Darkness. It is August, but the nights at the ashram in upper state New York are cool and dark. I make my way from the central building to my tent, at the edge of a green, verdant, open field.
After a few days at the ashram, I play the darkness game, walking to my tent at night without a flashlight, without a cell phone. It’s possible, all you have to do is put aside your fears (from bears, insects and everything else in the vicinity). When it isn’t raining, nature sends me little points of light that always remind me of little miracles.
Fireflies. Wonder bugs. Only once have I ever seen fireflies in the fields of my moshav. In New York, however, these tiny miracles of light shine out at me in breathtaking quantities. It took a bit of time for me to understand that the sparkle that was a miracle to me was actually Morse code used by fireflies to communicate and identify each other. The language of sparkling light from within to without.
Righteous. I’ve already told the story here of when I wrote the script of the continuation of my life, at the age of 30 (during maternity leave with Guli). I worked in an organized way, as usual. At the basis of the script was an excellent book with a structured plan. I poured out morals into a beautiful notebook and decided that I would be apply for judgeship. One day, at about the age of 40, as a direct result of this decision and from a healthy reasoning that if…then…I decided that I would keep my record clean (means) so there wouldn’t be anything that someone might pull out and use against me one day (prize or expectation). Smooth and clean. No, it wasn’t a revolution, I just tried harder. In big things and small. Today I know that righteousness is a specific type of pride. It’s like saying: “I’m better because I never break the rules…because I always…”. For one thing, it doesn’t mean I’m better. Second, sometimes rules or words have to be broken.
Congratulations. A week after my forced return to Israel, I received notification that I had passed the Bar for the State of New York. When I was finished crying – not from joy but from frustration and sorrow, because: “I’m stuck here in Israel” and “how does it help now?”, I decided to complete the process. In any case, it was the hardest test I’ve ever taken and who knows what the future will bring.
Forms. Of course, there is no American process that doesn’t involve filling out countless forms, questionnaires and appendices. On the relevant form that preceded the interview for completion of the process, a good portion of involvement was dedicated to legal processes. Crying. Yes, all my life I kept my name clean and honest, and then one judge (and no, I don’t hate or love him, despite what he wrote about me) decided that I had violated no less than an international convention. He detailed and explained his decision throughout 29 pages. I still find it unpleasant to read today what he wrote back then. And no, I won’t go into who’s right and where the errors were made. It doesn’t really matter. In the appropriate space on the form I wrote “enclosed”. Let them read it by themselves.
The day before the interview, I told my friend: “I have nothing to say. I’ll bow my head and explain that one sometimes makes a wrong decision and let them decide whatever they decide.”. In the morning I leave early, dressed in turquoise blue. For calmness. I breathe in the taxi. I breathe at the entrance to the building on 25th and Madison. I breathe in the elevator. I breathe in the waiting room. Breathing, I am called to enter. I sit opposite a middle-aged woman, an attorney. It turns out she knows the judge personally. She also has family in Israel. She tells me more than she asks questions. I breathe, and she says:
“Mrs. Geffen, I’m so sorry for the difficulties the legal system of the State of New York directed towards you. I certify you, so it will be easier for you to return here to live one day and work as an attorney. Congratulations on passing the exams without attaining your degree here, you should be very proud.”
I stop breathing. I search for the logic in it.
If I’m a bad girl, a police officer will come and things will be bad (that’s obvious, otherwise what’s the cop for).
Meaning ⇓
If I’m a good girl, no police will come and things will be good.
Let’s play with this a bit. I’m a good girl, I know that I’m good. A policeman comes along and decides that I’m phooey, very bad. He wrote this, provided reasoning and published it. Now everyone knows.
What does that mean? I’m a bad girl. I know that because the police officer wrote this, provided reasoning and published it. There are others who made a point of making it clear to me that they agreed with him. But then another police officer comes and tells me I’m no less than wonderful, and gives me a prize. Life is really smiling at me. What does that mean?
It doesn’t mean a thing. It says nothing about me. It just means that somebody said something. Even if he provided reasoning and published it, this is not a matter of truth or justice. What it does do is tell you a lot about the power of words and their effect on us. On how we perceive ourselves and how we judge others through these perceptions. From here you might deduce something about communication among people and within ourselves. Maybe we should learn from the fireflies and use less words, judge less, make fewer deductions. And light things up a little more.
Niti
Tel Aviv 9.4.17
