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.