Tradition

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.” ~ Buddha

“For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible.” ~ Stuart Chase

***

I wanted to thank all of you who so sweetly wished me a happy Chanukkah/ Hanukkah (however you like to spell it... I could never get the spelling right) from the last post.

I kind of feel like a heel. Part of me wants to just to revel in your lovely wishes because I know it made you happy to wish that for me. And it made me happy to receive your wishes, your blessings. You are all so very very kind. But the other part of me has to come clean and say I don't celebrate Hanukkah (or any other holidays) anymore. I fell off the wagon quite a while ago.

I think I first started to fall off it around the age of eight or ten. It had to do with me reading the story of Abraham and the Sacrifice of Issac, in a book I used to really love called The Children's Story of Israel. It was a really interesting book. I remember loving to read it, not only for the vivid stories, but for the smell and feel of the paper, and the stark black and white illustrations. I think they were engravings. The paper was incredibly silky and smooth. I remember just running my fingers over the pages because they felt beautiful. It was odd. I've never had another book quite like it. I have no idea where that book went to, but it was old.

Anyway, I used to read that book a lot. And then one day it dawned on me what was really going on in that story of Abraham and Isaac. I understood that it meant that Abraham might actually kill his own son because God told him to. And what would that say about any father who might get a message from God. That scared the piss out of me, to be quite frank. I never read that book again. I remember feeling betrayed. And it made me wonder exactly where these stories were coming from and why I read them.

This post isn't to rain on anyone's parade (I don't mean to do that in the least) or to expound what I believe or don't believe. But what this holiday wishing made made me think about is Tradition. Why we believe what we believe.

Like the Buddha says in that quote above: How much of our beliefs are our own? And how often do we question ourselves and our own minds? What is the relationship between our individual identity and what is forged by the traditions and beliefs handed down to us?

***

In thinking about my Hanukkahs of the past, I think about my grandmothers. My grandma Helen (aka Little Helen) and my grandma Annette. For Grandma Helen, I remember the potato latkes and how I've never had any that taste better than hers did. Every year she would come to my mother's house, with an old metal food grinder in an ancient cardboard box. The grinder part was held on by rubber bands. My mom and I would peel potatoes, keeping them in a bowl of water to keep them from turning pink, until Grandma Helen could grind them up into a big bowl filled with eggs, onions and flecks of black pepper. I remember her forehead getting damp. It was hard work grinding all of those potatoes.

But she said that's what made them taste so good and she was right about that. I've just come to realize that I'll never have that particular taste in my mouth again.

And then there was my Grandma Annette. In her being absent for most of my life now, I think she's come to make a greater impression on me because I didn't know her well. But she represented Tradition to me in a way I craved. She came from the "Old Country" (the Ukraine) as she called it in her heavy accented English, and I still vaguely remember her stories of village life and her brothers and sisters and escaping the Cossack raids.

She knew all of the Sabbath blessings and kept kosher. She was tiny and also very formidable in a quiet, fragile way. I used to watch Fiddler on the Roof a lot as a kid, because I imagined that her vanished village with no name was just like the one in the movie. In a way, I was probably right.

***

Looking back at grandma Annette and her lost world of the Old Country, I realized for many years that what I wanted, or perhaps envied most, was her tradition. The surety of a world where your place was known, where everyone knew what was expected of themselves and they were surrounded by a community that might have been confining but was also there as a protection. I had this fantasy of how life might just be so much easier if I knew exactly what I was supposed to be when I got older.

Unfortunately or fortunately, life in the 'burbs just isn't the same thing as life in the shtetl. Of course now I'm grateful that I ended up where I am, but for many years, I really felt I was missing out on something very subtle and very important. But my world is a lot bigger now. And I'm not so scared of it anymore. I'm not scared of not being what I thought I was going to be when I grew up, either.

***

Several years ago, I went on a business trip to Houston. On the flight home, my fellow passenger was an Orthodox rabbi. He had the peyes, the prayer shawl, the black hat. He was my age, rotund and jolly. He had five beautiful children (in his words, I'm sure they were) and he and his wife ran an Orthodox community in Dallas. He was flying to Palo Alto to perform a wedding.

Now all these years later, I felt like I finally had my chance. I had to ask him what was up with the Abraham and Isaac story. I told him what it did to my kid psyche and I could see on his face that I wasn't the only one who had a problem with the tale. He looked pained as I poured my heart out to him. He explained it to me, in what the metaphor of the story really meant, and apologized that no one was there to tell me that when I was young. I tried not to cry. But I did and he gave me his beverage napkin so I could blow my nose. His explanation was calming in its way, but still did not erase the savagery of the act that almost was.

I don't know why it affected me so, to have some closure on that story so many years after the fact. I mean, I could have gone to any temple around and just asked someone. But that was the right time for me. It was the right time, and at the same time, it was too late.

The rabbi and I kept in touch for a little while via email but whatever tradition I felt I should have had just wasn't inside me. I think some things you have to be exposed to at a very young age for them to take hold in your heart, otherwise the roots are just too shallow.

But I don't feel too badly, because I also realize that there was a little eight or ten year old girl who read something and then had an opinion about it and took a position. Above all else, I appreciate that little Julie who reads and thinks about what she reads. And wherever that tradition came from, I'm most grateful for that of all.

***

More and more, I'm fine with where I'm at. It's a journey though, and I'm still working on it. But I'm not as worried so much about not having all the answers.

“Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.” ~ George Carlin

***

Paintings by Marc Chagall: 1. Solitude (1933). 2. The Birthday (1915). 3. Title unknown (if you know, please tell me).

"One fine day... as my mother was putting the bread in the oven, I went up to her, and taking her by her flour-smeared elbow I said to her, 'Mama ... I want to be a painter.' " ~ Marc Chagall

Intersections of Spirit

On Sunday, The Boy and I made a pilgrimage to Mission Dolores. I should say it was something of a cinematic pilgrimage because, as Hitchcock devotees, it's one of the rare places where Hitch did film on location (he was loathe to film anywhere outside of a soundstage).

Aside from being a scenic star in the film Vertigo, Mission Dolores is the oldest intact building in San Francisco, opening its doors on June 29, 1776. This is the only remaining mission chapel of the twenty-one missions established under the direction of Father Juniperro Serra. The Mission has been present for the entire course of San Francisco's "modern" history, including the California Gold Rush and the 1906 quake.

***

It was a peaceful day, inside and out. The cemetery was serene. It's a rare sensation to be in a place that truly spans generations of history. Those places feel more real to me than any others.

Inside the small adobe mission building, the light was quiet and golden. The air was cool and smelled faintly of incense. The mission itself has the air of history more so than of worship. The original altar from the late 1700s is flanked by various priestly figures made of plaster, some in aspects of adoration and others more worldly. The statue I remember most seemed more of a soldier in a monk's robe, holding a cross in one hand and a raised sword in the other.

The basilica next door is much newer than the mission, constructed in 1918. It was deserted and beautiful in its purity of total quiet. The space is full of gentle arches that swell to support the dome, annexes filled with saints and candles that wait for the devoted. Some walls are covered with tiny, glinting mosaics of gilded and colorful tiles that delight the eye.

While we sat inside the basilica, The Boy and I quietly discussed what it means to have a community of spirit. The Boy feels that a church is a good and valuable place for people to feel uplifted and share a common purpose. I too am all for that, as long as those beliefs do not come at the cost of another human's freedom (and by freedom, I mean of one's own physical person, education and opinions) or their life. As someone who has personally experienced religious intolerance at different times in my life, the flip side of a mission's purpose has more prominence in my sensibilities.

I believe that the certain spiritual feeling that people crave can emanate from other endeavours and other places, too, where people are drawn together, perhaps work together, and feel inspiration from a larger purpose.

The missions especially distinctly embody the intersection of two cultures, European and Native American. But certain cultures are now extinct, consumed: the Ohlone and Miwok Indians. Who speaks for them?

***

Below is a selection from my bedtime reading lately. More than anything, I think it is that sense of awe we crave above all else.

"By far the best way I know to engage in the religious sensibility, the sense of awe, is to look up on a clear night. I believe that it is very difficult to know who we are until we understand where and when we are. I think everyone in every culture has felt a sense of awe and wonder looking at the sky. This is reflected in the world in both science and religion. Thomas Carlyle said that wonder is the basis of worship. And Albert Einstein said, 'I maintain that the cosmic religious feeling is the strongest and noblest motive for scientific research.' So if both Carlyle and Einstein could agree on something, it has a modest possibility of even being right." ~ Excerpted from The Varieties of Scientific Experience: A Personal View of the Search for God, by Carl Sagan.

Photos all happily taken by me: part of the Mission Dolores Basilica, Fr. Serra in the cemetery, sunlight on science books at Adobe Bookstore on 16th Street. More photos of the day can be found here.

For those of you who want to learn more about the intersections of expansion and the Native Americans, please read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Although it doesn't speak directly to the Miwok and Ohlone experience, it is an important book, hearbreaking and necessary reading for all.