Can I Be A Jew?

I lit the candles last night, though I'm not sure why. Something deep down just compelled me to do it, as if the rituals of my childhood came out to play. Mom didn't light the candles last night. They've lost their meaning for the brother who went over to his friend's house on Friday night for pork chops. But they still mean something to me.

For even as I type this on the Holy Sabbath, I'm doing arguably more than most would--I'm thinking. I'm questioning and struggling with this religion that just doesn't yet make sense to me. I am bold, I am courageous and I am. . .absolutely confused. Confused beyond all doubt. When people ask me what I am, I reply that I'm Jewish--as if nothing more needs to be said. But there is always more that needs to be said.

I should say that I am not Jewish overnight camp, or a flunked Hebrew school class that my transcript will never show. I am not teen Israel trips in which you tell your rabbi that the highlight was climbing Masada when we know the real highlight was climbing the Israeli soldier. There are so many things that I'm not, though it's hard to say exactly what I am.

My parents are Jewish, so by default I am too. I am a Bat Mitzvah, I am engaged in my Jewish community, but when people speak of this Jewish identity--I stare blankly back. Can a Jewish identity be comprised of broken puzzle pieces that may or may not fit together? How is a girl in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago supposed to feel a connection to Israel when the country itself is struggling to make that claim for themselves?

I'm a sea of what ifs, a sea of doubts and insecurities. But if my Jewish community has taught me one thing--that sea is Jewish. And it may not mean much, but it'll mean I'll never be alone.

Right Now

It's been a while. Been a while since I've seen the once familiar orange icon at the top of my screen light up as it awaits a new blog post. I could sound off a laundry list of excuses, each more valid than the last--but I'll spare you that. It's time for me to write once more, to dust off the keyboard and delve into the ideas that have long since been rattling my brain.

It's you. Because it's always you. And it always has to be you. Because you have no name, though as I write this I have one in mind. Yet when I read this almost time capsule of a piece in months to come, I might just remember who it is my wanderlust heart decided to follow in the moment my the publish button was pressed. The post might be published, but it's far from over.

Far from anywhere near comprehending all that you are to me, and all that I wish I could say. All the times I've come so close to a hug, but instead backed away.

This is a toast to you, the boy so different than me. The one that's making me dream that maybe one day we won't be. For I once chose boys I could fall apart with, so at least misery wouldn't have company. But I'm on an uphill swing, and it's obvious you are two. Our pasts don't align, maybe our futures don't either. But we have today.

We have tonight, so let's not waste it on words we know we'll never say. Just hold me close, and I promise we'll be okay.

Forget the future, ignore the past--because all we have is right now, and I want you here, with me. . .right now.