New Zealand clouds in the movies

 My 3rd experience of Covid. Or maybe my 2nd? Not sure.

This time I have our bedroom to myself, a lovely view to an open pure blue sky with clouds different from anywhere else. New Zealand clouds put on an unequalled show, from floating innocent in a baby-blue sky, to immense creamy mega-shapes which tower and assume an evolving crimson flush at sunset.When the sun is gone, they appear in heavy concrete gray, threatenng.

Lech Majewsky came here to film clouds which he inserted in The Mill and the Cross (located in Flanders). I recognised them straight away. I may even have said so out loud into the dark cinema: "New Zealand clouds!"

The Mill and the Cross is an outstanding movie for all kinds of reasons. 

The other movie I truly love is Magnolia, by Paul Thomas Anderson. No clouds there.

More war

In Napier, where P is attending a conference. We're staying in a pleasant-enough motel, with a clear view of the wide empty bay, low tame hills lining the horizon.The sun has slipped behind them, leaving behind a flush of gold. Above, an irregular layer of dark clouds covers the sky like a lid. 

War in Israel, again. With Iran. Iranians are not Arabs, friendliness is a genuine possibility with them, less of a struggle. Witness Salma Abu Gosh.  Poisonous hatred. I shall write about her soon, maybe here.

Tonight we'll have dinner with a friend who lives nearby. Maybe we'll talk about the war, maybe not. I sometimes forget about it, briefly, and feel guilty, for not having thought of people, keeping them alive in my mind, a talismanic protection. I wrote my sister a brief email just now. Maybe she'll answer tonight.

 

A Rabbi's Rabbi

I attended an international Jewish conference in Australia a few years' ago, rabbis of all stripes in attendance. The guest of honour was an eminent rabbi from a far-away country, who spoke with rare humility and insight. I managed to wangle a seat near him at lunch, and had a lively conversation with him. I liked him very much. 

That Friday evening, Kabbalat Shabbat was celebrated in a beautiful, modern synagogue. Beautiful, but - from my perspective - jarring: shaped like a Greek amphitheater, the seats upholstered in a violent red, people sitting high above the bimah, higher than the service leaders, higher than the Ark where the Torah scrolls are kept, the repository of teachings guiding a Jewish life. The service included an entire pop band. No time, no space for reflection. Uncomfortable, I peeked at the Rabbi, sitting some distance away. He was still, attentive. I tried to calm my restlessness, resisting the urge to leave.

Following the service, dinner was served to everyone in the elegant dining room. After the meal, as I crossed the room to visit a friend sitting elsewhere. I met the Rabbi, who put his arm round my shoulders and said quietly: "How are you feeling?"

"Like a fish out of water," I whispered.

"So do I." 

I've wondered if he regretted speaking so openly, but it's a moment I remember with affection, for his trust. Or had he noticed my restlessness during the service? Was this a gentle way of reproving me: "Feel like a fish out of water, but don't judge..." 

I managed to find him on his own the next day and quickly gave him a copy of my novel, There was a garden in Nuremberg.

. 

I also gave him the address of our congregation. He warned me not to expect a visit. Understandably: such a small congregation, so far away.

Three years later, he's on Youtube, again a guest of honour, lecturing at an institution of interfaith study in Boston. I recognise the simplicity with which he tells how once upon a time, in his homeland a Cardinal organised an interfaith gathering. 

I'd heard of this eminent Cardinal, who once said, "Who am I to judge?"

That meeting became an important event for the Rabbi, for he requested that the Cardinal become his teacher. 

The Rabbi said: "He became my Rabbi."