Or, how Zalmy Rosenbloom learned, by process of elimination, the sublime value of the self.
Some of us build our lives on the wreckage left behind. We make a sturdy space to walk. We cast out for sustenance. And we grow.
Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying And Love The Rudeness
Like an alcoholic I feel like saying, "It's after Yom Kippur somewhere", as I crack open my spirit once again. Maybe I should stop. I've had over thirty Yom Kippurs already and I need to drive home.
Eve lives inside my skin...she is primal, she is woman, she is curious, she is new, she is wild...Eve is not "The fallen slut that caused all the trouble," though oversimplifications of texts would have us believe that.
From the time Evan left until college I never felt truly secure with friends. The years in between were filled with anger, loneliness, and an inability to feel close to anyone, until I met Simcha. Suddenly it occurred to me that I could try mixing my art with my religion.
It was the third date with the man that would become my husband and I asked him, "There are two kinds of people in this world: Those that want to change the world and those that are happy focusing on the world around them… you know, their own life. I want to change the world. What about you?"
How come the people I love most trigger me to behave so bad? What oh-so-sensitive buttons are these relationships pushing?
I have yet to find an answer. But I want to try.
He is mildly drunk, and the night seems open, possibility hiding in every shadow. He scuffs at an orange cat, and it skitters off. It doesn't make him feel any better about earlier.
Why we need to reclaim the most important conversation we could ever have with our chidren.