limited expression of eternal pain

There he was, standing in all of his glory, smiling, a caftan wrapped around his neck like a tallis, the rebbe smiling at him, basking in the light of his holy sefarim that he, in the truest sense of the word, owns. Then he is gone. His soul no longer rests in his body, it lays lifeless, the loss too huge for anyone to grasp. The shock overwhelms, the pain sets in deep, there are no words for comfort, no words to express the intense sorrow, only tears. Tears that come from an abyss, a black hole that never seems to end, but flows and flows without stopping, no end in sight to the pain, the sadness, the grief. Denial, the body tenses up, the thoughts overwhelm and the mind goes blank there is no way to heal. The light has left the room. We can see no longer. The guiding light that shone so bright has dimmed in this world, but has moved to higher spheres, spheres that don't need external light, but that shine eternally. It is not real, the loss is not real, it is all a joke, a cruel joke, he is still here, amongst us, breathing, smiling, laughing, waiting to walk up his front steps and kiss his children hello. What happens when we lose, we feel empty, like we have been drained of our energy, lifeless....no matter how many times we hear, it cannot be believed, that a loving, adoring, holy, intensely kind, sympathetic, giving, deep and brilliant father, son, husband, friend, rebbi could be taken from this world in such a short notice, and what of the broken children, being left fatherless, and the mother, without her other half. Hashem we don't understand Your ways, we don't understand the pain we go through, we don’t understand when you take holy souls from this world to the next. When will our suffering end, when will we see You revealed only through happy times. Let us peek at Your tapestry so we can lessen our pain, so we can see your holy plan, so we can feel a release from some of our sorrow to live another tomorrow and be able to grow and throw up our hands and say we see Your goodness and can dwell in peacefulness to make right what is amiss in our world that you created amidst the bliss of nothingness and continue to give life and allowing our souls to express the gift that You placed into it and shift when the wheel starts to turn and yearn for the redemption to come so we can be one with You and our nation can be whole to put the pieces back together to fulfill our role and fill the gaping hole that separates us from You and the holy souls that you tore from this world like a sore that wont heal bring us back together in a home soft like feathers that can break our fall when the pain hits us hard like a dart in the heart that pierces straight through with a start without warning that its coming to tear us apart, Hashem heal.

I know His Name

He calls himself Charlie. G-d planted him in the subway car that I was in yesterday; He planted him about two feet away from me. I watched him, a smile forming in my mind and playing on my lips, as he talked to himself, muttered comments, and sang a little niggun with no care that people were watching. I looked around to see what other people were thinking and the look on their faces said with partial amusement and exasperation, "Another nameless crazy person with no where to go that we have to deal with after a hard days work," but I know better.

I know he has a name
I know that he lives in Crown Heights
I know that the Rebbe was very fond of him
I know that he makes people smile
I know that people that know him, love him
I know he was created in G-D's image
I know that he has a unique mission in life

I see a G-dly soul, who was put into a body and position in life that is not mainstream, trying to fulfill its mission and bring joy to the world.

But, all they see is a white man, with a unkempt white beard, big plastic rimmed glasses, wearing a pair of jean overalls with a white shirt underneath, his tzitzis flying in and out of his jeans, a large round yarmulka perched atop his head with an array of pins strategically placed around it and a slew of shopping bags filled with who knows what, muttering and singing to himself.

If they think he is crazy and I know better, then who's to say that people who look crazy to me actually matter to someone, and have a name and a place they call home.

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I ran into Charlie again today in my neighborhood, the upper west side. I saw him as I was walking home and I heard him say to someone happy Chanukah. Being that I was only a few feet away from him I called to him, "Freilichin Purim" to which he responded, "Purim is coming up, it is still the time of Chanukah."

I walked with Charlie down the street as he explained to me how he came up with that calculation, quoting the Rebbe. As he talked I was in my own head smiling to myself in amusement over his words thinking, "here he goes." I caught myself treating him without due dignity and gave myself a metaphorical splash of cold water on my face, saying, "Raizel, if you were thinking just yesterday that he is a person with a soul, someone to respect, then listen to what he has to say!" So I listened, even though I still didn't quite understand what he was saying.

He proceeded to inquire as to who I was, he asked me my name and where I was from. When I explained I was from Seattle, he said with excitement and another one of his big, warm smiles, "Oh! Welcome to New York, our playground," and when I told him what I was studying he said, "This city subsists on psychologists, your in the right place." He knows what he is talking about.

He went into shul to daven, and I continued home with a big smile on my face and a warm feeling in my heart. As I strolled down the street I couldn't help myself from smiling, and I thought, people probably are perceiving me as a little weird. Who smiles to themselves? A frown, a scowl or a sulking face, thats normal, but to smile to yourself while walking down the street, that is a warning bell.

Who is the crazy one now?

I Live in the Projects

I stroll through the wide pathway, the looming, identical brick buildings threaten to engulf me, a tall, green gate guarding the rusty dumpsters, I hear little kids using four-letter words I never even heard until I was at least 15 years old, I pass two gangsta’s talking about someone getting canned and their rap sheet, an 11 year-old boy asks my friend to have sex with him, the same homeless, pregnant woman shuffles around day after day with her shopping cart filled with her belongings and in the empty park on a cold, blustery day, two men exchange drugs with a flick of the wrist.

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I live in the projects, there are no two ways about it, and every time I mention it to someone they ask me if I am frightened to be living in such a place. On some level there is definitely an underlying fear and I am aware that I must be cautious. However, there is something unreal and almost special about being able to watch a world that is so foreign to me. Amongst all of its vulgarity there is a world that is full of trust, love and a strong sense of community. I watch the little children playing in the park, their parents not around, but their neighbors are watching. I see the guys hanging out by the entrance, they aren’t just bumming around they are the watch guards of their home. I see the older people walking around in the morning, greeting the people that clean their streets, talking to them with respect and care.

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The other day I was walking down the street with a few people (who were all from New York) and we passed by a group of black people standing around and talking. As we were passing, a guy, probably in his mid-20’s looking like your average gangsta’ low-riding pants and all, asked, “Excuse me, do any of you have a tissue?” As I stopped to respond, the thought that this was a ploy to mug me crossed my mind, but I shoved it out of my head, “have a little faith,” I told myself. So, I opened my purse, pulled out my tissue and gave it to him. He promptly gangsta’ shuffled over to a little girl of about 4 and wiped her nose ever so gently. It was so sweet. The people I was with had not stopped or even acknowledged the man’s question, they had just ignored him. When we had walked away, one of them remarked, “That was really brave of you.”

Brave, shmave, I was just doing a decent thing. They probably, like I had, thought he was going to mug them. But I have learned that humans aren’t always so rough, and even when they are, often it is just a façade.

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Tonight I heard yelling and my thoughts went immediately to gang fights, but when I looked out my window I saw a bunch of guys playing a makeshift game of football in the frigid weather at 11:30 pm.

This is where they live. This is their home. They are people too, with fears, challenges, a mother and father, siblings they love this place that they call home.

But I am not familiar with their version of a home, I grew up in my own home, not in government housing, I grew up with a green backyard, not an alley with a garbage dump, I grew up knowing I will always have a warm place to sleep and food on the table, I never had to wonder where my next meal was coming from, I know that I will be respected in the world, they know that they may have to fight for respect.

What do I know of them?

Nothing.

Just my prejudices, my biases, the stigma that I have attached to them, the lies I have been told, and information gathered from movies I have watched.

Nothing.

Nothing real, nothing of their true lives,

Nothing of their fears and aspirations,

Nothing of their trials and joys,

Nothing of their families or friends, nothing.

Their lives are totally foreign to me, and for that I cannot judge.

Making Room for Others

Last semester I encountered a professor who I did not particularly respect, he was annoying, talked super fast and jumped around from topic to topic when he taught, which was difficult since it was a history class. Normally, I would have just switched classes but this was part of the core and I had to take it. The first half of the semester I just tuned him out, was bored and felt aggravated at his inability to teach, but then mid-terms came around and I had no idea how I was going to study. I ended up having to teach myself 3,000 years of history, which proved to be extremely time consuming and I ended up getting a B- on the midterm because I was not prepared. I made a quick calculation and realized that if I wanted to get an A in the class I had to change something and it had to start with me.
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I decided to give the teacher another chance and try and focus on his positive traits, so I walked into class, sat down, focused and vigorously took notes to keep up with his speed. Much to my surprise, I began to realize that this professor was actually very smart, knew what he was talking about and throughout the days a very clear picture of history began forming in my mind. Needless to say, it was an extremely humbling experience for me.

By the end of the semester, I had gained a lot of knowledge, not just of history, but of the human condition and that sometimes all you need to do is step outside of yourself and look to the positive in others, trust in them and they will deliver.

Curly or straight, does it really matter?

Last week I straightened my hair. In my au natural state I am as curly as can be, so every once in a while I like a change, I like to be able to run my fingers through my hair (without getting stuck), I like to be able to go without the gooey feeling of product in my hair and I like the light feeling on my head.

So I straightened my hair and as usual I received a lot of compliments and shocked faces from people who have never seen me in straight hair before. I was reveling in my glorious straight hair, a sophisticated, older look, that to me is more glamorous. And then came Shabbos and it was time to wash my hair before it started to drip oil. I was disappointed, I was feeling so good and care-free with my straight hair, I had an unusual spring of security and confidence in my step. I almost didn’t want to go back to my curls. But cleanliness rules, so (not to worry) I did take a shower.

But a bizarre thing occurred; my curls did not rejuvenate like they usually do when I drench them with water. Most of my hair sprung back into place but there was a chunk of hair on the front left side that was mostly straight with a slight indent (that some may call a wave). I was horrified. My friends tried to reassure me saying, “don’t worry, wash your hair again and it will spring back.” I tried to believe them on the surface level, but deep inside I knew the truth and it was painful; I had killed my hair with the iron and I was going to have to wait for my hair to grow out to get my curls back again.

The past couple of days I have gone through a mourning period of denial, anger, acceptance and rebuilding. It really has been a deeply altering experience, after all, this is my hair we are talking about! This is often how people are able to pick me out of a crowd. It is a fundamental aspect of who I am! My precious curls!

Tonight I was sitting at my kitchen table and I was reading about the existence of mankind in a book by Rabbi David Aaron, “The Secret Life of G-D,” and how our existence is not completely necessary, but rather we exist solely because G-D chose to and continues to create us, and then it got me thinking about my existence in general and then without further notice a light bulb turned on and I had an epiphany: my hair does not define my existence, my soul does.

The way I act, my confidence, my real value is not contingent on whether my hair is straight or curly, its origin comes from a more lasting source. It comes from a deep rooted core called the soul, our divine source, which is the root of our confidence. It is our soul that is created in a Godly image, which makes us unique, invaluable and indispensable. Hair or any physical aspect of ourselves is just an external representation of our unique soul, just a physical reminder that each person is truly an individual.

The fact that we are a Godly soul is what dictates our true value.

Nothing more and nothing less.

Still Singing

I woke up this morning and my soul is still singing.

The feeling is still here.

The music is still playing.

I am still soaring.

My smile still stretching from ear to ear.

And now, I want to take on the world, one positive action at a time.

I don't want to play the victim anymore, no more, "why is this happening", or "how could this happen," it is time for action.

It is time to truly trust in Hashem.

It is time to tap into the music of my soul and understand my mission.

It is time to take the music, GO and DO.

It is time to start life.

Music of My Soul

I went to shiur tonight that has been going on for 25 years, merely 16 blocks from my apartment. The wisdom and sparks of light that have been filling that room for 25 years, are only now coming to rest in my soul.

From the moment I sat down on that hard, wooden bench, I felt the energy of truth and sincerity that only comes from a place so real that it cannot be dismissed. When we finished my heart was singing out in jubilation and my soul felt like exploding from the power of the truth, like something swelling deep within that needs to be released.

What a contrast to my night of emptiness just last week.

The missing link has been found.

I have discovered truth.

I was right, you know truth when you see it.

The words I heard resonated with the inner music of my soul.

It is a feeling of euphoria, my ecstasy knows no bounds and tears spring from my eyes in an expression of love and connectedness.

It is about unifying my soul with the world and tapping back into the source of my holiness.

My soul is soaring high and I dont want to come down.

As I heard tonight, I have to tap into the music of my soul so that everything I do becomes musical and uplifts myself and my sorroundings.

Every encounter can bring light, can prevail over the darkness.

I feel energized, rejuvenated, uplifted and inspired and most importantly the music of my soul is becoming a little louder and clearer, breaking through the barriers and exposing its light.