Memories

The Snowy Valentine

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I know we are not the same as when I came to my forever home seven years ago. Over the past year, my fur has turned snowy white. I blend into the pale comforter on the bed. My little face is wizened like a very old woman. I know when you look at me, you see a mirror image of yourself- your older reflection staring back, only through my still-loving, and devoted brown eyes. You do not hide or cover up my soft, silvery strands the way a humans does, trying to preserve the last shreds of youth. 

I have loved you more with each year that has passed. Old canine love is special—Each day is a precious gift as life fades away. I know you are taking more pictures of me. Even when I’m asleep. (You think I don’t notice, but I do…) You never complain about my many accidents. I dotry to go on the paper. I’m not able to stand on my paws for a bath, so you hold me in your water soaked arms. And our many trips to the vet—I perk up for those occasions so the doctor won’t worry about me. 

You don’t leave me alone nearly as much. I’m getting many more belly rubs. And you bring out my old favorite squeaky toys to try to renew my puppyhood When we walk outside you are behind me to gently hoist me up the stairs. Or to carry me. 

I don’t have to bark for you, my human. You are just there. I am your snowy Valentine. And you are mine. We are old dogs together. I wrap my paw around your hand. And there it will rest for the remainder of our journey.

You are my snowy Valentine

Stuck in the Big Fish! A Story for Yom Kippur.

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grayboat

Have you ever been stuck in a big fish taxi?

 

Has God ever asked you to do something that you just didn’t want to do? Was there an important message you did not heed? Jonah had that happen to him. Here is his story.

God:

Jonah, here’s your mission. Go to the great city of Nineveh and tell the people who live there that their sins and wickedness have come to my attention.

Jonah:

Me? Go to Nineveh? That lousy neighborhood? It’s a hotbed of violent crime. There’s no industry. Their infrastructure is crumbling. Those thugs own the black market on weapons, Cedar and Tyrian purple. I don’t want to go to Nineveh. Anyway, those people are hopeless.

God:

Jonah, go to Nineveh.

Jonah:

No way. I’ll hop on a cruise ship and sail somewhere else — anywhere but Nineveh. I could use a vacation. Life is exhausting.

Narrator:

Jonah falls into a deep sleep aboard the ship when suddenly . . .

Sailor #1:

Excuse me, sir. Jonah, please wake up!

Jonah:

(Groggy.) I was taking a quick nap. What is it? What’s wrong?

Sailor #1:

A storm, sir. The crew tried everything. We’re afraid the ship will capsize in this wind. The captain sent me to ask you to pray to your God to help us.

(Sounds of storm increasing. The boat tosses to and fro.)

Sailor #2:

Jonah, we think this storm is your fault! What terrible thing have you done to bring all this trouble on us poor seamen? Tell us.

Jonah:

Listen, I am a Hebrew. But right now I am running away from Him and what He wants me to do. I didn’t think he could find me. A small boat on the sea must be outside of the Lord’s GPS.

Sailor #1:

What should we do? We’ve already thrown all the cargo off the ship and it hasn’t helped. We are all going to die.

Jonah:

I ran from my mission. The problem must be ME. I guess the Divine one really does see what I’m doing in secret. Pick me up and throw me into the sea.

Sailor #2:

No, sir, we can’t do that. That would be murder. Let’s try rowing again.

(Sounds of storm increasing.)

Sailor #1:

It’s no use. We are going to have to throw Jonah overboard. Oh God of Jonah, please don’t let us die.

Narrator:

The sailors throw Jonah overboard. While he doggy paddles in the turbulent sea, a large fish appeared and swallowed him up.

Fish:

Gulp!

(The storm fades into quiet.)

Stuck in the dark belly of the fish with no sheep’s milk or Netflix, Jonah prays to God. For three days and three nights, he lay there contemplating his life. That was quite a time out.

Jonah:

I’ve reevaluated this situation. Lord, my God, when I almost drowned, I called for help. And You listened to my cry. I will sing you a song of thanks. I will do what I have promised. Lord, I will not run. You are the one who saves.

God hears the prayer of Jonah and causes the fish to spit Jonah to vomit the reluctant prophet out on the shore. Then Jonah keeps his promise to God and goes to Nineveh.

(Sounds of crowded city)

Jonah:

People of Nineveh, I have a message for you from God. In 40 days, Nineveh will be destroyed because of your wickedness.

People of Nineveh:

Oh, no! We need to repent for our sins. We will wear black clothes and we won’t eat to show God how sorry we are. Please, Lord God, turn away your anger. We will turn our evil ways.

God:

I will have compassion on you, and I will not destroy you.

***

The Jonah story is traditionally read the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the Jewish High Holiday of repentance. Jonah runs from himself, from his people, moral responsibility, and God. But when things seem the most desolate, he turns his life around.

Like Jonah, I have been in the belly of the big fish. I’ve felt forever stuck. Unable to change my character and the direction of my life.

The central theme of the High Holiday season is we can return to our truest selves. Even when we “hit bottom” and descend to the depths of despair, change is possible. The way we are today need not be who we remain tomorrow. We are not condemned to stagnation, but can fashion a new way of being in our own lives.

The story of Jonah’s descent into the bleak netherworld urges us to transcend the impediments that prevent our personal transformation, and the creation of a more hopeful future. Jonah and the Ninevites choose life.

And so can we.

 

 

 

 

 

New Year’s Hope

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I slammed my prayer book shut.

During the Selichot service, I was reciting the penitential poems and prayers leading up to Jewish high holidays. It was the time of contemplation that started a week before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, through Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. 

Where am I?  My annual report to God revealed a steep crash.

I reflected on the past year. In a fit of misery last January. I quit my “career” as an adjunct professor. The low pay, demanding workload, and lack of respect left me feeling depressed.  I had feelings of worthlessness, as well as a life of impending poverty. It’s academia’s dirty little secret. Teaching is the new Wal-Mart for highly educated professionals cast out of corporate jobs. With the savings on tenured professors salaries, institutions of higher learning can invest in what’s truly important. Football stadiums. Do you know who’s educating your children in the hallowed halls of academia?  It’s most probably, a beleaguered adjunct living out of her car. Yet, upon leaving, I felt a loss of identity. Sadly, I started out wanting to make a difference.

Soon after, I became ill.  First severe bronchitis, and then the flu, the mega strain that’s had been floating around the country (as well as South Korea.) The dreaded Noro disease– known as the poop and puke virus. I caught it, even though hadn’t even been on a Carnival cruise. I experienced a sickness I’d never known. Migraines, stomach flu, coughing and sneezing the wracked my rib cage. Even my mind was foggy. I couldn’t walk a short block to Starbucks. No coffee and muffin for me… Most days, I lay in bed, barely able to move. And even if I could, I was highly contagious. The malaise wouldn’t leave me.

After a week, I mustered the strength to see a doctor. My internist immediately diagnosed the malady.  She instructed me not to tell a soul that I had “ the Norovirus. It would cause a panic.”

“Can’t you kill it?”

“No. Only the warm weather makes it die. But that’s only three months away. March is around the corner.”  She shrugged.

“But here must some drug!“  I pleaded. The prospect of leaving her office without a prescription terrified me.  It would be a first. Even some sugar pills in clinical trials would have allayed my fear.

“An antibiotic would make it worse.”  She grimly added, “My patients are dropping like flies. This is the death of man.”

With that cheery thought, I returned home with no antidote.  For weeks, I lay in bed listening to the drone of MSNBC —the chatter of the daily Trump show wafting by… No one was allowed to visit. I was officially infectious. I was instructed not to touch people or kitchen surfaces. A yellow HAZMAT suit was in order. My friend Dave dropped a bottle of ginger ale in front of my door and then made a run for it. The night I spiked a high fever, I called him to ask if he would take my dog should I go to the hospital. Or expire. But then I texted to say I didn’t mean it…I started sobbing.  I can go either up or down.Which is it?  Awakening isn’t for sissies.

Praying in synagogue, I had an epiphany.  The malaise went beyond a physical malady. My life didn’t feel right anymore.  Like a pair of shoes that no longer fit– attractive stilettos that suddenly cause piercing pain and blisters. My passion had slipped away. I had fallen far from who I was supposed to be.

I must have some purpose I’ve been avoiding.

Soul weariness is never sudden. I refused to heed the shrieking in my gut until it was diagnosed as reflux.

Along with the congregation, I rose and chanted an ancient prayer for forgiveness. The melody was sad and full of longing, expressing the desire to repent and change. The words cried for life’s fleetingness.  And the longing to break the cycle of our lives and change for the better.

O Lord, hear our voice in the morning; in the morning we set them before You with hopeful expectation. Hear our voice…

I pleaded, “If my soul had a GPS, where would I be?

You have fallen into a sinkhole. Shouldn’t you have “transitioned” out of it by now?  The voice inside me taunted.

I wandered into hostile foreign terrain wearing lead army boots. It felt impossible to lift my feet out of the muck.

Who’s in command? What has set me off on this fallen path?”

The answer came from my heart.  It had been ME..

Over the past year, my inner compass jabbered in Polish, or some crazy language I didn’t understand.

Divine One. Couldn’t you give me a little nudge in the right direction? Silence.

I continued standing while the rabbis changed the outfit on the Torah scrolls — from their usual taupe velvet to High Holiday white silk.  

It’s always darkest before the dawn. Next week is a new year!

Dear God,

During this period of repentance,

Help me to forgive.

Myself first.

Please restore my heart.

And return my soul.

I bear grudges.

You don’t.

Jane

P.S. Did you receive the basket of apple and honey I sent you?

 

 

 

Stiletto Heels In The Sand (Based on Footprints in the Sand, Mary Stevenson)

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One starry night a fallen New York yuppie dreamed…

I was hobbling along barefoot in a desert with the Lord, “Enough of this walking. Couldn’t you at least point me toward a Hyatt? What I wouldn’t give for a pair of those ugly biblical sandals at a time like this.” I couldn’t see anything, but I knew something divine was hovering around.

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The dark sky flashed pink as rosy haze suddenly rolled across the sky, and the happiest moments of my life were projected onto the billowing clouds.

“Look there’s mom. She held a tray of pink birthday cupcakes entering my bedroom in Seaside. That was our tradition. Cupcakes for breakfast.” Six candles were a blaze as she sang “Happy Birthday.” She was so young and beautiful and her eyes were full of love. I watched them turned to hate as her dementia progressed.

“There I am! A pudgy cherub with big brown eyes and pigtails.” Mr. Pierre, our family poodle, gobbled a glob of pink icing from my tiny hand.

I marched forward on this strange pilgrimage on the burning sand, carefully, placing one foot in front of the other. I noticed two pairs of footsteps were fixed in the sand, despite the wind. “ How strange. There’s no one here but me. Maybe it’s a hallucination. Emergency need for bottled sparkling water.”

A basket of daisies flashed across the clouds. I had just gotten into Harvard College. That’s the code my mother and I had. Now the bells of Memorial Hall were chiming. I was throwing my cap high in the air as a new graduate. Now, that was a day. I recalled how the four years flew by. The images flashed at an accelerated rate.

“Hey, slow down. I can’t make out the pictures. I’m trudging along with no shoes–not even a kitten heel. Without a yak or a camel and I have no desert apparel.” I saw bits and pieces of cherished objects, but they quickly faded— the precious painting of the Impressionist beach scene in my apartment, my dog’s worn polka dot harness, foggy pink eyeglasses thrown haphazardly next to the kitchen sink, great-grandmother’s Fiegle’s tarnished Sabbath candles that I never lit, an antique cobalt blue glass box, a rhinestone evening bag in the shape of a Yorkie, mother’s old tortoise shell powder compact. I looked down at the sand and saw two sets of footsteps. Maybe I’ll run into two pairs of Prada pumps to fill them. Size 6. Only one pair would do….

Now there were flashes of people I loved. Only the outlines of faces, but I knew who they were. Fleeting glimpses of family and friends. I wanted to stay with them a moment, and hold on to the feelings they evoked. But the phantasms zoomed across the haze as I continued my arid journey. A searing pain pierced my chest. Loss. Life goes so quickly. Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention.

I gasped, seeing my most horrible memory flicker through the heavens. It was lowest point in my life. I stood on the icy earch before my mother’s grave on a freezing January day holding a small prayer book. The Lord is my Shepard. I shall not want. I had the realization that my life was forever changed. How would I live through losing a part of myself? I drifted through years of acute grief, darkness, and fear. “Lord, why didn’t you at least make a cameo appearance? Now, I am left wandering.” I looked down for relief and saw a solitary pair of footsteps.

“Whatever it was, disappeared when I needed company the most. ” I felt a familiar tinge of abandonment.

I suddenly looked up and saw a Western Wall in Jerusalem against the backdrop of a pink sky. I was sobbing and praying. My hands were placed across the cool stones hoping for healing. I was at a crossroads in my life. I had gotten a pink slip from my job during the recession and had no prospects. My mother was ailing. Prince Charming’s glass slipper was cracked. I wondered how on earth did I get here? I had fallen and felt alone in the universe. I needed a sign. Was there anything or anyone or out there that heard our prayers? My heart was broken open. And there it was with perfect clarity. A pink slip was curled into a crevice above me in the Western Wall. There it was like mistletoe above me. My prayers were heard. What had been an icon of loss had become a symbol of grace.

“I must get out of this dream.” I looked down at the solitary trail of footsteps. “So Lord, when things are really tough, you take off to your vacation home.”

I heard a voice within me whisper, “Listen sweetie, YOU can only walk in in stiletto heels. Who do you think has been schlepping you?”

 

Eight Lessons My Mother Taught Me About Decency

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rainbowinNYC
Contemplating the recent election, I recalled my childhood, sitting on the floor with my mother, my favorite stuffed bear on my lap. Still a young woman, she read to me from a picture book and pointed to a black and white photograph of Rosa Parks.

I was puzzled. The historic figure looked like the nice, ordinary ladies that mother and I would routinely see on the bus or the park. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Mother was teaching me about the history of racism and civil rights in this country so that certain words and behaviors would be intolerable. She wanted abhorrence to injustice to stick within her daughter.

I remember the lessons mother taught me,

  • Give up your seat to nice others—Even if the person’s green like Kermit. We are all equal under the sun.
  • Do something for someone else. Call grandma.
  • Each individual is responsible for creating a just world.  I was to share my tuna sandwich if another kid was hungry. And not throw my trash on the floor.
  • Bullies are just small, insecure people. They travel in herds. Like sheep.
  • Righteous ignorance and stupidity are dangerous. It was important to read books.
  • Do the right thing. You can’t fool yourself.
  • The purpose of my education was to build character. That was the true measure of a person.
  • Faith is invisible. There really was a Santa, even though I always seemed to miss his visit

Now, I am grappling with the darkness in the world. There is so much that can’t be explained to a child. Like a rainbow in New York City.

 

 

 

The Language of Pink

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Jane Ranzman Author
My Slip Was Pink-From Loss To Spiritual Growth

I always had a thing for pink. The color is soft and fluffy like cotton candy. Girly-girl and romantic. We’re trained to love it from our first little pink shoes to pink nightly. Pink tastes like the fairy icing on my birthday cakes, feels like warm baths with Mr. Bubbles, and smells like a fresh tube of baby doll lipstick.  I fondly remember many of the pink things that have made my life beautiful,

  • My pink tutu and ballet slippers that I wore every day for a full year when I was nine (even though I was a hopeless dancer)
  • Mother’s pink feather boa (that wasn’t just pulled out on Halloween)
  • My Barbie car
  • Magenta silk pumps that made me feel like a vixen
  • Pink drinks that end with a -tini
  • Monogramed stationary adorned with pink cupcakes
  • Matching pink sweetheart nails and toenails
  • Our pink poodle, Mr. Pierre. Mother spray-painted his tail for her Pink Fink Party. Everything was, what else, Pink!

The color has always made me feel happy. And bold. A “Jane” that was authentic and light. So it made sense that God started to talk to me in the “language of pink.” First, I was handed my pink slip. Then, I saw slips of pink paper everywhere.

For example, one  blue day, I found a tiny plastic pink heart in the cracked pavement of a New York City street.  Another morning, it was pouring rain. I was late for work and missed the elevator. Standing outside the building getting drenched, I was annoyed having to wait.By the time the next elevator came, it was packed. The dripping crowd pushed their way into the small space with soggy umbrellas, coats, bags, and all.

Staring at the ground. I noticed a pair of  smooth pink toe shoes pointed in “first position.” I looked up to see a young ballerina, around five years old. She was dressed from head to toe in a burst of pink— tutu, ballet shoes, tiara, and umbrella. Her mother cooed in the background, “Gemma dear, hold my hand.”  I blinked. Gemma is the name of the protagonist in “My Slip Was Pink.”  How could that be a coincidence?

I believe that a spiritual force communicated with me in an encouraging way. It seemed to urge me to continue this book, even when I was disheartened, as well as through many hardships. The worst of all was the loss of my mother. Even so, there was “pink” in the challenges and changes. I learned we can find  beauty and grace in the language of pink.

Looking back on my life, I understand, my Slip Was ‘Pink.’