Catching Lightning

I didn’t realize how much nostalgia I carried for thunderstorms.

I watched a friend’s video, a few week’s back, where she captured fifteen seconds of a brutal storm in Manhattan. It was so visceral: the steam rising off of dark streets cooled by heavy rain, streams of water pooling into gutters, flashes of quick light over the tops of skyscrapers. And the soundtrack: that deep familiar rumble.

I started posting in the Facebook comments how much I was enjoying this video, and how much I missed these storms! Then I erased it.

Maybe I was being insensitive and romanticizing bad weather? Fetching buckets to catch the rain that inevitably found its way inside our apartment. Sirens blaring in the background.

And, now, power outages on top of a pandemic.

So secretly, I just watched the video over and over, enjoying it alone.

And then, three nights ago, I woke around 3Am to flashes of lightning, and the sound of heavy rain, and, yes, the familiar rumble!

I was excited! I went outside; I took photos and video. I watched it back: Twenty seconds of nothing: Just darkness and the sound of raindrops.

I caught some still shots: pleasant shades of light behind the large cypress tree: lavender; orange; pink; a pale green.

The kids were up by this point and came into our bed. What could be better than this? the big one asked the little one, cozying under our blankets. It was enough.

The next morning I took them to the beach.

As soon as their feet touched the sand, they tore off their sneakers and began unpacking small shovels and buckets. My kids are so grateful to live near a beach. They were unfazed by the remnant of chill and a sky that still looked ominous.

I took a few pictures of them on my phone, and while admiring their playfulness, I saw a bolt of lightning directly over the ocean.

When I reviewed my photos, there it was; in the third of four still shots, I had caught it, a lightning bolt.

I don’t need to unpack this one; the way we catch lightning when we’re not chasing after it.

What’s more sacred to me is the way my kids are oblivious to what looks like a near apocalyptic scene of the earth cracking open behind them.

How they are constantly present in the moment they’re inhabiting.

Maybe that’s why I find so much consolation in thunderstorms, and the physical experience of being caught in one.

How present I find myself in the sounds and sensations of all that rain and rumble — and occasionally— a flash of such undeniable light.

Continued Strength & Love friends.

Prayer + Action: Spark SF Public Schools Help bridge equity among students.

Howl & Challah

I’ve been unearthing old journals, and pulled out this beauty last night — etched with lines from Allen Ginsberg’s epic poem Howl: I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked.

I have three of this journal.

I purchased each one on separate trips to City Light’s Bookstore in San Francisco between the late 90s and early 00s.

The one pictured here is the third — Starving Hysterical Naked III !

It chronicles life in New York City from December 2002 — July 2003.

Keeping a journal for most of my life has been the gift that keeps on giving.

For one, the subconscious / artistic mind knows things before the day-to-day conscious mind; I knew so much in my early twenties (The catch — I didn’t know I knew it)

Also, it reminds me that life stages which feel infinite at the time: Soul crushing office job / dramatic roommate configuration / haphazard romantic prospects, actually pass.

This too. This pandemic.

But it’s easy to get stuck.

This past Friday afternoon, before Shabbat, I went to pull a challah out of the freezer. But there was no challah in the freezer.

It was past 3pm and all of the bakeries were closed.

I had no challah. But it spiraled fast into something else: I have no challah! I have no career! I have not published a book! I have no school for my children!

See how quickly that happens?

And a moment later, I saw a Facebook post pop up on my phone: A friend had baked two challahs, and asked if anyone needed one.

Within an hour I had a challah.

My kids have a school.

I may never have a traditional career, but I am working on my book. I have many pages written.

I have the consolation of, not one, but a trilogy of Howl journals. They remind me of what’s true, what I’ve known is true all along.

Prayer + Action: Let’s Talk: A Virtual Conversation about Race, Love & Truth

Spread More Love

Most of my consolations these days are found at Ocean Beach, which is no surprise to me!

Nothing has matched the healing balm of a walk or drive to the ocean.

I mean it; I think I washed up in a wave of grace on this shore, and on this coast.

On a windy day, the beach is vast and empty; sand-grains catch in my tangled hair, even between my teeth.

This place is so much an antidote for the world that it’s hard to believe it is actually the world.

And this is pretty much a metaphor for every consolation — and all of the love and beauty and hope which co-exist in every moment alongside acts of cruelty and injustice and despair.

Colorful graffiti wall messages sit next to the neutral earth tones of the sea.

Any day of the week, I’m placing my trust in street art’s newsfeed.

Spread More Love.

That is the truth.

Prayer + Action this week is a continuation of the dialogue about Black / Jewish relations. This time Dan was a guest on Dr. Baham’s video podcast, Along the Line. You can watch HERE. In addition to spreading love, I find consolation in these conversations and the creation of holy relationships.

Wishing everyone continued health, strength and - of course - love.