Sunday, July 19, 2015

A Blog Post

I like breathing, something about it makes me feel alive.  And I feel that way about writing as well.  Sometimes I write just for me, therapeutically.  But more often than not writing implies reading.  Like everyone who doesn't merely write- but is a writer in their bones, I write to be read.

My maternal grandfather would speak of years that he spent being raised by his grandparents, being that he was the oldest and that his father had preceded the family to America.  His grandfather was a disciple of the Kosover Rebbe and he recalled going to him regularly. He would also say that whatever Torah he knew he knew from that time.  People think I must mean Sosov, but Kosov was a real and important historical, Chassidic place.

It's the summertime and it's heatwave days.  Feeling like a hundred, the weathermen say.  And I've been home, mostly, today, writing.  Thinking.

Friends, family, connections, values, honesty, sharing, trust, physical/emotional/mental health, G-d, religion, Torah, thought, Torah Thought, games, psychology, listening, helping, running away, reaching out: These are some of the things I'm thinking about.


We don't have to teach ourselves to cry, we just have to give ourselves permission. - Erica Brown, In the Narrow Places, page 80

What does the quote above bring to mind for you?


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