Category Archives: Visiting Authors

Guest Post by Jenna Robbins – Do We Believe We’ll Accomplish Something Special in Life

Please read this well written piece on ‘being special’. I would like to thank DegreeJungle.com for providing this article, and ask you the reader, to take a look at DegreeJungle.com. Please write your thoughts on Jenna’s ideas.
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Do we all believe we will accomplish something special in life?

This is a mind boggling question. In today’s diverse world, it is hard to accurately answer it. If we are to achieve something special, how do we know what it is? What path do we follow to get to that destiny? Many people are of the opinion that the creator had a reason for giving them the breath of life. A lot of genuine people spend a considerable amount of time trying to figure out what that special thing is. Some are fortunate enough to figure it out. The most accomplished beings are those who allow passion to lead them to their destiny.

The special thing could mean different things to different people depending on aspirations. It may be getting the two sons you have always prayed for or a prestigious job in the very best of blue chip companies. It could involve achieving self actualization as Abraham Maslow would put it. For others it may be being on good terms with the creator. Whether it involves wealth, career, family or a satisfying spiritual life, one fact that is crystal clear is that accomplishing those dream(s) gives a lot of gratification.

Someone who is compassionate about those who are indisposed will do all they can to alleviate the suffering. The initial steps will involve a lot of hard work. Somehow such persons may get to the doors of a medical school. When they treat those who have a malady they try to give an array of hope. From personal experience there is no better feeling than seeing the dying get their life back.

Although not everyone believes in accomplishing something great in life, hope cannot be lost in this course. Determination to fight for the greater good is an indispensable tool. One must have faith in the substance of unseen things which he or she hopes to achieve. A man must have hope, even if it is false hope. The road to getting there is sometimes long and strenuous. Hope is what keeps one going when the path narrows and thickets become vast. I once came across a lady whose intention was to bring life to this world. She made several futile attempts. She had four consecutive spontaneous miscarriages, but that did not bar her from trying again. She was so determined that when she got pregnant the fifth time she stayed in hospital for a couple of months to ensure that the unborn one was safe. Upon delivery of the little one her joy was untold. It was radiating all over her.

The worst thing anyone can ever do is to despair. Do not be distracted by those who have failed to reach the Promised Land. Be aware that not all those who start the race will get to the crossing line. It is my strong belief that we can all achieve something special. We however have to play our role in discovering the specific reason for our very existence under the sun. We have to work hard and diligently to get there.

Author bio

Jenna Robbins is an accomplished writer and accountant. She has written more than fifteen short stories, which she hopes to publish soon. Her articles are meant to give hope to those who do not have any. She is also a contributing writer for DegreeJungle.com- a resource for students looking to go back to college.

Question: Do you believe you will? What will it be? Or what has it been?

Eulogy for A Mom, From a Friend

MY NAME IS PAUL LINDZON, AND I AM A FRIEND OF STEVEN STROM, WILMA BLACKS SON.

ALTHOUGH, I HAD ONLY KNOWN WILMA FOR A LITTLE MORE THAN 8 YEARS, I HAVE BEEN WITNESS TO THE AMAZING TRANSFORMATION I THAT THIS WONDERFUL WOMAN WAS ABLE TO CREATE N THE LIVES OF A FAMILY OF 5 LIVING IN SOUTH FLORIDA.

ALLOW ME TO TELL YOU A STORY THAT STARTED BACK WHEN I WAS 16 YEARS OLD LIVING IN TORONTO. I MET STEVEN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND WE QUICKLY BECAME VERY GOOD FRIENDS. WE TRAVELLED TOGETHER ACROSS CANADA AND THE USA. WE DROVE TO FLORIDA DURING THE GRADE 12 TEACHERS STRIKE, BUT THROUGHOUT IT ALL THERE WAS A NAGGING DESIRE WITHIN STEPHEN TO FIND A MISSING PART IN HIS LIFE.

THE NEED TO SEARCH FOR BIRTH PARENTS FOR AN ADOPTED CHILD IS SOMETHING THAT I AM FORTUNATE NOT TO TRULY UNDERSTAND. YET SEARCH WE DID. UNFORTUNATELY FOR STEVEN HE WAS WORKING WITH ADOPTED PARENTS THAT WERE NOT INTERESTING IN HELPING, AND A DOCTOR THAT WAS INSTRUCTED NOT TO GIVE HIM ANY INFORMATION. OVER TIME HOWEVER LAWS CHANGED AND EVENTUALLY AN 87 YEAR OLD LADY LIVING IN OSHAWA RECEIVED A LETTER INFORMING HER THAT THE SON THAT SHE GAVE UP FOR ADOPTION 42 YEARS EARLIER WAS LOOKING FOR HER.

IMAGINE THE FEELING, BEING 87 YEARS OLD, LIVING ALONE IN OSHAWA AND ALTHOUGH WILMA WAS NOT RELIGIOUS, REALIZING THAT GOD HAD 1 MORE JOURNEY FOR HER TO TAKE.

AND TAKE IT SHE DID.

OVER THE PAST 8 AND A HALF YEARS, I HAD THE PRIVELEDGE OF WATCHING THIS AMAZING STRONG WILLED, SOFT SPOKEN WOMAN BECOME SUCH A VITAL PART OF LIFE FOR STEVEN, DOMINIQUE AND THEIR 3 CHILDREN, JOSH MERISSA AND SPENCER. CHRISTMAS IN FLORIDA TOOK ON A WHOLE NEW MEANING FOR THIS JEWISH FAMILY. NOW A CHRISTMAS TREE AND CHRISTMAS DINNER WERE PART OF THE SCHOOL BREAK AGENDA. WILMA’S WINTER VISITS WERE SOMETHING FOR THE ENTIRE FAMILY TO LOOK FORWARD TO. I HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO SPEND TIME WITH STEVEN IN FLORIDA, AND WHEN WILMA WAS AROUND HE APPEARED TO BE IN A COMFORTABLE CONTENT PLACE AND SO DID SHE. YOU COULD ACTUALLY PLANT THEM BOTH ON A COUCH FOR HOURS WITH THE TV ON. NO WORDS NEEDED TO BE SAID, THEY BOTH KNEW THAT THIS WAS SOMETHING SPECIAL THAT NEEDED TO BE TREASURED. DOMINIQUE ON THE OTHER HAND NOW HAD 2 PEOPLE SITTING ON THE COUCH FOR HOURS NOT SAYING A WORD. YET SOMEHOW WILMA IN HER QUIET DETERMINED WAY WAS ABLE TO ADD THE LOVE OF A MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER TO A FAMILY THAT NEEDED IT AND DOM AND STEVEN AND THE GRANDCHILDREN WERE TRULY IN LOVE WITH THIS SPECIAL WOMAN.

TWO WEEKS AGO STEVEN WAS HERE TO VISIT ON THE VICTORIA DAY WEEKEND TO HELP WILMA CELEBRATE HER 95TH BIRTHDAY, HE LEFT ON SUNDAY, AND RECEIVED A PHONE CALL ON VICTORIA DAY THAT HE WILL PROBABLY REMEMBER FOREVER. WILMA HAD A MASSIVE STROKE AND HE AND DOMINIQUE DROPPED EVERYTHING TO RETURN TO OSHAWA TO SIT BY HER BEDSIDE FOR 10 DAYS AS SHE SLOWLY SUCCOMED TO THE EFFECTS OF THE STROKE. WHEN I VISITED WITH STEPHEN AND DOMINIQUE IN OSHAWA I HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO GO BACK TO WILMA’S HOUSE AND I WAS STARTLED TO SEE SO MANY PICTURES OF HER SON AND HIS FAMILY SCATTERED ALL OVER HER HOUSE . FOR ME IT WAS TRULY MOVING TO SEE THAT HER LAST YEARS WERE FILLED WITH SUCH JOY AND LOVE FROM HER NEW FOUND FAMILY AND TO KNOW THAT SHE LEFT A MARK ON HER GRANDCHILDREN WHO TRULY LOVED HER THE WAY SHE LOVED THEM.

FOR WILMA THE JOURNEY IS OVER BUT HER MEMORIES WILL LIVE ON FOREVER.

MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.

Guest Author: My ‘kosher’ shoes By Miriam Porter

 Tuesday, 08 March 2005 (Canadian Jewish News)

I have been shopping for a pair of cute black running shoes in a size eight for weeks! You know, the ones with mesh and Velcro that everyone is wearing but me?

I eagerly held a dozen pair in my hands. My favourites showed off a hot pink stripe down the side and were adorable. But before I tried them on, I lifted the tongue to read what material they were made of. Every pair was the same – genuine leather – and I sadly put them back on the shelf. It may as well have been written that the shoelaces were made of baby kitten tails and the soles of puppy ears. An animal is an animal and to me there is no difference.

I would not carry a purse made from cats or wear a belt from the skin of a dog. I would not wear a lambskin coat or walk in leather shoes from a cow. I believe animal rights are more important than fashion.

At the age of 13, I stopped wearing leather.

I gave away my Roots black leather vest and green suede purse and never looked back. Despite the frustration I sometimes feel when shopping, I never consider the alternative. I am confident I will soon find shoes that are cruelty free and fashionable. There are hundreds of styles of non-leather shoes, clothing, belts, bags and wallets, and it’s worth the extra effort.

An animal is sentenced to a lifetime of suffering with every pair of leather shoes purchased. “Most of the millions of animals slaughtered for their skin endure the horrors of factory farming before being shipped to slaughter,” states www.cowsarecool.com, a website operated by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA).

“Buying leather directly contributes to factory farms and slaughterhouses since skin is the most economically important byproduct of the meat-packing industry. Leather is also no friend of the environment since it shares all the environmental destruction of the meat industry, in addition to toxins used in tanning.

“Animals are kept in overcrowded conditions on feedlots and factory farms, often unable to take a single step or turn around and deprived of all that is natural to them, including exercise, sunlight – and even the feel of grass beneath their feet.

“At the slaughterhouse, animals are routinely skinned and dismembered while they are still alive. Federal inspectors found live cattle dangling from an overhead chain at a plant in Texas. Videotape from another plant shows hogs kicking and squealing as they are lowered into a tank of scalding water, which is used to soften their skin.

“Kid goats may be boiled alive to make gloves, and the skins of unborn calves and lambs are sometimes purposely aborted or slaughtered from pregnant cows and ewes.”

This is the harsh reality of where leather comes from. Don’t deceive yourself that the animals surrender politely and feel no pain. Their hurting and suffering is very real. You have a choice to make every time you go shopping for clothing – make sure you have all the facts before making a decision. In Judaism, there are laws regarding kosher meat and rabbinical supervision to ensure humane slaughter.

Tza’ar baalei chayim (kindness to animals) is the prohibition against causing pain to any living animal. It is a basic principle of compassion. But the manufacturing of leather shoes, jackets and handbags do not require rabbinical regulation. Perhaps it should, since Judaism recognizes animals feel physical pain and we are forbidden to inflict it.

Furthermore, www.cowsarecool.com says that “leather may be made from cows, pigs, goats and sheep; exotic animals like alligators, ostriches, kangaroos; and even dogs and cats, who are slaughtered for their meat and skins in China, which exports their skins around the world. Since leather is normally not labelled, you never really know where (or whom) it came from.”

I take the extra time to find non-leather options like cotton, linen, rubber, ramie, canvas and synthetics. And if I still can’t find what I am looking for, I would rather go barefoot. I am lucky to have the option of feeling the grass beneath my feet.

Miriam can be reached at mirter@rogers.com

Supporting Israel =Supporting the World

(great piece. Makes sense. Your thoughts?)

Speech by Spanish Activist Pilar Rahola: The Struggle of Israel is the Struggle of the World

April 27, 2010 – 1:41 pm

Pilar Rahola is a Spanish politician, journalist and activist. Her articles are published in Spain and throughout some of the most important newspapers in Latin America. Here she addresses pro-Palestinian demonstrations:

Why don’t we see demonstrations against Islamic dictatorships in London, Paris , Barcelona ?

Or demonstrations against the Burmese dictatorship?

Why aren’t there demonstrations against the enslavement of millions of women who live without any legal protection?

Why aren’t there demonstrations against the use of children as human bombs where there is conflict with Islam?

Why has there been no leadership in support of the victims of Islamic dictatorship in Sudan ?

Why is there never any outrage against the acts of terrorism committed against Israel ?

Why is there no outcry by the European left against Islamic fanaticism?

Why don’t they defend Israel’s right to exist?

Why confuse support of the Palestinian cause with the defense of Palestinian terrorism?

And finally, the million dollar question: Why is the left in Europe and around the world obsessed with the two most solid democracies, the United States and Israel, and not with the worst dictatorships on the planet? The two most solid democracies, who have suffered the bloodiest attacks of terrorism, and the left doesn’t care.

And then, to the concept of freedom. In every pro-Palestinian European forum I hear the left yelling with fervor: “We want freedom for the people!”

Not true. They are never concerned with freedom for the people of Syria or Yemen or Iran or Sudan, or other such nations. And they are never preoccupied when Hamas destroys freedom for the Palestinians. They are only concerned with using the concept of Palestinian freedom as a weapon against Israeli freedom. The resulting consequence of these ideological pathologies is the manipulation of the press.

The international press does major damage when reporting on the question of the Israeli-Palestinian issue. On this topic they don’t inform, they propagandize.

When reporting about Israel, the majority of journalists forget the reporter code of ethics. And so, any Israeli act of self-defense becomes a massacre, and any confrontation, genocide. So many stupid things have been written about Israel that there aren’t any accusations left to level against her.

At the same time, this press never discusses Syrian and Iranian interference in propagating violence against Israel, the indoctrination of children, and the corruption of the Palestinians. And when reporting about victims, every Palestinian casualty is reported as tragedy and every Israeli victim is camouflaged, hidden or reported about with disdain.

And let me add on the topic of the Spanish left. Many are the examples that illustrate the anti-Americanism and anti-Israeli sentiments that define the Spanish left. For example, one of the leftist parties in Spain has just expelled one of its members for creating a pro-Israel website. I quote from the expulsion document: “Our friends are the people of Iran, Libya and Venezuela, oppressed by imperialism, and not a Nazi state like Israel .”

In another example, the socialist mayor of Campozuelos changed Shoah Day, commemorating the victims of the Holocaust, with Palestinian Nabka Day, which mourns the establishment of the State of Israel, thus showing contempt for the six million European Jews murdered in the Holocaust.

Or in my native city of Barcelona, the city council decided to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the creation of the State of Israel , by having a week of solidarity with the Palestinian people. Thus, they invited Leila Khaled, a noted terrorist from the 70′s and current leader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, a terrorist organization so described by the European Union, which promotes the use of bombs against Israel .

This politically correct way of thinking has even polluted the speeches of President Zapatero. His foreign policy falls within the lunatic left, and on issues of the Middle East, he is unequivocally pro-Arab. I can assure you that in private, Zapatero places on Israel the blame for the conflict in the Middle East , and the policies of Foreign Minister Moratinos reflect this. The fact that Zapatero chose to wear a kafiah in the midst of the Lebanon conflict is no coincidence; it’s a symbol.

Spain has suffered the worst terrorist attack in Europe and it is in the crosshairs of every Islamic terrorist organization. As I wrote before, they kill us with cell phones hooked to satellites connected to the Middle Ages. And yet the Spanish left is the most anti-Israeli in the world.

And then it says it is anti-Israeli because of solidarity. This is the madness I want to denounce in this conference.

Conclusion:

I am not Jewish. Ideologically I am left and by profession a journalist. Why am I not anti-Israeli like my colleagues? Because as a non-Jew I have the historical responsibility to fight against Jewish hatred and currently against the hatred for their historic homeland, Israel . To fight against anti-Semitism is not the duty of the Jews, it is the duty of the non-Jews.

As a journalist it is my duty to search for the truth beyond prejudice, lies and manipulations. The truth about Israel is not told. As a person from the left who loves progress, I am obligated to defend liberty, culture, civic education for children, coexistence and the laws that the Tablets of the Covenant made into universal principles.

Principles that Islamic fundamentalism systematically destroys. That is to say, that as a non-Jew, journalist and lefty, I have a triple moral duty with Israel, because if Israel is destroyed, liberty, modernity and culture will be destroyed too.

The struggle of Israel, even if the world doesn’t want to accept it, is the struggle of the world.

Guest Author: Justice Remanded by Joan Ruzsa

There is a public perception that people who are in jail “deserve” to be there, because they have committed crimes. 

While the idea that anyone deserves to be caged is problematic for many reasons, one of the most important things to remember is that approximately 6 out of 10 people in provincial/territorial custody in Canada are being held on remand, which means they have been charged but not convicted of a crime.

Why do so many people spend time locked up before going to trial?  Contrary to popular belief, most people are not denied bail because they are seen as a threat to the community.  In fact, the majority of people who end up in pre-trial custody are there because they are not in a financial position to post bail, nor do they have friends or family members who can act as sureties for them.  So poor people are further penalized by having to spend months, sometimes years in jail awaiting trial.

Money is not the only issue at play here.  Studies on systemic racism in the Canadian criminal justice system have shown that people from racialized communities and Aboriginal people are more likely to be charged for a crime based on very little evidence, and less likely to be given bail than white defendants.  Our jails and remand centres are also full of people with mental health issues, drug users and the under-housed/homeless.

People in pre-trial custody to do not have equal access to justice as those people who are able to stay in the community until they go to court.  Prisoners are limited by finances, having to make collect calls and erratic access to phones.  They often have a legal aid lawyer appointed for them rather than having the opportunity to choose someone themselves, or they have to rely on other people to find them legal representation. 

Lawyers often don’t like going into jails to meet with clients, and defendants will sometimes meet their lawyer for the first time in court.  Being incarcerated stops people from being able to make choices, access resources and information about their case, or to meaningfully participate in their own defence.

There have also been studies done that suggest that being in pre-trial custody creates a presumption of guilt, and that remand prisoners are more likely to be convicted than people who have been on the street prior to their trial.

We live in a country whose justice system is supposed to be founded on a presumption of innocence and the right to a speedy trial, when in fact we allow people to languish behind bars who have not been found guilty of anything, other than belonging to a particular group.  We are told that “justice is blind”, when in reality, only a privileged few receive it. Why are we not more outraged?

It’s the Journey not the Destination by Guest Author, Joan Ruzsa

I was raised a Godless heathen.

OK, OK, I’m being dramatic for effect, but I think it would be accurate to say that I was brought up in a fairly irreligious household. I am technically a Christian, and my grandparents were all quite religious Protestants, but my parents live pretty secular lives. Although they were not churchgoers, they wanted me to be free to make my own decisions, so they encouraged me to try out churches of different denominations to see if anything resonated with me.

I remember going to Catholic services, Anglican, United and possibly a few others. I recall thinking that I hated wearing dresses, the services were too long, the pews were uncomfortable and the kneeling hurt my knees. Since the age of 10, I have only entered churches for weddings and funerals.

This is not to say that I was raised without a moral foundation. My parents instilled me with strong values, many of which are the same as those found in scripture. They simply did not attach those values to a particular religion tradition. Rather than encouraging me to act ethically in order to serve God or to ensure my place in the afterlife, I was simply told to be good. Full stop.

I read what I then considered the “Old Testament” on my own, without any guidance, when I was quite young. I found the whole thing terrifying. God seemed so wrathful, and for some time I lived in fear that I would carelessly commit a sin, and God would reach a reproachful finger through the clouds and smite me where I stood.

Several members of my father’s family were fundamentalist Christians, and I found many of their views to be quite intolerant. I’ve never understood people who feel the need to build up their own belief system by tearing down or judging those who think differently from them. At some point in my youth I developed a brief and harmless interest in the occult. Upon discovering this, my uncle took my father aside and warned him that he was a bad parent for raising me a pagan, and that there would be dire consequences for my immortal soul. I was incensed. My father is my role model for goodness. He is kind, accepting, loving, non-judgmental, open-minded and embraces those members of society that most people reject.

He embodies spirituality to me.

Later, my uncle and one of my aunts wrote me a letter quoting scripture, saying that I was straying from the path of righteousness and would certainly be doomed to hell. I was 12 years old.

These experiences made me suspicious of organized religion, I would say almost to the point of hatred. In grade 7, when our teacher started forcing us to read the Good News Bible (something that in 1984 was undoubtedly illegal in the public school system), I became an atheist in a burst of reactionary rage. This was short-lived, as I soon recognized the arrogance of thinking I could know there was no God. I know so little about even my immediate surroundings.

How could I presume to know the universe?

Despite my skepticism, I think a part of me has always been searching for divinity. In university I studied the Philosophy of Religion, but the arguments for the existence of God always left me wanting more. To me, St. Anselm’s ontological argument or Aquinas’ description of “the great watchmaker” started with a faith-based presupposition: “God exists therefore God exists.” Because I was coming from a secular perspective, I wanted more “proof”. What would have sufficed for me? Did I need to witness a miracle? Say a prayer and have it immediately answered? Did I want to God to tap me on the shoulder and say “Hey stupid, I’m right here.” I don’t know, but I think I have been looking for the key that will unlock my mind to allow God in.

About a year and a half ago I started reading the Torah. I decided to do this for a few reasons:

1) I had recently befriended Avrum, who told me that he was “more Jewish than he was anything else.” I felt that to truly know him I needed to understand more about Judaism.

2) I had read “The Chosen”, and was completely drawn to the scenes of Danny and Reb Saunders engaging in heated Talmudic debate. I love the idea that Judaism encourages questioning and critical thought, and that it is constantly evolving. My experience with Christianity (which I am not claiming to be representative of the religion as a whole), was that it stifled dissent and had an ideological rigidity.

3) I wanted to try reading scripture again as an adult, and to approach it with a more open mind. After all, it is the single-most read written work in the history of humanity, it is the starting point of monotheism, and it has influenced every aspect of our culture. How can I understand life without better understanding Torah?

Reading Torah has enriched my life in many ways. The first benefit I found was the intellectual challenge. The methods by which I have been learning satisfy my brain’s desire for order, depth and complexity. I love reading the weekly portion, then the haftorah, and then finding different commentaries by different rabbis. I am inspired by the variety and richness of thought and interpretation, and by the interplay of ideas. I am comforted to see that struggling with God is not seen as a rejection of faith, but a step towards strengthening it.

This summer I was fortunate to meet a man whose love of Judaism, God and Torah emanate from him like a bright light. After some thought, I wrote to him and asked him if he would be willing to learn with me, or more accurately teach me, as he is a wealth of information and insight. He sent me some lectures to listen to by Rabbi Fohrman, starting right from the story of Adam and Eve.

Listening to the first lecture was so meaningful, but also made me realize that I truly know so little. What to me had been a childhood story about a tree and a snake took on a whole rich life, full of questions of morality and nakedness and personal responsibility and the purpose of life. I had so many questions, but I was nervous sending them to my learning partner. I felt like a neophyte, a child. I was worried my questions would be too rudimentary, that I lacked the tools to create a meaningful analysis of what I had heard and read. I was worried about wasting his time.

Instead of throwing up his hands in despair at my ignorance, he was gentle and encouraging. He answered my questions thoughtfully, and he directed me to different sources where I could do more research on my own. I now look forward to sharing my thoughts and questions with him, and I gain so much from his responses. I had enjoyed reading Torah on my own, but it is so much richer having someone with whom to share ideas.

I feel like something has shifted in me. What started as an intellectual pursuit has become deeper, more meaningful. The Torah has gotten inside me. I find myself thinking about what I’m reading and learning all the time: the moral and philosophical implications of the stories, the lessons that can be learned and applied to my own life, how I can expand my thinking.

This morning on the subway, rather than focusing on whatever social awkwardness I may have experienced yesterday or what I need to do at work today or the million other trivialities that take up my mental energy, I was thinking about Rebecca encouraging Jacob to steal his brother’s blessing, and feeling pain for Moses that after all of his commitment and fidelity to God, one act of hubris stopped him from being able to enter the promised land.

I know that I have started a lifelong learning process, one that feels like a blessing. Where will it lead? Will this be the key that opens my heart to God? I have no idea, but whatever happens, I know it will be a beautiful journey.

Memories of her Sukhah from Judy – Guest Author

Underwater Sukah

Underwater Sukah

I have had some experience of course in many a sukkah…..mainly when I was younger and then many years later as a single adult. 
When I was younger in kindergarden, through to grade six, we would be marched out by class to spend an hour or so in the schools Sukkah. It was very large (because I was so small) and was decorated beautifully by the artwork for the chag made by the students themselves.
There were many pictures of the Lulav and the Etrog along with chains from paper mache and multi coloured construction paper. It smelled of fruit and kugel and honey cake. We sang songs, ate cake, drank grape juice , said the various brachot, and had fun.
We shook the Lulav, handled the wonderfully fragrant Etrog with TLC. I was so afraid that I would drop the etrog when it came my turn to perform the ritual of shaking the lulav and etrog together I think that I still remember how to perform it correctly ….up, down, over the right shoulder, then over the left shoulder. Am I right? I was informed by my Hebrew teacher (probably a sadistic, power hungry woman) that there was a fatal punishment for those children who mishandled or dropped the etrog.
The woman couldn’t understand for the life of her why I refused to exercise the ritual when it was my turn. I got sent to the principal’s office for such misbehavior. But, I ‘ got off easy ‘ when the principal saw a long line of such offenders lining up behind me to be dealt with.
Honestly, some of the ‘ narishkeit’  that went on !   
On a more familial personal note, I decided to build my own sukkah. My firends all had one at home but we didn’t so I went and got the cover from our sandbox in the backyard, leaned it over some wooden boxes/crates from the garage, and then had to figure out how I could see the stars through it.
So I went and got the hammer (also from the garage ) and proceeded to put just enough holes in the cover so I could in fact see the stars.
Then for ‘ schach ‘, I went to the nearby field and picked some of the tall grass which hadn’t been cut for several months. I laid it over the wooden cover, Then I went into the backyard and picked whatever flowers were still blooming. I think that you call them pretty weeds…but they satisfied the requirement for decorations.
Needless to say, I was very proud of my resourcefulness, but left something to be desired for my budgeting skills. I had to reimburse my father for the sandbox cover. But I will always remember MY first sukkah.
    
Hope you got a little chuckle from this cute story.
Happy and healthy New year to you and yours, if I don’t get the chance to wish you a proper blessing.
- Judy

Amrita (R.I.P.) and Terri: A Woman and Her Cat…a love story!

Amrita R.I.P.

Amrita R.I.P.

Welcome to Terri, AVRUM’S BLOG newest guest author.

Terri is a colleague at Ve’ahavta and a huge cat lover and activist. Nice job Terri. I’m sorry about your loss. _______________________________________________________________________

When I lost my cat, Amrita, you had asked me to write a small article about her, and though I had meant to, it’s been very difficult, as the loss is still very raw.  However, over this last week, I thought about her a lot (in relation to my mother’s illness) and so, here you go:

 Amrita passed away at the age of 19 (human) years in June 18, 2009 and had shared my life for 18 of those years.  Of all the cats that I have ever had the pleasure to be owned by, she was by far and above the most gracious, compassionate and loving cat I’ve ever known.  From the moment she and her daughter Mitsou (who passed away in May 2005) moved in, she was the ultimate teacher and mentor.  From her, I learned patience when faced with adversity, grace under pressure and unconditional love and compassion.  Whenever she was faced with a vet visit, a new housemate with attitude, loud noises (thunderstorms and apartment neighbours) or foul smells (from neighbours cooking), her first concern was to comfort her timid daughter or console another housemate (even me).  Every day was greeted with joy, every night I went to sleep to her purr. 

 

Over the years, several rescue and foster animals have found their way to my place, and she has been a “welcome wagon hostess” to each of them, whether they were furred, finned or feathered.  My favourite photos are of her curled up with a guinea pig named Dharma (who was rescued from a basement in a Chinatown restaurant) and another one of her investigating a terrarium containing three baby ducklings found in a box in the park.

 

Amrita (which means “ambrosia” in Tibetan) was unable to walk in her last days, and we spent her last hours together with her lying on my chest, her head under my chin and us just purred together; her letting me know that she had a long, comfortable and happy life, and me telling her what a gift she had been, how appreciative I was to have known her and how much I would miss her.  She died peacefully at the vet’s, while we looked in each other’s eyes.

Amrita was a living, purring mitzvah and I thank G_d every day that she chose to share her life with me.

Guest Writer, Joan Ruzsa Loves Cottage

This is a beautiful piece written by Joan Ruzsa, a regular guest writer for AVRUM’S BLOG, on her love of her family cottage. What a wonderful piece to read. One gets the sense they are there with her and experiencing the beauty and brilliance of nature, her childhood and her womanhood in the woods of our lush and stunning province, Ontario. Tell us about your cottage experience. Perhaps Joan is right when she says a cottage is the closest thing to perfection, to the Garden of Eden. Tell us about yours.

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I’ve been coming to the cottage since the year I was born: before words, before memory. It almost feels like part of my DNA. As changes have inevitably occurred throughout my life, it is one of the only things that has remained constant. Maybe the water will be a little further out this year, or there might be a new recliner in the living room, but essentially, everything stays the same. It makes me feel safe.

As a child, I would spend every summer here for two full months, and would return home tanned a deep brown with my hair lightened by the sun. I would take off my shoes the minute I arrived, and not put them back on again until I left, feet hard and callused from running barefoot through hot sand.

Even though I now come up for only 1 or 2 weeks a year, it still feels more like home than my apartment. No matter what is going on in my life, or how much stress and sadness I may be carrying, the moment I get up here a sense of peace envelops me like a cocoon. It’s not just the feeling that everything will be OK, it’s the feeling that everything is OK.

I find ritual delicious, and there are definite ritualistic elements to my arrival. It starts on the highway, as I look for the Nobel sign, and then for the Esso Station with the Tim Horton’s.

My excitement mounts as we turn onto Murray Point Road.

We pass the house with the ridiculously bright pink and green siding, and the rundown trailer where the sign painter used to live until he won the lottery. We slow down as we approach the railroad tracks, look both ways,and then feel the slight bump as we cross the tracks. We reach a fork in the road and keep right as the road turns from concrete to gravel. A Monarch butterfly flits in front of the car, and a hawk glides on the wind currents above the trees.

The closer we get to the cottage, the more densely wooded the little road becomes. The sun finds gaps in the foliage, and creates dancing patterns on the path. I’m almost holding my breath as we round the corner out of the trees, and then there it is: the water, the bright blue sky with its fluffy white clouds, and the beach. I feel myself exhale, and I realize that I am smiling.

We pull into our grassy parking space and I jump out of the car and kick off my sandals, inhaling the perfume of water and sand and flowers and trees. It’s so clean and fresh. I can’t get enough of it.

The cottage squats on concrete pilings, a throwback to the days when the water was higher and could flood us if there was a good storm. These days the bay has receded, and has left in its place tall grass punctuated with bright yellow flowers, and a couple of inches of stagnant water populated with frogs and the occasional water snake. My cousins have built a make-shift bridge out of an old dock so that one can walk down to the beach without wading through the warm, soupy water.

I walk across the boards, feeling the warmth of the warped wood against the soles of my feet. I stand at the water’s edge for a moment, taking it all in, and then wade in, waves breaking gently across my ankles. I look down and see a school of minnows swimming by. I feel like a weight has been lifted from me.  Later I will swim, doing laps between the rafts until my arms tire.  Then I will float on my back,  smiling up at the sky.

The sights, sounds and smells all conspire to put me into a constant meditative state. Me, who usually can’t sit still for a minute without a dozen worrisome thoughts ricocheting through my brain. It’s kind of miraculous.

It’s all music to me: the waves lapping against the shore; the roar of speedboats; the wind rustling the leaves; the angry chatter of the red squirrel when I get too close to her nest; the plop of a frog into the water as it leaps to safety as I prowl along the edge of the stream; the long whistle followed by the chugging rhythm of the trains; the cry of the gulls as they wheel lazily through the sky; the high annoying buzz of mosquitos circling my head; the symphony of insect sounds in the underbrush quieting to near silence as I approach and swelling again as I walk away; the call and response quacking of the ducks as the mother ushers her babies safely through the reeds looking for food.

I walk to the stream where I used to catch frogs. I would never keep them; just pick them up and then gently return them to the water: another ritual. Once 2 fishermen came by and offered me 25 cents for each frog I could give them to use for bait.

Always an animal lover, I was outraged.

I watch tadpoles push themselves through the mud with their tails,and I marvel at the water skimmers skating across the surface without leaving a single ripple in their wake. The water in the stream is ice-cold. I remember having contests with my cousin to see who could bear it the longest. We would submerge ourselves up to our necks; teeth chattering, neither of us wanting to be the first to leap up screaming and run into the warm water of the bay.

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I earn the trust of the chipmunks. First I throw peanuts into the path beside the outhouse for a few days. Then I sit on the back step and let them get used to me. At first they eye me with suspicion and won’t come too close; darting in for peanuts and running to a safe distance where they maneuver their prizes into their stretchy cheeks, like chipmunk Tetris.

I toss the peanuts closer and closer to me, eventually placing them beside me on the steps. When they see I mean no harm, they grow bolder.

I sit there virtually motionless for hours at a time. I will allow myself to be eaten by mosquitos rather than risk alarming the chipmunks with sudden sound or movement. Finally I place the nuts on my knees or in the palm of my hand. They scramble up my legs, clutching for purchase with their claws, which always makes me want to giggle. They sit in the palm of my hand, looking at me with their bright eyes as they stuff their faces, and I feel like I could burst from happiness.

I take a million pictures. There is so much beauty here, and I want to document it all. I take hours-long walks. I crouch by the side of the road, bending the milkweed stalks to look for Monarch caterpillars on the underside of the leaves. I find frogs smaller than my thumbnail, so light that they can rest on leaves without bending them. Slugs, grasshoppers, fat bumblebees, beetles, weird alien insects I don’t recognize, butterflies, birds, toads, I snap them all.

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I am obsessed with dragonflies: their delicate spider-web wings, their pre-historic heads, their awkward mating positions. I am in love with flowers: bright flashes of colour amidst all of the green.

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After dinner, when the water is calm, I go out in the canoe. I watch the sky turn rich shades of purple, pink and orange as the sun sinks down behind the trees. The water is as smooth as glass, only rippling when my oar slices beneath the surface. After I get far enough out, I rest my paddle and sit perfectly still, listening to the cries of the loons as they echo across the water. The sky is clear and bright with stars. It is a deeply spiritual experience. I am in awe of the universe.

The day I have to leave, I usually feel heavy all day. I often cry in the car on the way back to the city, grieving the loss of all of that beauty.

This time I’m trying to keep it inside of me, to carry that sense of peace and contentment in my heart to call upon when needed. It is my sanctuary. What’s yours?

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