Adventures in the wilderness

The CY had a shabbaton which was extraordinary. We went on a hike through the Arbel Nature Preserve, against the backdrop of the Horns of Hattin, where Saladin had one of his greatest battles, and Mount Tabor, of biblical fame. The whole area is a maze of sheer cliffs and deep valleys, the cliffs honeycombed with caves where guerrilla fighters hid during the Roman occupation. We clambered down and down and down, holding onto pitons that had been driven into the rock face, then across the valley floor.

All I could think, during the climb, was that this was the first real adventure I’d had since I got sick several years before. It was the kind of thing I adored doing when I was a kid, when I loved climbing trees and doing all kinds of daredevil stunts, and it was such a blessing to get to access that part of myself again. By the end of the 3.5 hour hike, my body was really past its limits, but I was still so grateful for what I’d gotten.

Then we went to the hostel where we spent Shabbat. I loved the people I roomed with, I loved singing together late into the night, I loved spending time with this community. Such a joy.

The body politic

In an odd confluence, I had major surgery scheduled for Election Day. As this was the third (and hopefully final) in a series of surgeries that have gone well, I kept saying I was much more nervous about the election than I was about the operation. But between recovering from the previous surgery, gearing up for this one, and making sure I kept up my responsibilities to my job, I just wasn’t capable of doing things like volunteering with the campaign. I had to put myself first and trust everything would be okay.

Because no one really sleeps in a hospital, I was awake most of the time from midnight to three AM as Trump’s victory went from possible to likely to devastating fact. I’ve felt strangely lucky the past few days, as friends have expressed their shock, grief, anger, and fear, that my body’s demands have forced me to lower the volume on my emotional reaction to the national crisis. It’s also allowed me to do a lot of listening without needing to voice my own agenda, not always the easiest thing.

Here’s what I’ve got, three days in. As my strength returns, I need to be showing up for Black Lives Matter, Bend the Arc, and other social justice movements. I need to be supporting the ACLU and Planned Parenthood, both of which are going to be on the front lines for the next several years. I need to take an active role in making others feel safe and supported. I need to figure out how many hours and dollars per month I want to spend on these causes and make sure I’m hitting or going beyond that minimum every month.

I’ve always admired the Righteous Gentiles, the ordinary people who chose to help Jews survive and escape the Nazis when so many of their neighbors turned a blind eye. I don’t think it’s hyperbole to say this could very well be such a moment in history, and I want to make sure that I’m doing what I can, not just wringing my hands and becoming passively complicit.

Driving at night

In the past three years, I’ve edited some old writing and written down snippets to save for later, but being sick really shut down most of my inner life, so I didn’t write anything substantial. But for the last few weeks, I’ve been kicking around two or three ideas for novels, trying to find plots that would turn those characters and settings from static ideas into living stories.

Two days ago, I wrote an awful, boring paragraph of internal monologue for the story I thought was least likely to work. Yesterday, I took that awful, boring paragraph and reworked it as dialogue. Then I turned it into four pages single-spaced of a beginning that needs to be edited, but is good enough to be getting on with. Today I know what the following three scenes are.

I never write like this. I always write out a plot summary and break it down by scene, I fiddle with each scene in my head until I have it letter perfect, and then I write it down. I feel deeply uncomfortable writing a story that doesn’t have a plot yet and may not have a viable ending, or writing down scenes I know aren’t quite right yet so I have scaffolding to write what’s next. But I’m put in mind of the EL Doctorow quote: “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

End of the line

I’ve been very private about this, but I think it’s time to talk about it publicly: For the past two years, I’ve been struggling with ulcerative colitis. The symptoms are rather like having horrible food poisoning every day. We’re finally at the point where drugs, diet, and holistic options have all been exhausted, and I’m going to need surgery. If all goes according to plan, this is going to mean two major surgeries a few months apart, with a long recuperation after each.

Prayers and good mojo are very much appreciated. For those who use it, my Hebrew name is Liba Batya bat Malka Aliza.

I’ll keep you all posted about the details to know when to send good thoughts my way, and to let you know how recovery is going. With luck, this will help me get back the life I had before I was sick.