Impostor

I am an impostor.

I play the part.
Act the part.
I try to be the part.

But it is not me.

I sit when I need to go.
I crawl when I need to run.
I keep silent when I need to scream.

I am an impostor.

I say I'm okay when I'm not.
I eat when I'm not hungry.
And refrain when I am starving.

I get scared by things you wouldn't think of.
Yet I can kill a bug with my hand,
when everyone else runs screaming.

I am an impostor.

I do so much for you.
But for myself,
I do nothing at all.

I would never tell you when I am scared.
I do not want to appear weak.
I do not want you to have that power over me.

I am an impostor.

You offer me your hand.
I say no at all costs.
Even if this pit is too deep even for me.

I lie to you, and to myself.
I say I can do it.
When I know that I cannot.

I am an impostor.

I hate to need you.
But I hate even more
When I need you but will never admit it.

I am an impostor.

I grit my teeth and do it, when I say I can.
Because I cannot admit to you
that I can't.

Somehow everyone has learned it.
But these skills evade me.
And so I must pretend, at all costs.

I am an impostor.

I can go on pretending, faking it.
Maybe I'll convince you.
Maybe one day I'll convince me too.

Am I an impostor because I try to be
the person who I think I should be,
who everyone expects me to be?

But inside
I am an impostor.
And maybe
I will never be
the "real" me.

Accidental

I came upon it quite by accident.
I think it was something I was not meant to see.
But now that I've discovered the mystery,
maybe it was already destined to be.

A name is not something we choose,
it is something given by our parents.
Accidental? I would not call it.
Rather, divine providence.

A wrong turn might be accidental,
at least it may seem that way.
But few accidents in this world do occur,
on any given day.

I talk and it seems like you don't listen,
yet you can repeat my words back to me.
Sometimes I don't know why I bother,
when things don't turn out perfectly.

They say it takes two to tango,
but I like flying solo better.
Independent I've always been,
I'm not sure how this has occurred.

Accidental is a funny word,
kids use it to say "I'm sorry".
Sometimes sorry won't cut it.
Even if you feel badly.

I came upon it quite by accident,
I could not explain to you how.
Maybe, just maybe it was meant to be.
I think I'll hold on to it, at least for now.

Timing

Timing is everything. Ask the person who missed his flight only to later hear that it crashed, with no survivors.

Or the person who stayed home sick on 9-11, instead of going to work at the twin towers.

Sometimes, most times, we never find out why things turn out the way they do. It is rare that we are aware of a car swerving and missing us by a second, or a tree branch falling right after we walk by. These little things are miracles that we may never know about. It is called nature. And that is why we say that everything that happens is Hashgacha Pratis. Divine providence. Because even if we don't know why things happen, G-d always does.

I left my apartment for the sole purpose of walking down the block to give someone something. I saw my friend across the street whom I haven't seen in a long time. Random occurrence? I think not.

I leave my house every day at approximately the same time. I generally don't notice people around me. In the morning I usually listen to music as I walk. But somehow I noticed a mother walking her child to camp. He was wearing the bright orange t-shirt from the day camp that my brothers went to as kids. And that was it.

Then I noticed her the next day. And the day after that. I wondered if she ever noticed me too. It seemed like I could sort of measure my time by her. We passed the same corner at pretty much the same time every day.

And then the other day, I didn't see her. For a few blocks. And then there she was. Was I early? Was she late? I don't know. I find it interesting that you can measure things by time. And routine.

I see the same orange car parked in the same spot every day. And the same yellow car. Sometimes I notice the same people whom I saw pass by the day before. I see the same mother waiting with her two daughters for the bus every day.

Routine. I used to think it was synonymous with boring, and predictable. But now, it is familiar and comfortable. I like being on time, I like having a schedule, I like the fact that people are expecting me to show up and do a good job.

Maybe one day I will say hi to the lady walking her son to camp. Maybe we will become friends of sorts.

And maybe I will remain a silent observer, watching things around me occur seemingly on their own. But I will look up and wink, cuz I will know who is making it all happen.

"Home"

Things I like about being 'home':

1) REAL INTERNET!

2) How cute it is to find cut up pieces of shnitzel in the fridge, a high-chair, a stroller, kids toys. It's the take-over of the niece! She is so cute ka''h poo poo poo and it's nice having a kid around again.

3) The mess is not my mess.

4) Air conditioners.

5) Having a car to use. I missed driving.

6) The quiet. But not too quiet, if you know what I mean.

7) Convenience. Food, laundry, other people around. The first thing I did when I got here was pop my head into my sister's room and say, "honey, I'm hooome!" Now, she screamed at me to 'get out' and some other not nice stuff. But hey it's my family and I only got one.

8) It is nice to 'get away' from the city.

9) I'm taking off work tomorrow! Nice relaxing day to shop and chill.

10) WALMART!!!

I am 'home' for Shabbat. Hope y'all have a good one.

Sorry, wrong train

For anyone familiar with the New York Subway system, particularly in Crown Heights, you would know the difference between the 3 and the 4 trains.

The 3 train stops right outside 770, in the heart of Crown Heights, while the 4 train is an express train, it does not stop there, and it goes all the way to Schenectady, which is convenient for us Jews who do not live in a 'prime location'.

I would always take the 4 train to get home. It is more modern than the 3, it is express and it takes me closer to my house. The 3 also goes to that stop, but it takes longer to get there.

Now that my family has moved, and myself as well, I take the 3 train to get home, cuz the 4 train does not stop where I need to get off.

Sometimes people switch from the 3 to the 4 or vice versa, if they need the express or local train. I was on the 3 train and the 4 train was right there across the platform. Had I still lived in my old house I would have ran across the platform to get it. Or I would have already been on it. But the 3 train was what I needed.

How many times do we look at the 'goyishe velt' (secular world) and want what is out there, or desire to act or dress like them, or be like them? How many times have you stayed up late when you knew you should go to sleep early? How many times have you eaten candy when you know junk food is not good for you? (If you answered 'no' to all of the above, then congratulations, you are a tzaddik).

Many times in life we look out instead of looking in. The Frierdike Rebbe said, "It is better to be on the outside looking in, than on the inside looking out."

We have to say, what is not for me is not for me. It may be okay for someone else, but it is not good enough for me. Don't sit here with the guise of a frum person, while craving things that are not allowed. Rather, look inward, look towards your religion for the answers, because that is where you will find them.

I stayed on the 3 train, because that was the train I needed to take me to my destination. And the 4 train? I let it pass me by because after all, it will not take me where I need to go.

Really?

I don't like rude people. I don't like walking into a store and being treated badly. I don't think anyone does.

Today I went into two stores and had two very different experiences. One, a very pleasant one, and the other not so much.

Bath and body works caught my eye as I was leaving the mall so I decided to stop and see if there was anything I liked. They were all so friendly to me, offering me free samples of lotion, asking me if I needed assistence, or a shopping bag. I could tell it was genuine. I picked out a few items and when the cashier was ringing up my purchases he made sure to tell me that I could get a few more items and it would make everything cheaper. 3 for $10, 5 for $5. Yes, I ended up spending more than I initially planned, but I left the store with a smile on my face, and quite happy with my purchases.

The second store was a frum store in Crown Heights. I am not trying to bad-mouth Crown Heights, or make generalizations in any way. But in my opinion, it seems that frum people think they can get away with being rude and unmannerly, solely because they are frum. Whoever said frum people don't need manners? I was always taught to be polite and respectful.

I walked into a store to buy candy. I had $3.00 to spend. (Yes that sounds like a child, but that way you only buy 3 dollars worth of candy, as opposed to whatever you have in your wallet.) I looked around trying to decide what to get. My friend pointed to a sign that said there was a sale on organic candies. "Wow they are so cheap, only 89 cents." I took a closer look. No, that can't be right. The sign is wrong. Upon closer inspection this is what it said: (And ya I can take pictures now from my super cool phone.)

$.089. That does not mean 89 cents. For anyone who knows math, it means 8 cents, or rather 9 cents if you round it up. So I thought, hey an opportunity to make a statement and play a joke.

I walked up to the counter with the candy ready to pay and said to the cashier, this is 8 cents. She said no it's 89 cents. I said look at the sign. She looks and says, it's a mistake. (And yes looking at it now I see it says 'not responsible for typographical errors'. It's a good thing they put that disclaimer.) She said wait I'll get my manager.

By this time my friends were laughing and saying really, you are not gonna let this go? But I was having too much fun.

The 'manager' comes. (It's in quotes cuz I'm not sure he was really the manager.) He says what is the problem. I explain to him that the sign says 8 cents, and he should give me the candy for 8 cents. I thought he would recognize the joke for what it was. He says, it was a mistake. I said if this was Target they would have given it to me for 8 cents. (They advertise right when you walk into the store that if there is an error in price they will give it to you for the lower price.) He says, and I quote, "I thought you were smarter than that."

I'm thinking, that's rude, and you don't know me. He tells me he's not giving it to me for 8 cents, and maybe I can make a hobby of this. (And he had the nerve to try to tell me that .089 was not even a number and meant it was zero. ME. I know my math. If it was .0089 then yes he would have a point.) He said good night. And that was it.

I walk out of the store annoyed. I didn't buy anything. I hadn't wanted the candy in the first place, I was just trying to make a point, and thought it would get a good laugh. But some people can't take a joke.

If you were the manager, how would you have reacted? I figure he could have humored me and given it for 8 cents. It's only an 81 cent difference. Or he could have politely said, sorry ma'am that was our mistake, but we can't give it to you for that price. Anything, other than sarcastically telling me I am 'smarter than that'. There is a way to talk to a customer, and then there is not.

It just strikes me in general the professional demeanor found in the 'secular world', and the lack of it here in the frum community. It bothers me a lot. I like and would rather shop at non-Jewish stores, even go out of my way because I feel more comfortable there, more like a person, and treated much nicer.

And like I said, maybe I am generalizing though I am trying not to. But 'frum' should not be synonymous with 'rude' and 'do whatever you want because we are protected by our frumkeit'.

Cynical?

So cynical
so critical
so involved with all the physical.

So practical
pragmatical
no need for all political.

UN-typical.
So logical.
Me, no I'm not hypocritical.

It's comical
YOU
so distrustful
fanatical.

I'm quizzical
analytical
you are just stereotypical.

Question?
No that was rhetorical.
You talk and it's all just nonsensical.

You don't believe in magical.
No room for hypothetical.
so cold and clinical. Mechanical.

So egotistical
think you are the pinnacle
of everything epical.

Your ideals are so radical
to the point of diabolical.
Scheduled, never erratical.

Me? I may be skeptical
even cynical
and critical.

But hey at least my brain is vertical
symmetrical.
AND grammatical.

Never whimsical
Unequivocal.
No need for the illogical.

Don't need your vocals.
Unethical
Heretical.

You are after all physical.
Typical.
Degradable.

Talking statistical?
Or mystical?
Anthropological?

Cynical-
it is reciprocal
almost satirical.

You can be rabbinical
and I'll just keep my cynical.
at least I am juridical.

Ironical.

Family picture

We used to take a family picture every year to send to my grandparents. Not a professional picture, my mother didn't believe in those. She said we should all look natural. No, it was the sit-outside-on-the--steps-and-jostle-till-we-are-all-sitting kind of picture, and we had a neighbor snap a few pics. They usually came out nice.

I was going through a box and I found one. From my old old old old house. We were all so little. My youngest brother was a baby.

It was a moment frozen in time. The house in the background is not there anymore, We are all grown up and gone our separate ways, we have 3 new additions to our family now.

But the picture, that moment will remain forever.

I smile and slip it into my pocket. Cuz this is one memory I want to keep.

Someone's watching

Recently an inspector came to camp. Everyone was forewarned. Do not speak to the inspector. Be on your best behavior. Tell the camp director if he shows up. Needless to say everyone was on edge and nervous. If we failed inspection they could shut down the camp.

I was in the hallway and a bunk was walking down the hall in a line. One kid was walking in a zigzag and not properly aligned with the rest of the bunk. Another child turned to him and said, "you have to walk nicely the inspector's here!" To which the first child replied, "ya but the inspector is not watching us right now."

Hearing that made me smile. And it made me think. Are we only on our best behavior when the 'inspector' is watching? Are we lax in our observance of the mitzvos when we forget that Someone above is watching our every move?

Maybe we should have an inspector in camp every day. It makes people step up their game. Everyone is aware that they are being observed and it insures that they work in their best capacity.

But then people would become immune to it and it would mean nothing.

Are we so immune to G-d and His Torah and our purpose in this world that it takes a visitor from an 'inspector', G-d forbid a tragedy or disaster for us to step up to the plate and do what we are supposed to
do?

The 'inspector' is always watching. G-d is there in the morning when we wake up and at night when we go to sleep. He is there when we do something good and when we mess up terribly. He is always there and He is always watching.

We must make sure to 'walk in a straight line' always and not just when we remember that Someone is watching us.

Thank G-d we passed inspection. May we all 'pass the ultimate inspection' and greet Moshiach speedily in our days.

Empty

I walk inside and the ac hits me hard after the broiling day outside. I just want to stay inside and chill all day. But I dont live here anymore. I dont have a bed here or clothes or a toothbrush. There is no food in the fridge. The cabinets are empty. The walls are bare. There is nothing left, no way to prove that we once lived here.

It is so empty. The floor creaks under my feet. It always creaked. But now it just sounds so hollow.

The floor is littered with stuff. Garbage, stuff we don't need or want. Im not sure if I want to go upstairs. It looks so different, so devoid of US. I don't want to cry because well, big girls don't cry. And I keep saying how I dont care, I have no attachment to this place, it means nothing to me. But it means something.

I can see my little brothers on the computer playing games and watching movies. I can see my mama sitting at the kitchen table at 2 am talking to me while drinking her tea. I can see myself making pop corn. My niece scooting across the floor. My brother's wine fridge. I can see my father walking through the door after a long day of work. And my sister coming in with groceries. I can see my mom's friend stopping by to say hi. I see the grape juice stains on the walls from our food fight on pesach. Backyard barbecues.

I see it all. And it means something to me. More than I thought it would.

There is so much dust and I can't stop sneezing. I walk through the house slowly, a little creeped out being there by myself. I know that no one is going to jump out at me and say boo. But it feels weird nevertheless.

I find two boxes of my stuff. Stuff I didn't know existed. There's a booklet of cards my classmates made me when I was 6. A picture of me and my little sister, I look to be around 5. A book I wrote for a book report when I was 10. Poetry I wrote. Everything. It is my memories, my mementos, it is ME.

There is a quilt my grandmother made me when I was born. She sewed my name and birthday onto it. It is as old as me. I don't remember seeing it before. I found my mom's wedding dress. She thought she threw it out.

I call home cuz I am confused. Why was all this left behind? My family is not very organized. They packed and ran. No one realized that all this important stuff was left behind. And yes it is important. It's important to me.

They are busy. No one wants to deal with this right now, on a Friday afternoon hours before shabbos. I hang up, and I stand there, unsure of what to do next.

And then I cry.

Somehow I dial my friend's number, and she picks up in a happy cheery mood. I blubber on the phone and she doesn't understand what I'm saying. So she tells me she's coming over. Cuz that's what friend's do. I wait, I go upstairs, I look around and I feel lost. This is not my house anymore. Now it belongs to someone else.

My friend comes and we spend 2 hours going through my boxes, looking around the basement, trying to figure out who all this stuff belongs to. I am scared that if I don't rescue it now, it'll get thrown out. And no one seems to care.

But it is Friday after all, and I have to go. Shabbos is coming.

I will go back Motzei Shabbos to finish packing whatever I can. But the clock is ticking. Soon, soon we will hand over the key for the final time. And that will be it.

I feel like my childhood is finally over. I moved 4 times with my parents, and now I'm done. Even though I only lived in this house for like 5 years, those were the last 5 years of my childhood, the last time I will have lived at home. I am an adult now, I am on my own.

And as I walk through that door for the last time, I feel like I am saying goodbye to more than just a house. I am saying goodbye to my childhood, to a big chapter of my life.

And I feel so empty inside.

A million miles away

Isn't it ironic that you can be physically close to someone, and yet millions of miles apart?

What's your name, girl what's your number

What is a name? A way to refer to someone? Does it have any meaning? Is a nickname more meaningful than a given name if it is the one used most? Is a name a personal thing, or a separate entity from the person?

It's funny how I deal with campers names all day in the office, and yet I have no idea who these kids are. Once in awhile I will discover that this face matches that name and then it will be an 'aha' moment, like I know you. But do I really know you just because I know your name?

It is a common question when meeting a new acquaintance to play 'Jewish Geography' and ask 'do you know so-and-so?'. Sometimes I will say, yes I know her, I've heard her name before. Or, she was in my grade in elementary school, I'm sure if I looked in the year book I'd recognize her, ya I know her name.

But do I really know her? Not at all.

Sometimes I find it strange when a total stranger calls me by name. When I answer the phone in the office I think that my name is irrelevant, so I only give it out when asked for it. And to hear it on the lips of a stranger- well it kind of feels like my name is a personal item of mine, and you can only use it with permission. So why are you using it when I don't really know you and haven't given you permission to enter my 'space' yet?

A name is something close to my heart. I feel that my name is unique, and it makes me who I am. I try to refrain from calling people by name unless they are a friend of mine or someone I know well. That is not to say that I am rude or refer to people as 'yo'. But to use a stranger's name feels weird to me.

I have a hard time remembering names. Maybe because it is so impersonal to me. I've heard that a good way to remember someone's name is when they introduce their self you look and them and say, 'hello ________ (fill in name here.) It is so nice to meet you.' That way, you are from the start connecting this name to this person, and the next time you see them you should be able to remember their name.

Try it. Let me know if it works.

So when you ask me my name and I tell it to you and you say "hello Altie nice to meet you", there may be a second where I pause and wonder, how do you know my name and why are you saying it like it is so familiar to you?

Maybe one day I will remember your name too. And when I say it, it won't feel so strange. And maybe it'll actually mean something to me.

In the meantime, hello stranger #1, stranger #2, yo, and you, and whatsyourface, and heyyouoverthere, and personwiththemostcommonnameicaneverrememberit. It is so nice to meet you.

A little birdy in the concrete

Have you left your footprint on the world? This little birdy did. He walked right through that wet cement, and his little birdy feet will forever be embedded on the pavement.

Isn't it cute when you see a baby's footprint on the sidewalk? You wonder who that little child is who didn't know better and walked where they weren't supposed to.

What if you could really leave something of yourself behind? Physical things don't last. One day everything will crumble and burn, even those side walks with the footprints left behind.

So what will you leave of yourself for the world to remember you by? Will they remember you at all?

I look at those birdy prints and I think how funny. But where is that birdy now? I wonder, does his feet still have bits of cement stuck to them?

I don't think I have made an impact on the world. On a list of 'what can I do to make a difference in the world' people might list: solve world hunger, make a medical discovery, win a Nobel prize, discover a cure for cancer, etc. I have done none of the above, nor do I care to.

I do not need my name on everyone's lips, I do not need my picture in the newspaper, I do not need to be recognized wherever I go. I do not need to be publicly acknowledged for anything, though it might feel nice.

I want to do something that I will know in my heart that I made a difference, that G-d will know, and the people who matter will know.

When I figure it out, I guess I will jump on that bandwagon.

In the meantime, I will ponder where that little birdy has wandered off to.

Frustration

I squeeze it in my hands tightly,
deforming it, misshaping it.

The company that made it would not recognize it.
They wouldn't want it back.

It is not worth the plastic it is made of,
nor of the drink it contains.

Shaken and stirred, all bubbles gone,
it is not fit to be sold, nor to be drunk.

I clench my fists
pass it from hand to hand.

I wish to throw it far.
As far as it may go.

I want it to hit something.
I want to hear a thud.

I want to squeeze it until it is no more,
and hurl it into oblivion.

I want to be rid of this
and I want it to be gone from me.

And somehow when I get home I realize
it is still clenched in my hand.

So tight, it has made an indent on my palm.
I cannot throw it.
I cannot hurl it.
I cannot destroy it.

So I clench my teeth
I twist it some more hoping that it will explode
before I do.

Fresh air, green grass, and all the cuteness you can take

It's a cute little house. I stress the word 'little'. I don't see how they can fit in here. From the outside it looks like a doll house. Seriously.

It's weird seeing all our furniture in a new place, like it doesn't really belong here. I keep referring to home as the house in Crown Heights. This place, well it's not home to me. And soon 'my house' will have new occupants.

It's funny to see how each one adapts to a new environment. This one is cooking, it's like her natural habitat. I get nervous in chaos, I can't cook unless everything is organized and neatly in its place. But she goes straight to the kitchen and cooks up a storm for Shabbos.

This one is straightening her hair. One brother is hogging my niece. I say hogging cuz he won't let me hold her. I finally got some quality time with her and pushed her on the swing. I think it'll be nice for my mother to be near them now.

My baby brother is wandering around like he's lost. I thing everyone is a bit unsettled, and unsure of what to do. I wonder how long it'll take to get everything unpacked.

This place is smaller than we're used to. Everything is just smaller in size. The bathroom is tiny. But it's a nice place. Plus, since we are renting it they won't necessarily stay long-term. I mean c'mon, we cannot break our "no more than 5 years in one house" rule. That'll be blasphemy.

One day my parents (or rather my mother) plan on living in a motor home and driving around the country. She thinks it'll be easier to see all of her married kids and grandkids that way.

So far three neighbors have brought over welcoming cakes. I think it's so nice. In Crown Heights I doubt anyone would have noticed if we moved in next-door to them.

I like the fresh air. It is pleasant and much easier to breath in than the city air. And it is naturally cooler here. And there are trees. And even though the houses are not so spaced apart, it feels more spaced out than the city. And more private. We have a little front garden that is blocked from the street by hedges.

When I was little if we were in a fight we would say to one another: "get off my property." I don't think we really knew what the word property meant. But we knew it insinuated, this is mine and not yours, and since we are in a fight you can't be here.

This is my property. Well, not mine per se, but it is nice to have an open backyard with dirt and trees and an old swing set.

The house is right across the street from the fire station and the hatzalah. My family claims the siren in the fire station is really loud. Though I for one don't mind noise.

I don't see my parents ever 'settling down', though this is a nice temporary abode.

I made it here for Shabbos, despite a mishap with the bus. I am looking forward to sleeping and relaxing and enjoying the fresh air, and more importantly, bonding with my niece and getting her to smile at me rather than regarding me as a stranger.

Have a good Shabbos everyone!

The Munchies

How do I somehow manage to mess up so many things in one week? Is there something wrong with me? I always felt that despite everything, communication is the key. And yet somehow the more i talk the more i ruin things. So should i stop talking?

There are swirl patterns on the floor moving closer towards me. But the second i try to step on one it moves away. Sand on the floor? What the heck?

My voice sounds extremely loud even to my own ears. WHY AM I SHOUTING? I try lowering the volume but it doesnt work.

Im laughing so hard but Im not sure about what.

My eye lids are heavy, my throat hurts, my eyes are tiny slits.

And when i get home, everything is exactly as i left it.

So what changed? Nothing much. Besides for me buying out the whole junk food section of the grocery store.

And i may have fewer friends than i used to have.

So all in all- a very productive week.

Now can I cry?

The details were vague, and I wasn't sure I understood it properly. First I thought that they were a camp in the same building as us. Then I heard they had gone swimming in our building that day. They passed me by on the stairs. Maybe I saw him.

Missing. That word can mean so many things. So I mumbled a prayer and thought, how relieved everyone will be when they find him safe and sound.

Except that's not what happened.

I got into the car this morning. Two of the counselors told me they had been out all night aiding in the search for the missing boy. I thought, that is nice of them, and I briefly wondered if there were any updates. Then the head counselor shook his head and said, 'Boruch Dayan Haemes. They found his body.'

I was shocked. The details kept pouring in, the rumors were flying, everyone was passing around information, and I wanted to cry. Can I cry? This tragedy has touched so many people, way beyond the immediate family members. Because Leiby is a Jew, he is family to us all.

I have no words to express my anger and hatred for the sick man who did this to him. The question WHY???? has no answer.

They are going to have someone talking to the campers about safety. We were told it is very important to not say that 'this is what G-d wanted.' HOW can you justify that to a child, let alone yourself?

I am still in shock, I wish we could turn back the clock and stop that horrible thing from happening. It makes no sense to me.

We are one in this tragedy, united, one heart and one soul. And when one soul is hurt, we all bleed. I think tonight everyone will be bleeding tears, and praying for a speedy redemption from this horrible Golus.

Leiby, I hope you are praying for us. May you rest in peace.

Baby please don't go, when I wake up tomorrow will you still be here

You called to ask me if I was okay, cuz I didn't come home for dinner tonight. I told you, of course I'm okay. I made, my own dinner. I'm living on my own now. I'm pretty sure girls living on their own are not supposed to come home for dinner.

I laugh because you started packing on motzei shabbos and you think you will be moving by Wednesday. I scoff, and yet I don't help. I watch, I observe. The house is getting packed around me and still I don't believe it.

Are you okay? Everyone keeps asking me that. Of course I'm okay. I'm not even moving with them. Why would it bother me. All I have to do is pack up my few boxes and make sure it gets sent with them and that it has a place in the new house. And sure I'll go visit for shabbos. I've moved four times in my life, 5 now that I have my own place. And I'm not going with them, so really, I'm fine.

Are you okay? Well let's see, tomorrow is moving day. So if I forget to go home for dinner tomorrow night, will they leave without saying goodbye? Will I show up to do my laundry and the house will be dark and empty, and locked for the first time? Will there be a big 'sold' sign out front, and no one around? Will they just forget about me cuz I am not going with them?

Are you okay? I ask myself that. And I'm not sure. For the first time in my life, I will be truly on my own. If I forget to buy food for dinner, I will starve. If I forget to do laundry, I will have no clean clothes. If I fall apart and never leave my room, no one will ever know. I made my friend promise me she won't let that happen to me.

Am I okay? I think I'm okay. I say I'm okay. I try to be okay. But I think I am not as okay as I'd like to think. And that scares me more than i care to admit.

The beginning of the end

There is no light at the end of the tunnel.
No fork in the road.
No distinguishing sign at all.

Just me.
And the wilderness.
In all its fine glory.

The dirt path stretches on.
No end in sight.
Nothing to break up the monotony.

No bear jumps out.
No lion roars.
No leaf flutters.

In the silence I wonder aloud.
What comes next.
Where does this road lead.

Do I want to find out?
Can I turn back now?
Or is there no turning back.

No refund.
No exchange.
I am stuck.

My only choice
is to do
the only thing I've ever known how.

And so I pick up the match.
And destroy.

The dirt road
it is no more.

Musings

Why is there no one out? It's only 10:30 PM. Okay granted, it's summertime, everyone is probably in the country. But only 3 people out this time of night? Weird.

No people, no cars. This place is creepy.

What am I gonna do when my family moves? Ya I know people here who I can eat by, but still it's easier and more convenient to just go home. Am I gonna go to Monsey every shabbos? Is that even considered my 'home'? When I tell people I am going to Monsey for shabbos and they say, who do you know there, I will say my parents. Which leads to more questions.

So where is my 'home' now? This is not home, this is a temporary abode until I find a better place. And then maybe that will be a temporary place. So when do you actually settle down and call a place 'home'?

Seriously, where are all the people?

Why is there a bus parked in someone's driveway? Do they own it? Can you even own a bus?

These streets are crazy, why do they do so much construction? Are they actually doing anything, or just trying to make traffic horrible and give the workers something to do? So many bumps and cracks.

Fudge! Just stepped into a puddle. My foot it all wet. Oy. Looking down at the ground, making sure there are no more puddles.

Still nobody, it's like a ghost town.

Not looking where I'm going. Oh no, watch out for that... tree!

Precious

She had an L for a nose, exes for hands, her hair was kind of stringy and it looked like she was going bald. Her feet looked like potatoes. Her head was disproportional to her body.

The sign said "mommys awfiss" on it. It was just the cutest thing that only a child could make.

So what does it mean to YOU?

I'm sitting here on the floor. Literally. I'm so tired I can't move. I'm hungry but too lazy to make dinner. I'm happy that I didn't have to take care of kids all day. No, I sat in the office and worked on the computer, watching the counselors shepherd around their herd. Okay, I also ran to and fro setting stuff up for camp. It was a lot of work and it's still not all done. But not having to deal with kids all day- I call that a good job.

I need to go shopping, I need to toivel some dishes, I need help bringing something over from my house, I need to do laundry. I have to do all of this on my own. I want to give in to self-pity, I really do. But for some reason I can't. I'm better than that. So I sit here on the floor and don't do anything I have to do. Great.

Today is Gimel Tamuz. If you were to ask me what that means to me I'd say, well firstly it is my little brother's birthday. He turned 14 today. He is not so little anymore. But he is still my baby :)

Gimel Tamuz is such a conflicting Yom Tov. Ask ten different people and you'll get ten different answers. Some people would not dare to mention the Rebbe's "histalkus". I don't know what they think happened on Gimel Tamuz, but apparently the Rebbe never left. Then I ask, so why do you go to the ohel? What is there? They have no answer.

Sometimes it makes no sense to me how people talk about the Rebbe, or rather lack of talking. People beat around the bush, they mumble, they tell themselves whatever they have to in order to keep on going. And those are only the quiet ones. Then you have the ones who throw benches, who beat up grown men, who besmirch the Rebbe's holy name, and all in the spirit of what they claim is right.

Do you say yechi? Do you not say yechi? Are you meshichist? Are you anti? Are you a closeted mishichist? Do you wave a yellow flag? And on and on.

It is all so stupid. What's it any of your business what anyone else does. I say live and let live. And when people fight, especially claiming it's in the name of the Rebbe, I am pretty sure it makes the Rebbe sad, not proud.

What does Gimel Tamuz mean to me? I don't know. I walk down the street and see signs that say, make a hachlata for Gimel Tamuz- get a mashpia. Well, I already have a mashpia, she just never answers her phone. Hey, at least I could check that off on my shidduch resume.

When it boils down to it, to me it is all on the inside. I can't explain it to you because it is a feeling. Yes, I can learn the Rebbe's teachings, I can follow his horaos and hope that in that way I can make a difference, or connect to the Rebbe, or fulfill my spiritual "duty".

And admittedly, I don't even do any of that. So does that make me a 'bad' person? Or not a chossid of the Rebbe? I'd hope not. And then again, who are you to tell me whether or not I am a chossid? That is up to the Rebbe.

Someone asked me if I'm going to go to the ohel tonight. My response: "well it is going to be so packed....". That may not be a reason to not go. But I like going at night when it is secluded and I can feel like I am actually having a private moment, without being pushed or shoved or feeling like people are staring at me.

What does Gimel Tamuz mean to me? It means that despite everything we've been through in the past 17 years, we are still standing. We are still going strong. It means that even though there are 'tznius' problems, and people hurting each other, we are still Chabad, and as well known as Coca Cola. It means that the wellsprings have finally spread out to the farthest corners of the Earth. It means that I see a black hat and I think, my people.

Where was I 17 years ago? For awhile I was confused about that. We moved to Crown Heights when I was 3. Gimel Tamuz happened when I was 4. So where did that whole year go? Then I figured it out. The Rebbe was sick and not in 770. My mother tells me I got a dollar when I wasa  baby. But I don't remember.

To me, the Rebbe 'lives' in a video machine. He is alive on the pages of a sicha. He is in 770, he is at the ohel, he is inside of me, and next to me, and surrounding me. I go to the ohel and sometimes I cry. Sometimes my eyes are blurred ad I can't even read my pan. I don't usually read my pan, I figured the Rebbe knows what I have to say. He knows me better than I know myself. Sometimes I feel like I am made of glass, like I am see-through and the Rebbe sees it all. You can't hide it from him.

If the Rebbe were here with us, would I be running to farbrengins? Waiting on line every Sunday for a dollar? Dressing and acting more tznius and being aware of my behavior? I'd like to think so. But I don't know how it would be.

You can say whatever you want about Gimel Tamuz. But make no mistake. The Rebbe is very much alive. He is not just a picture on your wall. He is not just a possession, 'my Rebbe', he is not just a very well-known 'holy man from Brooklyn'.

My relationship with the Rebbe is 'complicated'. People say you have to work on your relationship, you have to put in effort and maintain it. While that may be true, the connection is always there. The Rebbe doesn't get 'insulted' if you don't write. I believe that the Rebbe knows who I am, and that he cares about me, the way only a Rebbe could. And I know that even if I don't go, and even if I don't write, and even if I don't learn- I know that my Rebbe isnt going anywhere.

So what does Gimel Tamuz mean to me? It means everything. It means a heart and soul connection that can never be broken.

It means that I am proud to be Lubavitch, that my connection to the Rebbe is only my business. That you don't need to understand it, just feel it. And it means that you can never take that connection away from me.

"You can take a girl out of 'Lubavitch', but you can't take Lubavitch out of the girl."

Happy spiritual Gimel Tamuz.