My outsider status was hard-won. Earned with my own blood.
I act like a nervous lunatic when I encounter people who upset me in the past. Maybe I should calm down and see them as fodder for an adventure.
I hesitate to affiliate with any group, but somehow, Jews keep finding and charming me, probably because I'm one of them.
I spent a year with Chabad Hasidim in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. I exulted, starkly disagreed, and considered glorious possibilities—often in the same moment.
From uncomfortable gatherings to the occasional harmful soul, few of my networking attempts go unpunished.
The day makes everything familiar; night falls and we're uneasy about what's lurking in the shadows, what unknown fears might be lurking near our homes, but it also lures us to sleep.
I've long bought into the idea of artists inspired by pain. But this myth is both dangerous and inaccurate. Honest, authentic creation must stem from a peaceful mind.
My wife and I are celebrating ten years together. But we chose to push off having kids.
From Hasidic questioners to rebellious nuns and priests, limit-pushers within tight-knit groups have a special camaraderie. I'm jealous.
Just what does G-d want us to do? Well, exactly whatever it is we're going to do. That's the hardest part of life, and the best part.
