A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
Food, you are sublime, terrifying, and filled with struggle. I love you, but why must you cause such guilt and fear?
Open your arms wide and greet every struggle that has ever touched you.
A vast range of interpretive possibility makes religion both glorious and dangerous. September 11, 2001 clarified that for me, as it swept me up in a rare sense of communion with the larger world.
We just came through Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur’s around the corner. And I can’t stop thinking of death approaching on the roaring winds of this ruthless and deadly storm.
Rachel wants you to be free. Even if it's scary.
What is age? What is truth? What is time? If I feel like I’m 18, or 28, or whatever, why can’t I be?
“Mommy, next time you daven to Hashem can you please, please, ask for another baby?”
A series of dilemmas, for readers and for me, that reach towards profound questions of ultimate meaning.
I'm not hysterical about Trump, and I don't worry much about anti-Semitism. Though I'm no optimist, the panic surrounding me feels unduly intense. Let's hope I'm right.
