Beginnings

Los Angeles, California


Though not yet at two thousand posts, I feel it's time to reiterate my blog mission statement. Except, I don't have a blog mission statement. When I started WWSD, I made a flexible commitment to myself that I would write at least two posts each month. I would include a recipe in roughly every other post. The recipe part came about as I was following a rather famous food blog, which is this one, and I had some inclination towards homage (polite term for blatant imitation) of it. Then, of course, there was the advice angle -- presenting some moral, ethical, practical, whathaveyou, problem and postulating what Sandra would do about it. Interesting, but could I always be accurate in what I presented? And, God forbid, what if someone acted on my advice, even if it was unsolicited? Probably not a good thing. So, blogwise, that leaves salsa dance. But writing about an activity, any activity, is just not the same as doing it. Though that hasn't really stopped me from writing about it (there's no stopping me . . . don't even try, I'll just drag you down with me). And one more, I think very important, thing. I wanted my posts to be humorous. At least most of the time. And, therein, lies the crux of the problem of writing this post.


These days, I'm just not in a funny mood. Without going into much detail, and thereby losing the remaining readers who didn't peel off in previous posts or the last paragraph, Billy and I are plain, damn tired at the moment. Billy's been working ten hour days, each weekend, at our rental property, trying to repair all the damage done by our evicted tenant. I've been running back and forth, daily, to the rehab facility where my mom has been placed, and which is not close to us. Between time, regular life and regular work continue, after a fashion. Following a sorta kinda busy summer, with lots of recreation and celebration, we find ourselves pretty much stuck, with our pair of noses to the grindstone. I don't mind the work. In college, when I was working two jobs and carrying seventeen units, I wrote in an independent study journal that I could take on anything as long as I knew that there was a finite end to it. And, more or less, there will be an end to both of these things -- the house will be rented; my mom will be placed in assisted care, and I will eventually cut back on the daily visits to her. But, right now, we're both exhausted all of the time. There just isn't enough time to recoup our resources. And that makes it difficult for me to attempt to be funny (attempt, because even though I think I'm being humorous at times, I may be the only one who is laughing . . .).


Now, to switch to another subject, today is the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Even though I am not Jewish, I have many friends who are, including my close frister, Diana. She once told me that I was welcome to observe Rosh Hashanah, even if I'm not Jewish (perhaps this is reformationist thinking?). Anyway, her philosophy of this is that everyone should get two start-overs for the year. First Rosh Hashanah, then January 1st. I like this idea, and, especially since I am not a big fan of New Year's Eve, I like the idea of a start-over in Autumn. Fall has always had that new-beginning feeling related to the change of season, and I suppose, the new school year. I also like what I read this morning on a blog I sometimes visit, which is called goop. This was written by Michael Berg, who is a Kabbalah scholar and author. He writes that an . . . important connection is how we think and behave during Rosh Hashanah . . . we should act in only ways of sharing, forgiveness and care. No anger, no doubt, no jealousy, no sadness, at least for these two days. How we are during these two days will influence the next 363. A worthy goal, indeed. And perhaps my observation of this could be in the form of thinking of these friends of mine who check up on me, and send me good thoughts, and have given me an education in Yiddish that is part of my daily vocabulary (and more often than not, the only word that fits a situation -- these days, in particular, farklemt). And to wish them all peace and grace in the year to come.


As for my year to come, I hope to get back to the mission of my blog. I hope to send comfort food recipes out, and humorous anecdotes. I would like to veer away from the collective groan I imagine I hear, when readers land on a post and find my mood hovering over them like a gray cloud. Not my intent, I must assure you. It's just the nature of things at the moment.


So, in the spirit of chasing my blues away, let me close by sharing a story regarding my friend, Susan. For a long time, Larry and Susan were our movie buddies. On Saturday nights, we often went together to see a film, and to dinner afterwards. Often L&S picked the movie, as Billy and I were either too busy or too stupid to read reviews regularly (NPR has helped a lot on this front, but now we're too busy or too stupid to get outselves out to see movies...). Now, the really good thing about that arrangement, was that we often saw films we probably wouldn't have seen on our own. One of those was a film entitled Golden Door, written and directed by Emanuele Crialese, about Italian immigrants coming to the US around the turn of the twentieth century. It depicted a horrific crossing with graphic scenes of turbulence and strife. In the style of a Bertolucci film, the scenes were visually panoramic and lengthy. The steerage-class immigrants were thrown out of their bunks during an interminable storm which ravaged their primitive quarters. Passengers were injured, and inconsolable. A baby died and had to be buried at sea. This was a brutal, rough crossing. But near the end of their passage, there were these wondrous scenes which included scores of nude men in communal showers, and a multitude of women in a line, one behind the other, combing and pinning each other's hair. And more scenes followed, showing all of these bathed and coiffed men and women dressing -- obviously putting on their poor, shabby-best clothing to greet the new world. At this point, Susan, who was sitting next to me, leaned toward me and whispered . . . Looks like tonight's the Captain's dinner . . .


I laughed till I cried. And that is one of my favorite things to do. Wishing that for you all in this new beginning of the Autumn season. And to those of you celebrating, Shana Tova. And thank you for reading my blog.