(This is a cross-post from my bikelovejones blog. I post it here at some risk to my long-term professional career, and in a spirit of inquiry into what our tradition might have to say about some Very Big Things.)

Having now watched both nights of Democratic Party debates, I am left thinking some Very Big Things, and just thinking of them simultaneously alarms and intrigues me:

1. Climate change seems to be the most important issue, at least to my thinking. Even as we fight over diminishing resources -- and the political and economic control of those resources -- all of the other issues, like  gun control, states' rights, civil rights, economic disparity and homelessness seem far less pressing.
The specter of a rapidly warming planet should be scaring the crap out of every single one of us. And so it has been amazing to consider the lengths to which we distract ourselves from this reality in our homes, our personal and professional lives, our practice of any (or no) religion, and the way we conduct commerce.

2. While I continue to pursue as simple a life as I can here at home -- and last-night's Shabbat gathering was as simple and sweet and uncomplicated as any I've participated in, in a very long time -- the fact is that many of my fellow Jews are pursuing lives that are seemingly as complicated as possible.  We follow dietary rules that compel us to buy food that has traveled across the country. We observe holy days that compel us to buy ritual objects made and transported from halfway around the globe. Our professionals travel often, to professional conferences and, if they’re able, back and forth between North America and Israel regularly. We live in Jewish bubbles of our own making, ensconced in comfortable suburbs that lie beyond the reach of public transit and equip our kids with the best things life can offer — both educationally and materially, and all at considerable cost, because life in those bubbles simultaneously requires and justifies that we do so.

I3. n my efforts to build some small semblance of a career as a Jewish professional, I have toured as a visiting artist and educator. While my travel is exclusively for work — my partner and I do not travel for vacations much farther weekend drive to the coast, simply because national or global travel is unaffordable for us — I still shudder at the carbon footprint of my choices. I wonder every day if my choices make sense anymore, in a world that is rapidly burning up. Friends and family tell me not to fret so much — even with all the recent air travel, my carbon footprint before my career change seldom, if ever, required automobile use (I rode to and from work daily by bicycle) and so my current choices still reflect an overall lifetime carbon footprint that’s considerably lower than most.

But this feels like a false paradigm to me, a legal fiction designed to allow me to do this holy work, an attempt to avoid the zero-sum game that climate change represents for the human species.

To calm my distress about the Very Big Things I’ve been wrestling with, I’ve spent my evening reading a number of online articles by Jews from across the spectrum of observance. All but the most radical of them suggest that we ought to be cautious about things like a Green New Deal, or any radical moves away from fossil fuel dependence and meat-based diets — after all, some argue, aren’t we each supposed to live a life based on Torah?

Well, sure. Okay. Torah is thousands of years old. It has provided guidance for our people for ages, and inspires me today.
But the earth is older than Torah by several million or billion years. The earth is older than Judaism. The earth is older than the human species.
And so, doesn’t it make sense that at some point, Judaism may actually become irrelevant? After all, if the earth really has been heated up beyond reversal, then humanity will one day be irrelevant — and nonexistent — as well.

Should we be turning to our tradition for insight on how to deal with the impermanence of things? Of life? Of the human species in its entirety? And can Torah properly prepare us for not only the end of the human species, but the end of our individual lives? What can we glean from Torah to help us come to terms with the death denial of our modern culture, the denial that urges us to distract ourselves with mass consumerism? Can Torah help us come to terms with the reality of human species extinction, which will surely come about as the earth adapts to a warming climate?

I want to figure this out. Because the truth is we’re all going to die someday, and pretending we won’t will only hurt each of us, and all of us, deeply and profoundly. Coming to terms with our eventual demise can only be healthy for all of us, and perhaps will give us insight on how to be better for the planet in the process.

Onward.
Tomorrow will be a good day for a bicycle ride.
And maybe I'll come up with some ideas along the way.

I arrived home VERY late Friday night after two weeks on the road, exhausted but very gratified.

Highlights included: TWO wonderful teaching and learning opportunities at Temple Isaiah of Great Neck and online with students, alumni and faculty of Academy for Jewish Religion (non-denominational Jewish seminary);

Full houses at Malverne Jewish Center and the Funkhouse, where I shared my music with incredible, attentive and appreciative music-lovers;

A return to my second Women Cantors' Network conference, where I had joyful reunions with friends and colleagues in the most NON-Competitive setting imaginable, sang, prayed and led services (and became the de facto WCN House Drummer !!), and had a blast sharing my love of percussion, environmentalism and maker culture with folks in my Junk to Funk Workshop.

It was an amazing and rewarding time.

Home now, dealing with the predictable post-tour slump (it happens to most of us, and if we're aware of it we can take steps to make it shprter and easier to live with), planning for future tours and gigs, and puttering in our garden watching the tomatoes and garlic grow and become.
As I sit in the sunshine outside and woodshed on my guitar or on a drum practice pad, or repair bikes for refugees, or simply let the sun's rays warm my face,  I am re-rooting in my place in the world and giving a tired, deep thanks for the Is-Ness of it all.

Later this summer I'll be doing other things!  Check the opening page of my web site to catch up on my current schedule, and use the contact form to reach out to me and say hello! I would LOVE to hear from you about anything -- a song you liked, an inspiration you had, or whatever.

Thanks for supporting Jewish Music Made By Hand, and enjoy your summer!

(Cross-posted from Bikelovejones)

In 1990, I did two big things.

First, I sold my car. It was an '81 Ford Escort, the last year they made a 4-speed stick shift in this model. It had been my Dad's, and when he learned it had virtually NO trade-in value he decided to make a present of it to me, for the cost of title transfer. I drove that car for three years and used it mostly to get to my job downtown (where parking was free) and to haul my drum kit to gigs.
Over time I discovered that my night vision was growing worse, and that the car wasn't in such great shape, either.  I sold the car in July 1990, and never looked back.

The next thing I did was to buy a better bicycle. I had a very old five-speed city bike that weighed a ton and looked cool, but was impractical for where I lived and for the kind of riding I aspired to. So I took the money from the sale of the car (a whopping $600) and put some of it towards a new Trek mountain bike.

These were two of the best decisions I'd ever made.

I rode to work in all weather after that, and if someone wanted to hire me for a gig, they had to arrange for transportation for me and my drums. (Since I was a pretty decent drummer, the folks who really needed me were generally happy to provide a ride.)

From 1990 until 2012, my bicycle was my primary mode of transportation.
In 2012, things began to shift. I left Citybikes and full-time work in the bicycle industry), and began to build a career as a touring Jewish artist- and educator-in-residence. I had to tour because there simply wasn't enough paying Jewish music and teaching work in Portland. There still isn't and for someone like me there probably never will be.

The result of that reality is that I've had to build a nice little career through touring. I've been blessed to travel all over this beautiful country and meet some pretty amazing people. I've even made some pretty lovely friends as a result of my travels. But through it all, I've had a nagging feeling that, while this constituted "right livelihood" as far as my work and talents went, it was a lousy livelihood for the planet.

I have struggled with this ever since I decided to focus on music and teaching in the Jewish world.
My family and friends have tried to reassure me that, with my many years of sustainable travel, I've surely not even begun to burn up all those good effects by a few years of air travel.
I'm not so sure. Because the fact is that air travel is especially horrible for the Earth, and more peoplethan ever are choosing air travel as their first transportation choice when it comes to cross-country -- or cross-region -- trips.

But when I live in Portland, and the high-paying gig that will cover half the mortgage on our crappy-lovely little house is in Florida, what am I supposed to do?
Portland is home. My family is here and my friends are mostly here. The way I live is centered around a place where I can depend on strong public transit and bike-accessible roadways, amenities most cities with large Jewish communities simply do not offer.
I'm an independent freelancer and moving to Florida would not guarantee me ongoing work.
Plus, I can't work full-time anymore anyway. But that's another discussion for later.

The truth is that this career change has serious implications for me, for you, and for the future of the planet. I'm not sure how much longer I can sustain it without feeling like I'm the villain here.

This weekend, a whole lot of my Jewish music colleagues and friends are meeting in the middle of the country at a camp and retreat facility, for one of the most important professional conferences of the year. Some of my friends have attended this event every year for decades, because it's kind of like a little summer camp for them.

Conferences are important for many professions.
They allow people in different parts of the country to network, to share ideas and to forge friendships that are otherwise sustained across the miles all year long. But some conferences continue to offer mostly the same workshops and activities year to year, and past a certain point, one has to wonder how efficient it is to keep going back for the same thing each year. I attended this conference just once, seventeen years ago. It was amazing and eye-opening and I'm glad I went. But it was also clear that this was not something I needed to attend every year, especially considering the financial costs and the fact that the synagogue I was affiliated with would not help with expenses. So at the end of the day, I knew I wouldn't be back.

Since then, I've gone to several conferences. As of this writing I've only returned to one conference, each of the past three years. I had hoped that by returning I might gain a foothold of some kind of recognition and advancement in that conference's universe, and that at some point I might become an instructor for that conference, which happened this year. I'm grateful for the experiences and the warm atmosphere this conference offers. And I'm so glad that my workshops were well-attended and appreciated. But at the end of the day, does it make sense for me to keep going back?
I'm not sure.

Because I keep coming back to the villany of air travel, and what it's doing to the Earth. Some scientists say our planet has only 60 or 70 years left before it's too hot for humans to live here. (At least one famous scientist says that fatal benchmark is coming a whole lot sooner.)

I love what I do.
I love where I live.
And I HATE what some of my choices are doing to the planet.

The good part, if there is one, is that I'm not thinking of eliminating ALL travel forever.
Because this dilemma is not entirely on me to begin with.
I know that the US military is the largest consumer of fossil fuels; that travel decreases xenophobia and increases understanding of cultures different than our own; and that the real onus for managing climate change through excessive fossil fuel consumption must fall on governments and industries, not on the individual consumer.

The bad part is that if we want governments and industries to act we are going to have to push them to the wall. And one way to do that is by traveling less. A lot less.

Staying put also gives us time and energy to invest in strengthening the communities where we live. And while the community I've been affiliated with for the last decade-plus has made me consider looking elsewhere for another community to affiliate with, that new community will still be here in Portland. Because I believe in blooming where one is planted. And Portland's big enough that I can find something, someone -- some other folks -- to create community with.

I'm not talking about completely shutting down my life beyond the walls of my house. Nor am I talking about staying in Portland forever. My in-laws are elderly and need our help, and they're a 12-hour drive south of us. I have no hesitation about making that trip anytime, because that's what you do for your parents if you're a loving, responsible adult child. And since my career is still active, I'm making a point of working to find gigs closer to home -- staying on the West Coast when I can, for example -- because if I can take the train or the bus my carbon footprint will be smaller by far.
(I'm 5'7". I fit in the seats on a bus. It's not a problem.)

But I am talking about reevaluating how and why I travel in the coming months and years.
Because I really need to, and because I think we all need to.

Today, my colleagues arrive at their large conference in the Midwest, flying in from all over the country and a few from outside it. Next week I will be downtown at a Climate Action Event in which young people have taken the lead. Because we trashed their future. I'm willing to own that, and to answer for it. Are you?

(final photo, below: one of our beloved horse rings, hundreds of which can be found all over the oldest parts of Portland. Dating to before the turn of the last century; used to tie up your horse while you visited a friend or the market. These little iron rings are protected historic landmarks, and if you're caught trying to remove one it will cost you a lot of money.)

I lost a gig today.

This happens now and then in the life of every freelance musician.
Someone will reach out to you in person or via your social media. You connect, communicate and it comes out they want to hire you to play (or teach, or whatever). Planning discussions begin, some quite involved;  and everything seems super-great.
Then, suddenly, there's a note that says they're sorry but the funding fell through and now they can't bring you to their venue. Thanks anyway, cheers.
And that's that.

Before I continue, let me say that in the end this is not about losing the gig.
It's about how different people handle everyday disappointments.
For someone who has a normal brain chemistry, they're disappointed, they're bummed out.
By tomorrow, they'll be fine, back on the trail in pursuit of more opportunities to create and perform.
For someone whose brain chemistry is awry -- because of depression, for example -- this loss can take on proportions that are out of proportion to the reality of the situation at hand.

I decided to come clean about this because living out loud is my life's work and this is part of my life.
So let's be clear: I live with depression.
I have lived with it probably since childhood. There is no clear, single reason for this, though there are lots of guesses that include everything from peer abuse and parental mistakes to inherited trauma in the DNA of my family, my ancestry and who knows how far back this all goes.

Whatever.

I live with depression and it makes things hard sometimes. At the very least, it makes things very interesting, more than sometimes.
I decided some time ago that I would not treat my depression like a hair shirt, or like a dark family secret (though it seems a LOT of my relatives have also lived with it, none of us keeps a portrait locked in a room upstairs, as far as I know).
I would be as honest about depression as I am about breaking my collarbone. Both hurt. Both have kept me down and incapacitated. Both have been treatable; the collarbone with immobilization and rest, depression with medication and counseling.
Neither can be cured to the point where I'm good as new.
My collarbone healed slightly unevenly, and if I were to wear a tank top the difference in height and length between my two collarbones would be visible. The depression I live with has, as yet, no known cure. it has up and downs and I have to use the tools available to learn how to better roll with them -- and when to ask for help when I cannot.

Depression is not a character flaw.
It is not a sign of laziness, malice or demonic possession.
It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. It can be connected to hormonal shifts in women. It can often be inherited. And it can be lived with as long as it's not shoved under the table and denied.
Some days my brain chemistry goes wonky and I find myself utterly exhausted, unable to do much at all.
Other days it recedes to the background as a dull hum, quiet enough that I can function quite well, but never completely totally gone for long.
Depression often appears in conjunction with other medical issues, especially of the auto-immune type (lupus, Crohn's, ulcerative colitis and more) because chemical issues are systemic in nature.

The medication I take helps me manage the the worst extremes of depression on a chemical level. 
Counseling helps me to learn how to tell when the depression is talking instead of me, and how to avoid overreacting when something annoying pops up unexpectedly. Like losing this gig, for example.

At first, the bottom fell out of my stomach. That's still a standard gut response for me, learned over a lifetime.
I sat with that feeling and felt it, and named it without trying to judge it in any way (a counseling-acquired  technique that takes practice to become regular).
Then, I thought about how bad it really was, or wasn't.  I put the event into perspective.
Sure, I'd miss the income, and being canceled is always a bummer. But it doesn't happen often.
And when something like this happens, I know well enough to know that it's not about me, or caused by something I did or said. (And if it is about me, I hope the booking agent will be honest with me; but s/he's not, there's nothing I can really do about that.)

So in the end, it's just a bummer, and not an utter catastrophe.

I've come a very long way from when every unexpected disappointment was a catastrophe and the bottom fell out of my stomach all the time, every time.
I was probably living with depression as a child. But it was not properly diagnosed until later in adulthood. We know a lot more about depression now than we used to, and that means people can seek help and treatment sooner so they can live with it more functionally (and even happily!) than was possible before.

That's why I've decided to be up front about it.
I live with depression.
So do a lot of other people, including some you probably know.
It doesn't make them scary -- just differently-wired.
If and when they're ready to talk about it with you, they will.
Until then, don't press. Just be present.
Be a good friend or family member by simply being there and loving them as you already do.
Having loved ones in my life has made all the difference, and continues to do so today.

If you or someone you care about seems to be struggling, there is help available.
Talk to your doctor. Life does not have to be one massively endless downer!
And if the depression is serious enough to make you or your loved think they'd be better off dead, call the:
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1-800-273-8255
Available 24 hours everyday
-- because this isn't anything to fart around with.

I may write a song about depression someday.
Or I may not, since all of my stuff -- good, bad and in-between -- already comes through in much of my songwriting.
Thanks for supporting me and my music, and thanks for taking the time to read this.

 Iv'e decided to take a big risk here, by telling my friends and fans the absolute truth. 

I've been fascinated by death since I was a kid. If one of my thrift-store Ken dolls got smashed while I played with it in a construction site, his face beyond recognition and a leg broken off, I would stage a mock burial for it, with a funeral and everything. Then I'd wonder about where we went after we died. I was, by my own admission, a somewhat morbid little kid. (In hindsight, I was very likely also morbidly depressed, but diagnosing that sort of thing in seven-year-olds was not a popular stance for medical professionals to take in 1970, and so I would go undiagnosed for decades. That, as they say, is life.)
Dead animals in the road horrified me for years. A dead squirrel flattened on the yellow stripe was immediate, real, bloody and bird-pecked. Disgusting.
But stories of dead people didn't freak me out that way. They made me wonder: where do we go when we die? What will we look and feel like? Is there a heaven? And is it up? Or somewhere, something else?

The ancient Greeks (or the Romans? I can't remember now) believed that when a person died, they'd go to the Great Wherever and find themselves inhabiting a heavenly version of themselves aged thirty, no matter what their age at death. Learning this at age ten, I wasn't sure I wanted to skip the experiences of the twenty years in between if I died then and there. It seemed like being cheated somehow.

Judaism held out no additional help or comfort, not at first, and not for a long time.
When I was seven, my grandfather died. My grandmother followed a couple years after. I wasn't permitted to attend either of their funerals by my parents, because that was the prevailing wisdom of the time. So when my pet parakeet died around the same time as my grandfather, the best I could do was ask my father to help me conduct a burial service for Tweety in our backyard. Which he did with all the solemnity and love a father could muster for such an occasion. I took Tweety's death seriously, so my father did too.
It did nothing to answer my questions about what would happen to me, though.

Death is the thing you can't come back and tell the others about.

And so we make stuff up, in a feeble effort to wrap our limited brains around a concept of a No-thing that's possibly bigger than the Everything we experience as "life" here on earth.
But if No-thing isn't "nothing," if it is instead a thing that can't be explained by our limited/limiting language, then maybe it isn't so fearsome as all that.

I remember the first time I realized all the way down into my bones that I was mortal, and would die someday. I was in my early twenties. The realization rocked me in a way beyond words, and that knowledge has stayed with me ever since.

And so, when I began writing songs in my thirties, I knew back then that one day I'd have to write a song all about death, from the perspective of someone who was still living. Because, being depressed, I was -- and still am, periodically -- a somewhat morbid grownup. I didn't know how I'd write this song, or what I'd say. I trusted that at some point, my life would give me the raw material I needed, and I filed the notion away for future reference.

And then, two years ago, I began volunteering as a Shomer, one who guards the met, or dead body, during the time between preparation and burial, for our local Jewish burial society.
I was not prepared for what I experienced the first time I stepped up to take a turn sitting with the closed casket (Judaism forbids open casket funerals) for an hour and a half. It was beyond description, leaving me  humbled and oddly reassured. The man in the casket couldn't tell me where he was going, or if there was anything of him, his Self, left, or even what it was like to have died. But his presence inside the sealed casket gave me a quiet sense of calm I still can't explain. At some point, it will be my turn to be gently and lovingly laid somewhere, surrounded by caring people until it was time for my body to go where it's supposed to. (I'm purposefully vague about this last point because I'm exploring my options.)

In the end, Judaism gave me the reassurance I needed, and the raw material that informed this song.
Since I don't know if I will be able to raise the resources needed for a professional studio recording anytime soon -- money's tight all over in the New Economy -- I've decided to release a very rough, homemade version here. I am grateful to Portland's liberal Chevra Kadisha for allowing me to be of use and learn at the same time. If I can't give back, perhaps I can give something forward to someone down the road.

The Watchman’s Chair
V:
The room is still, so still that everything out there
Becomes nothing in here
Before me is a pine box, unpainted, unadorned
But for a little wooden star they glued on top

The star floats above the man inside the box
Sealed off from everything
Become nothing, lying oh so still
Too still for sleep
And for this hour I will keep caring watch
Over the body of the man who is no more

CH:
Starlight doesn’t shine in here
I sit beside the casket
And it’s strange to feel no fear
I know that it will be my turn one day
And though I’ll no longer know enough to care, I hope that someone else will take my place
And take their turn in the watchman’s chair

V:
Some may place a candle at their loved one’s head and feet
To light up the way to heaven
The custom here is different, we take turns taking care
Of our dearly beloved one

Each one of us is the candle
Lighting the heart-shaped hole poked in a world
That’s fast asleep
And for this hour I will keep caring watch
Over the body of the one who is no more

— CH --

V:
My days stretch out all blurry, behind me and before me
A million moments rush by in a whirl
When I guard this simple box I’m reminded once again
We’re each a tiny speck in the history of the world

A hundred years from now, who’ll know I was here?
Will it matter that I mattered once
To someone else who’s just as gone
Too still for sleep
And for this hour who will keep caring watch
Over the body of the one I was…

— CH --

Copyright 4-22-2019 Beth Hamon

Hours before our outta-town family arrive for Pesach, I am finishing up the last of the cleaning and compiling additions for our haggadah, the book that provides the order for our seder (which is redundant, since seder means "order.")

At the same time, friends and family are sharing their preparations for the holiday via social media. And as I view these, I cannot help but ponder our individual and collective choices in our observance of this -- and every -- Jewish holiday.

It has become impossible for me to walk into a store and see fresh produce without considering all the steps required to get that produce from the farm in California, or Mexico, or wherever, to my dinner table. I can't help but consider the energy, in human and environmental terms, required for me to wear clothes that fit well, to eat good food and to travel to the places I go for work and for play.

This recent post on social media stopped me cold.
Someone who traveled from one coast to the other on a sightseeing trip with their family, posting about how easy and cheap it is to obtain everything one needs for Passover in New York City. Of course, not everything in the photo was made in New York City, or even in the United States.
There are so many different choices reflected in this photo, so many cubic inches of particulate in the air, so many thousands of gallons of fossil fuels pumped out of the ground and converted into jet and auto fuel.

And for reasons I cannot begin to describe in detail, this disturbs me almost as much as the sight of veal disturbs my vegetarian friends. Because I cannot see this image without also thinking of all the resources used up to make it, and the travel and consumerism it reflects, so readily possible. 








I am still trying to figure out what to do with my discomfort.

I don't know if this is turning me into one of the most strident and boring people ever (like Thoreau, one of my childhood heroes), or if it's just another layer of personal awakening.
And I won't yet take a guess. Not here, not today.
Because I have cleaning and cooking to help with, and family to welcome with a warm embrace. And at least some kind of freedom to celebrate.

But as we celebrate our freedom story, I think we must also remember that the price we pay for that freedom takes many forms, including the potential for other kinds of enslavement. And I think that Pesach may be a perfect time to ponder the relationship between our various enslavements and freedoms, to sit with the tension found there, and to think about how and why we might want to reconfigure ourselves and our understandings. How we might want to reconfigure our lives, even a little, after we safely reach the other side of whatever chasm we're trying to cross.

Chag Pesach Sameach!
A zisn Pesach to all who celebrate.

Notre Dame cathedral in Paris burned today. The main spire fell in on itself, and there was a great deal of damage. A building that took 200 years to complete and which has stood since the 1100's, devastated in hours.
Two miles from my house live dozen of broken people, huddled under leaky tarps in the rain. They are broken because they cannot find living-wage work, medical help or affordable housing.
At our the southern border we share with Mexico, our President and his handlers are doing their damndest to turn away thousands of refugees pouring into the area every day. Whether its turning people back, arresting them at the border, separating parents from children, or threatening to turn the whole situation over to select US cities to deal with, it's all bad. People who are fleeing violence and potential murder in their homelands come here, ad are turned away by a president who says the USA is "full."
And our planet is warming so rapidly that species cannot be saved, and the ice caps are melting, and the oceans are rising.
It's all a huge mess.
It's all too much.
And I'm admitting right here and now that when it feels this way, making music and instruments and art feels, well, irrelevant. Pointless. Stupid.
I'm not looking for feedback here, or bucking up, or whatever. I'm okay.
But I am in a huge process of thinking about what I do, how I do it, and why.
And a lot of it is influenced by the state of the world today.
I am so deeply and profoundly affected by the state of the world, both globally and locally, that it is compelling me to question what I am doing in the world right now.
Because traveling as I do affects the world, every time I board an airplane or a bus.
Because while making things from repurposed stuff is cool, shipping it all over the palce is not sustainable, or a wise use of resources.
Because my music feels too nice, too gentle, for the times we live in. The times we live in feel more urgent, feel like they demand a more urgent response.
So I am thinking a lot while I'm home.

Pesach (Passover) begins Friday night.
For eight days we will consider the value -- and the cost -- of what we call freedom. For eight days I will consider how free I really am, and on whose backs my freedom rests.
I haven't written songs specifically for Pesach. None have come to me.
Lately I've thought a great deal about what it means to live in the world, on stolen land -- because unless we're Native Americans, we all live on stolen land in this country, and that weighs on me heavily.
Can I extend that to my still-forming understanding of the State of Israel?
I don't know enough yet to say.
But clearly it's land stolen from someone.
I suppose it depends on whom you ask as to which story you'll get.
The stories conflict, and in the end the outcomes depend on who holds the most power in the situation.
Just as it has here in America.
Which is why it is currently very hard for me to view Gaza any differently than the reservation in Browning, Montana, a place I've traveled through numerous times by train. Both are bleak and poor places, filled with desperate people who've been displaced from somewhere else they once called home.
Browning is what's left, Gaza is what's left, to the folks who lost the battle.
At least for now.
It could all change.
And it may change in our lifetime.
The ultimate victor may not be a race or a affinity group or a community of people, but the planet itself.
No way to know.
For now, I must wrestle with the meaning of what I'm doing, and ask myself some very hard questions about whether or not it genuinely matters, or if there's something more pressing I can and should do with my time and abilities that would make more of a difference. I don't know the answer to that yet.
But in the meantime, we can all do a lot better.
We can all remember what empathy felt like when more of us felt it in our bones.
We can remember what it felt like when we saw another human being suffer, and not turn away from them or from the feeling their pain evokes in us.
We can remember that they are us, and that when they hurt, we hurt too.
And we can all try to act from that place more often, to ease the pain and make things more fair and just.
Can we?

I've begun making videos of songs and posting them online every two to three weeks.

I'm doing this because I'm planning my fourth album of original Jewish music, and instead of spending tons of time and energy on a fancy crowdfunding campaign, I've decided that first I'm going to spend time and energy on selecting the best of my most recent crop of songs for the collection.
This album will feature very few, if any, songs in Hebrew; I'm taking my songwriting in directions that both personal and universal at the same time, and writing in English reflects that better for me.
These will not necessarily be songs that ideal for liturgical use, but they will be songs that reflect the travels of a soul through the landscape of life as a Jew and as a human being.

I posted the first song a week ago, a fresh video of my song, "The One Before Whom You Stand."

Being Jewish matters a great deal to me. I come from a long chain of exploration, deep study, and ongoing commentary that great;y inform how I move through the world.

But, upon considering the value of my Jewish facet in the bigger picture, I have to say that, as I get older, being human matters more, because it's the foundation on which all my other facets -- Jewish, female, queer -- rest. Without my humanity -- without the experience of being a soul and traveling through life in a body -- I have no mode of expression for these other facets of experience and understanding.

So some of the songs on this next album may feel a little less distinctly "Jewish" than what I've written before. That's okay. It's still Jewish music -- which I've always maintained is simply music written by a Jew about some aspect of their life. It doesn't have to be liturgical, or even in Hebrew, to be "Jewish".

And so I invite you to follow along as I post these videos, every couple of weeks or so going forward, and ponder some big ideas with me as I explore them in story and song.

Next up: my newest song, finished earlier this week, called "They Tell Me Property Is Theft."
It's my second attempt to come to some understanding, through songwriting, of what it means to be a Jew and to be in relationship with Israel. It's also an attempt to universalize the tension that exists when multiple peoples struggle for a home in the same place, struggle for access to resources that are under exclusive control; and strive to make the best of their lives while they're here. It's also a suggestion that the power of my total humanity outweighs  the power and history or any one facet of my self -- including my Judaism.

It's on YouTube, and here. Ponder with me, and thanks for coming along on this ride.