TWO MINUTES (Gimmel Tammuz)

This year marks the 16th anniversary of The Rebbe's passing.

TWO MINUTES

Reflections on the anniversary of the Lubavitcher Rebbe's passing, when people 

from all over the world and of all walks of life flock to pray by his grave-site...

...even for only the allotted two minutes. 

Written Tuesday, June 19, 2007

On the way.

Niggunim are playing.

The vintage tape is unclear, but the Rebbe's voice is strong. Relevant. Urgent.

Out my window, the Jewish faces zoom by.

We have begun the march.

We're on our way.

There's a lot of traffic for 10 pm.

"Are they going to the Ohel?"

"Don't think so. They're black."

"Ya, you'd be surprised."

The Rebbe was everyone's Rebbe.

We are quite the flock.

Parking.

I'm trying to prepare.

I'm thinking, "Who is the Rebbe? What is this all about?"

I'm thinking, "Who am I? What am I all about?"

In line.

So it's not just me.

We all want to be Chassidim.

The men. The women. The young. The old. The bearded. The shaven. The skirt. The pants. No one's claiming rights here. G-d wants us all, and the Rebbe proved it.

I watch the policemen.

While they see a graveyard, we see life.

Crazy crazy Jews.

I write my letter.

My heart spills in black ink.

From, Miriam bas Leah Simcha.

Your proud soldier.

I open my Tehillim. Always the right words.

All of a sudden, someone wants to use my phone. There's no such thing as strangers in a line like this, a line with this purpose. Sure, here's my phone. And here's my pen. And I have paper, too. Hi Doris from Iran. Nice to meet you. My name is Mimi, or Miriam.

A baby is crying. We all feel the mother's needs. Afterall, Chassidim are one family. Come here, nurse your baby. We'll block you. The crying stops. The family of hundreds feels calm again.

Inching closer. No rush. A calm focus.

A young boy rests his head on Tatty's shoulder. Tatty is telling a story to an older man. It seems to be this man's first time. His eyes are glistening.

The Rebbe is on the video. He is talking. He is singing.

I want to pluck him from the video.

Rebbe, why are you on a screen?

A pain in my heart longs for closeness.

And suddenly I am being rushed in.

I hold the line to drop some coins.

And here I go.

Inside.

In the womb.

I look around.

Two headstones surrounded by life.

Absorbing.

Prayers. Tears. Gratefulness.

Hashem, look at your children.

Just look at us.

We always show up.

Even for two minutes.

And two minutes is enough.

We're on Rebbe-time. Each second is packed.

Besides, when you're face to face like this, the truth comes out.

Time forces honesty. No words are extra.

The depths come rushing to my lips.

Hashem, I just want to do good.

I want to be good.

Throat tightening.

Eyes wetting.

G-d, I want to do good.

Lips tighten.

A tear.

Hashem, I want to be good.

Cheeks flushed.

Eyes moist.

Hashem, be with me.

I want good.

And here's what I'm going to do.

A holy conversation. Tehillim.

I read my letter. I scatter the pieces.

Tehillim.

And I'm being rushed to my left.

Outside.

I feel humbled.

I feel light.

I feel strong.

I feel heard.

I feel close.

Going home.

Niggunim are playing.

The vintage tape is unclear, but the Rebbe's voice is strong. Relevant. Urgent.

Out my window, the Jewish faces zoom by.

We have begun the march.

We're on our way.

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General info/stories/etc:
The Rebbe

My piece from Gimmel Tammuz 2006:
The Rebbe Unplugged

One groups visit to the Ohel:
Return of the Souls

Becky's Bottom Line: Superheroes, Soldiers and Mothers

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

 

Superheroes, Soldiers and Mothers

Someone asked me recently to tell them of an experience that made me believe in my prowess as a mom. My first thought was, “Huh? Prowess? What's a prowess?” Being that I watched the movie “Seven” with a dictionary when I was 15, I decided to rely once again on Webster.

Main Entry: prow·ess

Pronunciation: \ˈprau̇-əs also ˈprō-\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English prouesse, from Anglo-French pruesse, prowesse, from prou

Date: 13th century

1 : distinguished bravery; especially : military valor and skill
2 : extraordinary ability

Via: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/prowess

After I read this definition, I realized how prowess describes not only soldiers and super heroes, but mothers as well. Let me break it down.

Distinguished Bravery:

·        I wipe butts. Not just my own bottom, my kids' butts. Not only do I wipe my own kids' butts, but if one of my children has a play date, I wipe someone else's kid's butt as well.

·        I use public germ infested bathrooms. Not for myself of course, but when my kid has to go, they have to go. Of course, I don't just let them park it; I have to somehow sanitize the place so my kid won't come home with some rare disease that I made up in my head.

·        I take car trips. Sometimes these car trips are excruciating, but we will all have a good time, darn-it, even if I have to pull over  untill the fighting stops.

·        I clean up vomit. There is nothing braver than cleaning vomit. It's worse than cleaning up raw egg that slipped off the counter.

·        I cut toenails, wipe noses and everything that goes along with that.

·        I change HORRENDOUS diapers.

·        I wake up every hour to breast feed when I have a newborn. I give up sleep! I give up my own restful hours to take care of my children...and sometimes my husband.

Do you know why? Because I am a mother. It's not even like we take a vow before we have kids. We have a marriage contract of course, but there is no contract binding us to wipe butts, boogers and lose sleep. We do it because we have distinguished bravery. Our children need us. And by golly, we sure need them.

Extraordinary Ability:

I used to think I had extraordinary ability because I can do that weird double jointed finger thing. I also thought I was extraordinary because I could touch my toes without bending my knees. Fast forward to now.

·        Now I have extraordinary ability because I can function as a semi normal member of society with a mere 4 hours of sleep.

·        My house can look not so put together – okay let's be honest, a total disaster zone – all week, but miraculously be all clean and put together for Shabbos. Now that is ability.

·        I make dinner every night. Ability.

·        I pushed out a 10 pound 1 oz. baby (yes, every ounce counts). Extraordinary ability.

·        And on and on and on…

Bottom line is, I am not alone in this. There are so many mothers, who have so much bravery and ability. It’s not one specific experience that makes us acknowledge our prowess as a mom; just the fact that we are mothers and that we took that unsaid vow after carrying, nurturing and then pushing out our babies, gives us the defining term “prowess” as a freebee. It comes with the package. Like one of those toys in the cereal box that everyone sticks their dirty hands in, to fish out. Some mothers have PROWESS and some have prowess, but we all have it. It’s that simple. “Distinguished bravery” and “extraordinary ability” just come with the name “Mommy."

 

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Come back to LadyMama every week for Becky's hilarious and candid take on being a mother of five! Read more about Becky on the author page.

Wrong Way On The Subway

By Mimi Hecht 

I boarded the subway with my husband, child and a deepening well of anger. It had been four long days since Israel’s raid on the flotilla of so-called “peace-activists” heading to break the Gaza blockade. Four days of international criticism. Four days of media falsehood. Four days of serious wake-up calls as to the nature of our enemies. Having just heard about a spontaneous pro-Israel rally in Times Square, my husband and I saw it as a responsibility hidden in the helplessness. We headed out, baby in tow.

I sat on the cold subway seats with my heart boiling. Headed towards a chance of uniting with my brethren and representing my Homeland, all I could think about was Israel. Past. Present. A bleak future. The Palestinians had won again, completely succeeding in humiliating Israel and turning the world against us. Everyone was showing their true colors. No one was our friend. My mind pondered every single hate-speech, every suicide attack, the voices of Muslims calling for Holocaust. Generations of anti-Semitism - from Hitler to mere university students - echoed in my mind like a hypnotizing slide-show.

And there was my son, happily cooing in his stroller, so comfortable in his simple and safe world. On his blank slate of babyhood, everything and everyone is good. He cries only to be fed, then eats and returns to euphoria. He loves the world and the world love him back. He knows not of his mothers worry for his future as a Jew. He cannot smell my fear.

We are twenty minutes from Times Square when a dark, muscular and heavy-haired young man enters our subway car and sits across from my loaded thoughts. He looks Jewish. But then the Arabic script tattooed on his sculpted arms tells me otherwise. He is Muslim. I look at my husband, pointing out the young man’s presence with my eyes. I look back at our new rider. Just his comfortable posture across from me makes me feel like a victim. Suddenly, I am filled with hate.

With my modest attire and headscarf and my husbands beard and Tzitizis, we are so obviously Jewish. With his Semitic looks and Arabic tattoo, he isn’t either incognito. The world knows us as enemies and yet, here we are, sharing subway space and averting each others eyes. Current headlines are practically scripted on our foreheads for everyone to see. We could both be on our way to Times Square, and I imagined how even more poignant the moment would be when we both exited the subway to find our ways on opposite sides of the rally. I sat with a feeling contrary to that which I would normally feel; afraid to share a personal moment with a passerby. For he wasn’t exactly a stranger, rather an enemy I felt I knew all too well. While I had never met him personally, I projected unto him the voices of Arafat, Ahmadinejad and every other extremist voice trying to wipe my People from the earth.

While he intensely reads his magazine - no doubt some pro-Palestinian propaganda - I enter a mental conversation with my unknowing fellow New Yorker. I mentally spit on him. I blame him. I quietly, but vehemently, despise him. His force. His ignorance. His nation.

My bitter thoughts are interrupted by my child’s playful noises. He is flirting with the Muslim. Of all the interesting people on the train, he had to choose him! I pretend to ignore it, afraid to interact. But then I see the young man returning my son’s playful initiations. His serious face has revealed a warm and sincere smile and his voice softly and happily repeats a baby-toned “hello” to my son. Admittedly, I melt. Just like I do when anyone shares a happy moment with my child. My fellow rider all of a sudden transformed from a vengeful Arab into a peaceful, child-loving, upright citizen. Through my child, we are unavoidably connected, even for just this moment. My disgust disappears. I am surprised and relieved.

With my son’s smile opening a channel of warmth and humanity, I was awakened to the ugliness of my naked instincts. As a Jewess fearful for my sons future in an anti-Semitic world, how can I myself be so ignorant as to project hatred onto every Muslim passerby? Much of the world is educated with anti-Israel propaganda. They are fed lies intended on creating anti-Semitic warriors. But if I too senselessly hate, how am I different? I can’t walk around – and certainly not in the melting pot that is New York – holding hatred in my heart ready to unleash at every seemingly guilty Muslim. While my emotions may sprout indiscriminate hatred, I must educate myself – go beyond the stereotypes. Who exactly is my enemy? Where is the enemy?
The world hates us. We won’t win by simply hating them back. And yet, had it not been for my lighthearted and innocent child, the rage that I was directing at this Muslim would have known no end. When he got off a few stops before us, I caught a glimpse of the “propaganda” reading material he had been so intently focused on – a New York Times crossword puzzle.

Long skirts making a comeback?

“They make me feel tall and elegant and I like their feeling of movement."

Check out this article from the Fashion & Style section of the New York Times!

Neshama & Nourishment: Half-and-Half Challah

Neshama & Nourishment

By Liorah Abrams 

Visit LadyMama every Thursday for "Easier Than It Looks" recipes from the kitchen of Liorah Abrams! 

Read more about Liorah on the author page! 

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Half-and-Half Challah
"Just as the water (Torah) helps the yeast to rise, so may it help our families to grow into something greater, from which we all are nourished." ~ Liorah

Tools:

one x-large mixing bowl
one wooden spoon
measuring cups and measuring spoons
baking pans or sheets
cooling rack

Ingredients:

4 1/4 cups  warm water
1 three-pack  active dry yeast
a pinch  white sugar
5  eggs
1 cup  canola or vegetable Oil
1 cup   dark brown sugar, packed well
1 cup   wheat germ
3 Tbsp  salt
5 lbs  flour - appx. half bread flour, half whole wheat flour
1/4 cup  oats - instant or old fashioned

Prep (30 Min):

1. Pour two cups of warm water into the mixing bowl.
Sprinkle a pinch of white sugar and a pinch of flour into water.
Gently pour yeast on top, rotating packages to spread grains over surface of water.
Allow to sit for 10 - 20 min, or until yeast is well activated.

2. Add eggs, oil, dark brown sugar, wheat germ and salt.
Use spoon to break yolks and stir mixture until sugar has dissolved.
Add half of the flour (the bread flour half) and stir until it is wet.
Add most of the rest of the flour, stirring until it becomes too thick to do so.

3. As you add the last of the flour, mix the dough by kneading. Dough should be slightly sticky without being overly gooey - it may take some patience to reach this point.
Knead the dough for 2 - 5 minutes after it has become fully mixed. (This can be done inside the bowl or on a flat surface).Form into large ‘blob’ and place in the bottom of the mixing bowl. Cover and leave to rise in a warm place.*

4. Dough should rise to more than double its original size - when it does, push it down, flip it and re-cover it.**

5. Take Challah (remove a small piece and make the blessing.)
Shape dough into 4 to 6 loaves and sprinkle with oats.
Grease your pan(s) by spraying them with Pam and then sprinkling a thin layer of flour on top.

6. Bake the loaves at 350˚- 365˚ F (depending upon your oven) for 35-45 min, checking frequently after 35 min.

When finished, remove from pan(s) and cool on rack for as long as necessary.

Happy Mom Tip #1

Happy Mom Tips

It's about balancing our lives to find our shoulders soft and relaxed...

By Rivka Caroline

Come back to LadyMama.org for Rivka's weekly tips on 
exporting stress and importing fun! 
Read more about Rivka on the author page! 

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Happy Mom Tip #1 

Things to Give / Throw Away Now

1) Any white shirt that is yellow under the arms

2) Any book that makes you feel badly about yourself when you look at it

4) Packages of flour, sugar, pasta or anything that's been open for longer than three months

5) Last year's spices

6) Clothing that makes you feel bad about your body or your life

7) Shoes that hurt

8) Old mismatched towels that you're keeping 'just in case'

9) Those 28 tiny bottles of body lotion you swiped from hotels and have never gotten around to using

10) The gifts you disliked as soon as you opened them but have felt too guilty to get rid of

13) The wrapping paper from said gifts

14) Any broken lamp or appliance that would cost more to fix than to replace

16) Anything you use occasionally - pliers, staple remover, apple corer - that you have more than one of

17) Any photograph you don't want your grandchildren to remember you by! 

Becky's Bottom Line: We Can Move Mountains

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein 

Come back to LadyMama every week for Becky's hilarious and candid take on being a mother of five! 

Read more about Becky on the author page.

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WE CAN MOVE MOUNTAINS 

After giving birth, I felt like I could do anything. The first time it happened was so thrilling! The adrenaline that pumped through me made me want to jump out of that hospital bed and run through the halls. Move mountains? Sure. It was an all time high. But then the doctor discharged me and the pediatrician discharged my baby. I was standing there holding my beautiful bundle and the free diapers and hemorrhoid cream they let me take. I was told to go home and do everything myself. “But, I never had a baby before. What if I put it somewhere and forget where I put it?” The nurse reassured me that babies are not like car keys or cell phones. They let you know when they need something.

When I got home with her, I had no idea what I was in for. Of course I read all the books. I was already a pregnancy expert after signing up with every single baby site there was. I got weekly updates. I sat in Barnes and Noble and read any book I was able to find. At my doctor appointments I would talk about anything that came to mind - one of those things being an epidural. I openly told my doctor that I did not want an epidural. She looked at me kinda shocked and said “Are you sure about that Rebecca?  Go into labor with an open mind so you don't get disappointed.” I scoffed at her. What did she know? I mean, she kinda was my doctor, but HAH! I knew much better. I read a book about it.  Needless to say, after many hours of laboring and no progression, I was induced and had an epidural. Come on, I'm not a martyr. But the whole thing ended in an emergency c-section. I never read the c-section chapters. They weren't supposed to be for me.

My mother-in-law came to help me, then my mother. Then my mother-in-law sent my sister-in-law to help. Those were good times – except for the c-section part. But then they all left. The way I see myself and my husband back then is like watching two people fumble in the dark. We had no idea what we were doing. I didn't know what the rules were on anything baby related. I didn't know that after you give birth you give half your brain cells to your kid. So here I was constantly forgetting things like dishes, laundry, and showering. Mistakes. There were lots of those.

I used to think the cause of  postpartum depression was trying to fit back into your pre-pregnancy clothes. Can you believe that I actually brought a pre-pregnancy skirt to the hospital to wear home?! I know, so stupid. I met a wise woman at a function I attended after giving birth. She saw me snacking on carrots and she asked how old my baby was. I told her she was just a few weeks old. She said, “I hope you're not making yourself crazy about dieting.” I looked at her and my eyes welled up. I told her that my clothes don't fit. Her response was, “So buy new clothes!” Genius! I bought new clothes.

Having a second daughter shortly after the first was quite the traumatic experience. Mostly because I had to learn all new mommy techniques. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't wait to have another baby because I wanted my dream birth to happen (which thankfully did).  But, how was I supposed to take two kids to the store? In an attempt to figure it out, I went to the store. I put my newborn into the Baby Bjorn and my toddler into the cart. They were both fine. I wasn't. It was winter. I had my coat on, my purse on my shoulder, a baby on the front and a tall kid in the cart.  The baby kept kvetching so I had to walk with a jump and somehow manage to hold her pacifier in while I tried to keep my purse on my shoulder and see over my toddlers head (I'm of the short variety). Stores are heated. The outside isn't. Where was I supposed to put my coat after I got in?

Now that my first born is seven, I have evolved. When I have young babies, I stay home during the day and save the food shopping for evening. Instead of food shopping being one of the many chores on my daytime To-Do list, it is now a time for me to peruse the aisles and zone out. Never in my life did I  think that perusing the aisles at Wal-Mart would be like walking in an oasis. That reminds me of the time I was in the vegetable section deep in thought when the vegetable guy (you know the one who refills the crates?) saw me and said “Smile, it can't be that bad!” I looked at him and said, “Sir, I am making mental menus right now and concentrating on the fact that I have no children with me. Do you know how much concentration that takes?” I don't think he has children because he had no idea what I was talking about.

Evolving from the first kid to subsequent kids, in my opinion, makes for better parenting. With each kid comes learning experiences. I learned to patch up holes in the wall, repaint colored-on surfaces, super glue anything, know which cleaning products remove which stains, know that how long the kids have been quiet is an indicator of how much damage I can expect to find, remove cracked tile from the floor, fix a toilet, change a diaper with one hand while the kid is running away, and somehow manage to serve dinner on time.

Bottom line is, the first kid is thrilling and each kid after is even more thrilling. Watching each personality form from the moment I brought them home to listening to them fight with each other as they grow up, is priceless. But whats more thrilling is watching my own personality change over time. I'm not the same parent  I was in the beginning (even though I refuse to believe that I have aged at all since I got married.) Mothers really can move mountains. We shift them a little more each day.