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First Grade

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“Don’t cry,” my mother tells me. I am in first grade, with a pretty knapsack and a lunch she packed me, and first grade always made me cry. “But I want to stay with you.” It was, to my five-year-old self, the most dramatic thing that I had to spend the whole day away from her, and I didn’t understand it. “You’ll be home soon.” -- “Don’t cry,” my mother tells me. It’s a habit that, as a twenty-something year old woman, I pretend I had grown out of. I’m sitting on her couch writing poetry – a piece from San Francisco that would one day become a friend’s housewarming present – and airplanes always made me cry. “I’ll just miss you, that’s all.” “You’ll be home in a few months.” None of us could have predicted a fucking pandemic that had probably already started, or known the next time I’d come back would be almost two years later. -- “I told you not to cry,” but I know she is also crying. She has stage four colorectal cancer, and we both wrote a piece with the exact sam...
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The Echoes Letters Left

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Here is a picture of my schedule from before the world ended. It’s been on my fridge almost a year, beside a wedding invitation and that photo of my friends from Texas. A testament to the things I’d ๐‘๐‘ข๐‘–๐‘™๐‘ก one moment at a time, to the knowledge that I had a place here in this city that I chose, a place I forged. Even after the world closed around us I couldn’t take it down. I squeezed phone interviews beneath the names of my students. Wrote Zoom schedules between the lines. I spent months scribbling new fragments in the space between old Shabbos dinner invitations, scrawling frantically outside the margins. I scrubbed it clean today, and it did not come easy. The letters clung. The schedule refused to be erased, echoes of words like ๐‘€๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘‘๐‘Ž๐‘ฆ, and other useless things shadowing the space. I chipped two nails doing it. I chose a city I had never been to. I packed a bag and packed my car and I left one day. I could tell you stories about churches in the snow and meals by tik...
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To New Beginnings

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I found this quite by accident. It is a post titled All Beginnings are Hard, that I wrote in some dazed state in my first two weeks in this city. ๐‘†๐‘œ๐‘š๐‘’๐‘ก๐‘–๐‘š๐‘’๐‘  ๐‘๐‘’๐‘œ๐‘๐‘™๐‘’ ๐‘ ๐‘Ž๐‘ฆ ๐‘’๐‘ฅ๐‘Ž๐‘๐‘ก๐‘™๐‘ฆ ๐‘คโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข ๐‘›๐‘’๐‘’๐‘‘ ๐‘ก๐‘œ โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ. ๐‘†๐‘œ๐‘š๐‘’๐‘ก๐‘–๐‘š๐‘’๐‘  ๐‘–๐‘ก’๐‘  โ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘‘ ๐‘ก๐‘œ ๐‘๐‘’ ๐‘Ž๐‘ข๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’๐‘›๐‘ก๐‘–๐‘, ๐‘“๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ ๐‘“๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘๐‘œ๐‘š๐‘–๐‘›๐‘” ๐‘œ๐‘“๐‘“ ๐‘Ž๐‘  ๐‘ ๐‘œ๐‘š๐‘’๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘–๐‘›๐‘” ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘Ž ๐‘™๐‘ข๐‘›๐‘Ž๐‘ก๐‘–๐‘ ๐‘–๐‘› ๐‘“๐‘Ÿ๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘ก ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘Ž ๐‘”๐‘Ÿ๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘ ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘ ๐‘ก๐‘Ÿ๐‘Ž๐‘›๐‘”๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘ . ๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘ฆ ๐‘‘๐‘–๐‘‘ ๐ผ ๐‘โ„Ž๐‘œ๐‘œ๐‘ ๐‘’ ๐‘ƒโ„Ž๐‘–๐‘™๐‘Ž๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘™๐‘โ„Ž๐‘–๐‘Ž? ๐‘‡๐‘œ ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘ ๐‘ก๐‘ข๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘›๐‘ก๐‘  ๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘ƒ๐‘’๐‘›๐‘›, ๐‘ก๐‘œ ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘š๐‘’๐‘‘๐‘–๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘™ ๐‘Ÿ๐‘’๐‘ ๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘Ÿ, ๐‘ก๐‘œ ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘“๐‘œ๐‘™๐‘˜๐‘  ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘š๐‘œ๐‘ฃ๐‘’๐‘‘ ๐‘“๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ ๐‘—๐‘œ๐‘๐‘ , ๐ผ ๐‘“๐‘’๐‘’๐‘™ ๐‘™๐‘–๐‘˜๐‘’ ๐ผ ๐‘›๐‘’๐‘’๐‘‘ ๐‘Ž ๐‘Ÿ๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘ ๐‘œ๐‘› ๐‘๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘–๐‘›๐‘” ๐‘œ๐‘› ๐‘™๐‘œ๐‘”๐‘–๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘™. ๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘ฆ โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘’? ๐‘‡โ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘ก๐‘Ÿ๐‘ข๐‘กโ„Ž ๐‘–๐‘  ๐ผ โ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘‘ ๐‘Ž ๐‘š๐‘Ž๐‘ ๐‘œ๐‘“ ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘ˆ๐‘›๐‘–๐‘ก๐‘’๐‘‘ ๐‘†๐‘ก๐‘Ž๐‘ก๐‘’๐‘ , ๐‘Ž๐‘›๐‘‘ ๐ผ ๐‘›๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘Ÿ๐‘œ๐‘ค๐‘’๐‘‘ ๐‘‘๐‘œ๐‘ค๐‘›. ๐‘‡โ„Ž๐‘’ ๐‘ก๐‘Ÿ๐‘ข๐‘กโ„Ž ๐‘–๐‘  ๐ผ’๐‘š ๐‘™๐‘œ๐‘œ๐‘˜๐‘–๐‘›๐‘” ๐‘“๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ ๐‘Ž โ„Ž๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘ ๐‘’ ๐ผ ๐‘ ๐‘Ž๐‘ค ๐‘–๐‘› ๐‘Ž ๐‘‘๐‘Ÿ๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘š, ๐ผ’๐‘š ๐‘™๐‘œ๐‘œ๐‘˜๐‘–๐‘›๐‘” ๐‘“๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ ๐‘๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘›๐‘’๐‘...
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Strawberries

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I never thought I'd feel nostalgic about strawberries. I didn’t when we left that house in California where I grew them from the balcony. Not even in Ohio, the place I loved the most, where they grew wild in the courtyard beside more garlic bulbs than we ever knew what to do with. In fact, I had forgotten them until this moment. I used to bring strawberries with me to Shabbos meals. With chocolates and whipped cream. I have never once purchased a box for myself and I never realized it. Not until the grocery store boasted its familiar sale, and I reached for them out of instinct. When I forgot, for a moment, that I had a mask on. That I was balancing the boxes on top of sale-brand toilet paper and three bags of frozen dinners, because if I carried everything at once I wouldn’t have to touch the carts. When I forgot that one person really has no need for boxes of strawberries. By the time I remembered it I had already stacked them underneath the spinach. I had already committed to to...
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Fire Through the Wreckage

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They cancelled the conference. The first time I went was my first weekend in the city, when I knew that I would live here someday. The next was the first time I gave a presentation from the pulpit. The day I redefined that dress. The day I really learned what love means. What does it mean that it’s all put on hold, when I finally found it? What is left in place of the year that was stolen from me? I find I’m working twice as hard to make the same ends meet. Where does the motivation comes from, when I can’t see the people who used to motivate me? It is there intrinsically, the desire to build something useful through the hell and the chaotic. This is my defiance, this is how I fight when I don’t have a solid target. Is it strange that I am teaching kids to fight on screen? It says something about their resilience – they have learned to adjust the camera and type questions and say hi to classmates from 1500 miles away. They have learned to spar with people they never met face to fac...
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The Choice of Transformation

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๐ผ ๐‘“๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘›๐‘‘ ๐‘š๐‘ฆ ๐‘“๐‘–๐‘Ÿ๐‘’ ๐‘–๐‘› ๐‘Ž ๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘›๐‘‘๐‘ ๐‘ก๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ๐‘š. ๐ท๐‘œ๐‘›’๐‘ก ๐‘๐‘ข๐‘ก ๐‘š๐‘’ ๐‘œ๐‘› ๐‘Ž ๐‘๐‘’๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘ ๐‘ก๐‘Ž๐‘™. ๐ผ ๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘› ๐‘๐‘Ÿ๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘˜ ๐‘ ๐‘ก๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘’ ๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘กโ„Ž ๐‘š๐‘ฆ โ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘›๐‘‘๐‘ . ๐‘€๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘๐‘™๐‘’ ๐‘–๐‘  ๐‘ก๐‘œ๐‘œ ๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘™๐‘™๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘  ๐‘ก๐‘œ ๐‘๐‘œ๐‘Ÿ๐‘ก๐‘Ÿ๐‘Ž๐‘ฆ ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘’ โ„Ž๐‘ข๐‘š๐‘Ž๐‘› โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘ก. ๐ผ ๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘™๐‘™ ๐‘Ÿ๐‘ข๐‘› ๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘›๐‘‘ ๐‘ค๐‘–๐‘กโ„Ž ๐‘š๐‘ฆ ๐‘ ๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘™ ๐‘๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ๐‘’ ๐‘Ž๐‘›๐‘‘ ๐‘š๐‘ฆ ๐‘“๐‘Ž๐‘๐‘’ โ„Ž๐‘–๐‘‘๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘›. We all keep trying to return to the way it was. Aren’t you desperate? Desperate to drag yourself out of bed at 6 in the morning, to reteach your hardest classes and stare down the days that once had you questioning your profession to begin with? Haven’t-swept-the-floor-since-Pesach, sleeping-in-work-uniforms-because-by-G-d-I miss-it? Desperate to relive the beauty in the bottom of your third cup of coffee, and all the other things we all took for granted? It isn’t enough, just to go back to it. If we just return to the way it was, we lose the point in all of this. Take an Advil, and glory in the marvelous release from pain for a moment. Whe...
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Windstorm

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I had a dream the other night that explained my mind to me. In the absence of an answer I roam the streets at night, mourning all the things I miss. In the dream it was windy; I must have wandered as far as the river. I do that on occasion. But in this dream the wind picked up, and I laughed at the notion that it was strong enough to lift me. It’s an old childhood fear, being swept off by the wind. But it did grow strong enough, pulling my feet from beneath me. And even as I reached for the doorway of the nearest building – Chase Bank, if you must know it – even as my fingers brushed against the glass, I laughed at the adventure of it. This would make a clever story. But the wind picked up, sweeping broken beams and wreckage, and the Bank was sealed beneath the lockdown as everything else still is. The wind swept me sideways, one hand still gripping to the handle of the bank – black plastic – the other clinging to the cracks in concrete pavement. Holding on by my nails and the st...
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Sedalia

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This morning I missed a call from Sedalia. There is nothing in Sedalia, I only know it at all because I broke down there, when the train hit a stone. Sedalia is part of a story. It is a red-brick Amtrak kiosk and an hour on the tracks with $3 ketchup packets, and a wonderful view of the countryside. This morning I dreamed of Tempe. Of a house where I stayed for all of seven hours. Long enough to sleep, to run. To see Arizona’s deserts under a full sun, and a sky so blue it made me dizzy to look at. That was the day I left home. The day I put on corporate clothes and walked into an office with three suitcases and two backpacks beside my presentation, before flying from Phoenix to Philly at two in the morning. It’s funny how life works. Perhaps this is the great do-over everyone always asks for. The lamenting one does at the end of a lifetime, I should have done this-and-that, should have danced on that rooftop and looked into your eyes and eaten those chocolates with rum in the middle. ...
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