I am not a brain scientist. So, when I tell you that there is a growing body of research that demonstrates the pedagogical power of writing things out by hand, you will know that this is based on hearing an NPR story a couple years ago and just recently skimming a short article on the National Institute of Health’s website.

I have a particular affinity for the Chasidic stories about the brothers, R’ Zusha of Anapol and R’ Elimelech of Lizensk. There is a buddy comedy feel to many of these tales, which are often full of misadventure and rabbinic shenanigans. This year, I was delighted to re-encounter a story about the two that I hadn’t read in years.

For an avid garage sale junkie, like me, the world of online marketplaces is a dangerous place. I am targeted by posts about pottery wheels, hand-cranked coffee grinders, native plants, old siddurim and taxidermied armadillos. It can be a lot to cull through.

I recently encountered a poem by the wonderful Ellen Bass and wanted to share it here.

I like the drama of our seasons. I love that the first little sprouts of fresh greens in the spring are gently plucked from the soil and placed on our seder plates; that we dip them in water that tastes like tears, mixing the hope of renewal with the pain of a world still unredeemed.

I am sneaking into your inbox one day early, on this 30th day of the month of Av to offer a reminder of why we are here. 

What is it exactly that we hope to gain by spending a month together in a state of introspection and self-assessment? Who do we hope to be when we come out the other side?