by Sam Glaser
July 2010
One thing we share as human beings is a deep, unspoken connection to our past. Intense events that stick to our psyches like a thistle in a ball of cotton. Some of those moments create potholes in our lives that we vow to avoid in the future at all costs. Others create cravings that we still try to satisfy. Single frames of the movie of our lives create our personality, our predilections, our phobias.
I recently saw the movie KPAX where Kevin Spacey’s character is tormented by a terrible episode in his past and convincingly adopts the character of an alien to cope with the trauma. I have friends who have been raped and even decades later must deal with the resulting anger and lack of feelings of security. Kids who suffer abuse must work overtime as adults to prevent the destructive chain from continuing into their own children’s lives. There’s a window of time when we are so vulnerable. It’s that same timeframe when we are more open and available to learning core modalities like taking on a new languages and musical instruments. I have six cousins who lost their father when they were kids. The destruction that this event wreaked upon their lives was commensurate with how old they were when it occurred. Those too young or old enough to wrap their heads around the tragedy escaped the degree of damage that their other siblings had to endure.
At a seminar I attended I was challenged to recall an incident during my teen years that scarred me and created a force that would inform my lifelong choices. An incident where perhaps I realized I was not “good enough.” A few came to mind. As an insecure tenth grader, my first year in high school, I nervously approached the door to the music room where the madrigal audition callbacks were posted. My name was not on the list. After three years as the star of the choir in Jr. High, the winner of the best vocalist in the LA City School district, this outcome was not acceptable. Singers were my chevra. My homies. My only reference group. As I endured a lonely tenth grade year I silently vowed that this would never happen again, that I would never rest on my laurels and my musical abilities would always be in peak form.
During my freshman year at CU Boulder I played keyboards in a Heavy Metal band called Castlerock. We played college parties and prided ourselves in our long hair and intense volume. One night, our guitarist Muno Wahab informed me that the song we had just perfected, Tommy Bolin’s “Post Toastee,” in all it’s nine minute glory, was written just before Tommy died at 25 of a drug overdose. I had just been exposed to his two albums and was hoping to see him play live. Add Tommy to The List: that dead rock star list that already boasted Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Jim Croce, Janis and Mama, Buddy and Bonham. Bolin had only begun his solo career. He played with Deep Purple, Billy Cobham and Jeff Beck, a crazy talented, innovative guitarist and songwriter. He was a Boulder, CO local. And now he was gone, all that talent and passion now six feet under.
That night I think I appreciated the vulnerability of my creative output for the first time. I had already written hundreds of songs, knowing that someday I’d have a chance to record them for the world to hear. As an overworked double major and cash starved college kid, it wasn’t in the cards for a while, especially given that back then there was no such thing as Apple’s Garage Band. You either had the money for a 24 track pro studio or you kept your music to yourself. But what if I died in the meantime? All those musical ideas gone with the wind! Thus was born the drive to record at all costs, even if it meant plunging all my money into building my own studio and learning the craft.
By the time I finished college I accumulated a respectable pile of recording gear. My best acquisitions were made helping starving musician friends get quick cash when all they had to sell was their instruments. I built a studio in my dad’s downtown LA fabric warehouse and purchased a Mac. That’s the original 512k Mac and the first version of MOTU Performer, the same hardware and software companies that keep my music playin’ till this day. I got good enough recording my own music and started producing others, creating a business that allows me to make people’s musical dreams come true and to sneak in an album of my own every year. Yes, I love touring and performing, touching my audiences with spiritual, uplifting music. But I must confess that my global galavanting is primarily a vehicle for me to find a home for these songs that I exorcise from my dream state every few days.
We are so busy climbing our personal mountains that we forget how they got built in the first place. My Letter in the Torah song comes to mind: “Who am I anyway, where am I going to, how did I get here and what do I need to know?” Our biblical heroes shared a common profession. They were all shepherds! I can just imagine sending around a resume with “shepherd” in the work experience section. But shepherds have time to think. Abraham used the time to intuit the existence of an ethical, loving God. Moses learned to care for a flock and wasn’t too busy to investigate a certain burning bush.
Taking time to think can be frightening. Is this the best job choice, relationship, use of my time? What if the answer is no? What if some negative experience in your past thrust you into action and only now you stop to realize that your present reality was dictated by some bully who called you a name in grade school? Making changes is hard work. But not making changes is either pathetic or tortuous. What were you born to do? Where would you be if that “seismic event” hadn’t happened to set you on your current trajectory? Who convinced you that you must have an MBA or law degree? Why do you live where you do? How will you meet your predestined one if you are dating someone just to have company?
“What you are is God’s gift to you. What you make of yourself is your gift to God.” -Kelly Jeppesen
I was recently in a Starbucks taking a moment to breathe. I had finished multiple errands and I gave myself permission to think. As I sipped my mocha I engaged in a Breslov ritual of dwelling on all the things I was grateful for. My life, my health, my family, my home, my music, this delicious cup of coffee. I started up a conversation with a guy next to me who turns out to be the same age from the same neighborhood. He’s a healthcare executive who just got laid off. It’s a lousy time to get laid off. He shared that he used his newly found free time to build homes in Alabama for Habitat For Humanity and had a great experience. His newly realized goal is to use his business skills to create a similar company in the non-profit sector where he can make a difference.
Thanks to dead rock stars I now have more albums out than The Beatles. Thanks to NOT getting into madrigals my freshman year in high school I learned to take my craft more seriously. I also became more humble and able to roll with the changes. God gives us tests to make us stronger, and only offers us challenges that we can handle. Sometimes God sends events that force us to awaken to new opportunities. The Jewish calendar gives us periods like these Three Weeksof decreased joy (but still joy nonetheless) so that we introspect, appreciate our gifts and perceive what we’re missing. Consider taking this season to tap into those formative moments in your life that shaped the person you are today. If the shoe fits, wear it. And if not…
for lunch leave within the first half hour. Then the cool cats and well-to-do trickle out soon thereafter. The people that are left are the simple folk, the holy brothers and sisters that comprise the minyan’s core. Pico-Robertson is blessed with over forty shuls in the ‘hood. The Happy Minyan is the place of refuge for Jews of all stripes who don’t quite fit the mold in the other places, including those who can’t contribute financially, have been through a recent divorce, are handicapped or psychologically challenged, or even homeless. And that is why the Happy Minyan is the holiest minyan in town.
Then the text takes a seeming left turn into the Mishpatim chapters, which outline an array of no less than fifty-three laws pertaining to the maintenance of a just society. In other words, in Judaism there is no distinction between one’s “religious” life and how one conducts business. Awe and wonder sit side by side with day-to-day details. Don’t think for a second that you can work hard, study Torah, get honored at your synagogue and also mistreat your employees, fudge your taxes and ignore the pain and suffering of the homeless in your community. In fact, true service of God lies in the details of our everyday life.
didn’t keep kosher, Shabbat dinner was non-negotiable. It consisted of candlelighting, “ayshet chayil” translated into English and Kiddush. My dad would give us a blessing, the same words that I say to my children and hope that they will say to their children. My mom, an incredible cook, would break out amazing, predictable food for her family and the myriad guests that we almost always invited. Then, like clockwork, we’d move en masse to the Steinway grand in the music room and sing every song in the book.
the incessant “big game” on TV. Two of my brothers were into watching sports whereas Johnny (Yom Tov) and I preferred to be outdoors hiking and biking and making music. I did however find a meeting place with my pop. That was at Laker, Dodger, Rams and later Raider games. He had season tickets to everything. There we could shmooze in between plays and he was happy to be spoiling us. My mom, on the other hand, retaliated by purchasing tickets to every symphonic, chamber music and opera event available. This was a veritable gold mine for me since my brothers had very little interest in such culture. My appearances with the LA Jewish Symphony have been a fulfillment of the dream of that little kid in the suit sitting in row E holding his mom’s hand while sucking in every note of the LA Philharmonic.
love of Judaism with my favorite sport! During a recent conference I was lucky enough to stay at a relative’s beautiful condominium (equipped with a piano!) I figured I’d share the good fortune with some of my rabbi friends so I invited a group to gather for songs and snacks one of the nights. I scrambled back to the condo after a very intense day of shredding the back bowls (
conference of Jewish educators where I perform each year, I typically lead a singalong on the last night. About a third of the attendees pack into a sweaty room and sing for three hours straight. One piano, one mic and six hundred lead vocalists. I don’t take breaks and have an assistant on hand to mop my brow and pour water down my throat. We segue from Israeli and camp songs to the best of Motown, Disco, Elton John, Carol King and a healthy smattering of Beatles. 
streets. When you think about it, those words mean more than “have a peaceful Sabbath.” It’s more a wish that your friends share your blissful Shabbat state of mind. John Lennon would have us imagine a world living in peace between all peoples and nations. On Shabbat we LIVE in that world. No imagination necessary. It’s more than lip service or lofty dreams. It’s living in a state of peace with creation and when it’s time to plug back in on Saturday night, we are grounded, connected and ready for the onslaught of our day-to-day.
Xbox. We get our kids back, for one precious day a week. As a parent I can relate to our supernal parent in heaven who must eagerly anticipate the weekly lovefest that is the Jewish Sabbath. Our media gets perpetually louder, bolder, racier and ubiquitous. It’s easy to be absorbed into the Matrix without even knowing it, to crave the world of Avatar more than our earth-bound reality. MTV has it right: a rockin’ concert or state-of-the-art movie is great but when you want a classic, you’ve got to unplug.
others in his sect. One of his good buddies recently became the Pinsk Karlin rebbe, the head honcho. From one day to the next, he went from being “one of the guys” to conducting the tishes (ceremonial meals), answering shylas (questions) and performing miracles. Yes, even performing miracles. I am convinced that this radical transformation came about because the community NEEDS him to be the rebbe. They invest their collective will in him, lifting him to great heights, giving him capabilities that even he didn’t know he possessed.
was fascinated by the common response of our biblical heroes when called upon for greatness. Hineni, according to our master commentator Rashi, signals alacrity, the readiness to act with heroic zeal. That year the Jewish community was mobilizing to aid the Jews of the former Soviet Union who were able to emigrate freely for the first time in their lives. This seemed to me like my generation’s “Hineni moment.” I believe we all are preprogrammed to be called upon and respond Hineni. But someone has to do the calling.
pray that with the same pain with which the baby has entered the covenant, so too may he go through his life. Nike has it right. No pain, no gain. In other words, no pain, no pleasure. The opposite of pain is comfort. Comfort is for wimps.
Max’s Bar Mitzvah in 2008 was a true peak experience for this doting father. That year of preparation was breathtaking as we watched him grow up overnight and master a formidable mountain of Torah text, prayers and speeches. We celebrated first in LA and then in Jerusalem. Now it’s Jesse’s turn. Working as his tutor on the material over the past year has created plenty of quality time for us. My wife has laboriously organized a beautiful lunch replete with plentiful sushi, the Glaser family flag ceremony, and my Kol Sason a capella band leading the singing. Jesse hopes to get some great presents and donate 10% to the scholarship fund at his beloved Camp Moshava in Wisconsin. The big question is: what happens the day after? Will he embrace his Torah obligations or will I have to beg him to wrap his tefillin on Sunday morning? Will he see mitzvot as burdens or opportunities? Will he pray with kavanah (spirit and focus) or just go through the motions?
By definition G-d doesn’t change…yet WE are supposed to be different every time we read these prayers, with new perspectives and new concerns. Most importantly, we have to keep in mind that we are trying to achieve a relationship with our parent in heaven. Most would agree that waiting to pray on the High Holidays means that you have a twice a year relationship. That’s fine for an acquaintance. But that’s no way to maximize the power of sensing G-d’s presence every waking moment. Prayer is a sacred habit that we acquire. Everyday we show up and talk to G-d. As Woody Allen says, “80% of success is just showing up.” If we wait until we are really inspired to work out we’ll become obese. Rather than holding out for that flash of inspiration, our tradition asks us to create a daily sacred space for the connection to flourish.
listen. We sang several of the key Sukkot melodies over and over in the main town square, creating a spontaneous circle of dancers and singers. Many children were surrounding us and gawking. I overheard a few of them stating that I must be a Nazir (one who allows his hair to grow long in order to have the closest connection with G-d.)
