Between Books Right Now

This is an important Torah portion, mishpachah! We arrive at Parashat Devarim, which is read on the Shabbat before Tisha B'Av—the minor holiday that marks the destruction of the Temple and has all the festive energy of a root canal. It's essentially Moshe's farewell address to the Israelites before entering Canaan, and before he enters whatever comes after: Heaven, the World to Come, the great IHOP in the Sky. Personally, I'm hoping the afterlife features unlimited Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity pancakes, but I'm on a cut and have never been 100% sure what happens afterward.

Full disclosure: I'm focusing less on the portion itself and more on its connection to Tisha B'Av, because holidays are where my amateur status becomes glaringly obvious. I'm not a scholar—I'm just someone figuring out what it means to be Jewish while maintaining a healthy skepticism about my own expertise. If I completely fuck this up, I'll write a correction next year (assuming I haven't been slapped down).

Historically, the Temple fell twice: first in 586 BCE, then again in 70 CE. Jews observe this destruction on the 9th of Av, followed by three weeks of mourning. It's sort of like a shorter and a longer Yom Kippur at the same time. It's a period of reflection on what we lost—not just architecturally, but philosophically. At the heart of both Moshe's speech and Tisha B'Av lies the devastating power of fear and its remarkable ability to unravel a society's future when faith and reason get into a slap fight.

Talmudic scholars argue that the First Great Collapse wasn't actually the Temple. It was the sin of the spies, which Moshe helpfully recounts during his farewell tour. "Remember when you insisted on doing recon work to spy on the Amorites despite my saying God would handle it?" he reminds them. "Yeah, that sucked." That entire generation spent forty years wandering the wilderness, unable to reach the Promised Land. Only Joshua and Caleb made it through—apparently they were the only ones who didn't panic when faced with uncertainty. Menschen, both of them. 

It's the original Tisha B'Av: a day of disaster brought on by fear. Despite divine assurances ("God will fight for you") and empirical evidence ("just like God did in Egypt, which you literally witnessed"), fear trumped both faith and reason. The Israelites' terror of the unknown cost them their promised future.

This fear wasn't entirely irrational, though. Constant movement and homelessness after generations of bondage creates the kind of anxiety that turns you into a backseat driver. But Tisha B'Av also asks us to reflect on another type of devastation: the kind that comes from internalized fear.

The Second Temple fell to the Romans after the Jewish rebellion, launching two millennia of fear-based persecution: murder, enslavement, famine, civil war, and ultimately, the Holocaust. Judaism became the world's scapegoat, blamed for everything from market crashes to bad weather. There's no logic behind accusing Jews of controlling global finance or Hollywood (that's just capitalism in a flashier suit), but it's not like logic and antisemitism have ever been besties.

The rabbis have a term for this: sinat chinam—baseless hatred. It's fear of the "other," whether political, sectarian, or ideological. Like the first collapse, the Temple's destruction bred internal fear of communal disintegration. Distrust within the Jewish community made us vulnerable to scapegoating. Tisha B'Av becomes a day to mourn not just physical destruction, but the loss of unity that made us targets.

Rebuilding isn't exactly straightforward. But Tisha B'Av isn't designed as a pity party—it's about clarity. When Moshe addresses the Israelites, he doesn't erase their failures; he confronts them head-on. He reminds them (and us) to rise above fear and rebuild faith and reason from the ground up.

Nostalgia holds us back from rebuilding. Remember, nostalgia isn't the bittersweet memories of high school and college; it's a deep-seated longing or sadness for the past. That sadness roots our feet in place and prevents us from moving on and rebuilding. I've discovered that nostalgia is like alcohol: delightful in moderation with friends, occasionally leading to dramatic sobbing sessions, but problematic when you're getting shitfaced daily and alone. This Parashat advocates for responsible remembering, not nostalgia binging.

Moving forward is terrifying because the future refuses to provide spoilers. But Moshe, approaching his own finale, reminds the Israelites of their support system: his leadership, divine presence during conquests, and promises of continued guidance. They have evidence that rebuilding is possible and that faith provides sustainable growth rather than just wishful thinking.

This makes Tisha B'Av more than a mourning ritual. It's a starting point for reconstruction. The Hebrew word is teshuvah, meaning "return." We grieve what was lost, then focus on rebuilding without fear steering the ship.

Fear has this remarkable ability to override both faith and reason—impressive, considering they're usually at odds with each other. Great fear causes spectacular breakdowns: sending spies despite divine guarantees, blaming Jews for antisemitic conspiracy theories despite substantial research proving otherwise. Fear can unravel even the most reasonable and faithful minds, breeding the baseless hatred that destroys communities.

Fear unchallenged leads to collapse; faith and reason build resilience. Whether another temple will rise in my lifetime remains unclear, but this mourning period has value regardless. We can fast on Tisha B'Av to grieve what fear cost us, then recommit to a future shaped by what we learned from the rubble.

After all, if we're going to rebuild, we might as well do it right this time.

Well, we made it to the end of a very long journey. The Israelites are no longer wandering around in the wilderness. They've arrived at Canaan, where they'll settle in happily and peacefully among its inhabitants, with an end to the violence that plagued previous parashiyot. The Promised Land awaits! Milk and honey! Fruit trees! Dogs and cats lying together! Mass...harmoniousness...?

*Checks notes.* Sorry, no. None of that happens.

I know I was particularly unforgiving toward the Israelites in last week's portion. It was dark and bloody, and I'm not about to excuse violence for the sake of conquest—I save my moral relativism for more pressing matters, like whether you should eat Wendy's french fries dipped in a Frosty (ew, no -- don't eat at Wendy's). But it's important to remember that this is a narrative of my ancestors, and more importantly, that these portions offer a meditation on how communities are actually built. While violence can certainly be part of that process (see: most of human history), so too can speech, memory, justice, and inclusion. Revolutionary concepts, I know.

Maybe it's wishful thinking or simply the desire to find meaning in ancient texts, but a society—especially one that aspires to holiness—isn't created through conquest alone. It's shaped by how it speaks, remembers, and listens. Which, frankly, suggests we're all in more trouble than previously anticipated.

In the opening of Parashot Matot, God lays out the laws of vows and oaths—both personal and divine. What strikes me as peculiar is that whether a man makes a personal oath or one to God, he must keep it. Period. It's a demand for accountability regardless of intent, convenience, or the very human tendency to make promises we can't keep after our third glass of wine.

Promises, vows, oaths, basic honesty—speech binds a society together. There's little point in having a shared community where there's no accountability for breaking your word, whether to yourself, your neighbor, or God. It's a reasonable foundation, assuming anyone actually plans to follow through.

But as usual, this society comes with an asterisk the size of Mount Sinai when it comes to women. Under the control of their fathers or husbands, women don't carry the same obligation regarding vows and oaths. We're also apparently off the hook if no one heard us make the promise in the first place. On one hand—fantastic! I promised to do laundry yesterday, but I'm fairly certain neither my father nor spouse was within earshot. Now I'm out of grip socks for Pilates, but technically blameless.

However, this represents a deeply paternalistic approach that effectively excludes women from full participation in community life. Women aren't even counted in censuses. We take marriage vows that can be overridden by our husbands (put a pin in that). We're simultaneously required to have others speak for us while being silenced ourselves. It's a masterclass in having your cake and eating it too, if your cake is systemic marginalization.

What we promise shapes who we are, and who we are shapes our community. Excluding half the population from that foundational responsibility seems like poor planning, but what do I know? I'm just a woman whose oaths may or may not count depending on who's listening or who's roof I'm under. 

Another requirement for any functioning community is justice and mercy, which are qualities the Israelites haven't exactly excelled at thus far. But in Parashat Masei, God commands them to establish new laws, including the creation of cities of refuge.

I first encountered cities of refuge earlier this year during Mishnah Yomit (Mishnah Makkot 2), and the concept fascinated me. These six cities provide sanctuary for accidental murderers—cases of manslaughter rather than premeditated murder. From the victim's perspective, this seems frustratingly lenient. If someone accidentally killed someone I loved, I'd certainly give pause before tracking them down to another city. But then God carefully delineates the differences between murder, manslaughter, and the true meaning of justice.

Of course, most Israelites are guilty of various crimes themselves. Does it seem hypocritical to enact laws for people who are obviously culpable? Perhaps. But before settling into their forty-eight cities, this community wandered, erred, and hopefully grew. Laws aren't created in a vacuum—they reflect experience. A justice system can't be carved from thin air; it must emerge from lived reality. Memory, ideally, creates compassion. That experience of exile and loss shouldn't produce rigid judges but understanding ones.

In theory, anyway. In practice? Well, we're still working on that several millennia later.

To truly cement a community together, you have to include the voiceless. So let's return to that pin about women.

Tzelophechad's daughters (the spelling varies depending on which Torah translation you're reading) return to the narrative, and I'm delighted they do. Until I really studied these portions, I'd never encountered them before, which is a shame because they deserve significantly more attention.

These five women approach Moshe about their inheritance rights and—miraculously—in the very next portion, they receive what they ask for. Of course, they must marry within their tribe, Menasseh, to prevent losing their inheritance, because patriarchy never met a victory it couldn't snatch. But still, progress is progress.

It's difficult to overstate this point: inclusivity matters, especially for those historically silenced. It's fundamental to building ethical and spiritual wholeness. When a community genuinely includes everyone, it creates opportunities for growth that wouldn't otherwise exist. Once again -- revolutionary thinking. Someone give me the Nobel Peace Prize. 

The parashiyot conclude on a surprisingly optimistic note: the Israelites slowly coalescing around sacred speech, compassionate justice, and expanding inclusivity. They're ostensibly ready for the Promised Land (let's pretend for a moment we don't know how that turns out) precisely because they've learned from their years of exile and wandering.

It's both bittersweet and sobering to reflect on this hopeful vision and compare it to our present reality, both as individuals and as members of larger communities. Do we honor our words? Do we approach justice with compassion rather than vengeance? Do we amplify the voices of the marginalized, or do we ignore and silence them? What are we actually learning from our collective wandering?

These aren't merely ancient questions—they're devastatingly contemporary ones. Only by genuinely learning from our time in various wildernesses can we hope to build communities worthy of inheritance. Whether we're capable of such learning remains an open question, but at least the blueprint exists.

Even if we're still figuring out how to read it.

By now you've seen the viral footage of Astronomer's (now ex) CEO Andy Byron and his HR director caught mid-affair at a Coldplay concert. The schadenfreude is delicious. How phenomenally stupid do two lovers have to be to fuck around at a massive public event, only to find out when they awkwardly dive for cover like teenagers caught necking in the church parking lot? Clearly, these two were amateur hour philanderers! Seasoned affairs either master discretion or learn to conduct their business in plain sight with the confidence of a sitting president.

I don't condone infidelity, naturally. But I do love mess, and as far as your relationship trainwrecks go, they're yours to ruin, mine to witness. This particular story hits my sweet spot: a tech CEO and the head of Human Resources, two people who should theoretically understand professional boundaries. Once upon a time I worked in HR, and I've extended considerable grace to that beleaguered profession. HR professionals are overworked, overwhelmed, and chronically underpaid, forced to babysit misbehaving adults while protecting companies that view them as expendable. But my sympathy evaporates when the head of HR starts bonking the head of the company. I'd call it a conflict of interest, but it sounds like they had several interests perfectly aligned.

My mother also loves mess, though with a crucial difference: I'm content observing from the sidelines, while she prefers creating chaos and inserting herself directly into the drama. Every evening during my childhood, she'd return from her law firm job with a breathless recap of office intrigue. "So-and-so got her boobs done!" or "The senior partners are at each other's throats again!" She'd chatter at breakneck speed while her soup grew cold, my father and I exchanging uncomfortable glances as my elementary school-aged brother constructed snowmen in his mashed potatoes.

Our discomfort stemmed from two sources. First, we had no context for her cast of characters. Dad would venture, "Oh, Sally—is she the one with the new boobs?" Mom would bristle: "No! She's the one whose husband left her. Don't you remember?" Dad would apologize for his inability to track her soap opera, which only frustrated her further.

These people weren't colleagues to her—they were characters, checker pieces to manipulate in her ongoing narratives. When we failed to follow her plots, she'd storm off to sulk in her bedroom before eventually emerging, pretending nothing had happened.

The second source of our horror: Mom didn't just observe these tiny dramas—she actively participated. "My boss's secretary is having boyfriend troubles," she'd announce, "so I told her to dump him."

"Maybe you shouldn't get involved," Dad would suggest.

"Why not? He's clearly a jerk!"

"Because you work together. It's not a good idea."

"Please. She'll thank me later."

The secretary did not thank her later. The secretary married her "jerk" boyfriend and failed to invite my mother to the wedding. Mom was devastated.

"I thought we were friends!" she wailed.

"You told her to leave him," Dad pointed out gently.

"That was ages ago! Everyone else got wedding invitations!" She slumped dramatically. "I think I need a new job."

Which brings us to the Affair Incident.

At one of her final positions before abandoning law entirely, Mom became convinced her boss was conducting a long-term affair with a senior partner. The way she described it, it was the classic I won't leave my spouse but I can't quit you territory. The entire office allegedly knew, but everyone maintained professional silence.

"Isn't it scandalous?" she asked, practically vibrating with excitement. "The highest-paid employees, romantically entangled?"

"No," Dad said flatly. "And you need to stay out of this entirely."

"What?" Mom looked genuinely wounded.

"It's none of your business. Or anyone's business. They're adults. Just do your job."

She turned to me desperately. "You find this interesting, right, honey?"

I blushed, torn between teenage curiosity and parental loyalty. "Affairs are wrong," I said, dutifully toeing the moral line, "but maybe Dad has a point?"

"What's an affair?" my brother asked, systematically dissecting his green beans.

"You always take your father's side!" Mom huffed before making her familiar exit.

For months, she ignored our advice completely. Daily updates flowed: someone spotted them in flagrante in the supply closet, they held hands walking to their cars, they left the holiday party together. Mostly unverifiable gossip that could have described any two people who happened to be in proximity.

Then the tone shifted.

"My boss criticized my interrogatory today," Mom reported one evening, "so I went to the senior partner for a second opinion. He approved it. She didn't appreciate that."

Dad and I shared another look.

"I think she's jealous," Mom laughed. "She thinks I'm after him!"

"Are you certain they're actually having an affair?" Dad asked carefully.

"Obviously. Everyone knows—"

"Everyone knows? With evidence? Or just rumors?"

Mom went quiet for a beat.

"So now I'm a liar?" she demanded, face flushing. "Does no one in this house believe me?"

"I don't think you're a liar, but you're too invested in this. And it's becoming strange."

This time she yelled something about disrespect before storming off. When she was gone, Dad looked at me expectantly, but I just shrugged. I was a teenager; this was merely one episode in her ongoing series of dramas.

The inevitable conclusion arrived on a frigid winter day.

"Fired?" Dad exclaimed.

To make an already long story short: it wasn't her boss who terminated her—it was the senior partner himself. Mom had passive-aggressively confronted him about the alleged affair.

"I said, 'Certain situations here make it hard for me to perform my job effectively.' He asked me to elaborate. I said, 'Oh, you know. You and her?' His face went red and he said, 'I think you're finished here.'"

I expected Dad to launch into a righteous lecture about staying in her lane. He'd been correct all along—she'd gotten too involved and torpedoed herself.

But here's the thing: her boss and the senior partner might have simply been colleagues. Those "obvious" signs could have been professional collaboration misinterpreted by an office full of bored gossips. Mom may have destroyed her career chasing phantoms.

I think about this adolescent memory whenever workplace affairs go public, sparked again by Astronomer's Coldplay catastrophe. Because what if her boss and the senior partner were having an affair? What if they thought they were being discreet while their entire staff catalogued their every interaction?

The lesson here is simple: there is no discreet way to conduct an affair. You're going to get caught, whether by your busybody coworkers or by Chris Martin's kiss cam. The only winning move is not to play.

We're approaching Tisha B'av, the annual reminder that the Temple in Jerusalem has been destroyed not once but twice. The first time was by Nebuchadnezzar in 586 BCE; the second time by Titus in 70 CE. It's been razed for nearly two thousand years, which gives us plenty of time to wonder: what happens if/when we rebuild it? Would we return to the Old Ways of worship, complete with their impressive body count?

I thought about this question as I worked through Parashat Pinchas, though I'm starting at the end because I'm procrastinating on the harder parts. Once Moshe names Joshua as his successor, we're treated to a detailed calendar of offerings and rules for the holidays. Take Pesach alone: eat unleavened bread for seven days, don't work, present a burnt offering of two bulls, a ram, and seven unblemished lambs, prepare meal offerings of flour and oil for each animal, and finally prepare a goat as a sin offering—all on top of your daily burnt offering. Then there are the other holidays. And the regular daily offerings. And the Shabbat offerings.

I'm not trying to make light of this, but that's a staggering number of dead animals. As someone who doesn't eat meat, this portion horrifies me. It's an uncomfortable amount of violence and bloodshed, performed daily, and not just sanctioned by God but commanded by God.

Which brings me back to the beginning of the parashat and our friend Pinchas. After his decisive slaying of Zimri (the Israelite man) and Cozbi (the Midianite woman), God doesn't merely praise Pinchas for his act of violence—God grants him a Covenant of Friendship. "Not only did you end the plague," God declares, "you totally killed my anger against the Israelites, so you and your descendants will be priests forever."

What the hell is this fuckery?

I'm not a biblical literalist, and I take these portions as they're meant to be: stories to learn about my ancestors and (hopefully) something about myself. But if there was ever a case of history written by the victors and justified by zealots, this would be Exhibit A. Immediately afterward, God conveniently tells Moshe to wipe out the Midianites for daring to lead the Israelites astray with their idolatry and "whoring."

To me, this reads like a convenient excuse for said zealotry and violence against another people. Blaming the Midianites for "the trickery they practiced" assumes the Israelites lacked agency and reason. We've read about them making countless mistakes without outside parties "tricking" them into anything. The Israelites can screw up on their own and still recover on their own. Justification for violence is, well, justification.

But speaking of agency, let's talk about a lighter subject: women's suffrage!

Sandwiched between another census of the new generation (tedious to read but important for the transition from emancipation to settling in Canaan), there's a chapter about the five daughters of Tzelophechad—Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah—who take a brave step for women's property rights. They present a compelling argument: "We deserve to inherit our father's property." Their father died in the wilderness leaving only daughters, no sons, but they don't want their father's name to die just because he had no male heirs.

I emphasize their bravery because they go before Moshe, Eleazar, and the entire assembly of temple chiefs—all men—who decide the outcomes of, well, everything. Women have no rights to property; they are property. And yet they not only win their case, but God grants women the right to inherit property if their father has no male heirs.

Yay! Feminism over! We won!

No, this is not a feminist story. Women still have no inheritance rights if they have male siblings. But it is an interesting examination of five women arguing a case for their own agency and winning.

When it comes to inheritance and agency, let's finally address Moshe and Joshua. I've noticed Moshe is a lesser presence in this portion than previous portions. Though he still speaks to God, he's doing less and less. Probably has something to do with striking a stone instead of speaking to it, but regardless, his time is short—both in life and leadership.

This is ending is bittersweet for our beloved Moshe. He'll die before seeing the Promised Land, but he won't leave his people leaderless. God approves of Joshua's leadership, and Moshe is allowed to pass the ceremonial garments to him. It’s a lot to unpack in this transition: Inheritance isn't just what we receive; it's what we leave behind for the next generation.

Moshe led the Israelites out of bondage and through the desert. He outlived his siblings. He withstood rebellions and battles. He built the tabernacle and weathered punishment from God when he disobeyed. And when he looked up to God and begged for death, he was shown mercy. It's more than one man should leave behind. This role isn't easy—the Israelites are a capricious people. But Moshe has the humility and grace to step aside for the next leader to take over.

Did he do so too late? Would he have seen the Promised Land if he had transferred leadership sooner? Who knows. But it's a thoughtful meditation on why leadership is such a powerful position and why so much responsibility falls onto our leaders.

So let me return to my original question: what would happen if the Temple stood again? Would we have mass animal sacrifices and pilgrimages to remind ourselves of communal worship? Would we justify more zealotry in the name of God, telling ourselves we've earned our own covenant?

Perhaps we should take a page from Moshe's book. I think we should look at a standing Temple from a distance, knowing our time grappling with these old ways has come and gone, and that we should bequeath new leadership to the next generation. Call me naive, but I hope for leadership that doesn't insist on violence as proof of devotion and doesn't mistake zealotry for righteousness. And lastly, I hope for leadership that doesn't deny half the population their agency.

The question isn't whether we deserve to inherit the past, but what kind of future we're brave enough to leave behind.

A few years ago, I committed the cardinal sin of believing Thomas Wolfe was wrong. After nearly twenty years of exile in the South (where the air was thick with both humidity and reactionary politics) I decided to move back home to Michigan (where the humidity and politics weren't perfect but less extreme in equal measure). My intentions -- though noble -- were naturally and completely delusional.

I had constructed an elaborate fantasy in which I would simply slip back into my family's lives like a well-worn sweater, picking up exactly where I'd left off two decades earlier. Never mind that I'd departed as a frightened eighteen-year-old who had never written a check, and was returning as someone who had managed to acquire a marriage, multiple mortgages, and what could generously be called "life experience." The girl who left couldn't balance a checkbook; the woman who returned had a roth IRA. But somehow, I convinced myself that none of this mattered. My brother would still want to play Banjo-Kazooie with me on weekends. My parents would want holiday dinners. We'd all just resume.

What I got instead were closed doors and cold couches.

Don't misunderstand—everyone was happy I'd moved back. There were the appropriate expressions of joy, the requisite "we're so glad you're home" declarations. But happiness is not the same as accommodation. My parents visited my new place twice in the three years I've been back, compared to my several dozen. They didn't even have a guest room when I came to see them, as if my return was theoretical rather than actual. My brother and his fiancée, though genuinely kind, had constructed a life that ran on a rigid schedule of in-laws, friendships, dates, overtime, and LSAT prep. I became the person constantly suggesting get-togethers, game nights, and spontaneous dinner dates. I essentially auditioned for a role in their lives that had already been cast.

I got the occasional puzzle or poker game, but they felt like consolation prizes.

I was appallingly naive to assume my family would exist in stasis, waiting for my return like Sleeping Beauties in their glass boxes. Why would I ever consider that they'd hold everything for me, saving my seat on the public transit of their lives? They were people with ambitions and obligations, not supporting characters in my homecoming narrative. They wanted to move forward with life, not let it pass by around them while they waited for me to figure out where I belonged.

So here I am, grappling with the same question that drove me away in the first place: where do I fit in? Am I the main ingredient in my friends' and family's lives, or am I the garnish—decorative but ultimately optional?

Jesus Christ -- I'm cilantro, aren't I? 

I occupy a peculiar demographic niche. I'm too old to hang out with the young ones and most people my age have children, which means their free time exists in fifteen-minute increments between soccer practice and parent-teacher conferences (do parents still do those? I don't know what parents do, tbh). That leaves the sixty-plus crowd, with whom I share exactly two interests: napping and finding young people insufferable. Making friends as an adult is hard enough under normal circumstances; doing it while straddling these particular generational gaps is joining a conversation that's already moved on to the next topic.

But I treasure the friends I do have, even if mine are scattered across the country like dandelion seeds. Mine remember my birthday, and text me memes and old Vines (because we're Elder Millennials now), and they understand that friendship sometimes requires nothing more than just reaching out to say, "Hey." They're proof that connection doesn't require proximity, and that home isn't necessarily a place you return to but something you carry with you.

I just hope they never move on without me, too. Because the truth about going home is that it's not really about the place—it's about the people who make space for you in their lives. And sometimes, the people you thought matter most are the ones who were never there to begin with.

This week's Torah portion serves up a buffet of discomfort: animal abuse, mass sexual violence euphemistically called "whoring," and divine punishment that makes me wonder if anyone actually likes reading this stuff. Parashat Balak is the kind of biblical text that makes you want to close the book and pretend you're reading something more uplifting, like The Trial.

But before we get to the part that makes everyone squirm in their seats, we need to discuss Balaam—essentially a Level 10 Wizard who min-maxed on spell-casting but rolled a critical failure in basic perception. King Balak hires him to curse the approaching Israelites, which is still better than our current administration's attempts at International Diplomacy. En route, Balaam encounters what might be the most famous ass in literature outside of Charlotte's Web. 

(If you expected a Shrek joke, you ain't the sharpest tool in the shed.)

An angel blocks the road. The donkey sees it immediately and refuses to move. Balaam, displaying a type of horror movie situational awareness, beats his donkey three times. The donkey—conveniently female, because of course she is—finally speaks up: "Why are you beating me? Don't you see the angel in front of us?"

It's worth noting that Balaam's reaction to his donkey suddenly developing conversational skills is not shock, but rather a continued focus on his travel inconvenience. This suggests either that talking animals were more common than the text lets on, or that Balaam possessed the kind of tunnel vision that makes people walk into trees and glass doors while texting.

The symbolism here writes itself. The donkey—a creature society deems lowly and expendable—sees what the privileged court prophet cannot. She does her job dutifully, carrying Balaam and his belongings toward Moab, yet gets beaten for trying to protect them both. There's something devastating knowing that wisdom and divine vision come through the voice of the abused, not the powerful.

The angel's intervention serves as both rebuke and reminder: stop taking your frustration out on those who serve you, and maybe you'll actually see what's in front of you. It's a lesson about how anger and entitlement blind us to the sacred, delivered via a conversation between a man and his donkey that somehow manages to be both absurd and profound.

Then we hit the narrative equivalent of a brick wall.

The Israelite men arrive in Shittim—and yes, the name is as fitting as it sounds—where they "profane themselves by whoring" with Moabite women. The text presents this as moral failing rather than what it likely was: conquest and sexual violence. When armies of foreign men suddenly appear in your territory and start "whoring" with your women, enthusiastic consent isn't typically part of the equation. But the biblical narrative seems less concerned with the trauma of the Moabite women than with the Israelite men's subsequent idol worship of Baal Peor.

God's response is swift and brutal: a plague (likely an STI, if we're being practical about it) and orders Moshe to arrange mass execution. Shit hits the fan when one Israelite man brings a Moabite woman directly to the Tent of Meeting—essentially committing sacrilege in the most sacred space. Phinehas, Aaron's grandson, spears both of them through the belly, simultaneously ending the plague and any moral clarity I may have had for this text.

I understand having to read the text as itself, but I also live in the 21st century. Phinehas may be hailed as a hero for bringing an end to the plague, but I feel like its a reasonable ask whether his vigilante execution was really the best available solution. Penicillin would have been more effective and considerably less murderous (but admittedly, it was unavailable at the time). 

This is a jarring tonal shift. We go from the darkly comic wisdom of Balaam's talking ass to this brutal religious violence. We're experiencing narrative whiplash, moving from a story about perception and humility to one about zealotry and slaughter. I'm left wondering if these were originally separate texts stitched together by particularly sadistic editor.

Although, that could be the point. Spiritual highs don't prevent ethical lows, and the juxtaposition of Balaam's blessing and the subsequent moral catastrophe suggests that. The same people who receive divine favor can still commit horrific acts (hint, hint, cough, cough). Blessing doesn't equal immunity from moral failure. If anything, it might make the fall more devastating.

The donkey's clear-eyed vision contrasts sharply with the Israelite's spiritual blindness that leads to violence and extremism with the Moabite women. She sees the angel because she has no agenda -- no want for riches or power, and no lust for conquest. The men at Shittim, by contrast, are so focused on their desires and conquests that they lose sight of everything else, including basic human decency. Even Balak first tempted Balaam to curse the Israelites with wealth and riches before God appeared and directed him to speak only what God told him to say. 

Parashat Balak forces us to sit with uncomfortable questions about religious violence, divine justice, and the ways power corrupts even the blessed. It's a Torah portion that refuses to offer easy answers or pleasant resolutions. And that's life; sometimes the most profound truths come from the most unexpected voices, and sometimes the most sacred spaces become sites of horror.

I think that's why this portion feels so unsettling for me. It acknowledges that wisdom and brutality can coexist and that our tradition gives us talking donkeys as well as religious zealotry. It's a reminder that even sacred texts don't always tie up their loose ends with neat moral bows. 

The donkey, at least, had the good sense to stop when she saw something ahead. The rest of us are still figuring out how to open our eyes.

When I catch myself ruminating on the nature of being—a pastime that sounds more philosophical than it actually is—I often find myself thinking about the Narcissist's Prayer by Dayna Craig:

That didn't happen.
And if it did, it wasn't that bad.
And if it was, that's not a big deal.
And if it is, that's not my fault.
And if it was, I didn't mean it.
And if I did, you deserved it.

The beauty of this prayer lies in its surgical precision. It maps the narcissist's thought pattern with razor-sharp accuracy. Each line represents a perfectly choreographed sidestep and a lunge away from responsibility and accountability.

After years of therapy—because apparently I needed a professional to confirm what my nervous system had been screaming for four decades—I realized I had grown up in the shadow of a narcissist. The recognition hit with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, which then struck me in the back of my thick, anxious skull.

But here's where things get murky. There's a genuine misconception of narcissism floating around these days, and it's rampant. We have Instagram and TikTok "narcissists"—unseen individuals diagnosed by "empaths" wielding iPhones like medical degrees. The slight of an Internet Narcissist is usually vague and conveniently out of context, ranging from a disappointing partner to a negative encounter at the grocery store.

"He cheated on me and ghosted me! He's a narcissist!"
"She screamed at the cashier! Total narcissist behavior!"

Sometimes we even catch people with false confidence or run-of-the-mill egomania in the crossfire: "She takes a lot of selfies—what a narcissist!" "Look at that narcissist, bragging about his conquests!"

These are not true narcissists. These are Internet Peacocks, flexing for clicks and validation. True Narcissistic Personality Disorder—as diagnosed in the DSM-5, not the DSM-TikTok—operates on an entirely different level. But since I'm not a psychologist, I only feel comfortable describing one through prayer, line by line.

So, let's talk about my narcissist.

That didn't happen.

My narcissist is such an expert in gaslighting, she'd probably claim she invented the technique (if she knew what it was). Every time I've reminded her of the times she hurt me—long past and recent past—she suddenly develops a case of selective amnesia that would impress neurologists.

Picture this: I remind her, "Remember when I was seven and you pushed me off my bike and I broke my arm?" (This is a metaphorical example; this isn't a real one.)

"What? I didn't do that!"

No matter how many times I show her my medical records—the metal rod in my arm, the scar on my elbow, the hospital photos—she refuses to admit it happened. Reality becomes negotiable when you're dealing with a narcissist.

"It did happen, and you pushed me," I insist.

She continues to insist I fell. Despite my repeated reminders of how she chased me down the sidewalk, yelling, calling me names, and literally announcing, "I'm going to push you off your bike!"—she refuses to admit it.

And if it did, it wasn't that bad.

Suddenly, my narcissist's memory makes a miraculous recovery. She remembers me falling off the bike, but the narrative has been sanitized for her protection.

"Oh, you were fine. You had a cast."

"I was in agony. I rode in an ambulance. They had to reset my arm in traction. I was out of school for two weeks. My elbow came out of my flesh."

Facts, it seems, are just suggestions when viewed through the narcissist's lens.

And if it was, that's not a big deal.

"Oh, you're being a baby," she says, employing the classic minimization technique. "You were out of school for two weeks. You didn't have to do homework. You make it seem like you were close to death when all you did was hurt your arm. It was your left arm, too. You could still write. You even got pain pills."

"You took those pain pills," I say. "You said a seven-year-old didn't need them."

The goalpost has moved so far we're playing in a different field.

And if it is, that's not my fault.

I think I've cornered my narcissist now, but she's crafty. She knows how to escape these situations—she's had plenty of practice.

"I don't see why you're blaming me, though," she says. "We were both miserable. There was only one bike and we had to share it. You weren't sharing."

"Need I remind you," I say, "that you pushed me and broke my arm!"

But logic is just another inconvenient obstacle in the narcissist's obstacle course of deflection.

And if it was, I didn't mean it.

She throws up her hands in theatrical despair. "It's not like I wanted you to break your arm! I didn't set out to break your arm when you fell off your bike. I only intended to get you off the bike."

My narcissist starts crying now. She wants me to feel sorry for her—for breaking my arm. The audacity is almost admirable. But this time, I ask her: "Okay, if you didn't mean it—then why haven't you apologized?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke from a extinguished candle.

And if I did, you deserved it.

This is the final nail in the coffin, where my narcissist gets as close as she can to admitting wrongdoing without actually doing so. She doesn't look me in the eye—that would require acknowledging my humanity—she just rolls her eyes and says, "If you had just gotten off the bike and shared it, this wouldn't have happened."

How many times have you heard that deflection? "If only you had [blank], I wouldn't have [blank]." That blank usually ends with some form of "hurt you." The end of your suffering depends on their happiness, which is a bucket with a hole in it—always demanding to be filled, never holding water

So no, narcissists are not Internet Egotists posting gym selfies or bragging about their weekend adventures. They're not your ex who cheated or your coworker who takes credit for your ideas. They're something far more insidious: destructive forces that operate with the precision of scalpel and the empathy of a raging bull.

The best way to deal with them, I've learned, is to not deal with them at all. But if you must, remember: the prayer never ends. It just starts over, with different words, different situations, but the same relentless rhythm: That didn't happen. And if they did, you deserved it.

The cycle is perfect, in its way. Perfectly terrible, but perfect nonetheless.

This week's Torah reading lands us back in familiar territory: the Israelites are still using MapQuest to wander the desert, still pursuing a Promised Land that remains tantalizingly out of reach. Both Miriam and Aaron die (spoiler alert for the Torah), but not before Aaron and Moshe get divine detention for showing insufficient reverence to God. The Israelites resume their regularly scheduled programming of complaints, divine retribution follows, repentance ensues. Rinse, repeat.

It feels like we're spinning our wheels in biblical sand.

Yet despite the narrative déjà vu, Parashat Chukat offers fresh contemplations that resist easy categorization—much like most worthwhile things in life.

 The Red Heifer's Beautiful Absurdity

The ritual cleansing of corpse contamination requires mixing the ashes of a red heifer with water. The delicious irony? Those who prepare this purifying mixture become ritually impure themselves. This mitzvah falls under the category of chok—a commandment without clear rationale, or the theological equivalent of "because I said so."

We could dismiss this as ancient superstition, but that would miss the point entirely. Thanks to my own intimate relationship with OCD, I understand the power of inexplicable ritual. My Morning Routine (capitalized in my mental filing system like a proper noun deserving respect) serves no logical purpose beyond satisfying compulsion. Yet it anchors my day as surely as any ancient ceremony anchored a community.

Most of us maintain our own modest liturgies: the precise order of skincare products, the bedtime stories that must be read in exactly the right cadence, the family dinner conversations that follow unspoken scripts. These rituals don't require profound meaning to provide profound comfort. They create what anthropologists call "symbolic boundaries"—the sacred architecture of ordinary life.

The red heifer reminds us that not everything sacred demands understanding. We live in an age that fetishizes explanation, as if mystery were a personal failing rather than a fundamental condition of existence. Sometimes the meaning is the practice, not the comprehension of it. Sometimes the holiest act is accepting that we don't need to decode everything to receive its gifts.

Leadership's Impossible Standards

Poor Moshe. If biblical figures had therapists, his would charge double and need a therapist of her own. Every chapter presents the same impossible choice: face rebellion from his followers or face consequences from God. This week, he strikes a rock incorrectly—apparently even geological percussion has divine protocols—and God responds with the ultimate punishment: "No Promised Land for you!"

After a lifetime of service, this seems unequivocally harsh. But Moshe's story illuminates two uncomfortable truths about leadership that remain relevant whether you're guiding a wandering tribe or managing a marketing team.

First, the text never suggests Moshe is perfect. He errs, gets punished, repents, receives forgiveness—the full cycle of human fallibility. Yet God still entrusted him with liberating an entire people from slavery and shepherding them through decades of desert wandering. His humanity doesn't disqualify him from leadership; it humanizes leadership itself.

Second, leadership demands a different moral calculus. Moses's role doesn't require perfection, but it requires discipline and accountability at a higher standard. Those who accept positions of authority—whether over nations or book clubs—accept enhanced scrutiny as part of the job description. Leadership also demands that followers acknowledge the impossible position in which they've placed their leaders, recognizing that those who guide us remain frustratingly, irreducibly human.

Confronting Our Serpents

Here's another paradox that nearly escaped my attention while pondering mystical cattle: the bronze serpent that heals the very wounds inflicted by its living, venomous counterparts.

In therapy—that modern sanctuary where we practice our own rituals of purification—I've learned that confronting trauma is both the source of pain and the path through it. Sometimes simply acknowledging our serpents, looking them directly in their metaphorical eyes, constitutes the only progress possible. It's not glamorous work, this business of staring down our Basement Issues, but it transforms suffering from an active wound into a manageable scar.

The Israelites' healing comes not from avoiding their serpents but from facing a bronze representation of what harmed them. The source of their pain becomes their source of restoration—though I should note that trauma recovery rarely follows such tidy biblical logic. Real healing is messier, slower, and involves significantly more insurance paperwork and co-pays than divine intervention typically requires.

The Paradox of Progress

What strikes me most about this week's reading is its refusal to offer clean resolutions. We have purification rituals that contaminate their practitioners, leaders punished for minor infractions after lifetimes of service, and healing that comes through confronting rather than avoiding pain. These aren't neat moral lessons; they're accurate reflections of how spiritual and psychological growth actually works.

Perhaps that's the real revelation hidden in this seemingly repetitive narrative. Growth doesn't follow the linear progression we expect from crunchy self-help books or motivational Instagram posts. It circles back on itself, revisits familiar territory from new angles, finds meaning in apparent meaninglessness. Like the Israelites in their endless desert wandering, we discover that sometimes the journey's repetitions aren't evidence of being lost—they're proof that we're finally paying attention to where we've been all along.

The red heifer's ashes still don't make logical sense. Moshe still seems to get a raw deal. The bronze serpent still presents an unpleasant truth about healing. But maybe that's exactly the point: the most profound truths resist our desire to understand them completely, asking instead that we simply live them fully.

I have never been anyone's best friend. 

This isn't self-pity masquerading as insight. It's simply empirical data gathered over four decades of human interaction. I've had best friends, certainly, beginning with the usual elementary school alliances forged over shared snacks and maintained through playground politics. The problem was that I consistently mistook cooperation for collaboration and interpreted group project partnerships as lifelong bonds while my classmates saw them as temporary alliances of academic convenience.

"You can't play with us, Nina," they'd announce with the casual cruelty that only eight-year-olds can conjure. "You're weird." Fair enough. I was the kid who hung back with adult chaperones on field trips, genuinely curious about Mrs. Kowalski's mortgage payments and weekend pottery classes. By the end of our Henry Ford Museum tour, I'd nearly talked my way into a Saturday chardonnay-and-charcuterie girl's night invitation—impressive for a ten-year-old, though probably concerning in retrospect.

Middle school delivered my first real best friend via the anxious ritual of science class partner selection. When she shyly asked if I'd like to work together, my love-starved brain translated this as Would you like to attach yourself to my hip forever? Naturally, I said yes. For several blissful years, we achieved that rare middle school perfection: sleepovers, shared obsessions, coordinated mischief, and the occasional homework completion.

Then she discovered boys and ruined everything.

Our friendship became a study in asymmetry throughout high school. She pulled away toward the gravitational force of boyfriends and their social circles, leaving me to master the art of gracious abandonment. I hadn't considered what would happen when she started dating—perhaps I'd imagined she'd try it once, find it tedious, and call me immediately afterward to dissect the experience. Instead, I learned the particular sting of being relegated to backup friend, the one you call when your real plans fall through.

By senior year, we were strangers with a shared a history. She left for a big state college; I never saw her again.

College, mercifully, offered redemption through the formation of what I still consider the most meaningful friendships of my life. There was the woman I call my angel—rescued from the wreckage of a mutual friend's failed relationship, she remained after the dust settled. She's devastatingly perfect in ways that should inspire resentment but somehow don't. She volunteers at soup kitchens, works with disadvantaged children, rescues baby birds from window wells, and possesses that rare magnetism that draws people across rooms. I once drove five hours monthly just to bask in her effervescent presence.

Then there's my devil—we met at a party where we achieved the kind of spectacular intoxication that either destroys potential friendships or cements them forever. We chose the latter. She became my refuge from judgment, my partner in gleeful character assassination, my emotional rock through every crisis worth having. We've shared the kind of laughs that leave you breathless and the kind of tears that leave you empty. When either of us die, we've made the mutual vow of deleting each other's search history. 

But here's the thing: I don't think I've been the best friend to either of them.

With both my angel and my devil—just like my childhood best friend—I eventually felt that familiar shift: the delicate recalibration where I begin doing the emotional heavy lifting. I reach out more, make plans, play host. Like a zipper with broken teeth, they pull away incrementally. First comes geographic distance, then months of unanswered texts, then years without visits. One has children now; I'm lucky to receive a monthly Instagram meme.

This happens to every adult—friendship entropy is a universal constant—but that doesn't diminish the particular ache of recognition.

Perhaps the problem is me. Perhaps I'm temperamentally suited for the periphery, destined to cheer from sidelines and offer crisis intervention while someone else handles the day-to-day emotional maintenance. Or maybe I've fundamentally misunderstood friendship itself. Maybe friendships aren't delicate flowers requiring constant watering and fertilizing, but resilient succulents that can sustain themselves through long periods of benign neglect.

Next time, I'd like to know what kind of garden I'm entering before I start planting seeds. Though knowing me, I'll probably show up with a watering can anyway, hoping this time will be different.

Last month, I met a celebrity at a fancy hotel spa. Well, "met" is generous—we exchanged the kind of polite smile you'd give a fellow patron in line at the pharmacy. But in the hierarchy of celebrity encounters, this ranks somewhere between "accidentally stepped on Bradley Cooper's foot" and "shared an elevator with someone who was definitely on a local access TV commercial once."

I allow myself certain luxuries now, which feels like playing dress-up in someone else's life. This particular indulgence involves staying at one of those Chicago hotels where the towels are heavier than sourdough bread and the concierge knows 4 languages and that my German is A2 level at best. Last year, I celebrated my 40th birthday there with three friends—dinner, drinks, massages, the full bourgeois fantasy. This time was business-related, but I still snuck down to the spa for what they diplomatically called a "Himalayan restoration experience."

You know it's fancy when everything rubbed on your body comes with provenance. The CBD oil was lovingly harvested by a man who discovered cannabis after a life-changing accident—because apparently my shoulder tension requires a redemption arc. The singing bowls were designed to "center your chi," and the pumice stones promised to "reticulate the splines" of my very essence. I nodded along like someone who definitely knows what all of this means, when really I just wanted my neck to stop feeling like I'd slept like a collapsed marionette for six hours. Which, to be fair, I had.

The truth is, I still feel caught between worlds: the poverty of my youth and the relative comfort of my current life. I live frugally by most measures, but I indulge in the specific things I couldn't have when I wanted them most. At twelve, I slunk into school wearing my mom's stirrup pants well into the '90s, fantasizing about No Excuses jeans while my classmates had moved on to whatever came after No Excuses jeans. (Probably something equally regrettable like JNCO jeans, but with the crucial distinction of being regrettable now instead of regrettable then.)

These days, if I want to follow a trend, it's as simple as buying a Stanley Cup tumbler. I won't—I'm ride-or-die Team Yeti. But the point is I could. Still, every luxury purchase comes with a small voice asking, Is this okay?

And then I ran into an Oscar winner in terry cloth, and the voice quieted down.

I emerged from my massage in the required bathrobe uniform, clutching my complimentary champagne like a talisman of belonging. In the dim recovery lounge, a woman sat with her teenage daughter, both in matching spa robes and glowing with that post-massage serenity that costs $300 an hour. The woman had her phone out—technically against the rules—but I'm not the spa police, and frankly, celebrities operate under different bylaws.

As soon as she spoke, I knew. Her face is unmistakable if you've spent any portion of the last four decades consuming popular culture. I glanced over casually—the kind of look you'd give someone whose babbling non-stop in a darkened theater but don't want to lecture them—and confirmed what I already knew.

In person, stripped of red carpet armor, she was strikingly beautiful an effortless way that makes us mere mortals insecure in our skincare regiments. What struck me most was how normal she looked, which I promise isn't meant as an insult. She looked like someone you might see shopping at Target -- if Target shoppers regularly won Academy Awards and had access to personal trainers.

After a few minutes, she and her daughter headed to the saunas. Before leaving, we made eye contact, and she smiled—nothing performative, just human acknowledgment between two people in ridiculous bathrobes. I smiled back, calibrating my expression to convey "fellow spa patron" rather than "person who is mentally trolling through your filmography right now."

I could have followed them to the sauna area. The thought crossed my mind with the same impulse as wondering what if I just didn't show up to work tomorrow. But I'm not quite that brand of unhinged, and she was clearly off-duty, enjoying time with her family. Celebrities in the wild deserve the same consideration we'd want—the luxury of being unremarkable.

So I showered, dressed, and returned to my room with nothing but this story. No photo evidence, no name-dropping, no social media proof of my brush with fame. Just the quiet satisfaction of a moment when two people in overpriced bathrobes acknowledged each other's humanity.

Which, when you think about it, might be the most luxurious thing of all.

I'm what you might call a late-in-life attractive person. I discovered this recently, though I'd harbored suspicions throughout my late thirties—those nagging doubts that require confirmation from someone not legally obligated to love you.

The transformation typically happens through one of three catalysts: you lose weight, you get in shape, or someone looks at you and goes, "Damn." For me, it was a combination of the first two, beginning five years ago when I started working out with something approaching consistency, grew my hair out, and developed what my therapist would generously call "increased self-confidence." People began to notice. My pants no longer fit around my waist—a development that, for once, felt like victory rather than defeat. Friends mentioned my "slimmer figure" with careful enthusiasm usually reserved for discussing someone's sobriety. Most tellingly, strangers began talking to me in public, and it didn't immediately annoy me.

But the true test of attractiveness isn't personal revelation. It's when the gatekeepers noticed and decide to let me in.

Recently, I turned 41 and treated myself to a facial and Botox, because apparently this is what passes for self-care in middle age. I left the clinic refreshed in that particular way that comes from having tiny needles strategically placed in your forehead, when someone yelled from a passing truck: "Girl, you better WATCH that ass!" I looked around for the intended recipient of this poetry, but the parking lot contained only me and a bewildered-looking Honda. Unless the man liked the curve of that Civic's quarter panels, he was yelling at me.

Later that day, at my Pilates class—where I go to perfect my form and pretend my hip flexors don't hate me—I mentioned my birthday to my instructor. She hugged me and bought me a pair of grippy socks as a present. Standing there in my new socks, having been publicly objectified and then privately celebrated within the span of just a few hours, I wondered: So, this is what it feels like to be attractive? 

Because it really is when someone else tells you you're attractive that you become one of the Attractive Ones. It hits different when someone beautiful lays their metaphorical sword on your shoulder and says, "You're one of us." You've worked hard for something that required no particular accomplishment—a participation trophy for simply showing up to your own life with better posture.

This became clear when I mentioned to my Pilates instructor my aspirations to teach. She responded with enthusiasm usually reserved for discovering a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket, explaining that they were always short on instructors and that I had "the look." The look, apparently, being more important than my ability to nail a teaser without breaking concentration.

The strange thing is, I don't think I was ever particularly unattractive; I just didn't like myself very much. No one ever called me unattractive as an adult, but no one stopped traffic to call me attractive, either. I received acknowledgment as "pretty" and "cute," which are the participation trophies of compliments—nice enough, but hardly the stuff of romantic comedies. It's funny how these designations can shift seemingly overnight, and how they can change at an age when you thought all your aesthetic dice had already been cast.

I'm slightly resentful that this didn't happen when I was ten to fifteen years younger and could have enjoyed more time in what apparently qualifies as a "hotter, sexier body." There's something vaguely insulting about the universe's timing—a promotion offered just as you're planning to retire.

Because attractiveness doesn't last, I don't know how long I have. Because attractiveness is subjective, I don't know if this is an elaborate delusion supported by a particularly flattering athleisure and good lighting. Because attractiveness has its downsides—as any woman who's been yelled at in a parking lot can attest—I don't know what I've had to sacrifice, or will have to sacrifice, for this dubious privilege.

But I'll enjoy it while it lasts, grippy socks and all. After forty-one years of flying under the radar, I suppose there's something to be said for finally being seen—even if it took this long to become worth looking at.