Common Ground

For as long as I can remember, I've had this primal urge to belong: to fit in as a part of something bigger, safer, familiar. For years, I've felt that I did not belong, maybe because I am an immigrant and it was hard to integrate into US culture; maybe because I heard a unison chant in Israel's where I was raised, that the world insisted that we don't have a right to belong anywhere and as still the case, we are still fighting, clawing to a niche just for us. Some of us have internalized the world's view, as it seeped into our conscious, feeling the lack of truly belonging; maybe as a person who came out as a lesbian in a small town in the mid 80's, I felt so separate, so other, so alone, that I didn't think there would be any acceptance, any sliver of hope of belonging; Maybe because my father had disowned me, I no longer felt that I belonged in my own family; maybe belonging was something elusive, untenable, fleeting, though my heart continued to be-longing for belonging.

My early desire for a Utopian tribe was rooted in my upbringing, surrounded by socialist values of the Russian/Polish pioneers' collective work, kibbutz ideals and practices and the coming together, albeit imperfectly, of an amalgamation of peoples from different countries and cultures unified by a vision of belonging.

This is why we embarked on this current journey. I wanted to see, visit, learn about communities in the US-what brought people together, how did they live, what made their communal efforts blossom or wilt. I understood that there was a deep need for community because whenever I articulated my need for connection, for my lost tribe, for a building of a place where one worked cooperatively and shared resources, there was an immediate passionate insistence by many who wanted to join.

How does this relate to the last few days?
Let me tell you two stories.

Upon seeing some stunning photos of Lake Mittry in southern Arizona, we decided we needed to find that desert oasis and headed south towards Yuma.

The lake with its undulating inlets, its reddish-haired grasses swaying, bowing to the wind, its white-billed, black bodied ducks skimming the waters was calming, nourishing: the elixir of nature at work on our 21st century electronic-filled, neuron-starved brains. As we set camp on the banks of this wonder, we heard several gunshots and saw, less than 500 feet away, two bellied-up ducks. Arizona was different planet. Three drunk teens rounded the corner, hootin' and hollerin', in their truck. They lowered their canoe next to us and went to get their kill. I was a bit stunned.

Although I believe hunting is a more honest way of getting one's food than the supermarket, shooting and killing next to campers while laughing disrespectfully at these souls' demise is just appalling. Rachel went to speak to the folks who were in an RV across from us. She was curious if this was normal behavior on Planet Arizona. Locals. Tammy and Larry, assured her that although this was in fact, duck hunting season, the boys' sportsmanship was abysmal.

I joined them, as well as another couple, Amber and Alan, from Oregon, who were in an adjacent RV. Tammy was adamant in pinpointing how Rachel and I knew each other.
"How do you two know each other?"
"Do you work together?"
"Are you travelling friends?"

Finally Rachel blurted, "We are together. She is my wife." I chimed in , "We have two boys," as if this would make us less threatening. We are just your normal, everyday, American family.

Tammy looked a bit shocked, but Amber and Alan practically raised their PFLAGs in enthusiasm and support. Larry continued to sip on his straw full of what appeared to be vodka.

They had mentioned something about their church and my brain started its own judgement dance: Hateful, conservative, alcoholic, nothing like me.Yep, I summed them up right quick.

The next night, they invited all of us to sit by the fire. I found out that through their church, they had done a considerable amount of service, for years building and nurturing an orphanage in Mexico. We talked about doing good stuff for the world, Tikkun Olam. They were kind and generous and helpful and yes, Christians who drank.  But, we shared values and they were hospitable to the visiting gays. I stopped casting stones and started using those to form a bridge. It was divinely inspired. There are no coincidences.

After a few days of meandering among mesquite bushes and dusty palms, watching Mexican field hands toil for hours, picking leafy lettuces, collards and cabbage, we headed back to our camp near Quartzsite. We had seen a post on the group's facebook page that called on everyone to join the campfire that evening for a discussion of the hard issues that had occurred while we were gone. We were a bit puzzled and concerned. We did not want to walk into drama. All of us are whack-tose intolerant. We called Dawn, the camp host, in order to discover what had happened.

Before I begin, a disclaimer and a request. It is challenging to air dirty laundry, especially of a disenfranchised group, yet, it is important to me to show vulnerabilities and issues that may promote understanding, human connection, and ultimately compassion. I ask you to read the upcoming writing with this in mind.

Dawn, our camp host, is a civil-rights attorney who helps with immigration cases at the border. For two weeks a year, she wanted to create a space where women-born-women who identify as lesbians, can come together for a bit of camaraderie, discussion and relaxation. She and her girlfriend, Joni, created a Facebook page inviting those who fit the above criteria, to join in L-camp at the Women's Rubber Tramp Rendevouz, a gathering of vehicle dwellers.

Dawn was the gatekeeper, redirecting those who were lost, who really wanted to join the lesbian camp, but did not fit the requirements, men, bisexuals and trans folks, to the adjacent Rainbow camp who was open to all.  Dawn did this respectfully but firmly. Heck, her best friend and honorary brother, Vern, who thought of himself as an honorary lesbian, was not allowed to join.



My sister had asked me when do I ever join non-lesbian only events and I had to laugh. The last similar event that I had been to which was for WBW was in 1985 at the Michigan Women's Musical festival. My days are mostly around mainstream heterosexuals, a few lesbians, queers and trans people.

These days there is a huge chasm between the old school lesbians and the younger queer ones. Here is how it played out...

A woman came to the camp, already very upset that her bisexual and trans friends couldn't join. She objected to the exclusion of these folks and so, the in-fighting began. Dawn was adamant that the camp remain lesbian-only space. I understood this need of a group to get together, to talk about the hurts and pains of their oppression without having to take care of those who inflicted that oppression nor direct their anger towards individuals; I knew that the discussion around a campfire would be limited and quite different if non-lesbians were present; I knew we needed a space where we could honor our herstories, our victories without being interrupted by those with the privilege of taking front and center.

There was an ugly altercation between Dawn and this woman, who insisted she had a right to stay and invite whomever she pleased. She was right, but disrespectful. Dawn became "The Man," the power to fight against. This is what internalized sexism and lesbophobia looks like. It's easier to strike at home, then out in the enormous, overwhelming, well-funded world of bigotry.

We called a younger couple to hear another perspective. They informed us that half the camp had already left in support of the ones who were discouraged from staying. I felt deeply having come from places where I was excluded. I didn't want anyone to feel like they were unwelcomed. I also wondered why it was so difficult to get a tiny amount of time on tinier land for one's group.I thought that if a group of sober alcoholics wanted a safe space without alcohol, they wouldn't think that excluding those who wanted to drink as unfair, bigoted and wrong. There is something threatening, it seems, about women who don't need men and who are demanded a room of their own.

I admit, I was defensive and uncomfortable when we joined the campfire. Although I needed this space and I supported my sisters' efforts, I also knew that adultism was at play, opinions were peppered with judgement against the new younger Queer expressions.  I heard that the older crones were concerned that our experiences would be erased, forgotten. Hardly anyone was using the word lesbian to describe herself anymore. It was too binary. Genders were no longer only male or female and the term "lesbian" was limiting to many.

I knew of the vilification by younger, hip queers of older, "ugly, Birkenstock and plaid wearing, hairy pitted, bra-less dykes." I understood why the old-timers were incensed. There were hardly any spaces that exhibited how the queer crowd got the privilege of being themselves. I also knew that unless we did our own work on ageism, adultism and learned how to love our changing community and invited them to forums where we could share our experiences and listen open-mindedly to theirs, we would be erased.

I realize that my work was to hold both communities with reverence and love; not to choose a camp because we were all a part of the same magnificent tapestry being weaved. We would not be as brilliant, as beautiful, as strong without each other's fibers. We needed to blend together, each incorporating her own, significant thread into something that would cover us all. It is an on-going dance and commitment and I pledged not to bow out, but to keep dancing despite my aching feet.
Won't you join me?

Goodbye, full time work...hello, ???? (from Rachel)

OY!!! Finally got this thing published. We are new to this blogging thing. Plus, we've been without reliable cell service for a couple of days so there's been a bit of a delay getting this out (mixed blessing). Please bear with us and if you know Blogspot (or Blogger) well, please get in touch with us because we're having technical problems (read: this blog publisher is glitchy AF).

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming....

I have kind of a short attention span. Said another way, I get energy for something, and if I don’t do it pretty soon thereafter, the energy dissipates. That’s kinda how it was going with the blog this morning but I’m persisting. I finally found a way to write offline on the chromebook, thankfully, since we I’ve had no cell service for a couple of days. For some reason I’m feeling the need to give a disclaimer: Limor has a very distinct writing voice that is beautiful to experience. My entries will have a decidedly different tune so I hope you will not be disappointed! We joked about naming the blog something like “From Ohio to Israel.” For those of you who know us, you know how vastly different we are in how we express ourselves…. :)

Today, I woke up pretty early for me given how things have been going on the road, before 8, and got to catch a gorgeous sunrise out the window by our bed. Limor was already up and had kindly moved to the front of the rig and dropped the curtain between us so I wasn’t disturbed and I could spread out for awhile, alone in our snug sleeping nook. It was a good time for contemplation. It’s been hard to write because I have so many things swirling in the vast space between my ears, and at the same time I want to just turn off my brain and be present in my body, integrated into this gorgeous landscape.

 I’ve been noticing myself naturally settling into “presence” as was taught to me by Ipek Serifsoy and Lara Heller in Women's Leadership Circles. Laying in bed, or sitting next to the lake, my attention goes to the sound of a duck diving underwater, the screw protruding from the ceiling of the van, the snoring of the cat...it’s actually delicious to just allow my attention to be right here in this moment, whatever it holds. I can see now that I’ve been suffering from a type of present moment sensory deprivation for quite some time, and now I’m actually finding myself having a body reaction, like a punch to the gut, when I’m asked to put my attention on something I don’t want to: like doing my taxes, or choosing a sofa for our new house in NC.

After 4 intense years of working at Kaiser Permanente, where my primary job was to think about
people in the Internal Medicine Department and the teams they comprised, my brain is taking a much needed rest. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely loved my work, and it fulfilled a huge need for purpose, but it also took its toll. My personality does afford me the ability to relax...I’m not a workaholic, but, unchecked, that personality structure also drives me to compulsively seek out harmony and cooperation, and to put that perception of peacemaking among others above any other needs I may have. Basically, I have a difficult time paying attention to myself and determining what my actual desires may be.

My beautiful team at Daly City Medicine <3

Overeating, stress, and an allergy to exercise were definitely not helping me lead “my best life.”
Personality aside, I'm sure I’m not alone in this. As part of the working middle class, growing up in
post-war US culture, my parents were not raising me to “follow my dreams” and do whatever I wanted with my life! So, if you’re over 40 I’m guessing you can somewhat relate to what I’m getting at here. However, I do believe, in theory, that it’s actually good to pay attention to what my heart wants, and step one for me was figuring out how to turn down all the noise enough to actually decipher what it was saying to me.

My dear friend and colleague, Dr. Bella Berzin

Leaving my home in CA was a gut wrenching decision that took years to make. My work at KP
was a key factor holding me back from getting on board for a new adventure. I thrive when I’m
thinking about others and using my heart and mind to guide a group, so as a manager in a major
health care organization, I got to use all my power tools. I was a sheep dog dashing in and out of
the herd, cheerleading and cajoling, barking only when necessary...whatever was needed to keep everyone going in the right direction. I was in my element! Now I have almost no one to think about, no group to lead. Sounds like heaven? Maybe...the jury is still out since it’s only been 11 days since we left home. Ask me again in a month or two.

My amazing Chief in DLC, Dr. Joanie Loh

The world's best management team: Wendy, Manny, Larah, Joann and Annabelle

Since so many people are asking…
I don’t think I’m retired, but...
I’m thinking about this period as a self-imposed midlife sabbatical where I am open to whatever the Universe wants to bring my way. My feelers are out. My antennae are up. I am receptive. I am
relaxed and paying attention. I am feeling all the feels and wanting to take it ALL in.

Our most important plan is to not have too much of a plan. We have some broad goals to get to
certain places around certain times (like to southern FL to spend passover with Limor’s mom
in early April). We did a lot of planning and visioning to get to this place, and now we are falling
into the arms of presence to determine our next moves. Ahhhhh.

Yes, we are so blessed to be able to have this time together as a couple, and as individuals, to
explore and connect on so many levels...with nature, with ourselves, with one another, with strangers.

It’s sweet, and at 11 days in, this is just the beginning.

What have we done??

The night before our grand departure, we hardly slept. Way past midnight, we were still stuffing our computer and printer into boxes, praying they'd be protected by the Goddess of all Electronics as USPS escorted these across the great divide. Our cats sat staring, stressed as to why we were creating such havoc and mayhem. They frequented their food bowls more than usual. My fuzzy compulsive eaters proved once again that them apples clearly didn't fall far from their human tree.

I realized that I have been in such go-go-go mode that I hadn't been able to stop, drop and feel anything. Friends seemed to be displaying a plethora of behaviors - some were so sad and rather teary; some withdrew or disappeared altogether; some admitted that they were in denial, that since we still had our home, we were bound to return; some thought we were crazy for leaving a nice home, Rachel's cushy job and the best, most liberal, most diverse, grooviest place on Earth, California. Some were angry that we were abandoning them; Some offered a behavioral bouquet of all of these. I watched the reactions, mostly feeling removed, which was puzzling to me, since, as many of you know, a lack of feelings is not exactly my modus operandi.

We were slated to leave at 11 AM on Saturday morning when the first blue moon of 2020, also called the Wolf moon, was reigning upon our transformation. Many friends surprised us by dropping by for another hug, one last goodbye. We left at 2:30 PM, but not before we walked through our home one last time. We reminisced about raising our sons here, about the Shabbat meals, the Sukkot we built, the care packages for the homeless, the friendships that blossomed, some that had withered, adventures that were planned at the kitchen table and how we grew and changed.

Once in our van, I got so excited. Our dream was now becoming a reality. I had no idea what was to come, what we'd experience, whom we'd meet. Our first destination was Buttonwillow, CA, where  we were to meet our friends Darcy and Annette from Oregon. We'd be travelling with them for as long as we, and they, had wanted.

We left the sluggish 80 traffic and whizzed on 580 past green hills covered with white windmills. The sun skewered its last rays, toasting marshmallow clouds in Central California and we reunited with our friends at a Love's truckstop, exponentially outnumbered my men and their big rigs. I  appreciated Rachel's brilliant notion to download all our CDs as I grooved to an African beat preparing our dinner of butternut squash, curried cabbage, chorizo tofu and chicken. As you may know, I don't mess around when it comes to food...

The next morning after a lovely breakfast of my favorite pineapple smoothie (thanks to our generator powered blender), as well as yogurt, soynuts, homemade applesauce, baked apples and Jetost cheese and peet's coffee, we headed to meet our son, Matan and his girlfriend, Marisa in Pasedena. 

We had a sweet time with the lovely couple and afterwards Rachel took Gingi out to frolick, It's an experiment and a balancing act to provide our quirky cats an outdoor environment on the road. Gingi recollected his ancestral roots and becme a hunter. Within 5 minutes, he caught and decapitated a lizard, consuming only it's head. At home, he yawns at the birds outside from his couch. On our travels, Gingi enjoys long, chaperoned walks along dry river banks and eating from an array of international delights meant for humans. Why do I feel like I'm writing a personals ad?


We meandered past the snow-covered San Gabriel mountains outside of LA and ended up on a date farm in Indio, CA. The farm titillated us with a showing of "The Romance and sex of a Date" coupled with a promise of a fecund garden strewn with Jesus sculptures. There was no way I was going to miss that irreverent combo, however, the garden had closed early botching my anticipated delight at interactive art possibilities  and selfies with my homie JC.

From there, we headed to the Desert Holocaust Memorial for something more grounding and somber, a beautiful and haunting sculpture commemorating the horrors that had happened.

That evening, sitting in Ruby, listening to Kenyan sounds, I felt grateful to have our friends over for dinner yet again and wondered when was the last time I remembered having friends over for several meals in a row, on several consecutive days.  The answer was never or at least, not since college.

That night, we slept poorly at a truck stop: the rigs honking, the generators buzzing like flies on a carcass, the loud speaker voice over shouting at 3 AM and again at 5 AM. I was not happy!

While Darcy and Annette continued to our intended destination, the Women's Rubber Tramp Rendezvous to check in, we hightailed it to the southern entrance of Joshua Tree National Park. Unfortunately the famous Joshua trees were found in the Northern part of the park only, so we got our brand-spanking new America the Beautiful National Park Passport stamped, circled some cacti and creosote and rejoined the gals in Parker, AZ's Walmart, for some vital vittles.




We had met an adorable solo lesbian at Joshua Tree who told us that a Rainbow Warriors gathering of gals had set camp near the event, so off we went to look for the leaping lesbians. After a bit, we found them and joined the bonfire under the Southern Arizona skies. I looked to the heavens and wondered when had I seen the milky way nod to an orange moon climbing the branches of a spiky, spindly tree. It's been a long time since I've occupied this home, my nature, so I breathed the air for which I longed.

Farewell my love... hello mystery maven!

Welcome to Ruby Van Dykes, our indelible travel blog detailing our crossing of the USA in our beloved RV, Ruby Van Dyke. Yes, she's very Dutch...

In 3 days, we embark on an indefinite journey; we're unsure of the route, the destinations, the length of travel, or how this adventure will transform us, but we are sure that on Saturday, January 11th, 2020, we are heading south towards Quartzite, AZ for a huge gathering in the desert of vehicle dwellers.

It's exciting. It's frightening. It's maddening.

Add to this mayhem a molasses-moving construction project on our new home in Winston-Salem, NC, finding a contractor for our California home, after the one we hired disappeared on the day he was scheduled to start, locating a set of tenants for our furnished home and another pair for our converted garage in California and the modifications and general equipping of our RV with everything we might need for a year of travel, packing and shipping our belongings, doing a Marie Kondo dance of discard-donate-ship of our stuff, feeding our kids who were home for the holidays (as if we will never feed them again, well, most likely not in this home again) and saying good-bye to our closest friends, most of whom we haven't seen in months...(see below) and you've got me kvetching about my first world issues.

But let's start with how we got here.

It's been a while since I've written, between my ADD-acquired, addled and unfocued brain, and capitalism breathing down my neck to do,do,do, it's been a challenge to just sit and write. My intention on this journey is to get my brain back; to do what I love, to write and photograph; to let go of the chores, tasks, shoulds and incessant obsession with my phone and see what happens. I guarantee, you will read about addiction and withdrawal...I invite to come with us on this magical, mystery ride and who knows, maybe you'll get inspired to go for your dreams, towards your fears, welcoming what you were meant to do on this planet.
I could tell you in reverse what has transpired in the last 6 years, but let's start with the present. I was sitting in Ruby Van Dyke, our beloved, though sometimes flabbergasting, RV, watching the bluish, fog-poked San Francisco skyline, the arid Point Isabel Dog Park meadow dotted with yellow mustard. My heart ached for all that has happened, and has not, in my last 25 years here and pondered my decision to leave.

This is the land that has captivated me since 1982, when my then friend, Pam, who later became my partner and later mother to our child, had decided to inhabit. California, so reminiscent of my childhood home in Haifa, Israel, grounded me, held me in her tapestry of sunlight and fog, assured me abundance with her citrus trees laden and seemingly relaxed, bohemian vibes. California was the rock on which I stood as I changed from my wild, unapologetic self, looking for love in all the wrong places, to a calmer individual who was whack-tose intolerant. California was my stage as I became a steadfast homemaker; from my addled, addict-infused dramas to the no-matter-what graced gift of sobriety and abstinence; from my fear of having closeness with children due to my #metoo past to becoming a parent, twice. California was a witness to my successes and shortcomings as I became the more aware parent that I had hoped to be, a journey that catapulted me through my own limitations and blocks.

California continues to break my heart daily. Her beauty marred by apathy, capitalism, greed and privilege. Her highways lined with lush Popsicle orange poppies waving white tampon wrappers, flagging for help. It's the sunset-shimmering bay winking, slinking, offering tainted, plastic-full- bellied fish to fisher folk. It's the endless Tesla and Prius armies brimming the highways, sightless, passing exponentially-growing homeless encampments, filth and trash oozing into the bay. It's the denial of her clogged traffic arteries, a gluttony of excess, a heaving, imminent heart attack.

Northern California's East Bay topography has always captivativated me. The sometimes green hills overlooking the Bay, Richmond/San Rafael and Golden Gate Bridges; Mid-Century, Mission-style, Victorian and Craftsman architecture sidle to a profusion of fusion cuisines, every shade of human can enjoy, as long as you can afford it. It's easy for some to forget the fires, the masks, the shelter-in-place days and nights, the billions lost in earthquakes, mudslides, health issues. Those who drank the Kool-aid profess there is no better place on earth, as they crash on their sofas unable to engage with their communities, their neighbors, too exhausted from the multiple jobs and three-hour commute they endure in order to afford their home.

There is a mass exodus by those too tired, too poor, too overwhelmed to fight. There is also an influx of employees, fresh recruits by behemoth companies, funneling money to build more and more housing on an already overcrowded land.

The nay-sayers would argue that this is still the best place on Earth. It might be for some. I know for me, I need a slower pace. I, like many, have relied on my phone and computer for connection and closeness. They don't hug too well.

My dream is to live with people in a tiny house village on permaculture land, somewhere where the effects of global climate crisis might be less devastating; where I will never again have to ask "where is everyone?"; a place where service, community and kindness are paramount, where resources are shared, where art and music, dance and play are woven into daily practice.

Sounds nice but impossible? Tell Don Quitoxe. I've seen places built and I've seen people thrive. I know that if we build it, they will come. These days, many of us have 1000+ friends on Facebook, but none in our home. We long for physical friendships and relationships. My intention is to build such a community. After much research, we decided to date Winston-Salem, North Carolina, our final destination and see if this was the place for building such a place.

Many of you looked at me askew when I mentioned moving to the South. Why in the world would a Jewish, lesbian, immigrant head to that bastion of inter-breeding, racist, homophobic, small-minded, rebel-flag waving, Republican, conservative hell hole? I admit, that was my perspective as well...

I was the ignorant, judgemental one. When we visited, I was struck by the friendliness, the helpfulness, the kindness of strangers. Folks who never met us in person inviting us to stay with them until we got settled. Folks whom we did meet in person offering food, mowing our grass, helping in whatever way was needed, opening their hearts and homes. Wait, these values remind me of another place, my country, the Middle-Eastern value of welcoming guests. I was dumbfounded.

I feel like one of Joseph Campbell's The Hero of a Thousand Faces protagonist. Joe says that every culture has a story of a hero having to leave their village in order to transform into someone who will help the village survive upon their return. Maybe my village is Earth. I'm not sure.

I only know that I need to see this country, to learn about its cultures, to listen closely to what the Universe has in store for us and then to bring that knowledge and experience to help create something.

So, with mixed feelings of trepidation, sadness, excitement and longing, I present to you the story of our travels.