Joanie Leeds, Rockstar!

We had a great visit from ROCKSTAR Joanie Leeds this past weekend at Am Shalom.

She joined us for TOT Shabbat:



And she also joined us at Religious School:
 

We had a great time learning and singing her songs. The Ruach Choir sang with her on Friday night and loved it.

Our favorite song? I Wanna Be A Mensch.
What a great title, right? She asked our students what it means to be a mensch, and it was wonderful to hear some of their answers like helping others, recycling, and doing mitzvot.

Read more about Joanie Leeds on her website.

Snow Day Learning!

Just because we are stuck in our houses on this beautiful snowy morning, doesn't mean that we can't learn together! Thanks to the power of technology, here are three videos from our rabbis that you can watch together with your family this morning....just like being at Sunday School!


Here's a Tu Bishvat game you can play.
This is a game about Israel.
And here's a Pinterest board all about Tu Bishvat from Rabbi Phyllis.

See you on Wednesday at Hebrew School and next Sunday for Sunday School!

The Name of One Person

by Randi Brill, Am Shalom Board Member and Cuba Trip Participant

January 28, 2014

Today at the United Hebrew Congregation Cemetery in Cuba—we remembered. As we stood at that tiny Holocaust memorial monument just inside the entrance, we said Kaddish for the six million Jews who perished as well as for the people we’ve personally lost, those we continue to remember in our hearts. As I uttered the all-too-familiar words, I felt the pain of my own newest loss so acutely. How could it be possible that I am truly standing in Cuba on this stunningly bright and beautiful day saying Kaddish for my mother exactly nine months and one day after her death? How?

My mother would have indeed taken Jewish worry to entirely new heights at the mere thought of her daughter being in Cuba at all, and “Oy, in an old cemetery, no less.” As I acknowledged how fresh this loss of my amazing mother still remains, I realized yet again the common denominator of loss. Everyone in this cemetery became a loss to someone—hopefully.

Her funeral was in Pittsburgh. I have no family anywhere else. Three days later, we held a last night of shiva at home in Glencoe. Rabbi Steve came to the house that afternoon with candles, prayer books, and a little stuffed bear sporting a T-shirt. While it was for the girls, since that day and by tacit understanding, this little bear remains steadfast at its post in my office. Each night, as I repack briefcases, untangle tech cords, and other such prep, this little bear stands by. In these quiet hours, the pain’s been known to seep in. Or is it out? Either way, this bear is fine company as its T-shirt reads, “We all laugh differently, but we all cry the same.”

How fitting to remember that in this country so rich with differences, in this cemetery so full of people and lives to be remembered. We do all cry the same. As our group began to explore, our mission was as follows: “Find and remember the name of just one person buried here. Many may have no family left in Cuba, no one to remember them.” Here I am, able to cherish everything from big moments to little pearls of wisdom from my mother. Some days, I can still almost remember the sound of her voice. Yet many of those buried in this cemetery may not be remembered at all—by anyone.

So I set off to find “my” name. I walked from headstone to headstone, hoping a name would resonate. I looked for graves where no one had placed any tiny stones to signal remembrance.  I’d see a name and realize how young so many were when they died. How could I possibly know which name to choose? I was becoming convinced I should try to remember them all when my husband called me over to one particular grave.

There, with no tiny stones on top, was the grave of a man born in 1888 who died in 1936, just 48 years later. The name on the headstone read “JOEL ROSENHOCH BRILL.” That is certainly a name I’ll remember. While he may or may not be a REALative, this man is now family.

And to think, I’d been relieved my mother had no idea I was in Cuba. She always was a woman of few words, and today it feels like the word was only one. BRILL.

Cuba: On The Cusp of WHAT?

Written by Randi Brill, Am Shalom Board Member and trip participant

January 27, 2014

Today begins DAY 3 of four days in Havana. There is much to see, absorb, discover, and experience. Yet, there is a patina, a sort of film over it all, that I have a strong desire to peel away. It’s like the opening of a movie that starts with a watercolor painting and gradually morphs into today’s clear world. In Cuba, that watercolor world IS today—and it is very much in focus. The clarity with which I see everything is so sharp, so crisp, with colors so vivid that they feel like another sort of paint—powerful and pure acrylics, swirling straight from the tubes.

My designer’s eye feels both electric and kinetic at once. Even with my medley of physical cameras, I’m unable to keep up the many images my mind’s camera is capturing so much more rapidly. Doorposts, archways and crumbling chunks of stone, with their jumbles of juxtaposed paint colors, reinforce my realization that there is no bad photo to be taken here. 

Everywhere you look is another photo waiting to be taken. 

And yet with all of this striking imagery, it is equally clear that there is a powerful undercurrent, heavily pulling at much of this country, locking it into a time long past for those of us only visiting here. Parts of Havana seem like Mayberry. Life moves much more slowly and simply than our frenetic lives at home. With no technology or cell coverage, there are no incessant pings, dings, or rings to distract from the only job required here: to be present. And I am.

I flip from absorbing and recording to clicking and capturing. At the same time, I fall into a familiar activity from my work, figuring out what makes other people tick by attempting to put myself in their shoes. My mind wanders. How would I be and feel if I lived here, wearing these shoes? How would I contend with having so few choices and so little power to create change? I feel a growing knot at the mere thought of it.

Then I realize that creating change is what I do as naturally as breathing in my world. If I’d lived my entire life here, I would not know what it is to create change. I would not know how much choice and power I’d be missing. I’d only know the familiarity of my own Cuban existence. As I walked early today, the city was waking up. People were walking slowly and presumably to work, they were cueing into lines to wait, or sitting on corners, talking or not. They were not rushing, carrying cups of Starbucks, or listening with earbuds in private isolation. These people were simply out on the streets, showing up for the gift of this day.

“Boker Tov.” “Boker Or.” The light. There’s a fine light here, I think. I see in my mind’s eye an image from our early walk. It was a strong ray of light. A little boy was clearly on his way to school. He wore a backpack, sturdy black shoes, bright blue kerchief around his neck, and a crisp white shirt. As he slowly meandered, his little smile was genuine. He was clearly happy to start his day—in his world, the only world he knows. As he grows up, this familiar world of his will change into something new and different.

WHAT? No one knows, no one says, no one is sure, and no one declares. Many might wonder, sort of. On this bus, we imagine and envision. Where we live, we think we know. Here, they know that they do not.

The concept of change will be so unfamiliar to Cuba. I toy absently with the change management strategies that will no doubt begin for people for whom such ideas will be so foreign. Regardless of the specifics, having so little choice will gradually be replaced by more choice—of some variety. And there will be catch up—a lot of catch up.

I recognize a metaphor. With Crohn’s Disease, for years I could eat only plain, bland, typically beige foods. Highly disciplined, I never deviated from these foods, never risked the painful price to cheat. After major surgery, finally free of tubes and able to eat, a tray of “real” hospital food appeared. Instinctively, my alarms went off. “I am not allowed this food!” Quite a discussion ensued and my doctor finally arrived. He said, “Randi, you CAN eat this now. You will not get sick. Your body is fixed. Now, your brain must to catch up. Eat the corn soup and you will see.”

The Cuban people will likely encounter a great many “new foods.” They, too, are likely to struggle with newfound options, whatever they may be. They may also need to incorporate an increased speed of life if a technological explosion courses through this country. Will the music be even faster, the Jews even stronger, the colors even brighter, and the textures even richer?
I only hope that with all the gains that may come, this splendor only grows.

Clearly, my quick blog post has also grown, the surface of this experience barely scratched. And yet next I must capture my time in Cuba in only six words—by dinner.

Hemmingway did it.

“For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

Wow. I’m no Hemmingway.

The incredible woman we met at the museum did it, too.

“Don’t try to understand this country.”

So I will try.

 “A Jewish community determined to survive.”

“Changes, choices, coming. Connections, cultures, uncontained.”

The title of this blog is six words, too.

“Cuba: On the Cusp of WHAT?”

We must all wait for that answer. In the meantime, we must continue to act, continue to take care, and continue to show up to climb those haystacks. I have a strong feeling I will be back.

End of Trip in Six Words

As you saw the other day in a post by Karen Leeds, our group was encouraged by Rabbi Steve to write a "Six Word Memoir" about Israel.

Here are some of our group's creations....some people wrote a few:

Randi:

We’ll be back in April 2016.

(That feels too long from now!)

My mom would be so happy.

Mia:

Israel

Caves

Gleeda* 

Scarves

Learning

Walking

*Hebrew for ice cream

Myles:

Karen has to pee every hour.

No more walking, my feet hurt.

When can we go eat food.

Forced prayer is not my thing.

I’ve eaten schnitzel recently 20 times.

I’ll be back in one month.

Elie:

create, remember, memory, water, shopping, Israel

I will come back here soon.

No words can describe my emotions.

You don’t know until you are here.

Why can’t we be there yet?

Marty:

Fantastic

Fantastic

Fantastic

Fantastic

Fantastic

Fantastic!

Mary:

hills

valleys

seas

journey

family

Israel

Janet:

I have changed. I’m better now.

Wonder. Awe. Pride. Respect. Amazement. Love.

Bob:

Land of history. People of determination.

Sharon:

Kibbutz

Safed

Basketball

Jeeps

Felafel

Family

John:

Rocks

Remembrance

Guts

Determination

Remembering Sammy

Rabbi Michael:

I love the Mediterranean like breathing.

Koren, our guide:

I can’t answer, against union rules.

We are glad that you came.

The Moms on the Bus Go Round and Round!

Monday, December 29, 2014

by Randi Brill Zieserl, Am Shalom Board Member, Trip Participant, and MOM

In a matter of hours, we will officially begin our last day in Israel. It feels as though I have always been here, so absorbed am I in what I’ve seen, experienced, and learned. On top of this personal journey, however, I’ve also had another big job, that of being a mom on the run, in Israel with my family. We lived the tacit understanding that while the rest of my little group was officially and happily off duty, I was very much still on. My day jobs had been tabled, but my mom jobs have been in full force. It’s been a pleasure to focus solely on my family, though that theory was tested daily when I woke the girls. 

It took a lot of work to ensure everyone was ready and fed when the bus pulled out each day. Less hearty folk would pale with such tasks before 7:15. After the flurry of bathroom trips that no one needed until I forced one and all to go, we erratically boarded the bus. Once I knew my little team was on board with backpacks, cameras, devices, and jackets, I’d fall into my seat. As Rabbi Steve instructs each Shabbat, I “took a breath” and spent my first minutes on the bus in quiet, albeit quick, transitional solitude. We’d made it to the bus in one piece; let the day begin.

We lived, not by the book, but by the bus on this trip. The bus drove more than our group. It drove our wake-up times, our bathroom times, our “everything,” so it seemed. We all adapted quite well. I think back to last Friday (which seems like months ago now). When we first boarded this diesel-fueled chariot of ours, we were all so timid, gently finding an open seat, unsure of others in our not-yet-formed mishpachah. These first seats soon became “our seats.” Kids swapped seatmates on a whim, but the rest of us stayed fairly consistently in our designated seats and sides of the bus. 

We got on and off the bus many times in a day, treating it as transport, bed, and communal kitchen in one. The bus became a large purse, housing our treasures, purchases, finds, and of course, Sharpie-identified fleeces and water bottles. It also safely kept our store hold of ridiculously unhealthy snacks, fruits, and group-made candy. Of course, if one cannot fluently read the fine print in Hebrew, who’s to know how terrible any given snack really is for one’s health? We’re in Israel, after all. What’s eaten in Israel stays in Israel (even though it will undoubtedly leave on my hips).

After each incredible visit to a wonderful place in Israel, the Am Shalom sign distinguished our bus from the myriad others, a sort of beacon when we were too tired to walk one more step. We’d reboard the bus, relieved and somehow also certain that Shlomo would be waiting like a sentry—shadowing our explorations as both protector and navigator.

My Israel-trip mom activities formed a pattern I stuck to with religious veracity. (OK, so why not, given my location?) Every night, I organized everything, taking errant things out of various bus bags to efficiently reload for the next day. I unearthed missing socks, empty water bottles, and ancient pottery shards. I looked for lost headbands and stepped on hair barrettes. 

I even developed a new definition for clean clothing. Any garment worn once was technically still clean until it became caked in cave mud or could otherwise walk itself to the dirty clothes suitcase. Even the girls, true fashionistas at heart, were quite content to wear what I offered up each night. (Once we are home, it will be my extreme pleasure to remind them they not only lived, but also thrived, wearing items retrieved from the green laundry suitcase. Don’t you wonder how that will play in Glencoe?) 

I smile at all of my thinking BI. (BI = Before Israel, of course.) So many people said this trip would change me. In the deep, empowering ways one expects, it absolutely has. It will continue to impact and transform my thinking and my actions. It also transformed my thinking about not only my mom jobs—it has made me see differently the universality of moms everywhere. 

Our bus was filled with moms of little ones and grown children, and combinations in between. I observed all moms on board quietly count kepies to be sure each child of our group was safely on board. These same moms reached absently for any child’s hand as we navigated busy streets or steep mountainside. On this trip they all became all of our children. When one was sick, everyone worried. Sunscreen and hand sanitizer became universal. The kids went to any mom to get some. Some of our “moms” are not even yet officially parents, but their instincts are so great in this area that they “just did it” without thinking. It does take a village. 

I often looked beyond our little bus family and gazed out the bus window. Four thousand years ago, five hundred years ago, and just yesterday, a scant century ago, this amazing land was filled with mothers in villages. I am worried about my child’s cough, hoping she will get through the long plane ride without too much discomfort. I calculate how soon I can call the doctor from Newark to book an appointment for the minute we return home. This and airplane safety (and where the DVDs have gone) are my worries. How fortunate!

The mothers of long ago didn’t have such luxury. They sent their children off to work and often didn’t know if they would see them again. They were not focused on college acceptances. They were worried about survival. A case might be made that to survive in today’s complex days, one’s children must be armed with the right degrees and wisdom, but it is not the same. 

I think of how complex this land of Israel truly was—and is. Moms here worry about the safety of their children 24/7 in ways that most moms in Chicago are fortunate enough not to know first-hand. We saw many young soldiers in uniform wherever we went, all children of mothers who no doubt worry. Instead of college degrees, these determined young women and men are armed literally with machine guns that swing casually from their shoulder straps, their definition of survival so different from our own.

Now this amazing trip winds to a close. We fly home tonight. My mom work now escalates to tackle its most major work effort so far, that of packing to go home (in almost the same number of bags with which we arrived). I must fit in dirty clothes and “must-have” rocks, memory-laden food wrappers and other acquisitions.

As a mom, I will be grateful, not only for this experience, for the wonderful families with whom we’ve so bonded, and for safe passage home for all. I am already grateful for my own local piece of Israel and my own outstanding “local reps” at a very rare place, not half a mile from my home—Am Shalom, now my continuing anchor to this powerful trip and to Israel. 

I’m already in that building a lot, but sense even that will increase. When I’m there, I will surely spot something new in the artwork that rivals any gallery we saw here in Israel. I will look differently at the stones in the lobby, and I already know I will now feel many even deeper connections—because of this trip. Rabbi Steve is bound to make a reference that will now resonate differently. Cantor M will sing a song that will reach me even more than before because this trip. As for Rabbi Phyllis and me, we are sure to share a glance or two as Rabbi Pam negotiates with Sadie or as Solly bops from lap to lap as she monitors from the bima. 

Yes, the moms on the bus do go round and round—the world, the times, and the children. We all do have other jobs, but none so special and treasured as this one, no matter where we moms are, no matter when we lived, and no matter our particular brand of challenges. We are moms, first and foremost. How lucky are we! Next year in Jerusalem.

Some of our littlest "moms" with their Barbies at Caesaria

Many of our young charges with our guide, Koren

A serious game of Go Fish on the bus (the only bus pic I could find!)