Archive by category "Musings"

Postscript to the Garden: Knowledge

Postscript to the Garden: Knowledge [1]

By Rabbi Corinne Copnick

 

No temptress made me taste forbidden fruit,

I who bareheaded looked God in the eye

was singly my own seducer.

 

Seven veils vainly cover

my belly’s earthworm’s dance.

Are some things better left unknown?

 

Snaked to the ground,

I hide my vision, stop my ears,

my mouth fills dumbly with dust.

 

Who bid me sleuth mystery

prematurely face to face

before the final encounter?

 

God of wrath, vowed

I have eaten your anger.

Help me rise to receive your love.

 

©️Corinne Copnick Spiegel, Montreal, 1981; Los Angeles, 2017.

 

[1] “Knowledge” originally appeared in Embrace/Etreinte: A Love Story in Poetry (Une Poeme d’Amour) by Corinne Copnick Spiegel. (Montreal: Editions Guy Maheux, 1981), 45. “Embrace/Etreinte is ” a volume of bilingual (English/French) poems, published at a volatile time in Quebec and dedicated to people of both French and English cultures. “Embrace/Etreinte,” can be found occasionally on rare book sites. The poem, “Knowledge, was subsequently published in “Bitterroot,” ed. Menke Katz (N.Y., ca. 1981) an international poetry magazine (1962-1991) showcasing poets with mystical reach.

The Calm Before the Storm

The Calm Before the Storm [1]

by Rabbi Corinne Copnick

 

Today’s bold headlines, honed in

humanity’s ugliest image,

permeate this peaceful retreat,

stratify the morning mist with

savagery’s ominous shadow,

blaspheme this sacred rock.

 

Here, amidst primeval peaks,

a prophet’s prescient sorrow

waters the pure, thin air, and

frozen, trembling,

shudders the perceptive earth

in persistent, icy warning.

 

Here, shades of old battles fought

stalk children of freedom,

sharing transitory pleasures

while war portends,

unaware carnage beckons

a new generation, multi-hued

and dreamy-eyed, once again

to become its bride and groom.

 

©️Corinne Copnick, Banff, 1990; Los Angeles, 2017. All rights reserved.

[1] The author originally wrote this poem, first titled “Hail Storm in Banff,” at an artist’s peaceful retreat in Banff, Alberta, as newspaper headlines predicted the imminent Gulf War.

Who?

Who? [1]

By Rabbi Corinne Copnick

Who can dry the tears of God?

Is it the earth forever

quivering with remorse

or space itself curving

to cradle such pain?

Who can share the fears of God?

Is it man and wife grown

old in friendship, enfolding

family before and

after their ending?

Who can light the face of God?

Is it an artist’s fiery spirit

steeping red-blossomed in

a rose-petal’s clear

white water?

Who can feel the touch of God?

Is it our sleeping child

caressing once more

the wounded world

with wakened wonder?

Who can know the mind of God?

Ah!…

©Corinne Copnick, Toronto, 1992; Los Angeles, 2017. All rights reserved.

[1] “Who?”– my anthropomorphized concept of God in the spirit of poetic license — was originally narrated in “Altar Pieces (1992)” a collage of my poems and stories that was screened nationally many times on Canada’s “Vision TV” over a period of  five years.

Dried Brown Ink

With the resurgence of Nazi ideology in many places in the world, including, sadly, America, my story, “Dried Brown Ink,” written in 2007 (when my sister was still alive), is a reminder of what happened once – and must never happen again. It is also a testament to the human spirit.

 

Dried Brown Ink (1)

By Rabbi Corinne Copnick (2)

 

The little old lady presents the kind of idyllic grandmother you see in a commercial: perfectly waved white hair, no make-up, metal-rimmed glasses, a simple, white dress flecked with black, pearl necklace and earrings. And a soft voice. Her name, it turns out later, is Edith Reimer. Could be an Ashkenazi Jewish name, but she is not Jewish.

I am wearing a necklet, a small Jewish star. She leans forward and whispers in my ear, “People say it didn’t happen. But I saw it with my own eyes. I have the photographs. Of Bergen Belsen. I took them with my own camera.”

We are both sitting at an elegantly set lunch table at the British Home in Sierra Madre, California. On the white tablecloth, place settings of English china are framed by silver flatware in an antique pattern. English antiques, their polished dark wood glowing, stand stalwartly like guardians around the perimeter of the dining room. The tranquil, civilized setting amid five acres of green, rolling landscape seems a million miles away from horror. Yet all the inhabitants of the room are witnesses to history.

I am only a visitor to this room, a 21st century Canadian immigrant to Los Angeles who will leave after lunch. Considerably younger than the other diners, I have just entered my seventies, but I remember well what happened in the middle years of the twentieth century. I am a witness too.

The British Home in California is a private corporation with a connection (not financial) to the Daughters of the British Empire (a classy, long-distinguished organization) since the 1930s. It offers a retirement home in a beautiful setting to seniors living in California who come from the countries of the commonwealth. I learned about this remarkable facility from the Women’s Canadian Club in Los Angeles. I am checking it out for my sister, also a Canadian by birth. She lives in New York, and I would like to bring her to California. In the aftermath of 9/11 and the continuing terrorist activities that destroy innocent people, it seems so important to gather your loved ones close to you. Unfortunately, the Home is not licensed for wheelchairs. Walkers yes, wheelchairs, no.

Photo credit: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/fa/9e/18/fa9e181ff2853a7254cd8ced66c3959f–vintage-nurse-world-war.jpg

“I worked for the United Nations after World War II,” Edith confides. She does not need a walker. “In the refugee camps. I was a nurse in England, and my husband was stationed in Germany. I came to be with him. My second child was born in Wittenberg.” The last city that was bombed in Germany. Her first child, a son, was killed in the blitz in England. He was five years old.

“I am sure he is in your thoughts every day,” I respond.

“Yes,” she nods simply, continuing to eat her salad. “My daughter was born in America. She comes every second Saturday to take me shopping. I was a nurse in America too.”( One of the longest residents, Edith had been living at the British Home for more than ten years when she told me her story.)

All of the men and women in the room – there are twenty-two at the Home at the moment, but there is a capacity for forty-one people in pretty bungalows framed by verandahs and placed like paintings at distances permitting privacy – have stories to tell, and most have distinguished backgrounds. A lady at the next table, just back from the hospital, was born in Winnipeg. She taught creative writing. “If you come from freezing Winnipeg, you can get through anything,” I joke.

“If you come to my room after lunch, I’ll show you the photographs,” Edith offers. We dispense with dessert, a frothy strawberry mousse, and walk up a slight incline to her bungalow. “I have the best view,” she chortles.

In her room, Edith shows me the handicrafts she makes for children – dolls , and crayon boxes, and dresses. Then she takes a small folder of photographs from her dresser drawer. The bed-sitting room is large enough to hold only a few of her cherished momentoes. She has parted with most of her fine furniture and china and silver, but she has hung onto these photos for half a century and carried them with her to this place of final residence. The folder still bears the imprint of the German photo shop that printed them.

The photos are inscribed with faded brown ink in Edith’s handwriting on the reverse and the dates. One photo shows Jewish bodies stacked up like cordwood for the furnaces. Another shows the bodies laid out decently for burial by American soldiers. The subject of another photograph is an American soldier offering a cigarette to a survivor; another refugee is crouched against the wall in the background. Then there are bombed-out views of Hitler’s house, Goering’s house. The destroyed houses of fanatical leadership whose followers exploded bombs on her little son.

We are silent for a few moments together. What is there to say? We both know.

“These photos are historical documents,” I suggest finally. “They should be in a place like the Simon Wiesenthal Center’s Museum of Tolerance.”

“Ah,” she says dismissively. “They have plenty of these.”

“Not taken by your camera,” I offer softly. “Not seen with your own eyes.”

As she puts them away carefully, I prepare to take my leave. We kiss goodbye. Born in companionate countries as members of the British Commonwealth, immigrants to the Southwestern United States  — one Jewish, one not — in different centuries, we have shared a memory that has faded for much of the world. Like the dried brown ink.

 

(1) “Dried Brown Ink” was first published in the 40th year edition of “Western States Jewish History,” Vol. XL, No. 2, Winter 2008, pp. 117 -199, ©Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2007. The author has made a couple of small alterations to the story here.

(2) Corinne Copnick entered rabbinic school at AJRCA in 2009 and graduated as an ordained rabbi in 2015. Many of her original stories are featured on her website: www.rabbicorinne.com.

 

 

Dear God, I Don’t Understand

Dear God, I Don’t Understand

by Rabbi Corinne Copnick

 

Photo credit: http://wallpapersafari.com/w/bocReQ/

My maternal grandmother, Rachel Freedman, had a very loving view of God. She imbued in me the idea that the God of Israel was compassionate, forgiving. In my grandmother’s mind, God would always understand — within my grandmother’s religious and moral boundaries, of course.

For instance, my grandmother kept a strictly kosher home all of her life. So she would never eat ANYTHING at my mother’s house because my mother had been brought up in a kosher home (my grandmother’s), and therefore she should know better than to be a Reform Jew who didn’t uphold all the Judaic rules.

Yet my grandmother ate at MY home – also within certain boundaries – because I, her darling ainekel, had been brought up in a home that DIDN’T KEEP KOSHER, and therefore I hadn’t been taught better.

So my grandmother sat down, along with my parents, at my Friday night table most every week from the time that I married (at 22, which seems so young today, but then was quite normal, even late, to be wed) until almost the day she died. But my grandmother only ate the fruit salad I would specially prepare for her on a glass plate never used for any other purpose.  Also a small piece of the kosher challah. And she always had a glass of red wine because it was good for her heart. God would understand, she said.

Since my husband and I lived quite a distance away from her own apartment, she allowed herself to be driven (by my parents) to our home for Friday night dinner and then back again at the conclusion of the evening. God would understand, she assured me, that it is more important to share a Sabbath meal with your beloved grandchild and her husband (and later with her great-grandchildren) than to obey the injunction not to drive when distances were so far. (It’s not as if we had to throw a blanket over a camel or commandeer a horse and wagon). My grandmother was pretty good at getting God to approve of what she wanted.

My long-deceased maternal grandfather, on the other hand, had been a labor socialist immigrant to Canada from Russia in 1903. Although he claimed to be an atheist, he was nevertheless active in organizing the Russian-Polish Society’s Jewish cemetery in Montreal. It is still there on rue de la Savane, where my grandfather’s name – Joseph Freedman – is etched in stone as one of its founders.

In fact, when my father, Rachel and Joseph’s son-in-law, graduated as a dental surgeon from McGill University, his first job was with the landzman Russian-Polish Society, whose members he tried to educate in taking better care of their teeth. This he did with the aid of the Talmud. In the 1837 Jubilee Anniversary book of the Society, he began his article, “Dentistry and the Jewish Public,” with this story:

“The Talmud tells of a pseudo-scientist who, although able to count diligently the planets of the sky, did not know how many teeth there were in his oral cavity. One day this man bragged about his profound knowledge of astronomy in the presence of the great Rabbi Gamliel and said: ‘The number of stars is well known to me.’ Smiling, the Sage replied, ‘Tell me how many teeth you have.” The braggart, confused, put his hand to his mouth and began to count them. The Rabbi then exclaimed, ‘You don’t even know what you have in your own mouth. How do you expect to know what there is in the sky?”

As we approach Rosh HaShanah In 2017, we humans think we know quite a lot scientifically about stars and planets and how to travel to them, and about crashing meteors, and even multiple universes, perhaps to an unimaginable infinity. But we are still trying to discover whether life existed on any of them before the created beings of this Planet Earth did. We are still awed by the constantly changing “facts,” whether allegorical, scientific, evolutionary, or theological, and the manner of creation.

And, even with all our technological tools, we are still overcome by the unpredictable patterns of the sea and the devastation to the land and its people that overflowing waters and uncontrollable air currents – and human greed — can wreak. How much has really changed since the biblical generation of Noah inhabited the earth?

This is the greatest who-done-it story of all time. Is God the Creator the perpetrator of this chaos? Of the deaths of so many innocent people? Is God the perp? Or do we humans have a hand in it? Or is that just the way Nature is? I feel as if I’m still counting the teeth in my mouth. Dear God, I don’t understand.