February 2009 Archives

Growing up, my father's art studio was attached to our family's home, so any time of day my brother and I could run in while he was working and see what was going on. His work was not mysterious to us at all. We would race in and out of the studio in our socks, tracking sawdust and woodchips throughout the house despite our mother's pleading. I would throw myself into a bin of fabric and chat about school while he sat at his drawing board carving Swiss pear wood into intricate designs. The picture shown here is of me as a child sitting on a block of wood which my dad is carving. His work was never something separate from our home or our lives.

In many ways, I think I've subconsciously emulated that by choosing a career where the lines between 'home' and 'work' are often blurred. My children come to temple and throw their shoes into my office and run around in their socks. They know that there are bagels every Saturday morning at the Torah study in the library, and they know where to find colored markers and scrap paper in my desk.

Part of the beauty of Judaism is the very partnership between the home and temple in living a Jewish life. One of the questions I often ask myself as a rabbi is "How do I help make the Temple like a home?" When we create programming, we think a lot about creating a welcoming environment where people feel at home.

There is a complimentary question I'd like you to ask yourself, and if you are willing, I'd love to hear some of your answers. "How do I help make my home like a temple?" Just as there are aspects of a temple which should feel like a home, there are aspects of our homes that should have the sanctity of a temple. Perhaps it is how you give charity, or the conversation around a Sabbath table. Perhaps it is in a bedtime ritual which includes singing a soft Shema, or a morning prayer to say, "Thank You for a new day." Perhaps it is in how you conserve energy and water. Perhaps it is how you honor relationships through devotion of time and dedicated listening. Perhaps it is a blessing you give one another, or the way you are generous with forgiveness and quick to repent.

Traditionally, the prayer "Shalom Aleichem" is recited when you are returning home from Shabbat services at your temple. The prayer welcomes the Shabbat angels that are accompanying home. I love the idea that when one leaves the Temple, they are taking angels home with them. The angels, it seems, go back and forth with us each visit. We take a little of our homes with us when we come together as a community, and we take a little of our sacred space with us when we return home. May your temple/church/mosque continue to be an ever-embracing home, and may your homes be sanctuaries of love.

Mark Twain once said something about what makes a great novel, how what makes it great is not as much what's in it, but rather what the author left out. Still, the most painstaking part of writing a book is the leaving out. Emily Dickenson once refered to her editor's pen as a surgeon's knife. I like this metaphor, because as painful as it is, ultimately an editor's skillful cuts breathes life into a story. It is like uncluttering a house and feeling as if all your memories are being lost, and then when it's finished -- deep sigh -- you realize you can breathe, your shoulders are light, and while the stuff is gone the memories are still crisply there.

An example: On page 70 of Drawing in the Dust there is this sentence: "It is like being in the parking lot of an amusement park, where I can hear all the noise of elation just a shoulder ride away." In the original draft I sent to literary agents (and this is embarrassing to share!) the passage was: "It's like being in the parking lot of an amusement park, I can hear the screams of elation, the roar of the roler-coaster, the singsong, bing bong, ping pong, jank in the box crank ditties, the boing-oing-oing of suprises on springs, and the mechanical 'You're a winner!' and the whining whistle pop 'try again,' animated giggles, bee bee snap of guns at the duck shoot, all just a shoulder ride away if they'd only hurry up and lock the car." Clearly, this was a body of text desperate for surgery. However, one of the things I see people struggle with most in writing is that they edit as they write, instead of letting themselves enter fully into the moment they're creating, allowing themselves to hear and taste and smell and touch every little thing in that moment. In the end, yes, it is healthy for the book and its readers to let fall good measure of the singsongs and bing bongs to the cutting room floor, because the exuberant spirit of the writing moment endures. All I really wanted to say with "shoulder ride away" was that Page misses her father at this moment. It's him, the owner of the shoulder that had carried her to such cotton-candy wonderments, that she misses, linking her grief over his death to the underground cistern.   

I've learned a lot about the cutting room floor. There was a passage I did however keep trying to sneak back in, but it kept getting snipped. I agree it slowed the book a bit. A little too sermonic? Still, I like it. I still imagine Page and Mortichai having this little conversation in a private place, amidst long stripes of moonlight and shadow. I'm pasting it here...I'd love to know what you think... 

We walk through the dark orchard. Moonlight sifts through the weave of branches above us. Tears roll from my eyes and we step gingerly through the night. "What are you thinking?" he asks.

"I am thinking about the rock in which Excalibur was stuck. Do you know the story?" I say.

"Of course. Excalibur was a sword that was stuck in a rock, and only the one who was pure of heart would be able to pull it out. Warriors tried to pull it out, but it was Arthur, a young boy at the time, who was able to withdraw it effortlessly." he says. "Why are you thinking about the rock?"

"It was very brave of the rock to finally release Excalibur to King Arthur. I am thinking that it is brave to let go of a pain that is a part of you, to let go of the pain that defines you. With the sword stuck inside, princes and kings come to visit her. They put the sole of their royal slippers against her cold side for some leverage while they tug and yank at the sword. And she hangs onto that sword with all of her might, just to prolong the contact. But when she lets go of the sword, she is nothing but a rock. How tragic for the rock that she mistakes the struggle for relationship. The princes and kings are not thinking of her at all. In fact, they would blast her to bits if thought it would help them get Excalibur back! She is a bother, a burden. A boulder. She is a dead thing. A stone. She has deluded herself into believing that they care for her, when in truth all they care about it that penetrating sword. All they care about is getting that thing out of her so they can stab it into soft flesh somewhere else. Poor little rock. She released the sword to Arthur because she thought he was gentle and kind. No one thinks of her sacrifice. How can a rock ever be certain that a boy, despite his letters, isn't only there for his sword?"

Mortichai laughs. "What did King Arthur know of rocks? He only cared about the sword. But Moses was a man who knew about rocks. The Bible refers to God as the Rock. You know Deuteronomy chapter 32? The Rock! His deeds are perfect!"

"He set him atop the highlands...and fed him honey from the rock and oil from the flinty stone..." I add. 

"Arthur didn't understand that the rock was not cold. It had honey inside. You're right. Kings and princes don't love rocks the way that sculptors and prophets and archaeologists love rocks. But this boy is not here for his sword, I can promise you that. This boy is here for honey."