Who's got time to worry about destiny? I mean, how am I going to end homelessness if I can't even deal with the laundry?
Because sometimes you write your story down, even though you'd rather just scream.
Potash Feldspar woke up and looked at the time. There, glowing brighter as the day progressed, the information projected on the closed drapes read 8:01AM. 58 degrees Fahrenheit. Hanetz at 8:45AM. His tired old eyes widened slowly and he rolled over to see his wife lying next to him, still sound asleep. Mr. Feldspar got dressed and put on his watch, which synced effortlessly to the drapes and his vitals came on screen. “Modeh Ani L’fanechah” he began to recite to himself.
For me, it's Haman. It's not as awkward as it seems, I promise.
Tonight, I will wine and dine divine inspiration,
I will start with tremendous illumination.
The power of silence, the limits of words... in essay form.
Somewhere in a midrash it describes how during the plague of darkness the darkness was so thick that the Egyptians were unable to move around. That’s how I feel, spiritually. I feel like the darkness is so thick that I cannot move an inch.
What's the point of talking about ourselves? What's the point in avoiding it?
A call to arms for Religious Women: Sanctify the tensions!
A chance encounter with a wise Jew reminds me to strive for something beyond knowledge.
