One of Those Posts

This is going to be one of those posts where I talk about what I don't have time to write about.

• I'm still assimilating my thoughts on Shavuot, the land, and Shmitta which are all wrapped up in my head, including a very ugly secret I must share about my personal shmitta violation.
  
• I want to tell you what I thought about making pilgrimage to the Kotel one last time with hordes of tired davenners.
  
• I have a dozen half—written posts on everything from geshem, to translating my own hasidic stories, to the bar scene in Tel Aviv.
  
• I'm composing some wrap up observations of this wacky time in Jtown, including what's next.

But since I don't have time to compose anything new, I will just post a short, short thoughtpiece that that I composed in creative writing.

The prompt was to write about memories, real or imagined, this year.

To employers, it was a year of dedicated research where I crunched numbers for a cutting edge think tank and brokered peace negotiations between Jordanian, Palestinian and Israeli counterparts.
To my girlfriends, I give details of the dark skinned Turkish/Iraqi man who shared with me the secrets of the north with romantic hikes and showered me with chivalry and attention.
To my dad, I chronicle the texts that tingled my brain and heart. The mechilta about Divine fire or the Heschel on holy time. I remind him that it is only the beginning of a lifelong process.
To my mom, I mention the dream roommates who took care of me when I was sick, helped me fight the landlord, covered my errors when I nearly broke the washing machine, and taught me the way to make hatzilim al ha'esh, proper pronunciation and all.
To my rough and tumble brothers, I show pictures of the apple trees I hauled from here to there and demonstrate how strong I really am.
To my spiritual community, I read Torah and daven with renewed confidence, a broader range of tunes and better Hebrew and they will know. I won't have to say anything else.
But I don't know if I will tell the other real story, the one of quiet meditation and introspection. I don't know if I will vocalize the vignette of longing and loneliness or the sweet poem of new personal realities. Indeed, I know that by telling the other stories, they will preside over the court of history determining what will stay in office and what will be termed out.
How can I still hold on to those memories that are for me and no one else?


Shabbat shalom, one last time, from Jtown.