And in the wake of this Shabbat dinner, and many subsequent conversations and learnings, I slowly changed and became all but unrecognizable to my parents. The next time I came home, I had a nose ring, was flirting with veganism. I wore clogs most of the time, and had an internship with a liberal-Zionist non-profit. I talked incessantly about feminism, and egalitarianism, about a different kind of Israel– did you know, I would ask my parents, I don’t have to make a choice anymore between halacha, traditional Judaism, and my identity as a woman? I can have it all! Did you know, there are feminist lenses through which we can read the Torah? Did you know it was indeed possible to care about both Israelis and Palestinians? Had they heard of the Two-State Solution? There was talk, eventually, of rabbinical school and not wearing shoes at my wedding.

And then I remember that parents aren’t perfect, and parents are often mysteries unto themselves and not always as steady as we imagine or need them to be. That parents are learning how to be parents as they are in the thick of raising us. And hopefully you’re doing the best you can. But I bet you’re exhausted, and scared, and heartbroken knowing that you can’t keep us safe, not really. And I think about all those Midrashim that describe you arguing with the angels about us. Standing up for our existence, insisting that the world needs us imperfect people. That the world as you intended could not exist without us– I am but dust and ashes, and for me the whole world was created. That the Torah was written for us exactly as we are. Because the Torah isn’t a document about perfection, it is a text and a story and a tradition about persistence and resilience. About seeing the possibility and potential in ourselves and our world. It’s about acknowledging and sitting in what Parker Palmer calls the Tragic Gap. That great distance between what the world can be and what it is. That great distance between who we can be and who we are. Isn’t that what today is all about? Not necessarily collapsing the gap, but seeing it, internalizing it, and taking one small step toward shrinking it. For us, but also for you.

On August 18, 1969, the final day of the Woodstock Music Festival, Joni Mitchell made her national television debut on the Dick Cavett show. She was interviewed in a circle with the members of Jefferson Airplane, and Steven Stills and David Crosby, who had come to the studio straight from their set at Woodstock. Steven Stills proudly holds his leg up to the camera and shows us his ankles, his jeans still covered in the sacred mud from Bethel.

About a month ago, Joseph and I decided to forego our smartphones. So we made a somewhat impulsive decision, packed up Elisheva, Tziporah, my brother Coby, and took a family trip to the Spectrum store. After convincing the salesperson that we really did want the lowest tech phone they offered; after explaining that we wanted to be more present, and less distracted, that we felt like our phones were stealing away our peace, she relented, and fumbled to help us through this wild transition.

The house that I grew up in was magical in two ways. Items from our house would regularly go missing, disappear completely, without a trace. And for every item that disappeared, another object would appear as if out of thin air, to take its place. And more often than not, these random items would find their way to my room, and would take up residence on my bookcase, or hanging in my closet, or perched just so on the top of my dresser. Their arrival, so inconspicuous that it had the effect of convincing me that these objects had been there all along. And what I learned at some later point was that my mother had been leaving gifts for me throughout the years. Dropping small mementos and sentimental items into my room, into my life. A way of connecting, of giving some part of her to me, passing something down. A way of planting herself in my life– like a bird building a nest, collecting rocks, and sticks, and beautiful leaves to build a home for her chicks. And one of these gifts, that I’ll never forget, was a small wooden music box that played the theme music from the 1970 film, Love Story.

If I could choose one image, one metaphor to capture the singular challenge of living through this year, it would be Ernst Hoffmeister’s Rotor, the beloved carnival ride that uses centripetal force to fling its passengers to the wall of a rapidly-spinning cylinder, all while the floor drops out from beneath the rider’s feet.

Pesach has always been a both/and holiday– springy and hopeful, yet honest and vulnerable. And this Pesach is no exception. I know that many of us are thinking about the unique quality of Passover this year– about how so much sorrow is hiding just beneath the joy and the warmth. I know some of you looked forward to Seders as a sort of refuge from the brokenness of the world.

There is a song from the King and I that my mom and I used to sing together. Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune, so no one will suspect I’m afraid.

We loved that song. I still do, and it seems to be playing in my mind a lot these days. I love it because it’s a song about courage, and what it sometimes takes for us to believe that we have it. And lately, I’ve been reaching for this song because in its sweet, nostalgic way, it helps me feel just a little bit more in control. That my fear or worry is temporary, that I may be as brave as I make believe I am.

And I remember the din of shiva– hearing pieces of conversations happening around me, apart from me– from my low and lonely perch on the couch in the middle of the living room. It was overwhelming, and something about the chatter felt wrong, misplaced, inappropriate. In fact, Rabbi Yochanan teaches that comforters are not permitted to say a word until the mourners open conversation. And Rav Pappa says that the merit of attending a house of mourning lies in maintaining silence.

For Didion, writing is a passageway, not an escape or a way out, but a way through. Not a denial, but an honest confrontation with her pain. For Didion, the work, the labor of writing, of putting something so true and so vulnerable down on paper, of giving voice to the depth and complexity of her grief– that is where the healing lives.

This song has the magical power to propel me backwards and forwards. The words somehow send me back in time, back down into the cavern of my grief after losing my mom; make me feel all the usual feelings and ask all of those irrationally human questions we ask after a loss: what if we had more time? What if I had been better able to appreciate our relationship, and how deep her love for my brother and me really ran? If I had been kinder, more patient, more connected– would my grief feel different? Somehow easier, more manageable?

When you step into the rotunda of the Country Music Hall of Fame, if you look up, you’ll notice five words that call out like a simultaneous indictment and invitation: Will the Circle be Unbroken? First written in 1907 by Ada R. Habershon, reworked by A.P Carter in 1935, and finally immortalized by the NItty Gritty Dirt Band in 1971, these words have lived many lives, have witnessed many different versions of themselves.

I was brought up to love Israel. The youth group I belonged to, Bnei Akiva, is affiliated with the national religious Zionist movement in Israel. The summer camp I grew up in, Moshava, part of that lineage, too– the themes of each summer, more often than not, centered around the values of building and protecting a Jewish homeland. I will never forget summer 2005, when the focus of our eight weeks up in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, was the disengagement from Gaza. We wore neon orange ribbons all summer long, to show our support for, stand in solidarity with, and mourn alongside the Jews who were being forced to leave their homes in Gaza

The last several weeks have been very strange weather-wise. Many of us are struggling with our allergies; we can’t quite figure out what to wear; is it time to put the winter clothes away or not? It feels like we’ve been in a simultaneous and ongoing state of beginnings and endings. Winter, blending into spring, blending back into winter and so on.

So many of my favorite memories happened in the dark. Chasing fireflies in the summer, bounding out of the house to look for the three stars that would mark the end of Shabbat. Driving around aimlessly with friends in high school, wondering where the road and the night might take us. 

This week, I had the privilege to spend four days in St. Louis, learning, connecting, and visioning with my Conservative Movement friends and colleagues at the Rabbinical Assembly convention. We spent our time studying Jewish text, singing and davening together, dreaming about the future of our movement, brainstorming, listening, and mourning the losses that our movement suffered during two years of pandemic.

I went to vote yesterday. It was a gorgeous day, and I was heartened by the lines. By the number of people who were eager to cast their ballot early. People excited and committed to exercising their civic duty. Folks eager to help determine the political fate of our Commonwealth and the nation. But as pleasantly surprised as I was by the turnout and the beautiful weather, I was also on edge. Because it occurred to me that this election might very well be the most consequential in my lifetime.