Most of the time, don’t talk to Jews about God. It’s, like, rude. Like talking about intimate private matters in a public space. Like asking people how much their annual income is. Gross or net. Don’t do it.
Each summer we pack up the minivan and drive 400+ miles to Lakewood, New Jersey, where my parents and siblings live, for our annual visit. As the years roll by, I notice the tenor of the visits changing.
This is a tough time of the year to be Jewish.
Colloquially known as “The Three Weeks,” this is the period of time on the Jewish calendar each summer when we commemorate the various stages of the destruction of the Temple by the Babylonians and later, the second Temple by the Romans, over 2000 years ago. The three weeks progress in intensity and are bookended by two fast days.
I don’t know how much longer we will be wearing masks, but I’m going to assume they’re here for the long-haul. So I finally went online and ordered myself a pretty cotton one on Etsy, instead of continuing to wear the disposable ones that somehow made me feel like maybe this is just a bad dream that is imminently going away. It seems the nine dollar investment into a “real” mask was an inner statement that this isn’t ending soon.
I’m used to being decisive. This is what’s for dinner, this is what I’m wearing today, here’s what I’m going to do right now. Which is why the current reality is so destabilizing for me.
In this lockdown, I’ve made a surprising discovery — I really, really like folding laundry.
I’ve been obsessed with minimalism for awhile now, but our recent inability to shop in person has fanned the flames of that crush into a roaring bonfire.