I am not particularly interested in outer space. 

This feels like a confession. For someone my age—Gen X, raised on rockets and Reagan and the promise of “the final frontier”—I’m aware this borders on heresy. We were in sixth grade when Christa McAuliffe boarded the Challenger and never came back. People my age remember exactly where they were when they watched it happen. My husband does. I don’t.

Come to my garden, my sister, my bride.

A field is where necessities are planted.
Wheat. Vegetables. Survival.

A garden is where we plant for pleasure.

This world, the mystics say, is not a field (or a jungle, despite evidence to the contrary). It is a garden. And we are the bride.

On Sunday morning, we took an Uber from JFK to the Ohel. Our driver pulled up in a spotless red Tesla. No smells. That’s basically the Uber equivalent of winning the Mega Millions, only with better odds.

How confused in the world do you feel right now?

If we feel disconnected, it's not because we are a mess, but because the world is (by design) upside down. It's because disconnection- is a feature, not a bug.

If you don't get everything you want, think of the things you don't get that you don't want- Oscar Wilde.

In life, it’s about perspective.

“Hit the road, Jack . . .” This is the song we heard playing loud and live on a makeshift stage in the middle of a grassy knoll in the neighborhood park. We had come to the park in an attempt to get out of the house on this last day of Yom Tov, Simchat Torah

I love music. I grew up in a Hasidic home with a lot of music, and not just a narrow selection of Hasidic classics—my parents tolerated and introduced us to so much more.