As the Rabbi continued chanting the Torah portion, Steven took the star-shaped paper to the back of the Shul, near where the coffee maker, the cheese Danishes, and the bottle of Slivovitz always were. He unfolded the paper and noticed first, that it was a hand-written note, and that whomever had written it had exquisite penmanship. ‘Dear Dr. Rice,’ it began.
‘I know you are upset...
A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
A series of dilemmas, for readers and for me, that reach towards profound questions of ultimate meaning.
Open your arms wide and greet every struggle that has ever touched you.
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.
I can’t speak, for I fear I’ll say the wrong thing. I know nothing. I’ll never learn anything new. These are the abilities I have and that will never change. I’ll just stay here quietly – shoes untied, paralyzed by a problem I’ve created myself. A home-made problem, all of my own. No one ever told me, “you can’t.” Other than myself, that is.
2018, my optimism is as great as my fear. Be glorious, and grow no more.
I was terrified... and then I exulted.