Over the last few years, I've gone to many estate sales across Chicago's North Shore in search of remnants of its collective Jewish past. At one home, a while ago now, I picked up a tiny white book of prayers, blessings and hymns. I love the portable pocket size of this book. The inscription reads, “Presented to Mr. and Mrs. Mandel,” by North Suburban Synagogue Beth El, Highland Park, Illinois, on the occasion of their new membership, Friday, November 17, 1967, signed by the rabbi.
I grew up around many of these prayers and recognized the familiar blessings over bread, fire and wine, ones I recited as a kid. But I was surprised to find unfamiliar blessings over special occasions including:
On seeing a rainbow; At first sight of an ocean or sea; On hearing sad tidings; On eating any fruit for the first time in season; On entering into possession of a new house; On purchasing new dishes; On witnessing lightning; On beholding a falling star, lofty mountains, or vast deserts; On hearing thunder or storms; On smelling fragrant wood or bark; On putting on a new garment.
My father collected leaves until his final days. He kept them in a binder, each glorious leaf protected within a plastic pocket. Every once in a while, he’d point out a particular stunner and well up with tears. His favorites were the fiery yellow fans of the Ginko tree in the autumn. There may not have been a blessing in specifically for fall leaves, but my father felt moved to worship them as worthy of our undivided attention.
Word worship is another kind of wonder we practiced at home, all kinds of word games and puzzles to play as a treat before sleep each night. My father, the English teacher, urged us to think up every homonym and homophone under the sun. Name every word that began with the prefix "tran" or the suffix, "ly," and keep going like we were counting sheep. I remember how the blue pocket thesaurus, its own kind of book of blessings and prayer! It's wild, the way a page can begin with collusion and end with command or revenge and reward.
So many words for mourn and inquire but none feel quite right. I memorized poems in school as long as I wasn’t told to for an assignment.
When I was too young to doubt myself as a poet and walked around telling people I was one, I got a job teaching poetry in public schools. One of my favorite lessons was to ask a room full of kids to stay as quiet as possible for as long as possible up to 30 seconds, and then, as soon as the silence broke, to immediately pick up a pen or pencil and write down everything they heard, felt, saw, and remembered. The result were spectacular—one boy wrote about swimming in the ocean in the rain as a form of “double swimming.”
They’d gone fishing in the silence and plucked out words to make their poems feel like prayer.
Transit Slips, #15
I grew up around many of these prayers and recognized the familiar blessings over bread, fire and wine, ones I recited as a kid. But I was surprised to find unfamiliar blessings over special occasions including:
On seeing a rainbow; At first sight of an ocean or sea; On hearing sad tidings; On eating any fruit for the first time in season; On entering into possession of a new house; On purchasing new dishes; On witnessing lightning; On beholding a falling star, lofty mountains, or vast deserts; On hearing thunder or storms; On smelling fragrant wood or bark; On putting on a new garment.
My father collected leaves until his final days. He kept them in a binder, each glorious leaf protected within a plastic pocket. Every once in a while, he’d point out a particular stunner and well up with tears. His favorites were the fiery yellow fans of the Ginko tree in the autumn. There may not have been a blessing in specifically for fall leaves, but my father felt moved to worship them as worthy of our undivided attention.
Word worship is another kind of wonder we practiced at home, all kinds of word games and puzzles to play as a treat before sleep each night. My father, the English teacher, urged us to think up every homonym and homophone under the sun. Name every word that began with the prefix "tran" or the suffix, "ly," and keep going like we were counting sheep. I remember how the blue pocket thesaurus, its own kind of book of blessings and prayer! It's wild, the way a page can begin with collusion and end with command or revenge and reward.
So many words for mourn and inquire but none feel quite right. I memorized poems in school as long as I wasn’t told to for an assignment.
When I was too young to doubt myself as a poet and walked around telling people I was one, I got a job teaching poetry in public schools. One of my favorite lessons was to ask a room full of kids to stay as quiet as possible for as long as possible up to 30 seconds, and then, as soon as the silence broke, to immediately pick up a pen or pencil and write down everything they heard, felt, saw, and remembered. The result were spectacular—one boy wrote about swimming in the ocean in the rain as a form of “double swimming.”
They’d gone fishing in the silence and plucked out words to make their poems feel like prayer.
Transit Slips, #15
