In the Words of My Holy Sister, "The Spirit of Chanukah Continues On!". And So Will I.

Bsd
Chanuka is over. But I wanted to post this special story. And it's still relevant. So, enjoy, y'all!


Lights twinkled from the menorahs on the table, people conversed in corners, and kids ran around madly. It was a classic Chabad House Chanukah party, circa 1986. My mother stood by the door, carefully watching to make sure none of her kids ran outside. They had only moved to Berkeley two weeks before, and were staying in the Chabad House while they looked for an apartment. After living in Crown Heights for the past four years or so, being back in the Bay Area near her dad was great. My father had gotten a job managing the Chabad House he had been BT with, and here they were, celebrating their first Chanukah as a family in Berkeley.
In the back of the Chabad House, where the kids were playing, my one and a half year old sister was admiring the bright lights of a menorah that had been placed in a window. A window with a very low ledge. My sister reached out and plucked one of the pretty candles out of the menorah. Wax dripped from the candle onto her little hand, and she dropped it! It fell and lit her pretty polyester dress on fire.
Polyester burns fast. Really, really fast. My sister was aflame before anyone knew.
My brother Levi, who was three at the time, ran out to my parents, screaming, "Nechama's on fire! Nechama's on fire!"
My parents raced back to the room where she was. Some quick thinking person called 911 and 770. My father grabbed her and dumped her in the sink, thrusting her under the faucet and turning on the water, extinguishing the flames under the running water.
They rushed her to the hospital. She had three degree burns all across her chest and face.
The first miracle was that the doctors let my parents take her home. She had to be brought into the hospital every day in order to have her bandages changed, but she was home.
Thank G-d, the scars on her face faded almost immediately. But the damage to her chest was much deeper, and they scheduled surgery for two weeks after the fire. They were going to take tissue from her legs and graft it to her chest. Major surgery is always dangerous, but especially for toddlers. There is always the threat of them going under the anesthia and not waking up.
My parents wrote and called into the Rebbe for a bracha, of course, and took her to the surgery.
The surgeon came into the pre-op room to examine my sister for the surgery scheduled for later that day.
Result?
She doesn't need it.
That was miracle number two.
It took three months or so for my sister to be fully recovered. Today, no one would ever be able to tell she'd ever had such a thing happen to her, unless you look closely at her left earlobe. There is still a little scar there.
That was our family Chanukah miracle.
And that, about 21 years or so later, my sister went out with her husband for the first time on the seventh night of Chanukah... but maybe I'll save that (and the song we made up in the dorm about it) for next year...
Happy Chanukah!

And a Merry, Merry Chanukah to One and All!

Bsd
It's Nittelnacht tonight, right?
And although tis technically Thursday all throughout the USA, I'm still posting a family story. Appropriate, as after a few months of travel, I'm ensconced on the family couch again. (Side note: It took 8 hours to fly from New York to Oakland. 8 HOURS.)
I'm a fourth generation Californian on my mother's side.My mother recently told me this story about her paternal grandmother, Pauline. Pauline's parents were divorced. Her mother ran a boarding home in Sacramento, and her father lived in San Francisco. Pauline and her siblings starred in vaudeville shows.
Pauline married a non Jew. Her father refused to speak to her after this. When she had my grandfather, she would take him down to the street where her father lived, and would walk my grandfather in the carriage up and down the street. This is how my great great grandfather knew his daughter had a son.
Pauline eventually divorced her non Jewish husband. She moved into her father's home, and he helped her raise her children.

If You Have Pre Marital Sex, Are You Still Frum?

Bsd

This post is intended for mature audiences. Readers, try to act your age, not your shoe size.

I met a girl in Israel. Frum girl. Dresses more tzniusly than me. Has a boyfriend - in all senses of the word. 

I smiled and laughed and giggled and took pictures of her and her boyfriend and cringed (on the inside). 

Tonight, I regaled my roommate with tales of my trip to Israel, the wedding of our friend, my host's three month old baby, and of course, this frum girl who is having sex.

"Frum?" My roommate raised her eyebrow. "I wouldn't exactly call someone having regular pre marital sex frum."

Well, I would. She's shomer Shabbos. She keeps kosher. She has sex. 

She's definitely breaking Halacha, as she didn't go skinny dipping, as per Frum Satire's suggestion. But I think she's just screwing up, like so many people do. Doing something she shouldn't and rationalizing it. 

Being frum, in my definition, is a matter of numbers. How many Halachos do you keep? You keep everything, but you apply makeup on Shabbos?  Still frum. You keep everything but you buy non kosher candy? Still frum. You keep everything, but you cheat the government? Still frum. 

Not a very good Jew, but still frum.

My roommate disagrees. She defines frum as an attitude. It's a way of life, a moral, ethical, G-d fearing way of life. Play around with it too much, and you're not frum anymore. 

In English, I think frum means being observant and she thinks it means being religious. 

What about you?

A Request

Bsd

Tonight, while I celebrate the greatest joy with one of my closest friends, while we stand under her chupah and look up at the stars over the Negev, another friend - my cousin, my sister, my friend - will be hoping and praying and going through something no one should have to.
Please say Tehillim for Chanan Velvel ben Bryna.

What This Was About

Bsd

This started as something. I was never quite sure what. I took my time choosing the title of my blog. I had to find something that captured the essence of this experiment. Confessional? Journal? Diary? It was an amalgamation of all three, and something more.

It took me time to realize what it was that differentiated my blog from all my other writing. 

People could read it. 

Not that anyone did, back then. 

But - they could, if they wanted to. 

It changed the writing. Forced me to polish my sentences just a little bit more, restrain my flow of thought (or more correctly, emotion). It forced me to make allowances for an audience. 

And then one day I had an audience. 

Five people, maybe. 

But my blog changed. 

It wasn't about writing, anymore. 

It was about the audience. All about the audience. 

My blog was another Facebook, a slower paced IM, another link in the chain of social networking. The comments took on a life of their own, one which I enthusiastically participated in. 

Hiatus. 

It's what I should have posted, but didn't have the patience to. 

I'm taking a blog hiatus.

But whoever cared would figure it out. 

No blog reading or commenting or writing from me. 

I took a break. 

A lot happened. 

I didn't do much. 

Isn't it funny (funny odd, funny strange, funny ironically amusing - not funny haha) how often those two situations occur simultaneously?

Now. 

I'm back. 

Back just before I leave again, at least physically. Off to the Holy Land to celebrate a joyous occasion, which I plan on discussing. (With whom? You, the reader. Not the audience, but the reader? I can dream. This is the easy way out. I need to get published for real.)

This is another introduction, like the one I wrote when I began. 

Appropriate for a new beginning. 

Again. 

Like many of my best posts, the most incoherent and introspective, this has been a 3 AM RANT.

Silence

Bsd

I've been silent

no prayers,

no poems,

silent and lost in my own world

attempting to locate the next step

and take it.

I've been tempted

to break my silence

to speak out

about things that entertain me

                                worry me

                               annoy me

                                comfort me. 

I haven't. 

But this?

How can I not speak?

I spent the first night that I knew what happened

alone.

In a place where no one spoke.

Surrounded by Jews,

all of whom owe so much to Chabad,

and they were silent.

They were silent?

They were silent!

How can I not speak?

Tears rolling down my cheeks

hurting so much 

wanting only to move on

return to the petty, silly distractions

that had silenced me before. 

Ignore it like a paper cut. 

But this is no superficial wound. 

This is my family. 

I held a soft and lively baby this Shabbos. 

I read about a baby whose pants were soaked in his parents' blood.

My nephew's age. 

I read about a woman covered in a tallis.

The last act of a loving husband. 

Covering his slaughtered wife's body. 

How could this happen?

How could this happen,

and I remain silent?

Silent not only in word,

but in deed. 

All the pain in the world I express 

will do nothing for a mother

prematurely torn from her children.

For families bereaved. 

For a community destroyed. 

Gabi and Rivka don't care if I write a poem. 

The silence they wish me to break 

is far deeper than that of words. 

In memory of Rabbi Gabriel and Rivka Holtzberg, in their zechus, so that we may greet Moshaich this year, and reunite parents and children, I take upon myself to daven every day.

                                      

Things I've Learned This Week Or For Lack of A Better Title

Bsd

I have been home for nearly a week, and already I have learned so much! Perhaps this is the reason behind my mysterious silence? Simply that it takes great energy to process the amount of new information and life lessons that I have been receiving, leaving me with little, actually no, time to share it with my devoted readers. But now I feel I have somewhat recovered from this astounding influx of knowledge, and I will present a few of the things I have learned here, for your edification:

A - When removing a small child from the playground against his/her will, a prudent person will prepare themselves with aural protection, lest the ear-piercing, air raid siren imitating wail that will be produced by said small child prove damaging to one's audio functions.

B - If one wakes up, and then proceeds to continue to sleep, general society will not deem this an actual arising, despite one's own perception of consciousness.

C - Upon revisiting childhood impressions as impressed by certain popular novels (e.g. Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Movie Shoes, etc., or The Little Princess, Little Lord Fauntleroy, Cinderella, The Boxcar Children, Freckles, etc),one has decided that it is highly unlikely that one will either be "discovered" for remarkable talents in the performing arts arena, or that one will prove to be long-lost nobility and/or relatives of an important personage. As one was quite satisfied with one's family, one spent many hours singing or speaking to oneself in the hopes that someone might overhear and be stunned by one's talent. If one had only learned then what one learned this week....

D - Should sleep threaten to overcome one, one should not succumb to its tempting coils; rather, one should persevere in one's activities, be they of value or not, as long as one does not give in to the temptress of sleep. This is provided that the tempting of sleep occurs in the hours following sunset. Once dawn approaches, sleep no longer holds power, and one may - nay! should! - succumb with alacrity, and do all one can to preserve the state of slumber for as long as one dares.

E - Sand is very difficult to remove from one's shoes. However, removing one's shoes and accompanying footwear (if one's footwear extends past the knee, for example) in order to prevent sand accumulation may cause difficulties when attempting to exit the general area containing sand, or in other words, the playground.

F - When encountering individuals who are acquainted with one, if one should be of a certain age, certain recommendations or hopes will be expressed concerning one's marital state. It has been decided that the best course of action for one is the one presented in the classic film, Madagascar: "Smile and wave, boys, smile and wave." An adaptation of the aforementioned approach will prove satisfactory for all parties involved in any exchange concerning matrimony and one.

Having laid out for you as many lessons as days I have been home, I leave you, my dear Readers, with this last message:
G-d, IT'S GOOD TO BE HOME!!

Seven Years

Bsd
I didn't even know what day it was today. I rushed out to babysit this morning, too tired to turn on my computer. I don't own a radio or a TV. I don't get a daily newspaper. It was any other day to me, one of those funny fall days, where the sky hasn't decided if it wants to be sunny or cloudy, and the air brings with it a taste of winter crispness.
I came home and ate lunch, lolling on my bed, eating sushi and reading a novel. Knowing that I had to return to my babysitting job in a few minutes, I decided to get my first internet fix of the day. And that's how I remembered it was September 11th.
After debating the value of personal remembrances of historical events with a fellow blogger, it seems appropriate to share my own:
September 11, 2001
6:30 AM
The voices from my radio alarm stream through my subconscious until, with a groan, I awaken. Immediately, I realize something is wrong. I'm thirteen, and I don't know what the World Trade Center is. Still in my pajamas, dazed with sleep, unsure of what has happened, I walk quietly down the stairs to my parents' room. My mother sits in her bed, my brother curled up next to her, eyes on the small television that she keeps in her room.
The towers are burning.
8:30 AM
I stand on the lawn in front of my friend's house, backpack in its customary position on my back, feet cold from the morning dew that still lies wet on the grass. We've gathered for our carpool, and are now waiting for our parents to find out if there is school today. If there was a fourth plane. If there are threats on San Francisco. I can't imagine going to school. I can't imagine not going.
10:30 Am
The principal of my school stands at the podium, leading us in saying Tehillim. Twenty five kids sit on shul benches, saying Tehillim. Half of them don't even know why. They won't know until they're old enough to learn about today in history class.
4:30 PM
Driving across the Bay Bridge, Daniel decides that the man driving the gasoline truck next to us is an Arab, and we're all going to die. None of us believe him - but we're not quite sure he's wrong, either.
6:30 PM
My sister calls from Chicago. There are girls crying in her dorm, for uncles and aunts who were in the Towers. We hear the first miracle story from her, the first "I stopped to give tzedakah/drive my kid to school/learn a little/make a phone call/missed the train/lost my job and it saved my life" story. But there are still girls crying.

My kids will never know that you used to be allowed to walk people to the gate and hug them before they went on the plane and watch as that plane taxied down the runway and flew into the air.
Unless I tell them.
Tell your story.

Singin' In The Rain

Bsd
I must apologize for stealing the title of this post, but nothing that I could think of on my own seemed as suitable as this for describing my experience this Shabbos. This is what I did on Shabbos.
I sang in the rain.
Loudly, softly; in my head, in my heart.
I never knew that Crown Heights would be home for me one day.
I walked in the rain, down familiar streets. Splashed in puddles ankle deep on familiar corners. Pulled my hood off my head and smiled for the joy of accepting, no, embracing the rain as I stood outside familiar buildings.
I was drenched three times in the past 48 hours. I didn't care. It rained, and I was wet, and then I came home, and I was dry.
I felt strong, loving the rain. I felt happy, loving the rain. I missed someone with whom I wanted to share this joy, this rain drunk love.
Rain in my hair, three times over, until it was slick and damp and sodden, and I gave up and shoved it back, and decided I looked amazing anyway.
Rain on my face, misting my glasses, until I couldn't see, and stepped in puddles and stopped to wipe the rain away, wishing for window wipers.
Rain in my clothes, in my open-toed shoes, cold and cheerful, swirling dirt and leaves past my ankles, and eliciting shrieks from my throat.
I love the rain. Snow is quiet and pretty, Sun is relaxing and balmy, but Rain! Rain and Wind! I feel alive, I feel dangerous, I feel like a child.

Podunk

Bsd
I grew up in a podunk little town, which some of you (a rare few) may have heard of: Berkeley.
Home to one of the most respected universities in the world, a continuing source of social revolution and ground breaking liberalism, centered in one of the most culturally and economically active areas in the United States, it is a still a podunk little town.
Jewishly speaking, that is. To be more accurate, Lubavitchly speaking.
I read Jewish books as a young girl, and certain aspects of those mystified me as much as certain aspects of books I read about public school did. Walking to school? I sat in a car for a minimum of three hours every day. Class elections? By the time a president, vice president, and secretary would be elected, we would have exceeded the number of students in each class.Both The BY Times and Sideways Stories from Wayside School portrayed foreign worlds.
But I didn't know any better, and so was completely content in my little bubble of a world, neither here nor there. I was a cheerful child, and played well with my classmates, and read a whole heck of a lot, and never learned how to ride a bike, although that isn't really relevant to the point I'm going to make (and as a public service announcement: I did learn how to ride a bike this summer. More on that another time.).
But the idylls of our childhood can never remain. My sister went to school.
We'd go visit her, and she knew people. People from summer camp, which I never attended, being too content at home, in the Gan Izzy I knew well and loved, to leave. People from high school. People from seminary.
I'd go visit her, and walk behind her, sticking close to her shadow as she introduced me to her friends. We'd be in Crown Heights, and she knew people on the street.
She knew people.
I eventually followed in her footsteps, and went to high school, where I experienced the joys of having a group of friends for the first time. But I still didn't know people. I still returned home for the summers, rather than venture off to exotic parts of the US.
I went to seminary. Everyone there seemed to know people. We'd be on buses, in Yerushalayim, hearing engagement announcements, and the girls I was with knew people.
I knew my friends.
And then Crown Heights.
Can you imagine what living in Crown Heights was like for me, this little girl from that little podunk town?
Stars in my eyes, I was terrified. And then delighted.
Then I left.
Three months is like a blink in the eye of a lifetime, or it's a lifetime in the blink of an eye. The month and a half that I spent in Nashville was itself an eternity.
Nashville is even more podunk than Berkeley.
A month and a half.
Suddenly! I'm back! Crown Heights! My apartment! BunchoBagels! Parties!
I went to two l'chaims and a wedding, walked all across town in stilleto sandals, drank a rum-infused slushie, and saw people.
What better way to announce my (temporary) return than to traverse the social circuit?
And what I realized tonight was that I know people.
I 'm that girl, who pauses in every conversation to shriek and hug, or to be shrieked at and hugged, who can chitchat with the best and rest of em.
I know so many frickin' people.
I - from that little PODUNK town - I know people!

A Dialogue of Two Parts

Bsd

I am proud to present to my readers (all five of you!) a dialogue between two individuals that I orchestrated for my own amusement. Having been amused, I decided to share the wealth. Unfortunately, this is one of those jokes which needs explanation. Or at the very least, a preface.

Here it is:

The Characters

The Roommate (who is, in fact, MY roommate) is someone who takes her arguments very seriously. She believes in what she says, and in being open to the opinions of others. She's studying philosophy. (I think I could have started - and finished - with that, and saved myself four lines of typing.)

The Real Shliach (who is probably someone's roommate, but definitely not mine) is someone who doesn't take his arguments seriously. At least not the ones he has on the internet. He believes in nothing he says, and in being so open to the opinions of others, that sometimes he ends up with none of his own.

Now read and laugh as The Roommate tries desperately to have a serious argument, and The Real Shliach tries desperately not to!

Subject: Ok, psychoanalyze me.
------------------------

From: The Real Shliach :

I'm always up for a discussion. Discuss away!

--
Enjoy visiting www.therealshliach.blogspot.com

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From The Roommate:

Hi,
My intent was less to psychoanalyze and more to point out where your impressions of Boteach may due to hearsay or a scant understanding of him and his approach - if you can point me in the direction of posts where you were more critical of him I can begin to try and do that.

Best -
The Roommate

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From: The Real Shliach:

http://therealshliach.blogspot.com/2008/01/my-issues-fascinating-eh.html
http://therealshliach.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-celebration-of-bochurim.html

Now honestly, I wrote these a while ago, and I may not agree with everything I said. But don't worry, I'll still argue with you, because it's quite the fun activity. Bichlal, I don't know too much about Shmuley, and I'm sure that as a person he's a wonderful guy. I didn't particularly like the infamous pie-throwing incident, nor his debating with Christopher Hitchens. I thought that he really dropped the ball there.

----------
From The Roommate:

As I'm rereading your posts I'm realizing that there's very little I can say, since you didn't say one critical word - only spiteful vendettas.
I'm always game for criticism (namely: insightful remarks that point out the subtleties of a situation, person, art...etc) because those are debatable, the nuances defined for discussion, and prejudices generally aired quite clearly.

Since you don't seem to consider Boteach a Chassid, or having a valid opinion, without any explanation why you find it appropriate to justify such casual defamation, there isn't really much to discuss....
I'm remembering now why I got upset when Ashirah showed me those posts....struck me as remarkably callous and unintelligent.

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From: The Real Shliach:

Wow. That was pretty harsh. Um, I'm not sure how to respond. After reading what you said I read what I had written; in the article about Shmulie and Nobel, I realized my mistake and wrote as much. Fine, so I didn't exactly apologise, but I said I was wrong, which is pretty close. Besides, that post had some great prose, which I still marvel at many months later. As for the second, well, all I did was write my own opinion on the matter. As it happens, the guy who did the real insulting was CCL, who is another story entirely.
Anyway, this isn't about defending myself, because you aren't interested in me defending myself. You'd rather me prostrate myself before an image of the righteous Rabbi Shmuley and beg forgiveness for my many sins.
Listen, it's not like I really have anything against Rabbi Boteach. Heck, if he calls up and asks me to go out with his daughter, I'd probably say yes. Do I agree with everything he says, or more importantly, does? Heck no. Would he, if he knew me, agree with everything I say, or do? I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't. Still, I'm pretty sure that he's a good guy, and I'm pretty sure that I'm a good guy, and if you can't say a sharp word once or twice, then what's the point of it all?

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From The Roomate:

I think the insulting bit was where you called Boteach not a real Chassid and things like that without any substantail critique that would be interesting. There's no need to prostrate, just needless and unfounded insults about someone I admire really irk me, especially when it's trendy to disapprove of him and he's contributed so much to the Jewish world and is a tribute to Lubavitch. Sharp words are fine. The man does say controversial things, and I think that its good that people disagree and discuss why they disagree and about what particularly; it's good to use someone's extreme or unusual position to help you clarify your own. It's when you bash because you're what some may call a hater (haha) then I just find that so wrong and aggravating. So again, if you have real critique - by all means. If you have needless sinas - bad news.

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From: The Real Shliach:

I'm sorry. I done bad. Shtuff happens. Is he a Chassid? If you say he is, then I'll take your word. What else can I write? Tell me and I'll write it.

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From The Roommate:

I'm so honored you would take my word, sheerly on the basis that I'm Cheerio's roomate. It really depends on how you define a Chassid. I can tell you personally from what I've seen of him, both in public and private, he is a kindhearted, caring person devoted to G-d, Chassidus, and helping his fellow Jew. That's enough for me. As per his opinions and writings - individual issues can be debated and disagreed about on an individual basis. As per his personhood, I can testify to his character.

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From: The Real Shliach:

I'm taking your word on it because I have no reason not to. I only distrust people when they prove that they can't be trusted; up 'till now you've done nothing which would make me think that I shouldn't take your word. With Cheerio it's the same, though are relationship hasn't reached the point where her vouchsafing for someone would automatically recommend them to me.
How do I define a Chassid? At this point in my life, the only answer I trust is the one given by the Rebbe Rashab in yechidus, that a Chassid is a lamplighter. If what you say is true, and I'm sure it is, then I have no reason to doubt Rabbi Boteach's character.
Perhaps I should meet him. Or maybe not. Whatever it is, that's what it is.

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From The Roommate:

I would rethink that trustworthy attitude but hey, that's just me.

If by lamplighter you mean someone who spreads Yiddishkeit and Chassidus, I doubt you'll find someone more qualified than Rabbi Boteach.

You should definitely meet him.

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From: The Real Shliach:

What's wrong with trusting people?
As for meeting him, "Take me to your leader."
Anyway, what would I say?

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From: The Roommate:

It's not a good idea to trust people you don't know, is all I'm saying. Trust is an earned thing, generally. I don't know how to further explain that.

There are defintitely going to be upcoming events in the New York area where Boteach will be speaking or leading or even around - I can be sure to put you on the mailing list if you're interested. He's very approachable, and loves Lubavitchers, so if you'd like, just introduce yourself and tell him what you thought of what he said or so forth. It's pretty easy to see that he's nowhere near the vicious power-hungry mongel he's often made out to be by older generations that are scandalized a shliach would associate with non-Jews or speak about sexuality (both common practices nowadays - shluchim are now quite happy to associate with Shmuley's old buddies from the Lechaim society now that they're rich and famous, and as I recall there's a great book about mikveh/sexuality written by a shlucha that is commonly accepted now). Ask to come for Shabbos - he always has a full house, many Lubavitchers often.

Thanks for being open to my remarks. In real life I'm definitely not this harsh, but the internet makes it somehow possible, you know?

Wishing you the best.

The Roommate

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From: The Real Shliach:

Yes, I suppose so. I think that there's two kinds of trust here; one is the subway kind of trust, that I trust that my fellow occupants in a subway car won't suddenly attack me, though I'm still a bit wary. The other kind would be when someone tells me something. When I don't think there's any reason not to believe them I generally do.
I'm not going to be in New York until after Tishrei, and I don't know if I want a million emails from a list coming in; going to his house sounds like a much cooler option, though I don't know where he is, which is a bit of a complication. Also, I can't imagine myself walking over to someone who I've never met and telling them why I think they're wrong; the internet, as you say, emboldens one to make statements which would never pass through our lips in real life.

Wishing you the best, of course,
TRS

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From The Roommate:

I would say to try and email him:

shmuley@shmuley.com.

he always responds.

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From: The Real Shliach:

Nu, and what should I say?

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From: The Roommate:

I don't know - if you have a boen to pick with him, do so - of course, my recommendation would be to be respectful and have you know, basic ahavas yisroel, though he is definitely used to the standard dull inarticulate rants and defamation and bashing, I'm sure.

Ask if you can come for shabbos and when a good time would be - he always has bochurim come, it's totally not a weird question.

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From: The Real Shliach:

Do I have a bone to pick with him? I'm not even sure at this point. If I read some of his articles, I'f probably remember some things which I don't like, but at this point all I can recall is that I don't agree. With what though, I don't know. So I guess that one's out of the question. Perhaps I should just say that you said to email him, and see what hapens; that could be fun(ny).
As for going over. where does he live? NY?

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From: The Roommate:

Well,I would only recommend being in contact with him if there is something in particular you want to discuss. You could always just ask to come for Shabbos if you want.

If all you remember is that you disagree, in all likelihood you were convinced by someone of his wrongness, and very little of that convincing had to do with facts... am I right?

He lives in englewood, new jersey.

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From: The Real Shliach :

So I told Cheerio that I had capitulated to you, in she castigated me in the wildest terms imaginable. Seems that I was being counted on to provide entertainment for her, and my admitting defeat at so early a juncture ruined those plans. So, for her sake, let's have a real argument. I'll say something so outrageous that no one could possibly defend it, you'll respond, shocked beyond belief, I'll stay my ground, you'll call up Moshe Kotlarsky and demand my immediate execution, he'll refer you to Rabbi Shmuley, the two of them will sic their dogs on me, I'll run off to Paris, and probably be home in time for supper.
No I just have to think of something to say...
Have a tremendously meaningful Shabbos, and remember to take everything I say with a 2 pound box of salt, because you ain't seen nothing yet!

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From The Roommate:

Sounds good, I'm looking forward..have a great shabbos

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From: The Real Shliach :

OK, I'll see what I can do. How about, "Chabad as we know it is dying a slow and painful death?" No, that's not controversial enough. Perhaps, "Orthodox Judaism should accept members of the GLBT community with open arms, and embrace gay marriage." Hmm, that could do it. Or maybe you'd wish to discuss the effects of chaos theory on Jewish thought in our times? That would also be interesting. Oh well then, I've given you some great options there, I can't wait to see which one you rip my head off for...

And if you made it this far - up for a Shabbaton at the Boteach's?

Feel Free To Congratulate Me!

Bsd
This award was presented to me by End of World. Check out her blog!
Yaay for me! Break out the champagne! Oooh, and don't forget to check out my acceptance speech in the comments!

I'm Too Tired to Think of A Name For This Post. If You Have Any Suggestions, Please Suggest Away.

Bsd
I was going to write a post about Tu B'Av, but then my life happened and now it's a bit too late for that. Of course, I could enter into my special place, where time is relative, and my blog posts are eternally relevant, but frankly I'm not in the mood. It's 3 Am, and what's incredible is that people are actually going to read this. Yaaaay! Having people read my blog isn't actually why I started it, but now that it's happening, it's so much fun that I am responding to it by writing posts more suited to my readers. Ok, this isn't suited to my readers because it's a bit too contemplative. Be funny, Cheerio! (This is tough. It's hard to be funny on demand. At least without having a team of script writers working on developing your lines. I don't know how some of you people do it! Just let the ridiculousness flow. My brain keeps getting in the way and trying to think. )
Today, I went to this giant flea market in San Jose. Very cool thing - it was in a drive in theater! I didn't even know any of those still existed in California! I'm very excited. Not that I'm making any immediate plans to drive two hours to see a movie in a drive in, but just knowing that a drive in theater exists is a comforting thought. Going to a drive in was one of my favorite memories as a kid. My parents would pack us up in the car and make popcorn and bring blankets, and drive out to a theater and we'd watch something. We really only did it a couple of times, which is why it stood out in my memory so much. But it was fun! And after discovering on Shabbos that a nearby park took out the extremely cool pirate ship climbing structure, and replaced it with a dinky prefab plastic one, discovering that drive ins are not extinct was very reassuring.
The flea market reminded me of the shuk in Israel, only with more Mexicans, Asians, and white trash. After seeing the sheer volume of stuff they have there, I have taken a vow never to buy retail again. Especially when it comes to getting my kids toys. Maybe I'll make an exception for birthdays. But just seeing how much stuff exists in this world is frightening.
And when most of it seems to somehow transport itself into the back of your car? Even more frightening.
After that, it was on to the frum pool party. This is how you have a frum pool party:
Move to a really small community. Invite a bunch of families, where the kids are either too little to want to hang out with each other, spent enough time playing together growing up that flirting with each other would feel like incest, or are actually related. Be very rich, and have a separate pool house and pool area. Men swim, women eat, and vice versa. Play Matisyahu.
Voila! Frum pool party.
Now I can't think of any more to say.
So I am not going to say anymore.

My Life as An Indentured Servant by Ashirah Welton

Bsd

I've been living on my sister's couch in Nashville for a month, and now my sentence here is very nearly up. It's been a great month, full of nephewing and nieceing, with an emphasis on the nephewing. One of my accomplishments has been becoming my nephew's best friend. These are cucial times, when you must gather your fuel for the future. I mean, I've got to have something to embarrass the kid with when he's a hulking sixteen year old bochur!
"Oy, I remember when I used to wipe your bottom!" "You used to pish in the tub whenever I gave you a bath!" "Your first word was 'shoes'!"
That kind of stuff. Or, as an honored colleague of mine would phrase it, "shtuff".
As for Nashville - from what I've seen of it, it seems to be a fairly interesting, entertaining place. Of course, the farthest I've been allowed from my sister's home in three weeks is the local Kroger's. Oooh boy, that was a grand adventure! Ever tried shopping with a 19 month old? By the time you leave the store, they've eaten or destroyed half your purchases!
There are benefits to accompanying a toddler, however. Everyone is nice to you. Everyone smiles, and says, "Hey."(It is the South.) And there is no greater satisfaction than being the one who taught your nephew how to turn the water faucet on.
Another of my favorite activities was devising as many possible arrangements of his hair as I could imagine would bug my sister. I tried the Sikh bun on top of his head, the girlish ponytails, the palm tree/fountain pony... I haven't tried horns yet, but I've still got a few more days!
I have heard about Nashville a lot. Second or even third hand experiences are better than none. (If I keep telling myself that, I might actually believe it eventually.) Nashville is officially in the South. Redneckville. Evangelical Christianville. "Watch out cuz they're coming over to see if you have horns"-ville. Land of the Mega Churches and country music. Can you imagine a more wonderful place to be?
By far the most entertaining second hand experience I had here was discovering the Anti-Fat People Church.
This is a church whose prophet (a woman, who also has told them that women can't hold positions of authority and must submit to the men. Killing off the competition?) has decided that Brentwood (a local neighborhood) is the Promised Land (what's interesting is that Nashville has also become a mecca for various Muslim nationalities, but more on that later). They also believe that fat people are evil devil worshippers. (That is not -sic-, but it sounds good.)
Why?
Because this woman started out running workout programs for churches, before deciding to create her own religion out of her program. Hence, the existence of the Anti-Fat People Church.
It's the religion custom-made for Los Angeles. Or at least Beverly Hills and the Valley. And maybe Malibu as well.
Then there's the Kurds, Palestinians, Iranians, Bahai, Sudanese, (fill in your favorite Islamic group here), that have all gathered in and around Nashville. So you've got white evangelical Christian rednecks, and displaced refugee Muslims. And Jews. Fun, fun, fun!
I can't think of a way to end this, but neither can I think of anything else to say. Which is unfair. Because there's plenty more to say. Like how my sister's neighbor drove her to the hospital Friday night because she was in labor, and later we spied his wife wearing a pro-Palestinian t-shirt.
Or how there were only two kinds of dads playing with their kids at the park: hip, cool, tattooed, pierced, spiked hair dads, or crisp buttoned up shirt, tie wearing, military haircut, shiny shoes dads.
Or the fact that people here actually say, "Y'all." And don't laugh self consciously afterwards.
But tomorrow is Erev Shabbos, and the freshmen are arriving, and we've got Shabbos to cook, and I've got solo nephew and niece duty cuz my mommy is gone, and... and... and my brain is currently melting from lack of sleep and I only wrote this to make SOME VERY IMPATIENT PERSON ENTERTAINED. And I have another post I want to write tomorrow in honor of Shabbos.
So.
The End.

And Tu Bav Is On Its Way

Bsd

Thank You for her good news. Now we can dance. Now we can sing. Now we can live.
Break out the white dresses, baby!

Tisha Bav is Over

Bsd

Why, G-d? we ask as we sit, feet dangling in cool waters underneath the summer sky. I turn my head against the sunwarmed concrete and think of mothers and fathers lost and then my mind takes a curve and I'm thinking about bad haircuts. Only yesterday we mourned and today music rings through the air filling my soul, and our voices soar in quiet demand as we ask Where are You? I have no answers to give her. I cherish my belief in contrast to her pain and also wonder if this were my life would I be as faithful as I counsel her to be? My hand lies illumined by the lamplight and black bloodsuckers flick away from my skin and her voice breaks as she cries What will I do when he is gone? I have nothing. tongue and voice are cleft. I hold her hand. What can I give you, my sister, daughter of Israel, what can I tell you, your heart will not hear it, your soul is held captive. instead I mourn with you. I will pray that we need not mourn, that we will rejoice, that all my beliefs will be proven to your medical satisfaction, that your eyes will be opened and you will be able to thank G-d for His mercy. I said to you tonight He is the bringer of your pain and He is the comforter of your soul. He is Infinite, for only one who is can be all these things. Birds fly overhead, don't they know it is night now? over the trees the moon shines brightly. You walk away, alone, and my heart beats hard, thinking of girls newly wedded who are lost, fathers who are strongholds who might one day be gone, and of my own confusion, borne of joy and folly.

The Day After Gimmel Tammuz

Bsd
1.

I am ambling, meandering, walking beside my father, under the shade of spring green trees, the sun's warmth sliding over my hair and along my back. I clasp my mother's hand, squeeze it tight, and pull away. I turn to capture another shot of my sweet younger brother, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the summer blue sky, trying to preserve a lucky memory, proof of his brief presence here, at home. I hadn't davened that day, delayed by a reluctance to leave the comfort of my bed, distracted by the illusion of a world provided by my book. It's just another Sunday, like so many other Sundays, kicked off to a lazy start, drawn out into comforting conclusion, nothing startling, nothing special.
It's Gimmel Tammuz.
I lie in bed that night, thoughts drifting, sparked by what the rabbi said at the communal farbrengen. Pieces of the day spin round, like a whirly-gig mobile, first this one, then that one, and this one again, winking by in frantic flight.
It wasn't the worst day ever. I've wasted holy days in far more futile pursuits. But neither was that day what it was supposed to be for me, the day I'd planned in a surge of fervent hope, or renewed connection, or responsibility.
It was just a day.
There is a dark, sneering part of my being that sits smugly in the corner and whispers, "What more did you expect of yourself? Doesn't it figure that on this day, of all days, you would let your goals, your dreams, your true soul's desires slide away like that?"
But Rebbe, that isn't what you want to hear. That isn't going to help anything. You would want me to pull myself together, all the ragged, faded edges and declare:
I live from this moment on.
Now is the time.
Right now, I can do what G-d wants. I can reveal His presence, I can commit the final act that will tear away the barriers that stand between my people and Redemption.
I can open my heart. I can open my mind. I can commit myself, body and soul, to the next action in my life.
My Almighty Father has infinite mercy. He deems every mistake I make, every stumble on my path, worth the cost for each time I overcome all the shadows and the glories of myself to connect to my true essence, for every time I choose Him.
No matter that the former far outnumber the latter. He thinks it's worth it.
You are the one who tells me so. Who tells me to wake up every morning and try again. Who tells me that I matter. That my life is a valuable, integral part of the whole.
Today was Gimmel Tammuz, I think, and it was not the Gimmel Tammuz I wanted it to be. I was not the chossid that I wanted to be. But then there is the day after. And on that day, I can be your chossid. And that day can be the day. That's what you would want.

2.

We're supposed to feel broken from our exile. And oh, we do. Reasons abound; I don't need to enumerate them. On Gimmel Tamuz, one reason floats to the top, like a bitter oil rising in a bucket of tears.
We lost our Rebbe.
You are still here, but we lost you.
But here in this post-Gimmel Tammuz world, what have we lost?
My nephew points to your picture, and says "Rebbe! Rebbe!" In camp, we sing songs about you, and how you lead the way. I learn Chassidus, and know the knowledge I have comes from you.
There are more than 4,000 people on shlichus today. We're filling up the corners of the earth. Crown Heights is still the center of Chabad Lubavitch. I see this in my own home town. When I was growing up, there were about four or five families on shlichus in my area. Now? At least double that - if not more - the majority of them having arrived in the past five years.
It's not a perfect world. But it never was. Politics, suffering, confusion - they have always existed in our community.
But we're still here!
We haven't fractured and dissolved, reabsorbed into other communities, split into different factions (well, at least not ones with entirely different identities).
We're still here.
So how am I supposed to feel broken from my exile? With all this success, with all this fulfilling of our mission, with all of this, where is the heartbreak?
Couldn't I live the rest of my life like this? Imperfectly happy, doing what we've been doing for thousands of years, what I've been doing all my life?
I could.
But I won't.
I am a child of exile, born into an exile so deep and so dark I might not even perceive its' existence. I might be inclined to believe that this life I lead is the life I was meant to lead. That I'm not missing anything.
Thank G-d, I know better.
Because we have lost you.
And so, I'll ache for the exile. For the fact that no matter how many shluchim there are, how many people we might reach, how many songs we might sing, we're not there yet. We haven't gotten there yet. This isn't what we've been working for all these years.

We will get there. I believe.

The Quest

Bsd

This is the mission statement of this blog. So read it carefully.


Who am I? What am I?
These questions have answers and yet they have none.
Here’s a question:
What’s the difference between what I am and who I am? Aren’t they one, indivisible, a redundant repetition of a question whose answer is the same?
Here’s an answer:
No.
Who am I?
A soul bound within a body. A spark of G-d Himself, pure and eternal, beloved and whole.
What am I?
A girl who complains about never getting anything done and then never does anything about it. Only one of my mortal imperfections.
Who am I?
A Jewess, proud and fiery with my belief. I carry within me the hopes of my ancestors and my children will reap the fruits of their dreams.
What am I?
Never a true doubter, have I ever known the certainty that comes from asking questions, or do I merely follow the path that has been laid before me, only thinking that I have challenged and been satisfied?

I could fill pages, both with what I have been told about myself and what I consider my own unique discoveries.
I could describe the composition of my soul, the charting of my being, the essence I barely recognize.
I could describe the nuances of my character, the faults and wonders that I marvel over when I uncover them, astounded by the reality that this is me.

Does any of it answer the questions?
Who am I?
What am I?

In the quest to discover the answers, I doubt myself:
Does it matter?
In the quiet where I find the answers, I affirm:
I know it does.

If I am honest with myself, I will admit that I hate these questions. It is because I know the answers.
And knowing that I know the answers leaves me with no excuse for why I haven’t followed them through the course, through to action, through to change.

Who am I?
What am I?
I know!

On the quest, in the quiet, I cry:
“If I know, then why don’t I…?!”
In response, my soul turns over, and stubbornly returns to sleep.

Stories in My Head

Bsd
Maybe it's being home again.
Maybe it's because I need it again.
But for the first time in months, I can keep a story in my head.
This is something I learned to do as a child, when troubled with insomnia. Lying on my back, head nestled into my pillow, my sister breathing softly on the other side of the room, I would close my eyes and begin a story.
It would often be centered around an image, or a character, something inspired by books I'd read, movies I'd seen, or even a song I'd heard. Or just my own wondering, my own wanting. Whatever the case, whether I imagined a picture or a person, there would always be the moment. The moment is where everything in the story began for me. It could be the middle of the story, or even the end, and often it was the beginning, but it didn't matter.
Behind closed eyelids, the details of the moment would develop. Slowly, in an ephemeral process, the colors of my story would form. Characters would take their places, and their emotions would well up within me. Once everything in the moment was staged to my satisfaction, the story would begin.
And I would fall asleep.
Sitting in the van on the way to school the next day, I would gaze out the window, and recall the moment. Again, I would set the stage. Distractions abounded - the history of my characters, the beginnings and endings and connectings of their stories would tug my focus on the moment away. But it all led to or from the moment, so that was okay.
In class, if I was bored - I'd scribble descriptions of the people in my stories. Choosing eye color, hair texture, height and weight, like a prospective parent designing the perfect child. I'd brood over their personalities - should she be a rebel or a saint? Shy or adventurous? The person I want to be or the person I am?
And that night, I would lie in bed and return to my moment. And there my story would begin, again and again and again.
It waited for me every time I closed my eyes. On a long car ride, in a strange bed, during boring speeches, and as I stretched out on a couch to wile an afternoon away.
The story - whatever it happened to be - waited.
But then sometime soon after I left home for high school, I began to be too tired for my stories. I'd close my eyes, and sleep would greet me, leaving no time to linger over moments. And boring classes were enlivened by scribbled notes to friends. I lived next door to school, and missed my long commutes.
Images still sprung into my mind. Moments full blown, that waited for me to discover their secrets. Characters that hovered, their complicated pasts lingering behind them.
And the old stories, rehearsed so often, never quite faded. Dusty and shadowed, they gathered forlornly in the corners of my otherwise-occupied mind.
And high school became seminary, and seminary my first year in New York, and I slept deeply and nearly instantly when my head hit my bed, and I still had stories, but different kinds, stories of what I might do the next day, or who I might meet, or what I hadn't quite finished thinking of just yet.
Finally, I am home again. I've been sifting through objects I've collected over the years, knicknacks, and souvenirs, keepsakes that no longer have a sake to keep, and treasures that still awaken in me a sense of wonder or a glow of love. And memories galore. I have been sorting through memories. Among the varied discoveries that I have been making in the detritus of nearly twenty years of life are the scribblings. Scribblings from the days of my many, many stories. My moments. And in lying on my bed (a different bed, a different room), mind twirling about myriads of thoughts I really wish it wouldn't, sun streaming down from a familarly blue sky, I captured a moment.
I built an image behind my closed eyes of two people, lovingly constructing their faces and bodies, detailing their histories and futures, sinking deep into imagined emotions.
And fragile as this moment was, unlike others just as fragile, this one sank roots within my troubled head and bloomed.
I can't describe the difference. This moment brings with it a certain... reality? Yes, that's the only word that qualifies it. There is a certain reality that this moment possesses. It is a real, textured place, of shadows and sunlight, tenderness and terror, filled with sights, sounds, souls.
A place real enough to escape to.
Which is what I was looking for.
And in looking, created.
A story in my head.

Another Onion Layer

Bsd
"I should not talk so much about myself if there were anyone else whom I knew as well."
Henry D.Thoreau

I love talking.
The art of conversation is one of which I am a passionate devotee. I cannot even walk alone down the street without carrying on a private dialogue - me and myself, commenting on all and sundry.
I am a good listener as well. People enrapture me. I delight in the nuances of lives, the as yet undisclosed stories that accompany every person. I listen to my friends with care, absorbing their struggles and reciprocating with counsel.
I tell everyone, "If you ever need to talk, I'm here." I tell my friends, "Call me anytime, I'm always up."
I make Shabbos plans, and I ask, "Will there be interesting people there? Stimulating conversation?"
A party is only fun when I find someone to talk to.
I work in a store on Kingston, and after seven months, the only part I still enjoy is the customers. The customers and who they are, whom they know, what they are doing. All the little tidbits of information that together create the tapestry of their lives.

But here's my little secret:
It's all about me.
I love talking about myself.
I know myself well. I've devoted countless hours, endless thoughts to the subject. Figuring out what I feel and think, what I remember and why, what I want and how to get there and if that's really the right thing after all.
I discover new facets of my character and I delight. I gain perspective and I marvel.
And when I talk - I talk about myself.
To friends who might read this - I love you! I listen to you, and I hope that my listening aids you, that my words comfort or entertain you. But there is a niggling portion of my brain that waits until I can comfortably put you aside and move on to a more urgent topic - me.
(Oh G-d, it sounds truly awful when I write it out).
To strangers who might meet me one day - I want to hear your stories of school and friends, the account of your opinions and dreams. They show me who you are, and I relish those discoveries. But there is that piece of my heart that warms only when you laugh at my stories, when you listen to me explain my postions, my plans.
And when it comes to speaking with the male half of the species - my tendency worsens. As I flutter and flirt under a man's attention, there is a gleeful spirit jumping up and down inside me, shrieking, "Whooh boy, he's listening to you talk about yourself! How awesome is that?"
This consternates me, because it leaves me trying figure out how much of an interaction with a man is actually appealing to me, or if I am just an enthusiast responding to an interest in her obsession - herself?

I am being overly critical. I know.
But one of the character traits I most pride myself on is my care and interest in people. And upon realizing that I am not a purely motivated individual, I respond harshly.

So there it is.
Another analysis of myself. Another knot untwisted from the tangle that is me.
And at the next Shabbos meal, when searching for a topic on which to converse, I have yet another rabbit to pull out of the hat.
"Let's talk about how much I love to talk about myself..."

This is Torture.

Bsd

I am living in a warzone.
It descended upon me unexpectedly, this war. But I should have known it was coming. Only my own foolishness prevented me from seeing it. My belief that "someone else will take care of this". I deluded myself into thinking that this would be an easy battle, merely a skirmish, a firefight, and then silence would prevail, and I would continue on with my life. As simple as that.
How did I not know?
I am not so stupid as that. I am not so immature as that.
And yet, I was.
I am only speaking about a fight over my apartment.
About a stupid choice - hasn't anyone else ever made such a choice, where you thought you were doing the right thing, and when it dawns on you that instead, you have chosen something horribly, terribly wrong, it is too late to fix because everyone involved is now in untenable positions?
In two months (Oh, please, my G-d, make it sooner than that), this agonizing distress will only be a memory.
I repeat: This, too, is good.
This, too, is good.
This, too, is good.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
But the agony of knowing I have done the wrong thing, that miscommunications and misinterpretations and hasty decisions have interfered with people's lives, knowing that there is no going back, of feeling that I cannot even speak to the one person in the world I want and need to speak to this about, because I am too ashamed of the stupidity of my actions, is torturing me.
What have I done?
What will I do?
I wish a million wishes, and they all wish me away from here.
But I am here.
And no matter how many people I confess my agony and shame to, it does not take me away.
This scars me.
I've always loved my scars, because they tell a story. This scar will tell its story one day. On this day, however, it is an open wound.
And it hurts like hell.

Walking in Crown Heights

Bs"d

I walk alone.
No one knows me, yet I am recognizable by anyone.
I could be anybody.
I am myself.
My mind flutters with thought.
My body is grounded by the beat of my footsteps.
Buildings rise above me.
Lives are led underground, disconnected from the lives above.
Songs flee from my lips.
They are whispers.
Windows glimmer with light, give me glimpses.
Men smoke on street corners, arguing.
We rush across the streets.
My legs eat up the pavement.
I am aware of everyone and everything.
Possibilities.
Who knows who that might be?
A face seen here or there.
Will I see you again?
I feel beholden.
You are my people.
Unknown to me.
But mine.
The wind ruffles my hair, a foolish caress.
I smile, soaking it in.