Maybe it's OK not to fit in a box.
Everyone is the hero in their own story. But what about the stories other people tell?
Womanhood, and my struggle to contend with its many definitions and impressions on my life. Honest reflections on girlhood and growth, and the revolution of the sacred feminine.
The road to Jewish observance has felt like a constant process of disillusionment. But it was in that disillusionment that I learned to forge my own path.
A lot of what you are seeing in the world right now is a collective re-triggering of old wounds, in a constant onslaught.
Bad treatment brings challenge, adventure, and humor if you open your mind.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an early riser. There’s a lovely rhythm to those first waking moments when it's not quite dawn, but night has begun to make its retreat. I'm glad to have that time all to myself, to let it shake the hazy visions from my sleepy imagination. I slowly wade into the ocean of a new day until my body decides it's ready to submerge. Having shoplifted an extra 30 or 45 or 70 minutes from the cosmic stores, I swim off to find myself in the stillness.
Makeup-stained and marked-up siddur pages remind us that prayer books double over as story books.
The ticking reminder of time nuzzles against my ribs. Slow down, it says. Do less, take in more.
