I spend the whole week living like a pinball; bouncing and ricocheting through life. By the week’s end, the last thing I need is someone telling me how to relax.
This practice of our particular brand of loving is an unnerving and relentless remembering.
I’m writing this letter to you. What happens when you, only you, define your self-worth?
Isn’t that what nesting is? A physical manifestation of a promise? A way of convincing ourselves that this time will be different? And it delivered.
I’m seeing bald eagles tendering their letters of resignation, unwilling to be guilty by association.
Hell no, don't give me your umbrella, or your coat, not your trains that run on schedule or your buses that lurch and groan, not your cars neither and the rules of the road.
I've got me, and that's enough until I get there.
I regret those words as soon as I think them. But it’s true.
I am flirting with all kinds of life changes and choices, from differing modes of observance. I am surrounding myself with more and more people who make their own way in this liquid Judaism which doesn't need to be Orthodoxy but still has G0d at the core. What is for me?
Sometimes I imagine someone. It turns out to be no one. Unless...
