A series of dilemmas, for readers and for me, that reach towards profound questions of ultimate meaning.
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.
Food, you are sublime, terrifying, and filled with struggle. I love you, but why must you cause such guilt and fear?
Other people delight me even as they scare me.
No rehearsal, no practice time. But someone, something, is rooting for us.
Was I right then to keep it, this piece of Israel forever mine, something to hold, something to carry, like a gift or a found treasure or a stolen trinket?
A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
Life has always been brutal and unfair, and we have always survived and even thrived. That won't change now.
