From now on, I eat my bread washed down with gratitude.
I miss the Land. The air. The views. The people. So yes, the trip was special. But there's more.
Given the options, I’m glad I don’t fit in. I’m glad I keep my eyes open. I’m glad institutions make my skin crawl, that being in church—or anyplace that feels like a western, Christian, colonized knockoff—doesn’t feel right to me.
I thought I knew who I was, but how much of me was really me?
Where is the space in a three day Yontif to balance communal responsibilities and solitary recharging practices?
How much of yourself would you surrender to be a part of something bigger?
A Yom Kippur reflection on the yearning for Gd in the midst of running away from His people.
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 don't learn or grow from rejection. Can I reject rejection entirely? Do I want to?