Holy

     Last night, I twisted and turned all night.  I'm in Israel! I'm here!, I kept telling myself.  Ani po! As far as I know, my sisters haven't been here, my parents haven't been here, and my paternal grandparents never were here.  Only Grandma was here.  I have some of her postcards and a wooden relief of the "Holy City", Jerusalem, that she brought back.  Her trip here was not long after Grandpa died, and I remember being so proud of her for taking adventures as she struggled through her grief.

    I wish Grandma were still around for so many selfish reasons. She gave me so much confidence! I learned to drive confidently with her by my side; she would tell me, "Don't worry, Em, I know you'll get us home...eventually."  I learned how to shop for one person; she was the first to understand that I wasn't interested in marrying. In fact, she even supported the idea of my purchasing a home on my own!

    However, right now, I'm particularly curious about what Grandma experienced when she was here. Did it feel like a Holy Land to her?  Did it make her feel more Jewish, or less?  As a non-practicing Jew who once renamed herself "Dorothy" to fit into mainstream society (...though she eventually switched her name from Tillie to Toby!), how did it feel to her to be here?

   You see, I'm struggling with this "Holy Land" thing.  It isn't politically correct for me to say this, but bear with me.

     I think about the theme of the hit musical, Hamilton.  "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Writes Your Story?"  The narrative my other grandmother told me about the Jewish people is that we fled to the US, the land of Milk and Honey, the Goldene Medina, so we could be free.  Note: The Land of Milk and Honey is Israel.  The Goldene Medina, the Golden Land, is Israel.  But in her eyes, it was the US: the place where we could be free to be ourselves.

     I take that freedom very seriously.  Nobody will ever accuse me of being a Wanna-Be.  I don't march, not even to my own drummer.  But I also am grateful for the freedoms I have in America, and I am willing to risk decorum to advocate them.  I am even more grateful after seeing what happens when the freedom of speech is curtailed.  

     But I also need to take that freedom to step away from Nana's narrative.  I could see how Papa's grandparents came to the US to be free.  His maternal grandfather, Israel, was a rabbi, for heaven's sake!  And being here, studying the Holocaust, I definitely see how he would not have been free had he stayed.    My Nana's message though, was that they came so they could have a religion...one that we eventually changed into our own mix of matzahs and menorahs.  A truer narrative would be the broader notion of "They came to make a better life for the next generations..."   I smile, because all four of my grandparents did work that helped entertainment:  Papa was a baker and Nana a piano teacher, Grandpa was a movie projectionist and Grandma (pictured above) a milliner.  The arts are so deeply infused in my life, and I AM Free.  

   Among other things, I am free to be the one, for now, who lives and writes their story.  This trip is a part of that for me.  I didn't realize it before, but I have deep questions.  How did Papa's family go from a rabbi and his wife in the shtetl to atheists in just a few generations?  How did we become the family which celebrates happy holidays of any religion?  What was holy to my ancestors and what is holy to me?   How will I tell their story?

      To answer the question of holiness, here in the Holy Land, here in the Holy City, I took a moment to look up the etymology of the word "Holy."  Take a peek:

  "Holy" came from the proto-IndoEuropean root for whole, uninjured and was linked to the Old High German word for "health, happiness, good luck."  I love the phrase "that must be preserved whole or intact, that cannot be transgressed or violated."   This is still linked to the modern meaning of "divine", but it's broader.  From my more secular background, I feel deeply spiritual. I feel a connection to my ancestors and to the sky, to children and to the old.  I look at the world with awe and marvel at my life and the lives of those I love.  However, the word "holy" has always felt like it is removed from my experience because it is linked to different faiths and gospels, many which are not mine.

   I began to think what must be preserved whole, what matters deeply and purely to me.  The answers free flowingly:  people, learning, creativity, nature, song, the sky, children, Chesed (loving kindness), and Tikkun Olam (repairing the world).  I know there are words here that overlap, but anybody who knows me can see that I try to live with all of these.

   So for me, is there a Holy Place?  Is there a place where these items are intact for me, where they stand front and center?

    The answer is an emphatic YES.  The answer is my classroom.  I remember how my former student Matt described the enrichment room:

  In Jerusalem, I find an older city.  I find a different language (or different languages! I even used some Arabic today!)... but I don't need to travel here to experience a holy place.  And I certainly don't need to travel here to experience holiness.   In each person I meet, there is something holy.  Each person must be kept whole, intact, unviolated.

   Imagine if this view were more widespread.  What would it be like if we thought about people and our own holiness?  What if we loved everyone as my grandmother  (and my grandparents) loved me? Would I need to be studying the Holocaust?  Would I need to be working so hard to do my part to repair the world?

   I'm grateful to be here. I have much to share about what I've experienced today. And I feel lucky EVERY DAY of my life to be able to use my mind and heart and energy to help out...and to know so many other people who feel likewise!  However, imagine if we saw the divine, the precious, in all places and all people.    Imagine if when it came time to tell one another's stories, we erred toward love.