Three Cheers for Dorothy

APPLAUSE in American Sign Language

Tomorrow I am teaching a seed bead class at The Beaded Iris in Albuquerque. (You can see my teaching schedule with pics on my Classes page on this blog). When I advertised the class, I sent out flyers to the local Deaf Community. I know American Sign Language. In fact, my home is bilingual and I use ASL everyday. I got a video message on my iphone from a woman who called the video phone (VP) at my home. When I clicked on the video, there she was, asking about my class. I don't think Dorothy would disagree with me that she's elderly. We had a VP conversation and I held up some samples of the bead project in front of the VP camera at my house. She said "oooohhh" with her facial expression, and then she signed. "I would like to try it. Something new!"

Two weeks ago was the first session. I taught in English and ASL in tandem. Dorothy has glaucoma, but she carried on with the seed beads with persistence. It was the first time she had worked with seed beads. "So tiny, " she remarked. She seemed a little nervous. But she's a lady who had her hands tied in elementary school to prevent her from signing. She learned ASL anyway. So, I knew she had moxie. As she focused on her first three rows of peyote stitch, the room was filled with the chatter of the hearing students. It is harder to "talk" when you need your eyes and hands for both the art and the conversation. We took some breaks from the beads and got to know each other with our full attention.

From time to time I let Dorothy know what the chatter topic was amongst the other students. But, there was really no way she could be a full participant in that conversation. She finally got the peyote set up, undaunted by her vision, her age, lack of experience, and being the only deaf person in the class. By the end of the session she made a beautiful focal piece for her necklace - purple and green. Truly stunning.

Dorothy's sense of adventure and her willingness to take a risk and try something new despite the challenges inspires me. Tomorrow is the second session. I can't wait to see what she is going to do with the netting I will teach. Perhaps, one day there will ASL chatting in my classes as well.

Ammonite Fossil with Peyote Bezel "in Progress"

The Tent

I had a flare of Obsessive – Compulsive Disorder after my son was born. I didn’t know I had a mental illness, I just knew I was losing my mind; But only mildly so. I was a good and loving mom to my baby. I went back to work as physician and did a good job there too. But, while I was pumping my milk and multi-tasking, I was feeling my neck for sprouting cancers. I avoided the outdoors, lest I be stung by a bee and die. I couldn’t look at peanut butter as it might cause anaphylaxis. I held my breath in my garage, in case of Hantavirus mouse droppings. I thought my husband would give me AIDS. It didn’t matter that I am not allergic to bees or peanuts and that my husband was HIV negative. I knew I was irrational, so I tried to ignore myself. I went mountain biking and hiking and planned my next child. But I was miserable with anxiety that bubbled just under my skin. I got into a fight with my husband because he wanted me to eat a wild berry.

My son’s babysitter was a religious woman from rural Mexico. With my family far away, she was one of the few maternal figures I had in New Mexico. We spent a lot of time in my kitchen talking about our lives. She also tended toward anxiety. I asked her once how she handled flying in airplanes, something that had become scary for me. She said she trusted in God. I wanted that. I wanted a loving God who would protect me. Even if he couldn’t, at least give me a God that I believed could. What I really wanted was Peace Of Mind. I didn’t know a thing about finding that. So I went looking for God.

I like being Jewish, so I looked in Jewish places. I started to attend Chabad services every Sabbath. Chabad is the outreach movement of a sect of Hasidic Jews who feel it is their mission to help other Jews become more religious. They have outposts all around the world, for Jews who live there, or who are just passing through. They follow the teachings of their deceased leader, or Rebbe, Menachem Schneerson, who escaped Europe’s persecution of Jews, and died of old age in New York City in 1994. I figured I had a better chance of finding God with the Chabadniks, than with the Jews who prayed down the street and dressed like me, but didn’t keep kosher.

The Chabad mission to further my yiddishkeit or Jewishness was perfect fodder for the insatiable OCD gremlin in my head. I started to feel something strong take hold of me. I HAD to pray. Soon I had to pray better, and longer. I HAD to light Sabbath candles. Then, I HAD to make sure no one blew them out. I HAD to stop touching money on the Sabbath. I was compelled to these acts. If I didn’t do them someone would die. In life or death situations it is hard to be flexible. My husband was horrified as my religiosity and my rigidity increased sure and steady. The more anxious I became, the harder I looked for God.

Orthodox Judaism has a lot of rules. Members of this group find pride in following them. The mystical and spiritual side is less obvious to outsiders. Hasidic Jews believe that their leaders are channels to the divine. Week after week I would attend Sabbath services at the Chabad outpost. After the religious service, I would stick around for the luncheon. This is when I started to hear stories about the Rebbe’s Ohel, or tent.

The beloved leader “the Rebbe” is buried in a cemetery in Queens, in New York City. I laughed when I heard this, because anyone who’s been to Queens knows that it seems like everyone is buried there. Endless rows of graves. One of them belongs to Menachem Schneerson. Apparently it is believed by many, that praying at the Rebbe’s grave is the closest thing to having God’s ear. Over a couple of years of Sabbath luncheons, I heard a handful of stories of miracles that occurred after a graveside prayer.

I mentioned this to my father who lives in New York. He is a very practical, rational, and grounded man, and only mildly religious. I was surprised to learn that he already knew about this place. In fact, his brother had prayed there. “Really?” “I want to go,” I said, hopefully. “On your next visit to New York, we’ll go.” He replied with the assurance of a deal just closed. I couldn’t believe it. My father would help me get God’s ear. At Chabad, they told me, “Be careful what you pray for, because it is going to come true.”

My dad arranged everything with a Chabad Rabbi he had met in NY (who turned out to be my local Rabbi’s uncle). My father had a client who also wanted to join. In honor of our trip to the Ohel, the client hosted us to breakfast that morning. The NY Rabbi Uncle picked us up in a very old and declining sedan at the very fancy Carlyle hotel, in Manhattan. He had a couple of other men with him who were happy for a ride to the Ohel. There we were: Three Hasids in matching overgrown brown beards, pasty-white skin, and poorly fitting black suits; two stylishly dapper middle aged men with silk ties, and one modestly dressed freckle-faced me.

The NY Rabbi Uncle maneuvered that jalopy as I thought only a city cab driver could. We zoomed from one borough to the next, over a bridge, and through narrow one-way streets with warehouses and defunct storefronts. Eventually, he stopped on a residential street and parked the car with confidence. Feeling like the new kid at school, I followed the others into an unassuming brick “house-like” building. It functioned as an antechamber to a very large area – that may have, in fact, been a giant tent. There were rows and rows of fold-up tables and chairs. Some people were milling about, others seated and writing. Based on their dress, I saw that some were Hasidic and some not. The space was still mostly empty. Clearly this was only a fraction of what the room had occupied and would again. I remembered seeing footage of the Rebbe leading gatherings, or fabringens, of thousands of his followers, who relished the opportunity to be in his presence and receive his wisdom. They had moved their fabringens from Hasidic Brooklyn to this Queens cemetery to be near their Rebbe.

We did a preparatory ritual hand washing and sat down to contemplate and write our prayers. I would ask for 2 things. I wanted my anxiety removed from me. I also wanted a child. I had been unable to get pregnant after 18 months of scientific “trying”. I didn’t dare ask for a girl, but I did request “healthy”.

As soon as I started writing my skin began to prickle. I became numb, and detached. I felt as if I were floating. When my peripheral vision started to blacken, I called out to the NY Rabbi Uncle. He pulled me out of that large room and quietly called for assistance. Several Hasidic men with bushy beards and black suits jumped up and came to my aid. My dad was there, a cup of water, a bench. My vision was clearing, but I was terrified. What had just happened? “What if God doesn’t want me to have what I am asking for? What if God thinks I am wrong for asking? Will God kill me?” The NY Rabbi Uncle looked at me with a piercing gaze that grabbed me firmly yet with compassion. His white skin seemed translucent and ephemeral and his blue eyes sparkled. From inside that brown forest of a beard his invisible lips said simply, “It doesn’t work that way. God is good. Ask.”

I finished writing. I followed the prescribed ritual. I removed my leather dress shoes and walked my stocking feet along a narrow concrete pathway to the grave. I lit a candle, and went to the women’s area. Others were there, with head-coverings and long sleeves, their lips moving in quiet fervor. I read my prayer in a whisper. And then, as is the custom, I tore it to shreds and let the pieces float onto the enormous pile of paper bits. I turned and left it in God’s Hands.

Back in the big room, I felt drained and fragile. At the NY Rabbi Uncle’s urging, I had some juice and a bagel. The Hasids caught a ride back to Brooklyn to get ready for the Sabbath. The NY Rabbi Uncle sped us back to Manhattan. I was relieved to be out of there. It was all too intense. But, if I had had God’s ear, it was definitely worth it. That night, I hoped I would have a sign. I did. I had a vicious panic attack, the worst ever. My friend was visiting and it came on suddenly. She saw me rocking, retching, and beyond help. It lasted for hours. I felt destroyed and utterly abandoned. This was God saying “No.” I would never be free of the terrors that haunted me. I wouldn’t get my baby girl. I should never have asked for what was never to be.

Years later I realized that I had misread that sign.

Pulse - Becoming a Doctor (Part I)

As a little girl I dreamed of becoming a doctor. When I was in elementary school I used to wish on wishbones and first stars in the night sky that it would really happen. I was excited by the idea that such a great person could one day be me. I could go through the crucible and be turned into one who knows what’s wrong and fixes it. I could help other people and make things right. I would envision myself running down a hall, with the open sides of my long white coat flying behind me, on my way to save a life. I knew that when I could do that, I would feel the way a person should feel: worthy and good and right with God.

In my culture, the belief is that a person who is bright with a mind for science could do no better than become a doctor. I love science, especially biology and physiology. As a little kid I would examine the scabs of my perpetually skinned knees with wonder. “Some day I will know what this is made of,” I thought. I remember the first day of my second year of medical school, when my pathology professor explained the mysterious scab. It was made of special proteins with scientific names. It required a whole system of cascading reactions to come into being. I was hooked.

I was fascinated with birth defects. Instead of turning away I wanted to know what exactly is wrong and how exactly did that happen. In junior high school I learned that the reference desk at my local library held a book called the March of Dimes Compendium of Birth Defects. I would trade in my library card as collateral and carry the heaviest, most enormous book I’d ever seen to a table where I would sit alone for as long as I could and flip the pages slowly. Each picture drew me in. It was like walking in the Louvre; even in a lifetime I would never see it all. The secret mechanisms behind those pictures were revealed to me in my embryology class. I loved learning how 2 “half-cells” became a human being with all our physical complexity. But even more so, I savored the pages of the text with pictures from that March of Dimes book and captions that described the process that went awry.

Years before medical school while an undergraduate at an Ivy League university I surprised myself by becoming sidetracked from my career path. I started to learn American Sign Language at a nearby school for the deaf. My thirst for understanding shifted from science to people, language, and culture. I majored in anthropology and stopped studying for my medical school entrance exam. I made forays into the insular “Deaf World” and spent a semester at Gallaudet University, the liberal arts college for the deaf in Washington, D.C. I moved to Israel and lived on an agricultural commune called a Kibbutz. I worked in an archeological excavation and led tourists on archeological adventures on our dig. I completed my bachelors degree from abroad. I explored the world and a little bit of myself. Despite all the wonderful experiences I was having, I felt empty and not worth much.

When I returned to the United States, it seemed that becoming a physician would fill that emptiness. Again, I pinned my happiness on that dream. Many times when I was feeling low, I would revisit the fantasy of saving a life, and feeling right. In some ways the culture of medical school puffs up the students egos in the same way we plump up chickens with steroids. There is a myth that we are the elite, just being there. To be honest, for someone like me, a natural test-taker with a great memory and a strong will to succeed, medicine is almost an easy path.Yes, it is a long road and it requires self sacrifice. But, it is a very well trod path. Once you jump on, it is almost hard to turn off. There’s a machine and a system in place to keep you on, and help you succeed.

I had thought I was enchanted with scabs and birth defects. But, putting my hands on a woman’s beating heart was the pinnacle. I had this opportunity in the operating room as a third year medical student rotating on the surgery service. I could tell that the surgeon had a little crush on me despite his being 50 years my senior. He let me be part of the team that removed a cancerous lung. He wanted to “show me a good time” and so during the operation, he encouraged me to put my hands on the patient’s heart when it was exposed. There was a tremendous energy in that rhythm. It passed like an electric current into my own hands and coursed through my own veins. I experienced the the power of the origin of the human pulse! It was the life force condensed in its most primal physical parameter. It was a beautiful summer day with the sun shining and a light breeze blowing outside the walls of the hospital. I had worked long days everyday of the past seven. I had woken up exhausted and dragged myself to the hospital. Yet, cloistered away under those artificial lights I was alert and energized. I could think of no other place I’d rather be than in that windowless bubble of the OR, with my palm on a beating heart.

The Gift of Sorry (The Healing Power of Facebook III)

Roses Are Forever Ring

It was late at night and I was doing some light perusing on facebook. When I saw Lily's picture on my friend's list of friends, my stomach flip-flopped with a familiar pang of guilt. I added her as a friend and was surprised to see the confirmation. It really didn't help, though. Seeing Lily pop up as my friend seemed only to remind me of the weighty lessons I learned many years ago at her expense.

It was December of seventh grade. Lily, three friends, and I were gathered together for a holiday party and small gift exchange. When Lily opened a giant box with her name on it, I was unprepared for her gift. It seemed that the 3 others had concocted a "gag" gift for Lily with deodorant, tampons, mouthwash, and toothpaste. As Lily pulled one item and then another from the box, I was speechless. What could this mean? Lily was clearly uncomfortable, blushed, and made the best of it with a nervous laugh.

The gag gift itself was nothing serious. But it heralded a period of torture for Lily. Although I was mortified by what came next, I stood by silently. I comforted myself with the idea that I wasn't participating in the harassing phone calls, mean behavior or whatever else they were conjuring up. Somehow, they knew not to call me into their inner circle of scheming. Nonetheless, I stayed on the edge, quietly tiptoeing along.

One evening I was with my mother as she was preparing dinner, when Lily's mother showed up at my house. There she stood, in my kitchen, determined to be heard. She had an accent from Europe and she was agitated and I couldn't understand everything she said. She started to cry and shout and I did hear her talk about how it was "just like when I was a child" and "the phone calls". What was happening to her daughter was bringing back memories of being a Jewish child in Germany. The mother of my friend had been separated from her family at age nine. They were all killed by the Nazis. Lily's mistreatment seemed to have triggered a flashback.

My mother helped her calm herself and assured her she would take care of things. Lily's mother turned and left. What came next was very difficult for me, thanks to my mother. She asked me a lot of questions. Beginning with "But I didn't do any of it", I told her everything.

What she said next seemed very unfair. "If you stand by and do nothing while you see others hurting someone, you are also guilty." She told me this was also a lesson from the Nazis. She said I had to be Lily's friend. I was sure this would herald my own downfall, as the others would turn on me. I had been afraid to give Lily her birthday present (lest the others find out). So it had been sitting in my room for a few weeks, all wrapped and ready. My mother said she was driving me over to Lily's house after dinner and I was giving it to her. She said, "This ends tonight."

I gave Lily the gift and she invited me into her bedroom. We both awkwardly acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the last few weeks (or months, I can no longer remember). I didn't apologize. My own part in this had not yet become clear to me. My mom picked me up. I told her it had gone okay. I resented my mom for sending me on this suicide mission as I was sure that by the next morning I would be the next target.

Today, over 30 years later, I can't remember how the other girls found out I had gone to Lily's house and given her the gift. But I know they did. Because it did end that night. The next day at school Lily was just another kid. She was no longer their target. They never did turn on me. With my act of "normal" behavior, of doing what was right, my part in this incident became crystal clear. All along I had had the power to end it, and I had not acted. Therein lies my guilt when I see Lily's picture.

A few weeks after Lily confirmed me as her "friend" on facebook, the green dot next to her name tells me that we are both "on" at the same time. I start the chat. She responds. She's acting casual, but before I know it, my apology is tumbling off my fingertips. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I tell her I have never felt right about it. I tell her about her mom coming to my house (though she already knew). I tell her that many times I have spoken out because of what I learned from that experience. She shares with me that what we did had a big impact on her. She's glad we chatted. I am too. I feel better. I feel purged, cleansed. It lasts a few days. But today, weeks later, as I am typing this another lesson rears itself upon me. I still don't feel right. Sorry helps. Being forgiven helps. Forgiving myself helps. Apologies and amends are powerful. But, in the end, what we do, is done, never to be undone.

Loneliness, Interrupted (The Healing Power of Facebook, Part II)

I had a best friend until I was almost 4 years old. His name was Paulie, and we each lived in apartments on the same floor of a building in the Rego Park neighborhood in Queens, NY. He was the “taken for granted” background of my life. We saw each other everyday. Our mothers were friends. He was my favorite person, and favorite activity. On one summer morning, in his apartment, we were making a magic rock garden. We were taking turns dropping colored rocks with special potential into the bowl. As they started sprouting crystals, my parents entered the room. I must have known something. I cried and clung to my friend and his furniture. They pried open my fingers and we left for the suburbs. That was the end of it.

I’ve never found another best friend. But I came close. Her name was Lizzie. After our move, I had remained unmoored for years. And then she was there in my 4^th grade class. As I was an undersized, young appearing, waif-like child, I was always on the look-out for someone with my proportions and my perspective; someone who might also feel overlooked, undervalued, and vulnerable on the sports field. Lizzie was there, petite, ready to laugh, and open to my friendship. She interrupted the isolation that had become the background of my life. She already had a best friend for years (a Paulie), who was her neighbor. Their mothers were friends. I understood that was not my place with Lizzie.

What we had was a shared perspective. We were two tiny girls, who liked to catch frogs and puzzled over our classmates obsession with brand jeans and sneakers. Day after day for 3 years, we circulated among the same kids, witnessed the same classroom dramas, and avoided the same bullies. We giggled, pondered, and played. We found refuge from difficulties in our home lives, though we never talked of those.

One summer day at the end of 6^th grade, we were playing at Lizzie’s house and I tripped over a rug. I landed hard and the wind knocked out me. Lizzie’s mother was on the phone, but hung up and dramatically came to my aid. “I was talking to my lawyer,” she said with emphasis. Soon after that day, Lizzie told me, “My parents are getting divorced and we are moving away.” That was the end of it.

I entered Jr. High School, unmoored once again. Lizzie and I talked by phone once or twice. She was remote and distant. No details. Yes and no answers to my searching questions. She was truly gone.

Thirty-three years later she is there on my computer screen. She is my new facebook friend. I tracked her down through her “real” best friend’s page. I asked with trepidation if she remembered me. I was sure I had been forgotten. I had assumed all these years that she had gotten swept up by a better life with better friends in her new town.

What came back in my inbox was a long and reassuring, but also saddening message. Lizzie treasured our friendship. She remembered details, exploits, and conversations that I had, in fact, forgotten. She had become remote, distant, and eventually disappeared as her family collapsed and she was pulled into that spiraling vortex of chaos. My little13-year-old fellow frog catching friend detached from her old life in order to steel herself for a new life defined by hardship and survival.

Through facebook we are now building a path back to each other. It comes in fits and starts. Lizzie’s adult voice is shedding a special light on a story I have told myself, so many times, I’ve believed it. In that story my life was hard and lonely and even my “best” friends didn’t want me. What I see today is that my “difficulties” would be another child’s good day. I was cherished by my friend. Yes, I lost her. But not for the reasons I thought. Through Lizzie’s recollections I am remembering the vastness of the interruption – not the least of which were giggles.

The Healing Power of Facebook - Part I

Blue Sparkle by Julia Hecht 2010

I avoided facebook for as long as was possible. I am not one who enjoys knowing a million people and making small talk with them. I am more of a one-on-one, get-down- to-the-nitty-gritty kind of friend. I want to know what is really going on for people. I want to be able to tell my friends the truth. I guess I like connection, but I want REAL. I am also an emerging artist trying to promote my work. The more I read about being an artist in the 21st Century, the more I was pointed to “social networking” and yes, facebook. I realized my facebook-phobia was getting in my way of promoting myself as an artist. I told myself that if it was useful for winning the presidential election, it might be worth a try. I would keep it strictly professional. I would not post pictures of my children, or give private details of my life. I reassured myself that if I didn’t like it, I could always jump off, pull the plug, de-boot, or however one stops that sort of thing.

I started the time consuming task of finding and collecting “friends”. At first they were the people I see around town, other parents of my children’s friends, friends from old jobs. Then, I started finding the old boyfriends. Then friends I knew in other countries from what seemed like other lifetimes. I got discouraged (and resentful, hurt, and bitter) when someone I admired in Jr. HS (I’ll call her “A”) never wrote back after I shared something personal from my life story. I had thought we were having a good exchange. She had said my “honesty was endearing”. Then when I “opened up”...nothing. Empty inbox. I felt catapulted back to my “freakdom” days of awkwardness and rejection. I thought, “Here I am, all grown up and they still don’t want to be my friend.” I found myself trying to be cool on facebook so people would like me. Something was not right. Years ago I had decided there was no such thing as “cool” and happily gave up that futile fight. How had this happened? Why was I repeating the horrors of adolescence at age 45?

The first healing happened when I shared my despair about A not writing back with my dear friend, Judith, who I’ve known since we were 12. We’ve managed to stay in contact all these years, even without the aid of a social networking tool. I told her I thought I had offended A, and why. Judith thought I was probably wrong. Because of facebook, Judith and A had just seen each other, when Judith’s work took her to the city where A now lives. “I don’t get that impression of her,” she said. Judith and I then shared our own experience of those Jr. High School years. We had both been plagued by fear and loneliness that we could not articulate then, even to each other. “If you really don’t want to repeat the patterns of Jr. High School, why don’t you ask her what happened, and why she hasn’t written?” Judith is wise and she had a point. I could try acting like a mature woman.

I wrote to A - through email, which I got from her facebook info page. I said that I was glad we had connected, that I hadn’t heard back and I hoped I hadn’t offended her (I did have in mind a particular possibly offensive remark I had made). This person, whom I hadn’t spoken to for 30 years wrote back right away (from Australia, no less) to reassure me that she thought she had written back, was NOT offended, and really glad to be in contact. A very sweet message followed.

We did not become best friends on facebook . But every time I log on and see her picture, I smile. Because of my dear friend’s encouragement I stared down those rejecting faces from Jr. High School that had started to revisit me. With the strength of a 45 year old woman who wants to grow and heal, I took a risk. I took a chance at “doing it differently”. With the force needed to break bones, I broke a pattern. I “checked in” with A, instead of assuming the worst. I put myself out there with kindness in my heart, and true hope for a nice connection with someone with whom I share some history. I was rewarded. More importantly, I was, in some small way, healed.

If you have a healing story connected with facebook please share in the comments section.

Coming Soon: The Healing Power of Facebook: Parts II and III