I keep saying and thinking that being a writer isn’t enough. But what if it is?
Just getting up everyday, feeling gratitude, loving myself, my husband and my kids, and writing. Everyday.
About healing and G-d and business and baking challah and beautiful red star-shaped flowers falling to the grass. About storm clouds in the shape of gators, playing laser tag with my kids, eating fro-yo in the car with my daughters and discussing if the bobas are kosher. Walking my rescue dog counter-clockwise around my condo building as I fall in love with the banyan trees.
And the searing pain of watching death and destruction among my brothers and sisters in Surfside and Meron, and the pain of my own miscarriages and giving up a baby, and teenage children who disagree with seemingly everything about me. And the loneliness.
All the moments, the up, down and forgotten ones. Saying Shema at night with my little boy as the sky darkens yet again, and feeling sadness about time that seems to slip away. Or of me not being fully there.
The feelings of being abandoned and of saying cruel things I immediately regretted. And not being heard or understood and crying in the shower.
Then experiencing the expansive beauty of a 13th floor view of Miami that I know I’m leaving soon. Acrylic pour painting and the joy of watching the colors swirl, memories of being bullied by classmates for wearing thick glasses, and being forced to finish my food till I vomit. Of moving dozens of times for very good reasons but also wondering if it’s really about outrunning the pain.
And the struggle and beauty of covering my hair and dressing modestly, and observing Torah, except when I don’t.
Coaches and therapists and prayers and pain and healing. Falling and healing again. And being filled with love and G-d and spirit… then emptiness as I beg for the light to return. I forget that it always does. And that it never really left.
I keep saying and thinking that being a writer isn’t enough. But maybe it is.