve sequentially, but sometimes all together. So I will identify those levels as a way to share with you what happened.

Level 1 - I start writing about transformation at the story level - how it feels to be an outsider living in Pittsbugh. My own story. I'm coming out. I share the "pieces" of my story that in turn, shape the reasons why I want to encourage other people to write their "pain stories."

Level 2 - I write my "story" through the eyes of a reader "pebble" - how writing our own "truths" and "pain stories" bring us closer to that "voice." At this stage of writing, the "concept of "voice" is a bit nebulous. I know it has something to do with finding a deeper connection, but it's more than that. It's up to me to find out so I write some more. As I'm deepening my message, I think more clearly, "What is it about finding my voice in a voiceless world" that brings a stronger connection. I ponder some of these answers in my meditations each morning waiting for the answers to sink in.

Level 3 of Transformation: I make the subtle but powerful connection to meditation and weave this into "part of my own story of transformation." I write that one needs to emotionally heal before moving forward. There are many nights and days that I cry. I cry for the "voiceless child" and I cry for the emotional and social isolation I feel as an outsider coming to Pittsburgh. I still feel this way. A lot.

Level 4 of Transformation: I'm intent on answering the questions for my beautiful "pebble reader" - How can the "voice of my story" serve you? How can I guide you dear "pebble" reader? How can I encourage you to write the voice of your own pain story?

On our last masterheart call, Christine Kloser, my transformative mentor and catalyst of this journey, gave us important tips for connecting to the reader. I go one step further and write letters to the reader - telling him/her how much I appreciate the journey and understand the process and I ask him/her questions and this helps me get "into his/her head."



****

For the last few weeks as I'm writing, I try to not get too bogged with recording the details, and I'm really make sure I'm honoring the story and my message of what needs to be shared. But there are so many elements of the story that are part of "ONE STORY," that it's hard to honor them all at one go.

By the last week of October 2011, I have written almost 25 drafts for a 1500 word chapter. But still, I feel like something's still missing. I am determined to find the piece I need to truly connect to my reader and myself.

And then, on Thursday, October 27th, I listen to a meditation about emotional healing presented by DavidJi from the Chopra Center as part of a meditation bundle I had purchased after completing the summer 2011 meditation challenge.

I am feeling worn-out with mid-semester blues. I don't want to look at another student's essay. I am particularly in need of love and self-care. I'm in need of face-to-face friendships. (This is my new goal) I cannot sustain myself with just online ones anymore especially when I'm in that "dark" moment. I'm beginning to think that finding a Kindred Spirit in my area is hard because of how busy I am and have become. I begin to open my heart for answers.

So in the middle of my morning at the university where I work, I listen to this meditation. I had never done anything like that before. Something about it strongly grabs my heart:

David Ji says that the reason why we have been emotionally hurt is because as a result of the pain, we haven't been expressed our needs and desires adequately enough to those around us. He gives a few guiding questions which I quickly write down.


1.Is there a need that is important to me that I have not expressed? (very conscious way)
2.How do you feel? What's that emotion inside?
3. Then state that need that is the cause of that feeling.
4. We make a request for a specific action.

On the afternoon walk all the way home from the bus stop, I think about the people who have hurt me and who I may hurt in return. I write to the one closest to me, a letter. I realize that there is probably not a lot that I can do to change this person, but after a good cry and some words, I feel much better. I remember what Christine Kloser says about "having a good cry" in one of the mindset emails I get.

I connect deeply (more cries) and realize that the voice of my heart needs acknowledgement. That's it! All my life, I've walked through life with a "thinking mind." I've made decisions entirely in this way nd not from a "feeling heart."



So what do I want the reader to know after reading this chapter. And how is this part of my transformation?

I write at the top of the page:

What the reader will get from reading this chapter: Listen to the voice that will allow you to feel.


Yes! Yes! Yes!

By the time I pick up my son, I am so tired from teaching, meditating, grading and writing and thinking - I just want to disappear - wisk myself away to an island and a beautiful sunset but I feel empowered by this new "finding" that I just go on. I grab my beautiful but tired son and we head for the neighborhood bus to take us to a hospital to use the gift certificates my husband got when he donated blood the past few times to buy dinner at the cafeteria. We get our hamburgers and french fries and grilled chicken burgers, which is not my husband's or my way. Daddy is the cook at home and we hardly eat french fries. But it's comfort food for both of us, and my son likes it. He's happy, so I give in.


With these new "heartfelt eyes," I weave into the story the very next day, the part of the heart and revise. I read it just once, twice and three times more send it happily off to the editor.

Yes! I finally now understand the "voice that has allowed me to feel." This awareness in itself, is life-changing/shaping. I am on a high because I know that from this place, I will always be able to reach higher levels of transformation and connect more deeply with my reader/myself.

The Silent Voice of Disconnect - From Kibbutz Life to Pittsburgh

I finally figured out a BIG piece about readjusting to life in the States after years of living on kibbutz in Israel that has been SO HARD. And why that difficulty has often created stress and anxiety.

On the kibbutz, everything was within a 360 degree mile radius - well, almost everything - mailpost, doctor, (not for emergencies), supermarket, laundry and dry cleaners, garage and mechanics, bike store and babyhouse, secretary offices (important for paying bills), dentist, haircutting. Well, you can see how convenient! And when we last visited in 2011, we were amazed at the number of businesses had "popped up."

However, when we realized we both couldn't be professionally fulfilled - we knew we would have to sacrifice something. Something BIG. That something was the superbly convenient lifestyle of living on a kibbutz we had come to know for many years.

The fact that we are surrounded by concrete and live above a computer store and art supply store and next to a dry cleaners and across the street from a synagogue and a block away (a long block) from Murray Avenue complete with supermarkets is probably the best compromise for the USA and the best in Pittsburgh lifestyle. But every now and then, something in me feels the DISCONNECT and wants to feel more connected.


Everything here is complicated with decisions - from the small to the large.

So let me share with you a simple scenario of grocery shopping. Even though the store is just a few blocks (long city blocks) away, here's what I end up thinking:

Should we take our white shopping cart to carry the groceries or should we take our tot bag?

Oh and don't forget to take the correct key set with the bar code so you can benefit from the fuel perks at Giant Eagle!

And our shopping list.

And of course, our decisions change with the weather - right?

If we forget these things, then we have to walk back three long city blocks. On a kibbutz, I would bike - zip - zap -zoop and in 1 minute I was home.

Now you may be feeling I'm still not quite settled here....

Well, I'll have to save that for another post.