End of the Long Haul

If you’re Jewish, the last while has been quite a journey.  Much of the world knows that we celebrated Rosh Hashannah, the Jewish New Year, less than 2 weeks ago.  They might not know how much effort goes into getting ready for that, though… it’s not just Rosh Hashannah, you see.  It’s High Holidays, and the period includes… 2 days for Rosh Hashannah, a day for Kol Nidre, a day for Yom Kippur, 2 days for Sukkot, a day for Shemini Atzeret, Yizkor, and 2 days for Simchat Torah.  And a fast day or two.

And while it’s true that ultimately, the High Holiday period is one of a certain amount of spiritual fulfillment and even growth, it’s also true that some of it is tremendously difficult.  Kol Nidre, which refers to the annulling of vows made in the name of God, prepares us for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.  By the time Yom Kippur comes, we are meant to have spoken with people we have hurt and to have asked for their forgiveness – “Be Rosh Hashannah yika teivun, u v’Yom tzom Kippur yeha teimun…”  On Rosh Hashannah, it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed.”  The “it” here is the Book of Life.  This is our chance to try to make right what we have done wrong, to heal where we’ve caused hurt, and to prepare our lives for a new year.

The Yom Kippur liturgy is a long one, and it’s difficult.  It’s difficult not only because we’re fasting (the fast begins at sunset, with the Kol Nidre service, the day before Yom Kippur), not only because we spend so many hours in synagogue, not only because so many of those hours are spent on our feet.  It’s also difficult because the litany on Yom Kippur is hard.  In community, we acknowledge our flaws – together, we say the words… “We have murdered (and I know that I, personally did not murder, so I am ok with that), we have committed adultery (nope, didn’t do that either, so I am ok with that one), we have stolen (nope, not that, either, so this is not so difficult to say),” and we go on… and then we get to “we have been unkind” (nope, I haven’t… oh, wait.  Yes, I have.  And that’s when it gets really personal.  And it’s really difficult, too.  At least I’m not in it alone.)

After Yom Kippur, after the last blast of the shofar, we shuffle off, exhausted, to break the fast, usually with something quite simple, often with dairy (it’s tradition).  And then we get some more joy, because we have Sukkot, another harvest festival.  We have Shemini Atzeret, a day for solemn assembly… our tradition explains the holiday this way: our Creator is like a host, who invites us as visitors for a limited time, but when the time comes for us to leave, the host has enjoyed it so much that we are asked to stay another day.   If Sukkot is a day to celebrate harvests for all the people of the world, then Shemini Atzeret is a bit like a special note from God.  But also on Shemini Atzeret is Yizkor, which is said following the Torah reading on the last day of Passover, on the second day of Shavuot, on Shemini Atzeret, and on Yom Kippur.  Yizkor is a memorial prayer, a time of remembrance, a time for us to remember as a community those who have died this year, and for us as individuals to remember our own personal losses.

If you’ve gotten this far, you might be thinking that two of the recitations of Yizkor have happened during High Holidays – once on Yom Kippur, and a second time on Shemini Atzeret.  And you’d be right.  It’s not the Yom Kippur recitation that gets to me most, though, because honestly, on Yom Kippur, I’m already fatigued, often hungry and thirsty, and sometimes Yizkor happens in a bit of a blur.  On Shemini Atzeret, though, we’ve moved past the most physically challenging part of the High Holiday season – so why am I so moved by the recitation of Yizkor on this day?

I’ve come to think that it’s because I’m somehow lulled into a bit of a false sense of ease following the ‘big’ holidays.  So at synagogue this morning, I prayed with my community, I listened to the Torah reading, and to the Haftorah.  This morning, after the Torah reading, our rabbi spoke about Yizkor, about why we say it, and how we might feel when we say it.  He acknowledged that it can feel sad, particularly if the death of a loved one has happened recently and is still a fresh wound.  It is not only new loss that hurts, though.  Both my parents are dead – my father will have been dead for 23 years this November; my mother will have been dead for 10 years, also this November.  I still miss them both.  I still have a tough time being in a card store on Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.  I remember the first Mother’s Day after my mum died, realising as if it was a brand new thing (which it was, I suppose) that I had no mother to whom to send a card, no father to whom to send a card.  But back to Yizkor… so, our rabbi read a short poem by Merle Feld, and as I sat there quietly, listening and crying.  Crying?  Why was I crying?  Here’s the poem:

A new year beginning, and I can’t call you to say,

I’m bursting with wonderful news!”

Your arms won’t encircle me when I grieve, when I mourn,

You’ll never know now the unexpected achievements, the abiding sorrows.

And yet, as I stand here with this candle, I allow myself some quiet moments,

Until, once again, your face shines in my memory,

Until once again, I feel you blessing me.

And that’s why I was crying – because I miss, I still miss – all of those moments with my parents.  So when we stood for Yizkor this morning, it was really hard.  And yet, it felt absolutely right to remember my parents and to pray that my life might exemplify any good they had taught me, that I might be a credit to their values and ideals.

Tomorrow morning, it’s back to synagogue… it’s Simchat Torah, and we celebrate the Torah, we rejoice with it.  We really do – we dance it around the synagogue and everything.  Very upbeat, kind of fun.  But for me, this year, I’m still holding my parents so very close in my heart, and am grateful for a communal opportunity to pay them private tribute. 

Lights, Action, CAMERA!!

Well, not quite.  I mean, I set no lights, I organised no action, and I certainly operated no camera!  But what I did do was see some films.  I mean, lots of films, in the past couple of weeks.  September is the season of the Atlantic Film Festival, and this year, I got myself really well organised, so herewith, a few reviews of AFF films (www.atlanticfilm.com - you can also see who won what awards now that it's over and done for another year).  Some of ‘em may be available to view online (National Film Board productions, such as "Buying Sex," here:  http://www.nfb.ca/search?q=buying+sex), and others are (or will be) in general theatrical release.  So here they are, in the order of viewing.

 

AFTER TILLER:                  

Synopsis:         George Tiller was an American physician, one of only a few left in the US able to provide late-term abortions.  He was assassinated in Kansas in 2009, after which only four doctors were left in the US who could provide late-term abortions.  These doctors now have the dubious distinction of being the number-one targets of the “pro-life” movement and fight to keep these services available to women across the country.  This film follows them as they try to do a job they believe in despite the danger to their lives.

My thoughts:  OK, first I will get out of the way a problem with semantics… I hate the use of the phrase “pro-life,” as if to say that people who are “pro-choice” are not also “pro-life.”  For the record, I am resolutely pro-choice and cannot imagine a single thing happening in my life that could change that.  I am also pro-life – I do not know any woman who’s had an abortion who’s taken it lightly.  I know nobody for whom it’s been nonchalantly used as birth control.  If the “pro-life” side of this debate were more honest, they would describe themselves as “anti-choice,” at least.  Because they are anti-choice.

That out of the way, I will say this.  After Tiller is exceptionally good.  It’s kind of a quiet documentary for such a heated subject.  The only zealotry – and I do not mean this in a complimentary sense – is that of the anti-choice forces, who seem to see absolutely no irony in their murder of doctors who perform abortion.  These are doctors who do take very seriously their Hippocratic Oath… we all know the line, “first, do no harm.”  And that is what they do.  Agree or disagree, it’s worth watching this one just to see how very conscientiously and ethically they approach their work, how compassionately they treat their patients. 

“Late-term abortion” is a bit of a red herring, though – the anti-choice folks seem to be taking the position that a woman can go to a doctor who provides abortion practically up to her due date and get that abortion just because she wants it.  It’s not that simple.  Nothing ever is.  Late-term abortion has great restrictions, not the least of which is the physical difficulty just in accessing a doctor who provides it.  Fewer than 1% of all abortions performed in the US are ‘late-term’ procedures.  The documentary follows a few people – some very young, some not so much; some are single women, some are married couples – and tells their stories.  Late-term abortions are not available “just because,” and all but 1 of the people whose stories were told in this work were dealing with the knowledge that if they continued the pregnancy, the baby would be born profoundly disabled, both mentally and physically, and in most cases might expect to live only weeks after birth… and those weeks would be spent in a hospital, with medical intervention at every step that would, in the end, still have a dead baby.  The people whose stories are told here are not people who didn’t want a baby – quite the opposite, in fact.  And that’s actually the case with most abortions, even those done very early on in a pregnancy.  Another thing that the anti-choice folks prefer not to dwell upon.

We see post-abortion follow-up, and we see how lovingly that care is offered by the physicians and their staffs.  And I wonder anew just why it is that so many people are utterly convinced that the greatest value of a woman who seeks abortion is that she should become an incubator for a baby, whether she wants it or not; whether she’s able to care for it or not.

So overall, you’re saying?     The verdict’s in.  See this film.

 

BUYING SEX

Synopsis:         Recent Canadian court cases are used as a framing device to dig deep into the morality of selling bodies for pleasure. Ranging far afield to New Zealand--where prostitution was legalised--to Sweden (where the government clamped down), this NFB production considers the true costs of the trade.  Nicely photographed, with music by Asif Illyas (who is developing quite a reputation for theatrical scores, and deservedly so!  Check him out at www.theshire.ca and www.asifillyas.com ).

My Thoughts: The AFF blurb for this film says, “Buying Sex is one of those films that promises to inspire a torrential discourse on an enduring global social problem.”  I don’t think that my expectations of the film were quite that great, but I did expect rather more than was ultimately offered.  Written by Teresa MacInnes and directed by MacInnes and Kent Nason, I had high hopes that it might live up to its promise.  It really didn’t, and it was in the Q&A period after the film that I figured out why.  Both MacInnes and Nason said more than once that they were careful not to take sides in the debate… and technically, they did not.  Nowhere in the film does either of them say on camera, in words, that they don’t approve of buying sex.  Yet, that’s the overwhelming sense I got (as did the friend with whom I saw it). 

They interviewed a number of sex workers, past and current.  One woman who had what is arguably the most constant presence in the film was a sex worker, she said, for 15 years.  She is now vehemently against prostitution and has become an activist in this field.  Kudos to her.  She’s fairly articulate, and though I’d never heard of her, she’s done quite a lot of writing on the subject as well, apparently.  Two of the Canadian women interviewed are currently sex workers.  Both of them affirm that they chose the job, that they have no issue with doing the job, and that it is… just a job.  I don’t know that I could be that blasé about it, but I also don’t think that I could take the position of the activist (whose name I didn’t note) that every person who becomes involved in the sex trade does so because she is drug-addicted and/or was molested as a child.  Again, it’s just not that simple.

The picture in New Zealand is very different – prostitution is legal there, and there are brothels.  One young woman observed that after just a couple of years in the trade, she would be able to buy a house… but her university degree had opened no doors for her in obtaining traditional employment.  Anti-sex-trade activists argue that this is proof that the world is more misogynistic than we believe, because women should be able to buy homes based on traditional (non-sex-trade) work.

And in Sweden, the clamp-down on the sex trade has been really serious.  The Swedish government would tell you that it doesn’t exist – but really, you can hear the eye-rolling.  It might have gone back underground, but it certainly exists.  As one of the Canadian women pointed out, having been in the trade for more than 30 years, the only way to get rid of prostitution is to get rid of sex AND get rid of money.  I suspect she’s right.

So overall, you’re saying?     You can see the film if you are so inclined on the website of the National Film board of Canada.  For my money, I was really disappointed, and mostly because the writer and directors said that they took no position either way, when it seems very clear to me that they don’t approve of it.  I didn’t come away with any feeling, one way or another.  Nobody’s argument was persuasive enough to me to convince me of its relative rightness or wrongness.  I don’t really know if it’s right or wrong, though I am leaning more towards being ok with it than not, provided that it truly is something freely chosen.  Don’t think that I’d do it – but don’t think I could judge people who do, either.

 

REACHING FOR THE MOON

Synopsis:         We are in 1950s Rio de Janeiro for this story of the passionate love affair between Pulitzer prize-winning American poet, Elizabeth Bishop, and Brazilian architect, Lota de Macedo Soares. Bishop was born in Worcester, MA, in 1911 and died in 1979; she spent several years in Great Village, Nova Scotia, a place which she loved greatly and where she experienced the greatest rupture possible to a child – the hospitalization of her mother in a mental institution in Dartmouth, NS, when Elizabeth was only 5 years old.  Her mother, diagnosed as permanently insane, never saw Elizabeth again.  That alone would be the stuff of which great film is made.

But the film is not about that and touches only very lightly on her childhood.  Reaching for the Moon is based on the best-selling Brazilian novel Rara Flores, and follows Bishop (Miranda Otto) to Rio, where she stays with her friend Mary and Mary’s partner, Lota (Glória Pires).  As you might expect, chemistry is involved, and Elizabeth and Lota engage in a passionate affair. Although Mary is devastated, Lota is determined to have both women at all costs. The ménage-a-trois is thrown off-balance when Lota starts work on her biggest project to date, designing Parque do Flamengo in Rio. Eventually, their relationship strained, Elizabeth moves back to New York in 1967 to take a teaching post, and after Brazil's military coup Lota's life is never quite the same.

My Thoughts:             It would be a spoiler to tell you what happened to the three women involved in this story, so I won’t.  What I will say is that I went to see this film with no particular agenda other than to spend some time with friends.  I am SO glad that I did.  It’s a remarkable film about a rather incredible story.  Think about it – 1950s Rio, where a Pulitzer Prize winning poet was the 2^nd of two intimate partners of a woman who was obviously doing very, very, very well as an architect. There’s another film there, in Lota’s life!  The filmmakers do a great job drawing the life of a poet – Bishop didn’t just sit at her desk and pen a few verses.  Every line was crafted to be a very specific piece of art.  We see her striding back and forth in her studio, smoking and sometimes drinking, muttering to herself as she works out a poem.  We sort of know that writers of longer works do this – we expect it, for instance, of novelists.  The realisation that of course it’s just as much work for poets is in the end a bit of an eye-opener!

Bishop is never drawn as saintly, nor perfect.  She is often very tightly-wound, more than a little selfish.  She is profoundly complicated.  And of course, she’s a lesbian.  What was that like for her in the US in the 1950s?  Are we surprised that she wound up in Brazil for such a long time?!

Beautifully wrought, beautifully filmed, an awesome story.  I’m not sure there’s really anything about this film that I didn’t like.  The character of Lota, played by Glória Pires, was at first somewhat offputting, I’ll admit – I found her brusque and not altogether attractive as a human being.  But in the end, I realised that Pires had gotten it right.

So overall, you’re saying?     You should most definitely see this film.  It’s kind of long (118 minutes), but you will not notice the time pass, because you will undoubtedly become engrossed in the film.  And when you leave, I’d lay odds that like me, you’re gonna go to the library and get some Bishop books out so that you can read more of her work.  At the very least, you’re gonna Google her! 

 

ADORE

Synopsis:         Two women, their sons, a love story and morality play, all in one.  You will laugh, you will cringe, you will wonder why this movie wasn’t made before.  And I really can’t tell you much more about it without spoiling the plot!  Naomi Watts (Lil) and Robin Wright (Roz) have been BFFs since their idyllic childhood in some unnamed Australian beach town.  Their sons have a similarly deep bond, quickly drawn in a few emotive scenes in the early part of the movie, when one of the boys’ fathers dies unexpectedly.  The story takes us through changing and intersecting lives.

My Thoughts:             This film is really about the events which begin to unfold in one particular summer. Time passes, as it generally does, and in one pivotal summer, lots of things explode… Roz’s marriage, for one.  But lots of other things as well.  There is love here, and loss.  Pathos and passion.  Right and wrong – or is it wrong?  There’s definitely an “eww” factor with this film, which comes THISCLOSE to being about incest but which ultimately is not.  By the time the “eww” occurs to you, you may find that you’re already invested in the characters and willing to take the journey with them.  You probably won’t be sorry that you did.

So overall, you’re saying?     Definitely see this film.  Besides the acting (excellent), besides the scenery (breathtaking), the film pushes the limits as to what’s acceptable and what might not be.  Probably even better if you see it with a friend, so that you can dissect it afterwards!  (Presently in theatrical release in Halifax, so you can see it in theatres for the time being.  Go get your tickets.)

 

PRISONERS

Synopsis:         Hugh Jackman and Terrance Howard (in a very understated performance) are facing every parent’s worst nightmare.  Their young daughters disappear, and it seems that the only lead is a dilapidated RV parked on their street earlier in the day.  Jake Gyllenhaal’s Detective Loki arrests its driver, Alex Jones (Paul Dano, in an incredible performace), but a lack of evidence forces his release. Time passes, and the more time that passes, the less chance there is of the children’s being found alive, or at all… what can worried parents do?  And what’s with Gyllenhaal’s (literally) buttoned-up character? What’s the deal on visible neck tattoos on a police officer? Very unlike his usual roles.

My Thoughts:             Another rather long film (2 h, 26 m!)… and I have rarely heard a full theatre so still.  Occasional gasps, even a couple of giggles, but in general, silence.  This is a gripping psychological thriller, not to be missed.  How far would you go to find your missing child?  What lines would you cross?  And how could you ever be ok in the end?

It’s not giving away a plotline to tell you that the Alex in the story is himself a victim, though no graphic detail is given – in fact, we’re not even certain of that until almost the end of the film.  In addition to the stellar performances of the male leads (you won’t even care that neither Jackman nor Gyllenhaal never appear shirtless, I promise), I want to pay some attention to the female leads.  Granted, this is a story driven by the men, most particularly by Jackman’s character.  But it felt a little odd that the mothers of these children seemed so peripheral to the story.  Maria Bello’s Grace Dover was pretty much sedated through the film, and far from feeling sympathy for her, she really got on my nerves.  There was little credible or likeable about her even before her daughter was kidnapped.  Viola Davis’s ability was kind of wasted on her small role as Howard’s onscreen wife, Nancy Birch.

The work of Melissa Leo, on the other hand, as Holly Jones, was simply incredible.  Honestly, though she looked familiar to me, she so inhabited the role that I didn’t realise who played the part until I read the full cast & crew list on IMDB!  She’s had a pretty impressive career and struck my radar first in Will Smith’s “21 Grams,” though I was pretty much unaware of her after that until Mark Wahlberg’s “The Fighter.”  I’m predisposed to like Leo, but I had no idea she was in this film and didn’t twig to it until after I’d actually seen it, so good was she in the role.  Oscar-worthy performance (not that they’ll ask me!)

So overall, you’re saying?     Go see this film.  The story’s awesome, acting by the main characters is superb, and it will grip your attention right until the end… It’s also, near as I can figure out, the first really big-budget work from Canadian director (Denis Villeneuve, of “Incendies” repute).

 

The Funeral

The Funeral

I sat amidst a sea of black

Punctuated by an occasional flash of red sweater

And looked at the numb faces of 200 people

Gathered there to say goodbye to you.

The sign at the front of the synagogue

(on display only for funerals)

said “Silence would be appreciated,”

and so there was only a low hum of conversation

much quieter than it ever is on Shabbat.

There were dozens of people I didn’t know

Because your reach into the community was just that great,

And it was easy to tell who wasn’t Jewish –

The woman who picked up the Mahzor

(the High Holidays prayer book, because we’re

not done with that just yet) –

first holding it upside down,

then looking at it from left to right,

looking perplexed as she realised that

these numbers seemed backwards.

There are no hymns at a Jewish funeral,

and in fact, it can often seem perfunctory,

almost businesslike, compared to

funerals in churches, where there is music

carefully chosen to reflect the dearly departed

(or the wishes of the family).

Sometimes, there is incense there

(but not in a synagogue).

Your family came in together,

Before the watchful eyes of a sanctuary full to overflowing,

Coffin covered in its blue velvet miktze,

Embroidered with the Hebrew words

“tzedakah tatzeel mimavet…"

"Charity redeems from death…” (I’m not sure what that means.)

You were with us and not with us…

Washed and made ready for your shroud

By women of the Chevra Kadisha,

women who knew you

and your husband and children.

Before you could be wrapped in your shroud

(no special funeral wardrobe, no jewellery),

you were washed, very gently,

prayers said at each instance of washing

so that your spirit would not be offended

by the way you were made ready.

(Tahara)

And so you, the guest of honour,

Arrived for this last of the Jewish

Life cycle events.

Your brother eulogized you beautifully

and was very brave

(you would’ve been so proud of him).

Your friend and colleague spoke about

meeting you when you were both young doctors,

and about how very smart you were.

Your niece, almost unbearably young

(younger, even, than your children)

spoke about how she loved you and

how special you made her feel.

Your childhood friend,

who got almost to her last couple of words

before she started to cry.

Gulping air, eyes closed, she held up a finger  -

“Wait just a minute, and I can finish,” she said,

without ever saying a word.

And she opened her eyes,

Smiled tremulously, and wished you goodbye.

Your cousin, from half a world away,

who surely would rather have been sitting somewhere

sipping Mai Tais with you.

Life would never be the same for any of them,

because you were the lynchpin.

We heard some Hebrew chanting –

not the usual Jewish funeral, in fact,

and went to the cemetery.

The sun was shining, and it was warmer outside

Than when I had left work to get to your funeral.

The cemetery was almost as full of people

as the synagogue had been.

There was a little more prayer here,

but really, this was the final goodbye.

Our tradition says that here, at the cemetery,

is where we can do the greatest mitzvah of all,

the greatest good deed,

the most fulsome lovingkindness.

And so one at a time, we took the shovel.

first, a little bit of dirt on its back,

dropping onto your coffin, sounding like seeds on paper.

Then, 2 more shovelfuls each.

Thunk. Thunk.

Until your coffin had a layer of dirt covering its top surface,

every shovelful sounded like a gunshot.

Nobody spoke.  We stood silently, watching, waiting

(flinching)

until it was our turn.

Pick up the shovel. A tiny bit of dirt on the back.

And to the gash in the earth that is your last place in this world.

Two more shovelfuls. 

Hand the shovel to the next mourner.

This is the last mitzvah

Because it is the one that can never be repaid.

It is the one that hurts the giver.

It is the one that makes your death

Even more real than its announcement on Shabbat.

How Does Two Happen So Fast?!

Well, in the midst of days and nights of busy-ness, laughter and tears, anger and joy, another year has passed, and you are two! Two years old. That seems very small still, in so many ways, and yet, if I look at the baby girl who was just one last year, it’s as if eons have passed.


In the past year, you have gone from uncertain steps, always reaching out for support, to running. You have learned to go up and down stairs (much more rapidly than grownups are comfortable with!). You don’t say so much yet – but we know that even though the words sound very similar, you are talking about Abba (Daddy), Bobbi, Dahab, or bottle, whenever you say something that sounds like ‘baba.’ You use a calculator like a cellphone and say “lallo?” into it, having wonderful conversations with people at the other end.

You don’t say so much, but your understanding is pretty awesome… it’s so funny when your Abba says to you in Hebrew to put something into the garbage, and you know exactly what to do! And of course, you know the same thing in English. It must be hard for you to figure out how to make the words you need to communicate when you’re absorbing two languages, but once you make the connection, the world should just watch out!

You come to synagogue almost every Saturday morning, and although you spend most of that time with other children and not in the sanctuary (it’s a very long service for a small person!), you know that this is a different place. I love that last week, you came running to me, pointing to your head. “Do you want a kippa?” I asked. You nodded eagerly, and ran back to where all the kippot are kept. We picked one out, and pinned it to your curls with 2 bobby pins, and you kept it on all morning. When Michele tried to adjust it while you were upstairs, she said that you wouldn’t let her take it off to fix it!

You know about giving kisses and hugs, and you will probably get tired of hearing that your kisses and hugs are just about the best in the world… but it’s true! They are sweet and true, and everyone who receives them feels honoured by them.

When you were a bit younger, maybe only 6 months ago, you didn’t like it at all when anyone you considered yours left the room. Most of the time, you still don’t, and you let us know that with your angry tears. But more and more, if someone has to leave the room, you follow, waving at them, offering a sweet “Buh-bye!” When I leave the house, and you’re staying behind, you blow kisses through the glass door, which causes me to walk out of the door with a smile every time.

You love singing – your own songs, and being sung to. It doesn’t matter to you if it’s an English song or Hebrew; it doesn’t matter if it’s a nursery rhyme or a prayer. You just like the music. I wonder if, when you’re older, you’ll play a musical instrument?

You like stories, but it’s hard sometimes for you to sit and let a story happen. We read page 1, maybe page 2, and then you’re turning the pages as quickly as you can to get us to the end of the book. But you always bring another book.

Lately, you’ve been playing with crayons in the bathtub, which makes it interesting for the person who follows you in the bathroom! The tub often looks like modern art! And like almost every toddler, you’ve occasionally eatan a crayon or two as well.

You’ve also developed a real liking for the many pillows on my bed… there probably are too many, but that makes it fun for a small person to flop around (supervised!). On rare occasions, if you’ve wakened very late at night when I am also awake, and you’re not able to snuggle yourself back into lseep, I slip into your room and pick you up for a snuggle and a few minutes in your rocking chair. If that doesn’t work, on even more rare occasions, I just bring you into bed with me. All those pillows make a nice barrier between you and the edge of the bed, and you invariably go right back to sleep. You also wake before I do, and it’s very sweet to wake up to your little voice instead of an alarm clock!

You’ve had visitors this year – your Nanny and Grandpa have been to visit, and they are so much in love with you – it’s easy to see that, when we see how they smile just to see you. You dispense your sweetness to them just as generously as you do to people you see every day. I’m sure that Skype has helped that!

When you were one, you were best at receiving love, and we loved loving you. Now that you are two, we still love loving you – but what a wonderful experience it is to be on the receiving end of your own love extended to others!

My wish for you this year, Leah, is that the love that surrounds you this year continues to wrap around you throughout your life. I wish you laughter and joy, and I wish you a life that is as full of wonder every day as your days are wondrous to you today.

Happy, happy birthday, Moo!

Zaftig Zumba, Part the Second...

Following the first zumba class, I had planned to go to the gym the next Monday for a bodypump class with my favourite instructor.  Instead, I was home with a miserable cold.  It's mostly gone now, but I was pretty sick for a few days.  So tonight was the second zumba class, and I was feeling much better, so I figured I was up for it.

Off we went - the room where we have the class is nice - not too big, hardwood floors, decent sound for the music from the instructor's boombox.   And the instructor, Stephanie, continues to work hard to encourage our energy.

Some of the rhythms were a bit easier this week - they're becoming more familiar even now.  There are a couple of movements that are easy, even for me - one of them is kind of like a 60s go-go dance.  We're kind of marching, and scissoring our hands above our heads at a fairly brisk pace.  That one's particularly fun.  Well, heck, any that I can complete successfully are fun!

I didn't really notice the hour pass - at a previous zumba class, I was just counting time for the class to be over, because I really didn't enjoy it.  So far, I'm enjoying this one, and I will happily continue.  I may not become a zumba master (mistress?!), but barring catastrophe, I'll likely finish the class.

Zaftig Zumba

If you were to look up 'zaftig' in the dictionary, you'd find this:

zaf·tig   /ˈzɑftɪk, -tɪg/ Show Spelled[zahf-tik, -tig] Show IPAadjective Slang. 1.(of a woman) having a pleasantly plump figure.

2.full-bodied; well-proportioned.

Also, zoftig.

Origin: 1935–40; < Yiddish zaftikliterally, juicy, succulent; compare Middle High German saftec,derivative of saf(t), Old High German saf(German Saft) sap, juice

I believe I prefer the original Yiddish meaning... 'juicy, succulent...'  Yeah, that's me! 

And if you went to another dictionary, where you could actually find 'zumba,' you'd see this:

Zumba: A dance exercise where you dance for about an hour straight. Zumba incorporates all different types of dances such as salsa, marimba, belly dancing, cha-cha, and more.

Neither of these things would be particularly noteworthy to me, had I not agreed to sign up for a 6-week zumba class with my friend Susan.  I'd tried zumba before and gave up after 2 classes.  Just didn't like it.  For one thing, my sense of rhythm is... off.  I'm doubtful that I even have one, to be honest.  Plus, the instructor was clearly teaching to the people in the class who'd been there before - those of us who were new pretty much just tried to keep up.

But Susan caught me at the right time - I had been feeling a need to move (which zumba will do for you!), and I thought it would be a good idea to get into doing something physical before winter sets in and my usual desire for hibernation kicks in.  I thought that if I developed some sort of habit of movement, I might keep it up during the winter.  So when she asked, I said ok...

And tonight was the first class.

Stephanie is the instructor, a nice woman in her 30s.  It must be part of zumba instructor training that they have to smile a lot... kind of like synchronised swimmers.  It's hard to believe that anybody is having that much fun working up a sweat!  (At least, not in that environment - I mean, I have worked up sweats while wreathed in smiles, but not in a gym!)  And she was not teaching for the 3 skinny-hipped girls who are usually in the first row, all frenetic energy and hooting.  (Thank God, those women were not there tonight!)

It's not that I have anything against skinny-hipped girls, really.  It's just that zaftig girls don't tend to keep up with 'em in exercise classes.  We don't move the same way at all.  Tonight, for instance, there was a move in which we walked forward a couple of steps and then, with feet together, hopped backwards three steps.  Well, I can't do that!  I just cannot make my body make that movement.  Maybe in time, but not tonight.

And zaftig girls of a certain age (ahem)... well, we have other issues as well.  My knees haven't been the same since I fell a couple of years ago.  They still bend and all, but any kind of jouncy movement is gonna have limited application, because generally, I can't do it more than twice before it begins to hurt.

Then there's the music.  Generally speaking, I don't know the music.  It is not on the radio stations to which I listen!  Classic rock and the CBC (NPR, if you're reading from across the border) rarely play the sort of music upon which zumba classes are founded.  It's catchy enough, but when I'm trying to move to music, it helps me if I know the music, because then I'm not trying to predict the note or change in rhythm that comes next.  I already know it, and so I can concentrate on my movement.  Somehow, I don't think I'm ever gonna find a zumba class with Springsteen... or Pearl Jam... or Grieg.... though they've all turned out some very sprightly tunes!  Familiarity will help, which means going to more than one class, of course...

I did discover one interesting thing.  A number of the routines we did had movements which could almost be described as burlesque - you know, that upward thrust of a hip... or the rolling movement of your lower body, arms above your head... the occasional pelvic tilt.  You know the moves.  Well, those I can do.  Go figure.  I have a theory on that, too (but if you're a minor, you probably should stop reading now).  And my theory is that I learned those movements in a horizontal position.  My body knows, remembers, and appreciates those movements.  (Who knows... I might get to feel the same way about those other movements that almost - but not quite - trip me up!)

Still, though, I wonder if I shouldn't have found an Irish dance class.  Yes, it's faster, I know.  But Irish dance requires you to keep your upper body still.  I think I could do that.  I can move my lower body.  I can move my upper body.  But something very peculiar happens when I try to coordinate movement of upper and lower body.  It's almost as if I forget that I even have a moveable upper body!

But... I went to the class.  I sprinted around in the class.  And I will go back to the class... for a few reasons.  First, I made a commitment to my friend.  Second, I think I'm gonna like the instructor.  Third, I'm friggin' stubborn - I can't truly believe that I can't do this (snicker!).  Fourth, I know that I can do anything, anything, on a time-limited basis.  I've already got one out of 6 classes complete!

And next week... well, next week, I'm back at my Monday evening gym class.  We'll see how committed I sound to this whole 'movement' thing next Wednesday night!

You will not be seeing this on Youtube.  ;)