Category: blogger

Serendipitous

Rachel Ann1 Comment

Chance meetings.

Blind dates.

Overseas adventures.

Moments of beshert.

The times when the small voice speaks to you and you lean towards it. That indistinguishable light, our neshama, a flame burning bright within never tarries or wavers regardless of how far one strays.

The truth of moments that were page-turners in our own book of life.

Unknown to the seeker, but revealed in due time.

How can one unravel these choices? Tightly braided instances that revealed hidden layers we had known would distinguish the character traits we hope to behold.

Now, standing on the other side of the mountain of grief I seemingly traversed in my mind, the view on the other side is something I never would have imagined. Hindsight is always twenty twenty. The changes that life unfolds are never truly felt until one lives them.

They were once merely ideas.

Now they are lived experiences.

I can sit comfortably and not say anything, but yet listen more intently.

The world continues to turn.

The day becomes night.

The night becomes day.

How lucky are we?

These sunrises and sunsets, years later reveal new colors, rainy days, splashes in puddles beneath our feet. Wet cheeks from rain or tears it does not really matter. The distinguishing of my own pathway, looking back and seeing that the other led to a wondrous and mighty oak still standing tall, but feeling miles behind my own.

Where might mine lead?

The days may reveal.

Onwards toward the unknown.

Seeking light filtered beneath the branches of other’s tree limbs. Some bare, others full of layered pine needles, whispered branches, and lightly brushed with the rings of time.

Continued travels on this spinning planet.

Feet firmly planted in the ground, here I stand for now enjoying the view. The mountain she asked to be laid beneath. The trees swaying, wishing she could enjoy the view with me. A breeze caresses my cheek as it sweeps the ocean breeze, and waves crash beneath our feet. A fleeting memory lives in the atmosphere. Plucked like a cloud from above. See? It says. I’m still here. I am grateful to the one who introduced my parents so they could marry on this same day. The winter solstice. The moment she left, she went onwards on a metaphysical journey alone. Time stood still as I blinked, and the moment passed. Sand and children beneath my feet.

Traversing still.

Onwards the journey, with miles to go before I sleep, said Whitman. That is so aptly put. And hineini, here I am still.

Feedback

Rachel Ann1 Comment

As defined by Merriam-Webster, “the transmission of evaluative or corrective information about an action, event, or process to the original or controlling source, also: the information so transmitted.”

Feedback is a necessary component of growth, and therein resides the rub…growth can be painful or uncomfortable. A seed pushing forth beyond the soil, rising towards the sun, cares not for the speed at which it travels, but rather it continues to reach beyond what it could be capable of. Cue the theme song from the second movie in the franchise that is FROZEN, “Into the Unknown!” Does anyone else hear Idina Menzel’s voice singing now? You’re welcome, but I digress.

Feedback exists whether we appreciate it or not. The fact of the matter is this, we live as human beings within societies. Each of us plays a role within that community with a particular job, role within a home, or a family. The thing is we garner feedback as we tread through this life based upon the encounters we have with others.

If I had listened to all the feedback I received over my four decades here on Earth, I would surmise that I am too much of this or not enough for any person or area in life. The long and short of it is, unless you can magically transform into a type of seasoning that everyone utilizes on their food, take the Trader Joe’s “everything but the bagel” seasoning. It’s just not going to work. “Life’s too short to sweat the small stuff, kid,” my father would constantly say to me while growing up. If I had listened to others, I would have only laughed when I read the condensed version of the feedback on that list.

Feedback can be quite subjective to the owner of the thought itself. Consider the source, which I often found myself saying in my early adulthood. I harkened back to this while I spent twelve years in public education. If one considers the source, the root of an ideology, then perhaps one can utilize their own powers of deductive reasoning or, insert audible gasp, critical thinking skills that are all too often lacking in this current day and age of snapshot glances in time, and pundit professors on the palm ridden land of Tik-Tok university. There I go again, I digress.

If one can make a discernible source-credited reasonable statement regarding feedback for an individual, party, or country, then thankfully, living within a democratic society, they can openly share their critique, nay feedback.

What a gift.

What a blessing.

To say what one thinks.

To criticize.

To provide feedback.

The struggle that lies within discomfort is, in turn, a test, my friends. If you can continue to hold your roots, to continue to grow despite the resistance that the sky throws your way, there is the opportunity to see another day when you will surely bloom and grow. It is always a powerful stronghold to receive the flurries of feedback, opinions, and hate-spewed commentaries and continue to shine regardless.

See the truth behind the gray filled skies.

Light always has the power to pierce the darkness, even a single ray. Seek the light.

Seek humanity.

Fear not the feedback that dwells beneath the surface because if one’s roots are well planted, a weather shifting will not remove the plant.

Feedback is just that, information.

Seek the source, or, as the kids say, ask for receipts. Take courage and be kind, but face the light and continue to grow.

Churning waves

Rachel Ann2 Comments

I have been at a loss for words over the last almost eight months.

Gulp.

There aren’t enough words in the English language to convey the amount of horror I have seen displayed across the world wide web, and in communities far and wide. The first few days after October seventh I felt like I was living in a stunned silence. I had been talking about the rise of antisemitism in small circles, and by and large through my blog for years, but since that October day, I find myself fully changed.

I had felt a resurgence of my ethnoreligious identity since late 2015. I full reconnected to practicing it in 2016 leaning into my faith to walk through life with multiple griefs for both my sister and my pregnancy losses. Here’s the thing, faith is personal, so is religion, but further more, it is also universal. To be a human on this planet, is to walk with faith whether it is in oneself, in a higher entity or with the calling within the natural world. The universality of humanity was something I had always leaned into. After October seventh, and the subsequent months since then, my humanity has been unwavering, but the churning whirlpools of my fellow humans severely concern me.

There have been days and weeks when I shut out the world—a privilege that I have, yes, and I go about my life with my family and friends. However, I want to say that in the back of my mind, I constantly feel in a state of hypervigilance.

Where would we run to?

What would we do?

What did my kindergartener talk about with friends today?
How do I lean into joy right here and right now?

Maintaining presence, be present Rachel, focus right here. Right now.

When will the hostages be released?
Did I read, “The Times of Israel?” today?

Refocus, Rachel, right here, right now, what can I do?

Mitzvot.

What actions can we channel today to pour more light into the world?

The clouds gather daily, but they dissipate when I focus on the light. The whirlpool of doubts are powerful none the less, but I have learned how to acknowledge the presence of them, and step aside to let them pass. Finding a way to seek a balance of information, pride in who I am, who my people are, and where I come from in the age of disinformation feeling like I am a part of a chronic act of tossing balls into the air and juggling.

Then I am reminded of something imperative.

Heineini.

I am here.

What a gift.

I am here for a reason.

I see my children before me.

I see the light reflected in their eyes.

What a gift.

What gratitude floods out from my heart.

May it be so that all of our hostages be released, now.

That all suffering worldwide be ended and hatred be put to rest.

The utopic principles of my heart are restitched whenever I see a reflection of light poured out from one hand reached out for another.

“Want to play with me?” I hear his little voice rise above the waves in my head.

Long quiet pause.

“That’s okay, I’ll be over here if you do.”

Watching his tiny and bold figure move to the other side of the sandbox.

Such acceptance and grace in such a tiny person.

What a mensch.

Humanity restored momentarily.

Small Gifts

Rachel Ann1 Comment

I wait each winter for the unfurling of spring. The relentless heartiness of the crocus before it bursts through the ground, piercing the soil before unveiling its color in the sunshine and snow. Much the same one of the first tulips of spring brings me just as much joy.

I planted three bulbs in a small garden bed built by hand, a loving husband indeed, and these three bulbs planted over a decade ago have now brought forth thirty-two blooms this year. What a magical gift indeed. The little hashgacha pratit flowers are my divine providence from the earth itself. Staying winter, the fits of spring reveal themselves to us. There is something about a garden: no matter how grand or minuscule it may be, it is a gift of abundance with a mystery of life embedded underneath the soil.

As a child, I waited for the first buds on the Sitka rose bush to bloom. Once the snow melted, I checked them daily until they began to bud and bloom. They reminded me of staying the course in the darkest days. These plants are examples of change in our gardens, but their presence remains unyielding.

We must thank the gardeners of this planet, the tillers of the soil, the finders of renewable energy, and the ones who tend the gardens quietly and patiently, nurturing the blooms to bud.

My garden reflects my mental state. It is parched or overwatered, gently wedded and abundant in growth, and overgrown and ripe with fruits that spill from vines. Much like the ebb and flow of the seasons, I feel as they change and we continue to grow. What a blessing to be a witness and a tiller of the Earth.

HaTikvah

Rachel Ann2 Comments

With the abundance of spring in the Northern Hemisphere I draw my gaze back towards hope. I never lost it, but much like the unfurling of the buds on a tree, my spirit hearkens back to the fundaments of the hope I feel when I pay attention to what is around me. The physical world reminds me to truly see what is in front of me, what I can touch, smell, and taste every day. If I pay attention to what is around me, then I immerse myself within it.

What I have found blooming in these observations, is hope. Everything in life can be taken from you in an instant except for hope. Hope comes from the spiritual realm to believe in something so deeply that you know an outcome of love will come forth. Now, hope does not push for a narrative of toxic positivity, it just remains calm and steady amidst the waves that crash around it. Much like the storms of spring, hope comes forth like the knowledge of knowing that after the rain, the wind, the hail, the sleet, there will be a thaw, a reckoning and a calm that eases the natural world.

Tonight there is a new moon. Tomorrow a new month. In Hebrew it is called, Rosh Chodesh the celebration that the moon indeed exists. Much like the moon, we as a people continue to exist.

We are.

We are here.

We are everywhere.

A spirit.

A hope.

HaTikvah, the hope is that we are a people of hope who continue to thrive despite incredible odds. With the new moon upon us, I hope it brings forth lasting peace, a hope for much suffering to end, and for our hostages to be freed and reunited with their families.

HaTikvah.

Blue Skies

Rachel Ann4 Comments

Searching for blue skies in the last days of January in the P.N.W. is a novelty. My youngest child was doing just this on a recent drive.

“Mama, mama,” he exclaimed, “Look right there, see that? There’s the blue skies!” His anecdote reminded me of the famous song, “Blue Skies,” to which I promptly began singing the melody.

He asked me, “Who sang that song?” It got me thinking, I wonder who composed that song? I pulled up my application on my phone and clicked on an Irving Berlin recording available on YouTube playing, “Blue Skies.”

While digging a bit deeper at home, I discovered that my very same child who was named after the famous Jewish composer, Irving Berlin, had discovered, serendipitously, that his namesake also had written the song in 1926. This moment of spontaneity sparked so much joy on our recent drive. I love it when life brings forth these little coincidences. I read that people have started referring to them as, “glimmers.” For what it’s worth, I have always thought of them as sparkles…

Antisemitism has reached a fever pitch worldwide in the recent months because of the attack on Israel on October 7th, 2023 and the ensuing war. This date was marked for Jewish people world wide as the most deadly day for Jews since the Holocaust, since the expel of Jews from the Middle East, and it was transpired on hallowed ground.

There are little to no choices when it comes to identity. The world seems to decide how one can be identified once a box has been distinguished. Here me out though, I always felt and feel a sense of pride when I talk about my background and who I am. The people that came before me survived traumas all their own. They are now imprinted in my DNA, and in the DNA of my children. However, with that being said I work actively hard at igniting joy in my children around their identity. We distinguish how important it is that they are who they are. This rich culture of people who have survived and thrived. How their actions in the world can spark a flame of hope and kindness when they act in a way that focuses their energy positively.

When we leave this Earth, this realm of collective humanity, all we really have is the imprint from our interactions, from our work, from the collectiveness of being a human on this planet we all call home. What if, we looked for more blue skies? Perhaps looking up a bit more would shed some light upon the dark corners we find ourselves nestled within?

(Some favorite renditions of, “Blue Skies,” that my Irving and I listened to included: Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Irving Berlin, and Doris Day.)

Familial

Rachel Ann7 Comments

There’s been someone on my mind on and off this past year. Through the ups and downs of this year my thoughts have gone back to my paternal Grandfather time and time again.

Raised in midwest of the United States a decade out from the turn of the century this man, like many of his time had similar afflictions to others. Although his faults and talents were diminished by emerging wars and the Great Depression he forged a pathway for his family paved by both sport and service. Perhaps it was because of these experiences that he turned inwards in the last two decades of his life. It was the man he decided to be that I grew to understand and love as a child.

The grandfather I knew trekked hundreds of miles to spend Thanksgiving with his eldest son and his family annually. The pride I felt as a five year old when he emerged from the crowd of family members in the hall of my elementary school was immeasurable. His tan cowboy hat, brown leather boots, and diamond willow cane made me beam with pride. My grandfather, the cowboy from Montana circa Missouri. Plucked from the skies as his airplane descended into the Northern Territory to visit for a week.

He was my first pen pal. He enclosed bits of spring time each year. Mailing leaves and petals, pussy willow buds, and kindness into those monthly letters. It was the days of long distance phone calls on weekends, and five hour flights to Alaska.

I felt seen and loved as a young Jewish child. He sent every card he could find, asked questions without judgement, and encouraged me from afar. He was front and center beaming with pride during my Bat Mitzvah. His shaky hand and video recording camera took in the scene in 1997 capturing my moment of entering the realm of adulthood. My commitment to my people, my culture, he embraced it with pride.

In these current days of turbulence and turmoil riddled by antisemitism, I often think of my touchstone. My grandfather’s love and support take on so much more meaning now, knowing that as a non-Jew he could show his commitment to family through his actions. I attribute much of my extension of love and tikkun olam to him. By extension of knowing I was supported, I could in turn do the same.

His birthday was December 25th. Every year I think of him and I wonder about what living in the last century felt like through each decade of change. Naturally I think of his life long partner my Grandmother Belva Pearl and I wonder if her work as an educator paved a similar pathway in my life. Her patience and calm amidst the chaos of raising six children helps me channel her qualities in the midst of raising our two children.

The tenacity and fortitude she had to help steer her family through two world wars and child rear are beyond me. What might I learn and apply from these abilities to survive and thrive. The strength and compassion it takes to persevere as a human on this planet is immense.

To know them was to love them. And love them I do. My holiday birthday Grandparents. Born the last of eleven grandchildren I am glad I met and knew them. Hopefully they know how much gratitude I hold for them today.

Woodrow Wilson Hipsher
Belva Pearl Rockhold Hipsher

Radiance

Rachel Ann6 Comments

There is a feeling unlike anything else that could be described, but more so felt in one’s depths.

Felt in a way that I know when I’m in synch with myself.

Radiance is something that can be witnessed, when you see it captured in eyes, a motion, the fluidity of an energy surging and flooding the space shared.

Similar to flashing light. It’s there. That spark within that can radiate out, unbeknownst to our own consciousness. These are the moments I revel in. Small moments I pocket for later when the gray can settle in.

When I see them running with abandon and reveling in the sunshine. The sound of a belly laugh rumbling from a human soul. Moving so freely and making eye contact for a fragment of a second and sharing that fleeting joy. The warmth of a heartbeat pressed close to my chest and holding fast to our beats as they synch. Small fingers curled around mine and the smallest of a squeeze to know that I’m still there. The morning dew rising from the fence and the sunshine sparkling the droplets, playing tricks on my eyes.

Life’s littlest moments are what truly make up my days. What about you?

Poppy 2022. Full brilliant radiance.

A Smile

Rachel Ann2 Comments

They say, “A smile is worth a thousand words…” What a genius *they* were. I chose the photo for a few reasons; one it is was a photograph by my oldest and closest friend. Two, I need an updated head shot post life and two children and the pandemic, but I had not been photographed professionally in over two years. Finally it reminded me of what I thought I had lost.

She said my name, I turned and laughed, click. In one click that moment in time was stilled to a screeching halt. If I close my eyes I can see it, I can see it all flash like lightening out the window in the heat of the storm. I see that moment, and I see her and I see me…

The news, the phone calls, the fourteen-hour time difference, the lab results, the surgery, their visit, the return, the results, cutting her hair and her curls falling, falling, falling. Her story, not your story, but still the fall while I was running, running, running. Flying to visit on my first solo trip abroad. The anxiety beating in my chest. Waking up vomiting. Her making me laugh saying, “It’s nice to hear the sound of someone else puking and it not being me.” God she was so funny. Why. Why. Why. Why are good people punished? Is that even something that is valid to ask? Screw it. I said it. It was, it is, and it sometimes still crosses my mind. The flight home and feeling like a chunk of my heart lay in Hong Kong receiving the drip, drip, drip, hoping the life force of chemo would somehow heal the broken body. The waiting, the wondering, and the waiting some more. Time halted with the call; they’re coming home. She’s coming home. Home. What is home for them? The last four and a half months, like a count down before me. The last time we watched a movie together. Choking down popcorn. Fucking cancer. The call from the stupid company thinking that if only they had her take more of their potions it would change things. Leave, my sister alone, for the love of God. That last show. The blood on her tissue. Thinking to myself I should go over and cuddle with her. Texting, calling, and waiting. Curling up in the corner of the hospital bed and holding her hand. Gently waking her to speak with the doctor. Talking, talking, talking, they’re talking at her and she’s not even awake. What the hell is going on? Surgery, for what? No more pain, no more needles, she said no more needles don’t touch her. Losing my mind in the hallway calling mom choking up on the phone. Yelling at, sigh, a priest when he offered me help. I’m not CATHOLIC I yelled. I’m JEWISH. Wow. So that happened. I just sat there taking turns holding her hand, taking turns, and crying and praying that her labored breathing would ease. My God. How selfish could I be, I asked God to make it stop, what is wrong with me? That last moment. I see her hands; I see the soft rounded half moons on her nails. The same hands that held mine. Hands that braided my hair. That took pictures together. That passed book pages. That shared chocolate. That cooled a forehead. That taught me to drive. Hands. Hearts. Hands intertwined. I missed her smile. The audience packed over three hundred souls in the room to honor her. I was numb. I just kept thinking, I can’t lose this one too, in the bathroom praying the blood not to come. Waiting, not feeling right. The blood tests. The ultrasound. Hearing, “I’m so sorry, please wait here.” The look on his face. God, make it stop. Here I go again. Calling out to God and where are… they? The hospital lights dimmed as the drugs smoothed the edges of my raw nerves. “How are you feeling?” she asked, I rolled my head over to her and smiled, “So good.” Hobbling to the bathroom and thanking the nurse for helping me. The blood, that’s to be expected. The color stained behind my eyes. Every month I saw it again and again, and again. The pulsing life force within me that kept me alive, and reminded me monthly I had more to give, I had more to live for, to grow for, I had to reframe my perspective, ‘cuz this ain’t it kid, this ain’t it. What did she tell me?

“Hineni,” Hebrew for, “Here I am.” That was it, here I am, and here I will stay. I am not my sister, and she was not me.

Click. Click. Click.

The rush of the moment. The train station walls illuminated as the dusky lights of night descended upon us. All in a moment, all was still, and the laugh subsided. We sat to take a rest after shooting in the park along the Willamette River. Shooting one another and covering her camera with what we lovingly referred to as the camera condom. The humor from middle school never seemed to disappear between us. Old habits die hard, “Was that a good one?” She chuckles, “Yeah I think I got it, you smiled!”

Click.

“And once again!”

Photo credit to: K. Sciuto. ❤