Thanksgiving in Israel

Thanksgiving morning: Israel.

I'm sitting in hebrew class learning a new category of future tense conjugations, but all I can think of is home. I did the math: if I left for Tel Aviv right after class, dropped my savings and took the next plane to New York, there was a chance that I could be home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. "Why not?" I thought, laughing as I imagined the chaos that would break out upon my arrival. Three dogs, and one Mom jumping and crying for hugs; Dad's profanity filled version of "You'll never guess who's at the door"; and my smirking brothers, because my accomplices would have known all along. (Hey, someone would have had to stall dinner in case I was late.) I could study on the plane, spend the next three days overeating with my family, and return in time for my midterm on monday.

"Oh right, my midterm is on monday." Responsibilities started to sink in and the prospect of a last minute, surprise trip home for the much anticipated "Thanksgivukkah" began to fade. Wiping out my savings didn't sound like a great idea either. I left class homesick, and a little heartbroken with the heavy realization that this would be my first Thanksgiving away from home.

So what's an American to do when they can't be home for the holidays? When the country they've chosen to call home doesn't collectively eat themselves into a tryptophan induced turkey-coma at the end of every November, kicking off an entire season devoted to food and family?

They make the best of it.

They hold on tightly to their family traditions, because that's all they've got. Tradition gives them a sense of home--a sense of belonging, and identity. It gives them a compass to navigate through the dark seas of loneliness, and find some source of light.

As I prepared to face the task of whipping up a chocolate cake and my first pot of stuffing, the music of my childhood filled my head and my heart, for my memories of holiday cooking are all accompanied by soundtracks. Whether it was Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, or some scratchy classic rock coming out of my parent's old turntable--it never mattered. My mother and I would chop vegetables, and dance through the kitchen while the dogs followed at our feet. Which is why, this year, I sang along shamelessly to the Tenth Anniversary Dream Cast recording of Les Miserables while I baked. In my tiny Jerusalem kitchen, with the window open and Colm Wilkinson hitting notes in the upper stratosphere, I began to feel better.

But the mind is a powerful thing, and smell of chocolate chip cookies mingling with the crisp air of late November lingered in the recesses of my memories. I used to wake up early to bake cookies with my mom, and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. We'd comment on the musical acts while trying to get as many cookies in the oven as possible before my Dad and brothers came out to ravage the dough. The warmth of these memories rushed through me as I began the stuffing, and the pangs of homesickness hit me even harder than before.

So, I made the best of it.

My brother has a fancy little device hooked up to the TV back home, which allows you to watch your home channels from anywhere in the world. I logged into his account, and turned on the parade. The camera panned over 34th street, over the massive crowds of cheering (freezing) families, the marching bands, and extravagant floats. Al Roker laughed his way through the crowds wearing a fedora and a smile, while the hosts discussed whether the wind would allow the balloons to fly. The music erupted, the marching bands came to life, the balloons lifted off, the parade started, and I was suddenly crying. My heart was heavy as I wondered what was going on back home. But tears quickly turned to laughter, as Broadways best sang and danced down 34th street. "Pippin! The Sound of Music! Matilda!" I texted my mom as each act came on. It wasn't home, but it was close. And then the channel changed.

Assuming it was a glitch in the system, I watched as the channels climbed and finally settled on my brother's favorite TV show. "Impossible..." I thought, as I switched it back to the parade. The cast of Pippin was still doing their thing, but not for long, because I was suddenly watching Toy Story 3. I laughed and quickly changed it, but in a matter of seconds Buzz Lightyear was back. My brother had declared war, and we were engaged in a full fledged Channel Battle from across world. After pleading my case, and thirty minutes of intense warfare, I finally won.

With my brother, and homesickness both defeated, I finished cooking and left for dinner where I found myself in a room full of expats, all looking for a taste of home. The smell of turkey lingered in the air, and I felt a rush of love for the friends and strangers gathered around me. We came from so many different backgrounds, and for some, this would be their first Thanksgiving. Our differences didn't matter though. We each longed to share a brick of the foundation that our families had given us, and a warm cloud of nostalgia settled in the room as we each shared our traditions. Some were quirky, some were routine, some were outright hilarious--but they represented home. One girl from China smiled as she said "This is my first Thanksgiving, and I've just come to eat all the turkey with you!" We cheered for the Newbies, laughed with the seasoned pros, and ate ourselves silly as we insisted to the non-Americans that it was Thanksgiving tradition to overeat. As the food hangovers began, the evening came to an end. We hugged, laughed, and sleepily rolled ourselves out the door. It sure felt like Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, my family was getting ready to celebrate their version of "Thanksgivukkah" (complete with Pilgrim + Indian yarmulkes) on the other side of the world. I began to feel that loneliness sinking in once again. I wanted to be home, plain and simple. I felt lost--and then my phone rang. For the next 89 minutes, I was passed around between my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas, parents, brothers, and dogs. And then Skype was ringing. I was placed at the head of the table, so I could see everyone. They waved, shouted, ate, tossed turkey at the screen, held some beer up to the camera, and then sent me around the table. From over 5,000 miles away, I was still a part of my family's Thanksgiving dinner. And while nothing can quite beat being home for the holidays, as long as you have your traditions...your foundation...the roots of your life, you will never be too far to find a little taste of home.

 

Pilgrim and Indian yarmulkes

Family in New York

Friends in Jerusalem

 

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Outside The Box

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

--Albert Einstein

 

Your child's imagination is at risk. Their ability to think outside the box, or rather, climb inside a cardboard box and fly to the moon, is fading.

I'm a writer--not a teacher, not a parent. I live in an infinite number of imaginary towns, cities, and worlds; on an infinite number of planets, in an infinite universe. In the morning I swim from the depths of my mind to the surface, where light dances off the glistening waters as I discover where I will live for the day. As I wander through my new world I meet all kinds of bizarre creatures. They teach me about their world, and then suddenly there is a spark. It's scary at first, but I was taught to trust that instinct and follow it wherever it leads me.

Some children are not so lucky.

Today, children go through a rigorous course study in order to prepare them for state mandated tests. The materials they are given to read all serve a purpose. And with such an intense curriculum teachers can't make time for creativity-they barely have control over their lesson plans. It's all pre-written, by the state. We are not creating "thinkers." We are creating test takers, and workers. Some of the world's greatest thinkers lived in a time where there was no such thing as standardized testing. They had the freedom to live in their imaginations, and as a result, created incredible things. They read the classics, and learned about the world through literature. This generation will know how to study, but will they know how to listen to their own creativity? Will they be able to trust their spark, and follow it? Albert Einstein said "Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere."

At the 2012 Society of Children's Book Writer's and Illustrators Winter Conference, a panel member told a room of nearly one thousand writers and illustrators to adjust their material to fit the new core curriculum standards. I was appalled. I looked around the room to see if anyone else had actually just HEARD what this woman had said, and watched in horror as attendees nodded their heads, scribbling furiously as though she had just given them some secret formula to becoming a successful writer.

I will NEVER adjust my writing to meet the needs of state mandated materials. When we talk about making "adjustments" to our writing to fit the needs of the state curriculum, we are walking on a very thin, very dangerous line. "Authors, write what Big Brother tells you to write." Once we cross that line, we create a generation of children who don't know how to read for pleasure. They read, wondering what material in the story they will be tested on. We are depriving them of the glorious freedom of roaming the endless shelves of libraries, selecting a book and falling into a new world.

I spent last year touring elementary schools reading my book, "The Gray Days", and leading imagination workshops with students. I asked students to close their eyes, and listen to my words as I led them through a visualization exercise. The exercise brought them from familiar territory, their bedroom, into an unfamiliar realm as they were asked to to imagine a staircase appearing in their bedroom. It could go in any direction, be made of any material, and lead them anywhere. They would then spend a few minutes living in the land their staircase had brought them, before returning to their bedroom, opening their eyes, and rediscovering reality.

Upon opening their eyes, I asked them to write or draw whatever they saw. A handful of kids began immediately. Others hesitated. Some sat, looking at me, their eyes wide with terror. One child whispered to me, "I think I did it wrong." After assuring the class that there was no right or wrong answer, a few children picked up their pencils and bowed into their notebooks. But one boy stands out in my mind. After five minutes of watching everyone else write and draw, he looked at me, afraid. With his eyes on the floor, he explained that he had not seen anything in his imagination. He had been afraid that it would be wrong, and therefore did not allow it to take him on a journey. He didn't trust his instinct, and was afraid of the creative spark. I worked with him for ten minutes, guiding him through his own imagination. What we finally came up with was a description of his bedroom, and the sounds of what was going on downstairs. "Progress." I thought. At least he was able to see, and hear something.

As children shared their stories with me, I found that most of them could not step out of their realities. The staircase they described led to their attic, where they found boxes of stuff. When I asked them to climb inside a box to see where it would bring them, most described a box of old stuff. They were wrestling with themselves, struggling with the need for approval and the need to imagine. I continued to assure them that there was no wrong answer, and this prompted some more daring stories. A handful of kids wound up in the ocean, or in space. One bright-eyed girl told me about her upside-down staircase that had a trapdoor which opened to the sea, where she swam with lions. But I will never forget the boy who told me he was afraid of his imagination because it was wrong.

J.M. Barrie said "The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it." We must encourage children to fly in the realm of imagination. We must teach them to trust their own creativity. Imagination is an endangered species. If we continue down this path of education, it may become extinct. What does that world look like? Let's save imagination, before it's too late.

Posted with Blogsy

Guest Piece

Hey all!

I've been blessed to have the opportunity to write my second guest piece for The Rothberg International School Official Blog. It was published a few days ago, and you can find the piece on their page:

http://rothberg.co.il/spending-the-holidays-in-israel/

Enjoy!

The Thrill of Living

The mountain winds rush through me as I gaze out over the lights of Jerusalem. It is a new year. The shofar has echoed through the valleys, and re-awakened my soul. We've fasted, we've prayed, we've rejoiced. Now, it is a time for new beginnings.

Since I arrived here, every day has been a new beginning. Each morning, the thrill of living shakes me out of bed, and sends me, flying, into the brilliant dawn. I expected the Holidays to be the same. But the past two weeks have flown by in a whirlwind of reflection, loneliness, sadness, joy, and celebration. Rosh Hashanah came and went. I spent it with family, but missed home. I missed the familiar sights, and smells. I missed hearing my Cantor's perfect tenor, leading the congregation to a new level of spiritual awareness through song and prayer. I missed the english pages in prayer books. I kept thinking "back home, we do this. Back home, it's like that." And then I would realize that I came here for new experiences, and a great joy would flood through me. The thrill of living would be back, and I'd feel grateful for whatever new experience I had been blessed with.

But it wasn't enough. I struggled to maintain that level of joy. I felt lost, and somewhat unfulfilled by how I had observed the holidays.

On Yom Kippur, hours before the sounding of the shofar, I walked to the Old City with friends. As I approached the Kotel, my heart began to race. The air was buzzing with spiritual awe. You could sense the weight of everyone's prayers, dangling in mid-air. I felt humbled to walk among them, and began to feel the depth of my own thoughts settling into my heart. The thrill of living had fluttered it's way back into my soul. The promenade was scattered with people, anxiously awaiting dusk, their empty stomaches growling in protest. We were hungry, tired, and hot. As I observed the crowd, I realized that we had come from all walks of life to welcome the New Year. We had all willingly deprived ourselves of nourishment throughout the day, and now we all stood, humbled before God, at the Holiest site in Israel. We were the same. We were all exactly the same. I felt my heart begin to swell with love, and then it suddenly occurred to me. I was standing before The Kotel on Yom Kippur. I stopped in my tracks, and inhaled my surroundings. As the sweet air filled my lungs, my heart split open, and a great love for everyone and everything around me spilled out. I felt whole. Every molecule of my being was filled with love. I exhaled, and continued walking towards the Wall.

Women embraced the ancient stones, channeling prayers through their fingertips. Men began to dance, their voices raised in prayer. And there I stood, among it all. My soul felt as if it could burst. "Yes!" I thought, "this is what I was waiting for. This is what I was craving." I joined the women, embracing the Wall as if it were an old friend. "Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha'olam shecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higyanu lazman hazeh."

Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.

Tears streamed down my face, as I whispered my prayers, shared my soul, and opened my heart.

Then a mighty cry broke through the night. That blast, the call that rouses the spirit, and churns the waters of consciousness shook us from our prayers. It echoed through the valleys of Jerusalem, and our bodies absorbed the sound as it moved through us. Time stopped. We were soaring. We were alive. The blast of the shofar pulled us from our slumber, and sent us, flying into the new year.

And then I recalled how only two days before, I had stood in silence with people from all over the world to mark the twelfth anniversary of the September 11 attacks. I was so young, and my world had been shaken by evil. I thought about how beautiful that morning had been, and how none of the victims had known it would be their last.

Then the shofar sounded again, and it brought me back to life. It demanded my attention, grabbed me by my shoulders and shouted "Live, fool! Witness the universe. See, understand, weep, and celebrate. You have one moment. Go, live!" It's cry echoed in my mind, it's message sank into my bones. I felt peace in my soul. I felt cleansed. Prepared. Ready to begin a new year, with a new awareness of the beautiful miracle of my existence.

On the walk back to the student village to break the fast, I felt as though I were flying. My stomach was empty, but my heart was full. I was overjoyed, and overwhelmed by the sheer wonder of everything around me, and I realized that when you look at the world with your heart, instead of your head, you see more. There is more beauty, more joy, and more love. As I move forward into the New Year, I can see a world of possibility. Friends, I wish you only joy in this new year. Joy, love, beauty, wonder, success, happiness, and everything that comes along with it. Look at the beautiful things in your life. The miracles. Seek the extraordinary, in the ordinary. Let the winds of change move through you, and tickle your soul. Let it make you dance. And seek joy. Always, always seek joy. Embrace this new year, and all the potential it offers.

Chag Sameach, everyone!

9/11 Memorial, Tashliech Service, Walking through the Old City on Yom Kippur

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Tradition

Tradition. (Yes, I sang it as I typed it. I hope you read it that way, too.) Traditions are gifts, passed down like heirlooms through generations. They link us to our past, and shape our future.

Last week, I decided to prepare Shabbos dinner for my friends. So I hopped on the light rail, and took my first trip to Mahane Yehuda. Note: shopping in the shuk on a friday morning is not for the weak-hearted. I squeezed into the narrow alleyway, wormed my way through swarms of shouting Israelis, and began my quest. It was a sensory overload. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the alleys, mixed with an assortment of exotic spices, herbs, fresh fruit, and vegetables that still smelled of the earth. The colors were rich, and beautiful. Shop-keepers whistled and yelled, beckoning shoppers to their stalls, creating a beautiful caucaphony of sounds and languages. I wandered, amazed at the scene before me, until I finally decided to give my hebrew a try. "Kamah?" I asked, pointing to a bundle of mint leaves. "Shtayim." I handed him two shekels, and with a grin, fell back into the crowd victoriously clutching my purchase.

A few hours later, I began the preparations for my first roast chicken. The smell of dinner floated into the hallway, lingered outside apartments, and slipped under doors. Music spilled into the halls, while laughter echoed through the building. The sun was setting over Jerusalem, and the entire city seemed to glow with the unique warmth that only comes on a Friday evening. I watched, as friends filled the small apartment. Shabbos had arrived. I looked around at the people who I've come to know over the past three weeks, and as they lingered in the kitchen, I felt my heart fill with love. I lit the candles, we said the blessings, and cut the challah. As Rossberg Etiquette dictates, I tossed everyone a piece of the end slice. After my pitiful, yet admirable attempt to carve the chicken, we all sat down to eat.

I sat in awe, surrounded by love, as the sweet mountain air drifted through the open window. We were under Jerusalem's spell. Her golden lights twinkled, as Ofra Haza's soaring voice reminded us how lucky we were to be celebrating Shabbos in Jerusalem of Gold. It was a truly remarkable moment. A dinner that was meant to be for six, turned into a feast for thirteen. I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride as I watched my friends. Everyone looked so happy. The real world had been left at the door, and all that mattered was that we were together. We were laughing, singing, over-eating, and not leaving room for dessert. Which we ate anyway. As I took it in, I began to think about what brought me to that moment, and why I decided to cook Shabbos dinner for my friends. Besides setting my inner Jewish Mama free, (eat, bubbeleh, you're so skinny!) I realized that I wanted to share a bit of home with my Jerusalem family. I wanted to make roast chicken, and toss end pieces of challah across the table. Shabbos has always been a constant in my life, and as I sat around the table watching my friends, I knew it always would be. My mind began to wander, and suddenly I was racing my brother up the driveway of my Grandparent's house.

You can smell the roast chicken from the street. Laughter spills through open windows, and my brother is standing at the door ringing the bell incessantly. Grandpa stands in the entrance, his blue eyes twinkling, even as he hollers at us to "quit that racket!" With a hearty laugh, a big grin, and a bear hug; he says “Hiya Maya!” Through my giggles, I manage to reply “Hiya Grandpaya!”

Once I got that hug, Shabbos had officially begun.

I run through the door, and up the stairs where everyone is gathered in the kitchen. Where the soup is simmering, the potatoes are browning, the vegetables are steaming, and the chicken is roasting. The sun is setting over Long Island, and the entire house seems to glow with the unique warmth that only comes on a Friday evening. The men mosey over to the bar, talking in whispers over glasses of scotch. I join the women, and together we light the candles, watching as the flame jumps from match to wick, dancing under the gentle breath of our prayers. I turn and catch a glimpse of the the men. My brothers stand beside them drinking soda out of plastic cups. I turn back, cover my eyes, say the blessing over the candles, and peek through my fingers. Before me, four generations of women stand side by side, deep in prayer. Their faces glow in the candlelight as they sway to the rhythm of their thoughts. One by one, their eyes are revealed to a choir of Shabbos wishes. Big hugs, smooshy kisses, and the unmistakable clinking of dishes tells us that it's time to sit down. We gather around the table, shouting and teasing until Grandpa takes his place. He bellows "Quiet!", in an attempt to silence the room, provoking us to make more noise, causing him to holler more, causing EVERYONE to make more noise. But once we've all settled, Grandpa, always at the head of the table, delivers the blessings with an enthusiasm that could never be matched.

Over dinner we eat, laugh, sing, tease, and tell stories. Someone eventually knocks over a glass of wine. As we eat, I catch a shared moment between my Grandparents. They exchange smiles from across the table, savoring the insanity of their loud, and loving family. I can sense their pride as they watch us. In that moment, I do not understand the gift they have given me. But I can see it. I can smell it. I can taste it, and I can feel it.

There are fifty-two Fridays in a year. At age 18, I had been a part of roughly 936 Friday night dinners, mostly held at my Grandparents house, which they bought as newlyweds. Their dining room table had witnessed the ups and downs of Rossberg-Family history. But through all of the joys, and all of the tragedies, Friday night dinners remained a tradition. We continued to gather, no matter the circumstances, always with my Grandpa leading the pack. Always with my Grandpa in the chair at the head of the table, reminding us that “it is what it is”, and although God works in mysterious ways, everything happens for a reason.

On June 2, 2006 the chair at the head of the table was empty for the first time. There was no bear hug. No “Hiya Maya!” No hollering, and no teasing. I prayed that night over the Shabbos candles with my Grandma, Mother, Aunt, and cousins. We held on to each other, swaying in unison to our private prayers. “It is what it is”, my Grandpa's final message to us, echoed in our heads. When we finally sat down to dinner, we tried to avert our eyes from the emptiness before us, but we couldn't avoid it. It cut through us, and there was a numbing silence as we prepared to say the traditional Friday night blessings. Who would say them tonight? I glanced at the empty chair. Growing up, that chair was a throne. No one but Grandpa could sit in it. That night it remained empty, a screaming reminder of who we just lost.

My brother stands, and raises his wine glass to begin the blessings. Struggling to get the words out, he puts it down. We all feel the weight of the week, and the eleven of us…eleven, no longer twelve, grasp each others hands. Together, we can get through this. I see my mother give my brothers hand an encouraging squeeze and he lifts his glass once more. “Baruch-atah-adonoi…” I squeeze my Grandma’s hand. “…elohainu melach ha’olam…” She squeezes back. “…borai…” I stare at the empty chair. “P’rei hagafan.” It stares back, it’s gaze burns as it brands itself into my heart. We all take a sip of wine. Nothing can be heard except the sounds of a family in mourning, until the silence is broken by a clap of thunder. It shouts so loud that it reaches our souls and twists our insides. It's been raining since the night we buried him. Comforted by the hollering thunder, we begin our meal. It's as if he's there, telling us to quit moping and eat before the food gets cold. So, we do. And someone still manages to spill a glass of wine. We smile, and laugh. He is with us.

Every week, we came together, but under a different roof. My mother, determined to maintain our traditions, began preparing, and hosting the weekly dinners. We pushed through the sadness, and soon found laughter. Shabbos held us together, and kept us strong. At some point, I stopped counting how many dinners had passed without him, and I soon began to understand the gift my Grandparent's had given us. I began to understand the moment that they shared, as they watched us in all of our insane glory. And I knew that when I made my first Shabbos, I would carry the traditions I learned at my Grandparent's table, and share them with my loved ones.

Seven years later, I reach across the table in an apartment in Jerusalem, and grab the end piece of challah. "Pardon my awkwardness, but it's not Shabbos unless you all get an end piece." I smile. Yes, it's bizzare. But I wouldn't want it any other way. The traditions have passed from my Grandparents table, to my mothers, to mine. I think my Grandpa would be proud.

Tradition

 

Posted with Blogsy

A Promise to The Land

Now that the whirlwind of my first week has settled, I'm beginning to get accustomed to the pace of life here. Yes, even the five hour Hebrew classes. I'm figuring out the bus lines, and when I go into the city with friends, I am starting to recognize streets. I'm slowly learning the ins, and outs of my new home. 

On Thursday night, I went out for a drink with some friends, and was thrilled to discover that a night out in Jerusalem is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Imagine, a road of ancient stone glowing in the yellow warmth of streetlights. One would think that the modern stores, restaurants, bars and clubs would contradict the ancient surroundings, but instead, it melds together, creating a place where the old meets the new. This is a place where you might find a pair of orthodox men walking down the street with a box full of c.d's, and a stereo, blasting their latest jams. Where a Chassidic street-ventriloquist performs on a nightly basis, and circles of friends smoke hookah, surrounding themselves with a soft haze. As I floated through the eternal night, I listened to the music that poured into the street. Musicians were gathered on every corner, and bench, filling the night with songs. It was perfect. People stopped to listen, hypnotized by the melodies that dripped from the strings of guitars, falling into the magic of our surroundings. 

That night, Jerusalem was swarming with birthright groups. Young adults, all experiencing Israel for the very first time. I watched them wander, wide-eyed, through the streets. They wove through crowds, said "slicha" with delight, and toasted their drinks with a hearty "L'chaim!" Soon, they would all be returning to the lives they left behind. But they would return, changed. Israel will have left a mark on their hearts, and in their souls. 

As I watched them, I recognized something glimmering in their eyes. It was love. Love for the land, love for the people, for the sights, smells, and foods. And then I remembered my first time in Israel. I was seventeen, and I spent six weeks here. We toured the entire country, and every day I fell more deeply in love than I thought possible. I felt inspired, and alive. On my last night, I sat on a hill overlooking Jerusalem, and made a promise to the land that I would return. I saw that promise in their eyes. And in their eyes, I saw myself. And then it hit me. I live here. "I live here!" I thought, as the music from the bar spilled into the street, mixing with a language that I am slowly beginning to understand. Sipping my plastic cup of Goldstar, I felt the breeze wrap its arms around me. I was peaceful as I settled into the gentle wind, and into the embrace of my new home. 

My new home. 

I can't help but grin when I say that. I feel as if I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this moment in my life. As though the churning waters of uncertainty have settled, and the dark clouds have cleared.  Every disappointment I've had in the past three years, and every failure, have all led me here. Without them, I wonder if I would have had the courage to take this leap of faith. My heart is happy here. My soul feels like it’s on fire, and I am inspired by everything. Stories surround me, and I can barely keep up with my own thoughts. This place feeds my imagination, and every morning, as the sun creeps through my window, I feel a rush of joy. I wonder who I will meet, and where the day will lead me. I feel as if anything is possible here. That I have no limitations. 

I don't even mind that I've found, and killed two cockroaches in my apartment (unexpected life skill number one), or that I'm being stalked by no less than three stray cats. 

There is always so much going on here, but on Friday afternoons, the whole country comes to a gentle stop with the sound of the Shabbos siren. I like to imagine men, scattered through the valleys and hills of Jerusalem, sounding off Shofars to welcome the Sabbath. Stores, restaurants, and markets all close early. The comforting smells of home cooked meals seep into the streets. It feels like home. Laughter spills through open doors, as families cook together, and guests are greeted with hugs. It's amazing to me that no matter where I seem to wind up for Shabbos, it always feels the same. It is warm, and inviting. It's full of love, laughter, good food, and tradition. I spent this past Friday evening with my cousin's friends. They welcomed me into their home, and we ate together on the balcony. A gentle wind waltzed through the trees, and as we recited the blessings, our voices were swept into the hills. Six voices floated through the night, and become the voice of one people. One people, united in one tradition. I thought about how long we, the Jewish People, have been observing Shabbos; I looked out, saw Israel before me, and remembered the promise I made nearly ten years ago on a hill in Jerusalem. 

I smiled. Everything was as it should be. 

Stalker-Cat

A night out in Jerusalem

Welcome to Jerusalem

I've been in Israel for one week now, and it's been a whirlwind of laughter, joy, confusion, and frustration. There have been amazing moments, the kind where your soul is on fire; and there have been some not so amazing moments...the kind where you get a glance inside yourself through your head, instead of your heart, and wonder "Am I doing the right thing?" But those moments are inevitable. There will be both.

My first night in Jerusalem, I had a picnic with some of the girls I met at orientation. We sat on the quad, shared some beers and enjoyed the perfect breeze. I was awestruck. There I was, sitting in Jerusalem, within sight of the Old City, laughing over beers with my new friends. It was perfect.

The next night, I ventured off campus, to a wine festival at the Israel Museum. With hundreds of wines from all over Israel to taste, perfect weather, and a live band? Oh yes. It was going to be quite a night. The music was brilliant. It caught hold of me from the moment I walked in, and did not let go. I swayed from station to station. My hair was wild, and my turquoise dress hid my feet so that I seemed to float wherever I went. I felt beautiful, and free. Halfway through the evening, I found myself standing on an overlook. The lights of Jerusalem glowed, and I imagined that each light was a little bubble of existence. Within each, a story was taking place. Thousands of stories lit the sky that night, and I saw an eternity of possibility. Soon, the music took over my soul, and my friends and I dashed over to the band where we got lost in the music. I threw my arms into the air, and with a laughter that seemed to escape from the depths of my heart, I was gone. Dancing under the stars on a beautiful night in Jerusalem. Time swirled around us, as the music erupted from the hills. We were everything. We were nothing.

When our faces were red, and our feet sore, we decided to take a break. But before we could get away, we were pulled back by a melody that reached inside our very beings. It felt familiar, as if I had danced it in another life. We ran back to the band, to discover a hora! The circle spun madly, as we broke in, grabbed hands with strangers and danced in whirling circles. The world was spinning, and there was no distinction between friend or stranger. We laughed, we danced, we sang, and when the circle spun out of control, we all fell into each others arms in fits of joy.

It didn't end there.

We went to find the restroom. As we waited online, a woman exiting the stalls began singing Hatikvah (Israel's national anthem). Someone else joined in, and they sang, loudly, holding hands. When they finished, the woman left, and the girl who had joined her in song began clapping a slow beat. It didn't take more than a few seconds for us to figure out where this was headed. She burst out singing Hava Nagila, and soon we were dancing in circles, in the bathroom. It was outrageous, insane, and wonderful. The perfect end to a perfect night.

Class started the next day. My Ulpan is the most intense class I've ever taken. It's five hours/day of hebrew. Straight up, non-stop Hebrew. No english. The first day felt like drowning. You catch on pretty quickly though. It's a great way to teach language. The other day, I got lost on campus. After a wrong turn, I found myself standing on a balcony that overlooks the Old City...with the Kotel in full view. It took my breath away. Suddenly my mind was clear, my worries were gone. I knew I was where I'm meant to be. I suppose getting lost is the best way to find what you're looking for. I feel like that's what I've been doing all this time. Getting lost. Getting found. That's what I came here to do. I guess I just expected to arrive, and for everything to suddenly make sense. For all the fog to clear, and for my life to piece itself together. I should have known better. If the past three years have taught me anything, it's that nothing comes together, just like that. Even though coming here felt like reaching the top of the mountain, it's as if darkness has melted away with the morning light, and shown me the higher, rougher peak ahead. My next challenge. The perfect moments, like the wine festival, and the picnic, make the challenge a joy. And I continue to reassure myself that nothing worth having comes easy. I've been here a week, and it's been wonderful. It's also been lonely, scary, confusing, frustrating, and weird. But mostly? It's been wonderful. I am happy. Truly happy. And I am scared. Truly scared. The adjustment from one way of life to another is more intense than I ever imagined it would be. I miss the comfort of driving down familiar streets, hearing familiar sounds, smelling familiar smells. But then I look around, and I realize that this...the adventure...is all I've ever wanted. I remember how long I've dreamed of getting lost in new places. And then I see the rolling hills, and valleys of Jerusalem. I smell the mountain air. It is crisp and clear. I hear the new sounds, smell the new smells, see the world through a new perspective...and suddenly I know everything is right. I am here.

Today I ventured out to the Old City to visit the Kotel, or what some of you might know as The Western/Wailing Wall. As you approach, you can feel something shifting. It is within you, it is all around you. The world feels different. Your heart becomes open, and full. You feel as if you've been embraced. I've always felt that walking up to The Kotel, feels like walking into the palm of G-d's hand. I have had some rather intense spiritual moments there in the past, and wasn't sure what to expect this time. As I approached it, I felt that familiar warmth spread through my body. A smile crept across my face, and I reached out. Flesh touched stone, and I was lost in a river of prayer. I felt overwhelmingly grateful for the opportunity that I've been given. I will learn everything I can. See everything there is to see, do everything there is to do. I am more ready for this than I've ever been. As I walked away from The Wall, I felt at peace. I felt at home.

I then set off on a mission to find food. I wandered through the labyrinth that makes up the markets and shops within the Old City, as men shouted from their shops "you want to buy something?" It reminded me of the scene from Aladdin, where Jasmine finally gets outside the palace walls. "Pretty necklace, for a pretty lady!" The market is a sensory overload. So many colors, and beautiful things to look at. So many people shouting, bargaining, walking, and shopping. After some wandering, I finally found something familiar. The Cardo. Once I got there, I knew exactly where I was, and where I wanted to go. Instinct? Intuition? Who knows. But I eventually found the spot I had in mind, grabbed a schwarma, and sat down to eat while a very jealous cat sat by my side, demanding I toss her some scraps. (Which, I eventually did.) My first trip to the Old City was an absolute success.

And my first week? It's been better than I ever could have imagined.

Shabbat Shalom, from Israel!

The Kotel

 

The Old City

Wine Festival

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Shalom, Shalom!

I feel so peaceful right now. I'm sitting in my cousins yard, next to a little fish pond and a garden full of amazing succulents. There are gorgeous trees that I've never seen (one of which is full of fruit that apparently grows bigger than watermelons!) The air is humid, and the sun is strong, but the birds are chirping. Across the garden I can see a single strand of a spiders web glistening in the sun. The wind is whispering to the trees, and I can hear the leaves laughing. It is perfect.

 

Last night, I passed out on the couch halfway through a movie (Brave, which I suppose is appropriate because that's how I've been feeling the past few days). I woke with a start somewhere around 11:30, and dragged myself upstairs, retreating to the comfort of a nice big bed. I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept through the night.

 

I spent my first morning in Israel with my cousin, Gail, and her horse, Michi (Machi?). Now, you should know that I never really outgrew the "I want a pony" phase, so hanging out at a stable was just about as amazing as it could get. After we brushed the horse, Gail had her lesson, and I watched, which was fascinating. I feel like I learned so much about riding, just by watching. Not to mention all the Hebrew I picked up! As I watched, and listened...I suddenly realized that I was at a stable, in Israel. People were speaking around me, and I didn't know what they were saying, but it was cool because I was at a stable, in Israel. I've never ridden a horse in my life, but when the lesson was over, I hopped up, and with Gail's help I was riding in no time.

I was riding a horse, for the first time ever, at a stable, on my first morning in Israel.

 

It's very freeing to pull the rug out from under your comfortable, easy life and do something completely different. I think about how I spent the past three years of my life, and I can't believe I didn't do this sooner. I get a rush when I think about how open my life is right now. Let's break it down: I am in a new country, learning a new language, studying an ancient history. I have missed so many incredible opportunities in my life, because I was afraid to take a chance. I was too afraid to step out on a limb, and let The Universe work it's magic. I finally took the biggest step. I'm here. Now, as doors and windows open for me, I am going to run through, marathon style, with my arms raised in triumph. Universe, work your magic. I'm ready.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Welcome Home

Excuse the brief rambles, but I just wanted to get a few words in before bed. I am here. I made it in one piece, (three if you count my luggage), and am ready for adventure.

 

I'm writing from my cousins house in Rosh Ha'ayin, which is near Tel Aviv. The night looks perfectly peaceful from my window, and there is a sort of magical stillness in the air. It feels like that moment just before something great happens...the calm before the storm. It hasn't quite hit me that I am here. Once I start to get settled, it will probably sink in. But for right now, I am ready for adventure. I can taste it. It is all I've ever wanted, and it is finally within my grasp.

 

Adventure is out there!

Posted with Blogsy

Four Weeks: NYC-->TLV

Greetings, friends! I guess I can reveal my big news now that everyone who needs to know, knows. Exactly one month from now, I will be at my cousin's house in Rosh Ha'ayin, just about an hour away from my new home in Jerusalem. Wait, whaa?! Yes, you read that right. Yes, I typed that right. I'm moving to Israel for graduate school, and to begin work on my Shabbat Research/Memoir project-book-thing.

I'm finally taking that huge leap of faith, and throwing myself into the unknown. And let me tell ya'll a little something. I am terrified (the good kind, but still).

How does one prepare to go from the complete comforts of home, into a new country? Hello, culture shock! Fortunately, I'm no stranger to Israel, and I've got family and friends there to help me with the transition. Those hebrew language immersion classes should be pretty useful, too. Five hours a day, five days a week. Think I'll pick it up? In case I have any trouble, I can always refer back to "All My Yeladim." That should help. At the very least, maybe I'll land a starring role on an Israeli Soap Opera?

Anyway, I've been super busy shopping, making appointments, and trying to get all the details in order. I think I need to just get over the fact that I am bound to forget SOMETHING. I am overwhelmed by the details, but when I think about where I am going, and how long I've dreamed of this....I am giddy. Like...heart-racing, stomach-churning, giggles-galore giddy.

The first time I went to Israel I was seventeen. For 6 weeks I travelled the country with my youth group, exploring the land, and walking among the history. The first time I saw the Western Wall (The Kotel), I froze. I felt my whole existence fill with overwhelming love, and I wept. My hands touched the ancient stone, and I was suddenly lost in prayer. Twenty minutes or so later, I backed away from the Wall, feeling thoroughly cleansed, and completely loved. I fell deeply in love with the land of Israel during that trip. On my last night there, I sat on a hill overlooking Jerusalem. The air was cold, but sweet. I watched the lights of Jerusalem twinkle in the distance, and I made a silent vow that I would be back someday. The idea of leaving made my heart ache, but knowing that I'd be back made it easier to walk inside when my limbs were sufficiently frozen. I boarded the plane the next morning, with the rest of my group, and as I watched the land I had grown to know and love fall into the horizon, I said "I'll see you soon."

The second time I went, I was twenty-one. I went with my family, and we toured the country for two weeks. We wound up staying two nights in that same hotel, and I revisited my little hilltop. "I told you I'd be back", I whispered into the wind, knowing that this short visit wasn't enough.

I almost didn't come home from that trip. The night before we left, I sat up wondering what would happen if I didn't get on the plane. I talked myself out of it, knowing I had responsibilities, school, friends...I couldn't leave it all, just because I wanted to stay. Looking back, I know I could have. But none of that matters now. Four weeks from today, I'll be boarding a plane, flying: NYC-->TLV.

I keep wondering what I will feel when the plane takes off. Excitement? Fear? Panic? Probably some odd combination. But I know what I will feel when the plane lands: complete joy. My first step on Israeli soil, and my first breath of Israeli air will no doubt leave me breathless, and in tears. It always does. Except this time will be different. This time, it's not a vacation. It's not a tour group. It's the next chapter of my life.

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Training Continues...

I never thought I would be the girl who enjoyed working out. I did it because I felt like I was supposed to, and I knew it was good for me, and my parents bought me a membership...every reason except actually wanting to. I never had fun with it, and I couldn't understand the people who thought it was fun. I thought they were out of their minds...lunatics. Working out? Puh-lease. I've got better things to do. Like read. Or sit around. And that bag of potato chips is calling my name. Kidding. Potato chips and I are no longer on speaking terms.

ANYWAY.

After a few training sessions, by Saturday I was ready to work out by myself. Everyone around me all seemed to know exactly what they were doing. And to make matters worse, they all were really good at it. I was feeling kind of hesitant, and pretty incapable, but my new workout pants were rooting me on. Cardio! Start with cardio! Get that body warmed up. I made my way over to the treadmill. A word on treadmills: they used to terrify me. I was never a runner, (when I tried cross country track in high school, they had to send people out on the trails to look for me), and my ankle/toothpicks don't like the pressure of running. But there I was, happily warming up on the dreaded machine. And you know what....it was kinda fun. Yup. There's that word...FUN.

After twenty minutes of interval walking/running, I was ready to get to the good stuff. I headed onto the floor, and went straight into the routine I had done on Day 1. My muscles were burning in protest, but I felt good. I did set, after set, focusing on my legs and abs. They weren't too thrilled about it, but I told them to suck it up and keep kicking ass, which they did.

After my whole floor and weight routine, I headed back to the evil(?) treadmill for more interval walking/running. Only this time, I noticed a change. The first 4 or 5 times I treaded the mills, I really struggled to maintain a steady pace. My trainer had me walking a lot, and then jogging in short spurts. But this time....oh, this time...I found that my endurance had increased. I was able to jog for a solid 5 minutes with 1-2 minute walking intervals between. And it was AMAZING. As my workout came to an end, I realized 2 hours had passed since I arrived at the gym. Wait what? Hold the phone....Erkle here, did I do that? Seriously. Did I really do that? Did I just spend two hours at the gym without realizing it?

And then did I squeeze in another workout on Sunday night, after coming home from working a 12 shift waitressing? And then did I go back Monday morning for an hour and a half? Yup. I did. And despite what I ever thought possible, I am loving it.

Today, the trainer told me I have a strong core. Who, me? I thought, chuckling to myself. Impossible. Yet there I was, doing weighted sit-ups like it was no problem. He should have seen me two months ago, when I could barely manage ten minutes on the elliptical. After three months in bed, my body was kind of like jello. (Which I ate in excess, and hated every bite. Sorry, but food shouldn't jiggle like that.) I've been finding motivation to push harder in so many places. Today, it came to me where I should have known it would always be. Penn State is home of the world's largest student run philanthropy-THON, which raises money to fight pediatric cancer. Every year, thousands of students participate. After months of fundraising, it all culminates in a 46 hour no sitting, no sleeping dance marathon. It benefits The Four Diamonds Fund, and the children who are supported by The Fund are absolute superheroes. They fight cancer. As I struggled to maintain a plank, (my arms were actually shaking) I remembered those children. I remembered what they go through every day, and suddenly, plank was easy. The rest of my workout was a breeze. I keep these children in my heart, and they push me to do more. They push me to be better.

I am on the path to becoming my best self. I am happy. I am contemplating going to the gym for a second time today. (Seriously, who am I?!) But above all, I am grateful. I have this body, this one body. And no matter how sore I get, or how much another set hurts...I will continue to push myself harder, because I can. Because it feels awesome. Because it's my body, and it's time I took care of it.

Posted with Blogsy

Graduation Season, 2013

This time of year always makes me nostalgic. Endless streams of caps and gowns march across my news feed, statuses are filled with hopes and well wishes for the future, and I'm searching youtube for a dose of commencement style inspiration.

It's been three years (!?) since I donned my cap and gown, marched across a stage, and was handed a piece of paper which would serve as proof that I got an education. Three long, confusing, terrifying, wonderful years. And I am no where close to where I thought I would be.

I thought that by now, I'd have a few small stage and film credits under my belt, because nothing could stop me. I thought I'd have a great job with a theatre company as a literary manager. I'd be living in an apartment in Manhattan, and spending my Saturdays at the park.

Instead, I am none of the things I described above. The long and terrifying path I've travelled since graduating, has led me down a road I did not expect.

I'm a writer.

I weave words, and paint pictures in your mind. I observe the world, I ask questions, chase answers, and travel to incredible faraway places.

I never thought I'd be a writer, except for a brief moment in the second grade. I told my Grandma "When I grow up, I wanna write books!" She warned me of the unstable lifestyle, so, I decided to be an actor instead. But I've always found comfort in words. During my darkest times, they were my only hope. I scrawled angry words, sad words, hurting words on page after page after page after page. I challenged my own beliefs, and found my own answers. I faced reality, and wrestled with each letter as I spelled out my journey.

After I graduated, I started writing stories. Or...half-stories. I never knew how to end them. Until I did. I finally finished a story, and my life was changed. I started calling myself a writer, even got published, went on a mini-book tour, and sold a lot of books. I kept writing. Collecting words, and turning them into something beautiful.

Graduates, your life may turn out to be nothing like what you are expecting. But I can promise you that the road ahead will lead you to where you are meant to be. Don't fight it. I spent two years fighting my urge to write. I was determined to prove myself as an actor, but I couldn't stop scribbling on scraps. I couldn't admit to myself that maybe, just maybe, I was supposed to do something else. You must embrace life as it unfolds before you. Do the things that make you happy, and you will find your way.

Last night, I took a little stroll down memory lane. I went to see my cousin in her final high school theatre performance, and as I walked through the doors of my former high school (which felt remarkably small), I was flooded with memories and emotions. Seven years have passed since I walked those halls. When I saw my High School theatre teacher, she gave me a big hug. We quickly caught up. She told me that she'd heard about my book, and was so excited for me. She then took my hand, and said exactly what I needed to hear. "You always were a storyteller."

I replied, "That's all I ever wanted to be."

I took my seat in the theatre, and remembered the four years I spent in there learning how to tell stories. In that room, I learned how to bring characters to life. I learned how to believe in the unbelievable, and create the impossible. In that room, I learned what I was capable of. And last night, it was in that room that I remembered what I am capable of.

You have no way of knowing where your journey will take you. All you can do is trust it. It will take you where you're meant to be.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Good art, bad art, and everything in between

Years ago, one of my acting professors told me that in order to make something good happen on stage, you had to first dig through a pile of crap. Or something like that.

The idea is there though-in order to produce good art, you must first get the lousy art out of the way. In order to be good at something, you have to suck at it first. So, I've been experimenting with that recently. The past few days, I've been writing with my inner editor turned off. I had a silly idea for a story, and instead of dismissing it, I decided to write it. I've written about 500 words so far, and to be honest? It sucks. And I love it. There is ONE sentence in all of those words that I actually might use. One. But that's how it works! In order to be a writer, we must read a lot, and write a lot. You have to dig through the mines to find the gold.

I'm having so much fun writing without being concerned about whether or not it's good. It is more liberating than you could ever imagine. I'm writing it to entertain myself, not to pitch it to editors. I think that when we turn off the fear of "will my story sell", we are more honest in our writing. I think that the one sentence I got from this lousy story will lead me into another story--a better one. It's simmering in the back of my head, and I can't wait to taste it.

I've kept my promise so far to read an essay, a short story, and a poem every night. I really am enjoying it! You know, it's like a cheese platter. A few bites of delicious, rich, creamy words followed by a sample of something fresh, and light. Then a small serving of something tough, with a sharp aftertaste that sticks with you for hours. A sampler platter of words. Does this take anyone else back to the word and letter market in The Phantom Tollbooth? Each letter had a different taste, and you could combine them to make even more flavorful words? I remember the first time I read that passage. Maybe that's why I always compare reading to eating.

Anyway, I've been devouring the stories in my giant book of Ray Bradbury shorts. Every night, I go to the table of contents and pick a random title that sounds intriguing. The other night, I read "The Burning Man." I had trouble falling asleep after that one. I find myself absolutely furious when I reach the end of certain stories, because I need to know what happens next. How can he deprive me of that? What do you mean I never find out what happens to Doug, and his Aunt Neva? My mind runs wild with all the possible scenarios. And then, when I've exhausted my imagination, I can't help but think "Bradbury, you wonderful genius." And then I'm up for hours, still stuck in the story.

For essays, I've been working out of Emerson's "Nature." I love it, because I often find myself shaking the book, wanting to shout "Yes! Exactly! I feel that, too!" It amazes me how connected I feel to his thoughts, and ideas. I think I am going to go back and re-read it when I'm done, just to delve a bit deeper into it. On a first reading, you only touch the surface. I want to go scuba diving, not snorkeling. I want to explore these ideas in a submarine, not a kayak. It's such a joy.

I love poems, but my experience with them is minimal. I'm thinking about switching them to a morning read, that way my mind is sharper when I open my anthology. By the time I get to the poem at night, I just want the shortest one I can find, so that I can read it, do my nightly writing, and go to sleep. I don't let myself taste the words, even though I know how delicious they can be. I like the idea of starting my day with a poem. I drank coffee for a year in college, only because I liked the idea of starting my day with a cup o'joe. I eventually replaced it with juice, water, or tea. Instead of coffee, I think I'll have a poem. Yes, I'd like a grande Poe. I'll take it black.

(ba-dum dum.)

In any case, I'm really enjoying my new writing and reading routine. I encourage you creative folk to give it a try. Feed your brain, and stuff your head. Thank you, and goodnight.

Posted with Blogsy

Stuff Your Head, fool!

Happy Daylight Savings! I hope you all enjoy your extra hour of daylight, as spring continues to creep up on us. This morning, I was sitting on my front porch, desperate for some fresh air and sunshine, when I noticed gorgeous green buds pushing through the dirt. My heart smiled, as I filled my lungs with spring. My favorite part of this season is the smell of the earth. It is so rich, and full. Everything smells like life. It is invigorating, and beautiful.

I was really craving that breath of fresh air, because I've been sick for the past three weeks. Nothing horrible, but enough to keep me bed-ridden for almost a month. In April, I am having my tonsils removed. Normal tonsils will act as part of your immune system, but mine are not normal. They are evil. Evil tonsils get you sick rather often. Hence, my month in bed. The first week was spent mostly sleeping, followed by a week of watching TV and movies. I didn't have the mental energy to write, or read yet. But this past week, my mind has been itching to disappear into other worlds, to meet strange new people, and see wonderful new places. My creative bug was back, and it was time to start writing and reading. I was so relieved to finally feel up to it. It has been such an exhausting few weeks, and knowing that my creative energy was coming back made me feel better physically, and mentally. It was coming back, but it wasn't quite there. It needed a little kick, or for someone to start its engine.

I was browsing through the endless world of the internet, when I somehow stumbled across a speech Ray Bradbury gave at a Writer's Symposium in 2001. I started reading Bradbury a few months ago, and thought, "This may be exactly what I need to hear." It was. It was exactly what I needed, and more.
Here is the link for it...I highly recommend taking the time to watch it. It is truly a gift.

I hope you watch it, for all of this sounds much better coming from Bradbury. I could never quite match those charming little "heh's, and hmm's" that marks the end of each thought. I took away so much from it. He says we must stuff our heads with information. Fill them with new ideas, and metaphors. Every night we should read one short story, one poem, and one essay (from any field).

For short stories, he recommends:

• Roald Dahl
• John Cheever
• Richard Matheson
• Nigel Kneale
• John Collier
• Edith Wharton
• Washington Irving
• Melville
• Poe
• Nathaniel Hawthorne

For Poetry, he recommends:

• Alexander Pope
• Shakespeare
• Robert Frost

For Essays, he recommends:

• Aldous Huxley
• Loren Eisley
• George Bernard Shaw

Fill your mind, and STUFF your head with ideas and metaphors. Devour them. And while you're at it, write one short story per week.

I see a machine. We input the poems, stories, and essays into our mind. Our brain absorbs the ideas, and processes them. We file away some ideas, perhaps for a rainy day, or perhaps for when we least expect it. Some of them stick with us. The ones that stick...that haunt us at night while we lie awake trying to make sense of the world, we have the joy of turning into stories. Input. Process. Output. They become our story of the week.

This is such an excellent habit for writers, and other creative folk to develop. Input. Process. Output. We are always learning, always creating. STUFF YOUR HEAD, fool. The world is rich with knowledge, beauty, and ideas. Use your big, brilliant brain. I'm starting today. I can't wait. I can look at my bookshelf behind my bed, and find everything I need to start. Poetry anthology? Check. The Works of Poe? Check. Emerson, Thoreau, Aristotle, Dante, and Shakespeare. I cant wait to eat them all. I suffer from book collectors syndrome. I buy books faster than I can read them. I need to own them. I crave a well stocked book shelf. I look at a book, and see an explosion of ideas. I dream of my future home, not because of the life it will mean I have created...but so I can think about where to put my books. I've known since I was about 14 that I would have a huge home library someday. Ideas, stacked neatly on shelves, waiting to burst! How exhilarating! Bradbury said it himself: "Live in the library," and "stuff your head."

He goes on to explain, that "It's the age of communication, but does anyone ever call you?" We shouldn't get so distracted by our devices, and gadgets. We don't need a fancy computer to write good stories. "You don't need anything but a pad and a pencil, for chrissake!" How right he is. I often find myself guilty of thinking "if only I had a better this, or the latest that. Then, I can really do my work. Then, I'll be a writer." Take all the devices away, and you'll still be a writer. A better one, at that! Less distractions.

But if we find ourselves constantly distracted, and never writing, perhaps...that's not what we should be doing. Bradbury claims to have never worked a day in his life, for "if it feels like work, stop, and do something else." We should feel complete joy when we write. Why else would we do it? Certainly not for the money. Nowadays, anyone can achieve their 15 minutes. So we don't do it for the fame. We do it for the sheer joy of storytelling.

But what happens when you don't know what to write about? Well, that goes back to input, process, output. When you fill your mind with so many ideas, something is bound to stir up a story. But if it doesn't, here are some excellent prompts to get your gears turning.

1. "Make a list of 10 things you love madly, and write about it."
2. "Make a list of 10 things you hate, and kill them." **
3. "Make a list of the things you fear, and write your own personal nightmares."
4. Write about the things that your not sure actually happened to you. Trust your intuition.

**Number 2 reminds me of a favorite Stephen King quote from his book On Writing. "Kill your darlings, Kill your darlings. Even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler's heart, kill your darlings."

These four prompts really got me excited, particularly #3. How delightfully terrifying, to write about the things that scare you. Reminds me of when I played a vampiress in Dracula a few years ago. (Shout out to my Drack Pack!) Vampires creep me out. I can't explain why, but they just give me the heeby-jeebies. They're one of my top 2 irrational fears. If you can guess the other, you win. But back to the point. While playing a vampire, I had to take what scared me most about them, and apply it to my performance. In my mind, they seem to move on a cloud of smoke. Their feet don't touch the ground. Their motions are fast, and fluid. Their eyes are deep, yet empty. Did I succeed in portraying this? No clue. But it sure as hell helped me get into character, and it was wonderfully scary. Write your own personal nightmares. Yes, this will be fun.

Most importantly, we must always be willing to surprise ourselves. I hear so much about how to outline, plan, plot...and while I do believe that it can be remarkably useful (eg: J.K. Rowling's outlines for Harry Potter), it may not be the best way to write every story you ever set out to do. I haven't been able to successfully draft a story yet. Maybe it's a lack of experience, or my indecisive nature. Perhaps someday, I'll master the art of outlining. But right now, I prefer Bradbury's method of surprise.

"You don't know what's in you until you test it. Until you word associate. You've been writing self consciously, intellectually for too long. The deep stuff, your true self, hasn't had a chance to come out. You've been so busy thinking commercially what will sell, what'll I do, instead of saying 'Who am I? How do I discover ME?' You word associate."

His idea of word association, sitting down and writing whatever comes to mind, is a fantastic one. You get all the junk out of your head, and then suddenly the thoughts click. The words work together, and characters emerge, setting becomes clear. Surprise!

Yes, this was exactly what I needed. For the first time in three weeks, my mind feels sharp. I feel alive, invigorated, and ready to create. So, here I go. From here until eternity, I will read one short story, one poem, and one essay per day. I will write one short story per week. Time to start developing some good writing habits, or as Bradbury called it, hygiene. I can't wait to see what surprises are in store.

Sidenote: My brain may have just exploded. As I typed the last sentence of the previous paragraph, I turned my head and saw the fortune I got after last weeks take out. I had taped it to my bookshelf for inspiration.

"There are many unexpected and thrilling surprises in store for you!"


I love it when the cookies are right. :)

Posted with Blogsy

THON

Greetings friends! Here I am, in Happy Valley, PA. It's the third weekend of February, and thousands of Penn State students are taking a stand against pediatric cancer.

It's the annual Penn State IFC/Panhellenic Dance Marathon, more lovingly known as simply: THON. THON is the world's largest student run philanthropy--a year long fundraising effort, that culminates in a 46 hour dance marathon. Last year, we raised $10.6 million for the kids. Money raised goes to the Four Diamonds Fund, which covers everything that insurance doesn't. It's a pretty remarkable organization, and they are truly making a difference in the efforts to CURE pediatric cancer.

I fell in love with THON in 2007. I was on GenePool's Rules and Regs committee, and was so awestruck by what was going on in the Bryce Jordan Center that even when I had a few hours off, I stayed to watch. For me, THON became more than a fundraising effort. It became than the 46 hours. It became a way of life. THON came to me months after my Grandpa's sudden passing. It pulled the rug from under my feet, and shattered my world. I was hurting, confused, and depressed. There was a veil over my eyes, and I couldn't see the beauty that surrounded me. When I walked into the BJC that weekend in February 2007, everything came into focus. When I witnessed the courage, wisdom, honesty and strength of those little superheroes...those amazing kids....I found my courage, my wisdom, my honesty and my strength. The kids inspired me to overcome what I was going through, and in that way...I guess you could say that THON saved me, too. I live my life by the four diamonds.


Courage. Honesty. Wisdom. Strength.

As I walked back to my dorm after THON that year, I made a promise to myself that whatever I decided to do with my life, it would involve giving back to my superheroes. It would involve coming to THON, and doing something For The Kids.

Seven years later, I am just as in love with THON as I was in 2007. It's now my third THON as an alum, and three years since I danced. This year, I've returned to Happy Valley as a best-selling children's author. It feels surreal to type, and say. But my debut Children's Book, "THE GRAY DAYS" has been as high as #7 on the Amazon Best Seller list for Children's Books. This afternoon, I'll be doing a reading of my book for the kids, at Webster's (4pm). A portion of proceeds from all books purchased at the event, and online this weekend will be donated to THON. I feel so blessed that I am able to fulfill my promise, and continue giving back to the Four Diamond Kids in my professional life. I hope that I can continue to do so, in the years to come.

For The Kids, forever and always.

Ariela

Posted with Blogsy

Onward.

Hey friends! This has been an unbelievably exciting week. After the SCBWI conference, my book sales began to climb. Then, I got a phone call. "Onward State published an article about you!!"

A whole article?

"A WHOLE ARTICLE!!!!!!"

I had contacted them regarding my upcoming event, but I wasn't expecting a whole article! In case you haven't seen it, check it out!

I have an interview with The Daily Collegian tomorrow, and have two more school districts in the works for author appearances. It feels so surreal. A little girl recognized me on the street the other day from when I visited her classroom. A girl that lives down the block from me was asking me questions about how to publish a book while I was shoveling my driveway yesterday.

Now, I just have to start the giant pile of books sitting on my desk!

Happy Sunday! :)

 

Posted with Blogsy

SCBWI pt. II

Greetings, friends, and Happy Thursday! (Thursday? Already?)

As most of you know, last weekend I had the absolute pleasure of attending the Society of Children's Book Writer's and Illustrators Conference in NYC. What an incredible experience. The community of artists who create stories for children are among the nicest people I have ever met. It was inspiring, and humbling to be surrounded by these wonderful, creative minds.

I always walk away from conferences with a revived sense of creative purpose. I remember why I do what I do, and am filled with the motivation to do it. Writing can be a lonely profession. I spend far too much time in my own head. Often, there are characters up there, dancing through the foggy streets of my mind. Their faces are obscured by the mist, and I can barely make out who they are. But then, I find myself in a room filled with writers. Their characters float around in their minds, sometimes bumping into mine. They interact, and slowly, the mist clears. For two days, I am breathing creativity. I am inhaling inspiration, and suddenly all of my ideas become clear. I know who I am, and who my characters are. I can see their world-it is defined, and beautiful.

"Aren't we lucky?" Wise words from the great Julie Andrews, who spoke at the conference. (I won't lie. When I met her, I burst into tears.) But seriously! How right is she?! We storytellers are so blessed. We can weave words into something magical. We can paint truth, and beauty. We can create worlds, and give life to creatures, and people. They dance off our pages, and into the imaginations of our readers. They hold a place in the heart of humanity, because the heart of humanity beats for them. They tell our stories. They teach us to see things differently. They show us who we can be. They are a gift, from my soul to yours.

Aren't we lucky, that we can perform such unique magic?

I spent Monday and Tuesday doing an author appearance at a local elementary school. The kids were incredible. Each classroom was a new experience, and the kids all brought something new to the table. We talked about the value of stories, and of imagination. We explored the power of imagination, through a visualization activity. Watching, as the children discovered what their own imaginations were capable of, was incredible. They lit up when I told them to write down, or draw what they imagined. It's a shame that kids need permission to use their imaginations in school--their schedules are so regimented, that they don't have time for creative writing. They were so excited to be able to just write! So many of them wanted to share, and even more of them said they wanted to keep working on it. After I read my book to them, they had so many questions. They were so curious to learn about what it's like to be a writer. They wanted to know if it was hard to be a writer, and of course, if it made you lots and lots of money. They wanted to know how to come up with ideas.

My final visit was in a fourth grade class. It was the end of the day, and when the bell rang, they crowded around me. Some wanted autographs, some wanted hugs. They wanted to share their ideas, and ask my advice on writing. It was so sweet, and so humbling.

The whole time, I could hear myself thinking: "Aren't we lucky?"

Yes. Yes, we are.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators Conference '13

My head is spinning from the sheer brilliance, wonderful creativity, and incredible people I encountered today. Much thanks to The Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, for putting this fabulous conference together.

I just got home, and will be heading back into Manhattan tomorrow morning at dawn, for round two. Some quick highlights from today, and then on Monday I will write a more in depth reflection of the weekend.

-Meg Rosoff. Seriously? This woman is phenomenal. I can't wait to fall into her stories. Also, thank you for being everyone's coffee this morning. You were hilarious, and brilliant.

-I have an addiction to books.

-Shaun Tan. Shaun Tan. Shaun Tan. Have you met his work? No? Go fix that. I confess: I didn't know who he was until today. I can't BELIEVE I didn't know who he was until today. His artwork is stunning, fantastical, sometimes dark, and always beautiful. His storytelling skills are unmatched. I was truly moved by his presentation, and can't wait to devour his books.

I'm not the only one who thinks of books as food, apparently. I eat my books, and devour each word. NOM.

I love writers, and the writing community.

I'm tired.

So! On that note, I'm off to dream about books. Have a wonderful rest of the weekend, everyone! Talk to you all again, soon!

Posted with Blogsy

Happy Flu Year

Greetings friends!

I can't believe it's already January 3, 2013. I've been sick since New Years Eve, with an awful flu. Seriously folks, get your flu shots. There is nothing fun about this, except that my dog won't leave my side. He's the best.

Anyway, as you can imagine, the past four days have been a bit of a blur. And while it has been pretty miserable, I am thankful for my health. My body is strong, and fully capable of fighting this off. Today is the first day that I feel somewhat like a person. I am thankful that this happened right at the beginning of a New Year. It was a bit of a wake-up call to me. There I was, optimism practically leaking from my pores. Ready to take on a New Year, and all that it has to offer...when slap! Hello reality, pleasure to meet you. What's that you say? The flu? But...I have plans! Big plans! This showed me that I need to take better care of my body. I need to take more vitamins, get active again, and eat better. This is my one body, and my one life. Making every moment count only goes so far. You have to treat your body right, so that you CAN make every moment count. It goes hand-in-hand.

That said, I've been doing some thinking in regards to my bucket list project. While I would LOVE to attempt 365 items, I think that for my own sake, I am going to cut it down to one item per week. 52 items, in 52 weeks. That will allow me more time to take care of myself physically. I can do more, if the opportunities present themselves. But I think this will be best for me.

On New Years Day, I tried so hard to come up with a Bucket List item to start with. I had no energy, and couldn't even talk. So, I decided to start working on my "I'm embarrassed that I haven't seen these movies" list. I watched The Graduate. Not the most exciting way to start a bucket list project, but hey, I had to work within my limits.

Happy New Year, folks. Take care of yourself, of your dreams, and of your passions.

 

Posted with Blogsy