Wisdom from a teapot...

I'm not a tea drinker.  I much prefer coffee - not just the taste, but the experience of it.  The smell as it wafts up my stairs and curls into my room, the way it gently wakes me up and the milky balance of sweet and bitter as it courses down my throat.  I'm not a coffee aficionado by any stretch of the imagination.  I do not own a Nespresso (much to my brother and sister-in-law's distress) nor do I get my designer coffee freshly ground and delivered to my door.  I'm a good old-fashioned Nescafé coffee drinker.  One of my favorite things is to open a brand new jar of Nescafé, peel that foil sealer back and dip my head in for a good whiff.

I'll drink tea, don't get me wrong.  But I usually have to be running a fever or battling a stomach ache, and it has to be something red, fruity and sugary sweet.  That was until I got hooked on Good Earth's sweet and spicy tea.  Besides the fact that it tastes like heaven - with NO sugar necessary - it manages to lift my spirits at the same time because printed on the tiny little tag at the end of the tea bag's string is a quote.  A different quote for every bag, and I contemplate that quote and what it means as I sip the cinnamony heaven that it is my mug. They are inspirational, funny, witty and hopeful.  And sometimes I need that more than my daily dose of coffee.  

Today's quote is one of the best.  (Seriously, I have to hold myself back from ripping each of those tea bags open because I just want to read every single one...). It's an ancient Chinese proverb and it says: "Failure is not falling down but refusing to get up."  Epic.  Fantastic.  So unbelievable obvious but it's so perfectly succinct and hits it right on the nail.  It's the kind of quote you want to paint across your kid's room so they don't get down about failing a test, or losing a game, or screwing up in the way only teenagers manage to do.  

Yesterday's quote was a great one too:  "I make the most of all that comes.  And the least of all that goes." -Sara Teasdale 1884-1933

That one had me thinking, because it could be interpreted in so many ways.  Again, not a bad way to spend the ten minutes it took me to sip the tea.

And then this one: "As we grow old...the beauty steals inward."  As a woman approaching my mid-forties, I had to think about this one a lot.  In the middle of writing this piece, I had a phone conversation with a woman who was picking my brain about a preschool art project that she wanted me to help out with.  After a lengthy conversation, she asked me if I had any young kids and I responded that my youngest is fifteen and a half and my oldest is twenty one.  She said, wow, you sound so young.  My instant response was, "I AM young."  I'm not suffering from delusion.  I'm perfectly aware that I don't look like I'm twenty one anymore and that my body is bearing evidence of that, but I still feel like the same wrinkle-free twenty-one year old on the inside.  

So while I'm a fan of Ralph Waldo Emerson, I think he might have dropped the ball on this one.  Recently a friend of mine, also an avid blogger, posted something about her crow's feet.  I commented that she should wear them with pride because it means she laughs a lot.  And while I appreciate the sentiment of Emerson's quote, and I understand what he's trying to say, I vehemently disagree.  The beauty is still there, both on the inside AND on the outside, but it's just taken a little bit of a different form.  It might not be the beauty that Instyle magazine endlessly pushes - the smooth flawless skin, tight body, lustrous hair - but it's the beauty of a life honestly lived - through real-life experiences, both difficult and easy.  It's a body that's spread and expanded with the burgeoning of a life growing inside it, the silvery lines like a roadmap marking our hips and thighs as evidence of that life, it's the crow's feet adorning our eyes that tells of a life filled with laughter, it's the worry lines on our forehead that our kids undoubtedly put there, it's the grey stray hairs that are starting to thread their way through our dark hair, it's our feet that no longer can wear those stilettos without pain.  And no doubt, our partners, who have been with us every step of the way on this fantastic life adventure see just that when they look at us.  They see the beauty that tells the story of our lives.

And that brings me to the final quote from my teapot.  Which sort of sums things up.  "Youth would be an ideal state if it came a little later in life." -Herbert Henry Asquith 1852-1928

We were so busy planning, moving and heading towards what we thought would be our final destination that we failed to enjoy the journey along the way.  (Thank you, Dieter F. Uchtdorf) 

Now, that we are older, wiser, more wrinkled and walking with sensible shoes, it's time to do just that.  Revel in our newly-defined beauty and be proud of those stretch marks and crow's feet.

Chanukah and Thanksgiving.... Part 2

This morning my mother messaged me on Facebook and sent me a link of one of my old blog posts from two years ago titled...wait for it...Chanukah and Thanksgiving.  Since it was two years since I'd written it, I read it again and decided it was high time to write a follow-up.  (Thanks Mom!) The reason I had written the post two years ago was that it was the first time in a very long time that Chanukah and Thanksgiving coincided.  It won't happen again until the year 2070, but I still think it's important to point out reasons to be thankful on a regular basis.

So while my 14 lb. turkey is defrosting in my fridge, I'm taking the time to reflect on what has changed in these last two years and what new and great things have happened in my life to be newly thankful for.  Below are eight reasons I was thankful two years ago....

1.  Two years ago I spent two weeks with my family in Toronto for a family simcha and to visit my grandparents.  My grandfather was in the hospital at the time and while it was difficult to see my robust and very hip and active grandfather in a hospital bed, I was truly thankful to have had the opportunity to spend time with him.  Unfortunately, he passed away during that Chanukah.  So while I'm staying put in Israel and have not seen my siblings or my extended family since the summer, I'm thankful that we are all healthy and moving forward in a way that would make him proud.

2.  Two years ago I was thankful that my family was able to spend Chanukah with my daughter before she went into the army.  Well, timing is everything.  She just came home today - on erev Thanksgiving, ironically - having finally finished her army service.  So she will be able to spend Chanukah yet again with us, but this time as a civilian.

3.  Two years ago I was thankful for the fact that I live not only in Israel, but on the same historical soil as the famous Maccabee family who fought courageously against enemies that sought to destroy the Jewish nation.  This resonates even more so today, when the threat of our enemies has intensified and serves as a daily reminder that we can stand up and fight for our right to live in this land.  So ditto to that and Am Yisrael Chai!

4.  Like every year at this time, I'm grateful and thankful that my husband and I continue to celebrate our wedding anniversary - it's truly a gift to be in love with your best friend...

5.  Two years ago, I was grateful and thankful that my kids still like singing Maoz Tzur when we light Chanukah candles every night.  While I think that as they all edge into adulthood, our games of dreidel have become a thing of the past, we still set aside a night to do something together as a family and that it something to be thankful for.

6.  I'm thankful that yet again this year we will be sharing our Thanksgiving dinner again with our same friends. Sharing is what every holiday is about and I hope we continue to do so for years to come.

7.  Two years ago I was thankful for leaving the frigid Toronto weather behind and being able to spend Chanukah in a warmer climate.  While I haven't been traveling as of late, it's still quite warm here and I haven't had the need to dig out my down coat and winter boots yet, so yes, thankful for that....

8.  Two years ago I was especially grateful that both Chanukah and Thanksgiving coincided so that my inevitable weight gain was concentrated in one short week and is not spread out over several weeks....there's no hoping for that this year, so I'll just have to up my exercise routine if I want to enjoy that chocolate pecan pie....

And eight new reasons to be thankful:

1.  I'm thankful that my son is super happy in his army unit.  His happiness eases my nerves...

2.  I'm thankful for my health and my family's health.  You can never be thankful enough to be able to wake up in the morning and feel well enough to take on whatever challenges the day throws at you.

3.  I'm thankful for my good friends.  They are always there when you need them.  And living so far from family, your friends become just that.  The Flinstones was my favorite cartoon growing up and I always envisioned a life where I would be able to talk over my fence to my neighbors to shoot the breeze, ask for advice or borrow a cup of sugar.  I've been lucky enough to have great neighbors and friends who are the "Bettys" to my "Wilma"...

4.  I'm thankful for my biological family.  Both close and extended.  I'm grateful for your support whether you are located near (Modiin, Jerusalem, Shomron) or far in Toronto...

5.  I'm thankful for my kids.  You are special and gifted in your own unique way.  And when you're not driving me up the wall and around the bend without the benefit of a good set of brakes, you make me laugh.  

6.  I'm thankful that I am able to do what I love.  Being able to teach music and bring that love of music to kids is a gift.  Hearing my student play Fur Elise a year after I taught him where Middle C was, is an amazing feeling.

7.  I'm thankful that despite her old age and various health issues, our dog, Mo, is still wagging her tail and barking at strangers...

8.  I'm grateful and thankful that I belong to a nation of patriotic, moral, ethical, spiritual, and charitable people.  I'm constantly amazed and humbled by the giving nature of our people and it's an honor to be counted among them.

What are you especially thankful for this Chanukah?

July 29th...more than just a date...

My only son is going into the army.  On July 29th.  He recieved his induction papers not too long ago and the date was automatically entered into all our calendars.  He's entering a unit called handassa kravit - technically, it's a combat engineering unit but besides building things they are also the unit that was responsible for blowing up the tunnels in the last war.  While my friends and family asked why on earth would he want to enter this type of unit, I answered instinctively that considering he's been blowing things up since he was barely out of diapers, it seemed apt.  

There is a very common saying that when the cat is away, the mouse will play.  I was overseas visiting family for two weeks and while I was gone, he had decided to build a foundry on our front porch.  Granted, the boy is not stupid.  Had he decided to build such a thing while I was home, it would not have happened.  No way, no how. So he smartly waited until I was away.  He gathered up the necessary equipment, like an iron pot, coal, plaster, sand, pipes and a blow dryer (?) and then he began melting anything metal he could get his hands on - old license plates that he found on the side of the road and a metal baseball bat that has been lying around the house for the past few years along with other metal scrap lying around the garage.  Of course, in retrospect, he probably should have drilled a hole into the metal baseball bat before attempting to melt it at 1200 degrees so it wouldn't have literally exploded into a ball of fire while simultaneously singing all the hairs off his arm and almost injuring my nephew (sorry, sis....), but boys will be boys.  Of course, he is now pleased as punch that he's managed to blow something up even BEFORE he enters the army.

This day, July 29th bears even more importance than simply the date my son becomes a soldier in the Israeli army.  It also, weirdly, happens to be the same date as my grandfather's birthday.  This may seem like just a coincidence to you, but it has much more meaning to me.

When my son went on his Poland trip in the beginning of 12th grade, he came home and didn't talk too much about it.  I know it affected him, but he's never been a touchy-feely kind of kid.  But what he did say is that he had this weird feeling - a goose-bumpy kind of feeling - when he first walked under the infamous sign "welcoming" visitors into Auschwitz.  He said, that as he stepped under the sign, he couldn't stop wondering how it must have been for his great grandfather (Melech Good z"l) to walk under the same sign under vastly different circumstances so many decades ago.  It resolved something in him about being an Israeli and what exactly that entailed.  That he was nearing a time in his life where he would get the chance and the opportunity to help and protect his country and his countrymen from those who wish to do us harm.  And that he was lucky to be living in a time where this is possible, unlike his great grandfather, who was unfortunately unable to do so.

My grandfather died three months after my son's bar mitzvah and we were fortunate enough to have him travel all the way from Canada to celebrate with us.  I remember him crying as my son finished reading from the Torah and when I asked him why he was crying, he said it was because he never thought that he'd ever have the chance to witness his great grandson become a bar mitzvah in Israel.  It was about two years after his death that I went on a roots trip to Poland.  And it was there that we discovered my grandfather's real birthday.  He never knew it.  Like so many Jewish parents in rural Poland at that time, his birth wasn't registered until he was almost 21 years old in a common tactic to avoid their sons being conscripted into the Polish army.  And as a result, he never knew his actual birth date.  Since his bar mitzvah consisted of just an Aliyah to the Torah, a shot of whiskey and some chick peas and herring, there wasn't even a Torah portion that he might have remembered.  And so, upon coming to Canada, Canadian immigration officials picked Christmas as his birthday and that was the day we celebrated for years, knowing all the while, that it wasn't real.  

But now we know.  We know it's July 29th.  They say that with enough time, things often come full circle.  I couldn't have asked for a more auspicious day for my son to enter the army.  And I can't help but think of it as fate.  And when I watch him walk away from me in Givat Hatachmoshet and head towards the bus that will take him to basic training, I know my grandfather will be spending his birthday watching over him.

184652 - Zaida's name from 1939 - 1945

A few years ago, on Yom Hashoah, my brother posted the number that had been tattooed on my grandfather's forearm. He had been "catalogued" in Auschwitz before being sent to a work camp called Blachenheimer. When I first saw his post a few things ran through my mind. One was how I had known him for over 37 years (he was approximately 96 when he died) and yet while I had seen that number at least a million times, I had never paid attention to the actual numbers, and two, was that it never occurred to me to write them down somewhere.

My brother did. 

At first I thought it was a weird thing to do - to copy down the number, but after I thought about it for a while, I'm glad he did.  Now that my grandfather is no longer alive I'm glad that someone in my family thought it important enough to write it down.

The idea of branding humans, reducing them to a number instead of the complicated beings they are, complete with physical differences, unique personalities and individual emotional makeup was just the beginning of the Nazi plan to eradicate the Jewish people. Shaving their heads and stripping their clothes was just the physical removal of their individuality. But taking away their names and replacing them with a number was their attempt to strip them of what made them who they were. 

But for five long years my grandfather had no name as far as the Nazis were concerned. He was 184652.

It's time everyone got to know the man behind the number. 

Thankfully my Zaida survived the Holocaust and married the girl he was in love with before the war, also a Holocaust survivor. He emigrated to Canada and had two children. He worked for a mattress company for many many years and was the Gabbai (caretaker) of his small shul. He was a fun grandfather, too. We would spend Sunday afternoons picking wild strawberries from his backyard, and he taught me all the Yiddish I know (which isn't much...). He helped me open a savings account and taught me about interest rates and what would be the best account for my meager savings. While I was in college, we bought lottery tickets together once a week fantasizing about what we would do with our winnings. He would take me to his small single-car garage and I'd watch him upholster new couches for my mom.  I loved the way he would shine with pride when he would show me how he still fit into the same pants from twenty years ago - and they were the SAME pants. And how he'd demonstrate his expertise on the rowing machine that he'd use every night while he watched the news. He'd tell me how he preferred stale bread because you had to chew it longer and therefore ate less - hence his ability to fit into those twenty year old pants. And I loved how he treated my grandmother. She'd scold him and he'd tease her and then he'd end up laughing so hard his false teeth would clatter in his mouth. And my grandmother would roll her eyes at him, exasperated. I loved the way he cared about others, the way he listened. He always said a smart person was one who listened more and talked less. I loved the way he'd pronounce the word 'knife' sounding out the k instead of leaving it silent. And when I'd correct him, he'd laugh and say 'then why is it there?'  

To them, he was known as 184652, but to me, he was Zaida.  He was a great man, father, husband, uncle, grandfather and great-grandfather.

He was Elimelech Gut (Good) son of Chava Rachel and David, z"l (may his memory be a blessing).

My Zaidy, Shimon Woolf z"l and Chanukah...

A few days ago it was the first yartzheit (anniversary) of my grandfather, Shimon Woolf z"l (may he rest in eternal peace).  He died last year on the third night of Chanukah, and for our family, a light that had burned for more than ninety years had been extinguished forever.  This past Shabbat, my family shared a meal with good friends and our host gave a small Dvar Torah while we sat at the table, unable to move from all the amazing food.  He spoke about the machloket - the disagreement - between Hillel and Shamai in regards to lighting the menorah on Chanukah.  Shamai argued that we begin the holiday by lighting all eight candles on the first night and gradually decrease every night until we light one last candle on the last night of the holiday.  Hillel argued that we start off the holiday by lighting just one and then increase every night until we are lighting all eight candles on the last night of the holiday.  Our sages have decided that while Shamai's method had merit in many ways, we were - for generations to come - going to do things Hillel's way.  And so we do.  But the reason our host gave was a beautiful one.

Our world, especially now, is a dark one.  There are unspeakable events happening all over the world that seem to be gaining a scary momentum and it doesn't seem like things are going to get better just yet.  As Jews, we are commanded to be a light unto the nations.  The events over this past summer tested us in ways no one should ever be tested, and yet, we came through with flying colors.  We sought prayer, gave comfort and rose beyond the anger that fuels revenge and hatred and chose to love instead.  The outpouring of pure giving that went on in this country was mind-boggling, inspirational and endless.  And so we - as a nation - actively chose to keep that commandment and we shone.  

Our Shabbat host explained that when you take a pitch black room and suddenly fill it with lots of light, it's bright and beautiful.  You've filled the darkness with lots of light and that's a good thing.  But the act of lighting one less candle each night, is a depressing one.  And a passive one.  Instead of keeping the light, you're actually extinguishing it slowly until there's but one measly flickering flame left behind.  The amazing quality about light is that even a little bit of it can light up even the darkest of rooms.  It fills each and every corner with just enough light for you to see and find your way.  And in doing so, it brings with that small flickering flame the concept of hope.  Increasing the light slowly until the room is completely lit up, is the antithesis of depressing.  It's an act of positivity and hopefulness, of seeing the glass half full instead of half empty.  It's an attitude, it's the way we should all see life, and ultimately, I believe it is the key to our survival.  Bringing the light into the darkness is one thing, but increasing it is a whole different concept altogether.

And I'm not just speaking physically, but metaphorically as well.

My grandfather carried a light inside of him wherever he went.  Yes, he was sometimes incredibly focused, single minded and filled with more stubborn determination than anyone in their 90's should be, but he had that light.  It shone from his face when he handed out candy every Shabbat to the kids in his shul in exchange for some words about the parsha.  It shone from him whenever he was busy with the mitzvah of Hachnasat Orchim, which he was busy with all the time.  Nothing made him happier than hosting people.  He'd go out of his way to buy just the right cakes and offer drinks and a comfortable seat and he would engage you from the minute you walked in until the minute you left.  He gave tzedakah with a smile and a willing hand.  The crinkles in the corners of his eyes never reflected more light than when he was with my grandmother.  His love for her was palpable.  He came to Israel to visit almost every Passover for the last four or five years of his life.  We took him to Leket one afternoon during Chol Hamoed and he insisted on getting down in the dirt to help his great grandchildren pick beets for the needy.  He was dressed impeccably, dapper and elegant in his perfectly ironed slacks and button down shirt and tweed cap, but he got down on his knees and he picked those beets.  And you could see the light that shone from him.

When he died, I thought that that light was forever gone.  After all, it's the neshama, the soul and the true essence of a person that makes a person truly alive.  Without the soul sparking within, there is no life.  

But I think I was looking at this the wrong way.  

I think that if we all take those little sparks of light that we've learned from him - his genuine crinkly smile, his easy laughter, his love for Torah, his true desire to help people and his welcoming nature - we can keep the light that was him alive.  And we can increase our own inner light.  We can keep the spirit and deeper meaning of Chanuka, of bringing more and more light into this world alive.  And instead of slowly removing and extinguishing the light, we can make a conscious decision to strengthen the light, and keep that flame steady and constant, not just during Chanukah, but during each and every day of our lives.

My first real Tisha Be'av...

I grew up in an Orthodox home in Toronto.  And, although I won't reveal my exact age, suffice it to say I've spent more than three decades fasting on the ninth of Av and sitting on the lumpy cushions on the floor of my shul in Toronto while listening to Megillat Eicha.  Nothing much has changed since I've made Aliyah, except I sit on the cold hard marble floor instead, since there are no cushions in my shul.  And while I learned throughout my schooling the significance of this fast day - second in importance to the fast of Yom Kippur - it's sometimes difficult to really feel it in your bones.  We begin the mourning period every summer on the fast day of 17th of Tammuz, which was the day the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Romans in 69 CE.  Three weeks later, on the 9th of Av, marks not just the date of the destruction of the second Beit Hamikdash (the second Holy Temple) but also was the date of the destruction of the first Beit Hamikdash as well.  And if that wasn't enough tragedy for a single day, there was a whole slew of other terrible events that just so happened on that day as well (not a coincidence in my opinion...).  

So, in a nutshell, this was not a great day historically for the Jewish people.

During these last few weeks, I've been thinking about how I've spent past Tisha Be'avs and I've come up with some constants.  I've slept in, hoping that when I finally woke up, half the day had passed so I didn't have to think about food for more than a few hours.  I've tried keeping my kids busy so they wouldn't complain about being starving.  I've read books and watched documentaries.  Then, later in the day, I've busied myself with cooking for the conclusion of the fast, which somehow - ironically - manages to keep my hunger at bay.  I'm not sure, though, that I've really ever felt like I was mourning.

I suppose it's difficult to mourn something you've never had.  Despite learning all through school about the Beit Hamikdash and learning about how it was made, how holy a place it was, how sacrifices were brought to the Kohanim (the Priests), it's all just stories and legends, more or less.  No matter how many times I've learned about bringing the first of your crops to the Kohen or about how he took a handful of flour and some oil, and made some sort of cake and then burned it, it was all so removed, so distant.  And the fact that the destruction of both Temples occurred thousands of years before I was born, has distanced me further from the event.  And so while I go through the motions of not eating meat, not swimming or listening to music or going to parties or the movies for nine days and then ending this period with a twenty-five hour fast that begins by sitting on the cold hard floor and listening to the tragic reading of Megillat Eicha, I'm not always truly mournful.

In fact, I remember one particular Tisha Be'av, exactly 14 years ago, when I passed the day in a drunken state of joy and euphoria as I sat in Tel Hashomer Hospital holding my gorgeous, healthy, super-cute baby girl that was born only two days earlier.  Not fasting and basking in the quiet mother-baby bonding, I was too busy mooning over her to think about Tisha Be'av.

This year is different.  These last three weeks can only be described as hellish.  It started with the cruel and unforgivable kidnappping and murder of three young boys and culminated in a war so devastating and frightening that it's left us all shaken.  We've lost WAY too many of our young, brave soldiers and our nation is truly in a state of mourning.  And I've felt it, this all-encompassing sadness that has taken over our people.  I've felt it in every nerve ending of my body.  Now, with a little perspective, I think back to August 70 CE, when our second Holy Temple was destroyed by the Romans, scattering the Jewish people and commencing our exile from the Holy Land.  

And while I got it before, now I really get it.  

The very existence of the Jews of 70 CE were at risk for annihilation.  They lost a country that they were gifted by God, a country that they loved.  They lost their Holy Temple, their place to worship God freely and with a whole heart.  Families were torn apart, and loved ones murdered before their very eyes.  Whoever was left standing was taken away by shackles to other strange countries, forced to give up their religious beliefs.  Their yeshivot and their places of worship were now a thing of the past.

It's now August 4th, 2014.  Centuries lie between us and them, but the threat facing us right now is one and the same.  We are fighting an enemy that wishes to destroy us, to eradicate us from this land that is rightfully ours, a land that we love.  And while we don't have a Beit Hamikdash, their goal is to destroy our religion in the name of theirs.  They have already torn families apart by killing our children, our soldiers and our citizens.  

But there is one fundamental difference between now and then.  We will not let them win.  We are hanging on by tooth and nail to this country of ours and we will not let them take it away from us.

But in the meantime, while I'm fasting in the cool air-conditioned comfort of my home, our soldiers are spending this tragic day in impossibly difficult and dangerous conditions.  They are fighting for us.  For our right to exist in this country that is unequivocally ours.  But we've paid a terrible price for this just war, and will go on paying it until we can live our lives in peace.  We have no other choice in the matter.

And for the first time in a long, long time, this Tisha Be'av, August 4, 2014, I am in mourning.

Fragility and Strength...a paradox?

This summer has been such a strange one. For all of the Jews around the world, but especially for those of us who live here.  This war has been on the front page news for way too long and the anti-semitism that has erupted all over the world as a result has left us all a little shell-shocked.  

Summers are the only time of the year that I'm off of work, with pretty much nothing to do, and while I'm generally a person who loves to be busy every minute of the day (I consider myself naturally caffeinated...), I relish the summer months where I have nothing urgent to do but decide whether to sit on the couch and read a book all day, or play Boggle and Settlers with my kids in the middle of the afternoon, something I'm never able to do.  I normally sleep in, lazing in bed with my Nook, reading some light, fun beach read, before making my way downstairs for a leisurely breakfast. I usually tackle some summer project, like a mosaic or a particularly difficult piece of music but I have yet to do any of those things.  

I haven't been able to sleep in as much as I want - no, need - to and I wake up bleary-eyed and exhausted before I even lift my head off the pillow. Instead of sleeping deeply and dreamily through the night, my thoughts (which are often depressing) are rushing ADD-like through my brain and I'm tossing and turning most of the night.  Instead of dreaming about rainbows, fairies and happy endings, I've got images of tunnels and rockets stuck in my head.  And forget about reading. Those of you who know me well know that I am a serious book addict. I could read between five and six books a month in addition to keeping to my work schedule and still manage to make a balanced dinner most nights.  I never leave the house without my Nook tucked in my purse in the event I can get another chapter under my belt while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store or at the pharmacy.  But since the kidnapping, I can barely bring myself to finish one single book.  I'm too unfocused, too shaky and have trouble turning the news off. I have this visceral need to know what's happening with our soldiers every minute of the day.  

While you might think that sounds slightly obsessive, I assure you, I'm not alone.

While I figured that everyone around me is probably feeling somewhat similar, I didn't realize to what extent.  I ran into a friend at the mall a few days ago while doing errands. She told me that she stopped by my house yesterday but I wasn't home. She said that she couldn't bear the thought of going home where the television beckoned her with only bad news and that she just needed to clear her head, talk with someone about what she was feeling. Which was untethered and shaky and unfocused. Like me. She has good reason since she has a son fighting in Gaza.  Yesterday I ran into another friend, also while doing errands, and the sentiment was the same. She had a bright smile on her face because there, standing next to her, was her son, the same age as my soldier daughter, who had just gotten back from Gaza. While he was heading back there after the weekend, her relief and her gratefulness for this small weekend reprieve was written all over her face. There was still worry mixed in with the relief, worry for her other son and her son-in-law who are still fighting in Gaza. And while standing in the local Makolet just a few minutes ago, I just had a lengthy conversation with yet another friend and all we could talk about is this war and how it's affecting us.  How surreal this summer is and how easily we are moved to tears by what is going on around us.

I feel fragile, on the verge of breaking if I hear of one more soldier dying to keep us safe.  Reading about that young widow who gave birth to her fourth child, a girl, just ten days after her husband died in the battle was almost too much to bear.  But there are moments in this terrible summer when I feel a surge of strength come over me.  It slowly creeps into me when I sit every night in the shul, elbow to elbow with other women who've come out to pray for our soldiers, for our wounded, for our army and for our country.  I felt it pour through me when I saw a young girl standing at the entrance of the supermarket next to six huge boxes that bore a sign on which was written: "for our chayalim, please give what you can".  And another surge of strength when I handed over four tubes of toothpaste and her face broke out into the biggest beaming smile you can imagine.  For toothpaste.  It crept into my veins and made me smile when I saw the picture of the IDF armored vehicle decorated with colorful "stay safe!" cards made by children from all over Israel.  I felt it when I read about the owner of a Shwarma restaurant that literally emptied out his store and packaged up every last salad and Shwarma for a father who was taking food down to his son's unit before Shabbat, and then refused to take any money.  I feel it when our community continuously collects everything from underwear to flashlights to granola bars so the soldiers could keep focusing on doing what they do best and not worry about the small stuff.  I felt it when I saw the picture my husband posted of himself along with four colleagues doing a volunteer ambulance run down south in Be'er Sheva.  And I felt it again when I watched a video of a mother who has lost two sons in past wars bring words of comfort and solace to the mother of a slain lone soldier who came all the way from the US to bury her son.

We are getting through this summer moment to moment; from weakness to strength, and from despair to hopefulness. I keep hoping that the moments of strength will overpower the moments of shaky uncertainty and while that hasn't happened just yet, I'm not just hopeful but certain that they will.  Soon.

And I think that's what we all feel.

That amidst all the shakiness and fragility, there are unbelievably beautiful and powerful moments of strength that feeds our souls and continues to bind us together and makes us the nation we are today.