Style & Living

Baruch Hashem, my husband and I were blessed to escort our second son to the chupah two weeks ago.  The range of emotions felt during such a momentous occasion are hard to capture in words.  I don’t think I could even try.  Now that the wedding and sheva brachos aare over, I feel as though I am in the slow and gradual process of returning to normal life.  Normal sleep patterns, scheduled meals, and exercise routines.  I’m becoming reacquainted with my friends along with the lines and sounds of the supermarket.  But during the weeks, days, and hours leading up to the big day, as the preparations intensified, I found myself to be living in a time zone different from the world around me.  I actually knocked on my neighbor’s door to bring her something one day and was surprised to find that she was at work.  Really?  The possibility didn’t even cross my mind.  I was living in my own reality, my wedding zone, and was oblivious to the fact that most people were involved in regular living. I feel as though I am returning to earth and I am finally beginning to process some of my experiences during that hectic, yet precious time. 

What a week!  I feel like I can pull out my articles from the last few weeks and just copy/paste them for this week’s column.  More rockets.  Another terrible accident involving masses of people who came together to be elevated spiritually.  More pain.  More injured. More deaths.  It’s actually quite difficult to keep up with the pace of events. 

Yesterday, at 6 p.m. in the evening, my husband, daughter, and I were in the kitchen discussing plans for our upcoming simcha while eating dinner, when we suddenly heard a siren.  We each looked at the other, in an attempt to confirm that we were actually hearing what we thought we were hearing.  We had been aware of the security tensions in Yerushalayim in recent days, and of the rockets raining down on the communities surrounding Gaza, but it had been years since the last siren had sounded in Beit Shemesh.  There had been no warning about this whatsoever.  We usually feel protected in the center of the country and didn’t see it coming. We headed up the stairs and went straight into the mamad (the secure room), shut the special metal doors that cover the window and secure the room, and then, a few seconds later, heard the boom of the interception of a missile by the Iron Dome.  There were five interceptions over the Beit Shemesh area. We waited the requisite time and left the room. 

 Shellshock. Disbelief. How? Why? When we surrounded our bonfires in celebration of Lag BaOmer on Thursday night, none of us were in any way prepared for the events that tragically unfolded just a few short hours later in Meron.  Many were awake all night trying to track down their family members, but my family didn’t hear the news until the next morning, when we woke up to a message from our son telling us that he was fine, baruch Hashem. I had been in touch with him at midnight the night before after he had already left Meron, so we didn’t understand why he sent us this seemingly superfluous message. But my husband then saw the news and actually thought he wasn’t seeing properly.  Maybe he needed a new prescription for his glasses. What he saw made no sense.  How could it be?  

When I sent out a message sharing the news of my son’s engagement, I was inundated with requests for pictures of the young couple.  People love to see the glowing chosson and kallah, grinning from ear to ear. When boys propose in public places, even strangers who are lucky enough to be within earshot are charmed as they get caught up in the simchah that’s totally contagious. A smile can be seen on the faces of the spectators who can’t help themselves and stand around and watch, often applauding when the girl (hopefully) says “yes.” This fascination with the couple continues throughout the engagement, and those who meet them take pleasure in adding to the joy of the already blissful couple.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve never been very good at goodbyes. I recall crying the entire ride home from my first summer at Camp HASC.  My parents thought they would cheer me up by taking me out to eat.  Yummy food does tend to have a soothing effect and their strategy actually worked until a camper from HASC entered the same restaurant with her family.  The quaint café quickly turned into an offshoot of Niagara Falls.  But Camp HASC is one of the greatest places on earth. After working so closely with the special campers for a whole summer, strong connections are formed, and counselors and campers become very attached to one another.  So, the last day of camp is a bit sad for many who attend the camp.  I was far from the only one who had an emotional outburst. But I have also been known to cry at the conclusion of five-day-long outreach seminars that I attended as an advisor in my college years.  I would leave NSCY shabbatons with a huge lump in my throat.  And these days, sometimes I even get a bit teary eyed when my kids leave home after Shabbos and head back to their homes away from home.  They don’t usually notice this (and please don’t share this piece of information with them if you know who they are) because they are eagerly looking ahead towards their destination.  But I look towards them from behind with a mixture of happiness, pride, and longing. I hate saying goodbye.