Ups, Downs, & Tu B'Shvat

It's been an amazing week for me, although it's been capped off with the flu. First there was the jDeal.com launch party at which I found out I was the winner of the position as the jDeal.com amabassador and some nice winnings. Then, yesterday, I got an email from SXSW Interactive letting me know that my panel was chosen as a Core Conversation, making it basically the same thing that it was last year, but with a different type of focus. So yes, I'll be going to SXSW 2011, and the illustrious @susqhb will be my co-panelist to discuss "Jewish Synergy: Social Media and the New Community." It's one big happy Social Media week for me. The bummer? I got a flu shot on Monday and it's given me the flu. Yes, it can happen. This is why I haven't gotten the flu shot in probably six years. Growl. (November through May are pretty much a lost cause for me -- it's one sickness after another.)

So, because I'm not functioning at 100 percent, I'll let the folks at G-dcast do the Tu B'Shvat goodness for me. I really love this video because I studied Honi the Circle Maker while studying at the University of Connecticut. The Rabbis appropriated Honi, who was a magic worker of his time, and called him "rabbi" in the midrash. In my studies, we discussed why the rabbis did this, and our discussions were quite interesting. I hope you enjoy this little video! Also, check out my brief blog post from last year, which is one post for I'm particularly proud.

And now? For the video ...

Home Bittersweet Home

Well, we're back from Israel. I've been largely incommunicado because, well, surprise surprise I'm ill. It started with a bout of nausea motzei Shabbos (Tuvia went for falafel at Moshiko on Ben Yehuda Street, and I went to bed), and it culminated with a temperature drop (I don't get fevers, I drop in temperature), chills, and a horrible headache yesterday. I went to bed yesterday at 4 p.m., woke up at 8:30 p.m. for some soup, and then went back to bed until 7 a.m. this morning. I'm feeling better, sort of, but the nausea is killing me. No, I'm not preggo. Don't even ask.

Our last major adventure in Israel was a trip to Hevron and Kever Rachel. Here's a view from the טיילת.

Leaving Israel was bittersweet, but because I wasn't feeling well I was ready to just get home to my bed and my stuff in my house. Traveling is hard, it's fun, but it's hard. Living out of suitcases and being without your favorite toiletries is just rough. It is. Being in Jerusalem and Israel all over was beautiful and exciting and riveting and ... yes, I was elated to be there, to feel the feeling of being a Jerusalemite for 10 days, but there's something about being home. Being in the U.S.

I know what you're thinking: But Chaviva! You want so much to move to Israel! To make aliyah, right?

It's funny, and you all will find this shocking, but this trip didn't sing to me like ones in the past did. Yes, it was nice to hang out with gobs of awesome Twitter olim and seeing family who are living in and loving Israel. But the trip was frustrating for me. I'll admit it's probably because of the language frustration -- being almost there, but not fluent. Or it might have been the weather and the idea of losing winter if we ever moved to Israel. Not having the normal stores with the normal stuff, too, was frustrating. And, of course, the water giving me stomach aches was no fun (this was my third trip and the water never bothered me before). But there was something about this trip that made me ask myself, "Could you really do this?"

Don't get your panties in a twist just yet. I'm just saying there was something about this trip that didn't hit me right. And it might just be that I'm grumpy and sick and have nearly 40 pages to write by Wednesday ... but something gave me pause. Caution. And it's a scary feeling. Knowing that my neshama and heart are in Jerusalem and that my brain and body are wondering "hrm ..." is frustrating.

At any rate, Happy Chanukah, this time from New Jersey.

A Spiritual Drought

Drought.

Okay, we're not experiencing a drought. We as in the greater global community, that is. So far as I know, especially after all the flooding a few weeks ago (global warming!?). I'm talking personal drought. Spiritual drought. People always tell me that they're mind-blown about my attitude toward being Jewish and toward Judaism. I'll admit, I do get kinda overly stoked 99 percent of the time about everything related to being Jewish and living Jewishly. I can't help it. My neshama is perpetually on fire. But then there's that 1 percent of the time (I'll admit, it's probably greater than that), where I just feel, well, droughty.

Now, as it seems, is one of those times.

I'm guessing it's largely because I haven't stepped foot in a synagogue in a month. We've had Shabbats in the Poconos and Manchester and then those days in Florida. We'd hoped to be in the community for this past Shabbat and the last two days of the chag but as it turns out, my body didn't agree with Passover this year. First it was a stomach ache, and then it was a day of dizziness that started off with me falling over after getting out of bed. The weekend continued with the stomach ache, me popping pills and sleeping a ton. I went out and bought more vegetables, thinking that the more produce I consumed the less my body would reject the matzo that was in everything (if it wasn't matzo, it was farfel or matzo meal). But it didn't let up. I didn't sleep Sunday night or last night. I got up today and ate breakfast, subsequently crawling back into bed for three hours. Then, today, mid-meal my face got warm and flushed and after looking in the mirror I realized the left side of my face was bright red.

It was Passover and a girl couldn't catch a break.

I'll admit I feel better after going out and buying some Honey Kix, yogurt, Arnold's flats, and beans and corn for a proposed Crockpot Mexican Chicken. My face is still warm, but less red. My stomach has calmed a bit, but not enough that I feel comfortable sleeping.

I know, I know. I'm kvetching, a lot. But I feel like I have to force myself into synagogue this weekend, no matter how I feel, so I can feel more myself. I don't know if synagogue will do it or if I throw myself back into my academic work (there's less than a month left and I'm freaking out) I'll suddenly feel more plugged in.

The long and short of it is that there's no shame in feeling drought-worthy. Not in my book anyway. No one can be 100 percent on with HaShem all the time; in fact, if you do, then something's wrong. You're not battling and conversing and questioning enough. Sitting back and taking stock of where you're at is part of the game, no matter what religion to which you belong. If everything always feels right, you're setting yourself up for a complete crash. A brick wall. A loss in something grand.

Anyhow. I'm praying that getting some regular dairy and bread back in my system will help me not feel like World War III is rocking my body. Not sleeping, waiting for everything you eat to make you sick, these aren't fun. They're keeping me from my community.

I need a good, serious daven. A private moment with HaShem in the arms of the community.

Rosh Hashanah, I Wish You Were.

Every year, no matter how hard I try, the holidays -- be it Pesach or Rosh Hashanah or something else -- sneak up on me. I start reading and preparing, analyzing the meanings behind fasts and actions and how we daven, far in advance of the holidays. But then, out of nowhere, it is upon us and I'm lost. Lost in the music, the prayers, the people, the noise, the chaos. And this Rosh Hashanah, it wasn't enough that the days were full of all of these things, no, what was added to it was an incident that will probably be one of those "Hey, remember that year where Chavi didn't come to shul and when she did she looked like she'd been knocked out in a boxing match?" kind of memories.

I was staying in a new environment, and despite my best efforts -- bringing my own pillow cases, my own allergen-free pillow, my own pillows and body wash -- somehow I managed to develop a violent allergic reaction to something still unknown to me. It started Saturday morning when I woke up, progressed throughout the day, and culminated around 2 a.m. Sunday morning with a swollen-shut right eye and a left eye on the way there. In the morning, I didn't make it to shul because I'd been up all night wiping my eye and making sure my face didn't swell too much and that -- most importantly -- my throat didn't swell shut. Two people, two amazing friends, even made their way to the apartment to wake me up and check on me (they didn't know the situation). When I finally made it to shul, moments before shofar, I was surrounded by friends dishing medical advice (real doctors!) and handing me antihistamines. The swelling in my eye was down drastically when the service ended a few hours later, and by the evening my eyes were looking better and my skin was bumpy like the peel of an orange and red as can be. Did I mention how itchy it was?

Even today, my face is bumpy, red and blotchy, and I just have to hope that the Prednisone prescribed to me on Monday will really kick it up and make this go away. For someone like me -- with an always-clear complexion -- it's frustrating, disheartening, and depressing. I hate to be vain, but it's more than that. I was embarrassed to be at shul, and later, in class. It's hard to focus when your eyeballs are itchy and your skin is peeling and flaking. It's disgusting and distracting.

I tried so hard to focus on Rosh Hashanah services this weekend. Our chazzan, flown in from Israel for the High Holidays has a voice of honesty, passion, depth. I found myself, despite the state of my face, focusing on his arms as they swung about in song, his shukeling, his devotion to the words, to their meaning. He managed to find a space in his own world to bring his soul toward G-d, and despite all of those people in the sanctuary chattering and reading novels and paying no attention, he was real, he was true. His words were something special. I found that, when my face was itchy and looking horrible, it was easier for me to focus on the chazzan and his words -- more easy, that is, then when I'm normal, healthy, and focusing on the babblers around me.

[As an aside, the dinner I went to Friday night was at the home of some Israeli friends of mine (note: more like family!), and the chazzan was there as well. The chazzan, whose English isn't too stellar, allowed for our hosts and myself to speak a bit of Hebrew, and for Tuvia to nod along joyfully. It was so interesting to be in a household where we bounced back and forth between Hebrew and English, and it was absolutely something special for me because it gave me practice listening, comprehending, and even speaking a bit.]

I did, however, have an interesting conversation with friends about the state of affairs at shul over the High Holidays, and I have to agree with them -- to a point. They were talking about how for some of these people, these twice-a-year Jews, it's a huge step for them to make it to the shul for Rosh Hashanah to hear the shofar (which, in truth, is the major mitzvah of RH anyway). Although they drive me nuts, grate my cheese, and make it all-around more difficult to listen to the chazzan than a swollen melonhead, they're there, and that's something. That they chose to come to an Orthodox shul, where the only sound you'll hear is the purest voice of the chazzan, is also something. There was no production, no lights and choirs and extravagant displays of High Holiday excess. No, it was simple. It was chaos. It was organized, beautiful, chaos. They didn't extend the walls to pack in hundreds of people -- it was men and women smashed into the sanctuary listening to a chazzan with pipes of gold, pipes with a direct connection to the divine. And overall? It was beautiful. It was how I've always pictured the service. Simple, chaotic, perfect.

Interestingly, a friend suggested the following advice: If there are days of the year to skip shul, it's the High Holidays. It gave me a chuckle, but I understand. The pure volume of people there elevated the chattering behind the chazzan's davening. But I keep telling myself -- they were THERE.

I feel as though I was cheated a bit, however. Because of the state of my face. People kept checking up on me, asking if I was okay, making sure I could handle to be in the sanctuary during davening. So? I focused my energies on the shofar, and I was reminded of probably the one thing I miss most about my old Reform shul: the girl who blew the shofar -- she, she had pipes. That long note? She could blast it for minutes. Her skills were incomparable. Unimaginable.

But it's the sound of the shofar that brought everyone to quietude. The rabbi wouldn't let the shofar be blown until the entire crowd was silent. Children came running in from every direction. Women silenced their chattering. Men turned toward the bimah. The rabbi read the sound, the man blew the shofar. And it was beautiful. The sound that I hear in my dreams, that powerful sound above all quietness that connects us all on these days of Awe. Silence and beauty. Silence and loudness. It's that sound of creation, bringing order through noise to the quiet.

So here I am, in the days of Awe, contemplating whether my face will clear up and stop itching in time for me to enjoy Shabbat and Yom Kippur. To really focus on the reason for the season (if I can say that, that is). We have friends, the illustrious @SusQHB and @RavTex coming up for the weekend, and I'm so stoked. I love sharing my community with others, because it's the most amazing community out there. I think this weekend was the most perfect example of the gift I've been given -- people cared enough to check on me, people ran to their respective houses to bring me medicine, people offered up their homes to me to rest in the afternoon, their beds to rest my swollen head, food to comfort me, and jokes and calm things to make me less worried. These people, this community of mine, is a family unlike any other that I've known. Eizeh mishpacha!?


Thus, 5770 came in with an interesting bang. They say that how you spend the days of Rosh Hashanah will define your year -- if you nap on RH, you'll have a sleepy year and the like. I have to hope, with all my heart, that this won't be a year of pain and suffering. I have to hope that rather, it will be a year of friendship, community, family, and connections. A realizing of my dream to be an Orthodox Jew in all halakic senses of the word. So may I be sealed, for all my efforts and passion, in the book of life. And may you all -- my extended family through blogging, Twittering, and many other avenues -- be sealed in the book of life for a healthy, happy, productive, and peaceful 5770!

Shanah Tovah + Ouch = No fun.

All I have to say is, stay tuned for a tale of horror, woe, hives, eyes swollen shut, and a lack of sleep.

Yes, I got really f'ing sick this weekend during Rosh Hashanah. Sick enough that half the congregations doctors were diagnosing me during Shacharit today.

No pictures. Let's just say I looked like this guy:

Except minus the blood. And that I am a woman. And I don't box. But other than that? Yeah.

Let's just hope this isn't an indication of the coming year ...

Taking a Mini-Break ... sort of.

It's a new month, and 2009 is nearly upon us. Thank G-d it's already 5769 and I don't really have to think about a new year! But I wanted to pop in to let everyone know that for the next week, perhaps two, I will be really MIA. I have a lot of things I want to write about -- keeping Shabbos over the past month with a significant other, hot water pots, already-on ovens, separating meat and dairy and the interesting conundrums it has presented, getting to shul, and more. But I have two term papers (one of which is presently 20 pages and the other of which is about 15 and growing) to work on and a few finals to focus my attentions toward. As such, I just can't be present on my blog in the way I'd like to be. So there will be short snippets of news stories and what have you, but nothing really that fascinating, and for this? I ask for your patience until I return fully and for your continued support! This blog is my world, and having so many readers means so much to me. I'll be back for about a week after my finals, and then, on December 17, I trek off to Israel for a life-altering experience on Birthright. I won't be live blogging, most likely, but I will be alive and well. If I can figure out how to text a post, I'll be sure to do it!

On a similar note, another reason I'm stepping away is because my energy level is at a bottom right now. I feel like the Freddy, the dog in this photo. I just want to sleep! As you all know, I was dealing with strep throat about three weeks ago. I took a 10-day dose of penicillin, and I was better for about four or five days, after which I started getting some similar symptoms. I couldn't swallow anything, not even water, without excruciating pain. I was exhausted, my glands were the size of baseballs, and there was a pressure in my head, nose, ears, and neck that I cannot even begin to put into words! Luckily, things only got really bad after Thanksgiving, so I was able to enjoy some time with the S.O.'s family. But on Friday morning, we had to drive about 45 minutes to the nearest urgent care/hospital in the middle-of-nowhere, Pennsylvania, so I could be diagnosed. The doctor immediately surmised it was mono (although he mentioned that since it had been 2.5 weeks, I likely was outside the window for showing positive for mono), took a swab test for strep (which I'm still waiting on) and sent me off to the hospital for blood tests. Later Friday, he called to tell me that he couldn't tell for sure whether it was NOT mono, but he did know that I had developed a bacterial infection. I was sent to the pharmacy just after the start of Shabbat (which bummed me out, but was necessary) for a prescription that was penicillin + more antibiotics to help fight the infection.

Needless to say, I'm feeling a lot better than I was Thursday night and Friday during the day, but I'm not even at 60 percent right now. I'm fatigued, my glands are still swollen, and my skin is more ghostly than normal! One friend quipped that I even looked like I had mono. Ach! So I'm going to be sleeping a lot, working on papers, and messing around with Hebrew while trying to get better.

And maybe ... just maybe ... I'll get around to reading the nearly 300 blog posts I'm behind on. You bloggers have been busy over the past six days. It's frustrating to be so behind. If you have a blog post that you think I should most certainly spend some time on -- email me or put the link in the comments below.

Until I return with stories of Shabbos and crazy racists in the Poconos ... be well!

We're Getting Personal.

There are those days, when no matter how hard you try, your eyes continuously turn toward the sky -- shamayim -- also known as the heavens in some circles. When you get a call from an insurance company informing you that you have a substantial outstanding medical bill to pay and that if you don't pay soon, they'll send you to a collection agency, even though you never got any statement, and eventually they back down and dish out "sorry about all this" when you say "I'm a poor graduate student." Then your hair lady leaves work early so you have to have a stranger trim your tresses and a class you love insists on moving at the speed of light for the sake of finality and not for the sake of education and your given tasks that are tedious and menial that others were supposed to do but suddenly grew far too busy to do. Oh, and then there are bank fees because the bank wrongly cashed a canceled check that they knew was canceled but deposited anyway. So you turn your eyes toward the sky and all you can do is pray. Of course, at this point you know this "you" is me, and I'm not usually one who turns to G-d only in the bad times. I prefer to look to G-d in the good and the bad, because I'm not a fair-weather Jew. But days like today -- where when it rains it pours -- I look to the sky, despite how illogical it is. Above us is the atmosphere and space and we have the pictures to prove there isn't immediately above us some fluffy white expanse of heaven with G-d hanging out in some cherubim-laced throne. But I look anyway because the celestial bodies of the sky are comforting and sing of the luminaries G-d placed so near (yet so far).

And? ... the doctors think my father has lymphoma.

I've been accused many times of being way, way too personal on my blog. People often ask me how I can possibly talk about as much as I do or divulge all of the details that I do. Don't I want anything to be sacred? Anything to be private? Isn't there a single thing that I want to be just for me, just for my own personal enjoyment? I guess it might be misleading since I do blog about so many personal things, but I don't write about everything in my life. I leave my love life out of it, I leave personal one-on-one friendships out of it. I write about me, myself, and I. And I think that's fascinating and I guess a lot of other people do, too.

The thing is, people love stories. At our most basic, we as individuals want to relate to everyone around us on some level. We cling to the tiniest bits and scraps of information that make us alike. And it's healthy, it's good, it's right. We're meant to figure out ways of living together with one another and we love to hear the stories of our peers because we can see ourselves in those stories. So, I tell stories. But the thing is, they're all real and they're all personal and they're all coming from the most deep trenches of my heart.

So this one. This story. I was sitting at Texas Roadhouse, enjoying some homemade chicken fingers and fries when the phone rang and my father, who I knew was getting a CAT scan and some tests today, informed me that he had news. He asked me where I was and if I wanted to talk. "I don't want to ruin your dinner," he said. That, of course, was a sign that something was very much not right, and I carried myself off to the ladies room, plugging a finger in one ear and pressing the phone tight up against the other to muffle the sounds of Toby Keith and Garth Brooks blaring over the loudspeaker (why is the music always louder in the bathroom than in the restaurant?). It turned out mom was on the phone, too. They both talked me through it: gall bladder needs to be removed, it doesn't work anymore, can live without it, must eat bland foods, swollen lymphnodes, caught it early, need a biopsy, will take when gall bladder is removed, chemo, therapy, oncologist, appointment on Monday, and the best part of it all? "If you have to get cancer, it's the best kind to get."

Currently, there are more than 400,000 people in the U.S. living with lymphoma. It's one of the most curable cancers, or so one website tells me. There are a lot of websites. I could read them all, but I won't, because I'm tired and my eyes are dusty and I'm just beat. And, of course, I can't see the sky anymore because I'm inside where it's warm.

I try not to be a fatalist, and I try to be an optimist. There is no better way to live life. And I'm not asking for pity or sympathy or regrets or "I'm sorrys." But sometimes, when everything is going so well, so perfectly, you wonder when life's big tragic nuggets of crap drop on you. I mean, in the long run all the money stuff seems stupid and piddly compared to the real news of the day. So chances are good I won't be extending my trip to Israel. Chances are good that I'll be using that money to pay off a doctor's bill and buying a ticket to fly back to Nebraska to spend some time with my family while they figure things out. Israel will still be there for the next however many years of my life, and I'll go back again and again because it calls to me. But so does my family, and this is pressing.

Until then, well, I'm going to sit around and bargain with G-d the best way a suffering soul knows how. Asking without intent to receive, but reminding G-d of all the ways my father has suffered in his life and how I think he's had about enough already. Losing both parents before the age of 11, bypass surgery, shitty CEOs who money-grubbed and drove his job into the ground, being emotionally battered. Unlike everything that I was able to fix before -- disputes, money troubles, car troubles, family troubles -- I can't fix this. This is something that the rock of the family just can't do. So, for now, I'll hope that maybe, just maybe, the biopsy comes back negative and we can all go back to living our lives the way that we know how.

I Hate Doctor's Offices.

Well, I went to the infirmary where I was informed that I either have strep or mono. Either way, talk about sucking. I'd prefer the former to the latter, but either way it's going to be a miserable time for me for a while. The miracle drug penicillin is keeping me calm until the test results come back on the strep. If I get worse, then I probably have mono, and then I get to seriously freak out. It is, after all, crunch time here at UConn.

Luckily, I have some delicious homemade chicken matzo ball soup courtesy of a real-life Jewish grandmother from the old country. I couldn't be more elated. So please, pardon me while I eat some soup and crawl into bed for the 30th time today.

Oh, and I do promise to respond to comments posted throughout at some point when I'm not feeling so low, and I will also do up a Part I to my Shabbaton Reflections, as well. I just lack the energy to do anything. This post? Took me way longer than it should have to type.

Peace.

Sick and Not in the Sukkah.

Well, I hope your Sukkot is going better than mine. I've been sick essentially since I woke up Sunday in a beautiful house hidden away in the Poconos. By late Sunday and early Monday, I was practically comatose. I didn't go to Hebrew class, and I spent most of Monday and Tuesday in bed, schluffing around in my comfy pants and going through boxes of Kleenex. But now? I'm feeling quite a bit better, as my illin' has been relegated mostly to utter congestion and some minor issues of breathing.

But the days of sickness gave me a lot of time to read, and read I have. About what? The golden calf of course! It's interesting how many random roads I've trekked down thanks to my recently heightened research. For example, there was a period of time where the golden calf episode wasn't mentioned in synagogues in Israel (we're talking way, way back in the day, like 2nd century CE) -- known as a "tradition of concealment." I can't seem to find much on it, though. Then there are three writers who "rewrote" the incident in their own unique ways, the two well-known among them being Philo and Josephus. The former brushed around the incident of idolatry, because to him the purpose of the incident was to emphasize the choosing of the Levites as the auxiliary priesthood. The latter, Josephus, bypassed the entire episode in his writing -- why? Probably because of the anti-Jewish mockery by writers of the time. Josephus likely wanted to keep his gentile readers from getting certain "impressions" about Jews and animal worship. Then there are all these avenues of thought about how the incident wasn't a violation of the first commandment, but rather just of the second since it was creating an image/likeness of what is on "the earth below," but that it was meant either as G-d or Moses, but either way the people weren't replacing G-d, but rather were worshiping ... well ... that's a whole other story.

Anyway, I'm getting excited. I just need to ORGANIZE my thoughts. We'll see how I feel after our grad student meeting tomorrow when we reveal where our research is taking us.

I hope you all are enjoy Sukkos, and I'm stoked for Simchat Torah :)

When You're All Alone.

I realized recently -- sometime last month -- that I have my father's laughter. That is, when I laugh, I mean really laugh, I sound like my dad. It's this boisterous chuckle that I always thought was distinct to my father. It's always been comforting, the thought of his laugh and the smile that accompanies it. I can picture instances of him talking with his co-workers near endcaps for light bulbs and building gadgets while he worked at Payless, the lumber store, when he was a manager and before it went under; the CEOs walked away with millions. And he was always laughing, because he was happy. And now, I hear that laughter when I get rolling, and at first when I noticed it, it made me exceeding uncomfortable. This being because I'd noticed earlier this year, while looking at a photo taken at a friend's birthday party, that in that split instance of the photo, I looked exactly like my mother.

Where we come from, our genes, out family trees, those who preceded us in both spirit and blood, matters so much. What they are and have, we are and have, and thus we give to our children.

I had a bit of an emotional breakdown last night. I don't write about this stuff very often, mostly because this blog is my baby and I want it to be as positive, if not healthy, as possible. But I had this small, mostly painless procedure last week to get rid of some moles and I got a call last night that one of them is questionable and I have to go back in for a more invasive procedure. Okay, it's not that invasive -- it's a cut about as long as my finger with some stitches, but I'm the girl who has never had stitches, never spent time in the hospital, never broken any bones, nothing. I am, for the most part, a picture of health. Well, unless you count the eczema (mom), my bad knees (who knows), asthma and allergies (dad), and some other non-life-threatening but absolutely consistently irritating and painful things that I deal with. But last night, while attempting to put a band-aid on this spot on my back -- in no man's land, right in the middle -- I got frustrated. Six band-aids in, and no luck, I finally slapped one on and said screw it. I walked out to my bed, and I sat down, and I felt defeated. It was then that I realized a friend had called (voicemail) to check up on me to see how I was doing, and I just broke down. I spent the next hour in and out of sobs. It took me back to being at the doctor's office and his dismay at me not having anyone around to help me bandage. That old enemy, the voice of "you are so very alone" crept back in and beat me down. I was alone.

I've been thinking a lot lately about sickness, death and dying. I found out today that one of my high school teachers (who, in truth I never took classes from but someone I knew and who my friends had classes with) died after a long bout with Leukemia. In high school, I had a half-dozen friends lose their mothers to cancer of some sort, and this year an ex lost her mother to cancer as well. I knew a kid in high school who had testicular cancer and survived. I know someone with fibromyalgia. I know a lot of people, who have family and friends who deal with a lot of horrible things. But in truth, I've never been touched by these things, at least, not in that painful, life-long struggle to cope with a sick, dying relative or close friend. I'm one of the lucky ones, I guess, is what I'm saying.

I can't complain about some stupid "questionable" moles or the eczema that has kept me from wearing shorts of any variety, not to mention swimsuits, since my freshman year of high school and that makes me feel perpetually in pain, if not disgusted at myself. I can't get in a tissy about my knees that sound like squishing crumpled potato chip bags when I walk up the stairs. I can't complain about the cough that won't go away or how half the time I can't sleep and the other half I sleep like a baby but that there's no median. Or maybe, rather than can't, I should say shouldn't. I shouldn't complain, because I don't really have the right. Because in truth, I don't have it that bad.

Every day I worry that the breast cancer, that caused my grandmother much pain but didn't kill her, will fall to me. Or that I'll discover I, like my father and uncle and others, have diabetes; it killed two of my great aunts. Maybe, I'll discover that I have lung cancer, despite having never smoked; it killed my grandmother when my dad was just a child. Then there is the heart disease that killed my grandfather when my father was 10 and resulted in my own fathering having to have a bypass several years ago. I try so hard to not dwell on these things. And it's why I've turned into my mother when it comes to doctors -- avoid, avoid, avoid. What you don't know can't hurt you, right?

But then I have these moments where I'm doing something as small as bandaging a wound -- a wound created because a doctor was worried about the possibilities (no one in my family has ever danced with skin cancer). And now, I have to go back because there is a small possibility. I should be grateful, right? I wish I could be. I just keep wondering -- if something were to happen to me, who would be there to take care of me?

X-rays and the parasha.

So Blogger has unleashed a fancy new set of features, ranging from inline/embedded comments (i.e.: no pop-up window for commenting) to a star-rating system to a fancy new post editor system. I'm trying out the Blogger draft setup (http://draft.blogger.com) to see how I like it and see if the new system (which looks nice) is all buggy or fully functioning.

I've been mostly MIA this week, being full with the sickness and all. I went back to the doctor yesterday because of some breathing difficulties I was having. While there the doctor had me get some chest x-rays, because she was worried I might be developing pneumonia (which I've never had). Her overall plan, though, was to treat me for a bronchial infection and just keep tabs on how it progresses. I'm now doing up Allegra-D, some pain killers for the off-and-on jaw/neck/ear pain, an Albuterol inhaler every three hours, and some oral antibiotics for the infection. I've missed four whopping days of work this week while trying to put myself on a schedule of sleep and rest and medicine, but it just hasn't worked out well. I'm not much for sleeping upright, and laying down immediately gives me the sensation that someone has plopped down on my chest for some R&R. I'll stop the kvetching now, but I just wanted to keep an update going in case anyone out there in Blogger land is interested. I'm hoping that by Monday I'll be well enough (and able to breathe normally) that I can return to work. I feel like such a pansy.

Then, since I'm in a rather standing-still state, I decided to sit down with the Torah portion this week -- Korach. The thing of it is, every time I sit down to study Torah these days, I just can't focus. I don't know if it's because I'm in a minor state of flux and that my mind is constantly racing into topics outside the pages of my chumash or what, but it often feels like I'm reading gibberish. I went over to Chabad.org -- my source for all things parashot and educational -- and instantly got distracted by this incredibly moving story of a Holocaust survivor and the tree stump that saved his life (not to mention the righteous gentile who assisted in the saving). But knowing I need to focus, I flip back over to the parshah and hope for the best. I click around on the various articles and gleanings and I still can't manage to get through a single one. So I end up on Wikipedia, reading about Korach and how in Genesis there was also a Korach who rebelled against Israel, and this Korach was the son of Esau.

Then I'm off, Googling my way around the interweb, trying to focus myself once again. I end up over on Kolel's Parasha Study, where I read something interesting that gets me thinking,

Korach and his followers challenge Moshe and Aharon's authority to lead the people by claiming that the entire Israelite community was equally holy. Korach's claim seems to be that nobody is on a higher spiritual level than anybody else, so why should Moshe and Aharon be in charge? Moshe responds by inviting Korach to a public test, to see whom God has chosen, and also by rebuking Korach for not being satisfied with the ritual role the Levites have already been given as ritual assistants in the Mishkan.

This is the p'shat explanation of the Torah portion, meaning that it's the most simple, plain meaning of the text. It got me thinking because, well, we aren't living in biblical times and it seems that for the most part we're on a level playing field. The Hasidim have their rebbes, who are most definitely not on a level playing field with your average rabbi or Torah scholar, but for the most part, there is no Moses or Aaron in the modern period. It makes me wonder how Korach would fair today with his argument that the entire community is holy. I know that the tale of Korach goes a lot further than this (how one strives and becomes holy, etc.), but at the p'shat level, we have no tests today for who is more holy or less holy than another. So what do you think, are we all on a level playing field? Or does something make one Jew holier than another?

Mucus Production, Level 5, Third Corridor.

I'm sick. Yes, I wasn't feeling this crappy yesterday. My throat had progressively started to get scratchier and more sore. But today, today I wake up throat closed up, breathing difficult, throat aching, ears clogged, nose congested and draining at the same time. I rolled over to look at the clock, which read 6:38 a.m. and my body screamed at me in all ranges of achy. I rolled over, threw back the blankets, and groaned. I got up, walked over to the table where my box of tissues resided, and I almost burst into tears. I swear, every time I really need a tissue, I have just run out. I ended up e-mailing in that I was staying home. Eating a banana. Crawling into bed. And going comatose. Over the past two to three weeks everyone at work has been sick. I suppose it was expected.

Mom e-mailed, told me to stay in bed (where I presently am) and to drink lots of OJ. There are are least three different places within a block of my apartment where I could get OJ, including a Jewel and 7-11. But I haven't even been able to bring myself to turn on the light, let alone put on shoes and leave my apartment. I made my soup in the dark. Toasted my toast in the dark. Buttered my toast in the dark. Changed clothes in the dark. And now I'm sitting in the dark.

I think I might go back to sleep.

Peshat: The literal (as opposed to figurative) meaning, as discussed by Rashi.

We see comments like she “always knew he was a fiction, but believed in him anyway” (15) and “This is love, she thought, isn’t it? When you notice someone’s absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love his presence?” (121) and “It was not the Jew, of course, who invented the love poem, but the other way around” (197). It seems like all the characters are searching desperately for this thing they neither understand nor know where to find. It’s as if going through the motions is enough.

--Me, March 7, Response paper on "Everything is Illuminated" for Jewish-American Fiction

I miss school. I miss it a lot. Reading through old papers and simple responses I wrote on small stories and entire books makes me miss my literature course -- the only literature class I took and enjoyed. I'm trying really hard to get through the spaces I'm in so I can turn the other way and work on getting back to school. I really am most pleasant with my head in a book or when I'm working on a 10-page paper on the Catholic Church's "fatherland" approach to Jews in the Holocaust. I. Love. to. Learn.

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I've recently developed a 24/7 sour stomach and jaw pains. The jaw pains are a result of what has been said is TMJ by a doctor I visited up in Westminster. She suggested a dentist, and everyone I've told that to has suggested a chiropractor or sports physical therapist. I finally bought a mouthguard, which seems to have helped last night. The anti-inflammatories don't seem to be doing much, unfortunately. The earplugs I bought to drown out my roommates are sort of working. I'll get down on my knees in the morning and thank G-d when I live someplace that is devoid of creaky floors above my slumbering noggin.

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I recently realized my newspaper gets copies of MOMENT magazine (which I love, though wish they cared more about the editing that they fail to pay attention to), so I scooped up a copy and am stoked to read the new issue. And in other news, I found this stellar site: http://www.algemeiner.com/