Eight Months, Spring

The first of Spring
swept through my sick lungs
past the gypsies curled along the curbs
with their cans clinking of coins
their hand-woven slippers of purple and turquoise yarns
their babies’ glassy gaze into a timeless, seasonless space
I wonder if they know it is Spring.

At the corner of Swietokrzyska and Marszalkowska
the man with hollow cheeks and crooked glasses with frames that fold over his ears
kneels on a cushion
he wears a cardboard sign around his neck and
gingerly holds out a half-clenched palm between his chest and belly.
He asks nothing of those crossing the street
and the Spring air doesn’t seem to stir him.

In the morning, I woke in a sad sleep and
watched the sun rays curl round the clock of the Palace of Culture.
Eight months ago I’d left for Warsaw; eight months later came the Spring.
The same gypsies are still curled along the curbs
The man with crooked glasses is still kneeling
with his cushion
with his cardboard sign.
What had changed for them in eight months?
How do they measure their time?

* * *

Eight months is enough to know that sunlight in the winter is a gift; that a run through a snow-dusted forest chased by a cup of hot wine is a Polish novelty; that being thrust into a buzz of Yiddish songs and paluszkis and ciastko and non-alcoholic champagne can feel both alien and blessedly comfortable; that 85-year-old women in ball gowns and 14-year-old girls in halter tops can dance together quite effortlessly; that on Purim, the serving of three kinds of kosher chicken, two types of kosher kilbasa, and four cuts of Kosher salami on the flimsiest of plastic plates is “normal”; that a Holocaust survivor who lost his arm was filled with joy after making a Purim mask blue and white like the Israeli flag; that joy also comes from dancing the hora in the former Warsaw Ghetto on the eve of the Autumn Equinox with a necklace of mini-bagels strung around my neck; that I’ve been mistaken for an Italian, a Spaniard, a South American and a German; that I can now pay in exact change at the open market after mastering my Polish numbers; that I’ve painted snow-flakes on windows, made Seders and services, made mandalas, made omelets, made mistakes; that the sunsets behind the Ogrod Saski park can’t go unnoticed; that Polish tea blends and miod pitny (honeyed wine) soothe my soul; that work is complicated and so is love; that questions far out-number answers; that I have much more to learn.

Sometimes I fear that I am not enough here.
And other times I am so much here I don’t know if I’d ever leave.
Some days are stubborn and never seem to fold; I ache for a new one to take me in soon. Other days I would very much like to linger; I’d cradle life back into them again and again. I’d dance inside them as in a Spring breeze.

Too Much, Too Little, and All that Lies In Between

About eleven years ago, my rabbi delivered a Yom Kippur sermon that I vividly remember. The theme of the sermon was: “sometimes we say too much.” It was a sermon about language, about sharing, about relationships, and about finding that delicate balance of honesty, integrity, and self-preservation. It was the best sermon I’ve ever heard and, in many respects, the most Jewish sermon I’ve ever heard. During the past few months (and especially within the past two days), I’ve been thinking more about this sermon, about the nuances of communication, and about the tension between what we share and what we hold back.

Contrary to this sermon’s message, Poland is not a country in which people say too much. Overwhelmingly, it is a country in which people say too little. Polish culture is not a culture of sharing. It is rare for Poles to forwardly express their opinions or wear their emotions on their sleeves. Indeed, Polish people are quite guarded. Though I, too, have often been described by my friends as “guarded” (and I would generally describe myself as such), I am learning that my self-actualization is profoundly impacted by culture and circumstance.

Achieving a balance between not saying too much and not saying too little is a great challenge. In my relationships, in social gatherings, and at my workplace, this balancing act is all too paramount. I’ve been on both ends of the “too much” and “too little” spectrum. Sometimes I swing the wrong way... and sometimes that hurts.

* * *

Last night was Rosh Chodesh (the Jewish New Moon) for the month of Adar. It is a month characterized by great joy -- “Mishe-nichas Adar, marbim b’simcha.” (Ta’anit 29a). “When Adar enters, our joy increases.” But it is also a month to explore deep questions about identity. During the holiday of Purim (the 14th day of Adar), it is customary to wear masks or costumes. For kids, it is a “dress-up” holiday. For adults, it is a time to examine the “masks” we wear in relation to what we hide. There is a time to wear masks, and a time to reveal what is hidden. For me, the month of Adar is about examining these dualities and the temporal constraints that shape them. It is a month to reflect upon courage.

As part of our Rosh Chodesh gathering, we decided to do a self-assessment art project. Using construction paper, each person cut out two large “selves” (much like paper dolls). On one “self” we were to draw what we show to the world. On the other “self” we were to draw what we hide from the world. Then we would attach our selves respectively. Although I had helped plan this activity and was well-aware of its depth, I had a very difficult time completing it. Part of my difficulty stemmed from the fact that I don’t draw. Indeed, I am a word-nerd and I don’t express myself in images. But a larger part of my difficulty was steeped in the frustration of realizing that so much of who I am is hidden. What I choose to show or share is largely conditioned by what makes others feel comfortable. Perhaps the reason why “sometimes we say too much” resonates with me is because I am generally inclined to keep things close. On the occasions that I haven’t, I’ve done a bit of damage and that damage hasn’t felt good.

The people who I respect most would rival “sometimes we say too much” with “more often, we don’t say enough.” These individuals are proud, loud, dignified, and uncompromising. They are my friends, my intimates, my family members, and my mentors. They are the people reading this blog. And they are believers in Audre Lorde’s “your silence will not protect you.” It is a valuable motto. It is also a complicated one to actualize.

I’ll close with these questions for you to ponder:

How do we know what is “too much” ?
How do we know what is “too little” ?
And how can we navigate all that lies in between?

As always, your responses are most welcome.