Notes From My Online Jewish Writing Camp . . .

Let's call now menucha, rest hour, and let's say I'm writing from my bunk at camp . . .

We are four writers and one rabbi, which is to say we are five writers.

I wrote our Enduring Understanding as a poem, and we start and end with it each day:

Our Jewish conversation is ancient, ongoing
it’s who we are and our ideas are flowing
from our ancestors to us and our descendants next
this too is Torah, our sacred text
because of us our tradition grows
the words we write are the seeds we sow!

The big ideas I've created this week-long workshop around are:
1. Jewish identity is personal, evolving, and worth expressing
2. Jewish poetry is a conversation across generations
3. There is no single way/There are abundant ways to be and write Jewish

Yesterday, Echoes of Our Ancestors, we 'took up the staff of our ancestors' at Devon Spier's invitation,(Devon's poem is our focus poem for the week, I'll share it at the end.) and explored the story of Malah, Noa, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirzah from parshat Pinchas - this week's Torah portion. We thought about how they are often called the Daughters of Zelophechad and decided together that even though it's long to say Malah, Noa, Hoglan, Milkah, and Tirzah it's really important to know each of their names and to think of them as individuals as well as of them as Zelphechad's daughters. We played with some story telling and some poetry prompts. We learned about Free Verse poetry.

Then we wrote some poems in response to their story.

Most importantly, they thought about how Malah, Noa, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirza live in them.

Maybe we'll share some of our writing on Saturday in Merchav Shabbat.
Maybe that'll be our d'var Torah this week.

We divided Devon's poem into four parts and each of the younger writers memorized part of the poem. Memorizing poetry is good for our brains and for our writing. Having the words of other poets in us through memorization helps us build strength and confidence in our own word crafting.

Today, in Day 2: Holy Days, Holy Ways, our focus poem was Marge Piercy's "The Late Year." We learned about how the Jewish calendar works and why people say that Rosh HaShanah is 'early' or 'late' sometimes. We played some improv games - word toss (I toss out a word and we word-associate), doctor, doctor (Doctor, doctor I feel so dedicated, I'm Chanukah. Doctor, doctor I feel so free, I'm Passover) - and warmed up to get ready to write. We learned about list poems and wrote some together, including our Jewish Holiday Scavenger Hunt Program, and some on our own.

Tomorrow is "Sacred Struggles" and we'll be thinking about prayer and what God might be or what God is to us and what it could even mean to pray.
We'll be learning about Haiku, reading some Jewish Haiku and writing our own.

Thursday is "In Every Generation: Voices for Peace".

Friday is "I Am . . ."

Friday night we'll be together to share poems from the week, the poems we've studied from published poets and many of our own, and we'll have Shabbat dinner together online - blessings and schmoozing.

The world, for me, has been and is exhausting. Overflowing, and not in a good way. Maybe for you, too. I don't live with kids - I'm sure for better and worse. I do live with dogs, and that helps. This week of writing and reading Jewish poetry with kids has also helped. I recommend it.


Taking Up the Staff of Our Ancestors
by Devon Spier
There is an invisible staff we carry.
Passed from Jacob during the time of his wrestling,
To Aaron as he gestured in faithful summoning,
calling upon G-d’s wonders to lead us to freedom at the sea.
The staff is our certainty.
Our history and destiny.
To make our ancestors’ dreams and all our dreams, living, here today.
Neither the force of angels nor the hardened heart of Pharaoh could ever halt its passing through the generations.
By the staff, we know that our redemption is not only possible but
palpable, burned into memory, and real.
From the staff we behold the most precious of all Jewish continuities:
That our ancestors, like our future, exist within us.

The Late Year
by Marge Piercy

I like Rosh Hashanah late,
when the leaves are half burnt
umber and scarlet, when sunset
marks the horizon with slow fire
and the black silhouettes
of migrating birds perch
on the wires davening.

I like Rosh Hashanah late
when all living are counting
their days toward death
or sleep or the putting by
of what will sustain them—
when the cold whose tendrils
translucent as a jellyfish

and with a hidden sting
just brush our faces
at twilight. The threat
of frost, a premonition
a warning, a whisper
whose words we cannot
yet decipher but will.

I repent better in the waning
season when the blood
runs swiftly and all creatures
look keenly about them
for quickening danger.
Then I study the rockface
of my life, its granite pitted

and pocked and pickaxed
eroded, discolored by sun
and wind and rain—
my rock emerging
from the veil of greenery
to be mapped, to be
examined, to be judged.

jewish holiday scavenger hunt poem
by Rabbi Ariel’s Summer Jewish Writing Project Team

Tisha B’Av needs comfort
I read a book, I hug my mom

Tu B’Av love makes me think of my parents
Their love for each other
Their love for me

The New Year should be sweet,
Rosh HaShanah ice cream on my tongue

I think of my soul on Yom Kippur,
My shinies box - full of random shiny things 

On Sukkot we build and make with our own hands,
Like the rainbow scarf with tassels I made for Gigi

We spin our way through Simchat Torah
Our five dancing partners the books of the Moses 

 In the shortest days of winter
Chanukah reminds us to bring light,
we think of
lamps,
candles,
the sun,
and of course books

If it grows on a tree we celebrate it on
Tu BiShvat
An orange, an apple, a pear . . .
A banana?

Esther hid and so did God,
On Purim I think about
Kids . . .
Books . . .
and how in books
kids hide in suitcases

Ma nishtana halaila hazeh . . .
That’s what Passover makes me think of 

Shavuot? Being at Sinai? Being together?
I think of you. 

You Can’t Be a Jew Alone
by David Ebenbach

These days cables and cell towers collect our prayers
and carry them to all the places - a mourner’s
inbox, a grandmother’s ear against the phone,
a small white office where a rabbi
leads online services.
Does it make any difference to the prayers,
which are used to traveling underground
or getting caught in the arms of trees?
Still sometimes we hold our prayers
in the vault of a synagogue, together.
And sometimes
we cry them out in a bedroom, all alone,
and they go under a pillow.
Does it make any difference to G-d?
who didn’t invent prayer anyway, and to whom
the whole world buzzes like that - 
like power lines or cicadas hungry on the branch?