Strength

After my Shabbos nap yesterday, I unintentionally cleaned a closet because I needed to get to a suitcase that was buried within it. In the process, I came across my wedding’s “old” and “blue” in the form of a pair of my grandmother’s garters – on the erev of what would have been my 28^th wedding anniversary.

Many would call this coincidence; my friend, Rebecca, would call it #bashert. So, I snapped a photo of the garters and texted it to her with a message that began, “Here’s #bashert for you…”

She replied with this: “28 = כח = strength.” (Every Hebrew letter has a numerical value and it happens that the two letters that equal 28 –  kaf, which equals 20 and chet, which equals 8 – spell the Hebrew word koach, which means strength.)

Indeed, I am grateful that 15 years ago, I mustered enough emotional strength to see (finally) where I was, to change course, and to steer my life in the direction I wanted it to go. Yasher koach to me -- and to everyone since then who's helped me get (and keep) my life on track.

The Blessing of Awakening Anew: A #BlogElul Post

Whenever someone asks me about being divorced, I usually start with the same answer:

"I literally awoke one day knowing that I couldn't live the rest of my life the way I'd been living it for the last 13 years."

I think I'd known the truth for a really long time, but until that morning, I wasn't ready to deal with the reality.

Today, more than 11 years later, I still feel the elation that came from having awoken in time to remake my life for the better.

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, who offers us endless opportunities to awaken anew, with the potential to re-imagine and reinvent ourselves again and again and again. Amen.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima,this post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Elul, which precedes the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serves as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.

#BlogExodus: Slavery

Photo Wikimedia Commons

Each year at this season, I think often about my own escape from slavery.

Although there was no back-breaking physical labor in my Mitzrayim, the Pharaoh there was emotionally abusive.  I was a slave to his whims, his routine, his schedule and his mishagas.

This is what it was like.

Finally--after 13 years--I gathered up my courage and, like Nachshon ben Amminadabh, I took a few steps out into the water.

It was cool and clear and refreshing.

As the Israelites crossed the sea to freedom, so too did I cross the country to a new life of freedom and joy.  And, like Miriam and the women, I've been dancing ever since.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Nisan leading up to Passover 5773.

The Drop Off

I’ve never noticed the father-daughter trio get on the bus.  They must board at an earlier stop, the girls decked out in pink—sneakers, hair ribbons and backpacks—and Dad looking as though he’d welcome a cup of coffee.  For each of the last three Saturday mornings, though, I’ve noticed them get off the bus.  Theirs is the 68th Street stop, where Mom’s already waiting, sitting patiently on a wooden bench in front of Memorial Sloan-Kettering.  Alighting from the bus, one daughter runs to her; the other hangs back with Dad, approaching more slowly.  Before the scene ends, the bus pulls away from the curb.  When it’s over, I hope Dad goes to get that cup of coffee.

And She Lived Happily Ever After

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt from The Red Dress Club asked you to spread a little joy.

You were to write a piece where you or your character overcame a challenge and, even if it's just for a moment, has a happy ending.

Hoping the tank was on the right, she steered the tin can rental up alongside the pump, found the latch to unlock the cover, climbed out and filled it like a pro -- with neither dirt nor gas staining her hands.   (After all, she’d been born and raised in New Jersey where self-serve gas didn’t exist.  But, after nearly five years in LA and a few before that in New Hampshire, she’d learned a thing or two about pumping gas.  Too bad she hadn't also learned to listen to her gut...until now.) With the tank full, she set out again, following the signs to “Returns,” where she easily guided the car into an empty spot.  After returning the key, she made her way to the terminal, checked her bag--which could have doubled as a steamer trunk--and proceeded to the gate.

This was her second trip down the 405 to LAX this week.  A few days earlier, her neighbor, Carole, had followed her to the port where she’d dropped her car so it could make the trip back east on a car carrier. Carole then ferried her to the airport, where she’d picked up the rental she’d just now dropped off.  In the intervening days, she’d been busy -- packing and shipping to her parents’ house everything that wasn’t headed for storage.  Yesterday, the movers had come, removing the furniture and boxes--only those without a “Do Not Pack” sign affixed to them--headed for the self-storage locker her mother had rented just last weekend.  She’d tied up a few loose ends at the office and said her goodbyes (yes, even to him) before spending her last night in LA at another Carol’s, this one her friend and colleague, who, as luck would have it, lived near the airport.

With plenty of time to spare at the still empty gate, she watched through the huge glass wall as golf cart drivers swerved around each other, delivering wayward bags to jets at other gates.  At the closest one, workers atop a platform crane loaded meals and supplies onto a parked plane. Taking it all in, she was well aware of the absence of the elephant that recently had departed her being.  A newfound lightness filled her to the core.

An older woman, nodding and smiling, sat down next to her.

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure?” the woman inquired.

She hesitated a moment before answering, “Neither....  I’m leaving my husband.”  With the words hanging in the air, she was stunned.  Where were her filters?

“Is this a good thing for you?” the woman asked, unshaken.

“Oh yes,” she said, empowered by what she’d already accomplished and elated by the new freedoms she knew lay ahead.

R

Red Writing Hood is the writing meme of The Red Dress Club.  The finished piece should be no more than 600 words of either fiction or non-fiction.  Thanks for reading...and feel free to offer thoughts, ideas and/or constructive criticism.  I appreciate hearing what you have to say.