My parents Abe and Sara wanted to be radical and change everything. But my rebellion was just being normal. Or at least, that’s what you would think if you saw me.
I had slammed a door on the purest part of my soul. And for what? Like a baby crying out for its mother, I had denied its outstretched arms, turned the key, and plugged my ears to the cries.
I am responsible for my fellow Jews, and so I think it's best I back off.
Valentine Shmalentine, where're my Devorah-hearts at?
What will you do with all of this outrageous beauty?
How can a day that seems so hostile to creativity be the wellspring from which all creativity flows?