Double Take

I was a girl from Brooklyn, so I heard about crime, but what did I know about police line-ups? At fourteen years old, I entered the local precinct to find out. Not by choice, of course, but because I was the ideal witness to identify two suspected muggers. I was one of their victims.

An officer briefed me on the procedure, describing how I would see the suspect, along with several fillers that resembled the suspect in height, build, and complexion. Standing behind a one-way mirror, I was to study them all and identify the assaulter. I had a microphone for the option of calling one of them by number and requesting that they turn to profile for better view. I would then sign a document that would be admissible in court. How daunting.

Noting my apprehension, a nearby officer whispered some words of advice.

“Give yourself time to positively identify the suspect. If your attacker was wearing a cap and an oversized t-shirt at the time of the crime, you are likely to assume that the first person you see wearing a cap and an oversized t-shirt is him. You can say ‘number two looks familiar, but leave yourself an opening to say, ‘in reality, I am sure it is number four.’”

With that, I was led to a narrow hallway to look through the one -way -mirror and begin. I needed a stool to see properly and I couldn’t comprehend how they managed to find characters willing to participate in this law enforcement method.

 My eyes landed on the second subject, and I immediately thought he was the one. I even thought I could detect guilt and fear in his eyes. However, I refrained from giving a verdict and I said with a tremor in my voice, “number two looks familiar.”

I paused and looked again. Like a camera coming into focus, I started seeing features and details that I hadn’t noticed previously. I narrowed it down to two people, and I asked Number Four to turn his head to the right and then to the left. I became certain it was him.

I was confident that my initial response was wrong. This time there was confidence in my declaration, “Number four was the perpetrator of the crime.”

**

I wonder how my life would look if I applied this advice to all of my affairs. Imagine I paused for one second after an initial response, to double-check that my decision wasn’t based on associations or previous history. To give myself an opening to choose better.

Say I was facing a task I always avoided. My initial response to such a task would be escape. “Good night world! I’m going to sleep!” or “I can’t handle this!” I have the liberty to question my initial response. Pause. I am definitely capable of breaking down this chore and accomplishing it in part.

I could be a person that gets triggered by certain people. I can’t stand it when “x” interrupts me, “y” forgets about me, or “z” comes late again. My initial response may be to fall back on old patterns of yelling, resentment, or going off on a tirade against them. I may even voice my initial response. But that shouldn’t force me to stubbornly cling to it. Pause. I have the option of backing out.

I may have a habit of sending impulsive emails or shopping compulsively. How convenient that I have an opportunity to save a draft or hold a cart until I can think things through clearly. Pause. In a literal sense.

Can you see this assisting you in the sometimes challenging commandment of judging your fellow favorably? Or in agreeing to do a difficult favor?  Sure, your initial response may be one of anger or disgust. Or of absolute refusal. But allow yourself the window to get some clarity and change your mind.

Your initial response may be your gut instinct and a correct one at that. Or not. Think before you give the final verdict.

Homecoming

The elevator reached the fourth floor. The doors slid open, but I was tempted to hit "lobby" and push this off for a week. I was returning home from vacation.
It's a good thing suitcases have wheels, because the one right behind me leaned against me and prodded me out the door. I stepped out quickly onto the black and white tiles of my hallway and looked for a light-switch to brighten it up. Oh. The light was on; I guess fluorescent watts just don't compete with the sun's. I glanced out the window at the street down below and imagined that the graffiti inscription on the corner grocery read " welcome back from vacation."
Bracing myself to enter my urban dwelling, I turned the key in the lock. I slowly pushed the carriage into my living room,followed by my husband and a month's load of stuff. There was barely any floor to be seen, and I knew that even when I unpacked the suitcases my son would be able to run about six feet and then have to turn back the other direction. How different this was from vacation.

It wasn't that I wanted to radiate negative energy, I simply felt claustrophobic and and couldn't help noticing the dust balls dancing in all the corners.I knew that the closest I could get to seeing a clear blue sky with a serene landscape would be if i purchased wallpaper.  I felt the walls caving in on me, leaving only a narrow tunnel for me to crawl through, face down.
That's when I noticed it. A kind mailman had slipped a big envelope under my door, saving me the usual trip to the post office for larger sized packages. A bright red sticker read " do not bend, portraits inside." God Bless Sears!! I tore open the perforated line and the pictures landed gracefully on my glass table. Within 30 seconds I had them lying side by side, a collage of memories from my recent vacation.

With crisp white pants and sky-blue argyle shirts, my kids blended right into the scenery. The essence of vacation had been captured in an 8x10, two 5x7's, and a sheet of wallets. I played with the different sizes and poses, rearranging them on a bare wall in the kids' bedroom, and designed their frames in my mind. When the prints were at the right angle and the symmetry  was just so, I actually managed a smile. It was good to be home, in my comfort zone, with with real wooden cribs instead of playpens for the little ones.Home was where I spent the majority of my life, for both function and purpose. And soon to be hanging on my wall, in my own home, I had a glimpse of vacation as well. Enough to uplift me at a glance.

The $5.99 for overnight shipping was worth it.

Open Invitation

Hello Everyone! This is an open invitation to you all to share comments on the posts. Did you ever feel the same way? Do you agree/disagree? Do you have a burning desire to say something? Say it! :)

The Jelly Squirter

I’m still smiling to myself. My son just fell asleep, his blankie scrunched under his arm, with one toe sticking out between two slats in his crib. It wasn't a long conversation; he was so tired it lasted about 45 seconds.

 It went something like this: "Naftoli, do you remember we fed the geese this morning at 6:37 am?"
His ears perked up"yeah!"

 "Did you have a good time on the swings today?
His eyes lit up "yeah!"

"Naftoli, did you like going to Catskill playzone to play with all the ballies?"
His body shot up "yeah!!"

And then he fell asleep, sliding into his sheets as if it was home base.

I’m still smiling, but ask me what I did today. I’ll tell you what I told my fellow Mom at the pool today, when she asked me what I’m doing this summer. “Nothing.”

Interesting. When I review my day with Naftoli, it’s jam-packed. When I review my day with myself, it leaves me questioning my very identity as a person. What did I do today? I didn’t clock in any hours at work or orchestrate any major events. There was nothing substantial enough for me to count as having done something, or something tangible to show the world. My day kind of feels like a bland ball of dough, an assortment of ingredients mixed together yielding a tasteless mixture.

 It’s time to squirt in some jelly.  I’m looking for a sweet filling at the center of my life, and I must be the one to inject it. The jelly ought to be rich and syrupy, enhancing the dough to the very last bit. I stand ready, with the nozzle of the squirt bottle aimed perfectly at the glob of dough.

I am injecting meaning into my day.

I am choosing to delight in my memories of each moment spent with my children, and I choose to relish the aftertaste of such a kid-filled day. I am actively conscious that every mundane act is saturated with love and significance, enabling my children to grow up to be healthy human beings. I bear in mind the sweet truth that tending to physical needs of another is a spiritual experience for me.

Come to think of it, I have been squirting jelly all day long. I woke up in the morning with a prayer of gratitude on my lips, there goes jelly. I utilized an opportunity to learn something holy, I’ve gotten another injection. I was considerate of someone other than myself, and the sticky sweetness starts to permeate everywhere.

My day is transformed. It tastes so very delightful, and I’m quite particular.

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A Response to Jewish-Mothers-Guilt

Today I was going to be a good mother. I was gonna follow all the rules in the grandmother book, where grandmothers instruct their daughters how to raise their child because they're 65 and look what a nice family they raised.

The first rule is : serve warm meals. Easy. For breakfast I made my kid scrambled eggs, accompanied by a warm-but-not-too-hot cup of hot cocoa.

Then came lunch. Here was the chance to make up for all the hastily packed lunches of ricecakes and american cheese(more plastic than cheese) that I sent with my son to Morah Miriam every day. Up and coming was the world's tastiest spaghetti and cheese.

My son was in on the game. He watched with anticipation as I boiled a pot of water,measuring a tablespoon of salt. He saw the spaghetti cascade gracefully from the box into the pot. He gleefully shouted "bubbles!bubbles!" at the spaghetti simmering on the stove.

With one eye on the clock so I could remove the pot in exactly 9 minutes for al dente pasta, I prepared a delightful mix of cheddar and mozarella cheese, with a dash of pepper and a spice which I promised my sister-in-law that I wouldn't tell anyone about. I endorsed myself with positive affirmations. " I am such a good mother. I am taking the time to invest my love in physical nourishment. "

Naftoli was getting impatient. His toddler-sized stomach hadn't been catered to for four hours already, but I dare not fill it with tomatoes or something that could ruin his appetite for the chef-style,and most imortantly warm serving of,spaghetti and cheese.

It was finally ready. I prided myself on getting the consistency right, on preparing the ultimate in kid-food to perfection. I placed a blue bowl of just the right amount of spaghetti in front of Naftoli, and waited for him to eat really quickly and ask for more. He just sat there.

Maybe he wants ketchup? That's alright. I could always squirt just enough to give it a shine but not so much that it would cover up the delicate taste. Maybe its too hot? My very motherhood was at stake here (see page 1 of said grandmother book), and for that I was willing to blow fiercely on the food to cool it down.

He looked up and said simply "Mommy,want ricecakes and (american!!!) Cheese..."