I was 16, living in the Bronx, when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his immortal "I Have A Dream" speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
A few nights ago my friend and I walked three miles to preview the newest memorial in the nation’s capital where I now reside.
When we arrived at the central entryway to the memorial entitled "The Mountain of Despair," our eyes are drawn upward to the Stone of Hope, a 30-foot likeness of this civil rights reverend. Like the eyes of the Mona Lisa painting by Leonardo da Vinci, Dr. King’s eyes follow us as we walk around the monument.
What is he asking of us? What answers do we have to offer him? Where does justice dwell today? Where is the righteous peace that he dreamt about so many decades ago?
The monumental granite statue of Dr. King revives our deepest desires for justice and equality, democracy and love.
Dare we dream again?
Please note: The dedication, which was to have taken place this Sunday, August 28, has been postponed indefinitely due to the arrival of Hurricane Irene this weekend in Washington, DC. Go to the webiste for more information: www.washington.org/mlk
Friday, August 26, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Priority Passenger
A young man with stumped arms and legs wheeled himself towards the priority seating boarding line. The stewardess quickly offered assistance, and together with another crew member the three disappeared down the breezeway.
An Iraq casualty? A suicide bomber attack? An innocent civilian caught in the middle of a battle?
A mother’s son. A country’s soldier.
My mind did not settle down during the fifteen minutes it took me to embark the plane as a number four zone, economy-class passenger.
I entered the aircraft and again encountered the priority passenger seated in the first row, first class, aisle seat. With the precision of someone with ten fingers, my mystery man was typing away on his iPad.
I drifted out of pity mode and melted into awe and admiration.
He deserves every priority on every plane, train and boat anywhere in this world.
An Iraq casualty? A suicide bomber attack? An innocent civilian caught in the middle of a battle?
A mother’s son. A country’s soldier.
My mind did not settle down during the fifteen minutes it took me to embark the plane as a number four zone, economy-class passenger.
I entered the aircraft and again encountered the priority passenger seated in the first row, first class, aisle seat. With the precision of someone with ten fingers, my mystery man was typing away on his iPad.
I drifted out of pity mode and melted into awe and admiration.
He deserves every priority on every plane, train and boat anywhere in this world.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Dream and Deed
Dream and deed are not as different as many think. All the deeds of men are dreams at first, and become dreams in the end. -Theodore Herzl, journalist, visionary, Zionist, and founder of the state of Israel
Our daily work is filled with little dreams that get accomplished through a big vision. The dreams of our unconscious longing are embedded in our mind’s third eye and get translated into motions and actions that share the space.
May your dreams and deeds expand into a reality of your own making.
Our daily work is filled with little dreams that get accomplished through a big vision. The dreams of our unconscious longing are embedded in our mind’s third eye and get translated into motions and actions that share the space.
May your dreams and deeds expand into a reality of your own making.
Friday, August 5, 2011
I Cried for You
My two-year-old granddaughter woke up suddenly from her afternoon nap.
I rushed to pick her up.
She cried and squealed as she repeated her mantra of the moment.
“I want my mommy." Pause. "I want my mommy." Pause. "I want my mommy." Louder: "I want my mommy!”
I held her. I rocked her. I sang to her. I assured her that mommy would return.
Five minutes passed, and the mantra magnified.
“A popsicle?” I suggested.
It worked. She pointed to the freezer, and we picked out an eight-inch-long squishy green popsicle sealed in a plastic tube.
When mom came back, she asked her daughter, “How were things with grandma?”
“First, I cried for you, mommy. Then grandma gave me a popsicle!”
I rushed to pick her up.
She cried and squealed as she repeated her mantra of the moment.
“I want my mommy." Pause. "I want my mommy." Pause. "I want my mommy." Louder: "I want my mommy!”
I held her. I rocked her. I sang to her. I assured her that mommy would return.
Five minutes passed, and the mantra magnified.
“A popsicle?” I suggested.
It worked. She pointed to the freezer, and we picked out an eight-inch-long squishy green popsicle sealed in a plastic tube.
When mom came back, she asked her daughter, “How were things with grandma?”
“First, I cried for you, mommy. Then grandma gave me a popsicle!”
Friday, July 29, 2011
An Electrical Transmission
Here lies our dear father, a humble and righteous, God-fearing man who busied himself by doing Holy Works. Itzchak Eizik, the son of Joseph, passed away on the sixth of Nissan and was buried the following day on the seventh of Nissan. Isaac Miller, Rabbi of Moodus, Conn. 1871-1939 (translated from the Hebrew)
I read this Hebrew-scripted epitaph of my paternal grandfather at the Ahavat Achim country cemetery in Colchester, Conn., on a summer sun-drenched day in July.
I leaned on the five-foot-tall tombstone with my body and placed my hand on its curved surface. I trespassed on the currents of electricity that reached my grandfather’s soul’s teachings. Tears of loss watered my face.
In a moment of transmission, I experienced his love for Judaism, his love for the Holy One, and his love for me, his only granddaughter who followed his European footprints to become the first female rabbi of the Miller/Mlowdowski lineage in America.
Twenty years ago I came to this family grave site with my now-late father and mother, my eldest daughter, and my first cousin. I remember how my father chanted the Mourner’s Kaddish for each of my four relatives buried here (my grandfather and my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle). I remember how we searched for several special rocks to place on top of the stone as a sign that we had been there to visit. (Even in a cemetery one need not be alone.)
This time I walked by myself from grave to grave and recited the Mourner’s Kaddish for all my lost ones. I searched again for the tiny pebbles that punctuated the cemetery’s lawn. I placed them on top of the four graves.
I busied myself with this Holy Work to elevate my connection to the grandfather I had never met.
I rested in his peace.
I read this Hebrew-scripted epitaph of my paternal grandfather at the Ahavat Achim country cemetery in Colchester, Conn., on a summer sun-drenched day in July.
I leaned on the five-foot-tall tombstone with my body and placed my hand on its curved surface. I trespassed on the currents of electricity that reached my grandfather’s soul’s teachings. Tears of loss watered my face.
In a moment of transmission, I experienced his love for Judaism, his love for the Holy One, and his love for me, his only granddaughter who followed his European footprints to become the first female rabbi of the Miller/Mlowdowski lineage in America.
Twenty years ago I came to this family grave site with my now-late father and mother, my eldest daughter, and my first cousin. I remember how my father chanted the Mourner’s Kaddish for each of my four relatives buried here (my grandfather and my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle). I remember how we searched for several special rocks to place on top of the stone as a sign that we had been there to visit. (Even in a cemetery one need not be alone.)
This time I walked by myself from grave to grave and recited the Mourner’s Kaddish for all my lost ones. I searched again for the tiny pebbles that punctuated the cemetery’s lawn. I placed them on top of the four graves.
I busied myself with this Holy Work to elevate my connection to the grandfather I had never met.
I rested in his peace.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friendship Matters
Friendship matters.
I am blessed with friends from around the world
If only I could gather you in one room and take a group snapshot!
I would thank you virtually for your voices that supported me and your hands that held me during the high and low tides of my life.
I reminisce with you and the memories return like waterfalls streaming down my heart.
Friendship matters.
In gratitude for you, my friend!
I am blessed with friends from around the world
If only I could gather you in one room and take a group snapshot!
I would thank you virtually for your voices that supported me and your hands that held me during the high and low tides of my life.
I reminisce with you and the memories return like waterfalls streaming down my heart.
Friendship matters.
In gratitude for you, my friend!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Searching for Liberty
While standing at the tip of Manhattan Island’s Battery Place Park, I scanned the New York Harbor in search of the Statue of Liberty.
My parents and grandparents journeyed by sea from Eastern Europe with thousands of immigrants seeking safe haven in America in the early 1920s.
I was born and bred in America, a first-generation citizen of the New World. By gazing at the harbor and the boats at sea, the history of my family’s cross-continental voyage was revealed to me. They were part of the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
My Blackberry camera zoomed into Liberty Island struggling to catch a glimpse of the majesty of the golden lamp that metaphorically lightened the sorrow and the burden of many freedom seekers. The sparkling, rippled waters dominated the simple snapshot. In the distance, the diminutive sculpture surfaced, perhaps, as it had appeared for my parents and grandparents 89 years ago.
Give me your tired, your poor.
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
The wretched refuse of your teaming shore.
Send these the homeless tempest-tossed to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
- Emma Lazarus, mounted on a plaque besides the Statue of Liberty
My parents and grandparents journeyed by sea from Eastern Europe with thousands of immigrants seeking safe haven in America in the early 1920s.
I was born and bred in America, a first-generation citizen of the New World. By gazing at the harbor and the boats at sea, the history of my family’s cross-continental voyage was revealed to me. They were part of the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
My Blackberry camera zoomed into Liberty Island struggling to catch a glimpse of the majesty of the golden lamp that metaphorically lightened the sorrow and the burden of many freedom seekers. The sparkling, rippled waters dominated the simple snapshot. In the distance, the diminutive sculpture surfaced, perhaps, as it had appeared for my parents and grandparents 89 years ago.
Give me your tired, your poor.
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
The wretched refuse of your teaming shore.
Send these the homeless tempest-tossed to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
- Emma Lazarus, mounted on a plaque besides the Statue of Liberty
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