“Let the old year and its curses end; let the new year and its blessings begin” (Babylonian Talmud).
Hocking Hills State Park. Home to beautiful scenery, zip lines, horseback riding, canoeing, and Old Man’s Cave hiking. Not many Jews out there, unless they’re visiting.
The other day my daughter sent me an Instagram post that featured an “influencer” (I think this means someone who likes skin care) posting about the weather. I know, what could be more banal than the weather, but I guess when you’re an influencer even the weather becomes witty and trending.
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.