Hard and Easy

7394A_21 -- Sylvester on "Bugs Bunny" -- 8/9/73 Tracking #7394 A sleeping Sylvester. Must Credit: ABC Photo Archives/1960 Warner Bros. Pictures, Inc.]

Shalvah Journal
Big Tent #53
So Hard It’s Easy

Rabbi James Goodman organizes a recovery support group called Shalvah (Shalvah means serenity in Hebrew) that emerged out of an earlier effort started by Rose Mass and Rabbi G in 1981. Shalvah presently meets twice a week. It is bundled with two other programs, Positive Jewish Attention to Mental Illness-Mental Health and Jewish Prison Outreach because the borders are elusive.

He thinks it’s time to tell the stories. Confidentiality does not mean secrecy. Secrecy is part of the problem. He’s asking everyone he knows for help, because it’s time. He feels like his community is asleep and the stakes are too high to be quiet.

#freethestories

A room full of difficult stories almost none polite most of them protected in their freedom to disclose by the principle of confidentiality. Confidentiality does not mean secrecy. Secrecy is now part of the problem. What to do. It’s the same principle that applies to the discourse at the meetings: Tell your truth but be discreet. It’s a civilized discourse about unsavory pasts and alterable experiences. Regrets and falling down and getting up and on with it. I am transforming by being present.

Breath, air, let it move through, share, be economical with language, above all — listen. In our space a roomful of stories if articulated too much might scare the beejeezus out of someone. Don’t be scared, this is the safest room in town. Everyone says that.

In this room are stories of degradation and pain, descent and most often the hidden movement of ascent present in every story in some hidden or expressed way. We stay with our experience, strength, and hope. If it sounds hard, it is and it’s do-able. It’s life saving and healing and revealing and a release from the confines of what has become too narrow for us: Our former selves. Too small for us now. We do not cure, we transcend.

Our response to the challenges of our lives: We grow.

Thus the spiritual basis of our discourse, it’s not so much about God as it is about the ascendance of this or that over Self-full-ness. It’s not-god. There is a God, it is not-me. That’s as close as we get to a God concept. It’s not theology, it’s story telling for adults. This is my story, it has features of descent, it has features of ascent. It leaves the residue of hope. Jakob J my teacher of theology — you would be proud. I often quote you from one of our first classes: Think of theology as story-telling for adults.

We tell stories. A lot of the stories are gruesome. Most of them are funny. If we haven’t had one when we came in, we all acquire a sense of humor. We learn to laugh. This may one of the most important lessons of the group: Tell the truth but find the funny in it. I suppose funny is a form of detachment, some sort of Buddhistic disengagement with the heaviness of our own tales.

Yeah it’s heavy and true and brutal and we carried around a lot of weight for probably a long time, how good it feels to free it up with laughter. Accept and release. How is it that what might have killed us now makes us laugh? Exactly.

The strange algebra of what we do with talk and experience and breath and communication and truth-telling and real life responses to real life challenges.

We grow. We laugh. We tell some cautious truth. We disengage. We are serious and happy. We glimpse the possibility of a better life and we work toward it. Toward: Another good description of our process. A lot of Toward and How, less What. People do not generally give advice. No one will solve your life for you.

We have lost people, we have found people. We have found more people than we have lost but we do not forget that we lose people too. Beneath the laughter is serious business. I think of it this way: We are sitting in a circle around God. Sitting next to each other on the circle are tears and laughter. They are always in proximity. All of us sitting attentive, one eye laughing one eye crying.

That’s the easy part. We meet twice a week. Drama erupts, lives change, the eclipsing of former ways of being present in every meeting. Every meeting like a chapter in a drama of ascent and descent, the systole and diastole of hyper-awareness. It’s a wonder to witness.

The hard part is outside the room. How to take what we learn in our safety and make it real in the expanded circles of our lives. How to live in community. We talk about that. The goal is not talk, the goal is to live.

Epilog:

What to do with those who want to help? What to do about those who are reluctant to help? Example: We get a couple of bucks from the Jewish Federation of St. Louis that we mostly give back to advertising to the St. Louis Jewish Light. This year, the Jewish Federation trimmed down that money. Are they serious? Read the newspapers. We’re living an epidemic. Time to wake up.
#freethestories
#tooslowJFedStL

I Prefer the Spelling Pewk Or: Pukes and Wolverines and War Over

I Prefer The Spelling Pewk
Or: Pukes and Wolverines and the War Over Toledo
Puke: Etymology: 1600, probably of imitative origin (cf. German spucken to spit, Latin spuere); first recorded in the Seven Ages of Man speech in Shakespeare’s As You Like It.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
— As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
n.
U.S. colloquial meaning native of Missouri (1835) might be a different word, of unknown origin.
Bartlett (1859) has: A nickname for a native of Missouri as the second sense of puke (n.), the first being: A mean, contemptible fellow. The association of the state nickname with the vomit word is at least from 1858, and folk etymology talks of the old state literally vomiting forth immigrants to California. A Biblical syntax.

That the land not vomit you out when you defile it as it vomited out the nation before you. –Lev.18:28

I was not born here but I live in the puke. I’m a puke. I was a Wolverine. Once a Wolverine I suppose always a Wolverine.

But a puke — not a proud moniker however construed.

I don’t know what a Wolverine is. Hold on I’m calling the New York Public Library
where librarians still answer the phone in the Reference Room.

She asked first if I was asking about the comic book character, Wolverine.
No I said, the animal, a person born in Michigan, Ah she said, I went to the University of Michigan so I guess I’m a Wolverine though I was not born in the State.

I went to the University of Michigan also! I said with too much Excitement, and I was BORN in Michigan so I am a Wolverine. What the hell is it?

Hold on, she said, don’t go away. We can get at this chick chock.

She came back. Wolverines in the wild haven’t been sighted in Michigan since the early 1800s she said. Until recently. Ohio-ans started calling people from Michigan wolverines around the time of the State’s war over Toledo. In 1835. The Ohio-ans thought the people of Michigan were fierce fighters.

Whoa. There was a war over Toledo? Have you ever been to Toledo?

No, she said. Hold again please?

Back. It gets better. There’s a science teacher up in the thumb of Michigan that claimed he spotted the first wolverine in the wild since the early 1800s, that was 2004, tracked it, and he wrote a book about it! There was someone else speaking behind her in the room where she sat on Fifth Avenue in New York City, where the two lions are named Patience and Fortitude.

He’s a Wolverine too, she said, referring to the guy in on the story now in the background, the College connection.

She continued. The teacher’s name is Jeff Ford, the book The Lone Wolverine and he spotted the Wolverine in this kind of bog called the Minden City Swamp he set up a camera and after 371 days he got a picture of the animal. Wow. It took him over a year to get a picture. He worked so hard at tracking the animal he developed a heart condition but he got the picture and continued to track the animal until it was found dead in 2010. Obsession. The Department of Natural Resources determined the wolverine (a she wolverine) died of natural causes, probably a heart attack.

There’s something deep in this story about obsession and an over-the-divide mysticism between human and animal, I mused. Inwardly. She told me the wolverine was stuffed and shown around the state. The theory is she came in over a frozen Great Lake from Canada. Jeff Ford never gave her a name. Purposely.

What was the war over Toledo? I had her attention.

Hold on, she said. Back. Also called the Michigan-Ohio War, 1835-1836. They were arguing over a strip of land between Michigan and Ohio when Michigan was about to become a State. There was one battle where the two state militias lined up on opposite sides of the Maumee River and somebody fired up into the air, there was a compromise and Michigan ceded the Toledo strip of land to Ohio. Michigan got most of the Upper Peninsula. Michigan thought it was a bad deal until copper and iron were discovered up there.

Wow. Thanks. What a story. I did puppet shows in Toledo I said where I met a coven of witches it scared the hell out of me. Didn’t know the state story.

Ha, I think we all live in the state of curiosity, said the reference librarian. Thank you for calling. Anything else I can do for you?

What We Do

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What We Do

Shalvah Journal
Thursday, Aug. 18

We have a schedule of speakers for three weeks out of the month. The first week of the month we practice a form of meditation or prayer or do some inner work with music and poetry. The other weeks we begin with a speaker, the speaker speaks for twenty minutes or so, and the rest of the hour is given to spontaneous sharing from the group.

This is the first time she has spoken in our group. She was urged to do so by her sister who also attends the group and it’s clear she has more experience with such groups than does her (older) sister who signed up to speak tonight.

The speaker tonight has been a loyal attendee to the group but has not spoken much, she comes and listens, and I think everyone in the room recognizes the look of someone searching and not sure whether this is the correct location for her search. Does she belong — this is the question that appears on her face at every meeting though she has not spoken much about it.

She went bold and signed up to speak. It was not an easy gesture for her. She came to the meeting this night wearing the drama of vulnerability on her face, she had a small sheaf of notes she pulled out, I had to write it out she said by way of explanation, it’s the only way for me. That’s fine, I said, you know the meeting is an hour long. I’ll stay within the limits, she said, maybe missing maybe not missing the joke. She was nervous.

I sat next to her and there were some announcements and discussion, I moved to her talk as soon as I could as I imagined it was agonizing for her to wait. She launched, reading her notes clearly and with good voice, articulating what she had written that was carefully thought through.

It was a rough story, she opened with a sense of herself she was taught from her parents that was brutal and devastating for a little girl to have heard early on in her life. It was a theme that continued throughout her talk with the details of failed and failing relationships, bad choices, disappointments, and also the sense of the few joys of her life easier to remember partially because they were in the minority of her experience.

Five, ten minutes into her talk I admit I was thinking uh oh, this could be a difficult thing for her and for many of those in the room, some who might not relate to some of the particular details of her life that she emphasized. It wasn’t what we usually talked about when we talked in our group. She knew this and prefaced her talk with I’m not sure I belong here and I don’t know how familiar this will be to anyone else in the room. Ten minutes into her talk I wasn’t sure myself. Plus there were four or five new people that night and they had no sense that this was not our usual meeting. There is no usual meeting; sometimes I forget that and we’ve been doing this a long time.

Then she came to the denouement I’ll call it, of what she gave over that evening. The last chapter. In the last chapter, the last eight nine ten minutes of her talk she went right to the heart of the matter.

She spoke about the emptiness within that she felt was behind many of her poor choices in life, her responsibility for missing some of the elusive happiness or meaning she pursued in her story, she talked about that space within that drove her that brought her to this meeting that she feels she is touching is touched when she comes to the group.

She spent the last seven, eight, ten minutes of her talk sitting in front of that need within that space into which we stuff substances food people love success whatever it is we are chasing that is in partial recompense for the inner strength or prosperity the inner life we feel is deficient, wounded, absent, emptied out; this the center of the deal we do at the meeting.

I felt the room spring to life. When she was done, every comment was right to the heart of the matter where she had landed, confirming her presence in exactly the right place, everyone who spoke sat in that inside place with her. I live there too they said and thanked her or congratulated her or embraced her for the courage of taking us all with her because we are all familiar with that place and when she visits there we all visit there and it helps us make the trip and make it home in a more whole-some way than the old journey of defeatism and negativity sadness and despair. Everyone who spoke was familiar with that place. Everyone seemed to be switched on by her talk.

The other quality of the comments was the complete generosity of spirit that erupted from the group that night. The comments were true and personal and perceptive and they were also generous. I was moved by both her courage to be that vulnerable and the generosity of the group to intuitively give over a truth to her that was so profound it could make a significant change in her life. That night. That one night. It felt that large to me.

There were also some difficult comments going around the room, necessary and no surprise to many of us in the group, but the hard material of truth-telling and getting up and on with it, full disclosure, vulnerability in the extreme, we’re all doing the best we can and for many of us it starts with truth-telling stark and painful but better than the alternative. There was that too.

Real life. Every meeting real life. People often ask me what do you do at those meetings? We don’t talk about drugs or alcohol or other substances that much; we talk about inside things. Difficult things. The meeting is called Shalvah. Shalvah means serenity in Hebrew. There is no formula, few rules, just a couple of guidelines. You want to know what we talk about? Read these pieces. It’s time to tell the stories.

james stone goodman
#freethestories

I Prefer Pewk Or: Pukes and Wolverines and War Over Toledo

I Prefer The Spelling Pewk
Or: Pukes and Wolverines and the War Over Toledo

wolverine in michigan

Puke: Etymology: 1600, probably of imitative origin (cf. German spucken to spit, Latin spuere); first recorded in the Seven Ages of Man speech in Shakespeare’s As You Like It.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
— As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
n.
U.S. colloquial meaning native of Missouri (1835) might be a different word, of unknown origin.
Bartlett (1859) has: A nickname for a native of Missouri as the second sense of puke (n.), the first being: A mean, contemptible fellow. The association of the state nickname with the vomit word is at least from 1858, and folk etymology talks of the old state literally vomiting forth immigrants to California. A Biblical syntax.

That the land not vomit you out when you defile it as it vomited out the nation before you. –Lev.18:28

I was not born here but I live in the puke. I’m a puke. I was a Wolverine. Once a Wolverine I suppose always a Wolverine.

But a puke — not a proud moniker however construed.

I don’t know what a Wolverine is. Hold on I’m calling the New York Public Library where librarians still answer the phone in the Reference Room.

She asked first if I was asking about the comic book character, Wolverine. No I said, the animal, a person born in Michigan. Ah, she said, I went to the University of Michigan so I guess I’m a Wolverine though I was not born in the State.

I went to the University of Michigan also! I said with too much Excitement, and I was BORN in Michigan so I am certainly a Wolverine. What the hell is it?

Hold on, she said, don’t go away. We can get at this chick chock.

Back. Wolverines in the wild haven’t been sighted in Michigan since the early 1800s she said. Until recently. Ohio-ans started calling people from Michigan wolverines around the time of the State’s war over Toledo. In 1835. The Ohio-ans thought the people of Michigan were fierce fighters.

Whoa. There was a war over Toledo? Have you ever been to Toledo?

No, she said. Hold again please?

Back. It gets better. There’s a science teacher up in the thumb of Michigan that claimed he spotted the first wolverine in the wild since the early 1800s, that was 2004, tracked it, and he wrote a book about it! There was someone else speaking behind her in the room where she sat on Fifth Avenue in New York City, where the two lions are named Patience and Fortitude.

He’s a Wolverine too, she said, referring to the guy in on the story now in the background, the College connection.

She continued. The teacher’s name is Jeff Ford, the book The Lone Wolverine and he spotted the Wolverine in this kind of bog called the Minden City Swamp. He set up a camera and after 371 days he got a picture of the animal. Wow. It took him over a year to get a picture. He worked so hard at tracking the animal he developed a heart condition but he got the picture and continued to track the animal until it was found dead in 2010. Obsession. The Department of Natural Resources determined the wolverine (a she wolverine by the way) died of natural causes, probably a heart attack.

There’s something deep in this story about obsession and an over-the-divide mysticism between human and animal, I mused. Inwardly.

She told me the wolverine was stuffed and shown around the state. The theory is she came in over a frozen Great Lake from Canada. Jeff Ford never gave her a name.

What was the war over Toledo? I asked.

Hold on, she said. Back. Also called the Michigan-Ohio War, 1835-1836. They were arguing over a strip of land between Michigan and Ohio when Michigan was about to become a State. There was one battle where the two state militias lined up on opposite sides of the Maumee River and somebody fired up into the air, there was a compromise and Michigan ceded the Toledo strip of land to Ohio. Michigan got most of the Upper Peninsula. Michigan thought it was a bad deal until copper and iron were discovered up there.

Wow. Thanks. What a story. I did puppet shows in Toledo I said where I met a coven of witches it scared the hell out of me.

Charming, said the reference librarian. Thank for you calling. Always willing to help and thank you for the introduction to these glorious subjects. Anything else I can do for you?

jsg.usa

Orensanz

Gig Tonight
Early 21st Century

Al-2011-IMAG1035-600x371

Linda showed up at the end of the gig and asked if I wanted to go on an adventure.

Where to?

The oldest synagogue in New York City, someone bought it and turned it into a foundation and an artist’s studio. [she exaggerates but who cares]

Sounds great.

It’s way downtown, way down on the lower East Side, she said, below the letters [Avenues A,B,C]. We took cabs. Jake the bass player came too, and Judah from Brooklyn, and Daniel the artist.

We found the street, carrying all our instruments, in the middle of the block, dark, set back behind a black metal gate. It certainly looks like a synagogue but it reads The Orensanz Foundation. What the heck is Orensanz. . . I mumbled.

The name of the two brothers who bought it, Linda said.

Standing out in front of its dark exterior on Norfolk street, waiting for someone to answer the buzzer, I was as cold as I have ever been in my entire life. No gloves, I hate it when my hands get cold. I felt as if I were standing naked on an ice flow. It was February, New York City, but it felt like February, Rejkavik. The temperature had plummeted forty degrees from afternoon to night that particular day, and my bones froze standing out in front of the Orensanz Foundation, midnight, after the gig on Fourteenth Street. We stood waiting on the street, in the dark, for someone to come from somewhere within the labyrinth of the dark edifice looming above us. Open the door.

There were handwritten notes attached to the gate: ring loud, I am within. Ring ring, no response, climbing he was through a series of ascending palaces of subterranean mist to reach land-level.

Ring ring. A light from within, a door opened and silhouetted in the doorway a man with a natty thin-brim hat. Cardigan sweater. Scarf.

He opened the front door, come into my office, he said. His office was to the right as we entered. I peeped to the left into the large empty room, the synagogue I guessed, it was dark but I could see a shadowy presence and its three story ascent in the darkness. On top a luminescent dome that glowed cerulean blue in the dark.

His accent was a combination of Latino, eastern European, Pee Wee’s Funhouse, I thought it was completely contrived and someone’s private joke. It sounded like one of my accents. In his office, large industrial space heaters hanging from the ceiling. Pictures on the walls of Sarah Jessica Parker’s wedding, who Mr. Orensanz referred to several times as one of his finest moments as landlord. I gathered he rented the space out to parties for New York’s hip elite. Poof Daddy was here last night. Poof Daddy was here last night, he said twice, great party. MTV loves it here.

Joke? I looked at Linda. No joke, Linda looked back at me. Joke? I looked at Judah. I have no idea, Judah looked back at me, shrugging his shoulders. Joke? I looked at Jake the bass player. Good joke, Jake looked back at me, great joke, fabulous joke.

Orensanz was describing his brother’s sculpture, for which the synagogue was purchased in order to house his studio.

Where is your brother now?

Paris. He went back to naming the celebrities who were having parties in his synagogue.

I snuck out of the office and into the dark synagogue to the left. The floors were wood and not refinished, as were the columns that ran the length of the room in two parallel rows. The columns were carved out of small facets in shapes that looked like fine tile-work, but it was not ceramic, it was wood, small carved facets of color carved out of the wood pillars. I realized that the entire ceiling and upper walls were formed out of these colorful miniaturized facets. The colors – magenta, scarlet, purple, yellow, and the dome a shimmering blue like God’s holy eyes.

There was no heat at all in the synagogue space. I unpacked my guitar and sat down on the steps that led up to the bimah. I began to play. First I played a couple of serpentine Ladino melodies, I switched to some oud-inspired improvisations, the notes of my instrument ascending slowly up into the dome space and raising a holy sweet savor to God’s nose, ears, eyes. For the second time that night, I began the love songs that make up the slow-hand Havdalah ceremony that I had recently learned for just these occasions, and by now the group who had been huddling in the office had followed the sound and wandered into the synagogue.

Mr. Orensanz the brother switched on a bank of what looked like make-up lights that ran in a row above the columns along two side walls and the rear wall of the synagogue. Not too much light, but enough to note the floors, the walls, the columns, the facets were original and not reconditioned, original structures, the empty floor a rough parquet unfinished, whose footprints?

Daniel the artist was examining the columns and the collusion of colors in the facets around the room. Everyone was walking slowly examining the shadowy recesses. Jake the bass player unpacked his instrument, sat down next to me, and began to accompany my playing.

I started to sing in Ladino again, a medieval Spanish garnished with Hebrew, Turkish, Greek, Arabic. I sang love songs, sad songs of longing, songs of exile, and I noticed that Mr. Orensanz was standing near one of the columns to my right, weeping at the sound of his ancestral language and the music of longing.

Soon everyone stopped wandering around the room and stood stationary, each in place, like players on a big game board, lit not-lit by the light casting shadows, faces dark.

I sang and they listened this way for forty five minutes. No longer did I notice the temperature, it was cold but we raised a fire in our rooted souls, the sound rose through the dome and into the space where the music rested. We sang and played into the shadows for forty five minutes.

When we finished, we quietly filed out into the New York City night, a hush having fallen over all of us, including Mr. Orensanz, who asked if I would like to record in his synagogue. Poof Daddy.

On the street, I began to freeze up again. I had no idea where we were, but several blocks later we came to the celebrated Katz’s delicatessen. We took a ticket and went and sat in the cavernous dining room, next to a table of young musicians recently come in no doubt from their own show, in black leather, studs, chains, tattoos and piercings.

One of them glanced at me carrying my instruments. Gig tonight? he asked.

Yeah, I said, great gig. You?

Me too, he said, nodding his head up and down. We smiled at each other. Later, I watched him walk out the front door and disappear like a raven into the night.

James Stone Goodman
United States of America

Al Orensanz passed away in New York City, on Saturday, July 23, 2016.

Af Tsu Lokhes/In Spite Of: Story #51 Big Tent

thumb lebowski

Story #51
Big Tent

In Spite Of: Af Tsu Lokhes

The day I wrote the piece #50 in the series Big Tent, June 20, 2013, describing a slice of the meeting the night before just a moment out of an hour of moments not to say too much respecting confidentiality to the maximum, I think I captured a sense of the life-saving nature of what we discuss when we convene on Thursday evenings. I wrote the piece late Thursday night only several hours after the Shalvah Recovery from Addictions meeting, submitted it to the blog site set up by my community to feature events and ideas etc. of the locals. I have a blog on that site, and I submitted my account of the Thursday night meeting the next day, Friday, the day after another heavy Thursday night session. It was fresh.

On that Thursday I decided to start a journal of the evening session, something written to capture a bit of what we do on Thursday nights that has been so healing for so long. I write about everything, I thought, I ought to write about this too. Besides, I had made a formal request for funding from my community after having been approached by the new CEO of the institutional mechanism asking me for it.

I write a journal of my prison experiences, I write about the mental illness project, I should write about the Shalvah recovery meeting we have been running in one form or another, almost continuously, since I came to this town in 1981. So I started to keep the journal, the first entry was that Thursday, that night, June 20, 2013.

The next day I was scheduled to have a phone conversation, I should note here, with the official CEO who represents my community and who contacted me about ways in which the community mechanism might support the program. I told him I would need him to see the program through the bureaucracy in which he works, make a case for it however that is done I don’t know, and whatever materials I could provide him I would do to the best of my abilities.

Of course they have a right to ask what is it that we do on Thursday nights. I invited them to come and see; I am sure I can get the permission of the participants for you to come because they all know the life-saving significance of the Thursday evening group [note: the group has much expanded since then, is now meeting twice a week, welcoming new people almost every week and we have discussed going to a third night] and I believe the group would compromise its anonymity/confidentiality to further the notion not for the sake of themselves but for the sake of others in our community and beyond whom we could be helping.

And if those who hold the purse strings did not want or could not attend any of our meetings, I could always refer them to my writings, and through the accounts anyone could discern a good sense of what we do on Thursday nights we call Shalvah (serenity).

He had given me a load of directions by which I could provide him for what he called a logic model (I had no idea what a logic model was) that he could then take into the place where he works.

He came back at me with a load of more requests, I had provided the information for the logic model as he requested, now he was asking for a metric (another notion I wasn’t familiar with, I have not been trained in these matters). I thought I included a metric with which to evaluate in the logic model we submitted (love this language), and by then I noticed that the vocabulary had shifted from how can I help you to how can this not happen, an elucidation of all the reasons why it would be impossible for his organization to support my efforts. I have experience with this kind of shift in language. I am sensitive to it; I’ve been at this a long time.

A few days after this conversation, one of the great leaders of our community passed away. He had been in the very position of the individuals I was now dealing with; I knew that his way was the way of activism. If he saw a need, his attitude was how are we going to do this, what I call the af tsu lokhes approach, a great Yiddish phrase that has the sense of in spite of — with an attitude. It’s a useful expression without an exact equivalent in English, a sense of: you think I can’t do what? I’m going to do it in spite of all obstacles and with more punch. Just because. I could feel the difference in the individuals I spoke with on the phone; there was no af tsu lokhes attitude.

The man we would soon be burying was a force in our community, and my experience with him was deep. When we started the addictions outreach, he was as a matter of fact in the same position as the individuals I was now speaking with in the early days of our program. These teachings were not lost on me; a week and a half later at his funeral I felt the need of such individuals now and what a loss to our community such a spirit is. Where are they when we need them?

I am searching everywhere for those af tsu lokhes individuals, who see a problem and all the difficulties attendant to relieving suffering, but enter with the attitude: Let’s do this thing, let’s make this happen, let’s do some good. Obstacles? Let’s go around them.

There’s a story my teacher used to tell. When there’s an obstacle in the road, you don’t sit down, unpack a table, have lunch. You build. Around it.

james stone goodman