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.

Thoughts Inspired by a Barbie Doll

Bs"D

When I was eight, I got a Pioneer Barbie for my birthday. I adored that doll from the moment I laid eyes on her. She had chestnut brown hair, green eyes, and sweet freckles dotted across her dainty plastic nose . But as I explored the intricacies of her gingham dress and apron, I noticed one flaw.
She had a tiny flap of ‘skin’ that hung loose from her leg. Bothered by this imperfection, in my delightful new toy, I gave that little plastic piece a tug. It tore off easily, shredding a path through the smooth surface that surrounded it, leaving behind a raw and ragged swath.
Horrified, I tried to repair the damage by pulling off those shreds of plastic that remained. Needless to say, the problem only grew worse. My poor Barbie looked like her leg had been mauled, or as if she’d been afflicted with some rare skin disease. I did my best to cover her legs up (easy to do in a frum household), but I always knew what a horrible sight lay beneath the folds of cloth. And the knowledge always made me uneasy.
That’s always been me, though. I pick. I pull. Whether it be the plastic skin on the leg of a Barbie doll, or the tension at a Friday night meal, or what exactly was I thinking when I said/did/thought/felt this or that? When we took personality tests in seminary, my highest score was in the category of Self Knowledge. I looked at the results and thought, Yup, that’s me. Which might mean that I do know myself well.
Here’s the rub.
When is the picking and pulling a wonderful tool of discovery, and when does it leave destruction in its wake, like the shredded legs of my Pioneer Barbie?
This is what I say:
When it's superficial – when you’re leading a “plastic” life, when the actions and thoughts and emotions you go over and over and over again are meaningless, purposeless, unguided – you’ll get stuck. There’s nothing underneath to reveal with all the poking and pulling and prodding and picking. Barbie’s leg ain’t real. Her best face is her sur-face.
But when you dig deep into something real – when you soul–examine instead of self–examine – when you ask why and how and when and what and who am I here for, instead of just who am I, you’ll find treasure. The boundless, unlimited, eternal treasure found within each Jew. All that soul-searching will prove that you have a soul to search. And with that soul, a G-d, who gave that soul to you, to serve.