Hello

love on wings

Hello, welcome, sit a spell, thank you for your visits.  Tea, coffee, hot chocolate anyone?  Përshëndetje, مرحبا, Привет, Hola, Zdravo, Ahoj, Hej, Hallo, Tere, maligayang pagdating, hei, bonjour!, Ola, Guten Tag!, γεια σου, שלום, हैलो, hello, halo, ciao!, sveiki, labas, hallo, سلام, witaj, Olá, salut, здороваться, здраво, ahoj, zdravo, ¡hola!, hej, สวัสด ี, merhaba, привет, xin chào

All of you who stop for a visit, read my missives, then leave me notes of joy or wonder, know that I am grateful for you beyond measure, beyond words.   The gifts we have received of writing, reading, being able to share with each other on this heartfelt level will surely shift the world.  Gratefully, I say a prayer for you all.  May we all know a world of peace.

Lashon Hara

 

hawk

Lashon Hara (the Hebrew term for defamatory speech or gossip)*

They stood under the southern live oak,

Who had heard every story told under her canopy of branches with leaves,

Living amongst these exterior walls for more than forty years.

Three angry women from various lives

Who daily congregate in the shade of the oak

To pick apart strangers as sporting game.

Without comprehending other’s lives or their own.

More than fifty years have vanished,

There they are, as if in a high school bathroom

Openly denying access

To those that are not members of the “in crowd.”

I stare at my wise beloved oak

That makes the world right, answering a multitude of questions.

The lowest branch holding a fledgling cooper hawk

Tearing apart its recently caught prey.

I smile and keep walking with my lesson for the day.

Nature is so truthful, so honest it hurts

Watching a species rip apart another for the hunger of survival

Unlike humans who rip each other apart for nothing more than sport.

*the halakhic term for derogatory speech (true speech for a wrongful purpose i.e. gossip)

All rights reserved. ©2016 by Sara Fryd

Automatic Weapons

Army-Gun-Woman-Stock-Photo-girl

she used words as bullets

when she felt weak or powerless

as she fired one insult in rapid succession

following another

watching him cringe

as if struck in slow motion

by hollow points

bleeding pools of aching tears

profusely all over the red oak floors

smiling

she felt she’d won this battle

not comprehending

ultimately

she’d lost all the wars yet to come

on the horizon

for all his pecks, his huge muscles

given him to protect his body

his heart was surely as vulnerable as hers

and words can kill as surely as bullets

though the death toll is slower

taking

an interminable amount of time

to die

 

 

 

All rights reserved. ©2016 by Sara Fryd

There are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves

Dad

For Berek Nathan on Father’s Day this incredible poem by James Kavanaugh from his book of the same name…  Benny would have been 99 this September had he lived.

“There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men to gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men to gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant’s profit and gain.
There are men to gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men to gentle too live amount wolves
Who devour them with appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and such their childhood dry.
There are men to gentle for an accountant’s world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men to gentle too live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world
Unless they have a gentle one to love.”

  © by James Kavanaugh

A Library for Krakow

I belong to a Holocaust Survivors e-mail list that travels around the globe online helping Survivors find other Survivors.  More than six years ago I received an email about a young man who wanted to start a library in Kraków Poland and needed help filling the shelves with Jewish books.  Seems he was raised Christian to save his life.  Finding out as an adult that his biological parents were Jewish, he was determined to make this happen.

As much as I love my books, I’ve learned to share over the years and this seemed extremely important.   I boxed up a huge box of books that included my college freshman Children’s Literature anthology (that was 30 years old) and my Bat Mitzvah prayer book (which was even older).  Books are one of my great loves, so there were many books that had been on my shelves for many years.

It was important I told myself and left for the Post Office, almost leaving when they asked me to fill out a huge amount of paperwork for Custom’s reasons.  Never heard anything, assumed my good deed was in a black hole somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic.

While casually searching Google the other night for the three blogs I’ve created, to see what is being sent out to the universe (by me), I came upon this website in Poland which had my name attached.  Being unbelievably curious and not knowing Polish, I used Google translator.

Copy, paste, click, read.    Copy, paste, click, read.  I had no idea what happened to my book box until now.  On Google.com it says “darczyncy” and my name.  The Rabbi Remuh Jewish Library was established in June 2005 and it is the only Jewish Library in Krakow open to everyone. czulent_salon_1

I am listed as a donor.  Oh my God was all I could pray through all the tears.  What makes this so special is my Dad Berek Nathan was born in Warsaw.  His entire family – brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles died in the Holocaust.   He was the only living survivor.  Saving himself by running to the forest while the Nazis were kicking his brother to death on the streets of Poland.  He was 15.  Berek Nathan died August 2005 at age 87.  He was my Hero.  At least some of his books are back in Poland at a Jewish Library where they always belonged.

 

 All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd  

 

A Little Wisdom

double rainbow

My wisdom comes in short bursts

Of learning out loud

And in silent contemplation.

A sprinter I am

A marathon runner not so much.

Learned to hear with my heart

To feel with my navel

To listen with my eyes

To let my soul nourish me.

My very own soul

With its own character is enough

When others are unavailable

Are involved in their own lives.

I learned to demand less

To request more

Of myself, not of them.

Learned a little blue Agave syrup

Goes a long way to sweeten the pot

That has always been sweet

If only I had noticed along the way

Those rainbows will always have colors

That I can devour for breakfast.

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

A Painter’s Daughter

blue ford

Before I knew the words to describe a rainbow,

I could mix the colors of heaven,

of mountains; of Arizona in the spring.

Each morning in darkness before the molten Phoenix sun

would crest the parched desert,

Papa would sneak out the door

quiet as a whisper

to paint this house or that castle.

Peeking…

With one eye around the blinds covering the window

I heard more than I saw.

Sounds my Papa made loading his royal blue

1948 Ford pick-up [truck] with ladders and brushes,

turpentine, putty, tarps and cans.

Oh, those magical cans of paint

that could change the heart of a room

from sullen to sunlight

from dreary to delicious.

Some knights ride into a little girl’s heart

on horseback or steed

large, tall, strong with white mane flowing.

My knight drove a short, wide blue ‘48 pick-up

with a three-speed stick shift on the column

and white wall tires;

pulling a bed filled with cans of colors streaming

for all the rainbows that surprised us after a desert storm.

For all the saguaros, yuccas, Joshua trees in need of renewal.

Mostly though…

for one little girl

who wanted her room the blue of the sky

after angels washed it with an August storm.

A Rock Slice

On my desk is a plastic baby doll dressed in pink (another story) and a large glass jar with a lid.  In its former life on my desk at work, the jar held trail mix of raisins, walnuts, almonds, brazil nuts, and sunflower seeds for visitors, now it holds treasures of shells, sand, notes, and rocks.  It also holds two prized possessions – an orange rind rose and a rock slice. a rock slice

When you are veterans of a Holocaust, have been homeless for most of your teenage years and twenties stuff and money matter most.  They matter more than shelter or food, because stuff can be traded for food and money buys food.  My childhood home was one where money, material items (stuff), and food mattered.  Often we believed they mattered more than we did.  They argued about everything; even the plastic covered couch and who had the right to sit on it.

I spent most of my childhood learning how to become a “success.”  I have a very different idea of what that means to me now than what it did then.  From my teens on, I spent most of my time trying to succeed at becoming financially and materially successful according to the values of my parents, which meant education, nice car, good job, great house, money in the bank.  The American Dream personified.

In 1992, there was a recession that hit Southern California harder than any earthquake I have lived through.  I lost everything of material value – my job, my house, and all my stuff.   Everything I had worked for my entire life, with very few options (or so I thought then), and very little money left.  California became a bad dream as I moved near my family in Phoenix, Arizona.  Probably should mention here that I married in 1967 to escape Phoenix and the family, so having to come back divorced and broke was a fate worse than prison or death (one and the same in my book).

One day, contemplating my financial failures with daily reminders from the family, I wandered into Van’s Rock Shop on 7th Street in Phoenix for lack of a job or anything better to do with my time than write or listen to them.  I must have looked like death walking, wandering up and down the aisles of this block long store.

A young female clerk came over and tapped me on the shoulder.  I thought she was going to ask me if I needed help.  When I turned she handed me a polished rock slice – pale tan with colored concentric rings of dark rust and orange (like a slice of an old cut tree).  I told her I didn’t have the money to pay for it (it was $1.98).

This beautiful young woman with a sandy blond pony tail whispered, “It’s a present.  Remember it took millions of years of stress and pain to create something this beautiful.  It’s yours.”  I clamped my jaw shut, my eyes filled with tears ready to drop, and I nodded “thank you” to keep from sobbing.

I have a clear glass cookie jar on my desk filled with treasures.  My rock slice and orange rind rose are inside.  Remember it takes millions of years of stress and pain to create something this beautiful.  It’s free, it’s yours.  May I share them with you?

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd