The garden was in full bloom. The earth was freshly moist,
soft and fertile, its rich scent filling the courtyard with
vitality. Tiny shoots of green began peeking their heads
through the soil -- an occasional one maturing earlier than
others, and sprouting a colorful bud. The air was alive with
the perfume emanating from the rose bushes and violet
patches that lined the edges of the garden, and the sparrows
overhead lent the enchanting atmosphere its finishing touch
with their perpetual bursts of song. I swung back and forth
on our sturdy garden swing, inhaling a breath of fresh
garden air, and then another. And then another. I just
couldn't get enough.
The garden -- any garden -- had always been my favorite
sanctuary. It was the one place I managed to forget all my
worries, and truly experience the greater reality of life.
Here, in the bosom of nature, I felt a certain closeness to
the spectacular creation . . . and its Creator. My own
personal, forever-potent emotions miraculously lost a few
degrees of potency and intensity, and allowed me the
emotional emancipation I needed to think clearly and freely.
My circumstances will undoubtedly catch you off-guard. After
reading my introductory speech, I can just picture the image
you've conjured up of me in your mind's eye . . . An
emotional teenager who can't get ahold of herself; a youth
tangled up hopelessly in the ropes and knots of adolescence;
a child who necessitates a retreat from reality, not yet
having acquired the maturity to deal with life's inevitable
challenges head-on. Well, I'm sorry to inform you, but
you've been misled by intuition.
At the time of this occurrence, I was a going-on-middle-age
woman in my late thirties, mother of four children, teacher
of twenty-nine students, former editor of a weekly journal,
as well as erstwhile speech therapist and child
psychologist. I had also once been a graphic artist for a
well-known Jewish organization and although I'd long ago
abandoned these positions, there was no denying my stance as
a highly experienced, learned and accomplished woman. Only
my deep, untamed emotional side remained as real and raw as
that of a teenager. But unlike many a teenager, I'd learnt
not to let it show, but rather seek out a private haven and
work things out internally. And that's precisely what I was
set on doing on that splendid Tuesday morning I had off from
work, as I sat swinging my legs back and forth on the garden
swing, bright red sheitel-hair flying, to the rhythm
of the zesty zephyr and the dancing leaves of surrounding
shrubbery.
Something is definitely wrong, I thought urgently, as
the vague pit that had been developing progressively for
weeks in the lower regions of my stomach bloated into
immensity, leaving no more room to doubt its existence.
We've been here for just half a year and I'm already
beginning to have second thoughts.
Second thoughts? I asked myself, suppressing a bitter
guffaw, severe pangs of regret and longing would much
more describe what I'm feeling. There's just no way I can go
on like this!
I thought back to the day a little over six months earlier
when we'd made the decision to move out to the Wild West, as
my family was keen on calling our Texas town. My husband had
finally succumbed to his life long dream and undergone a
kiruv crash course, which he'd immensely enjoyed. My
husband was an amiable and gregarious intellectual -- the
kind who was incapable of forgoing a philosophical debate --
and always had a bottomless spring of riveting,
inspirational anecdotes and episodes. The kiruv
position he so coveted seemed tailor-made for him.
The prospect of moving out west to strengthen a
kehilla had tickled my own adventurous genes, and I'd
immediately consented. At the time, the offer had seemed
like an opportunity as golden as the treasure at the end of
a rainbow. The thought of introducing spiritually deprived
little children to their illustrious heritage seemed like an
opportunity not to be missed, while the thought of hosting
scores of guests every Shabbos sounded like a challenge
faced only by imaginary heroes in the "perfect people"
series books. I was determined to put my blossoming culinary
skills to the test and had no doubt I'd enjoy life
immensely. I'd always loved throwing parties, after all . .
.
Now, however, I saw things in a different light, for much of
the allure had faded. It wasn't that I was falling apart
under the heavy burden of endless labor. I happen to be the
bursting-with-energy type, and stayings up all night cooking
every Thursday didn't really bother me. I'd always liked
children, and came armed with much experience controlling
them, so the burdens of second grade teaching didn't
constitute the problem either. It was simply . . . Well,
what was it?!
It was there in the garden, beneath the stark blueness of a
cloudless sky, ensconced in verdant shrubbery and foliage,
swaying along with the breeze, that I realized why I longed
so to move back east, to return home. We're just not
really accomplishing the way I expected, I thought, I
feel like our work is futile. I expected to have profound
impact on the young impressionable second graders, and hoped
to see immediate testimony of my influence on their young
lives . . . yet I see that greater than the influence of a
teacher is that of the family. It's discouraging . . . And
as for the 'party throwing,' it's getting a bit boring. I do
like working in the kitchen but bulk cooking just doesn't
allow for experimentation, and our budget doesn't either!
It's not stimulating. It must be time to move on. And
with that -- I resolved to have an earnest talk with my
husband.
* * *
The conversation didn't go as well as I'd expected. My
husband heard me out sympathetically but didn't seem to be
truly understanding of my plight. In fact, as I rattled on
about how boring the routine was becoming, I thought I
caught a glimmer of amusement in my husband's vivacious blue
eyes. But when I met the gaze with a question mark in my own
eyes, his expression changed instantly to one of solid
empathy.
An overview of the discussion: Instead of nodding and
agreeing to haul us all on to the next plane home, Efrayim
said he thought I should think things over again and that I
might be making decisions too hastily. He said it seemed to
him that I was very successful and accomplishing a lot and
was simply not attuned to my own successes. Although I could
tell my husband had more to say but was consciously
abstaining, the compliments put me into a very good mood,
and like a good wife, I accepted what my husband said and
agreed to wait and think things over a while longer.
*
It was Tuesday once again, and as spring-like and beautiful
as that of the previous week. Once again, I'd chosen to
spend time out in the garden, only this time forgoing the
luxury of mulling over my life and sorting out my feelings,
I brought out a stack of papers to grade.
Upon reentering the house, I was greeted by ring of the
telephone, which I dashed to pick up. As I raised the
receiver to my ear, I happened to glance up at the grand
kitchen clock, and noted the time was three o'clock -- one
hour left till carpool!
"Hello?" I said pleasantly.
"Hi, Mrs. Kirshenbaum? This is Zehava Bick, Dina's homeroom
and history teacher." Dina was my eldest, a seventh grader.
"Oh, nice to hear from you. My daughter really enjoys having
you for a teacher. I think she's adjusted to her new class
very nicely with your help, and as I've told you before, I
really appreciate everything you've done for her. I hope
everything's all right with her?" Although I, too, was a
teacher, I was not closely familiar with Mrs. Bick because
my daughters didn't attend the day school at which I taught.
My husband and I had opted on a frummer one, a half-
hour drive out of town.
"Yes, Baruch Hashem, everything's all right. Dina is a
lovable girl, a real pleasure to have in class. She has a
beautiful disposition and the girls really like her. She
also participates a lot in class, and has proven herself
quite bright."
Knowing just how unlikely it was that a teacher would call
out of the blue to simply shower me with compliments, I
waited for the catch, and was not to be disappointed.
"There's just something about her character that I've
recently started picking up on and I'll try to illustrate as
best as I can. Two weeks ago, I assigned a history research
project with a deadline for rough drafts that was four days
later. Dina turned in a great piece of material, rich with
information that I knew she could develop nicely. But when
the final hand-in came along, your daughter simply didn't
turn in her project! When I questioned her about it, she
explained respectfully that she'd dealt so long with the
same material that it simply bored her and there was no way
she could finish the report. But she did kindly offer to
write a new one on a topic other than that of her rough
draft. What do you think of that, Mrs. Kirshenbaum?"
My first reaction was to think nothing of it. I could hear
where my daughter was coming from and if she was going to do
the report in any case, I felt the teacher should allow her
to do it on the topic of her choice. I began pacing the
kitchen restlessly, but Mrs. Bick's next few comments froze
me dead in my tracks.
"Personally," the teacher went on, "I think this occurrence
is indicative of a rather common character flaw, which
manifests itself more extremely in Dina. The problem is not
being able to go through with something all the way, but
giving up somewhere in the middle. I feel that if it is not
taken care of now it will accompany her throughout life,
never allowing her to settle down with anything. She'll be
constantly changing jobs, moving homes, starting one project
and then moving on to another. Can you see what I'm saying?"
The words struck home base like an emphatic blow. All at
once my legs turned to jello and my tongue glued itself to
my palate. This woman had just depicted the story of my life
verbatim, casting it away in negativity. What had she said
it resulted from? Character flaw. How nice!
"Uh . . . Mrs. Kirshenbaum? Are you still there?"
"Yeah." I managed to gulp.
"Would you mind discussing this whole thing with Dina? I'm
sure there's some way we could help her overcome this."
Knowing I had to say something, I forced myself to talk.
"Um, yeah, I see. Would you mind doing the discussing?" I
had no control over the words pouring forth from my mouth.
The teacher was startled for a minute, but graciously agreed
to try, in the end. I muttered some sort of 'thank you' and
hastily terminated the call.
*
I'd always considered myself creative, but the apparent
creativity of this homeroom-history teacher was way beyond
my league. It was the following day over dinner that I was
let in on the latest developments.
"Today we had the strangest lesson with Mrs. Bick," Dina
announced to one and all at the table. She stuck her hand
into her knapsack and pulled out handfuls of rolled up
posters and colorful charts. She was also armed with little
stickers and bumper stickers and additional campaigning
material. The younger children immediately jumped up to
attack the eye-catching apparatus, but Dina tucked it back
into her bag just quickly enough to salvage it all.
"Mrs. Bick is . . . ?" my husband inquired.
"Dina's homeroom/history teacher," I filled him in. I hadn't
told him about the phone call of the previous afternoon. All
I had done about it so far was mull it over in the garden in
the pale light of a full moon.
"So yeah, let's hear about the lesson," Efrayim encouraged.
"Did it have anything to do will all that stuff you've got
there?" he pointed at the knapsack.
"Well, we learnt about the Battle of Midway." I couldn't
recall exactly what that was, but my husband seemed quite up
to date.
"The fateful WW2 battle in which the Americans triumphed
over the Japanese for the first time since the start of the
war," he declared, wide-eyed. "This sounds interesting."
"No! The Battle Of Midway? That's the name of our fair!"
eight-year-old Ruchie countered.
Dina laughed. "Shh! You're not supposed to tell yet!" she
admonished the little girl before resuming the talk with her
father. "Yeah, so my teacher discussed the battle from a
historic perspective for a while, and she kept repeating
what a crucial turning point this particular battle was and
how it changed the course of the whole war forever, and
stuff like that."
My husband nodded and the three-year-old began to whimper,
so I picked her up, bracing myself the whole while for the
mussar that was sure to follow. My daughter wouldn't know it
was directed towards me, of course, but I felt it would hit
me like an arrow.
"Then, she went into this whole long lecture about how there
are different stages in getting things done and the last one
is always the hardest, 'cause the yetzer hora wants to
make sure we never get to finish anything because the
completion is SO important! At the end, she tied everything
together and explained that the 'Battle of Mid-Way' (meaning
the battle you have to fight when you're in the middle of
something and don't want to finish) is the hardest battle of
all, but also the most important for winning the overall war
against our nature."
"Very original," my husband remarked, smiling, "So what's
with the campaigning material?"
"That's the best part!" Dina explained, "We're launching a
"Battle of Midway" campaign at school for the next week,
handing out charts to the younger grades to fill out when
they finish the things they start, and arranging contests
and prizes on the subject. Then, at the end, we're having a
fair with the same theme. I'm in charge of many activities
and it's going to be the biggest fun!"
Here, Ruchie joined in and began filling my husband and me
in on the details of the fair. The two girls were all but
ecstatic.
*
I was sitting on my porch that overlooked the garden later
that evening, sewing a stray button back onto one of
Efrayim's shirts, when Dina found her way to the spot.
"Mommy, I forgot to mention that I'm also selling Battle of
Midway raffle tickets for a raffle that will be drawn at the
fair. Would you like to buy one?"
I looked up from my sewing and peered into the excited eyes
of my daughter, and pondered her offer. Buying a Battle of
Midway raffle ticket somehow seemed like the signing of some
pact stating that from now on I'd be a soldier in Battle of
Midway. Was I ready to fight back my character flaw?
Suddenly, I recalled a story I'd heard about R' Yisroel
Salanter, the great master of mussar. One day he'd seen a
brigade of soldiers returning from a victorious battle. He
turned to them and said, "True -- you've won the small war.
But the greater war, the war against your own nature, is
still ahead of you." Difficult but worth winning, I
thought.
"Sure, Dina," I said, "I'll take a ticket. How much did you
say it cost?"
The silent garden -- along with the cold draft of air that
blew through it just then -- was my witness.
