Books were the magic of my youth. No matter how rocky the waters outside their pages, I could always find the solace of hope within them.
Books whispered to me, "What's to come needn't be a continuation of what is."
I grew up. I built a life so full of inspiration I didn't need it from stories anymore.
I read less and less.
[ read more & enter to win a copy of my first novel;
for still another chance to win, click here ]
I’m going to be a superhero.
I learned quickly that many adults didn’t consider this a valid answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
That didn’t mean I stopped dreaming about it, or planning the glory days to come with my just-younger sister. It only meant I stopped telling adults about it, and learned to throw them off the scent with an ever-changing sequence of what I thought might be good day jobs.
[ read more ]
This Christmas, Silver Star struck again!
Not his tricycle, but he tries riding it anyway
As a lover of words, I’m fascinated by my son’s growing ability to manipulate them.
Most of the time, new words and ideas trickle out of him. Sometimes, though, they come in a flood that bowls me right over.
This morning started out ordinary enough. Li’l D offered up one of his books and asked me to read it. He snuggled against me and messed with the book’s hidden text flaps while I read.
Afterward, he left his room and met “Daddy” in the hallway. “Whewhenade, Daddy!” he said, before taking a step toward the kitchen.
He’d barely finished speaking when he froze and whirled. “Stay here, Daddy!” he commanded.
Daddy stayed put, but that wasn’t good enough. Li’l D pushed him back toward the bedrooms and commanded even more loudly, “Stay here, Daddy!”
I made Li’l D a small breakfast, following which he emerged into the living room and gaped at the mess of toys strewn on its opposite side.
“Mommy, who took the toys out?!” he asked.
Daddy, now permitted in his proximity, answered, “You did, last night!” I echoed the sentiment, which Li’l D rejected.
“Who took the toys out?” he repeated.
[ read more ]
This Hanukkah will be my third as a mother and my second as a Jew.
Before I converted, I strove to observe Shabbat and the High Holy Days but pretty much ignored Hanukkah. It was just a minor folk holiday, after all!
Last year, my son, Li’l D, was barely a year old as Hanukkah approached. He was too young to appreciate it fully, but I found myself thinking about its celebration more and more as it approached.
I realized that “minor folk holiday” would be one he’d enjoy celebrating in his young years. By laying a joyous and loving foundation of Judaism for him throughout the year and including Hanukkah, I’d be helping instill in him the same passion that inspired me to embrace the faith.
[ read more ]
--
RAWR.
What is something that you did on Survivor that you thought you would never have the courage to do?
Get on the boat and do it. Seriously, I was aching to do it, but I didn’t know how scared out of my mind I’d be until I got on the boat in the middle of the Pacific and start paddling. And yes, it is something frightening in the back of your mind to think that you’re out in the middle of the ocean, no life vest, sharks and about 3 miles between you and land—and only a flimsy catamaran between you and the cold water. Yeah.
Oh, and what is the ONE item that you wish you had brought with you that you didn’t?
Oh, I brought it, I just didn’t get to use it: A journal and notebook. It was my luxury item, but my tribe didn’t win that challenge, so no go. It was too bad. I would have probably been a little more even keel if I’d had it. Or a camera. Yeah.
Looking for the menorah, it was the Christmas tree I found first.
My breath caught when I saw that Christmas tree again. My first year lighting my own menorah was my last year opening presents beside a Christmas tree in my mom’s house.
How could I have forgotten that convergence? Even for a second?
I stared at that Christmas tree and remembered the first time I saw it. One of my sisters had sent me a picture of it, newly decorated and standing alone in front of a window through which I’d spent countless hours gazing. Watching for Mom. Watching our garage sale. Watching the rain and wondering if I dared hope for sunnier days.
Our last tree there.
I cried. As I cried, the voice my brother refers to as my inner Spock whispered, “Your response is illogical. Because of your mom’s mental illness, it’s been years since you’ve sat beside a Christmas tree there. You’re Jewish now, besides. So what does this tree have to do with anything?”
It has to do with history.
[ read more ]
