Wednesday, June 13, 2018

I want to be inspired and to be inspiring, like a heartbeat of an old song in a dimly-lit bar.
I am a being of inspiration. I feel beauty and it overflows my senses. I want to create from that place of deep insight and volcanic soul-streaming.

Friday, June 08, 2018


I'm a taboholic. I collect tabs in my web browser. I save videos and articles open for later viewing. They all seem so interesting and important, so I don't close them. I keep them all open.
And then - the unexplicably terrible thing happens -- My computer crashes. I restart. I open Chrome. And there is NO option of restoring the tabs. They are lost. It is all lost.
It's a little nice to have a fresh start like that every so often, but I still do wonder what I had there and what I missed by not finishing to read/watch it all.

Thursday, June 07, 2018

Kindergarten at Kesher

Sunday was my last day teaching kindergarten for the year. We were in one of our circles that we often sit in (that I gather the kids into in a sing-songy pleasant voice I learned from Waldorf-education teachers), I was delivering my words of closure and love, right before I taught them a Goodbye song, and the children spontaneously got up one by one to hug me, until they were all surrounding me and on top of me and I couldn't help but cry. I know that they loved me this year, and that their parents loved me. I love these children so much, and there were a few specific moments this year that were really moving. Like Friday night before the last class. The kids were going to be leading some songs at the Friday Night Shabbat service at the synagogue, and a few minutes before the service started we gathered on the bimah to review some of the songs one last time. In one song they needed to all look at me and follow my lead, because the cantorial soloist with her guitar was singing harmony, and the kiddos needed to focus on staying on tune with me. As we sang (and their soft high voices ribboned through the air), I moved my eyes from one to the other, watching their sweet eyes and faces as they sang. I nearly choked on tears.

This is their handprints tree hanging on the wall (I painted the bare tree and they added the greenery)

And this is our classroom, which started out white and empty, and to which I (and the kids) added all the extra elements to make it be a calm and welcoming space, when we moved into in in the middle of the year. You can't really see in the video, but there's peach-colored fabric hanging like a canopy or a curtain from the ceiling, which adds a really nurturing feeling.

Monday, June 04, 2018

בחילת קיום Nausea of Existence

I cry soup-bowls of tears
I hear peaaa souuuup in the rustles of the trees when I take Nemo out for her night walk, and my eyes are puffy. I missed dinner there, and I don't eat anything at all for dinner at home. It was as if I was paralyzed in my self-pity. I hate myself for it and it makes me so ashamed. In any case, Tal is arranging a trip for us out east to the Cascades, and wanted me to help organize but my mind is so absent, and he arranges everything. All that's left for me to do is take some clothes into a milk crate and bring it out to the minivan. We go on the trip and I'm so grateful, because I love traveling with Tal and Nemo.

May 26, 2018, nighttime near Leavenworth, WA, in the minivan 
Ocean of emotion has swept over me in the past few weeks. It's hard to resurrect turmoil, especially when it seems (for a while, at least) like it's over. But the gush of frustration and overwhelming sense of Loss or Lost-ness have prompted me to have to find reason, consolation and benefits. And in any case, understandings and revelations have dawned on me in the past 24 hours, slowly adding more clarity to the picture with each new one, and they are interesting enough to be worth pursuing in writing. 
Many times, hard emotions can feel lighter when I write about them, as if once the burden is told to the world as a well-written story, it becomes fascination instead of personal suffering. But it seems like the utter helplessness and regret I felt yesterday may have surpassed that level, and were so hard to bear that even written expression can't ease them. Will write more tomorrow. 

May 27, 2018, in same spot as last night (back here for the night) 
I say to myself, "it would be nice to get home tomorrow in the afternoon and not night, so that we'll be able to relax before work on Tuesday," but then I revise that, asking myself: Is there really a difference if you get to rest or not? In the end it's all the same (in the end you'll have to wake up on Tuesday and go to work anyway...). And this is part of the sense of worthlessness and meaninglessness or despair disconnectedness, or fear, or anxiety, or I-don't-yet-know-what, that is my life, as me, inside of me, through my eyes.
I am kind of always tense, but at the same time there is no place I want to get to or be at that I can think will make me feel at east inside myself, at ease with ideas of time passing, of past-present-future as being linear and relevant, of goals-actions-sense of fulfillment. I sometimes call it cognitive dissonance, or claustrophobia in the self, or maybe (probably) there is something more that I am missing, some pieces of understanding that haven't yet dawned on me.  
Yes, there are beautiful things around me, but something doesn't enter through the veil behind my eyes into my timeless soul and godful existence. Or maybe all humans in fact feel this fear, and maybe only few stop to notice it. Maybe incessant work for some is a way to not notice the utter meaninglessness and emptiness of life as humans. 
Even writing - which in a sense is my saving grace, my refuge, my meaning - seems sometimes meaningless, because it feels like publishing a book would possibly be for the sake of recognition, which is just a continuation of the problem (just a deeper delve into the thirsty search for external meaning) and not a sustainable solution.  
I do love writing. A book wouldn't be just for the sake of recognition, but the fact that I use the thought of publishing a book as a way to ward off a sense of social shame or unworthiness, makes me believe it is also as shallow as the problem.
(The end of this idea was more elaborated in my mind when I started the sentence, but often my mind blanks as I go along and I lose the thought...) 
I want to mention that despite cognitive dissonance or inability to be here, the richness of the past grant me a belly-full of inspiration and excitement when it comes to mind. I want to incorporate it in my writing - bring in stories of my life with Gilad, all those great and pure memories of love, family, friends and closeness that seem joyous in my mind, images of nighttime bus rides, familiar sounds, city streets...


I feel so free when traveling in the car with Tal and Nemo, whizzing along roads with sunshine fluttering through the trees, a vast sky spread out in front of us, and wind singing to our open eyes.

I realize about the shame, on the way home. Shame which breeds anger. Anger and shame - Those are the two, I conclude. The two cores of belly-churning sizzling.
I pour out the shame.
I stomach it through my windpipe and I say, "I want to retell the conversation I had with Elkah, about the night when I missed the bus and missed the dinner." I retell it all. I retell about the paralysis, about the unearthed need for someone to urge me to do things I need to do because of my inability to get up and do them at the will of myself. About the difference in our mindsets - his of scarcity, mine of abundance. About the anger I feel. I feel so much anger, so much shame! "Even from you!," I say to Tal. "I do. I feel like puking all of life."

He says, "I think everyone feels that way -- (that makes me so angry; I say, "what you're saying makes me angry!") -- everyone feels nauseated from life. The essence of life is Suffering."

I had a dream that I forgot what our home looked like, while I was in it. I was in it, but couldn't recall it! It was so scary! (It's a heightened depiction of how my brain works when I am awake.) I called Tal's name, to help me remember, but he said, "I can help you in half an hour." Then I woke up.
I forget things. My brain is a machine that shows vague and blurry pictures of the now.
I don't know why.
My brain is falling apart.
I must have come all the way here, I think, to fall apart, the way that animals find a distant and secluded place to die.

I say, after a long silence, "I feel that there is one thing to do to fight off the suffering... It is Creating Things. Which I don't know if you have a need for (but I'm sure you'd benefit from it too) and which I have a terrible aching need for but some reason can't find a way to do enough of it."

Friday, May 25, 2018


At the end of the day I'm torn. I want to write; night is my time to write. But I am so tired! My eyes are heavy and start to shut. The words try to quickly scurry out of my eyelids before they close! Hurry up... They are trying to ooze through the small crevices of awakenness, like little streams of lava, relieving the volcano into the ocean of clarity before the volcano is closed for the night, leaving the writhing and raving boils inside itself to rest until they stir again tomorrow.
I'm thirsty and
I really wish I had more time in the day to myself.
I working most days now to make money to be able to eat and have a roof over my head, while my heart is empty of passion and creation, which are the fire under my bones that ignite me, and when they are absent I am so empty.
And I am nauseous from tiredness but trying to squeeze in as much essence before I succumb to sleep, and here it is, pulling me pullojg nme ipgkp[djf and im so tireddd sooo tired my head can't stay upright fdhdg;fug;n lkdniekw


Friday, May 18, 2018

A Book, Imagination, Forgetfulness, and Springtime

I say to her, "Please tell me when there are poetry-reading events (in Bellingham). I need more inspiration. I want to write a book..."
"Oh," she replies. "You're married. It's good you have someone who can support you. While you write a book, you need time, you need to dedicate a lot of time."
I think she misunderstands me.
I quickly correct her: "He doesn't support me. We both work and both use our own earnings accordingly."
I think to myself later -- How tempting that sounds, to have someone support you and to be able to dedicate all your time to channeling your creativity into fruitful conclusions. It takes me so LONG. I do need so much TIME in order to write. I can't just get home from work and start writing.
But let not that idea that she raised get too deep into my head, for that kind of situation is likely never to happen.
And how spoiled am I, to even raise this idea. Why do I feel I might possibly have such a privilege? I don't reckon it is right to assume so, or to believe I deserve it. I am myself and therefore I need to work to make money for myself. That is the way it is and should be. But still... Imagining a world in which artists can have all the time they want to CREATE... OH, it's such a beautiful thought...

I am so tired... Nauseous, actually, from tiredness, and my eyes are heavy. I know that if I were to go to bed I'd snuggle up under the covers and doze off... But the need to write! I thought I'd get to write, last week, yesterday, this afternoon, and somehow time just whizzes by and who am I? What is that tree that is swaying (or that flower that is blooming, or the person who is walking), that takes up all my brain's bandwidth and leaves no room for the ideas that lie beyond it? My brain is clouded. I know it. It blanks things out. My memory is sometimes hazy. I am one-track minded. The springtime beauty takes up all the space, leaves no room for calculations, estimations, short-term memories and preparations. That is why I need to schedule a time to write my TO DO LIST.

I need to schedule a time to create my TO DO LIST, because without dedicating time to make the list, the things that need to go on the list are no more than little fleeting clouds. And on that list will go things like DECIDE IF YOU WANT TO LIVE IN BELLINGHAM NEXT YEAR and WRITE BACK TO THAT EMAIL and READ THE BOOKS YOU TOOK FROM THE LIBRARY (The Qur'an and some others) and COME UP WITH IDEAS FOR GIVING BACK TO THE COMMUNITY AND DOING GOOD.

I wish I'd read more books. It's so hard for me to sit and read books.
It seems like a paradox to me; with my love for writing, how come I cannot read?

Alas! The tiredness will overcome in just a moment.

I also say to her, in regard to a different topic, "THERE is always an imagination, because when you get THERE you are still HERE. There is no THERE, as you are always you. That's a sad realization."
She quotes something: "Don't forget that when you get there, you will find yourself there, too."

Tuesday, May 08, 2018

May 8, 2018 ~Updated

May 8, 2018

I'm sitting in my backyard listening to music on Spotify.

As the plane takes off over the palm trees of south Florida I ponder the best way for me to write the book I will write. In present tense? I don't like writing retrospectively because emotions change so quickly, that what was is no longer important. But in writing I want to make all the emotions important, and therefore the most accurate tense to be writing in is the present.


I sit in my seat twiddling my thumbs: Should I go or should I not? I sweat and measure my options. The shuttle bus will get to the Seattle airport soon and I will miss my opportunity to add the little tidbits I thought of in response to the man's queries. (And Heaven knows that I am a chronic regretter and can eat my heart for days if I don't let those additional ideas out.) My body almost budges and then I am compelled by a fear or two, and I stay put. This can go on for hours. I have notebooks full of these experiences from younger years: I was somewhere, I noticed someone interesting, I wanted to go over and talk, but fear stopped me and I never did. I remember a specific evening while in the army, which I wrote about at the time, in which I had a few hours out of uniform, and roamed around Jerusalem, eager to say something to any of those interesting people I saw around me. Some were old with white bears, some were young philosophers (in my imagination). I wanted someone to hold me with their words, and I love hearing others peoples' stories. I imagined myself going over and saying "Hi, you look interesting..." But, oh, me! I couldn't. I stayed put. Every Single Time. Years upon years. Even when my legs started moving in the direction, my heart raced me back into place, and I stayed silent amongst these brilliant human creatures crossing my paths. So many of them around me!

This time I say to myself, "have I grown or NOT?"

This time I push myself up. I walk back through the bus to where the man is sitting.

I say, "I was thinking more about your question..." (about the Israeli economy.)

He smiles, nods, and quickly removes his belongings from the seat next to him so I can sit down.

He later asks me if I consider myself an anti-Capitalist. I say I don't know enough about Capitalism to determine that, but I am an Individualist. (He jokes and says, "I've never met any Jews who are Individualists." I think at first that he saying that for real, but he is joking. Jews are known to be Individualists.) I had never used that term before, but I like it. It's true to what I feel.

I'm an Individualist in the sense that I believe we as individuals should be given the freedom and the incentive to do what is right for us and to not have our needs be trampled on for the sake of a larger cause. For there is no larger cause than the wellbeing of the individual (and the obliteration of suffering from the individual).

I think of this idea again when I am walking by a pond in Whatcom Falls Park and people are fishing. In my mind's eye, what I see is people making a hobby out of causing suffering to sentient beings. Why not do something else with your time, like painting, or picnicking, or playing golf? In my head is the age-old statement, "...but people have been fishing forever...." Yes, I will reply. But in the very act are individual fish who are being hurt and separated from their families/packs. So if we have the option of doing something that does not cause suffering to individuals, at this present moment in time (despite what our ancestors have done for hundreds of thousands of years), why not do that instead? I never think in the general, but rather in the personal, and that is why I care so much about each individual fish (and each animal whose life is forsaken and not taken into consideration in almost every industry in the modern world). I cannot tolerate suffering caused to the individual. And the individual consciousness of each of us is really all there is and all that matters.


I cook lots of thoughts in my brain, but what do I DO?

I am asked what I DO.

I realize that my ancestors have worked hard to make a living and raise a family. I sit here with the privilege of being in a safe and comfortable home with a safe and comfortable and loving partner. I have the privilege of sitting in my warmth and reminiscing and ruminating, and being unsatisfied. I have the privilege of having a mind full of wonders and eyes that see beauty and hands that cook food and write and caress, and I have the privilege of knowing that I have passion and potential that have not yet come to fruition.

I feel that if I, too, shall find something to work hard on, maybe it should be a book. That is really all there is that I can possibly find a direction in. Every other of my passions is now scattered, not centered enough. But the writing, well, the writing is everything to me.

Someone asks what animal I'd be, if I were one. I say a goat. Goats always look so absent-minded, and yet they are still friendly and cute that you just want to pet them and protect them.

Friday, April 06, 2018

Believing in the Good Will

Restorative Justice and Nonviolent Communication are two philosophies of the same root, based on the belief in the fundamental good-will of humans that underlies all bad intent and violence, and in the ability to find peace and reconciliation through soul-searching and kindness.
I wish governments, police, armies, child-educators, and human society as a whole, would learn and implement these ideas, instead of the ones that are common in our society, of punishment, revenge and physical power and superiority as a way to try to right wrongs.
I believe that when people get to the core of their most fundamental needs (and are helped to understand those needs), it will be found that their needs do not contradict the needs of others and do not require inflicting violence on others. No violence is needed for a person to have what she truly needs. All violence, hatred and racism stem from unfulfilled needs.

Thursday, April 05, 2018


One of my joys here is buying in bulk, with bags/jars I bring from home. I appreciate buying things this way because this way we reduce the amount of disposable containers we use (plastic containers whose sole purpose is to carry the product from the factory to one's home, and then be thrown out into a landfill), thus in general reducing the demand for containered products, and also because some of the bulk items that are available here are organic and/or local, which are environmentally favorable, too.
I try to get what I can in bulk. Some things that can be bought in bulk, though, we found to be not efficient, like buying soybeans for soy milk, because the process is long and the outcome is not as yummy as I'd like. Some things, though, I do go out of my way to get in bulk, like coconut oil, which is sold in bulk in only one store, so I go there with my jar just for that, and fill up however much I need. Most of our bulk we get at either WinCo or the Community Food Co-Op (Tal at WinCo, I at the Co-Op). WinCo is an employee-owned supermarket chain, and the Community Food Co-Op is my favorite because of their ethics of sustainability and environment.

Here is a list of things we buy in bulk:

Fruits (we regularly buy bananas and apples. All other fruits are too expensive)
Flour (Varying between whole wheat, white and gluten-free)
Himalayan Salt
Split Peas
Chocolate Chips (we used to not get them, but then at some point needed some for a recipe, and then, well, I kind of got addicted. I have a sweet-tooth!)
Olive oil (we get small amounts of the oils, as we use them sparingly)
Canola Oil
Coconut Oil

(Body Soap
Laundry Soap)

Things we (still) buy in containers/bags:

Peanut Butter
Soy Milk / Almond Milk
Coconut Cream
Tofu (tofu we can actually now get in bulk but I haven't done it yet)
Toilet Paper
The Occasional Clif Bar
Nemo's Dog Food

Monday, April 02, 2018



פעם ניסיתי למצוא משמעות לשם שלי.

היה איזה מילון - לא זוכרת כבר איזה - שלימד אותי ש"מִרְ" זה טיפה, ומכאן השם שלי - מִרְיָם - התפתח להיות "טיפה בים", "sea-drop". ובכן, אני מאוד מחוברת למים ולדימוי של מים, ואוהבת את האלמנט הזה בתוך השם שלי.

ופתאום, כאשר שמעתי מישהי משחזרת את סיפור יציאת מצרים בשבוע שעבר, נבזק בי חיבור בין משמעות השם הזה לבין המִרְיָם המקורית, מִרְיָם המקראית, הנביאה, שכל חייה היו רקומים בסיפורי מים.

מִרְיָם הובילה את עם ישראל בשירה ובריקודים במעבר ים סוף. "וַתִּקַּח מִרְיָם הַנְּבִיאָה אֲחוֹת אַהֲרֹן אֶת-הַתֹּף בְּיָדָהּ, וַתֵּצֶאןָ כָל-הַנָּשִׁים אַחֲרֶיהָ בְּתֻפִּים וּבִמְחֹלֹת. וַתַּעַן לָהֶם מִרְיָם: שִׁירוּ לַ-ה' כִּי-גָאֹה גָּאָה, סוּס וְרֹכְבוֹ רָמָה בַיָּם"

היא הובילה אותם דרך הים, דרך הכוח האדיר הזה שהוא המים, שבדרך נס (על-פי הסיפור) נבקע לשניים.

בילדותה, היא ליוותה את משה לאורך היאור כאשר הוא הונח בתיבה ביאור על-ידי אמו יוכבד. "וַתֵּתַצַּב אֲחֹתוֹ, מֵרָחֹק, לְדֵעָה, מַה-יֵּעָשֶׂה לוֹ... וַתֹּאמֶר אֲחֹתוֹ, אֶל-בַּת-פַּרְעֹה, הַאֵלֵךְ וְקָרָאתִי לָךְ אִשָּׁה מֵינֶקֶת, מִן הָעִבְרִיֹּת; וְתֵינִק לָךְ, אֶת-הַיָּלֶד. וַתֹּאמֶר-לָהּ בַּת-פַּרְעֹה, לֵכִי; וַתֵּלֶךְ, הָעַלְמָה, וַתִּקְרָא, אֶת-אֵם הַיָּלֶד".

ובהמשך, יש את סיפור באר מִרְיָם. הבאר הזה, על-פי המסורת, הוא באר מים שליווה את בני ישראל לאורך נדודיהם במדבר. על-פי הרב ויקיפדיה: "לבאר זו מיוחסות תכונות פלאיות רבות, והיא התקיימה בזכותה של מרים". ולבסוף, על-פי המסורת, המים מהבאר נגנזו בים כינרת.

ומפרש רבי עובדיה מברטנורא: "ופי הבאר - בארה של מרים שהייתה הולכת עם ישראל במדבר בכל המסעות. ויש אומרים, שפתחה פיה ואמרה שירה, שנאמר (במדבר כ"א) עלי באר - ענו לה."

"רבי יוסי ברבי יהודה אומר: שלשה פרנסים טובים עמדו לישראל, אלו הן: משה ואהרן ומרים; ושלש מתנות טובות ניתנו על ידם, ואלו הן: באר וענן ומן. באר - בזכות מרים..."

מִרְיָם גילמה את כוח המים, וכוח השירה.

מים ושירה. שירה ומים.


בהגדה שקראנו בליל הסדר הראשון הייתה פסקה על מנהג (שלא הכרתי קודם לכן) של "כוס מרים". מניחים כוס במרכז השולחן - דומה לכוס של אליהו הנביא - כוס של מרים הנביאה, ובה מים. ההגדה הוסיפה וכתבה, "יש משפחות הנוהגות להעביר את הכוס וכל משתתף מוסיף מהמים שלו לכוס מרים ומשתף ברכה או תקווה של חירות." 


בליל הסדר השני, הוזמנו למשפחה אחרת. הבית שלהם מואר ומעוטר בצבעים שליווים ובפריטי אמנות נעימים לעין וללב. ההימצאות בתוך הבית - ובחברת בני הבית - היא חוויה של התרפקות. במהלך הסדר, סיפרתי על הגילוי שלי מהערב הקודם אודות כוס מרים. הגילוי ריגש אותי כי הוא המשיך את מטאפורת המים-החיים הקשורים בשם ובחיים של מרים. המארחת - אישה קשובה ואדיבה עם עיניים בורקות, מיד קמה ממקומה וניגשה למלא כוס מים. היא הניחה אותה במרכז השולחן. אחר כך, רעיון הריטואל המקודש הזה זרם לתוך עשייה. בהתלבטות קלה אם ומה לומר, ואם בקול רם או בלב, המארחת הרימה את הכוס והתחילה. היא מזגה מעט ממימיה לתוך הכוס, עצמה עיניים ושיתפה בקול בחירויות שהיא מייחלת להם בעולם הזה. היא מסרה למי שישב לצידה, והוא בתורו מזג מעט מים, ואמר מילים יפות מתוך ליבו, והעביר הלאה...

What is one to do?

December 2017:
Alright, I'm in the world.
I made it through childhood. 
I made it to the start of the phase in which you
Interpret childhood and
Heal wounds.

What is one to do in life?

The cliches of yesterday are the profound insights of today

November 4, 2017:
In the shower I try to set my thoughts straights - or at least link similar thoughts with their like, grouped in categories, and those categories into separate levels of realization of the self, and those levels are lacking only the right words to be turned into a profound thesis of being. Some insights sound banal when I play them back to myself (they appear in my mind in flashing clumps and then are played back in words). These ideas are actually nothing more than possibilities, possible explanations of myself. I thought I was at a good pace and place of self-realization at ages 18, 19 and 20, when I felt I was transcending out of my cocoon and through my pains into true independent self, but realize now that that was only the beginning, the introduction, into finding ME - and that despite my adherence to the new and refining insights of then - I am surprised to find myself as a self needing - yet again - new revision.

And beyond - or instead - of talking about the thoughts on the self, I yearn to get to the core of the ideas themselves, to the raw and odd truths of my being, which I am only hinting toward but am not yet immersed in. I don't yet know how, but it seems that all my writing since 2006 (and before that) have been leading toward the full and underlying thoughts and cognitions, a body of work with insights in eloquent words, which will hopefully come forth out of me in the near future.


February 7, 2018:

When I was sixteen, and just started writing on my blog, I often used the metaphor of a "volcano" to describe how I felt with all the inspiration that was stored in me and had no seeable way out.

I feel the same way now, at twenty-eight. I am full of so much inspiration and joy, that I really feel I could explode. What happens is that I just cry. I cry because there is so much greatness and kindness in people. People love me and I love people. I have seen with my own two eyes and heard with my own two ears and felt with my own heart the genuine giving of others. I have witnessed beauty. I feel so grateful and so lucky, to have the capacity to hold so much joy inside a self which takes up so little space in the physical world but so much space in the cosmos of the spirit.

The most magical part of all the giving I have received from others is that it breeds more giving. Kindness builds kindness. Peace cultivates peace. I have been blessed, and I wish to be an intermediary of goodness: To get goodness, and to pass it on, to spread it around, to share it with everyone. To very literally help the world become a better and safer place.

(I also feel kind of embarrassed to express all of these feelings - and may delete the post tomorrow - because I am afraid I am standing on the tightrope between being naively genuine in my gratitude and between seeming vain. Ever since I was young, and despite being honest and rawly-open-hearted, I've always had this voice telling me I am lying or I am vain, and that underlying it all is my desire for attention. So I worry. I have this nature of getting really excited and really enthusiastic, and then writing about it, but then deleting it later on because I don't want to seem like I am drawing too much attention.)

Sunday, April 01, 2018

Real Shame

The real shame arises in the morning.
I once told myself, "never write at night. Wait for the morning, when the emotions are more balanced."
But how can I, when the inspiration is overflowing?
I don't wait - I never really do.
But then with the first opening of my eyelids in the morning, shame shoots back at me, into my stomach. Nausea. Regret. As if, all that inspiration that was colliding and kaleidoscoping through the venture of the night, all become little enemies I've amplified around my world. Little capsules of vulnerability and naked exposure, into my raw heart.

Real Words

The real words come at night, when everything is dark, when emotions ooze like lava out from the heart. Inspiration must be treated with the utmost respect, I say, and the light from the screen illuminates just the veins on the backs of my hands and the tip of my nose and eyes, and my breathing is under my arched back as I sit on my bed and Tal's hand is warmly at my side.

The real words are those which are, in their essence, a portrayal of what I feel or of what I felt. But how can words - letters - coincide with emotions, so colorful and vibrant and bubbling in a speed that the angleture of letters cannot reach?

How can inspiration - which is boundless and still bounded inside the mind - be reminisced into little black-on-white stick-figures of a language?

Hang-man of a real live emotion that is on the stake. 

And then the man goes home and the emotion is let down from the high rank of inclusiveness, and it all shimmers back down into its lulled version of plain genuine calmness.
A distilled passion.

The real words come at night, so full of treasures and potential, so radiant and ready to let myself be whatever it is my mind's eye sees. All the Miriams.

All that water that I anchored into my little space of realizations and revelations.

All that earth, that damp earth and words my feet have collected and co-lected.

All the songs, ahhh the songs, and the notes and the thoughts and the fonts and the wants - all of them,
Thank you, my loves.

Thank you.

The main question is pestering me with the largeness of all that I encounter.
The writing is what gives credibility to the emotional processes my brain goes through.
But oftentimes the overwhlemingness of human interaction subsides by the time I get home and I am at a loss for words because I forgot what it was like. So why not just let the experience be what it was, and move on? Well, because I want to analyze it. Because otherwise, it all feels void of meaning. And because it was so precious, and because I love the act of creating words.

Time in Bellingham

I walk through downtown Bellingham. Last week I told Shir that our recorded conversations are like podcasts. Maybe on "human cognition through the eyes and open hearts of two females wondering where time went". Shir records a message and sends it to me, and she talks as she ponders her emotions, and I hear it and record something back to her, in the days to follow, expressing my own cognitive realizations and revelations, and then a few days later she gets back to me...

I walk through downtown. The university campus is close to downtown, and on Friday nights students horde the buses and the streets with their hormones and lively vibes. I like being amongst it, being pattered with that energy. I have that, too, to an extent. Oh, thank heavens! I have that too. I have no children, and this allows me to be downtown in the first place. It is after I have been at Chabad, celebrating Shabbat dinner with about 25 students and the rabbi and his wife and their 4 little children. I feel so grateful when I am there - being surrounded by such genuine and kind people! Having the privilege of meeting these people - not all of them on a deep level, but even to share the same space with them - makes me rejoice at the goodness I have encountered. And sometimes we even get to sing together. And I marvel at the opportunity to sound through my vocal chords melodies that I love. And I marvel at how different tunes of being have brought me to encounters with different melodies of inspiration. There was once a love that I had that I want to write a memoir about. There was once I love that I still have, and there is now a love that I once had, and one that I am yet to have. All loves that were and that are and that are on the verge of being cultivated, become intertwined in the nostalgic night in Bellingham.

Sometimes songs remind me of many things, and--

I cry. I hold my heart so it won't disintegrate into tears--


The tears that welled up are still the star-blood of my body, weeks later, as we drive home through the familiar streets of Bellingham, after the light through the large windows elated the tides of the Miriams (that which I am and that which I was inspired into connecting to), and the Passover Seder, and the talking inside liberating whiffs of unechoed air... I say, "we found the one place in the whole United States that is just right for me. I feel that the frequency of my energies has found the right energetic receptors here, like I am on the same waves of inspiration with others; their words and actions inspire and excite me. I like them and they like me. I find myself crying from joy so often."

Coincidences and stories are the little tree-paths and mysterious hide-outs full of deep bursting foliage.

"I wish I knew how to write about them. How to tell about my experiences in a way that would be just as exciting as when they happened."


After inspiration, there is a method for dealing with it. It is not good to express it all, because then I am emptied of it. Although I do have a need to write it. So I must restrain myself. But it is not good to express none of it at all - because then it explodes and implodes inside me like a volcano locked inside the boundaries of a body. And inspiration is so immense. It must be treated with the utmost respect.


I want to work harder into the way of dissecting the lack of movement in me, as it rolls by nonchalantly and leaves me with half-words and little soft ideas that don't care if they are or are not, under the hot shower or while I'm eating something tasty, or as I sit and type type type. But what is truly there - what is the measure of distance between myself and time I am experiencing? How can I get closer to the essense of my self, passing through realms of socially-conventional oblivion? How can I be intentionally moving into a place of being, as all is passive?

Monday, March 19, 2018


I believe I am a kind person, but reading books on kindness, like "The Power of Kindness" by Piero Ferrucci, expands my scope of kindness. It broadens my realization of just how significant it is to make kindness be a way of life. To be patient, empathetic and attentive, toward myself and toward others. To give people space and safety. To appreciate people - and to remind them of my appreciation of them. To be generous with my thoughts, ideas and skills. To share them. To be genuine and sincere. This involves having faith that my true inner self can safely be shown in the world. It's having faith in humanity. It's being vulnerable, and thus allowing and accepting the vulnerabilities of others, and that of the world itself. It is realizing that life becomes richer when you focus on those you love and on what you love, with a full heart. Not running around, but focusing. Focusing on what is now. Focusing on unity and connection. Being kind means greeting a grumpy person with a smile, or replying with patience to an annoying customer. It means feeling that the world is literally becoming a better place with each good intention and positive reinforcement, or even with each speck of beauty that the world unfolds in front of us. It is appreciating the little things, and being grateful. It means not pretending to know more than we do, and always striving to learn more. It means that working toward spreading tolerance and compassion overrides proving to be "right" (and perhaps finding that there is no definite "right"), and it means always leaving room for reconciliation. Kindness means saying Good Morning and Good Night, and not forgetting an old friend's birthday.

Photo I photographed in Prague, 2014

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Nonviolent Anarchy

Emma Goldman on Wikipedia
Anarcho-Pacifism on Wikipedia (nonviolent anarchy)

Just putting it out there, so that you can learn together with me about some radical political movements and ideas. I looked up the latter after reading about the former and wondering if there's a nonviolent form of anarchy - which I personally am more attracted to. I'm wondering if I've always believed in some sort of anarchy without knowing it.

Noam Chomsky on Wikipedia


I feel like there's a lot I'd write if I knew how to write.

Well, I'm improving on the guitar, and playing and singing brings me a lot of joy. I'm thankful for the ability to do those two things. I'm taking guitar lessons with the talented cantor of the synagogue. We're doing it with a barter system, where I babysit her children sometimes and she teaches me guitar other times.

Just another of the blessings of Bellingham.

Oh, and Springtime is finally starting!

Tuesday, March 06, 2018

Waldorf Education - Every parent should consider this

(Copied from a facebook post I wrote:)

" provide an education that enables children to become free human beings, and to help children to incarnate their 'unfolding spiritual identity', carried from the preceding spiritual existence, as beings of body, soul, and spirit in this lifetime." (From the Wikipedia page, about the holistic philosophy of Waldorf.)
I would like to share my impressions from my visit in all the classrooms at a Waldorf school this past week.
(In Israel Waldorf education is called Anthroposophic אנתרופוסופי, but it is essentially the same.)
In each classroom that I entered, I saw teachers talking quietly to attentive children. The classrooms are spacious, lit, and furnished with natural wood materials. The lower grades have high ceilings, large windows, pastel-colored window curtains, and handkerchiefs hanging over wooden structures against one of the walls which is their free-play area. In one fairy-land (that's how it made me feel) that I entered, the children were in a circle, chanting or playing a game led by the teacher, who sat with them in the circle and led the game in a soft voice. Another of the younger grades was sitting around a table, eating soup and bread they had baked the day before. The teacher was sitting at the head of the table, holding a fairy doll, telling a story or chanting a prayer before the food, again - is such a patient and lulling voice. No urgency. No anger. One child was not at the table, he was in the kitchen area, not wanting to participate. The teachers did not scold him (as would most likely happen in a regular school).
In another room, young children were in transition - from outdoors to indoors - getting their indoor clothing on again, comfy clothes. Transitions are a part of the routine. There is a lot of patience for transition. There is no need to hurry.
Another class was in the movement room, having their Eurythmy movement lesson, while their movements corresponded with a story the dancer-teacher was telling.
In the older grades the students were sitting behind pretty light-wooden desks, with each child's name written by her/him on the front of the desk. On the walls of the classrooms (instead of the regular brightly-colored posters in regular schools) was artwork by the students and teachers made out of natural materials. When I entered one of the classrooms, one of the students was in the middle of telling about some beautiful nature she saw on a family trip in Utah.
I don't know if I am able to really capture the gist of it in these words. My impression was that I had entered a safe and gentle space where children can be creative and can learn from teachers who sing songs and tell stories, from teachers who listen as well as talk, who don't try to squeeze a thousand words a minute in order to transfer as much information to kids as possible. (From teachers who are actually fairies perhaps?)
Every child knows the routine and structure.
Free playtime and imagination are sacred.
Kindness and gentleness are the way.
To read more about Waldorf education:
*On another occasion I was at that same school for a weekly assembly, each week led by a different grade, for the whole school and for parents (and friends, like me).
The way that assemblies work in this school is that every adult and student who enters the hall takes a chair for herself from the stacked chairs outside, and when the assembly is over everyone returns her chair to the stack. I thought this was genius. So simple and so sensical. Instead of having a third party come and set up chairs ahead of time, you have every person take responsibility for herself.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Time, 2

How do different people perceive time?

Do some people fill their time with as much action as possible
So as not to waste one moment?
While others do nothing - 
so as not to waste one moment?

Do some ponder how to be in a constant state of presence
While others are in a constant state of future - 
And is there a difference between those two?
(And do some people not ponder one or the other - and if so, what do they ponder?)

Future is just a lengthened presence, after all. There is no future, essentially.
(That seems so sad to me, but becomes more and more apparent to me as I grow up.)

I personally catch myself choreographing and narrating most moments of my bodily configuration in the world, as they happen.

But moments of happiness, for me, are those moments in which I simply AM without too strict or tense of a choreography and narration - a moment of "AHA, THIS IS A MOMENT OF HAPPINESS."

It happens often - Oh, thank Goddess for that! I am so grateful for that!
And those moments of joy, or contentment, or pure presence, give me hope that not all of TIME will be noticed by me. That sometimes I will let it go without feeling the need to wonder about it.

I don't like wondering about it. Better to not know that soon everyone will die and that there's nothing to make our lives "larger" than what they are.

There is a lot of beauty in the world. If you take a moment to notice it.

And how do you perceive time?
What do you want to accomplish in life - and are you already doing it?
How often do you have moments that bring you sheer joy, and do you believe it is possible to increase the moments of joy?

Thursday, February 22, 2018


I kind of figured out that I need a lot of home-time throughout the week, a lot of time in my safe places, to resonate with my thoughts, to write, to read, to drink coffee, to stretch out (physically and emotionally), and that therefore I really do not soundly take upon myself full-time jobs. I work at part-time jobs because it allows me the freedom to get the home-time I need, hence to be free of anxiety involved in spending too many hours out of the house which has been a part of my life in the past. I am currently looking for more jobs just because I really do not have enough money to fly and visit my grandfathers in other states or let-alone to visit my family and friends overseas, but I am a little anxious about this endeavor, and hoping I can commit to only one month, just until I have enough money for those flights I need.

Only lately I've become exposed to the phenomenon of many people - artists and others - who work part-time for reasons similar to mine. I have never met anyone in the past who has posed this idea as a way they conduct their work schedule on purpose, and so I kind of felt at odd with working part-time when everyone around me knows that a full-time job is the "right" way to go.

But now I realize other people work part-time as well - especially here in Bellingham, where living is affordable compared to other places. Not because they have children they need to tend to, but because they want time for themselves. 


But this does raise another question to me: If I am spending quality time at home for my thoughts and art, why am I wasting so much time on facebook? Why am I not creating much art? What is still stopping me from going all-out and coloring my life with more creation? This is a good question, and I tend on pondering it for the next while, and on working on implementing more of the ideas in my head...

And the question above that, encompassing that one, is: What is the best way to live out my life, with the frightening realization that I am stuck in my body, with the scariness of realizing that life is just one?

September 27, 2017:

I suffer when I work in jobs I don't love and when I don't have an adequate amount of hours per day to be in my home. I suffer because I'm scared of authority and strict rules and need my home space and a warm accepting environment in order to feel safe. I find jobs whose goals I believe in and that suit my passions (so I usually go for challenging educational jobs and not secretarial work or the like - even though the latter actually may be mentally easier for me), and I only continue when the person in charge of me is kind and not overbearing. I cannot tolerate being in a work environment whose rules I don't fully understand, and if I continue in such a job I dread going to it every day. I stay away from that dread by finding small jobs I love. I don't run after money. I don't really like money, and well I don't really think about money, because I spend much of my existence in the realm of the mind and the creative thoughts (but as Tal says, you can't buy groceries with the ideas in your head.) I live a relatively simple life so I don't need much money. And ultimately, I don't suffer in the present in order to save money for the future.

But then, after all, I am saddened by the fact that I do not have enough money to do the things my heart calls for, like buy art supplies for my art, a guitar to play beautiful songs on, organic food to support sustainable agriculture, supplies to make nice birthday presents for all the people I love, and a flight back from Israel when I fly there this winter. And eventually, in the next few years, to open the bakery of my dreams. To donate money. To help build more normal animal shelters in Israel. To support Israeli-Palestinian and other interfaith organizations. 

Some people know how to work hard. It just was never part of me. It takes me a few hours to conjure the strength to work hard, then I can work hard for a few hours, and then I need to rest and be in a quiet safe space for another few. This means I'm not one of those people that gets up at 6 am, jumps out of bed and leaves to work for 8 or 9 hours. I get up and need my time to get my bearings together, to sit quietly at home in order to not be scared of the world around me and in order to settle, stream through and develop the thoughts in my mind.

Jobs that work for me are jobs that are not too far from home, that are only a few hours a day, and that I have full confidence in, or jobs I can do at home on the computer, like editing, translating and graphic design.

What's the point of this post? Maybe just to shed light on an understanding that becomes clearer and clearer to me with time. The situation is a combination of my never acquiring the skill of diligence (Which maybe could have been taught in elementary and high school but never was), plus my need to be in a safe space with peers and not with overbearing adults.

So all in all, I'd like to just surround myself in hominess and beauty and create thoughts and images, and not have to actually go to work.

Sunday, February 18, 2018


I love my dog. 
When I put my head right up to hers
there is no distance between my heart and her sweetness
and I find serenity in the closeness to her.
I listen to her heartbeat 
and watch her breathe, And pet her fur, 
as each strand of fur comes out so miraculously from her skin 
and covers and warms her body. Her body goes loose with trust 
when she is sleeping, and her four sweet paws lay calmly 
on the blanket, with those little soft cushions at the bottoms of them. 
And her little black nosey
And her floppy ears
And those little dreadlocks of fur between her eyes
Going in every-which direction
But she doesn't care.
I love her so much. It is possibly the most unconditional 
and compassionate love that I have for any living being. 
I don't want anything bad to ever happen to her.
I want her to always feel safe and content.

Thursday, February 15, 2018


Some thoughts

War / sexual assault / conquer / power / patriarchy / masculine governance and rule

Sarah Sanders was asked about Trump's idea of having a military parade in a press briefing at the White House this past week, and she replied that Trump is exploring ways to show pride, support and honor for the military, "the people who have served and sacrificed, to allow us the freedoms we have."

I wonder. Is this age-old notion true? Are wars and fallen soldiers in fact the sole impelors of the freedoms we have, as conservatives believe? Or have there been/can there be more sustainable and humane ways in play to cultivate peace between nations and to grant freedoms to people? Why do we continue to praise war, and to conduct war (and then praise the fallen soldiers who have died in the name of the holy war we sent them off to)? Or - a better question is - why are we still ruled by patriarchal power-thirsty people? Why are we still ruled by men? When will the feminine side have a say in national and international affairs? When will we overcome the poisonous patriarchy that still runs our countries?

Wednesday, February 07, 2018


I'm learning so much and it's joyfully overwhelming.
I haven't got a single way to write about all of it.
That's why I need to spend more time with my new friend C'elle, practicing writing, in that spot in the forest.
That's why I need to just start somewhere, right here, with the simple things:
I'm sitting in front of the computer screen, Tal is talking to his brother on the phone, Nemo is asleep on her favorite armchair, my knee is humming as it jumps up and down tensely because of the words flowing between my brain and the tips of my toes trying to find a way out.
I'm learning so much -- I'd love to share it all.

I drink coffee in the morning and joy fills me.
I walk along the streets of Bellingham and joy fills me.

Moments of inspiration are amorphic, untouchable,
So delicate, so encompassing,
So full and so joyful,
And their vastness makes them almost illusive
Makes them unholdable

Except for the little end-tails
The exclamation marks at the end
The aftertaste of a sweet dream.

I feel the touchable things around me
And that's all I can possibly write about:

The coffee, the streets, the outline of an experience larger than the sum of its components,
full of exploration, illumination, realization, love.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

The posts that I write reflect specific emotions I felt at the specific time of writing the post. Often I later reread posts and don't relate to the feelings, the wording, or the significance of the posts in general. In all the years of writing on my blog, I have essentially believed that by writing down different parts of me, eventually I'd get a whole picture. That never seems to formulate, though, since there is always more to tell, there are always many more emotions, speculations and understandings that I did not write down. Sometimes it seems that the better part of me is still in my head, even after spilling hundreds of thousands of words out in this virtual intimate diary. I wonder if the beauty, wonder, self-admiration and attempts of self-discovery and self-redemption ever pervade. I wonder if I am and always will be my number-one fan, and you know what, I guess that's fine.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Beautiful Things

I had an incredible birthday, abundant with the lovingkindness of the people I've met here in Bellingham. Without knowing what to do with all the gratitude, I made a little video with snippets of beautiful things I've videoed in the past two years, including me making my first steps on guitar about a year ago:

Cards and gifts from the sweet kindergartners I teach

Saturday, January 06, 2018

Here and There

"The thing about dreams is that when I look at the dream - when I aspire to be somewhere - I am an observer. But then when I get there, it's me there. I just walked -- from here to there," and I get up from the wooden chair behind the small round table and walk to the side of the room. "I'm still here. It's still me."
I sit back down. I jot down the idea on the napkin in front of me. The napkin also has musical notes and my friend's name, and two spectrums, to try to understand if "connection" (closeness, intimacy, feeling good with someone) and "dependence" (the inability to see yourself without someone, the need of the person in order to feel good) are two separate issues or if one is the extreme of the other, in relationships.
The warm tea arrives.
Halitatea, it's called. The name of the tea house.
In the center of Jerusalem.

"I say 'wow, that life looks amazing'. But when I get there, it's literally me there. I really cannot escape myself. And in that sense, there is no 'over there'. There is no dream - once I enter it, it is life, it is me, still struggling, still functioning from behind two eyes. Jealousy of other people's lives or of dream-lives (or even just the desire to be somewhere else) derives from the notion that this will not always be the case. That I will in fact be able to go 'over there' without bringing myself with me."