Ceremonials

Have you ever stepped outside to see everything in high definition? The leaves on the trees in glorious three dimensions? The fractures in the asphalt, the oil stains in thirty shades of grey, and the skid marks like brush strokes painted upon the road? Or the sunlight shining through every blade of grass and the diffractions of shadows cast from the heavens onto the ground?

Today’s been one of those days.

The End At Last

It’s finally happened. Yesterday while I was at work my boss of over three years (and teacher a long time before that) came up to me and asked, “Am I correct to assume you won’t be returning next year?”

I looked at him and said, “My hope is to be at State, so… yes.”

It was only after he had walked away and I was walking back to my kids that I clutched at my chest and shook my head, whispering to myself, I can’t believe it’s finally true. It’s all suddenly real now. It’s hard to believe that I’ve reached the end at last.

Obvious Facts and Obscure Facets

If I say I’m going to break the trend by not including an introduction, but this very statement precedes the teaching and therefore carries the trend along, is the trend still kept or broken? No matter, just some musings, carry on.

2.6 This was another teaching of his:

A boor cannot be reverent;
An ignoramus cannot be pious;
A shy person cannot learn;
An ill-tempered person cannot teach;
Not everyone engrossed in business learns wisdom;
Where there are no worthy persons, strive to be a worthy person.

Hillel fascinates me. His attention to detail, his slightly skewed lessons that take some genuine thought to come together, his peculiar yet poetic way of phrasing things. If I should ever be a rabbi, I should like to be one like him. I suppose even if I never am a rabbi, I still will be a writer and a teacher, and these qualities of his I most invest my admiration in can still be mine someday. No matter, just some musings, carry on.

As you read this, should you be reading this around the time WordPress mechanically posts it as programmed (for, you see, the magic of the internet allows me to write this on Wednesday and post it on Saturday), I will be in a van destined for Jackson, Mississippi, for the ISJL Annual Education Conference. The ISJL, more verbosely known as the Institute of Southern Jewish Learning, provides my synagogue’s congregational school with our curriculum and most of the teachers are going. Obviously, I will be among them, but I mention this otherwise invisible temporal deception for one key point: That three of the six lines (that’s a whopping fifty-percent!) of this teaching concern, well, teaching. I find it ironically appropriate. The perfect lesson to learn before attending the conference.

I’m stoked.

The Julia-Mandelbrot Love Child

First and foremost I am a man of ideas. I have always been a man of ideas and I presume I shall always be a man of ideas. As such, I am of this nature easily inclined to fall in love with an idea, to infatuate myself in concepts and theories, to indulge in the orgasmic philosophies of imagination and the perpetuation of thought itself.

As such, I am also of the nature of put into things more thought than one might deem reasonable for the affair. I consider at length where I’ll spend my money, how I will spend it, and what will remain after it’s spent. I can spend days on end merely considering which movies, which books, which ideas I liked more than the last.

Take history. But two short years ago I was beginning college. I loved the idea of history, that ability to raise one’s eyebrows and make a well-informed comment upon how this has all happened before. Just look back in that year, at that place, at that one moment which parallels this, and you’ll see, very clearly, how we’ve just repeated our mistakes–for better or for worse I’d leave to the audience, but it’s only one such possible encounter with a historian.

Of course, but two short years ago, I was also beginning my first course in history. And I can assure you all, there was no delight in the act for the delight that mirrored the concept. I was bored. I sought answers and insight that did not exist in the text, that did not exist in the mindset of history. Though I still do love the idea of history, and of being historically knowledgeable, the study itself remains elusive, a passion I cannot hope to touch.

As a mathematician, I’m also exceedingly fond of tangents.

A Sojourn of Self and Soul

The Saturday before last was the youth Shabbat at my synagogue. In other words, the majority of the service was led by youth from our congregation, mostly middle- and high-school-aged students, with a few college kids and some of the teachers at our synagogue’s congregational school mixed in. It got me thinking. About a lot of things.

First of course, let me say this: You really feel old when you realize that you remember most of these children when they were a third their current size and had barely a tenth of their present Hebrew-reading skills. On the one hand it was gratifying in that way only known to educators to be able to say I shared a slight moment in their development, a minuscule step in the path that brought them each to leading services Saturday, but on the other hand, it makes me feel tremendously old. It’s like looking down at my own grandchildren: They started so small, and now they’re all grown up.

Worse is that this trail of thinking always evolves further. Soon I was thinking about all the other times I’ve lived through, all those faded fads I supported and all those past professions I’ve participated in. Pokemon, Digimon, Cardcaptor Sakura–some of these names you’ll never know if you’re even a few years younger than me–FernGully, Little Nemo, the Lion King and other classic Disney movies before Pixar (which although fabulous, is not nearly as classic) came around, the Brave Little Toaster, Thomas the Tank Engine, Encyclopedia Brown, Oracle of Seasons and Oracle of Ages–all these things that I grew up on, now most of them, gone. It brings a sudden realization to the fact of how quickly time really changes. We don’t think much of those “when I was your age…” stories that seem so trite, but trust me, children: When I was your age, things really were different. And I’m not that much older than you.

Of course, thinking about growing old always leads to thinking about growing older. The average life-expectancy of a man living in the US is only 76. I’m almost 22. That means more than a fourth of my life–or more precisely, 27.8% of my expected lifetime–has already passed me by. I’m more than a fourth dead by that statistic. And, just as I wonder every time I get on the path of wondering this, where have I gotten in the last decade? What have I done with my life?

Irrefutable Elegance

1.13     This was a favorite teaching of his:

He who seeks fame, destroys his name;
Knowledge not increased is knowledge decreased;
One who does not study deserves to die;
One who exploits Torah, will perish.

Still reading Hillel. Still awed by his elegance. Reading the Hebrew, even though I’m not yet to the point where I understand the words, it even sounds like poetry. In math and science, we see elegance in a special way: Something so concise and simple it’s graceful, something so succinct it cannot be said in any better way. Hillel shares this same elegance. It is the elegance of perfection; it is the elegance that most emulates the nature of God.

I’ve been watching a program on string theory today, and in it, it was said that Einstein was one of the physicists who truly wanted to see the face of God—to find the whole picture, the equation that explains everything in the universe. I share this nature, as I’ve implied in past posts, and I dream of one day finding what I call this proclaimed Holy Grail of Science—the God equation, the one or two lines of numbers and symbols that sum up the universe with the same elegance that Hillel sums up such ethics as these. But that is a day far off, and this is today.

I’ll discuss each line in turn, then discuss the whole. It’s much the same in physics today: We must address each force in particular, then unify the forces in general. In the end, both fact and philosophy share a singular goal: elegance.

It’s Fractal Almost

Plinky says:

“Ten years from now, what do you hope your life will be like?”

I asked myself a similar question this last summer when I was Israel. We were in the Beit Knesset (that is to say, in the vulgar, the chapel) and I was looking up at the stained glass window, thinking of where life might take me.

It started with a seed–who I was and where I was.

Then it started to grow: A stem (where I’ve been) and branches (where I’d be going). As it grew onwards and upwards, the branches kept breaking and breaking apart more and more, each traveling about the same distance before it bifurcated itself into two more possible futures, almost as if the fractal tree that branches perpetually.

I still see that tree, but now it has many more branches.

Among them:

The Mathematician: Herein my education is straightforward. I graduate GTCC, get my Bachelor’s in Mathematics with teaching licensure, and then I get a job either at a high school or a middle school and teach children how to understand math. It’s a passion of mine, both mathematics and teaching, and in this branch I’m happy and enjoying life, perhaps not making six figures as someone once complimented me by saying he could foresee me doing such, but it’s still a good life. At some point I might return to school and get my Master’s or Doctorate and teach at the collegiate level (GTCC’s head of the math department has implied she’d love to see me take her place someday), but no matter which way the branch continues to grow, I’m always doing what I love.

The Rabbi: This branch puts me in one of two places, either here in America or back in Israel. In either scenario, I complete my Bachelor’s as before and then migrate back up north, where I attend the Jewish Theological Seminary in NYC where I’m later ordained as a rabbi of the Conservative movement. Then again this branch diverges once more, wherein some leaves take me back to teaching and others to a congregation and still more to the Committee of Jewish Law and Standards. It’s an odd bunch of branches, I’ll admit, but they’re a nice place to bathe in the sunshine of spirited possibilities.

The Politician: This branch is still a new bud, spawn of my time in Raleigh at the SLI and also the political rally I aforementioned attended. In either case, much like the others, I continue till I’ve achieved my Bachelor’s, and then while I teach for a bit (or perhaps after I’ve taught for a bit), I return to school to get my Associate’s in Political Science (since you don’t need any political training to be a politician, I could just jump off the bridge here, but I’m of the philosophy that if you’re going to do something, do it right, so I’d take the time to make myself properly acquainted with politics before making myself a so-called politician). From here, I’d run for office. Perhaps on a school board at first, perhaps straight to state congress, later on to Congress itself, then perhaps as far as the Presidency. That part’s debatable. In any case, I’d bring common sense and sensibility back to America, looking at the facts first, not the favors we’d be offered, and do what’s best for the nation, not what’s best for me. I’d lobby for intelligent functioning and equality for all. It’d be a good day in my country.

And the Writer: This one’s like a willow branch, long and slender and wispy like the wind. It flutters in and out, through the other branches, wherever life may take me, as I continue to write here–upon my blog–and elsewhere, stories and novels and many more things. Sometimes I get published upon this branch and make millions, sometimes only thousands, sometimes only a dedicated fanbase. But no matter where this thread of life goes, it’s always a part of where I am, always a part of who I am.

The sad part is that each of these branches lacks a little thing like a flower: They’re covered in leaves, but all trees have leaves, and mine is lacking some color. In all of these scenarios, I’m career-oriented and goal-driven (the picture of America right there), but I’m loveless and, if yet still happy, lonely. They forget to factor in the indiscernible future, the love interests and relationships, the man I’ll marry, the family we’ll have. And whereas I can’t see any of that, this tree is but a seed still and little more than that.

Three Precepts

1.1          Moses received the Torah from God at Sinai.

He transmitted it to Joshua,
Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets
the Prophets to the members of the Great Assembly.

They formulated three precepts:

Be cautious in rendering a decision,
Rear many students,
Build a fence to protect the Torah

Before I begin: A note on the English translation: The Pirkei Avot was originally written in Hebrew and in some parts Aramaic, but obviously, my Hebrew is not terribly strong and my Aramaic is nonexistent. For this I will be using the translations from my siddur (Jewish prayer book), a copy of the penultimate edition of Siddur Sim Shalom. Although on occasion I may comment directly on the Hebrew using my scant knowledge thereof, this will only be on occasion, and on such occasions, I may inadvertently mistranslate, for which I ask now your forgiveness. Hopefully, this endeavor will aid in my acquisition of Hebrew. Probably, it won’t.

I begin: This is going to be harder than I expected.

On the one hand, I feel I’m educated enough in Jewish history to be able to understand, at least in part, the historical context of most of the Pirkei Avot. But on the other hand, my education is limited and I can only take it so far before I start barking up the wrong tree. Yet on another hand, I’ve learned time and time again throughout my own Jewish education and that of my students, that nothing in Judaism is taught only once. Every time something is taught, or in some cases, learned, it is done with a new level of awareness, a new perspective on both life and the material. Even if I should stray from the intended lessons while I read through the Pirkei Avot, this will inevitably only be the first of many times I will study and learn this chapter of the Talmud.

Realising that, I can make two precepts of my own, and perhaps tie them together with those three of the mishneh: First, that if I learn nothing, I will have at least read through this entirely, something likely to be done today by the few, not the many. Second, that if I learn something, I will have at least delved a little deeper into reaching and understanding something greater than myself. These two facts—for facts they are—are not absolutes. I am certain in places I will go wrong, misread, misunderstand, but in other places I will have my eyes opened and see as clearly as ever before. Which leads to a third statement: That if I follow through with this, I will reach a greater understanding of myself and Judaism and through this personal growth, will become a better, wiser, and stronger person, closer to my faith, and closer to keeping the Sabbath.

So how do my three realizations tie together with those of the mishneh? I presume, historically, and know from my own research on halakha (Jewish law) that these three precepts are applied most consistently to determining law, or in the words of country singer/songwriter Jewel Kilcher: “Don’t think too hard, don’t think too fast. Don’t ever give away what you can’t take back.” That is, when determining law, you have to think about more than just a single instance, but about the ramifications of even the smallest decisions. And when talking about the Torah, play it safe. Don’t do what draws too close to crossing that line of giving away what you can’t take back.

Of course, I’m not determining law. That is obvious and expected. But in a way, personal habit is similar to personal law. It’s a set of rules to follow, all of them chosen by myself (mostly), but a set of laws to be followed nonetheless. And if this is to become a habit, as I intend it to be, I must set forth personal laws to govern myself as I go forth with this endeavor. So it seems only natural then to apply what this mishneh says to my personal journey as a student of the Pirkei Avot.

Let’s look at that first precept: “Be cautious in rendering a decision.” Or, as I’ve already said, “Don’t think too hard, don’t think too fast.” That is, as I read through each of these, I need to put real thought into what they mean. If it’s going to be of any worth, to me and to my readers, I have to put energy and effort into this. I just can’t make something up and be done. I have to think genuinely and honestly. I have to render my decisions on what they each mean cautiously.

The second—“Rear many students”—seems obscure at first and I’m tempted to simply say since I’m not teaching this to anyone, it does not apply, but that would instantly break the aforementioned precept of being cautious in making decisions. Instead, however, I have to realize that this is going to be—or at least may be—read by a lot of people, so even if my intent is not teaching this, inadvertently I will be sharing this with people who may or may not know anything about Judaism—and that means I’ll have to write my words in such a manner that others can learn, too. It may take a little extra care on my part, but if I’ve learned anything with all that I’ve already taught, it’s that to truly learn something, you have to teach it to others first. Not only does this mean I’ll learn more doing this, it also means that everyone who reads this may gain something as well. And this, at least, is a lesson that all internet users can put to use.

The very last precept to talk about, to “Build a fence to protect the Torah,” is already well-known to me, although I know it in a slightly different form: to build a fence around the Torah. It’s the reason why, for much of Jewish history, even asexual homosexual relationships were looked down upon simply because the mere action of two homosexual men, attracted to each other, holding hands could—by way of progressively more extensive actions—lead to the violation of the Torah’s laws prohibiting certain male-to-male sexual acts. Thus a fence was built around the Torah, so that no one could accidentally transgress without intending to. Again, as Jewel would say, “Don’t ever give away what you can’t take back.”

Furthermore, for my purposes here, it’ll serve as a good reminder and will help me to not go too far astray in my thoughts, should I ever step from the beaten path of meaning. It’ll be worthwhile to remember while considering what other parts of the Pirkei Avot may mean, and it’ll always serve as the last lesson of the first part of my journey. That in itself makes it something special.

Some Years Change Everything

Sometimes the stars say it all, and sometimes they don’t. But when they do, how much I wish I could just look up past the endless smog and see all the answers I seek. If only it really were the destination, not the journey, that mattered. The world would be a much better place. Or perhaps, the world wouldn’t be much a place at all.

2004: The year that changed everything (the second time)

If one phrase could sum up this year sufficiently, it’d be family issues. My grandmother died. My parents split up. We had to put our dog to sleep. I was big on poetry at the time, and I recall writing in my room as I listened to the argument that ended everything: “I want to sleep but I can’t close my eyes / I want to feel whole but there’s nothing inside / I’m ten feet under covers but still I’m freezing cold / I’m petrified in silence and there’s nothing I can hold.”

We had to move that year. I packed up my journal and said goodbye to the wild.

2005: The year that changed everything (for the third time)

I still wore the mask of a Jew, and being as that I could not bring myself to confess my conflicts of religion, I became a volunteer with my synagogue’s Hebrew school when my mother prompted me to do so. I skipped out on my first day and talked the whole two hours with a friend of mine from my own days in Hebrew school, but the second day I was there, I fell in love. I worked with two great teachers that year and became friends with each of the six third- and fourth-graders that I worked with as madrich (teacher’s aid), helping keep the children in line and do errands as needed. Most of all I began to notice another world of Judaism that I’d not known of nor been exposed to as a pre-adolescent child. As this new world opened up around me, I was slowly reabsorbed into the faith I had thought lost forever. A new Jew was born.

That year I also began attending our local Hebrew High School, and there was one student that captured my heart in a way I hadn’t know it could be captured. All my life I’d thought I’d have a wife and had explained away my lack of interest in girls with the saying that I just hadn’t met the right one yet, and then I met him. Single-handedly, he changed my life; with a handshake, he captured my heart forever.

Confusion was my first response. All the rest was summed up with the words “cherry blossom death.”

Those are vague, and I intend them to be. No one quite realizes how personal sexuality is, but also no one quite realizes how much it is a part of someone’s life and a part of their entire being, not just their sexual endeavors. In fact, sexuality is a misnomer, because it isn’t about sex. It’s about companionship, it’s about love, it’s about romance and intimacy. The story of my coming out to myself is a story all it’s own, but here it should be known that the journey was as important as the destination, that the end itself was a part of the means, and that the end and the journey are now synonymous as I continue forward in my own life, facing all the struggles of being gay, and being Jewish, and the unique challenges presented to me by being both. It’s an integral part of who I am, and much like at the dawn of  mathematics when no one could imagine what integrals were, and probably would have dismissed them if they had been told, my reaction to this integral part of me was much the same: It had always there, but I hadn’t always known it, and that was the challenge I was now meant to face.

Where in all this does the phrase “cherry blossom death” fit? Squarely in the middle, but as I’ve said, that’s a story for another day, and with only four years of the last decade left, that’s a story that will simply have to wait for another, later date to be told.