I was an American immigrant in Israel from 1983 to 1989.  I left Israel, but Israel never completely left me.  When I lived there,  I was in my energetic 40’s.  Now I am in my “Whatever will happen next?” years.  It’s time for me to update my relationship to Israel.

I started thinking slowly about what confluence of events would make a visit possible.  Being practical about needing to rent out my home to hopefully have enough money to travel, I selected the winter months to entice  snowbirds to come to southern California.  Winter months in Israel can be cool and rainy, but not drastically so.  And Israel’s summers are too hot for me.

The renting rules in our retirement community now have a 90 day minimum.  Three months sounded like a reasonable amount of time.  Next, I thought specifically about where to go and what to do with my time there.  Not having been there for about 30 years, I wanted to do something useful and interesting.  But I had looked into volunteering in Israel some years back, and discovered seniors were considered too old for certain volunteer jobs.

I had been in Israel during the secret airlifts of thousands of Ethiopian Jews in 1984 and had been a housemother in a boarding school to newly arrived Ethiopian Jewish teen boys.  It wasn’t easy, but it was exciting and extremely challenging to be a part of their early integration into Israel.

But I knew from newspaper articles a friend has sent me over the years that the Ethiopian Jews have had a rough time living in Israel.  I wanted to get to know the Ethiopian Jewish kids of today, 30 years later.  So, I’ll be heading for Netanya which has an Ethiopian community called Hefzibah.  They need volunteer English teachers, and that’s something I can do where age won’t be a problem.

So, then I had January, February, and March as my time to go, found renters that were looking forward to being close to their relative in my retirement village, and had a volunteer job lined up.  Next, where to live?  Thus began my very long, tiring uphill climb to learn technology that will accompany me on my trip.  I am not new to independent travel, but I am very new to today’s technology required to do so.  The old traveler’s checks that took me around the world so many years are, well, obsolete.  I already miss them.

And thus began my roller coaster ride of learning today’s requirements and pitfalls for registering with Airbnb, using ATM machines, debit cards, credit cards, online banking, and what’s required to protect all of them from being hacked and stolen.  Whew!  Wish me luck.

Finally, there are now only a few weeks left before I get on the plane for my 14 hour journey.  Although it was very hard to do, the house is mostly ready for the renters.  I am taking three notebooks that attempt to keep all the technology instructions I’ll need for the trip. And, keeping a promise I made to myself not to take too much luggage, I have only a carry-on that I’ll check into baggage, and a light backpack.  Oh, and a walking stick just in case my weak knee needs help getting around.


If you had not died of AIDS two weeks before your 35th birthday, you would be turning 50 years old today.  Regardless, I have brought you with me to the sea and beach to, if not celebrate, be together in a timeless, peaceful place accompanied by the music of the waves.

Although you never came to this exact spot, you were my water baby from 18 months old when I took you to swimming lessons.  Swimming together became a bond between us wherever we found water.

My favorite writing bench looks out today on a sea scene of muted oneness.  The sky is not bright blue as it often is.  A light blue-grey blends the sea with the sky and the clouds into a monochrome painting of moody beauty.  The cloudy sky does not totally obscure sparkles in the sea from where the sun peeks out.

I wish I had known you better.  But our choices — you to live with your dad, and mine to follow my wanderlust around the world — separated us geographically.  Your refusal in your grown-up years to have contact precluded a relationship.

But you did re-connect to me when your HIV became AIDS.  In those days, that meant a death sentence that few could outrun.  Your occasional phone calls and one visit during those two years gave me a thread of a relationship to hang onto.

I learned more about you after you died and I was finally able to go to your Castro Street apartment in San Francisco.  I knew from our phone conversations that you loved living in that community and environment you felt totally connected to.  I could see your artistic qualities in the very deliberate way you arranged unusual vignettes in your rooms.  Most of all, I appreciated the most recent years of letters I had never stopped sending you through your father.  The open envelopes finally answered my question – “Had you read them?”

As the crows, sea gulls, and pelicans fly into my view, I remember you best as that honey-colored, handsome little boy I had first met as a curious toddler.  You were as playful as the birds I see gliding to and fro, up and down, in the air currents.

There is a lot about us that is painfully sad, and will always remain so, but there had also been joy and happiness in the 10 years we lived together when I had been a stay-at-home mom.  Perhaps the best memories are from our summers discovering Puget Sound, camping all over the U.S., and our travels to faraway places like Kenya.

There is a pastel spreading an orangey background behind some of the clouds while the sun stays higher up.  There is a fog bank on the horizon, perhaps waiting to move closer in to Laguna Beach.  Light and color are two extreme joys to our eyes.  I value it more than ever since my eyesight is failing.  I want to lock every view in so my brain can recall it even when my eyes won’t be able to see it.

I’m 74 now — far from that mother you mostly remember.  I was not your only mother.  I wonder if the birth mother neither of us knew remembers today is your 50th birthday. What does she imagine about the son she gave up at birth?  I’m glad she doesn’t know you are dead.

There were 8 years after you died that I couldn’t write to you, or about you.  And then, I could.  The words flowed out of me almost every evening for one year.  It turned that year into one of my happiest years.  Not only were we talking through writing, but I was able to tell you things I had never told you before.  Raised by a pessimistic mother, I was more than a little pessimistic.  But that year of writing “Out of Step:  A Diary To My Dead Son” was the most optimistic year of my life.

And now the sun has broken through the clouds and laid a sparkling path across the sea from the sun that reaches all the way to the beach below me.  Could I just hop, run, skip my way across the ocean and reach you?

Happy Birthday, my dear son.  You are not motherless, and I am not childless.




Not so many years ago, Mark Zuckerberg figured out how to use a computer to help college kids choose dates.   Seeing potential, he quit college to expand his creation into Facebook of social media fame.  People, mostly young , flocked to Facebook in record numbers.   And now, social media has literally changed the whole wide world.

And Zuckerberg looked upon what he created — and hesitated.  As a commencement speaker at Harvard this spring, he tried a little too hard to convince his audience of all the good, all the wonder, all the lofty goals that Facebook might enhance in just about every little corner of the world.  He used the magic of world-wide connectivity to entice people to meet, greet, and be good to one another.

Like all things that have changed the world — trade routes, electricity, industrialization, cars — there were unintended consequences, the other side of the coin, the good and the bad.  Perhaps social media is scarier than all those earlier miracles because humans are not only good.  They are also mean, vindictive, murderous, and take delight in having an instant audience of millions to watch what they do.

Zuckerberg most likely never imagined anyone using Facebook to video a live murder, a rape, a massacre. When he really looked outside the cocoon of Silicon Valley, he realized that, even if he did not encourage malice and hate,  he could no longer be complacent about having changed the world in unknown ways.

He has since hired many more employees assigned to finding terrible posts that need to be taken down immediately.  He has said he will develop Facebook technology that will find terrorists and foil their plots instead of giving them publicity.  Going “viral” is no longer always a good thing.

The ugly truth that Zuckerberg now sees is that connectivity has different meanings and motives in our complex human society.  Sometimes familiarity does indeed breed contempt.

Good luck, Mark Zuckerberg.  Those who change the world have a heavy burden to carry.

Can you hear the sound of the violins this Holocaust Remembrance Day?  It is another kind of miracle that these once loved violins are traveling to the capable hands of musicians who love them and play them for audiences .

Hitler liked the idea of live musicians to greet the new arrivals at concentration camps like Auschwitz.  The newly arrived prisoners were briefly heartened and comforted by the beauty of the music.  The melodies mixed strangely with the black ashes coming from the smokestacks.  The musicians who played were sometimes able to live a bit longer than those who had no musical talent.

The Jewish culture had a long history of loving violin music.  Violins could happily accompany weddings, cry at funerals, and run the gamut of just about any emotion.  Practically speaking given the unrelenting history of Jews and persecution, violins were small enough to run away with.

Most of the musicians themselves died in the Holocaust, but amazingly some of the violins themselves that had survived found their way to an Israeli violin maker and his son.  They lovingly and painstakingly nursed the battered and tattered pieces of these violins until they literally came back to life.  Because no two violins feel exactly alike, the sensitivity of talented violinists who have touched these precious violins can feel a kinship to the owners who once loved and nurtured them, and then died so terribly.

Although Hitler tried his best, the Jewish culture has survived.  Israel has become a stunning example of a vibrant Jewish country.  And the Jewish violins that survived the ravages of war and hate are playing again.  Their music is sweet.

The death of a friendship is quite different from the death of a friend.  The death of a friend is permanent, and not in your control.  The death of a friendship is also permanent, but voluntary.  Both require a certain time for mourning.

Why did we lose what had bonded us?  If this instead of that, could it have been prevented?  Was I the one who changed?  Or, was she the one who changed?  Why hadn’t I seen a hint that she was carrying grudges for the 20 years since we had last seen each other?  What could we have done?  What should we have done?  Was there anything that could have saved our friendship?

And now that we are no longer friends, will never see one another again, will never talk with one another again, what to do with the memories?  Enshrine them?  Discard them?  Try to forget them? Gnaw on them to figure out what happened and who was to blame? Keep the good things and throw the rest away?  Put them in a “once upon a time” space?

I had hoped to gain a greater, wiser perspective in the weeks that have followed our much awaited one-week visit. But I understand it all no better than I did before.  I have accepted the sad ending without figuring out the whys.


Catching Up

26 Feb

I’m back after taking a long break from adding blogs to my website.  What was I busy doing?  I was continuing to live life in my busy retirement village, exercising, taking classes, and writing a column for a newspaper in my community.  And, for two years,  I was researching and writing my third book.

Actually, I didn’t intend to write a third book after I completed my second book, “Out of Step:  A Diary To My Dead Son.”  But the niggling challenge in my brain kept saying, “You’ve written two non-fiction books, but you haven’t tried a fiction book yet.”

It took me awhile to convince myself that I wanted to start another book, and a fiction one at that.  What would it be about?  I decided to write a book of philosophical science fiction.  You might wonder what genre philosophical science fiction is.  I’m not sure, but it described what I thought I wanted to write.

I’ve been a member of our local Astronomy Club for many years.  I knew I was fascinated by the thought of “out there” even though I didn’t understand much about it.  Outer space is a very complicated place!  I also began doing some research to catch up with the world through a well written weekly news magazine called “The Week.”  Although I had vague memories of the first Star Trek tv show, I knew nothing about the series that followed — “Star Trek:  The Next Generation.”  Fortunately, there were frequent re-runs on tv to help me catch up.

Slowly, I began to enter two rather new worlds to me — science fiction, and new ideas and discoveries taking place in technology, astronomy, and neuroscience.  I was excited about all the new (to me) information flooding into my brain.

In the meantime, life went on with its ups, downs, and detours.  For 2 years, I researched and wrote rather regularly. In the third year, I got stuck.  For over one year, the book kept reminding me it was waiting for me, but I guiltily ignored it.

Eventually a writer friend gave me a helpful push along.  I began writing again and the ending of the book just popped into my mind.  I have just completed my first draft of “The Old Lady and the Alien.”  A first draft isn’t the end draft, but it’s a reasonable start with a complete plot — and to my astonishment, a possible lead in to a sequel.

What I didn’t realize that third year was that I had entered a rather deep depression. Sometimes it works like that for writers.  The writer writes the book, but the book tells the writer what’s going on in her mind.

So, now I’m more and less back emotionally, refining my first draft, and planning the rest of my life.


There is a truly very happy whale of a tale in the recent news.  Determined activists worked long and hard to save the whales once again — this time not from whalers killing them for their oil, but from the adoration of  audiences in the three U.S. Seaworlds that made a lot of money on the misery of the magnificent orca whales.

Following a particularly gory death of a Seaworld whale trainer before spectators in 2010, a movie called “Blackfish” was released on television.  The scenes in the movie haunted viewers like me who sat hypnotized watching the film each time it was shown.    Having spent 12 years of Sunday afternoons as a docent at the Pacific Marine Mammal Center in Laguna Beach watching other volunteers care for sick and injured seals and sea lions, I felt close to the subject.  From volunteering there, I even knew one of the former Sea World whale trainers who appeared in the film.

One thing all the volunteers at our center had in common was the love of their connection with helping sea creatures.  But the former Seaworld trainers in the film expressed deep pain and regret for having been a part of basically torturing the massive marine creatures they loved.

One of my strongest memories of seeing the majestic orcas was at San Diego’s Seaworld.  As most people, I was so awed by seeing these dramatic creatures up close that I also did not immediately think of their pain at being captives.  What I did notice was that what should have been a proud, upstanding dorsal fin on the back of the orcas was flopped over.  Because I was taking a course in Oceanography, our class got some behind the scenes looks, including watching sperm being coaxed from the male orcas.  Very impressive.

Seaworld fought back against “Blackfish,” pointing out the inaccuracies and bias of the documentary.  For safety, the authorities forced Seaworld to keep all the trainers out of the water.  No longer would the athletic trainers suddenly appear balancing on top of a fast-moving whale.  It had been exciting to watch, but was it right?

No amount of rebuttal from Seaworld could make the lives of the whales seem anything but cruel.  What looked like massive pools to us were but mere bathtubs for these creatures that have oceans to roam.  And the handsome black and white massive orcas audiences grew to love were made to perform repetitive, somewhat silly antics that belied the high intelligence level whales possess.  Whales are very social creatures that live within pods, but these whales had been either born in captivity or put in with strangers.

As Seaworld’s attendance plummeted, they took a new look at what they had wrought.  Seaworld had brought these whales to us, and we loved them.  But we no longer wanted to see them living in unnatural environments and doing silly tricks for laughs.

So, Seaworld has announced that there will be no more captive breeding.  There will no longer be “theatrical encounters.”  Because the “Free Willy” scenario of merely sending them back to sea doesn’t really work with orcas that have had a very limited life in the wild, the orcas still living in the three Seaworlds will live out their natural lives being well cared for and used for “new educational encounters.”

It’s a start.  Will others follow?


A Rainy Day

6 Jan
Today is a rainy day.  What can I do on a rainy day – especially since there have been only a mere handful of not-so-rainy days for over 4 years?  And especially since southern California is in the worst drought ever.  And especially since there may not be much more rain this rainy season.
I can listen to the rain.  Sometimes it is a staccato plop-plop. Sometimes it makes a gurgling sound as it goes through the drainpipe and out the other end.  Sometimes it is as steady as a drum beat demanding to be heard.  Sometimes it is a pleasing, tinkling splish splash that gladdens my heart.  I can hear the playful swish and swirl of the water on the road as the cars go by.
I can watch the rain when it drips drops that delight the thirsty plants, trees, and grasses that haven’t completely died yet.  I can see a literal shower curtain of water as it pours down my patio roof.  I can watch the clouds temporarily turn off the faucet when they’ve run out of water, and I wait expectantly for it to gush down again.
I can wonder at the power of rain as it refreshes, renews, and creates life.  And I can respect its ability to drown, kill, and destroy.  I can imagine its anger at humans for the myriad ways we have attempted to reconfigure, refine, block, divert, rearrange, buy, sell, and pollute it.  What humans aren’t yet willing to accept is that water will be the eventual victor in this human technology vs. nature power struggle.
I can touch its wetness.  While I can’t guarantee its purity, I can at least be grateful that it isn’t the black sooty rain that came down on me in other countries.  It is not only life-saving rain, but it is also cleanses the air around us.
What can I do on a rainy day?  I can DANCE to the rhythm of the rain!

I usually prefer a book version to its movie version, but not always.  Such is the case with the newly released movie, The Martian.  I read the book over a year ago.  Even though I am not in the least a technical person, I couldn’t put the book down until I finished it.  What made the book even better was that it was written by a first time author, Andy Weir, who had been turned down by several publishers.  So, he self-published.  And the book quickly soared up to a best seller.  Of course, then the publishers wanted it.  And then came the movie deal — and now the movie. I love success stories of self-published authors making it BIG.

Since the reviews of the new movie are quite good, I went to see it.   Although two hours seems to be my tolerance limit for watching movies, the 2 hours and 22 minutes were put to good use.  Even the author said that the visual impact of the movie is greater than can be described in just words.  Matt Damon catches the humor of his unenviable situation of fending for himself on Mars for over 500 days.  His calm pursuit of staying alive while coming up with ingenious techniques of survival keep the audience’s attention while NASA officials scramble to help him stay alive and bring him back to mother earth.

While this movie was not filmed on Mars, and does have some inconsistencies with reality (the radiation on Mars does not allow long walks even in a spacesuit, and the wind on Mars is very weak because of its atmosphere), it comes off as remarkably plausible.   Mars, mostly filmed in Jordan, is hauntingly beautiful, and the artistry of how he gets rescued at high speed in space is a true tribute to the writer’s imagination, the movie maker, and what we already know about space travel.

Prior to going to Mars, I went into a store near the theater.   It was called “Gaming” and I had no idea what that meant other than Las Vegas gambling.  I saw three rows of young men and boys sitting in front of computers with earphones on.  Occasionally, one of the older boys would yell out something, often including swearing, to encourage the other players.  Everyone’s screen had the same video on it.  It looked like what we see on our evening news covering Iraq, Afghanistan, ISIS, or any other war.

I thought of the early Pac-Man computer games where a simple round blob with a mouth tried to gobble up whatever it could as fast as it could.  Now the blob shapes have become images of people, but the purpose is still to kill as many as quickly as possible.

There were also very large screens with sofas in front where two people comfortably sat while hitting buttons that killed other types of images.  I’m sure there is some skill involved, but I prefer the excitement of the old pinball machine I played over and over in my grandfather’s rundown old hotel many years ago.

I quietly watched the players, and then spoke to the person in charge to try to understand the attraction of the strange new world I had wandered into.  I can’t claim I really understand either gaming or Mars.  However, of the two worlds I visited last night, I prefer Mars.


I go to the sea like others go to their gods — for peace, for comfort, for beauty, for timelessness, for renewal, for mystery, for connection to the unknown and the unknowable.  Whether on holidays, in times of sadness and grief, or of ebullient joy, the sea draws me.  Although I mysteriously lost my sense of smell in 2009, every other part of my body senses the sea as I come closer.  Perhaps it is because I was born by a sea, grew up by another sea, lived close to other seas, and retired by yet another sea.

Today the Pope celebrated Mass in the U.S.  Today Jews bare their souls, ask forgiveness for their sins, and remember their dead.  Today some Presidential wannabes argue whether Muslims should be U.S. Presidents. Although religions up to the present time divide humans much more than unite them, there is actually rather little that differentiates one from another.  A pity really that all the human race has the same basic needs for religion, but use religion to distance “us” from “they.”  But the seas connect us all.

Even though it’s a Wednesday on the first day of fall, there are more than just old, retired folks at the beach.  Why aren’t the young people at work?  Why aren’t the children in school?

I notice with some frustration that I can’t walk the beach as far or as quickly as I used to.  I climb the stairs holding onto a railing instead of easily ascending to the next level.  Ah, but it’s still so good to be by the sea.

I always want to stop at my special resting spot.  One sunny day long ago,  I fell asleep there.  In that in between of sleeping and waking, I saw the tall palm trees overhead, the green of the grass, the light blue of the sky meeting the incredibly deep blue of the water.  I was sure I was in heaven.  And so I was.

It looks much the same as it always has since then except that most of the grass is more brown than green.  The sea is filling up and California is getting drier and thirstier.

Some waves unfurl tantalizingly slowly.  Others smash their way through and crash noisily on the rocks.  Little children screech in excitement and fear as the waves get closer.  The waves roll in, the waves roll out, carrying my disparate thoughts with them on this sunny Yom Kippur day.

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