Survival.

The world is on fire. 

California was. Literally. So much lost. So much to do to heal and recover. 

Hostages are being released and paraded through crowds chanting for their death. Cameras in their faces. Fear in their eyes. 

A baby celebrates his second birthday in captivity. If he is even still alive. Are any of the rest of them? #untiltheyallcomehome

A plane crashed into a military helicopter in DC. Heartbreaking. Horrifying. People hold their breath, hoping but doubting there will be survivors. 

DC is on fire in all the ways at this point, as the orange man paints the people and communities he fears with broad strokes. 

Executive orders. 

To distract us. Confuse us. Paralyze us in fear.

Western North Carolina still suffers. 

Let's dismantle FEMA, he says. 

His followers cheer. 

Women's rights. Demolished. By the white men who speak of what they do not know. 

Transgender individuals looked at with confusion. These are people. People who are loved. 

Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. 

Blamed for what? 

Hearts break. 

And still. We stand as tall as we can. 

Hold and lift one another up. 

Raise our voices. 

Yes. We feel it. 

The fear. The exhaustion. The overwhelm. 

But we will not stop screaming. 

We will not fall into the trap of distraction. 

We will see and hear all. 

We will fight and survive. 

* Take care of yourselves, friends. Protect your peace, as only you can. Do not look away, but do not always look. I'm here if you need me. 💗

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Passover 2024

Passover hasn't been the same for my family in years. A decade - to be exact. 

This year is even more difficult. I don't host a Seder. I don't attend one. But still, I miss the ones we grew up with. The ones where my father sat at the head of the table and he and my mother maneuvered around the kitchen throughout the night - serving and plating - and welcoming. 

Over the years so very many of our friends and loved ones attended Seder at my parents' home. Having a dad who could make most anything from scratch meant we never went elsewhere. A dad who cooked so well that other people bought his food for their holidays (it wasn't his store but we know who did the work!).

And though my dad did most of the cooking (minus the pot roast or chicken - cutlets or barbecue), my mom did everything else. And I do mean everything. 

Not having her here to reminisce with hurts something awful this year. To laugh and cry with. To send pics of matzo balls and ask if they looked even close to my dad's. 

My heart hurts and my memories help me grieve and heal, and I watch as another holiday comes and goes.

Happy Passover to those who celebrate. 

May yours be blessed, may our hostages be returned home safely, and may we each witness the strength of the Jewish people as the days go on.

Zeissen Pesach.

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Can You Imagine?

Can you imagine?

News of your loved ones missing traveling across the globe.

Over two hundred of them.

Missing.

Women.

Children.

Infants.

Babies. 

BABIES.

Grandmothers.

Grandfathers.

Can you imagine?

As the news travels people ask more questions.

And more.

And more.

What happened?

What do you mean they're missing?

We don't believe that.

What women?

What children?

What babies?

Can you imagine?

It's propaganda! 

They shout.

Cursing as they tear down the photos our people have worked so painstakingly hard to share.

There were no babies!

They scream.

As they take knives and scissors to the tape. To the photos. To scratch out their faces.

Can you imagine?

Professors.

Students.

Americans.

Immigrants.

Shouting. Screaming. Calling for the end of you, your missing loved ones, and anyone like you.

Can you imagine?

Walking down a city street and being told by someone to 'go back to your country' when you were born here and they were not.

When they don't want you to have an actual country.

When they believe the land that you identify as your homeland should be wiped clean of people like you.

Just as was done on October 7th.

To thousands of people.

Women. Men.

Children. Infants. Babies.

Grandmothers. Grandfathers.

Israelis. Americans. 

On their homeland. Or just visiting.

Lives cut down in an instant.

Can you imagine?

And those who remain missing.

All held captive.

Over one month since they were taken.

It's propaganda! 

They shout.

As they call.

For the extermination.

Of all Jewish people.

Can you imagine?

I never thought I could.

But now.

I can.

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What It's Like.

I am almost 51 years old.

I have watched as antisemitic sentiments and hate crimes have risen across America in recent years.

Not that they ever went away.

But the freedom that evil has experienced has been powerful. Fierce. Deadly.

I am almost 51 years old.

I was born in Brooklyn, NY. 

A place I never felt myself to be a major minority. 

A place I called home for much of my life.

A place that felt safe.

I am almost 51 years old.

And as I watch as the hatred against Jewish people grows and thrives?

I'm afraid.

As I hear the chants shouted at so-called peaceful protests?

I'm afraid.

Have you heard them?

Have you seen?

Have you been listening?

Watching?

Can you imagine?

I am almost 51 years old.

And before now I had never seen such death and carnage on my people in my lifetime. 

I had always heard, never forget and never again.

I never thought I would have to FEEL it. 

Your Jewish friends are afraid.

Your Jewish friends feel alone.

Your Jewish friends are watching. Waiting. Listening.

We hear the echo of our own voices.

We see the lack of condemning posts about Hamas and their actions.

We see you sharing your every day lives.

We comment, like, love, care.

And also ...

We wonder.

We question.

We try to breathe.

We question some more.

I am almost 51 years old.

And I never thought in my lifetime I would see this. Live this. Worry so. 

But here I am.

Living. Worrying. Breathing.

Questioning.

And that, my friends. 

That is what it's like.

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Making Memories

I wrote this piece several years ago to be published somewhere else, but today, today I need to share these same words. I'm lacking anything more - I'm missing my father as today it is six years to the day that he left us, and it hurts as if it were mere moments ago. 

Last year I shared why October hurts so much.

Six years ago I shared the immediate pain, the instant grief, the heartache. And then I talked about this very experience, the one I share below.

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Ink.

It's no secret that Jewish people aren't supposed to get tattoos.

I know that.

You (might) know that.

And I'll admit it.

I thought that I would observe that.

Follow that belief. Law? Tradition. Rule?

I thought I'd adhere to it for my entire life.

And yet, I sometimes thought, what would I get if I ever DID change my mind?

What would I do - what sort of marking would I want on my body for-permanently-ever?

I don't know.

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Hatred.

My posts appear to have but one word titles these days.

Am I lacking creativity?

Or am I struggling with words?

Or is it the force of the world that has taken them away?

Hatred.

For all that is holy and good in this world, there is so so much hatred.

So very much.

I know.

You know this.

You're nodding along with me.

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Another October

Let me tell you what it feels like.

To be so so ready for fall.

Let me tell you what it feels like.

To know that at the end of this month I'll turn another year older. 

What it feels like.

Knowing that before that.

Before then.

I'll face the anniversary of the worst day I've ever lived through.

Let me tell you what it feels like.

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I Should Be Asleep But My Mind Won't Let Me

Image from Pexels

I'm not asleep.

I know. You already knew that.

Why introduce this post with such a simple, unnecessary statement?

I don't know. But here it is again.

I'm not asleep.

But my child is, and that's what matters most.

For the moment.

I'm sitting here like I'm 90 years old.

I literally just put some Icy Hot on my left knee.

I have no idea what the heck is wrong with it, but I probably slept funny.

And of course, I have an actual occasion this coming weekend and might even dance a step or two - and NOW I'm walking around smelling like my dad after he played ball all weekend.

Actually, he used Ben Gay more than Icy Hot - but it still makes me think of him.

Maybe that's why I'm still awake.

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Living With Heartache

Sometimes I forget that this is my space.

I think too much and too hard and forget that I can write whatever I want here.

And so, sometimes I take to social media and share thoughts with friends and then think, oh, I could totally share that with my readers. because I hope that my readers are people like me. people with heart. people who feel pain. people who know and see and believe.

Today I posted on Facebook about the four young lives lost in Israel. The four children. Babies, practically. 20. 20. 22. 20.

What? How? Impossible.

And so I decided to share this here. Because this IS my space and because I will not live in fear of raising my voice. About Israel. About the United States. About anywhere.

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For Whom Do You Weep?

I sit here at my laptop, tears streaming down my face as I listen to the Hamilton Mixtape.

I weep. Openly. Loudly.

I sob.

Yes. Sob.

I try, every single day, I try to look for the silver linings.

And then - yesterday - we learn about some of the soon-to-be appointed staff members of our President-elect. And dear G-d. I'm terrified.

TERRIFIED.

My friends, my people, I know, you look at me and see a white woman. And that is fine. I am. That is who I am. But I am also a Jewish woman.

And while that is not the most visible of prejudices being shown around our country right now it's there. Damn it. It's THERE.

If you don't see it, please, look deeper. Look within yourselves. LOOK.

CAN YOU SEE IT NOW?

I stand with my friends of color who are struggling and fighting to be seen. I stand with my friends of mixed heritage who may pass (in their own words) as white, but feel the same hurt. The same pain. And I stand with my white friends as they band together to support the people in their lives who are visibly targeted. I STAND WITH YOU.

Can you see me? Will you stand with me, too?

Because right now - every day - but right now, more than ever, we're under scrutiny.

I am under the evil eye. And I won't sit by and let it happen. I won't. I can't.

CANNOT.

What do I do? How do I make it through this?

How do we stop this? It's so terrifying. Devastating. So damned sad.

I am here for you, my friends. I speak up.

Please remember me and mine. Please remember I'm here. And I'm being 100% honest with you right now. I'm scared. I've been scared for you. I've been scared for so many. And yes, I've been scared for myself, sure. As a woman I know fear. We all do. And watching the normalization of horrific behaviors of men towards women, perhaps even women towards other women? It's been awful. It has. And I know that my fears there, as a straight, married, white woman - I know they're not the same as what you feel. I know it. I accept it. I own it.

But goodness, can you see me? I'm afraid, too.

And I just needed to say so.

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Today Is A New Day

Or at least, that's what I tell myself.

Because I have to. As a mom. As a woman. I have to tell myself that today is a new day and things will be very much the same, and very different, all at the same time.

No?

Don't you agree?

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And so ... We start again.

Today is Grandparents' Day.

And tonight, right now, at sundown, starts the highest of holy days on the Jewish calendar.

Two stark reminders of how life is so different without you.

It's been a while since I've written with moments and memories of you.

But it doesn't make a difference, because I think of you every day.

I see you in my own reflection.

My smile.

My eyes.

*You look like Daddy,* I hear. My own voice. The words of others.

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It's coming again. Father's Day.

Father's Day is coming.

Again.

You're still not here.

I lack the words.

I lack the poetry.

The thoughts.

The movement.

This year I just stumble along.

Pretending that it won't matter.

That Father's Day isn't coming.

Because you're not here.

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Observing Passover our own way.

It's 1:51 pm on Saturday.

What are you doing this weekend?

Passover started last night and my daughter and I Skyped with my brother/SIL/niece/mom/SIL's mom and did a few prayers.

We didn't do an entire Seder because without my dad it just doesn't seem exactly like the kind of thing we want to do.

And while that might not make sense to some, it's what makes sense and works for us, and how we want to go about things in my father's memory and in his name and in our religion.

And how long will it take before we say such blessings without tears?

Probably forever - but we did it and I'm proud of us and I know my dad is, too.

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One year gone by. It still hurts.

Emotions are heightened as the weather cools down.

Fall has arrived in North Carolina and I'm feeling it.

My mood flicks like a switch that I have no control over has been commandeered by someone I can't see.

Coffee is good. It fuels me. Warms me.

Soups, too.

I made chicken soup from scratch.

A task - I know. But I know why.

I needed to. I wanted to. I had to feel. Be on my feet for hours.

Ladling. Skimming. Stirring.

How did he do it? All those years. On his feet.

Day after day. Night after night.

All those years.

I exhale.

At the same time I have no urge to be cooking.

Fast foods call my name.

My motivation is gone.

I'm more than overdue for a walk. A run. A bike ride.

A burst of cold weather smacking me in the face.

I'm overdue.

Music helps. Only a little.

Some days I'm fine. I don't even feel it.

Others? Not so much.

A candle burns now and then. Brightening up the kitchen.

Bringing out a scent that warms the soul. Sometimes.

Other times a candle burns.

I watch it fade.

Twenty-four hours of flickering light.

Time moves on.

It's been over a year.

My father's been gone that long.

I lit a candle.

Not birthday candles.

An I miss you candle.

Judaism permits you to remember with a flickering light.

Brings the memory of the loved ones lost right there - beside you - at every turn.

Held close within your heart.

Held tight within mine.

October has finally ended.

And yet.

My heart does not freely soar.

I thought it might - but it does not.

The pain is still there.

The ache.

The tears.

I still hurt.

And this weather isn't helping.

Not one bit.

* I'm linking up this week with Shell's Pour Your Heart Out. *

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Wrestling with G-d.

The new year is coming.

A new year without you.

I find this to be unacceptable.

I find this to leave me wallowing in my head and heart in a place where grief lives.

I've been out and about these last few days.

Traveling.

Smiling.

Enjoying myself.

I had you with me. Always.

I wear your "name" on my neck.

Like I've been branded, perhaps?

Dad.

People see it.

They smile.

Some know. Nod knowingly.

Hug me.

Others - surely unsure - say nothing.

That's okay.

I don't need everyone to ask.

I'm the only one who really needs to know.

I'm rambling now.

I'm trying not to get to the point of expressing how much I miss you.

Rosh Hashana starts tomorrow.

The first time without you.

I can't.

I just can't.

I suppose I will.

But I just can't.

I have so much to say. So much that I am thinking.

I know you wouldn't want me to think it or feel it.

But how can I celebrate a new year. The Jewish new year. Without you here?

I'm angry.

I'm mad.

I'm still Jewish.

But you're not here.

You're not on the other end of the phone to wish me a good year.

Happy and healthy.

We said it every.single.time.

Took it for granted.

Be careful, I told you.

Be careful.

You walked.

You returned.

So many words. So many prayers.

Recited days and nights before.

The days. The nights.

So many years of so many words.

So much love. Blessings.

Hands held.

Laughs stifled.

These days are you.

You are these days.

How am I supposed to even feel them without you?

I end here.

I could write forever.

But I end this here.

I love you, Daddy.

And I miss you beyond all the words in the world.

L'Shana Tova.

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Stuck.

I'm stuck.

Last week I was in sponsored post mode. This week and then some? Nada. Nothing.

I've got the emotions. I've got the anxieties. I've got the thoughts but I just don't have the words.

I've watched a few recent episodes of Glee lately and cried every.single.time. I'm about to catch up on the New York episode and then I have last night's episode and I'll be caught up.

Why is it that emotional for me to watch these damned episodes?

I can blame it on PMS. It would be easy to.

But I think it's a combination of real life emotions and "TV" related emotions all smushed up together. Do you know what that's like?

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Chanukah.

The holidays are coming. Chanukah is literally tomorrow.

I mean it. It's tomorrow.

Talk about giving me no space whatsoever, right?

It's going to be so rough this year.

My father has always been the driving force behind the holidays. Whether he knew it or not, he was. Is. But isn't. Isn't here anymore to visibly and audibly be a part of it.

Yes. Audibly.

You might not know that my dad had the most beautiful voice.

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30 Days.

Thirty days.

Numbers suck lately, don't they?

How many weeks has it been since I lost the first man I ever loved?

How many Fridays have I counted since those dreaded phone calls that led to the worst news I have ever received in my life?

How many moments have I experienced where the tears started falling out of what seemed like nowhere?

How many times has my daughter looked up at the sky, or the ceiling, and said 'Good morning, Zeide'?

And then turned to me and encouraged me to do the same?

So many.

How many moments have we lived without him already?

Too many.

So how is it possible we keep going? How do we look ahead, all the while looking back and wishing, hoping, dreaming that all of this is some alternate reality in which we will all wake up soon and see him. There. Sitting there. On the floor in front of the new couch.

On the porch when we pull into the driveway.

At the kitchen table, glasses on, reading. Scratching out the Chinese food order onto a slip of paper.

What happened to all of those slips of paper?

My dad didn't sign the cards. He didn't do the writing. I don't have enough of his handwriting.

But I have a recipe. Chicken soup. I need to find it. I know where it should be, but I need to find it.

And soon.

Because that recipe is a piece of my father. A moment in time where we sat down together, discussed ingredients, laughed, talked, shared. Not that I didn't call him every.single.time I made chicken soup and/or matzo balls anyway.

What should I do if they don't float, Daddy?

Yoina, what did you do with my baking powder? I can't find it.

Daddy, I made a matzo brie!

I need that G-d-forsaken slip of paper. I need to close my eyes and find it.

I know I will. I know it's somewhere. Everything is somewhere, right? I mean, it HAS to be.

In the meantime I know I can make it on my own. I know I can. And I will. I mean, now I have to.

And it sucks.

It's not fair.

And I'll keep on counting.

The firsts. The nexts. The days. The weeks. The months. The years? Will I? I mean, I will, but how?

Sigh. This sucks.

Royally.

I love you, Pops.

I miss you. Always.

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