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Living with the times is synthesizing the weekly Parsha into my life.
My high-school Chumash teachers tried this with a corny section on their tests entitled,
“From where do you learn”—
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.
Famous words in this week’s Torah Portion: Lech Lecha.
God tells Avraham: Go for yourself.
Rashi, who is basic, explains: Go for your own benefit and your own good.
You don’t need anyone else to validate you.
You are an adult.
Validate yourself and move on.
Sitting on the porch swing, Eliyahu and I were spending time alone with Henia. Although planning to spend time with each child is highly rated, it wasn’t a planned thing.
I have upwards of 250 notes on my phone. Musings, journaling, comments, kids’ cute quotes, frustrations, and dreams. I found this note from six years ago and am repurposing it as a letter to myself, sharing it with you in case you need to hear it as well.
This past weekend we celebrated Menny's Bar Mitzvah. Our last Bar Mitzvah was our first celebration with a drive-through and few guests, the albatross of this pandemic.
At some point, I learned to trust
to believe that my husband’s dreams were his to own
and he could navigate them alone
I took a poll, and "Just delete 2020" received almost 95% of the votes. I am kidding. I don't have time for polls. But it sure does seem to be the spirit going into the new year---
May G-d bless you always with health, wealth and happiness.
May you be blessed with children and with children’s children.
May you be blessed to enjoy a ripe old age with a healthy mind and body.
I am functioning on autopilot. I go about my hectic day alternating between semiconsciousness and full-throttle action, neither of which requires much intention or reflection. I am doing all the things I can do just as well in my sleep
There was a saying we heard a lot when we first arrived in Atlanta in the late 1990s: I am really sorry I cannot do “x” “y” or “z” because “my plate is full.”
I drive around town in a big black SUV that fits many children, car seats, groceries and gear. I am grateful for this car, large enough for my family, and I’m grateful for the lesson it has taught me . . .
As a mother, I find that there is a lot of pressure, from within and from without, to be the perfect mother, or an excellent mother, when being even just a good mom seems elusive and confounding.
This morning, I was struck by an overwhelming thought: I am a parent of children at almost every possible stage. I have twin toddlers, two children in elementary school, one in middle school, two in high school, and one in rabbinical college.
Sitting in the park on a hot and humid day, I am an observer. I am there to keep an eye on my children, to care for their needs, to observe them at play. But I notice and think about much more.
Prayer, it seems, is getting a bad rap as of late. “Our thoughts and prayers are with Charlottesville, Puerto Rico, Houston, Florida, Las Vegas, rural Texas” — and people don’t want prayers. They understandably want action, steps taken to create lasting change, help given to rebuild.
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.
As I jogged past an apartment complex, I saw in my peripheral vision a mom repeatedly hitting her child’s outstretched hands with a white stick that looked like a pipe. I saw anger and crying and trembling.