I am in a classical art gallery in London and the portraits all blur into a crowd of static, monotonous...
When it comes time to act, who will take the first step? Who will not move at all? You know who you are... Or do you?
What if there's a non-Hasidic version of every Hasid just waiting out there and living their own life?
What is age? What is truth? What is time? If I feel like I’m 18, or 28, or whatever, why can’t I be?
Loving a person who is depressed gives such power to the smallest words.
Thirteen years ago we first fought over Crayola markers in the Jewish nursery school...
A poem of correspondence. So many students, so many stories.
The Rebbe’s prescription for getting close to Gd: mitzvahs.
