The ladies squirmed in their seats as they waited for
Batsheva, the group leader, to get started. One or two of the
ladies made some small talk while others organized their
papers and pens.
Batsheva rushed into the room, her famous smile flashing. She
looked like someone had just told her the most wonderful
news, but then that's how Batsheva always appeared. Her
simple tailored skirt and jacket, immaculate and pressed,
coupled with her tall straight posture, gave the affect of
regality.
"Ladies, I looked over your papers," Batsheva said
approvingly. "You all show great use of imagery and enjoy
working on metaphors." All the ladies relaxed in their chairs
and beamed. They had come together for a creative writing
class. It was a chance to unwind and at the same time,
develop potential or dormant writing skills. "Who knows?"
some of the ladies hoped, "Maybe it's the start of a new
career?" Other ladies were more pragmatic and just wanted to
develop their creativity once a week and have an enjoyable
outlet.
The women came from a wide stratum of socio-economic
backgrounds but they all equally adored their striking
teacher, Batsheva, with her dazzling smile.
""Now ladies," Batsheva called out in her joyous tone, "let's
get started. I see something common among some of you. Your
writing is very expressive of your daily lives, worries and
concerns. That is very therapeutic and there is a real place
for this, but this is supposed to be a creative writing
class. I want to start emphasizing the creative part. Let's
use our imaginations."
Batsheva's white teeth sparkled into an even larger smile, if
possible, as she encouraged her students. "I want you all to
go beyond yourselves. Don't be stuck within the confines of
your individual worlds. Let your imagination take flight.
Live and write a different life." Batsheva looked like she
was soon going to fly off into the sky from all her
enthusiasm.
This time the students looked somewhat shocked and surprised.
Using metaphors and imagery was fine as long as they could
describe what they knew best. "But go beyond yourself?" How
do you do that? they wondered.
A few enthusiastic students, with high imagination, listened
to the assignment and got down to work right away. A few more
ladies thought for a moment or two, hesitated and started to
write.
The last group sat bewildered. "Go beyond myself?" Shevy
muttered hopelessly, as she absently looked down at her once
again rounding waist. She was only twenty-three, the
youngest in the group, and already expecting her fourth
child. Her two youngest were home in the mornings with her
and her big three-year-old bochur came home at one
o'clock. The baby, not yet one year old, was super active;
pulling himself up and tearing everything around him down.
Two-year-old Suri, a real princess, felt she never got enough
attention. "Hold me more," she'd beg and what could Shevy do?
After all, Shevy reasoned, Suri was still so little, herself.
Noses to wipe, diapers to change, toys to tidy up, stories to
be read, meals, laundry and more until Shevy felt she was on
a merry-go-round whose guardian had left on continuous
play.
Shevy's husband knew of Shevy's once passion for writing. In
fact she had been head of the school yearbook. When he saw
the ad for the writing class at the community center, he
urged Shevy to join. "You need some time out," he prodded
gently.
Shevy thought about what Batsheva said: 'Going beyond
ourselves.' "Is there really life beyond dirty diapers and
unwashed bottles?" Shevy closed her eyes tightly and let
herself dream. She thought about the sea; waves crashing,
white foam over aqua water, a sky so blue and limitless and
sand that was soft and white. Shevy pictured a woman with an
easel painting and creating. "That's certainly not in the
realm of my life," Shevy gave an inward laugh. "to be sitting
luxuriously painting on the beach!" She was actually enjoying
this. Shevy wrapped a story around her character and setting,
focusing on the woman's act of creativity, while negating all
her own daily acts of inventiveness.
Shevy forgot about the story she had made up that very
afternoon on the spur of the moment to distract two
quarreling kids. She also forgot that she had cut an apple to
look like a flower in order to feed her finicky three- year-
old and how she has developed the best cleaning solution to
get off those stubborn chocolate stains. Upon writing about
the mythical painter on the beach, Shevy had gone beyond
herself but not completely.
Daniela rushed into the class with her typical stressed
harassed look. Daniela didn't know when was the last time she
had really felt relaxed. "Before the business failed," she'd
tell herself. Daniela and her husband had opened a small
health food store. Her husband was more behind the scenes,
leaving him with time to learn, while Daniela took over the
lion's share of the business.
Things had started on a positive note until the large
supermarket down the road opened their own health food
section. Being so large, the supermarket was able to buy in
large quantities, enabling it to purchase at lower costs and
keep the prices down for the customers. Daniela just couldn't
compete. She didn't want to disturb her husband with the
business difficulties, so she carried the burden alone until
it was too late.
The couple agreed that it was unlikely that he could have
prevented their bankruptcy in any event and now they were
constantly trying to keep up with their creditors and bank
loans. Daniela took on two jobs but it was a constant
economic pressure. When two bills came in, she'd sit and
calculate which should be paid first and what would be the
consequences. The kids tried not to show their resentment at
forgoing what they perceived "everyone else had," but kids
will be kids.
A kind and caring relative, worried about Daniela's welfare,
had signed her up for the writing course, even paying the
nominal fee. "I don't have time for this," Daniela protested.
"I've got too much stress and pressure keeping up with the
bills to think about writing," she insisted.
"That's exactly why you need this," the relative combated.
"Your whole life is one big pressure cooker. Outside of
taking a long, deserved bubble bath, I can't think of any
other way for you to unwind."
Daniela eyed her relative with a look of cynical suspicion.
In the end she agreed to try it. In school, Daniela had won
awards for her short stories and essays. Her English teachers
were very disappointed when she refused to pursue her talent
professionally. While sitting in the class, Daniela actually
did feel as if some of the pressure was dissipating but
ironically she found herself writing about people in
financial straits; the homeless or families who worry about
getting their electricity cut off. She could describe the
pain and worry down to the last detail. Even Daniela had to
admit that it didn't take much of her imagination.
"Go beyond myself?" Daniela questioned mockingly. "Going
beyond debts, overdrafts and gemachim? Trying to
explain to the kids why we are pushing off buying sandals
another month and deciding if I should pay the grocery bill
this week or save the money in case there would be an urgent
repair bill? Is there still a world beyond such
decisions?"
Daniela came out of her reverie and looked around the room as
if she were seeing it and the other woman for the very first
time. Some of the women were well-dressed. They wore
expensive wigs and their clothes had a carefree look.
"Hmmm . . . " Daniela contemplated, "Where would life have
taken me had the store been a big success?" Daniela began to
imagine a wealthy woman moving around in her sumptuous living
room. She was setting up for a charity tea. Daniela's flair
for words allowed her to describe in flourishing detail the
room, its furnishings, and the refreshments. Daniela saw her
protagonist greet her guests with tremendous warmth, making
sure each one felt comfortable. Once all the ladies were
attended to, the well-to-do woman would make her pitch in
favor of this commendable project. She'd ably convince her
guests of the worthiness of her cause. Daniela did an
outstanding job describing the scene.
After a half-hour of furious writing, Daniela sat back, pen
twirling, in a semi-trance. There, she had certainly gone
beyond herself. What could be farther from her own reality
than a wealthy philanthropist who could graciously convince
other affluent woman to help those in need?
Daniela was right in that she was in no position to help
others financially, but she forgot about her own acts of
chesed. She was the first to look after a friend's
child and would grab the heavy packages out her elderly
neighbor's hand whenever they met. While Daniela aptly
described a lifestyle that was not hers, she also connected
unknowingly to her own inner natural generosity.
Shaina's life was perfect, maybe too perfect. Her husband was
a diligent learner and the young couple was able to live in
comfort with no financial worries, as both their wealthy
families supported them generously. Shaina had her parents
and most of her married siblings and even sibling-in-laws in
walking distance. Shaina's children were healthy,
intelligent, and of sweet disposition. Shaina wasn't callous.
She knew that there were people who carried tremendous
burdens. She just couldn't relate to it intimately. Her
essays and stories usually consisted of young brides making
wedding plans or of similar nature.
Shaina scrunched up her forehead and thought. She tried to
imagine a life that was foreign from her own precious
existence. Shaina thought about pain — both physical
and emotional. "What would it be like to be alone in the
hospital in pain and worrying about what life would bring?"
Shaina contemplated. She began to feel that pain and anxiety.
With pen in hand, Shaina slowly began to write, warming up to
her setting and subject matter. Within time, Shaina was that
forlorn suffering woman. Shaina had truly gone beyond
herself. For once she sincerely contemplated a life so
unfamiliar from her own.
Throughout the writing period, ladies would call over to
Batsheva to discuss their writing ideas or thoughts. She'd
joyously walk over to each one; guiding this one, suggesting
an appropriate word to that one and all throughout, that
glowing smile remained on her face.
Finally, the session was over. The ladies handed in their
work. They wrote down their assignments, said their goodbyes
and left. Batsheva looked to make sure that no one was left,
turned off the lights and began her short walk home. She
considered her comments to some of the women, hoping she had
advised them well. Batsheva took note how tonight's exercise
caused some of her students to look more alive and respond to
their writing in a totally new way — maybe even their
very own lives.
Batsheva knocked lightly on her front door before turning the
key. Only then, when she opened the door and was hit with the
almost predictable gloomy dimness of her home, did Batsheva's
famous smile turn downwards. From her bedroom, she could hear
her husband's "welcoming" moan. Wedged in his depression, as
a result of the tragic loss of his beloved firstborn and only
son in a terrorist attack, Batsheva's husband was no longer
the vibrant positive man of once.
Batsheva called out a weak hello as she surveyed her dreary
home. Tzippi, the only unmarried child, had decided it would
be better to dorm than to come home daily to such a
depressing existence. Batsheva couldn't blame her precious
daughter, although she did miss her greatly.
"Going beyond yourself," Batsheva thought to herself, "if
anyone really knows what it means."
