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.

Heaven

B"H
I looked up and there it was.
My eyes could not contain the vision.
Glory thrilled through my veins.
Joy was on my lips.
My soul was healed.
There, in the glorious space between the majestic, sun tipped clouds, was the sky.
Azure.
Cerulean.
Indigo.
Sapphire.
Blue.
Pure and holy Blue.
I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, only to open them again and be elated by the sight of it. There had been endless days of gray, days that had passed in a quiet rush, days that had begun with clouds and ended with clouds, days that slipped by me so easily, days where my soul had slept.
Now those days had come to a conclusion. It was time for sun and sky.
My soul slipped up and away, into this pure and perfect blue, this rainwashed, coldcleansed blue that was suspended above me. I felt laughter. I heard song. I knew only this moment, only the wonder that my eyes could not contain, only the beauty that man could not ever hope to create, only this.
This moment was joy.
This moment was peace.
I inhaled this moment and held it within me. In my mind's eye, I still behold the vision of that sky.
Behind those days of gray, those layers of gloom, it had been waiting.
Waiting for me.
Waiting for me to emerge from that small building and be stunned by it. Lifted up into its perfection.

Wind Me Up

B"H
Did you ever have one of those wind-up toys? The ones with little plastic feet and the knob on the side that you wind up and let loose to run across the table and fall over the edge? My family used to buy a silly wind-up toy whenever we were giving gifts. The wind-up teeth, duck, even the wind-up seal that you could put in the bathtub. I think we got that one for my sister's sixteenth birthday.
I feel like one of those wind-up toys. You have to hold them in your hand and wind the tiny knob on the side. They begin to quiver with pent-up energy, the legs clicking, anxious for movement.
So you let them go, and they race across the surface you have placed them on in mad, dashing circles.
Then they slow down. The circles grow smaller, the legs click with a softer rythm. Before you know it, they have toppled over, and lie feebly on their sides, cheap plastic bodies shuddering with an occasional twitch.
And you have to pick them up, and wind the knob, tighten the coils, ready the toy for another run.
It's been about three months or so that I've been living here in Crown Heights. Three months that feel more like five, filled as they've been with so many firsts, so many new things. And with so many old ones, old emotions that I'd forgotten. New situations, same logic. Same patterns. Sometimes, I know myself better than I think. Sometimes, I surprise myself. But right now, this week, I am sure of one thing.
I'm ready to be wound up again. To reel in the coils of energy, the resolutions and decisions and visions that propelled me when I arrived in September. I'm ready to suck in that deep, calming breath and take a look at my list. That list of wishes and hopes, and all those things that I really should do.
My knob's been turned and twisted tight. I'm quivering with pent up energy, aching to be moving.
What's frustrating is that two weeks from now, I'll be back, ready to be wound up again.
Those toys didn't really have a lot of staying power.

This Unbelievable World... and I Don't Mean That in a Good Way

B"H
Having come to the realization that I am rather unaware when it comes to world news and events, I have begun reading Arutz Sheva on a daily basis. I don't really care all that much about the news within the United States. Elections aren't until next year, and I'm just going to ask my parents who (whom?) to vote for anyway (don't throw things at me!). But I reasoned that Israel is a place about which I should be informed.
So I've been reading the news of the past couple of days. I realize I'm jumping on the bandwagon rather late in the stage, but what the heck?! They're talking about giving up Yerushalayim??
Haven't we done this before? Had this argument? Didn't we fight a war and get Yerushalayim back? WHAT IS GOING ON?
This is why politics sickens me. It seems so pointless. We have to fight the same fights over and over and over again. People make the same mistakes over and over and over again. Nothing new ever happens. At least until the next major terrorist attack or the next war breaks out.
We still have to fight. We have to campaign and vote and rally and protest. We have to work within the world.
But that is not where the change is going to come.
It'll come from the next sincere tefillah that I say. The next nickel I drop in the pushka. The next conversation I have with the next Jew I encounter on public transportation.
It'll come from the gathering in of all the sparks that have been spread over the four corners of this world.
This truly unbelievable, so desperately ready for redemption, world.