An art exhibit by Barbara E. Berger — 26 of her photographs with blessings

RoseSprings Center Gallery, Hillsboro Oregon, May – June 29, 2013

Throughout the millennia, people around the world have used words to appreciate  the beauty and bounty that support their family and communities. Different groups have used chants, incantations, prayers, blessings or affirmations to bring themselves support and health; to thank the forces of the universe, and to express gratitude for their well-being.  Culture after culture have found connections between gratitude, appreciation, and enjoying life more.  Today, even the most objective scientists can demonstrate that our gratitude has positive effects on our health and lives.

Whatever we identify as the source of affirmation, intention and gratitude’s power – whether spiritual, religious, biological, or psychological – we often find that as we express the wishes deep in our hearts . . . we also mine a deeper enjoyment of life’s blessings.

When I visited my grandparents as a small child, I learned traditional Jewish prayers and blessings.  They expected me to express a ritual appreciation for what I received; drinking a glass of water, washing my hands, going to sleep  . . . my days with them became a series of events infused with reciting Hebrew blessings and prayers.  Small acts became sacred and meaningful:  an appreciation and connection with something bigger than myself.  I became more aware of the significance of the small moment, the small thing.  It changed me.

Traditional Jewish blessing of appreciation, as recited in Hebrew upon witnessing the natural beauty in the universe:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Ba-ruch A-tah Ado-shem
El-o-kanu Me-lech Ha-o-lam
She-kah-cha lo ba-o-la-mo.

Those lessons of gratitude inform my experience even today.  With my camera, I try to capture moments that show the beauty and bounty of life; I want to offer appreciation for my experiences.  I offer the images in this show as a few, small examples of inspirations in my life, along with some traditional Jewish blessings of gratitude that I learned from my grandparents.   I wonder . . . are your traditions or practices similar in any way?                                                              

About the Photographer

In 1974, Barbara E. Berger packed a knapsack and visited friends in Portland, Oregon. She found the area a refreshing change from her native New York.  She sent for her things to stay for a while, and still lives in Portland today.

As a child, armed with her mother’s black-and-white box camera from the early 1950s, Barbara loved taking photos of her family and their Bronx neighborhood; she graduated to a birthday-gift Brownie camera in the 1960s.  Her artist’s eye began developing when her uncle took the eight-year-old Barbara on outings to a wider world: to Manhattan’s art and history museums.  She continued working, herself, in pastels, watercolor, pencils and oils.  As a young woman, she followed her uncle abroad; she explored the great museums and architecture of Italy and London, and the ancient heritage of Israel.   By the year 2013, she has visited ten different countries to experience their images and history firsthand, and to connect with local people.

In 2006, preparing for a cruise to inland Alaska with the Oregon Writers Colony, Barbara bought her first digital camera.  Finally she stumbled upon her best-fit medium!  After taking Portland Community College digital photography classes with Sharon O’Keefe in 2007, she began to sell prints and cards of her photos.  She gravitates toward the candid shot, especially land, city and streetscapes.

A member of “ORA,” a Northwest Jewish Artists collective, Barbara has exhibited the last four years in its annual autumn juried show, “Celebration of Life,” in Portland.  Her photography has also appeared in local juried shows of the Geezer Gallery, Art on Broadway, and in ArtSpark.  Other venues include local fairs and exhibits held by the Portland Rose Society, Toastmasters, Neveh Shalom Congregation, Mittleman’s Jewish Community Center, Hadassah, the Oregon Liquor Control Commission, Mensa, and the Oregon Writers Colony.  She is delighted now to show at Rose Springs.

Even though I don’t know how to swim, I’m in the water, trying, moving my arms  and kicking as much as I have the strength to do so.  The water is too heavy for my weak legs.  Besides, I don’t know how to do this, I remind myself.  But, since I’m dreaming, I realize, I can practice safely — impossible to drown.  A perfect place to learn!

The bank of the river and the other swimmers are far ahead, but I keep going best I can at my best pace, reminding myself I can’t drown.  I push my arms, I wiggle my legs, though by looking at the other swimmers, I know I still kick too slowly.  I experiment in the dream water.  Finally I reach the bank, triumphant.

*  *  *

The two warring groups are head to head, glaring at each other, ready to put their weapons into action when the order comes to fight. They look like race horses, nostrils flaring, barely contained at the gate as they wait for the signal. 

I stand where the groups are facing each other.  On the left, the troops with knives; on the right, bayonets.   I fear most for the ones in the first rows, right in front of me;  impossible for them to survive — their thin cloth uniforms, naked heads, nothing to protect them but their wits; no place to dodge the knives and spears. 

Suddenly, a call for peace from the leader of the bayonets!  “We will stop if you will.”  Yes, immediate acceptance.  The knife holders’ faces break into wide smiles, they cheer, and they want to shake my hand.  They gather around and ask me for a souvenir to take home.  I search  my pockets.  “All I have is this hair barrette.”  Inadequate, I know, but the best I can do.  They take it and move on, disappointed in my meager gift, but ecstatic in their triumphant peace.

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Taking a few, quick strides, I easily reach the end of the block and start on the next.  The streets used to seem so long, but now I take them with ease. What has changed?  Am I stronger, quicker?  Is that what is different?

Finally the woods clear to reveal where the great Willamette and Columbia Rivers meet; they form a fork in the river road.  The magic place where you can get to the other side, the rumored secret passage.  I’m  imagining the ecstasy of the explorers who found it.  I feel some of it myself, and much less is at stake.  Now it is our turn to swim to the other side.  The water is the color of rust.  Why?  Could it be blood?

I venture into the water and the reluctant dog follows.  But do I have the strength to make it all the way across?  It must be a couple of miles.

I am swimming with ease, using just my arms.  So easy.  And before this, I couldn’t swim at all.  I had made it too hard, too much effort.    But what if I’m halfway across the wide river and panic?  I doubt I can do it; I go back to shore.  Maybe I can find another way.  The dog follows.  My friend still waits for me on shore. 

Crowds of people are on shore.  I’m turned around, not sure what leg I’m on.  I ask . . .maybe I have made it to the other side just by walking?  No, of course not.  But I see there are places with less distance to swim to make it across the river.  Like Venice:  many small canals.  I tell my friend I can find a short swim.  We can all go.  Now I see I’m with my siblings. Relief.  We can all make it to the other side with ease.

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After finding a washing machine, I sit back in my seat, an aisle one in the right-hand section of the theater, maybe ten rows from the stage.  I’ve pulled the heavy piece of luggage carrying the boots — the piece is from my youth, and seemed so much lighter then!  Have I really lost that much muscle? — and sorted the laundry.  The machines are cubes, about two-feet square, piled on top of each other.  Which to use?  Which to buy?  I start to stuff my sorted clothes and linens into machines, but get confused about the soap.  Adorable little bottles, so many to choose from.  I had gathered up a dozen assorted ones.  But, wait — the machine is a high-powered Vista, and needs a special soap.  I aim to return all the soaps I no longer can use to the proper boxes, but can’t match them up right.  Too many left over.  How confusing.  Each of the machines seem to be about $200, my budget.  I should be more careful, and research the machines rather than just select one from the nearest store.  But I need to do my wash.  Any of these will do.

After putting a load in to one machine, I settle into my seat.  A soprano with an angel voice sings in a Scottish or Irish dialect I don’t understand.  I don’t need to know the words, I know it is a love song and the most beautiful voice I have ever heard.  She is looking right at me, she must have heard the advice to find an appreciative audience member and sing to just one person.  And I know I am that person; we are in perfect sync.  As I smile at her, she smiles back — never missing a beat of the most beautiful song.  I have chills and am elevated listening to her every word sung in the most stunning manner.  I begin to make out some of the words, I am paying such close attention.  Do others realize how luscious this moment is?  How fantastic this singer is?  When the song ends, shall I stand?  I see only a few others do.  I don’t care if I’m different, if I’m the only one standing.  I rise to my feet and clap.

It’s intermission; I’d better tend the laundry.  How do I get to the machine that is in the middle of the wide center section?  Oh, good, people are clearing out of the row and I can get to the machine.  I comment to the others tending their laundry.  “Whoever placed the machines in the center of the row, didn’t attend the theater himself, I bet. A horrible place to put them, rather than the end of a row.”

As I make my way to my seat with laundry in tow, someone comments on my doing laundry at such a time as this.  “I like to multi-task,” I offer as an embarrassed explanation.

Meanwhile, I hold the song of the soprano in my heart.

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Though hard to leave T. and the two women, I crawl out of the bed and make my way to the bus.  I want to go home for just a little bit, then I’ll be back.  As the bus winds up to the top of the hill, I get a good look at the landscape at this time of year.  Why didn’t I notice it ever before?  Too busy?  Didn’t get out?  Didn’t take the time to take a good look?  How much I missed:  the tall fir trees topped with lavender buds; flowers popping on bushes.  And what are those?  Blue blossoms are glowing.  The most beautiful blue I have ever seen; I don’t even know the name of the color — I don’t think I ever saw such a gorgeous color before: low-lying bushes, with shiny blue flowers.  The most lovely in the world. They take my breath away.  I am enthralled by the colors, the sight of the hills.  So sweet.

At the top of the hill, I enter the store and ask for the Halloween decorations.  “The only ones left are in the back here.” 

“I know it’s late, but I’ll get some for next year,” I explain.  But, I’m later than I thought; really nothing is left.  I leave the store quickly, wanting to get back to T’s.  Nighttime has fallen.  Should I just show up?  Phone first?  I better phone so they expect me, so I can get in.  “No problem, get here when you can.”

We gather around the table and I present the desserts.  There are tiny cupcakes and assorted sweets. I pull them to the center of the table so everyone can reach them equally.  It’s too far to reach; the table is too large. We must pass a dish around.  I want to make sure everyone gets one. People pass on the best ones, to save them for the next person.  “Just take what you want,” I tell them.  There’s plenty to go around.

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We are running to catch the bus.  I will be out of breath and uncentered when it is time for me to go on stage for my small part.  But I must be on time.  Now I’m trying to outrun the bus as it rushes past me, to get ahead of it so I’ll be waiting at the stop.  Where will it stop?  Oh, there.  I see it.

When I get to the theater, the play is in process.  I’m backstage, cutting out my lines from a page of newspaper; I need to cut closely so the section with my lines is as small as possible, to fit into my hand to sneak on stage.  How far into the play are they, and when do I go on?  I forgot to figure out my cue lines!   Here is the book with the whole script, a small blue book.   I will figure out what comes before and after my part.   I want to take the book and my lines on stage with me.  How bad will that be?  I know it’s not okay, but can I do it anyway?  I must, because I have not memorized my lines.  I am so bad at that.  I feel frantic.

I go to the bathroom to concentrate on practicing my lines and putting on my make up, but the girl keeps wanting to talk to me — even though I ask her to go away.  She has bad cramps; I tell her about Advil.  “Where do I find this Advil?”  I have a couple of pills in my purse and give one to her, not two because she is young.  In fact, she should be getting an okay first from her mother.  But the Advil will help her a lot.  She keeps wanting to talk to me and she knocks on the bathroom door.  She is talking to me through the door.  So distracting.  The Advil was a big help.  How do I get to practice my lines?  Finally, I must be firm with her and I tell her I need alone time. 

I go back to my desk and see another note from the man who keeps after me.  The note starts off sweet, asking to see the beautiful and lovely woman that I am, requesting my presence at the movies after the show.  But then it devolves into some madness about his love of psychedelic drugs.  This is how I get into trouble.  I am friendly at first, but then they don’t allow me some time off, and I grow cold to them and they hate me. But even so, it’s time for some time alone now.

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When I woke, the bed was vibrating.  The room was vibrating, a gentle hum.  Oh, I’m still in the airplane; I’m on an overnight flight.  What fun!  But when will I have to get my things together and get off the plane, catch the next one?  Do I have a few minutes, or hours?  I must print off my itinerary because I have no idea.  Where is the computer?  Oh, there, buried under a pile of papers. The printer?  The paper?  This is taking too long.  Tom Basey comes to the bedroom door.  Surely he will know?  No, he wants to talk about something else.  He is holding a stack of my business cards.  How can I help him quickly without getting him upset with my being short and rude? 

“I want to talk to you but I am anxious about finding out my next flight.”  He says no problem, he will just take a minute.  But it is longer than a minute.

* * *

I wish she hadn’t taking me shopping in the good store, first.  What beautiful sweaters I saw.  Now I look at the ones where I usually shop, the ones I can afford, and these sweaters seem so flimsy and cheap.

*  *  *

Lying on my bed, on top of the covers, watching television, I’m content.  Then Daddy lies down on the other side of the bed.  I wish he hadn’t done that.  “Your shoes are on the cover.  Please don’t lie here with your shoes on,” I say.  He says the shoes are clean.  He wants the television louder.  I wish he hadn’t come to the bed.  I was happier before. Now I feel crowded in, and worried that he wants to change the channel, too.

*  *  *

Mommy wants to buy another television, a four-inch one.  What use would that be?  So little, and we already have several TVs.  “I want it just so we can get that extra plug wired into the floor in the other room.”  Oh, if that is why she wants it, we can do something better than get another little television. 

“See, we have this extra one right in here you could move to the other room.” 

Oh, that’s really a radio. 

“No problem, it will work for this purpose just as well.  See, aren’t we glad we talked about this? The problem wasn’t enough televisions, it was just how to manage them.”

I wish she would acknowledge that, but she doesn’t.  Well, doesn’t matter.  I solved the problem, and I know I was helpful, even if no one else remembers the conversation.

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After going through street after street and through the mall, finally I find the movie theater.  Yes, this is the one; I compare the outside with the photo I have, and match it up piece by piece.  But, the movie I wanted is not on the marquee.  Instead, I see two other movies listed; one of them is called “Yesterday.”  I ask the cashier about the movies; maybe I just had the name wrong of the one I wanted to see.  She reads the starring actors from a scrap of paper and no, neither movie is what I want.  I think a bit, the “Yesterday” movie is a possibility.  Then I decide not to spend the time in a movie I’m not really interested in. 

As I leave the mall, I see a store called “Romania.”  Maybe something in there will resonate; my Hungarian ancestors lived in a town on the border with Romania.  Inside, I see the store is in a giant warehouse.  Displays are hung up to the ceiling, probably 50 feet up.  Embroidered garments hang face out.  I view exquisite tablecloths and other fabrics on display – no, those are garments, too, for huge people.  Past the clothes, I see other merchandise suspended on sheets that look like water.  Beautiful.  No, I tell the clerks, I’m just looking.  I don’t see anything to buy; the merchandise is a bit tacky when I look at it closely. 

Now a woman is shopping for tools.  I help her.  On the left of the display table are the lower quality; on the right the better tools.  All are yellow. I help her select a screwdriver; she wants a good one.  I show her the difference in quality.  Now she wants another screwdriver; no she really wants pliers.  I look but I don’t see any.  “Sorry, we don’t have pliers.”  But what is this tool?  Oh, the head of the tool is missing.  No, there it is, see how well it fits in?  We don’t have many tools left. 

Now a woman is upset because someone told her that she had bought an attachment, for her yellow forklift, that is not standard.  “I should have had the Number 40 attachment.  I have the plus one.  I paid extra for something I don’t need,” she says.   I don’t know how that happened, but I assure her that the owner will fix it for her.  I explain to her that maybe the clerk who told her that didn’t know what he was talking about; I don’t know if the store even carries the other attachment, or if it exists.  I recommend she check the forklift manufacturer website first, to make sure the attachment exists.  “The store could always order it for you if it exists.”  I hope I am right speaking for the store.  But surely they will want to make it right for her.

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This building has turned into a prison; the other women and I are not allowed out.  We are being shuffled from area to area.  Oh!  I lost my bags, lost my purse; they were right there, but now they are gone.  Some women are sitting in the aisle where I last had my bags.  Are they there?  No?  Where could they be?  No time to look; we are being moved to another room.

“But it can’t be that bad,” I think.  “I must be dreaming.”  Now that I realize I am indeed dreaming, I expect the scene to evaporate and I will not know how it ends.  But the scene remains, and I remain in the scene.  “I am dreaming, but I am staying in the dream,” I realize.

I must try to call my parents so they do not worry, but I do not have my purse with my phone.  I become afraid, because I am still in the prison even though I know it is a dream.  As my group is being led into the hospital rooms, I linger and stay back.  I become separated.  An orderly sees me, and I say I am a visitor who needs to find the door.  He is friendly and doesn’t question me.  He shows me the exit door and I am out.  Free!  But, I do not have my purse.  Without it, without my money, I can’t get around.  I am just a homeless person.  A kind man helps me to get on the bus and pays my way.

*  *  *

The pilot shows me how to get up the narrow, gray-carpeted steps to the passenger section of the helicopter.  I am so cramped, I am so uncomfortable.  “Can I get any more space?”  Yes, they move my seat back.  I am intimidated because I do not understand the military or military people; I am a fish out of water.  But, I must serve this 24-hour duty.  “It’s really more like 36 hours,” someone explains, because we are crossing so many time zones.  We are headed to Kuwait and after that, we will be in Hawaii before we go home.

I am nervous, but I will make the best of it.  When we land in Kuwait, the pilot personally escorts me down the stairs again; he called me by name so I think we are just going down for minute so I don’t take my purse.  That was a mistake.  Everyone is going downstairs for a training session. The other women have their purses.

We are sitting around in a circle but I can’t find a good chair.  Mine is much too low for the table.  Oh, I see a better one.  But that one is more a stool; no back to it.  I make do.  What I’m really worried about is how to get upstairs to get my purse.  May I take a break?  Am I allowed up there by myself?  Someone asks for a break for the group, so I can get my purse.  I am grateful.

Later, as we go back upstairs, I admire a tree through the window.  “I don’t know about trees; I never studied trees, or parts of trees,” someone says to me.  I explain the tree starts below the ground with the roots, then the trunk develops, branches, leaves.  We admire the huge trunk of the unusual tree; I don’t know trees in Kuwait.  I wonder what I can contribute to this military exercise.  Would they be interested in my personality type?  I am a fish out of water, but they are being kind to me.

I promised Linda to let her know David’s phone number in LA, so she could connect with him when she visited for a day.  But I cannot get my phone to work, even after I find the blue slip of paper with the number.  So hard to get the phone to work.  I am missing making the phone call; they will miss the connection.  I hope they will understand when I tell them I was on military duty in Kuwait.  Surely they will understand and forgive?  I can only hope.

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C. and I enter the hospital, pass through the lobby, go down the hallways and find the room:  541B.  Inside, the doctor is starting to give the lecture.  We find places to stand along the wall, but I know I will not last the whole time. I must find a bathroom and leaving now will be better than disturbing the lecture once it gets started.  I tell C. where I’m going, and I’ll meet him back in the room.  541B.

The nurses and receptionists do not help.  They say they don’t know where the bathroom is, or they point to some vague spot down the hall, or tell me it’s just around the corner.  Then I go and I search, but I can’t find it.  No one helps; I’m going in circles.  Now I’m back right outside 541B.  How could it be so difficult?  Surely others are headed to the bathroom, and finding it.  Or maybe the bathrooms are only for hospital workers and hospital patients.  What am I but an unauthorized visitor? 

It must be here somewhere.  I decide to comb carefully pass the doors– the narrow doorways and hallways that a person could barely fit into — to find the hidden bathroom.  I think I find one but it turns out to be something else. The doors are mis-marked, or marked in riddles.  I for one cannot understand the signs, or the color coding of the doors.   Why can other people find their way but I have such a difficult time? 

I would give up and go back to the lecture, but it’s been such a long time that now I really need to find the bathroom quickly.  I should let C. know where I am, I’ve been gone that long.  I look for my cell phone in my large, messy purse.  I keep digging around but I can’t find it.  I need a system; I need to organize all the cosmetics together, all the money together, all the . . . a woman sitting nearby asks if she can help.  “No, I just need to go through my purse and find my cell phone.”  I bend my head down to dig deeper into the purse.  The woman comments on my prematurely gray hair.  ”This is not a good time,” I tell her. “I might bite your head off, I’m so stressed looking for my phone.”

Just as I find the phone and start to dial C. to tell him I got lost, he finds me.  Now which car shall we take?  Mine or the VW bus?  People are circling the expansive, empty lot.  A white dog comes up to me, making friends.  Then a matching dog, in black: dogs just like the ones C. had been talking about.

I see someone backing up a van on to the curb.  I warn him not to run over the dog.  But he hits the dog anyway.  I am upset.  A woman asks for his license.   Now I see a whole group of people in cars are going out together; but one of the cars almost runs over C. and me.  The cars are circling us.  “Get in,” C. tells me.  But where?  I can’t see which car I should get into.  Oh, I see it now.  So many friends.  But a strange man is right behind me, in their midst; no, I think I saw him before.  I can’t tell.  But so many wonderful old friends around me, what a surprise, what a delight!

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