A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
It was the last chicken in Brooklyn. Well, the last one that was still clucking.
Orthodox Jewish communities hurt and shun many sensitive, vibrant souls who fall beyond traditional gender expectations and identities, but I think they can do better.
I don't really value external, objective success, but I want a certain brand of it oh so badly. Will exploring this desire help me find peace?
How come the people I love most trigger me to behave so bad? What oh-so-sensitive buttons are these relationships pushing?
I have yet to find an answer. But I want to try.
There's a reason Thoreau got all inspired by nature.
From uncomfortable gatherings to the occasional harmful soul, few of my networking attempts go unpunished.
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 hate putting in effort; I just want to enjoy.