Shabbat Shalom
I have a confession - and not a small one.
This past week I returned to my Margate home, determined to purge, organize, and finally face the paperwork I’ve been avoiding. Instead, I stood in the doorway like a heroine in a drama… staring down an enemy I did not choose: my own clutter.
It sat there smugly, daring me to act.
And I… did not.
The clutter won the first battle - and quite possibly the war. At this point, I’m negotiating a peace treaty.
Normally, I can find light even in a storm. Lately, I look at the mail, the appointments, the piles, and think, perhaps I’ll just live like a woman in an archaeological dig of her own life.
Meanwhile, the “Judgment Committee” in my head has been working overtime - whispering that I’m slowing down, that I’ve lost my spark… that even Charlie notices on our walks.
But then I remembered: Shabbat comes whether we’re ready or not. It doesn’t ask if the house is in order or the list is complete. It simply invites us to stop, to breathe, to be.
And I had to laugh…because I’m not falling apart. I’m just in a very human state of not today.
Maybe that’s part of Shabbat’s wisdom: not everything needs to be fixed right now. Not every burden needs to follow us into this sacred pause.
So I’m giving myself a little grace.
The piles will wait.
My energy will return.
And Charlie and I will find our rhythm again.
If your to-do list is calling your name, consider this your invitation to step back. Let Shabbat settle around you like a soft curtain at intermission - a reminder that we are more than what we accomplish.
What might change if you allowed yourself that same grace?
Wishing you a peaceful, restorative, and gently joyful Shabbat.
Shabbat Shalom
I thought I understood gratitude - but lately, I find myself learning it all over again.
I’ve always tried to live with a thankful heart. Each day brings moments of beauty, and I’ve done my best to notice them, hold them close, and give thanks.
But recently, I’ve come to know a deeper kind of gratitude - one that arises not only from recognizing what we have, but from being gently reminded of how fragile it all is… and how sacred.
In Judaism, many begin the day with morning blessings, thanking God for the simplest gifts: waking, breath, sight, the ability to stand upright. For years, I recited those blessings almost instinctively - until, quietly, I stopped.
And then life, quite literally, woke me up.
These past two weeks, as I’ve recovered from a bad bout of bronchitis, everything narrowed. Breath was no longer something to take for granted - it became something I longed for. My ribs hurt with every movement. Rest was no longer optional; it was where I was guided. Even lying down took effort.
It felt as though my body slowed me down just enough for my soul to catch up.
In that stillness, there was tenderness too - the need for others, and the ache of missing many of those precious holiday moments with my daughter’s and son’s families… especially my granddaughter Sarah visiting from Israel, her husband Jon, and my great-grandson, sixteen-month-old Theo.
Thank God, I am healing. But something in me has shifted.
Gratitude no longer feels like a practice. It feels like a sacred invitation to notice God’s Presence in every breath, every small act. So I’m returning to those morning blessings - not just to say the words, but to let them open my heart again, to help me see more clearly the gifts that are always there.
And when I light my Shabbat candles, I invite you to sit with me in that awareness…in the breath we are each given, in the quiet miracle of simply being here.
May we feel, perhaps more than understand, that none of it is ordinary.
Has there been a moment in your life when something shifted and you began to see not just differently, but more deeply?
Shabbat Shalom
This week, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath. Every headline carries the same name: Iran. Every whisper carries the same question: What’s going to happen next?
Beneath all of it is something far more human than fear- confusion.
We are flooded with information and starved of truth. Leaders speak of peace while preparing for war. We cannot verify what we are shown, and we are asked to trust institutions that have not earned that trust.
And in the midst of all that fog, one thing remains painfully predictable: somehow, Israel is now to blame for breaking the ceasefire.
It never matters what is the truth of the actual agreement: the condemnations come quickly, and they know where to land. It is a pattern so old it has its own weight - and for those of us who love Israel and the Jewish people, it carries not just anger, but exhaustion. And grief. Because we know how dangerous it becomes when the world decides that Jewish survival is the problem.
But we are a people who have lived inside impossible uncertainty for millennia and survived - not because we had the right leaders or the right information, but because we held onto something no political force could take from us: the knowledge that God is in control.
Faith does not make everything comfortable. But there is an order to this universe deeper than any news cycle, any deception, any ancient pattern of blame. God gives strength to all his people. Not answers. Strength. And the reminder that what the leaders of the world say has never been the final word.
When I light the candles on Shabbat, I will be making a statement: there is a truth that does not shift with the headlines. God controls the world and has not lost track of us, not now, not ever.
In a world that feels as if it’s spinning out of control, we are all looking for a place to stand. Where do you find your steadiness when everything feels so uncertain?
Shabbat Shalom, Happy Passover and Happy Easter.
Passover reminds us that freedom is never free - it is fought for, prayed for, and held onto in the darkest of times.
We all need to know our own “Egypts”: fear, grief, oppression, and the forces that try to keep us bound. Yet, like our ancestors at the Red Sea, the waters often only part after we take a brave step forward. God makes a way where there seems to be no way.
This year, as we face the profound weight of a multi-front war and the open conflict with Iran, the Jewish story remains one of resilience. Even as missiles fly and uncertainty looms, we remember a people who rise again and again from the shadow of destruction.
We pray with urgency for the safety of all our soldiers, for the return of all hostages around the world, for the protection of innocent lives, and for strength for every family living under threat.
In a time of violence and uncertainty, we cling to faith with all we have.
Our Seder table declares this truth:
- Matzah reminds us that strength is often found in humility.
- The four cups proclaim that redemption is still coming.
- The telling of the story binds us to a people who have endured again and again, and still refused to disappear.
For those celebrating Easter, we remember the power of resurrection - that death does not have the final word, and that light will rise again. Both traditions call us to believe that God is still working, still healing, still redeeming.
Tonight, we will hold the brokenhearted close and cry out for peace.
May God guard the vulnerable, strengthen the weary, and bring justice, mercy, and redemption.
Where in your life is God asking you to stand firm, to trust, and to believe that the waters may part even before you see the Miracle?
Shabbat Shalom
As I stepped outside, my teacher awaited, cloaked in warmth. The sudden shift in weather was a gentle whisper of kindness, and I surrendered to its tender touch, feeling the day's quiet benediction unfold within me. My loyal companion, Charlie, required no such awakening, for the mere sight of his leash ignited a joyful dance, his exuberance a spark that illuminated the air.
By the time we reached the street, the gates of my heart had begun to swing open, allowing the world's splendor to flood in. As we strolled, I witnessed Charlie's every step transform the ordinary into the extraordinary - each sniff a discovery, each pause a revelation. His presence reminded me that the world is a tapestry woven with meaning, waiting to be revealed by those who slow down to behold it.
His occasional glance backward was an invitation to shed the shackles of thought and step into the radiant present, and with each meeting of our eyes, a spark within me kindled. Shabbat, our sacred weekly reprieve, beckons us to presence, to the gentle rustle of breath, and the eternal holiness that enfolds us.
This week, Charlie embodied the wisdom of Shabbat - that when we quiet the mind and listen to the world, we discover the hidden sparks that have been waiting in the wings all along. What wonders have you lately uncovered?
Shabbat Shalom.
This past week we celebrated Purim - the story of a people facing annihilation in ancient Persia; the land we now call Iran. It is a story of Jewish survival against impossible odds. But what makes it truly remarkable isn't just the drama of the rescue; it’s the silence at its center.
Not once does God’s name appear in the Megillah (the Book of Esther); we see only the courage of our hero, Esther.
There are no parted seas, no pillars of fire - only a sequence of events that, taken alone, might seem random, yet when woven together reveal something unmistakably deliberate beneath the surface.
The names change. Persia becomes Iran. Centuries pass. And now, headlines arrive that feel hauntingly familiar.
Just days before Purim, as the United States and Israel struck targets in Iran, something in us stirred - as if an ancient story was being replayed in the present moment.
Purim teaches us not to look only at what is obvious. It invites a different kind of seeing: a search for the hidden thread, the subtle turn, and the quiet protection we rarely recognize until we look back and realize that something was quietly happening all along.
This Shabbat, as we try to make sense of a world that feels chaotic and fragile, Purim leaves us with a question:
What quiet movement do you believe is already unfolding in the world, in your life, and in your heart that you have not yet learned to see?
I’d love to hear what you’re noticing. 🕯️🕯️🙏♥️
Shabbat Shalom
I was walking my dog Charlie the other day when Frank Sinatra’s “Young at Heart” came on. It’s such a gentle, optimistic song - a reminder that “fairy tales can come true” if we stay open and hopeful.
It struck me that this is exactly what we try to do every Friday night: leave behind the week’s status and stress to reclaim a bit of that hopeful spirit.
And Sinatra’s line, “If you should survive to 105, think of all you’ll derive out of being alive,”made me consider how I stay young at heart. I’ve realized it isn’t about denying age.
Living with my daughter this winter, surrounded by my children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren on video calls, I find I naturally “become” the age of whoever I’m with. It’s not pretending, it’s tuning in.
We all do this in small ways: softening for the serious, getting silly with the playful. But actually “being”that age, meeting each moment with that person’s energy might be the truest secret of staying young.
Shabbat feels like the perfect space for that. It’s the one time each week when generations gather at the same table, and the “years” seem to blur. Wisdom and innocence mingle freely.
Maybe being young at heart means moving easily between ages and moments, letting time stop mattering for a while. Jewish tradition says we receive an extra soul on Shabbat. I like to think that soul is the part of us that stays forever young - curious, open, and ready to feel the magic of being alive.
May we all be “young at heart” this Shabbat and then carry that spirit gently into our daily lives.
I’d love to hear from you: What is one thing - a song, a person, or a tradition that always makes you feel young at heart”?
Shabbat Shalom
Hidden messages weave quietly through our days. When we move too quickly, our vision narrows and we miss the small wonders - a child’s laughter on the wind, a bird lifting off just as we look up, the scent of rain already fading. Those sacred moments never disappear. They wait!
This week’s Torah portion reminds us that revelation rarely arrives with certainty. The burning bush wasn’t a spectacle; it was an ordinary shrub made extraordinary only because Moses turned aside to notice it. Some say it had been burning long before he arrived - the miracle was his awakening.
I wonder how often we stand before our own awakenings and pause, unsure whether to trust what we’re sensing. Not allowing what we experience. Faith and doubt often sit side by side.
Shabbat invites us into that gentle space. Not dramatic change, but a soft widening of awareness. A moment to rest inside what is, without demanding clarity. To notice what has been glowing at the edges of our lives all along.
May this Shabbat offer us the stillness to see what has been waiting patiently to be seen.
Think for a moment! I’d love for you to share what quiet moment or small wonder found you this week.
🩷🙏🩷🙏🩷🙏
Shabbat Shalom.
Over these past six weeks, I have been given an unexpected gift: the quiet, daily presence of my daughter and her family, and the nearby closeness of my son and his. This wasn’t the curated time of a holiday, but the unscripted reality of their everyday lives.
I’ve watched them build their worlds with rhythms different from each other, and different from mine.
There are bedtimes I wouldn’t choose, meals I might prepare differently, and decisions that often require me to bite my tongue. Yet, in restraint - in the quiet act of witnessing without directing - I’ve learned something profound.
There is a kind of love that reveals itself only when we step back. It is the love of trusting, of celebrating what reflects our own values, and learning to accept what doesn’t. In many ways, allowing them to be fully themselves in my presence is harder than any parenting I did when they were young.
But what I’ve gained is irreplaceable. I have been given the chance to know who they truly are when they are simply living - the inside jokes, the small rituals, the upsets, and the tenderness. I haven’t been welcomed as a guest, but as a part of their ordinary lives. To me, that feels like the greatest honor a parent can receive.
Perhaps this is the deeper lesson of this season: that love matures when we loosen our grip. We learn a new way to love by letting go, finding joy in the space between who we are and who our children have become.
This Shabbat, may we let go of the "ordinary" every day concerns and create a space to simply “be”. May we discover more about who we are and trust that what is, right now, is perfect!
Shabbat Shalom
While reading the Torah portion Shemot, I’m reminded how ancient stories echo through our lives. A new leader forgets Joseph, and with that forgetting, the world tilts. What once felt steady begins to tremble. What was familiar becomes strange.
This is a pattern humanity knows too well. When memory fades, fear rises. And fear always looks for a name, a face, a people to blame.
For Jews, that story is antisemitism—shifting its shape across centuries, but never its logic, returning whenever the ground beneath us feels uncertain.
And yet, Jews are certainly not the only ones pulled into that storm. History shows how quickly a leader can promote fear and widen its reach—toward immigrants, people of color, religious minorities, and anyone or belief made vulnerable in the moment.
Different generations, different targets, the same old instinct to turn those who are different into threats.
Shemot teaches that this harm doesn’t begin with violence. It begins with forgetting—quietly, almost gently. A story retold with pieces missing. A soft narrowing of empathy. A slow redrawing of who counts as “us.”
And it teaches that resistance often begins just as quietly—with those who refuse to let someone else’s fear or lies become the truth.
As this year unfolds, let us be someone who remembers. Someone who names antisemitism when it appears—and recognizes when other groups are being pushed aside or pursued. Someone who will not choose silence simply because silence is easy.
Someone who is a warrior!
And maybe that is the blessing of Shabbat. A pause wide enough to feel what we experience. A stillness that lets us touch the places where we’ve been hurt or singled out—not to reopen the wound, but to honor it, to understand it, to let it teach us how to stand with others.
Shabbat gives us room to breathe again, to gather our dignity, to return to the world with clearer eyes and a steadier heart.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The question is whether we do. ♥️🙏♥️🙏
