hgoodman's blog

 

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Jesus said we'd do greater things than he. He walked on water. Today, we danced on it.
This morning, our group went out on the Sea of Galilee in a replica of a first-century boat. A couple in our group used this opportunity to renew our wedding vows.
Which evolved into traditional Jewish wedding music.
Which evolved (devolved, perhaps) into ABBA. And Cotton-Eyed Joe. And Israeli techno music.
And we danced.
Someone noted today that the trip isn't as spiritual as she expected. But here's how I see it: the people of the Bible may have lived in a different culture, but they were human with human emotions and motivations. They sang and danced and farmed and cried and married and ate and died. They may have even had sex. Visiting Israel makes this more real to me. It's an earthy, human place with earthy, human history.
Oh, also today, I snuck wine into one of the churches. Illegally. How did the guide know to ask me to be the one to do that?

We missed out on Cana. Drove through, but didn't get to stop at the church that's built over the traditional site of the wedding. Too bad. I was looking forward to a good glass of wine.

In Caesarea, there are ruins underwater from this pier Herod built (it was destroyed by tsunami) as well as wrecks from ships. I asked if it's open to the public for diving. It is. Someday I'd like to return and see the ruins down there.

I ran out of room on the camera within an hour. So I went back and deleted some of the pics I took, switched it to snapshot, and took much fewer pictures than I would've liked (especially at Meggido, aka Armageddon). When I downloaded them tonight, I discovered this "trash" folder with 400 pics. Nice. So I got rid of them, and hopefully tomorrow I'll have lots of space.

Speaking of Armaggedon, I didn't start any wars, you'll be glad to know. All is still safe.

I'm learning so much. And I'm making connections in a new way. With some things, we don't really see anything (we drove by Mt. Carmel, where Elijah and the prophets of Baal had it out, and the area where Saul died or the Mount of Transfiguration--all smashed close together!), but knowing that this is really the place where it happened makes it more real. I expected everything to be big. The world of the Bible seems this larger-than-life place. But it's small. Everything happened so close together. And Meggido (or Armeggedon), the high place that became the city to have, had 25 civilizations burned and rebuilt, saw more battles than a divorce lawyer (no wonder it became the symbol for the place of the war to end all wars!) was a small hill overlooking the fertile Valley of Jezreel.

History is boiling, our tour guide says. It's tangible here. David's palace was discovered six months ago. But more than that, it reaches into today here. An archeaologist named Jones (the real Indiana Jones, our tour guide jokes, though his first name is Wendell) searches for the Ark of the Covenant. When he finds it, the Jews will be able to rebuilt their Temple (more on this later), and all hell will break lose, they suspect. Mixed in with this are stories like the city named after the man who brought Louis Pasteur's system to the States and saved hundreds of lives (he also pawned jewelry to support the orphans of the Titanic) and heroes and survivors of the Holocaust. All of these things matter. From Elijah to Maccabees to Nathan Strauss--they all make up the stories and identities of the Jews.

Building things here must be a nightmare--they've had to move roads, prisons, and all sorts of things when they discover something new (rather, something old) underneath. Voila! New excavation site.

It's hard to grasp how old everything is. They tear down places as old as our country without thought--a building only 250 years old is considered new.

I must go to dinner now. We're going to do what our tour guide is calling a Jewish communion. If I understand correctly, he means part of the typical Sabbath celebration, although I can't be sure. In the meantime, a couple of pictures:

Mosaic floor from a 1st century Roman bath house in Caesarea

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meggido: Some of the layers from the 25 civilizations here. The round circle is a Canaanite altar.

Coming to you live from King David Lounge in JFK airport.

So apparently El Al won't let you check-in until a certain time before your flight. To keep their business travelers happy, they provide a lounge on the outside of the security gate so you can relax and enjoy their overstuffed recliners, olives, hummus, some identified yet delicious tabouli-like salad, and well-stocked bar while you wait to check-in.

Which would've been nice to know before we ate over-priced Chinese food in the common area (should I add "with the common people"?).

We had been told we'd be able to enjoy the business-class El Al Lounge before checking in, but when we asked an El Al employee at ticketing, she told us the lounge was inside the security gate. Since El Al won't allow you to check-in early, we were out of luck.

She was wrong.

So we kept it real and hung out with the peeps.

(Side note: I'm not flying business class, but they're giving us a few of the business-class privileges.)

Good news: we're now in the lounge, enjoying all the privileges I can before we need to board our flight.

A peek inside the lives of the rich and the famous.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fellow travelers and writers hard at work.

Sort of.

We're thinking of you, of course.

 

 

 

Shalom!

Last night, I attended the latest U2 concert. Attended is the wrong word. Participated in fits better. A U2 concert is more than a group of talented men standing on a stage singing. It is about how they invite the audience to participate in something greater than themselves--in the music and in the work of bringing blessing to a hurting world.

Chris, two friends, and I were on the floor. And though my feet and knees punish me today for that decision, I'm glad we did that. We were closer to the stage than I expected we would be, and it disallowed any opportunity to sit and let the moment pass by.

An interesting observation, though: So many people around us were more intent on getting pics and capturing bits with their cell phones than participating in the moment. I'll have to think more about this later.

I want to give you a thoughtful review, but I leave for Israel tomorrow, and my brain is too jumbled to process things like the two lines from A Mighty Fortress Is Our God I'm sure I heard The Edge quote somewhere in one of the songs (I can't even remember which one) or how they led into Where the Streets With No Name with Amazing Grace or how Bono invited us to pray with him at the Moment of Surrender as he knelt on stage not noticing the passers-by. U2 offered praise in Magnificent, and they remind us that the blessings are not just for those who kneel (which went along nicely with the retreat I taught this past weekend--we are God's instruments of blessing to the world).

They skipped many songs from the new album, but I expected this. In this album, I felt, the band played with sounds in a studio-experimental way. Songs like Fez: Being Born (my favorite off the album) aren't concert friendly. Still, I would've liked to have heard White As Snow or Cedars of Lebanon. So they had time to sing numerous old favorites. My one real disappointment was that they didn't sing Pride. Why, this is the song that they sang to my husband and me in my dream a year ago! How dare they skip out on it here!

But I have no more time for reflection. I have to pack! Capernaum, here I come!

If Edgar Allen Poe and Charlotte Bronte were to write a story set in contemporary London, the result would be Her Fearful Symmetry. In a Victorian gothic style befitting of its cemetery setting, Audrey Niffenegger unfolds a story of relationships, love, and secrets.

Mirror twins Valentina and Julia inherit their Aunt Elspeth's estate after her death. The conditions: they must live in the London flat for a year before selling it, and they must disallow their parents, Edie (Elspeth's estranged twin) and Jack, from setting foot in it. Once there, the twins meet Robert, Martin, and Elspeth herself.

Robert, Elspeth's lover, spends his days working on his thesis, volunteering at the Highgate Cemetery (the subject of his thesis), and mourning Elspeth. Martin is their OCD neighbor who has papered his windows and refuses to leave his flat. Elspeth haunts her old flat, attempting to build some relationship with the twins and rebuild her relationship with Robert.

The book looks at the identity we receive from and lose in relationships, whether romantic, sibling, or parental. It also looks at how our desires for these relationships (and our insecurities in them) cause us to deceive those we love. With each character, I understand what motivates them, but I want to sit them down and talk some sense in them. The title is reminscent of (if not taken from, which I suspect), William Blake's famous poem The Tyger, which looks at the complexities of creation--the symmetry and combination of wildness and danger with calm, peace, and goodness. In Blake's poem, this symmetry exists both in creation (the peaceful Lamb v. the wild Tyger) and within the Tyger itself (majesty but a hint of danger and even evil). This is reflected in the characters of Her Fearful Symmetry, most obviously in Elspeth's loving and drawing nature contrasted with her manipulative side and in Valentina and Julia as a set of twins who mirror each other physically and in personality. But is this not true of all of us? We are made up of beauty and corruptness?

Niffenegger's delicate prose reflects a Victorian sensibility. The omnisicient voice makes the reader feel as if she haunts the characters. Her story is tightly woven, reflecting the same ability she displayed in Time Traveler's Wife without repeating story or theme. Her sub-plots support the theme of boundaries and identity in relationship, giving us contrast and fulfillment. Ms. Niffenegger has been able to deliver a book with a fresh story differing not just from the plethora of stories hitting our shelves but from her own success. I look forward to what else Ms. Niffenegger has to offer us in the future.

"Me-me-me-me."

Everyone warmed up?

Today I'm guest blogging on Literary Agent Rachelle Gardner's blog. The topic? Finding Your Voice: A Musician Looks at Writing

Don't worry. I don't once break into song and/or dance in the post (though I may have once or twice during the writing of said post).

Enjoy.

Willy, a hack writer who wants to be a serious writer, is sentenced to community service for running over a local high school's mascot. There, he meets Father Joe, who's searching for the daughter he lost while he was in jail, and Shaq, who's searching for his missing memories (and finds them in everyone else's pasts).

In his spare time,Willy works (and fails) at breaking his dead wife's espresso maker--a gift from some guy named Sean. He enlists the help of Ozena, one of Javatek's customer service representatives. Ozena spends her spare time playing board games with her mentally handicapped son.

I had high expectations after My Name Is Russell Fink, and Snyder's sophomore novel exceeds them. He's retained his quirky characters and style (I'm giving him honorary Yankee status with his Woody Allen-like neuroticism), but the story in Return Policy is more sophisticated and his characterization more mature. He doesn't shy away from hard questions and is able to pull off an unpredictable and satisfying end. Readers can't ignore the complications of the situation--what would I do in that situation? What's the right thing? There are no easy answers, and they demand more consideration than simple proof-texting.

His characters are so real, I forgot they were characters. The other night, I picked up the book before remembering that I had finished it. I indulged in an evening of silence (aka no reading) because I wasn't ready to let go. I have a feeling I'll be hearing Willy's voice in my head (joining the others) for a long time.

I highly recommend this book for fans of Coupland and Hornby.

It may not pay well, it's true (with a few exceptions--Stephen King, cough, cough), but the job is priceless.* Not only does it allow me to run around with my imaginary friends instead of dealing with real people, not only does it allow me to travel to the land I love (South Jersey) on a regular basis (in imagination, if not in real life for research), but now, it's given me an all-expense paid trip to Israel.

My friend and mentor, Sandi Glahn, had suggested me to the Israeli Tourism Board as a journalist for their upcoming Christian Press Tour. I will be participating as a representative for bible.org. 

To be honest, I've never had this desire that apparently all good Christians have to pilgrimage to our mecca, but I'm getting excited about walking on water, tasting wine fresh from the cleansing water jars, and splashing around in some healing pools (I hate being nearsighted). 

In all seriousness, our itinerary includes traditional stops (this is where tradition says Jesus died, for example--I can't imagine that being an easy visit, even if it's an unverified traditional site), archeological digs (where I plan to discover something like the Rosetta Stone), and historical sites (Jonah ran from this port--he is my cowardice hero, after all). After my last post on the mindset of setting, I have a feeling this tour will reveal more about biblical stories.

It may not pay well, but I could do worse.

*Post sponsored by Mastercard.

I learned something new. It should be obvious. Realizing this feels like a Homer moment (meaning "Doh!", not epic poetry, though the Odyssey has some nice ah-ha moments).

Setting in books is more than the place where the story occurs. Setting is a mindset.

You'd think this would be more apparent, especially to someone who studied ethnomusicology in undergrad and cultural anthropology in grad school.

I came to the realization simply: I gravitate toward certain books and certain authors. And almost all of these certain books and certain authors are set in (and are from) north of D.C. (and on the east coast). Makes sense. I'm from New Jersey, and though I've lived in Texas for longer than I'd care to admit, my mind works like a Jersey girl's mind.

(My sub-realization that my mind is that of a Jersey girl's: when I visit Jersey every year, the people there, granted, mostly family, but not all, get me in a way that Texans never will. Andy Crouch said in Culture Making, "Most of us have experienced being in a context where our jokes were funny, our ideas provoked interest and excitement, and we felt light and quick on our feet, able to realize our vision with little sense of friction--and then being in another context where the same jokes and ideas fell completely flat and we found ourselves tongue-tied and embarrassed." I'm funnier in NJ than I am in Dallas.)

Recently, I've read several Southern fiction books. I admire these books. They're well-written, but I don't go gaga over them like other people do. I can't relate to how these people think.

Let me quote a review of South of Broad by Pat Conroy. I have not read this book, but this line from a review captures why I feel estranged from Southern fiction.

It's possible that the sobbing and sniveling occasionally felt inauthentic to me because I am a priggish New Englander who is uncomfortable with what may be a Southern penchant for drama. (From The Washington Post's Book World/washingtonpost.com. Reviewed by Chris Bohjalian.)

In the end, Southern fiction veers on the sentimental. Odd coming from a drama-queen like myself. But as my dad always told me, "Walk it off." I'm drawn to the more subtle and no-nonsense like Russo or Tyler or Olive Kitteridge. I come from a world where sarcasm is a love language. On the east coast, we prefer neuroticism to wallowing. Think Woody Allen v. Rebecca Wells, When Harry Met Sally v. Steel Magnolias.

This explains why I can't seem to set my stories in any place but New Jersey. I've tried, but the characters don't work anywhere else. Call me a regionalist, but I'm just saying. I am what I am. When you say "the ocean," I think Atlantic (and, more specifically, picture my own Ocean City, NJ). When you ask for a Coke, I will give you the actual brand. When you call me "ma'am," I will be insulted.

So tell me: do you prefer Southern charm, west coast hang-ten, midwest helping hand, or east coast sarcasm?