My Left Foot

On the day I sprained my left foot I thought I was still in control as my feet had stationed me with a sense of purpose all this time. I had never sprained a foot in my life. After all, I was a newcomer on my way to finding a job, renting an apartment, finding a new life in Pittsburgh, and trying to explain to my husband some of the cultural nuances I even found foreign after an eighteen year absence while living overseas.


And down I came together with my mother's adage: 'Don't be a worry bug, be a happy bug' as I tried to balance my son's stroller yet missed the step and banging my knee in the process.


I am not used to taking ginger steps. I am used to doing things my way, somewhat of an impulsive nature, knowing that my feet will always station me with stability. Well, my left foot was wavering in those first five minutes then the swelling and black and blue marks starting to appear, then emergency room visits, crutches. Yep, I was no longer in control.



First it was my left eye and the erosion and now my left foot. Why is it that when physical mishaps occur, I suddenly start realizing the importance of life?



Well, this is what I am learning:

1. We are a family and we are in this together.

2. Never underestimate the power of a child's love.

3. Watch out where you walk - and in my case, where you step.



Obviously, I am still learning, so that is a good sign as all good learning should be. My toddler son is starting way earlier than me. After dinner tonight, he placed the ice-pack around a towel and guess where? On my left foot.



This post has been submitted to the Write-Away contest at Michele's blog. The subject of this month's theme is about 'learning.'

Taking it "Bird by Bird"

In my former post I wrote about Anne Lamot and taking it "bird by bird."





I move slowly - try one little baby step on a time. Literally. Often I spend time mulling over words, sentences, thoughts. The library's a good place for that kind of introverted sort of research. It's a puzzling mystery, how words ever make it to the paper. They prefer to keep to their own microcosmic universe until I decide to let them free. Only lately, this hasn't been happening.





I can't believe I've taken a full year of sabbatical just to prove to myself that I can write a book: it sounds rather important and purposeful but, in reality, it's the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm a bit scared, guilty that I have all these waking hours of day to fill pieces of paper (or an empty computer screen in this case) and while I've unpacked thirty boxes, there are many more little cubicles of years of experience waiting to be opened.





This is the time when I need help. Or maybe just a few words of soul wisdom, or just somebody who's been there before and knows how to simply do good to others. So, I go now to my favorite writer: I have even gone so far as to try and imitate her style. Many writers starting out do. Let's hear it for Anne Lamott who always knows how to comfort a brave yet wavering writer soul in need.





But what I really need is to take my own advice and join a writer's group. Then I will feel better about all this.

Books and Seagulls, a few Reminders, and My Left Foot

All morning long at the Western Penn Hospital, I hoped and prayed the ankle I twisted yesterday evening after missing the step while carrying Ivry's stroller wouldn't be fractured or broken. I've never sprained an ankle and never needed crutches. Until today. I hopped from room to room, from car to door, from the bathroom to Ivry.

In case you haven't noticed, we're right in the middle of unpacking our overseas shipping. There's nothing more comforting than filling up bookshelves with albums and listening to Ivry say, "Ani [I'm] a seagull," but not when your ankle is sprained. Not fun.

I thought a bit about seagulls. I wish I could fly like a seagull instead of propping my ankle with icepacks. It's such a debilitating feeling, reminding me of the post of "Writing in the Dark." This is one of those reminders that we never have that certainty or illusion of control. My mind thinks quicker than my left foot.

Words become lighter than air when I unpack all of Ivry's books and watch him silently turn the pages as if he's confirming the stories asking, "How do you say this in English?" and pointing to a bulldozer, digger. Signs of literacy. How comforting.

I believe in faith and hope and the spirit of being. But when I loose control, watch out. I become afraid and fear becomes my captive.

Two people who have deeply affected my life are no longer alive. I heard Luciano Pavoratti many times and read Madeline L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time a thousand times over. I no longer live in a comforting world.

Just for the record, I'm not such a great mom when I feel debilitated like this and especially when people I've never met personally enter and leave my life like this. Just like a twisted ankle, I become antsy and edgy especially when surrounded by thirty five unopened boxes. Ivry tries to understand my pain, but I am not such a great communicator as I have difficulty understanding these things myself.

Ivry wants to be in his own control flapping his arms, playing leapfrog with my body and I lie lethargic. It is times like these I turn to writing as an open voice hoping I won't feel under siege and turn to hear my prayers for a speedy recovery, for Haim to find a job, for getting through this period.

So I read Anne Lamot's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. Every word she writes is faith and spirit. Books can be great friends. I'm glad I got mine. Now, I just need to work on my patience and take it "bird by bird."

2043 Wightman Street

That's our new address in Pittsburgh for this coming year. It's an apartment complex on the corner; first apartment I've ever rented. Yesterday we had the thrill of receiving post for the first time - Haim's social security number came in through!

Apartments, lifting Ivry's stroller up and down stairs, trying to figure out what in God's name is wrong with my and Haim's resumes is part of the new immigrant syndrome. Today at Haim's intake at the Career and Development Center in Squirrel Hill with an immigrant counselor, he was told that he needed to think in terms of America - culturally. Well, that makes perfect sense since I'm just right up there with Haim. I may have the American accent and all, but I feel utterly and completely displaced.

Funny, this feeling subsides when I walk down the perfectly manicured lawns of beautiful brick and stone houses. I feel I'm walking alongside a dream; one that I gently carved out one year ago. I'm not really in it - we are not really in it since there's so much to do until we can start bringing home a paycheck with no income coming in - lots going out. Now that Haim's social security came in through, I can literally write our address everywhere. A sign of the living.

We applied for social services today from one page click to another until the e-form was sent. I used to be ashamed of signing up my mom for social services but now my address is just one of many. But when Ivry cried today because we stayed for the first orientation dinner meeting for parents at the JCC instead of heading home, a bit of me cried too.

A Red Line of Happiness

Imagine my happiness when I finally made my way to the Carnegie Library in Squirrel Hill yesterday afternoon. It's been years since I claimed my own public spaces; the public library used to be one of them until I began thinking I was good enough for a library. (Yes, I know it sounds weird.) But growing up alongside New York City's overwhelming array of books, made me feel much smaller than I really was.

Turns out that the glass contained edifice was actually one of the most user-friendly public places I've ever been in. First, there were changing stations and bathrooms, making a mother's life infinitely easier. Also, there were many computer work stations for sending work to print. And when I registered for my family library card, I was greeted in the most sincerest of ways. To be expected, I retained my New York City, standoffish mentality only to find that it was simply unnecessary. When the clerk looked at my maiden and married names, together with the New York City driver's license, he looked as if he couldn't make something out.

"What's your married name?" he asked.

"Sasson." I said.

"But I'll have to use the name on the NYC license." he said.

I was not happy about that.

Once, twice, three times I had to remind myself that even in nice friendly places, this was the way it's done and even if he had to use my former name, there were parts of my identity I didn't want on paper, lesser to be using a New York City driver's license.

But he was a nice man and he elected to changed my name to Sasson. At that point, I wanted to cross out all the red lines out of my life, beginning with the teachers who harbored using red pencils leaving me to figure out what mark meant what. For the remainder of the afternoon, I was able to work uninterrupted surrounded by History books excited by what I was writing knowing I was creating my own piece of history.

When I finally let myself take a bathroom break, I was so happy that the red in me wanted to burst out through. And when I finally let myself pass the early childhood and juvenile sections, I saw how inviting, friendly everything was. You don't such clean starts in life so often. I made a point to finish my line of business, get the chapter synopsis in order and get my hands on some of those books.

Each day is about carving a writing life and reaching my goals, which I feel was meant to be and I know that for the time being, I'm in a better place.

Our First Shabbat Weekend

We're still sitting in a relatively bare apartment waiting for our overseas shipment to arrive.Started the crisp Sunday morning explaining to Ivry that today is Sunday and tomorrow is Labor Day and he doesn't go to the gan these two days. He ran to hug me once I had already settled comfortably with the laptop.

The apartment these days looks like we're going to fly again - probably back to Israel, at least that's what I was thinking when we left New York City. And of course September 2nd is here and I am nowhere near a teacher's bag and a classroom full of thirty eight students and exasperated looking teachers and probably students.

I'm on the other side of the world far far away with a cup of coffee, a small notebook for sketching ideas and writing goals and folders full of what I want to write for my book that maybe McGraw Hill will be interested in publishing - that is, if I can ever finish the chapter synopsis.

I have to educate myself constantly while going over broken sidewalks, waiting for traffic lights to change, watching people bag our groceries, deciding from the rows of cream cheese which one to buy, unsure what is the difference between diet and lowfat, or adding up the expenses of our purchases to realize there are only deductions.

The pieces of the puzzle somehow all start to make sense as I get used to the brick walls outside, the huge walk-in closet that contains our stuff, the pink walls of the bathroom that reminds me of my grandmother's apartment in Far-Rockaway in the 80's, storytime in Shenley park that is a both a semblance of community and culture. Then there are the Hassidic couples that remind me of the Jewish holdiays we spent in Queens, the three hairstyling shops on Murray Avenue, or the woman on the first floor who quickly opened her door when Ivry cried because the door closed abruptly on his poor little hand.

I have to educate myself emotionally when I see the trans-Atlantic move isn't all that bad despite the fact that I received a 'C' for transitions. The kind Rabbi Wasserman of Sha'aeri Torah congregation received many emails from kind souls offering to give us furniture. We're nowhere near to flying anywhere soon.

And then there's the issue of faith: some days I wake up with it and sometimes I don't. On the days when I do, I admire the Victorian windows and paisley window blinds and on the days I don't, I sweep by the flowers. I keep telling myself: Haim will find a job, I'll finish my book come the end of this year, we'll be settled, we'll be happy.

But the sky's too blue to think too much for a Sunday morning.

I Shouldn't Have Grown Up

Ivry and Haim took off for an evening stroll most likely to the synagogue while I sit next to the yellow flowers, which a kind neighbor passed on after hearing we were just one day in Squirrel Hill, Pittsburgh. It is the only real bright thing in this terribly empty apartment.

Exactly this time last year, I was contemplating new ideas for starting the school year not realizing I would end up taking a sabbatical that would bring me in touch with my roots and my writing. Now, we're taking it one step at a time and however right it is to be a mommy these days, and switch over to writing shoes, I've put the teaching bag aside and quietly, I am delving into the writing world.

With fortitude, a bit of fear, and some longing, I still write my way through. It's one thing to be saying I want to write, it's another thing to come all the way over here to write. (well, that's not the only reason) I take a break - speak to the nice people we're slowly becoming acquainted with, lunch with the local Rabbi and his family. I exit my shell temporarily, enjoy the unspoiled blue sky, hear the road construction across the street, sometimes pretend that I'm back in Israel in our small niche that now has taken the likeness of global territory.

It's an intimate process and yet, it's something the mind doesn't want to speak of.

I shouldn't have grown up too quickly to believe it might come true one day, but I'll slice each day as it comes, minute by minute - slowly believing this was meant to be.