Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

Since moving to Oregon, I’ve come to realize that I’m not as special as I used to think I am. I’ve met so many people here who have lived lives that require the telling of stories to explain who and what and where they’ve been, and what they’ve done and thought, that what made me special, now makes me one of the pack. I stand out less now that so many of the people around me have the qualities and experiences that make a person interesting.

Surprisingly, this makes me happy. Something lost and something gained.

There are stories that require a map to trace the physical journeys people have taken as they’ve moved to follow dreams, people, and jobs. There are the intellectual paths that show commitment to interests, as well as commitment to following every wisp of curiosity. Wanderers and wonderers. I willingly give up my talk turn to listen and ask questions.

And since I don’t know if any of these connections will develop beyond the moment, I’m also learning to appreciate each experience. There doesn’t have to be more, there doesn’t have to be the full story—there never will be the full story—there is simply the self that is presented.

I used to prefer reading over interacting; now I revel in characters who walk into my story, helping create a more fascinating, unfolding book. Not because of adventures we take together, but because we have interwoven our stories just enough to stimulate the imagination and find excitement in the flow of a life.

What is the purpose of life? The key question, still, always, to contemplate. For now, for me, being an agent of positivity, trust, and support, and receiving the same back. Perhaps the horrors that have been unfolding since October 7^th have made me realize the importance of listening to each other, and finding inspiration in living one’s life as honestly and fully as possible at each moment. And that is enough. That is the point.

May we each have in our lives people who inspire us and who we inspire. Who are those people for you?

The Israeli hostages are still in captivity. Bring them home now!

Rabbi Zev Wolf, the Hasidic master of Zhitomir (where my maternal grandmother is from), taught:

Do not think that the words of prayer as you say them go up to God. It is not the words themselves that ascend; it is rather the burning desire of your heart that rises like smoke toward heaven. If your prayer consists only of words and letters, and does not contain your heart’s desire—how can it rise up to God?

Using words to think about prayer and praying makes me realize that words are clothes: covering up that which is within and revealing that which is to be shared. 

They are patterns on a page, even when written from the depths of my heart and read with heart, they will always represent a distance: the space between thought, expression, and reception.

On Passover this year, when my mother was about to light the Yizkor (memorial) candles in memory of her father, mother, sister, and husband, I asked if she wanted me to get the Kaddish (Jewish prayer for the dead) prayer for her to recite. “No, she said, “I’ll do it from my heart.” We stood silently, remembering.

It is not that I need to believe that God knows what is in my heart, it is that I need to understand what guides my thoughts and emotions without pinning them down with specific words. It is not about offering words to God; rather, it is for me to be aware of what motivates, demoralizes, energizes, and encapsulates me, and what it is that I yearn for.

Prayer: to feel my heart, to learn from shared insights, to be within my life force, and to acknowledge that this is within that which was, is, and will be.

The Israeli hostages are still in captivity. Bring them home now!