A Life That Transcended Limits

My grandfather, a”h, was niftar in Yerushalayim on Shushan Purim. He had just celebrated his 83^rd birthday a few days before, on zayin Adar, a birthday he shared with Moshe Rabbeinu.

Today and yesterday were not easy days—I cannot bring myself to comprehend that I will never again see his smiling face, that he will not be a part of my future. Yet, I cannot help but be grateful for the life he lived, the legacy he left. How can I reconcile my personal sadness with my thankfulness for having had the opportunity to know and love such a unique individual? Should my sense of loss be so great that I can feel nothing else? Somehow, I must be able to simultaneously experience both a profound, aching sadness for his absence--this tangible emptiness that fills me up--and a deep thankfulness for the ways in which he affected me, his entire family, and all those who were fortunate enough to meet him. Though his physical presence may be gone, he will live on in his children and grandchildren, in the things we learned from him and the things we will continue to learn from him as the years go by.

.…

Why is it that we only think to write about people once they are gone? There is no way to really capture a person on paper, but it feels more solid than anything else we’ve got. Memories fade—I think that’s the most frightening thing in the world. Stranger yet, memories shift. Without an actual presence, a true reminder, we remake people to fit the things we want to believe about them. We review certain moments and discard others; we turn real people into characters created in our minds. Writing does that, too. But if we write while the person is still real, is still present, we are less likely to fabricate, to tend toward inadvertent steamrollering, converting a three-dimensional person into merely a few facts or anecdotes on a sheet of paper. If the person is still around, he can critique your writing, he can laugh at the deficiencies and quirks of your portrayal; you can add and subtract from it, allow it to develop, as people do. But when someone is gone, it is too late to be completely truthful.

In the fall of 2007, I (briefly) took a class in writing creative non-fiction. On the second day of class, the teacher offhandedly assigned an exercise that he forgot about by the following week, and never asked us to turn in. The task was: write a paragraph beginning, “My grandfather is…”, and proceed to list, with specific detail, items, moments, and ideas that you associate with your relative. Yesterday I dug through the annals of Microsoft Word to find the paragraph I wrote then. It is far from a specimen of my finest writing; it does not come anywhere near close to doing justice to any part of who my Zayde was (“Was”? Using the past tense in conjunction with my grandfather, always so bursting with life, still seems completely incongruous). Yet I feel compelled to share it, as it was (sadly) the only piece of writing I composed about him during his lifetime.

"My Zayde is a lover of life. He is a brilliant nuclear physicist demonstrating bottle rockets to his grandkids in the park, eyes alight. He is mischievous, leading his four sons, the fifth and most excited boy of them all. He is a hike with my father on a mountain, as the sunlight filters, greenish, through the trees. He is a hard worker, sitting for hours poring over equations and sources, singlemindedly focused on his labors, then resurfacing for lunch with the glow of one who has truly earned a break. He is an author, corralling anyone and everyone to read a draft of one of his complex chapters, or to hear about the source for pi he has found in the Torah. When he was young, he was almost an astronaut; he retains the excitement of one who has seen beyond the limits of this world. He is an explorer’s broad-brimmed tan hat with a string hanging down below his chin. He is a ladies man, 80 years old, with an eye for a pretty woman and a flock of devoted female fans. He is a raunchy joke and a hearty laugh. He is a head full of gray hair that grew back after a battle with leukemia that left him just a little thinner, a little weaker. He is two thin, tanned, upraised hands, blessing his sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren Friday night on the Sabbath. My Zayde is a warm hug, as he murmurs into my hair, like a prayer of thanksgiving, “Oh, my darling, darling granddaughter.”'

An Awful Epiphany

Why do I write? What's the point? Really--what's the point? I'm actually asking.

It's a passion that has begun to consume me more and more--the desire to write, to paint scenes, emotions with words. Fiction remains the hardest medium for me. Personal essays (like some of the things I write on this blog) and, more recently, somewhat decent poetry are not as painful to produce. And I'm working on several short stories that may have potential.

Tonight I was confronted with a terrifying reality: my father, who has extensive experience with writing and publishing, read some of my recent work. He pronounced it surprisingly good. I asked him: what next? Write a novel, he said. I blanched. I can barely complete a short story--a novel is not going to happen anytime in the near future.

So I asked more insistently: how can I get my poems or short fiction published? He reluctantly imparted that, well, there is really very little to be done with such work. Other than The New Yorker and college literary journals, he said. there are very few venues for short stories and poetry.

The New Yorker is almost impossible to get into. Stern doesn't have a literary journal (another sore subject--don't even make me go into it, thinking about it makes me ill). And so I hit--smack--against a sinister, disillusionary wall. There is nowhere to go. All I can do is sit here.

So I ask again: why bother writing? Writing gives me pleasure, true, but I do not want my writing to be a nice hobby, something to occupy spare hours, documents to gather dust buried in computer folders, ever unseen. I want to reach out, I want to share. I want my writing to live.

I feel sick. My dreams trampled, spattered across the floor. My inspiration flees, whimpering, to hide in a cobwebbed corner. I churn out melodramatic metaphors with reckless abandon. I don't even care how badly written this post is. I'm flailing.

Why write?

There was a time when writing mattered, when dreams were attainable, when I felt safe in the knowledge that if I could produce decent work, it would eventually serve its purpose. I learned to believe this at a time in my life when many doors were opening. Subsequently, things changed, some of the doors began to swing closed, yet I held on tenaciously to the optimistic beliefs that a hopeful time had fostered, trying to stay true to the ideals I had learned.

But now I feel crushed. It was folly, foolishness, unforgivable naivete to believe that all I had to do was write. And now--I feel as though I dare not write, I dare not waste more precious hours in grueling, ecstatic labor only to produce work that will die unfulfilled.

Tonight, I am not a writer. Tonight, I am only a girl without a plan, without marketable skills, without a purpose. I have a headache. I quit.

Language Imprisoned

If you want to write, if you have an idea, let it build up inside you. Put nothing on paper; let it sit and simmer and reshape itself a hundred times in your head. A vague, wispy notion will be only as thin as the paper that holds it, but an idea full-grown, ripe to overripe, will fall into words with a ruddy glow, bursting with restrained energy. When you are ready to explode with the force of the unfulfilled idea, when its rounded corpus is too heavy to remain in immaterial thought, let language come, black type on white, painting a newborn world that emerges fully-formed, oozing with life.

So a writer once told me.

There is no denying the wisdom of this concept. Yet time and again I find I cannot follow this advice. My ideas arrive so fleeting that I feel I must immediately grasp hold and pull down with all my might to keep them from drifting away. A diaphanous thought on paper exists, at least, but a weak thought conceived and never born miscarries, and is as if it never was. So I toil at endless shards, beginning after beginning, piece after piece, little completed, nothing robust.

‘How can it be so difficult?’ you ask. Don’t scribble furiously in the notebook, don’t open the blank document and let your fingers fly. Simply refrain.

But are words so easy to muzzle? The secret you had resolved to keep utterly private, the unkind thing you were determined never to say aloud—these things fly from our tongues like bats disturbed in caves. Keeping silent when you want to speak, not expressing the things you wish so much to share—it is a supremely grueling task. The suppression of language is no mean feat. It is not merely a choice to remain passive—it is an active decision, one that often requires superhuman strength. Words tumble about in your head, rearranging themselves endlessly, beating against the sides of their cage, begging, crying to be freed. Only with intensity of purpose, with undiluted focus, can the words be kept inside.

Words of every medium yearn to be liberated, to live unfettered and dance in the space they exist to fill. But sometimes they must be quashed. It is a task often performed with a tear—but always with a greater goal in mind.

Where Am I?

At first it seems silence reigns, but standing still and patient I soon realize I am not alone. Creaks and rustles betray this place, seductive whispers spill trickling sadness, blending and swirling into echoes of hope.

I am surrounded by roads on every side, as different as they are plentiful.

Directly before me, short, lush grass, screaming green with the endless promise of spring, lapped with newly born sunshine, lies waiting to be tread upon—gently—by black flats accented aqua. My name is engraved on this path, cut into the dirt beneath the living sheaves, and it calls to me. I remind myself that I carved my name there, it did not appear of its own accord; soft earth does not generate its own letters. It took time to write myself into this path; the pen dragged slightly against the ground, which soon yielded to my determined pressure. Surely there is work to be done along this road; heavy stones to lift with mental acuity. The ones nearer to me are smaller, but I see that down the road they grow larger; as my muscles gain in strength so will my burdens. And along this path I see ghosts, transparent, looking at me expectantly. Some have slight lines of concern etched into their foreheads, some look confused but not disapproving—but most of them smile at me, encouraging. A few reach out with hands that, even in their milky whiteness, bespeak courage and wisdom. This path appeals to me. I am tempted not to turn my head, to walk straight onto this well-balanced road and never look back. It urges me on, telling me that therein lies happiness.

I am ready to move, I look down to go forward—and catch myself.

My feet are bare. I feel no cold, no discomfort, but my revealed skin reminds me that I cannot choose a path prepared before its time. I am no manufactured specimen. I do not yet wear the aqua-accented flats of my dreams. And so I turn my head.

To the right I see a road paved with small pebbles. Pansies grow at intervals along the sides of the path, and sometimes crop up between the stones. There are few obstacles along this path, and few rewards. The flowers look small and drab compared to the road’s expanse. Yet at the distant point where my eyes strain and give out, I see something that shimmers, elusive. I cannot make it out; I cannot even be sure it is there. This path waits for delicate ballet flats.

To my left is a flat road paved with paint. Red, blue, orange, green splashed along its length. My eyes dance with the colors. I laugh in delight. The sky reflects these bright hues, full of bold, fearless possibility. My eyes sparkle. But then I notice, creeping along the path, creatures of black with red tongues that pant. They are not malignant, these things, but they have desire—strong, hot, relentless. They have ambition, they have needs, and they haven’t time to think of who or what they will harm to fulfill them. One of the creatures smiles at me, and the smile is friendly, welcoming. It asks merely to be petted—nothing more—if only I will walk toward it in my crimson heels.

I shake my head to clear it of the gleaming grin, and with that movement the roads before me multiply. Suddenly I see that each one has offshoots, and offshoots of offshoots, variations into the infinite. I can take the grassy path toward a boulder too large to lift, before which a ghost of myself sits crying glassy tears. I can take it toward a tall specter who reaches out to me with longing but retreats ever farther as I come closer. I can take it to a place that turns in bright circles until I am dizzy. And then there is a point on the pebbled path that intersects with the grass, a clearing full of small ghosts who laugh at a butterfly. On one offshoot of the paint-splashed road a raised platform waits, beamed with clear light. Another piece of that brightest way ends in a ladder stretching upward without terminus.

I cannot process all the options, each unique, each demanding my full attention. My head is spinning, and so are my bare feet, and then, without warning, I am facing the road that lay behind me.

Yet it hardly should be called a road, it is so overgrown—tall bushes covered with brown leaves blocking the way, vines that twine around lampposts and stopsigns, small and large stones hefted to the side or sitting stolidly in the center, blue paint covered in red to make purple, and a lost patch of pink gerbera daises in the distance. A feeling of longing overcomes me. I want to plunge headlong into this messy path, returning to each point of familiarity, caressing the things I find there. But I discover that I cannot move. I am rooted to the spot, as before my eyes my bare feet are suddenly shod—by crocs and boots and sneakers and pumps and sandals and spike heels and platform heels and black flats and brown flats and flat shoes with bright stripes and a buckle. Each shoe flashes a moment and then is replaced by another, and the shoes on each of my feet never match. I almost topple over as my left foot abruptly bears a moccasin and my right a stiletto. In my head loud voices ring, I begin to crumple to the ground, I close my eyes and—

STOP.

With eyes still shut I turn carefully 180 degrees, facing again the sunny, grassy path. I open my eyes slowly, with trepidation, and breathe. I look down at my feet, and smile a shy smile.

I am wearing black flats, accented aqua and orange, magenta and chartreuse. They are comfortable, flexing with my arches, supporting my heels, leaving space for my toes. They feel natural on me—but innately I know they won’t let me relax for long. These shoes are made for walking, for exploring, for movement, for work. They are made to wander; they will never be satisfied.

Inside I feel a conflicted peace. I know now that I must not know. I close my eyes, and begin to spin around in place, faster and faster, so that the wind tugs at my long hair and my skirt billows in a ring.

Twirling still, I stretch out a groping foot—and blindly surge forward.

Call Me Margaret

I went to Central Park today, looking for inspiration. I hoped that the sunshine and the people and the leaves and the sky and the city at its best would help restore to me some of my lost excitement.

Waiting for the subway I scanned the crowd intently, reaching in my mind to describe each person, hoping that in words I would discover the bliss of successful connection to my surroundings. Yet everything I thought was trite, and not a single person sparked the avenue of a story.

Smashed together on the 6 Train, I eavesdropped and eavespeeked over the shoulders of the tall, duck faced women looking at pictures on a digital camera. Mother and daughter visiting the city, trying to capture it all, discussing the revelrous habits of their various friends. And shockingly enough, the pictures contained artistry, telling me that the woman who took them saw things, still life moments hidden in alleys, the kind that most people overlook entirely. There was something there, yet still I remained uninspired. I was listening out of habit, out of a sense of duty perhaps, but my overloaded soul couldn't feel the thrill of the involuntary window I peered through.

Out of the subway and walking toward the park, I stared down the avenues to the haven at their terminus, brightly-colored foliage growing ever closer as I approached it, framed by buildings and slanted in sunlight. Mimicking the women on the train, I took out my digital camera and attempted to capture the sight. With time and proper care I knew I could frame a perfect shot, lines and angles, colors and textures, blending to a harmony that would say something about that moment. But on the street with the people rushing by, with my backpack making me feel weighted down and awkward, with the fear of being condemned as a tourist, I was too much a coward to stop. I took pictures without pausing, and they did not give me what I sought.

In the park I walked down paths and up stairs, looking at the faces of the people for some who would match my own. None did. I looked at the trees. I looked at the ground. The ground was covered in leaves, huge expanses covered with thick carpet, and I walked across them and thought the words of a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, one of my favorite poets.

And after I wandered aimlessly around the meadow feeling alone until I chose a spot at random, and after I lay down on the grass and bent my head over my book, and after I didn't start a conversation with the two British guys who looked down as they walked by and said hello, and after I lost myself in my book for a while, and after I got too cold and decided to leave, I walked again through the worlds of wanwood and thought Gerard Manley Hopkins in my head.

And that is the only inspiration I found today. And it is a cold, backward sort; the kind that leaves me feeling lost. And here I am: but where?

Spring and Fall
to a young child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! As the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Of Violets and Light

I have just finished E.M. Forster's "A Room With a View." If you have not read it lately, I recommend that you do. It contains all that a book should: Truth, beauty, hope.

Sometimes, a book affects me this way. Making my breath come fast, my cheeks flush, my heart beat, merely from the truth and beauty of it. When I read a book that is truly successful, it touches me, in a physical way—with tears, with a tangible joy; a feeling of soaring, of extending somehow beyond myself, a strange and marvelous connection. It is not the plot that affects me thus—I never cry at the death of a character, rarely rejoice in a long-awaited reunion of lovers. It is the Truths behind the words—it is always the ideas—that affect me in this way. And this is the power of writing: the power of speaking to the soul, a power that is unique.

I dare not hope to harness such a power—this ability is bestowed on infinitely fewer mortals than live to see their names in print—but if I can channel even a small fraction of this gift, even just once in my life, I will have achieved something wonderful; I will have experienced a euphoria unintelligible to those who have never sought it.

In the meantime, I can only bask in the accomplishments of others, awestruck, benefiting immeasurably from their ability to somehow compress Truth and fit it between the slim and physical covers of a magically transcendent tool that I can hold in my hand.

Write Away

When I go through stressful times, or if I have something on my mind, often friends suggest that I write about my problems, venting onto a piece of paper (or word document, as the case may be), and I often do. The problem is that doing so only causes me to think about my troubles more. So another friend suggested that, since I want to be a writer (however futile I may feel it sometimes), I write my frustrations into fiction, temporarily forgetting reality and channeling my feelings into a world of my own creation. I always assumed that this was advice I couldn’t take. When I’m frustrated, I’d respond, I can’t write. And besides, I’ve never been able to escape into writing--it’s just not something I know how to do.

Until now, that is. Almost entirely inadvertently, I’ve found out what it feels like to lose myself in my writing, to be consumed by it. Last night, I decided to try something new. I was inspired to attempt a writing style that is extremely ambitious and different than my norm. For once, instead of waiting ‘til the urge passed, as I usually do (because I am lazy or decide that I should be focusing on dull school essays instead), I went with the instinct and started to write. And wrote and wrote. I had to come up for air occasionally, pacing around my room (or rather, taking the two steps between my desk and the door repeatedly—my room isn’t exactly spacious) and reminding myself of the world I’m really in. But then I’d submerge myself again, back into my writing.

When I stopped, I had only written two single-spaced pages, not a tremendous output for several hours of work—but those pages are so different than anything I’ve ever written that I’m proud. They very well may be lousy, and probably are, but they represent a step outside of my comfort zone and a pursuit of my passion.

Then, the whole rest of the evening, night, and now morning I have been distracted by thoughts of my story—words to change, things to add, where to take it next. My real life issues seem far away, in the background, while only my story occupies the forefront of my mind. And I think that’s amazing! If I learn how to channel this skill, not only will I be able to worry less about the things that trouble me, but I will also end up writing a lot more. And that is important, because it’s going to take a huge amount of practice and discipline if I ever want to get good at this.

A Teacher, A Friend

This post is dedicated to Dr. Lana Schwebel, A"H
(For background, see this, and this extremely moving post by Erachet)

I am an English major. English has always been my subject, and I have always excelled in it. I used to walk into an English class confident that I would do well, that the teacher would see my work and immediately approve. And this was always the case—until Dr. Schwebel’s class. She was the first English professor who truly challenged me without making me resentful. While other teachers would occasionally find fault with something I wrote, I usually felt the criticism to be subjective and nitpicky. Dr. Schwebel asked more of me than anyone else ever had---and the most difficult part was that I knew her criticism was justified. She could simultaneously laud my writing style and point out inexcusable errors in my analysis. Though I was sometimes frustrated, I knew she was right, and she got me to push myself in a way that no other teacher had.

I didn’t know her well—I was only her student for a single semester. Yet, in a way I knew her intimately. Twice a week for over four months I listened to her, watched her, noted her funky wardrobe. In every day of her class her unique personality shone through. She made Beowulf relevant. She compared Shakespeare and Donne to modern day love ballads. She was the only person I ever met who could use the word “oogy” and still sound intelligent. She was one of the most brilliant teachers I have ever had, yet she never condescended or talked over our heads. Her passion for what she taught was unmatched. Her passion for life was astounding. She was one of the most vibrant, zany people I have ever had the privilege of knowing.

And she was so nice. She was always up for a chat, if only to exchange a few words after class. I would hang back when class ended, even if I had nothing to say, just to hear her speak to my friend (who also worshipped her). When I had a question about how to improve my essay, I knew I could write her an email and expect a lengthy response within a day. At her Survey of English Lit I final, when I couldn't think of an answer, one I knew I knew, I asked her about it, and she was so sympathetic to my memory block, yet utterly refused to give me any hint. I couldn’t come up with the answer, but I did well on the final anyway. A few weeks after school ended, after I had seen my grade in her class (and been pleasantly shocked), I wrote her to ask about my final essay. I wanted to know what she thought of it, since I had written more drafts for it than any other essay I had ever composed—and because I had done so in a fervent attempt to meet her incredibly high standards. She responded with an amazingly detailed breakdown of everything that was done well, as well as what could be improved in my paper. Her suggestions were typically insightful, and her praise generous. Her appreciation for what I had written meant that much more to me because of the hard work I had put in to deserve it.

The tragedy of her passing has hurt and confused me. How could this happen? I wasn’t done learning from her. And still, I am not done learning from her. Remembering her, I know I will push myself harder and expect more from myself than I did before. Those lucky enough to have had an instructor like her will understand how a teacher who has pushed you to improve really feels like a friend. The impact she has had on my life will reach far beyond the single semester I was privileged to know her.

Poetry and Procrastination

My inclination for procrastination has been mentioned in this forum numerous times before. Tonight, in the midst of finals, in manifests itself in the urge to post on my semi-neglected blog. The problem, however, is that I haven’t decided on a topic about which to post. Hmm. I think I shall write a poem…

Finals time comes twice each year
And suddenly Stern girls appear
Laden with notebooks and textbooks and more
Dressed in sweatshirts and skirts to the floor
To sit in the library, the hallway, their rooms
And take a break from seeking out grooms
To read over notes and pore over tomes
With occasional shrieks, exclamations, and groans
But I find my strategy far more compelling
Even though my mind on tests should be dwelling
I instead surf the web, make lists of things to do
Feed cravings with sugar, and observe what ensues
Distract my roommates with accents and antics
Sing random songs till I’ve turned my friends frantic
When they get fed up, I make use of my phone
And good ol’ google chat means I’m never alone
But when I start to think about cleaning my room
I know that I’m desperate, so I put down the broom
I can put off no longer, the time is now here
The time that I’ve so long awaited with fear
With head hanging low I realize with sorrow
It’s two am, and my final is tomorrow
I sit myself down, prop eyes open with hooks
And finally think about hitting the books
But it never lasts long, cuz my head soon starts falling
I know that sound well: it’s my warm, soft bed calling
And when morning arrives I jolt out of sleep
To find I hit snooze seven times and heard nary a beep!
So now I’ve awoken an hour later than planned
I dress, daven, and dash, notes in my hand
I arrive out of breath, and plop down in my chair
Take out my pencil, pull back my hair
But before I begin, in my customary way,
I talk to myself, and this is what I say:
You shall now take this test, and though it shall be graded
Worry not, cuz you know A’s are way overrated!

Why I Don't Read Holocaust Books

I am spoiled.

I have lived a perfect life, a life entirely free from intense suffering. Sure, I have known people—young people, good people—who have suffered from terrible diseases, from impossible hardship. But these people have not been the people closest to me, so these tragedies have not touched me in the most personal way. My faith is strong—but who am I to talk, I whose faith has never been tested?

Don’t get me wrong, I am not asking for a test. I’m not asking for a tragedy, chas v’shalom. But I fear. I have lived a life without trial, yet I am imperfect. If, given every gift that Hashem can possibly offer, I still am unable to serve Him perfectly (in fact, far from it), where would I be if something terrible happened?

And that’s where the Holocaust books come in. My whole life, I never read any (with the exception of Elie Wiesel’s Night, which I had to read for school). My philosophy, right or wrong, has always been: why make yourself sad on purpose? Besides, I am extremely squeamish, and the details of Holocaust tales have always been too much for me to handle.

Now, a junior in college, one of my classes has required me to read a book called The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million by Daniel Mendelsohn. The author tells his own tale, a man searching for the stories of six of his ancestors who were killed by the Nazis. He travels from the Ukraine, to Australia, to Israel, seeking out his history. His saga is interspersed with comparisons to stories in Sefer Bereishit, as elucidated by Rashi and a modern commentator named Friedman. The author himself is not Orthodox—he was brought up vaguely Reform, and although since then he has ‘discovered’ much of his heritage, the impression I have gotten is that he still takes a secular approach to the validity of the Torah. The book is long, 500 pages, and I am only halfway through. Though it is slow reading, I have, for the most part, enjoyed its intricate rambling and frequent keen insights.

But reading about some of the horrors of the Holocaust, and only just the horrors that occurred to the population of a tiny town called Bolechow, has also frightened me immensely. Reading the book for long periods of time, I feel sucked into a world I am afraid of. The way that Hashem allowed people, Jewish people, religious people, to be treated makes me forget, momentarily, that He is just. When I hear that the Rabbis suffered most—how a Rabbi, his eyes cut out, was forced to dance naked with a woman for the officers’ amusement, I wonder—how? Why?

Yes, I had heard about the evils of the Holocaust before. I had heard of the slaughter, but rarely in such vivid detail. Six million is not just a number. Six million are people, each with an individual story. When I hear the story of a single death I am sickened—multiply that horror by six million, and what happens? I cannot even fathom it.

And that, that is why I do not read Holocaust books. Because yes, it is important to be aware of our history. Yes, it is bad to close your eyes to reality. But I am not as strong as I should be. Hashem has not tested my faith, He has not put me in their shoes. Maybe, in a tough situation, I’d find my hidden strength. I’d like to think I would. But their tests are not mine, and reading about them will not make them mine—it will only confuse me.

As a close friend said, “I’d rather not shred myself up into little tiny pieces just to see if the pieces can come back together when I close the book.”

The Sunny Side of a Rainy Day

With finals finally behind me, I am home once again, and, as usual, a little bored. Today it is rainy and stormy and pouring and gray...which doesn't really help improve the state of one's spirits. But as I sat here bemoaning the uncooperative weather, I remembered something I wrote for an assignment back in ninth grade, so long ago. I went back to my files and looked it up, and since it cheered me up, I figured I would share it with you, in hopes that it might also help anyone else experiencing the rainy day blues.

So here it is, my descriptive paragraph of days of yore:

There is nothing that gives me more of a sense of comfort than a rainy day. The rhythmic patter of the rain on the roof has a hypnotic quality. Sitting in front of a blazing fire, I feel its warmth as the flames make patterns on the wall. They are shadows, leaping up and down in a harmonious, never-ending dance. I hold a steaming cup of hot chocolate in my hands, and as I sip it, my tongue is filled with the taste of its warm, rich, sweetness. I swallow, and it soothes and calms me. I sit curled up on the sofa, and pick up a good book. I eagerly turn the pages, and as I lose myself in tales of strange lands and people I will never meet, I know that I am free from harm, safe and secure, warm in my house. Outside, the rain gets harder and beats mercilessly against the windowpanes. But it does not affect me because I am sheltered, protected, comfortable. The sound of the rain does not wane, and soon I can no longer keep my eyes open. As I fall asleep, a deep sense of satisfaction and happiness envelops me. Home is bliss, on a cold, rainy winter’s day.

Enjoy the rainy day, everyone!

Miscellany...

A friend remarked to me today that my blog looks incredibly frum--every post so far has been about something purely God-related. So, in order to bust that impression, I am now writing a post of a different sort. Actually, that's not why I'm writing this--I would love to have a supershtark blog. But I'm in a bit of a mood, so I decided to just talk a little, and let some of my often-strange personality shine through in an all-new blog post of randomness.

I am currently working on a short story for my creative writing class (as I have been and will be for the rest of the semester--my crazy teacher assigns a new story every week). I am having particular trouble with this one though. I have started about five different stories, but have yet to come up with an actual plot line for any of them. One of my various beginnings has even developed into the majority of a story, except that I am still lacking an ending. The only problem now is that a story without a good ending is not a story. It is a pet peeve of mine to read stories by amateurs which, though they may contain vivid description and characterization, often end in a vague or abrupt manner. Come on Dude, where's my ending? I want resolution! I want a feeling of completion, of satisfaction! I want a pint of ice cream! (Ok, I won't insist that you provide that last part.) I definitely relate to the temptation to trail off with a vague "And no one has heard of him since" or "And then she saw it, and knew that she would never be the same" or "He heard a thud, followed by a silence as eerie as the ending of this story" but I know that I do my readers a disservice if I don't provide them with a concrete, well thought out ending. So I keep thinking, and I keep coming up with new plot twists to lengthen the story, but still no clever conclusion crosses my cranium (I like alliteration, btw). Ah well, there is no rest for the striving artist.

I guess I just need to relax a little, to get the creative juices flowing...for some reason I feel like I didn't breathe much today. Though that might have had something to do with the dress I was wearing. True Story: I was sitting at my computer a few hours after I woke up, when I suddenly started getting sharp pains in my lower ribs. I thought it was rather weird, and didn't know what was going on--but then I figured it out. I untied the sash of the funky brown dress I was wearing and *poof* the pain disappeared and I found myself able to breathe again. Yeah, I know, how dumb am I? But really it was strange because I hadn't even tied it that tightly! Makes me really feel bad for my olden-day sisters--I can't even imagine what it was like to wear a corset. Ouch.

Last random thing: I was typing an email about how an engaged friend of my family is going to a fitting for her wedding dress and I looked up and realized that I had capitalized the word Wedding. As a grammar geek, I believe that the way we use words reveals a lot about who we are. It occurred to me that my typo accurately reflects the importance that all things marriage-related assume for an (almost) twenty year old girl in today's Orthodox Jewish society. But I really can justify having weddings (or Weddings) on the brain--my ex-roommate just got engaged yesterday. Mazal Tov!

Alright, time to call it quits for the evening. Over and out!