This past. Dragging on cigarettes and waiting, looking out from the window of his box for lights; wait, angry, until the car pulls slowly into drive, the trampy predator crass, and shimmering.

Enough. He start-up jumps out of anxiousness and a door, roll downs narrow hall, skip-stepped descent the half flight, through foyer and pass thresholds into open space, the vehicle eats him talking, even before the momentum shallows.

Calm, blanched cracked vinyl seats and plastic molded paneling, wrapped in faded sun burnt colors like Picasso’s blue period and high, the cold Chicago winter seeping in, Mick and Sasha share a blunt as the earth’s spin carries the Mustang through pulsing networks of raw electron light, bluegrass trope and lanes’ arterial meandering.

The frolic.

They arrive upstairs, step through into living room, painted gray walls, sparsely furnished – one couch, one coffee table. Other kids milling about, kissing, talking, smoking; Sasha lanky in dirty blue jeans, the softest, and Father’s old suede jacket.

A fellow lingers in the corner. He pushes his hair back, he hadn’t washed it. People were drinking too, no supervision and everything laid out easy to jump. Many had not washed their hair. It made Mick sick, it made everybody in the neighborhood sick. Mick, lived on the border of this town, it sickened him most.

The rooms were awash in noise – riffing guitars, laughter, conversation. The boys were warm, well oiled.  Mouths dried; Mick and Sasha went to the porch, outside before a giant bonfire where some elder burned his Japanese motorcycle in honor of a new Harley Davidson.

She was always the one, because young, there is little else, Sasha soon telling her, “I am thinking of a story. I call it, ‘Still Life of a Beer.’ Want to hear it?”

She answered with soft commitment, ”sure, I guess. I’ve never heard of it.”

“Of course not, it’s mine.”

“Yeah?” She smiles.

“OK.” Sasha pauses a minute, not for drama, but to put together the thoughts, have to write it now, she’s waiting…

“This man hated beer his whole life – now he wants to try it.” Sasha draws from the beer, it is in a can, icy from a cooler.

“He just finds the idea of a cold beer desirable suddenly so he buys himself a nice domestic brand and keeps his refrigerator at its coldest. Only after the beer is ice cold, the bottles frosted, and only from a glass bottle, does he begin to drink them.”

“G-d! I just want to kiss you. Break out of this bullshit.” He never tells her in this silence. She is looking at him, waiting.

“Soon he drinks ice cold beer every night in the privacy of his own home. One night he says to his wife, while she cooks, “Here baby, try a sip. It’s ice cold – real good this way.” She takes the bottle and drinks a small portion. Her face grimaces and she looks repulsed. “You don’t like it? Even ice cold?” he offers. “No! It’s disgusting,” she volleys. “Hmmph,” he can’t be agreeable, he wants to drink more, the amber fire, freezing, rolls into his guts, “I am beginning to think ice cold beer is a brilliant drink.” He takes a long swig. She tells him how sad it is that a man feels the need to drink alone.”

Sasha finishes the can with a long swig and pulls a smoke from his pack, lights her’s first, his after.

“I don’t get it.” The girl remarks, handling the lapel of his jacket.

“There’s nothing to get, really. It’s yours do to as you please with.” Sasha answers.

“You’re strange.” She responds.

“Why?” – Sasha.

“You just are.”

He sits in the kitchen of the house alone, his mind shoveled empty, Sasha lays his head on his standing palm. A glinted light, fluorescent, plays off his lighter. He looks over the fire device and notes, caught in the hot chrome housing, Bhutan.

Sasha, reaching out, sets fire to the tablecloth and thinks of a foreign land.

She had become melancholy in her rejection and stayed in her room after the rousing antics wore down in menace, laying in bed mostly or staring out the frosted window of her attic room into the courtyard. During the day she viewed the piling snow and dusty drifts, at night, the blackness penetrated by untold numbers of fiery points.

Having composed a handful of poems over the weeks those distant urges swelled in her again, the kinds of feelings that recalled the windswept grasses along the Atlantic, the smell of seawater that teased of travels; her Father, pressing her on her studies, her saintly Mother and the life she no longer knew. Their love and comforting presence vanished from her, the security of her home, lost.

Dew was confused with Illinois for a multitude of reasons. To begin, Illinois had projected all her fears of isolation onto the young London woman and was desperate for her companionship. With time, this desperation was sexualized and Illinois came onto Dew, drunkenly, as they sat before a fire one evening, camping. This befuddled Dew more so because she was inclined neither towards men or women. She hadn’t noticed, having spent her whole life mostly isolated and in the wildernesses surrounding the family town, that she had not desired the kind of companionship Illinois, sometimes with a furious approach, wanted. Illinois had been engaged, had sought out the love of a man marriage provides when she was Carolyne, but having been destroyed and reborn there was a great wall that blocked out a place for anybody except Dew, whom she had grown to trust and love, to desire so completely that lines she could never have dreamed of crossing only years before were now obliterated in her obsession with the auburn haired woman.

“You see the storm coming, don’t you?” Dew asked Illinois. Illinois hears her, listens too, as Dew continues “but you are blind. You stand in front of disaster having no clue of the imminent destruction, like a maiden before the hungry maw of a steam engine, trouble barreling down the track.”

The remark of a steam engine drew Illinois into a meditation and she recalled the ramp leading to the door of the freight car. How long each footstep took, coerced, being dragged against her want, the sound of the wood creaking, the metal grinding, into a dark place where she did not know or have any expectation that she’d return.

It was the past, she told herself and Dew knew nothing of it, or she would not be so cruel, accidentally, but Illinois also knew how to answer and so she said, “I dream of loving and of being loved, simply that.”

Illinois replied succinctly in that manner she excelled at and which made others think her smarter than she might have been, but her thoughts betrayed the simplicity of her consideration. The night, she reckoned silently, became her favorite kind of loneliness, her confinement surrendered to the stars. She thought herself like rendered fat, a kind of sizzling away of that which could be lost, should be lost, and she derived pride from this despite the scoldings that her afflictions were rooted in delusion. During the day she was ill-tempered and stressed, pressed to recall her wounds, the losses that weighed her down but at twilight the locked vault of the cosmos opened and her heart flies away into that deep space forever accommodating.

She recalled as she sat nursing her drink, an old eastern traveller saying, “the ancients believed that the spirit never ceases to exist, it never dies. In fact, there isn’t even a word for death in our language” he stated proudly to the tired Illinois. “They would instead go West. The life force following the same path as the sun and the stars into a new journey, becoming, again, part of the universe. The cycle will never end, always in perfect balance.” 

‘West,’ she chuckled to herself. Her beliefs were not the same, how could they be, they were too personal for her to simply agree with another, but she couldn’t help noticing it stuck a chord in her. With some beautiful continuity in the events of her life, this life, everything ends up going West.  

Discipline was leaving her behind. She had given all her power away, she hadn’t even known it was hers, that she could retain it, or that it was necessary. The blight of confusion on her was too much. This meant she drank, large quantities and pressed at those close to her, loving her, as much as possible, to ensure their bond was true. She felt outside of herself, she knew what she was doing and loathed herself more, if it were possible. All she had carried, the wounds ever deep and biting into her even these years later. They would never heal and while she lived it was a trial to love her. When her eyes darkened, even her loves scarcely knew how to take cover, but she had such a comprehensive, deep and broad perspective of the world that to speak with her for 5 minutes made you realize, that whatever her failings were, it was only a facade.

You can appear unaccomplished but reveal tremendous wealth in your ideas when the other patiently seeks out that worth and Illinois’ value in this life could be profoundly exhilarating, she only made it, the discovery of her, difficult as though more than anything in the world, wealth, fame, accomplishment, she sought out only genuine connection.

“Who can handle you!?” Dew would often state, sometimes humorously, other times exasperated from frustration with the manner Illinois came and went.

Then there was the deception, the broken vessel of her intentions and the manner she embellished her perspectives with lengthy narratives that served only to confound and perplex the listener enough to avoid saying anything. She had wandered, alone, haunted by her new found station and so created worlds that hid those afflictions and she believed them, and more than anything else she defended herself. When it appeared to Dew that Illinois had lied it meant the possible termination of their relationship. Illinois was too much, Dew said, she couldn’t handle not knowing, not trusting that the person before her was real.

Illinois shuddered with fear and begged her not to leave, crying, grabbing at Dew’s feet to keep her from leaving the room and in those moments, Dew could only feel compassion for this person who brought so much into their lives. She was fierce with loyalty, her skills sometimes seemed otherworldly, and yet she was incredulously fearful of abandonment and rejection. She was hurt and broken in ways that would remain hidden and Dew decided she could not relinquish her to that suffering, alone.

Shimon ben Achsha says, “Ziknai am ha’aretz kol zman she’mazekminim d’atan nsyasheves aleihem she’ne’emar, eshishin chochma orech yamim tevunah”

Mishna Kinim 3:6

In our Mishna, Kinim 3:6, Rabbi Shimon ben Achsha states, by the elderly of the am ha’aretzim, as they age the Holy One, Blessed is He, removes from them their mental capacity, whereas, by the yireh shamayim, those fearing G-d, who are immersed in Torah to illuminate their way, they actually become greater in that same capacity with age.

Because of this (and other sources, motivations) the pious Jew perceives old age, that they may have a full beard, unbridled peyos, men and women with many children, grandchildren,   a host of students, they have become great forces of gravity for all matters having to do with holiness, halacha, and middos. They are as powerful in Torah as could be; aged like a fine wine, which in Pirkei Avos 4:26, the Ch’Z’L’ compare learning Torah from the elderly scholar to drinking a fine, aged, wine. Also, we see in the secular world, youth attracts, and role models are often young, fashion is dictated by youth and older people will often adapt the clothing model of youthful trends.

In our world the opposite holds true. Children cannot wait to don the garb of their parents, to fulfill the roles, the obligations of their elders. Children are excited about becoming the mommy, the tati, ima, and abba. At Purim time, the boys might wear a black hat, the girls, a sheitel. People place pictures of elder sages rather than sports stars, entertainers, etc., on their walls and mantles. These photographs rarely show a sage in their youth, a time considered the prime in our secular culture. It is not accurate to say by the G-d fearing, only the good die young.

How does this Mishnah have anything to do with Purim?

The idea of V’nahafochu, that by Purim the opposite occurred, we were victorious, Bnai Yisroel was victorious and what was decreed, destined, was reversed. This idea is why Purim is such an important day for us to the extent that even though it is d’rabanon (it doesn’t come to us d’oraysa) there is the idea that Purim will remain even in the time of Moshiach, the only Yom Tov to do so, that even as everything morphs into the existence Hashem intended us to experience, Purim will remain*.

The R’M’Ch’L’ in Mesilas Yesharim (there are certainly many other sources) says that the purpose of the Jew is for the avodas Hashem, to serve Hashem. This is our portion per the expression of His Kingship in our world. By accepting this duty, we recognize the order, seder,  in creation, that Hashem made the world and it is not random that a person should think, well, why should I do the avodas Hashem if I can do anything else? Instead, we are goaded to recognize that it isn’t a choice to make, but in effect, the opposite is true, that the world was created solely for the avodas Hashem. It is not that the world was created and because we have free will one of those choices can be to perform the avodas Hashem, but by doing the avodas of Hashem is what we are created for. We realize with our being in this physical guf, that our free will makes it an option, that free will to choose what we want.

Regarding this dynamic of opposites, we see this in many things. In the Torah we see that in Moshe Rabeinu. What made Moshe Rabbeinu great? In the world that we live in greatness is size, greatness is wealth, greatness is perceptible achievements, achievements that people can comprehend and rally around. What made Moshe Rabbeinu great? Moshe Rabeinu was great because of his humility and humility is virtually invisible. The Rambam says that navuah, prophecy, is the coupling of intellectual capacity (Moshe Rabeinu achieved his potential completely in terms of what he was capable of doing with his intellect) with the cessation of ego. He remained completely humble before Ha’kadosh Baruch Hu, he did not limit what was unknown to him, so that he was able to speak to Ha’kadosh Baruch Hu, face to face.

We see that that is an idea of V’nahafochu because it is the opposite of what you would expect. You would expect that Moshe Rabeinu would be like the President, going around with a big entourage, a lot of pomp, grandeur etc.. He would be our version of Pharoah. If you want to speak to him you have to contribute a lot of money, be important, whatever it is. But rather, Moshe Rabeinu was humble and spent his entire time devoted to every soul of Israel, even at the expense of his family, until his father in law devises a new, better, strategy.

We see that Bnai Yisroel receives the Torah at Har Sinai and that Sinai represents on the one hand hatred, from the word sina, which seems odd because if anything you would think that it would be illustrious. Har Sinai also was a small mountain. It was not great. It was small. Also, the Gemara in * states, “wherever you find His greatness, there too, you find His humility. Hashem’s magnificence is ever present but He is all but invisible. His name only known through the work of His perfection.

All these things represent V’nahafochu, the opposite. Also, the Medrash says that all the nations of the world were offered the Torah from Ha’kadosh Baruch Hu. And why was it that Bnai Yisroel received it? Because we were the lowliest of the nations. This is something that doesn’t necessarily make sense to say that Bnai Yisroel received the Torah because we were the lowliest of all nations. There is nothing to suggest that we were trying for or would be able to recognize the greatness of the Torah because we ourselves weren’t great.

And yet that seems to be always there, always in the theme. Even the idea of the creation, of Braishis, that we recognize that Ha’kadosh Baruch Hu is infinite. That when we way Shma Yisroel…Hashem Echad, that the Echad, we are not necessarily thinking of the number one. We are saying that Hashem is infinite, that there is no divisible part of Hashem. And what is the creation? The creation is the opposite, just the creation itself is V’nahafochu. Hashem completely inverted whatever it is that Hashem is and created the opposite. And within that opposite condition the Jew is able to receive the Torah. Israel is able to follow the ratzon of Hashem and be a tikkun to the world, to repair the world. In the Gemara also (as I heard from R’Y’A’b”A during Pesach in Lakewood) it says Yosef ben Reb Yehoshua was ill and had a comatose-like experience where he seems to be dead. Then he comes back and his father asked him what he saw and he said Olam Hafuch, that he says an opposite world. Elyonim l’matah, that the giants in this world were nothing, that they were really small, and tachtonim l’ma’ala, the small invisible people in this world were giant. And his father responded to him by saying, that is not the Olam Hafuch, that is the Olam Barur, that is the actuality.

By Purim many years ago, my brother said to me that one of the ideas of V’nahafochu is the idea that Hashem made the decree that Bnai Yisroel was supposed to be destroyed so we recognize that that was as good as done. If Hashem makes a decree how can it not manifest itself? And yet, the opposite happened, that Bnai Yisroel is successful. So it seems that this is the incredible struggle that we have here in this world. We live in the Olam Hafuch. We live in a constant state of what is not supposed to be. We think to ourselves, this did not work, therefore, it is not G-d’s will. Did it involve kedusha? Mitzvos? Was it for the sake of Shemayim? If so, then we erred in letting go.

We are waiting for that redemptive event to find us but it will not seek us out without our first grasping for it, HaShem is nistar, Esther, hidden away in a kingdom of opposite rule and we must take it, overcome our apathy and fight for it rather than give it away to temporality.

Said The Holy One blessed be He: “My children open for Me one opening of repentance the size of a pin prick and I will open for you openings through which even wagons can enter.” [Shir Ha’shirim Rabba 5:3]

We have to recognize the Olam Barur and reveal it, despite the overwhelming presence of that which is upside down. The matter is too involved to introduce here, but, while Hashem knows everything and we receive that which is intended for us, we have, by definition of this world, free will and must affect the outcome now, we must initiate that pinprick and change our fated decree as our ancestors in Shushan because those matters are unknown to us and we are unable to say what is decreed, what is not decreed, in matters pertaining to kedusha outside of halachic definitions.

This is why Purim is so important. Purim recognizes that it happened, that it was this experience manifest, with Esther and Mordechai and the complete V’nahafochu, that this seemingly small idea that is not even mentioned d’oraysa becomes the important holiday in the olam barur in the time of Moshiach and this day of simple, earthly celebration is the day Yom  Kippur is likened to, for as our holy teachers have stated, Yom Kippur, k’purim. Our shabbos of shabboses, Yom Kippur, is a day like Purim.

She was afraid, not in a paralyzing way, but of the unknown. The manner in which these sensations of being touched, of trusting, converged at the singular point of her love being expressed and the shadows falling away. She noted the down like fuzz just below his ear sweeping back along the hairline of his neck and that despite his breathing near her she did not notice the presence of his breath.

So much for being an independent woman, she thought, considering all the years she had made trouble and avoided being tamed. Tamed, she called it, because it meant being put in her place, receiving energy and not busy with the proffering, but here she was, not knowing what to offer and only accepting with rapid heartbeats his advances. Suddenly she empathized, in a profound way like the sun beating night away into day, with her Mother. She daydreamed these thoughts as her fiancé explored the landscape of her figure secure under garments focused on the essence of their being in love, groomed to raise families and continuing the march towards personal realization.

It felt strange, like she was outside of herself, the manic temperament of her thinking abated, the flurry of words falling into poetic form ceased, she was actually calm and pleased with herself that something like enjoyment of a thing was happening. She did not feel lustful. She was not participating as though the goal of their mutual satisfaction was shared and jointly sought after, instead a kind of detachment, like a hollow in the wild growth of a forest, a quiet moment, the din absent, presented itself and she was happy to find the cover while blanketed thinly with affection.

She could now understand sentiment, why people did what they did for reasons outside of ratiocination. It was new for her, this consideration of what she had otherwise thought made her friends, peers, weak, susceptible to a loss of autonomy. She was not going to love him, not like his body wanted now, that was still too far remote of an idea to think of experiencing.

Time passed and she avoided his kiss, but not entirely, only pushing him away to other places she preferred the attention, occasionally laughing and causing him to look at her in that confused manner she had grown accustomed to whenever she behaved in a way he was unaccustomed to.

The lands and wealth she stood to inherit meant she could afford this measure of aloof posturing. She lacked the sensibility healthy fear can induce and saw her being protected by her family’s estate as a blessing she was happy to accept.

Henry, her fiancé, also derived a full breast of confidence from family legacy but lacked the raw vitality of intelligence Carolyne expressed in a fluid manner that managed itself as disciplined creativity. What was spoken of regarding her, but never to her person, was how she would come to submit herself to a union, no one close to her thinking the feat possible, or an actual marriage manageable.

“Carolyne?” Henry’s face suddenly came into focus before her and she came to having suddenly lost touch with her current thought.

She replied, “yes?”

“Are you with me?” He asked, his face had that look she had noted at times which made her feel, in those moments, that he was not with her, not for the long haul at least.

A kind of barrier was between them and though they were engaged to be married, she did not think to herself that day would actually arrive, that she would happily live out her days as his wife. It was a gut feeling, not one she acted out on as though a decision would come from her, but a feeling that today was only a rehearsal and tomorrow would be the fight she had been holding back on all those days her energy disrupted the tranquility of her family and loved ones.

“I am,” she said. The answer was easy to provide, it rang out empty because she was always present regarding her duties as Sturgis Fields only daughter and child.

Her commitment to the moment meant she did not need a specific environment to freely roam the expanse of her imagination. This meant that no matter what she was doing, unless she had to be totally engaged and stimulated, she was able to traipse off into a world of her mind’s making and often snapped back into or was brought back into, a conversation, a setting, she had to desperately recall lest she looked dim and out of place.

“Ok, because you were talking to yourself. Not a conversation but mumbling about something while I am here, next to you, touching you, being intimate and showing you affection, all of that and you’re, I don’t know how else to express it, having one of those moments, I think, where whatever is in your head is creeping out into our shared space and I am finding it disconcerting.”

She giggled a bit, despite her needed maturity and his disapproval, “Henry, you’re such a special person, tolerating me the way you do. I am sorry, I was daydreaming and about us, too! But I liked what you were doing, it felt incredibly-” she reached for a word to conclude this matter, but found only, “nice.”

“Nice?” He sighed and did not smile as its tail end emerged, ” You’re supposed to be a poet.”

“I am a poet, but I can enjoy things, too.”

Chef walks out the kitchen’s rear door, having quick-gaited through the main area with the ovens and ranges, where dishes are cooked for service, a la minute. The walls maroon from floor to wainscoting height, then mustard yellow to the drop ceiling, generic pressed cardboard tiles, the pigments rising  into dark, shadowy places.

The tile frames coated in dust clinging to grease, requiring a toothbrush, hot water, soap, kitchen towels, and copper scrubbers to clean, and they’ll do it.

The low boy’s flat stainless steel plane spreads out, large and unencumbered. Freshly cleaned before the dinner service.

A stroll on rubber mats, past the deep fry, into the other half of the kitchen, where prep cooks talk parallel parking in cool luxury, before exiting through the wide grey metal door opening up to the alley drive for taking product deliveries.

Across the way, paved, though still only a driveway, is a creek, which runs year round, and in spring flows heavy, running on a slant into the horizon from a rare patch of forested wetlands in suburban frame, pressed into a proxy channel behind the mall. Wild growth and branches, buds, huddle the lines the eye seeks, and a quip of wilderness landscape unfolds with Canadian geese nesting and Mallards nearby.

Chef rips a piece of stale bread into pieces and tosses them at the nesting birds.

“U know dat nigga’s gettin old, cuz he’s feeding the birds!” K., shouts at Chef, guffawing.

Chef hears him, but he thinks about his Dad, his Grandmother when they would fish and feed the ducks and he was a boy wanting little more than to run. But he was distracted by something gnawing at him, even then, at that age. The imbalance. 

Here, he looked into the water, gurgling and rushing over stones, slowed in deep pools and languishing near the shore. The algae, like the scum atop stocks, and visible in the deeper water,  fearless suckers, chubs. 

No place for the predators, their majestic reign long ended.

Now there are just fat fish clinging to the bottom of these pools, in eddy’s calm, resting, darting about and feeding on waste.

Everybody gives up something to G-d.

The best is to give up fear

while time runs like currents over rock;

our moment,

bubbles’

glisten in harbor waters.

You are true

against gravity, or terms

unkind

and unjust,

until compromise becomes necessary,

and your gift is lost, removed in failure

from the muted,

the beaten down, those who needed you,

stricken in that

great war

where men line up, felled rather than run,

their foes in momentary anger, push to break the line. 

Who can blame the broken for their hurt, the once loved for 

their anguish?

Resolve finally my brothers,

not so long ago strangers,

having now shared water and breath,

into wholesome union.

Rabbi Maybruch, שליט’א asks the kollel,  “what is a discharge?”

The uterine lining becomes engorged with blood to prepare for the potential pregnancy, (its actions expect it). The egg cell is moving into place, to its setting (ברא שית, מקום). The anticipation is concealed just as the womb conceals the life stirring within it after conception. (There always exists an innumerable array of ‘mechitzas‘.)

With an unmarried woman and with a married woman, when there is no conception, this current opportunity will pass and the uterine walls will shed the amalgam of blood and residue and the matter will be removed from the body. This discharge, דם מקור, is the cause of the woman changing status. This isדם טמא.*

The contents being discharged are from within her and she has now come into contact with something tamei, outside of her. This is the moment, when the separation occurs, the “going out of blood” is revealed with the “sensation” and her status is altered.

With the loss of this sensitivity to this event and the subsequent destruction of the בית המקדש it is impossible to ascertain to know this experience of the הרגשה and therefore know דאוריתה if she has become a נדה. The הרגשה occurs as דם מקור is released becoming דם טמאה בפנים כבחוץ and the woman knows that she has become טמאה ואסור לבעל. In fact she becomes טמאה ואסור לבעל whether she realizes this event or not. For this reason Rabbi Maybruch described our הלכות נדה as a חומרה על החומרה על החומרה.

Even though today, בזמן הזה, she is not sensitive to this הרגשה it must by necessity and invention occur nonetheless, for how could she know of her change in status otherwise? It is not the provisions which are lacking but their reception (כלי קבל).  Practically we can understand this using the example of light frequencies. Our natural vision only perceives a narrow measure of light on the corresponding spectrum. We have tools, devices, that can observe a greater spectrum. Consider the night sky from our perspective. It is blackish and dotted with sparks of light that we mostly call stars, speaking generally. But our knowledge of that image includes galaxies, quasars, nebulae, etc..  We have tools that enable us to see, as well, these entities, and the heavens when exposed are considerably more complex visually, than what our naked eye sees. This is a dynamic which permeates the whole of our reality.

According to the Rav, Y.D. Sol., ז’צ’ל because this event, the יציאת דם מקור occurs בבשרה there must be a corresponding הרגשה or how could she ascertain her status and thereby come to transgress, ח’וש’, a מעשה איסור כרת? The משנה states דם מקור טמא.

Our holy Torah immediately informs us of the creation of the womb, of the Makom, the Space.

ברא שית the nothingness, the dust, the soil for His seed, the binding of His wholesomeness. What precedes this? The Glory of the Eternal Intent of the Perfect One, first in thought, last in deed, the holy Shabbos, the seventh day of creation.

Rashi tells us, for the sake of the ראשית which is ישראל, are העולמים crafted. And before I am ever born and come into existence, I am known by You, considered and loved.

Regarding niddah it is important to realize, that this experience per the reality of Hashem is One and not subject to what occurs via our perception which is linear and perceives distinction (each nekudah of the creation being unique and when considered in the broadest imaginable scope, this variety, too, reveals unity). Any implication of the concealed greater reality is only the result of Hashem’s presence revealed in the mechanism of המעשה בארשית במדרגה מלכות. This is according to the teaching of the חובות הלבבות, and revealed throughout Ch’Z’L’s understanding. It also reveals the greatness of earlier generations that they understood more with less (consider Rav Kook’s remarks on imagination as the highest intellectual faculty).

The myriad expressions of complimentary forces begins for us with the av duality, Shemayim v’Aretz.  Hashem’s chesed (ohr) and is tempered perfectly with rachamim (חושך). Just as the arterial or venal wall channels the blood’s momentum towards its designated performance. This division of unity, a duality of forces, coerced into union is the inner dynamic of Adam on the most macro scale. Growth is a constant until inorganic diminution occurs – death and all returns to the concealed good.

However, in our existence, we are blossoms from atomic and subatomic gardens. Layer after layer blanketing the singularity from which His Will manifests.

This may also be understood practically with an understanding of astronomy and physics and the general relationship between nuclear and gravitational forces. Gravity being a restrictive force and nuclear forces being expansive. The correct ratio of forces as played out on matter, cosmic dust generates the luminous spheres we know as the building blocks for our living world. This exact calibration (איש מלחמה שמו) creates generation after generation of stars converting the purest elements of the creation into the refined material of ourselves and the world of our knowing.

As revealed through תורת משה, עבודת בית המקדש and ח’ז’ל and per my receiving this knowledge from Rabbi Chaim Zimmerman ז’צ’ל the state of טהרה and that of טמאה may be ascertained and even revealed to a person clearly as with material conditions. The sensitivity necessary to be מקבל such a reality would appear to correspond with the manifestation of the בית המקדש and the partial revelation of the Glory of the presence of Hashem, coupled with the activation and strengthening of such traits through the disciplined instruction of our holy sages.

These complimentary forces are relevant for us as we find it in the verse: ויקרא: טו: יט

ואשה כי תהיה זבה דם יהיה זבה בבשרה שבעת ימים תהיה בנדתה וכל הגגע בה יטמא עד הערב

And also stated in בראשית: ויהי ערב ויהי בוקר

Evening, ‘erev,’ may also denote a lack of clarity and in this state, where she is available to her spouse but her condition is unknown, the woman’s energy as life bearer lies in a potential state, concealed. בוקר is her status as defined by having or lacking the הרגשה. Her status becomes known and the seven day cycle begins when necessary.

A woman’s cycle will be defined by her conceiving, as with שבת קודש or by her יציאת דם which is as those matters involving a “going out.” So not only does this cycle repeat דור לדור with the woman but also throughout the varying levels of the מעשה בראשית with בן אדם having limited influence over the non-imperative dynamic of מלכות.

The woman’s discharge creates a דן טמאה for herself or any who come into contact with it. The טור צ’צ’ל brings forth אלא דוקא דם הבא מן המקור only this blood which she feels בבשרא is so דם מקור, not just any bleeding* (חומרות בזמן הזה)

The blood revealed is distinct, separate, as though outside of her, and not from a flow such as caused by a wound.

A series of events is occurring here.

As the דם מקור is expunged from the uterine wall, the woman experiences, with a revelation of the שכינה as in temple periods, the הרגשה for the effect is בבשרה and she immediately becomes טמאה ואסור לבעל. For the דם מקור is explicitly טמאה and resides in her בפנים כבחוץ.

After the passing of seven clean days and an immersion she becomes טהור ומוטר לבעל.

Blood and tissue, the uterine wall and the מדבר

Blood flows into the uterine lining which itself is a שית to support the potential creation. During this time her womb is open and anticipating the arrival of its guest, and the environment is charged with life. This period is כנגד ערב as the verse states ויהי ערב ויהי בוקר.

When the woman’s lining is engorged with this unique blood she is like a microcosm of the world, the שית, המקום  setting place. Her womb surrounds and expands to accommodate the new being in a manifest act of rachamim, rechem in Hebrew being the word for womb. This world of tissue which is formed, having become engorged with blood which reveals life for the life is in the blood.* Our material world is dust, similarly engorged with water, forming malleable objects capable of receiving the energy, nefesh, necessary for life.

With this engorgement life is possible to sustain in the womb until maturation. Which, like the פרוזדור, the humanoid travels through from a dimension of limitation to a state of Eternality.*

Hashem animates the worlds with vitality* at every moment, so all is good, His ‘great love’ never withheld, even in a state of גלות. The only influence which exists ultimately is טוב. Because we treat issues of טהור וטמא largely as theoretical, a person could assume them to have a quality of mystery or even mysticism to them. Perhaps they understand them as euphemistic or metaphorical. But we may imagine to ourselves correctly that the הרגשה is quite literal and its experience requires sensitivity to matters which today are not publicized as they may be in a state of partial revelation undecipherable outside of the specific context.

When this status was revealed other manifestations of this sensitivity occurred such as with the עבודת בית המקדש.  Our ancestors would have a revealed experience with something which for us is concealed, due to our own insensitivities. We experience a comparable phenomenon, materially, with sensitivity and discernment, tastes. What is revealed to one is concealed to another due to experience, education, talent, etc.. The greater our material achievements (which are necessary and life improving), the more self reliance we accrue (also positive) the less we are sensitive to matters whose existence are implied but not given.

The days of נדה are 7. The cycle by which Hashem created and was מקדש יום השביעי is seven. Abraham dwelt in Beer Sheva, seven springs, and his influence is like the eighth light by Hanukka. Just as the bris occurs on the eighth day. So a complete cycle is found by the niddah status whereby the renewal of creative capacity is achieved with seven days as it states regarding the seventh day: ויכולו…. and now the world is capable of its service to Adam HaRishon. We, and when conception occurs so is this smaller world of a small world prepared for the smallest world, yet to arrive.

Chef hears her wants before she speaks, it’s all over her face, like easy read literature. And he knows her fairly well now, they spend nearly 13 hours a day together and have for months.

She came in one day, early in the restaurant’s history, looking for work and now she practically lives with this older man who feeds her, listens to her; they laugh, fight, talk occasionally about outside matters.

“You drink, I’ll get high,” says Chef after the service, and he hands her the opened bottle of red she was wanting. It had come in off a table 3/4 full.

Chef smokes his mahlo under the hood, the Black and Mild’s tobacco rolled out, mixed with marijuana, and stuffed back into the tobacco leaf shell.

He takes a long drag, then slowly French inhales it.

She drinks the wine, like its cute, like she’s adorable and doesn’t smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the beverage satisfying her hunger and then, suddenly, they’re flirting.

Not obnoxiously, not playing each other, just a bit loose, like two people comfortable enough to have weaknesses in front of each other and it had been a considerably longer day since, K., the dishwasher had been arrested and jailed during the midday break.

That left the dishes unattended for service.

A panic ensued in the kitchen, the small crew jumping around stations, general pandemonium buzzing about, and service was soon.

She hadn’t wanted to do them, wash the dishes. Nobody wanted that gig, but she saw the wine accruing that was off limits to the waiters, she liked the extra money, and Chef had control over those options. He was looking for a dishwasher.

E., that waitress who would let her thong show just above the waist of her jeans after service, flitted about hungover, not wanting to work that shift. She was given the night off but stuck around, chewing it out with the other front of house staff and because of that she was asked, persuaded, to wash the dishes.

Washing dishes in one of Chef’s extra large coats that hung, draped over her red cocktail dress (she had changed when her name was taken off the night’s server list) loosely, she was funny and they, her and Chef, related differently in these shared hours, joking more, talking about the times she expressed sad musings on her high life and her reckless, passive aggressive desire for more of the same. A cigarette dangled from her mouth most of the night, she puffed on it, smoke trails escaping her breath as she arranged the dishes from the busser to the waters for cleaning and back again on the line for plating.

She was young, but only a couple of years from, not so much anymore, if she didn’t turn it around. She had dropped out of college, was living at home again and wanted to escape with drunken escapades. Chef could empathize, he told her, but she’d regret later, not respecting herself, is how he’d finish the conversations.

People hurt, and while Chef was in his element, his wait staff and much of the kitchen crew were waiting out tomorrow. That tension permeated the environment and gave way to many of the days stories that imbued kitchen life with an entertaining kind of tragic heroism. It was mostly immaturity though, the kind experienced when high pressure environments momentarily let up and the inhabitants vent their emotions through vulgarity, pranks, and the like.

Tickets slow until the last orders go out and the evening is coming to a close. The kitchen, all day smelling of fresh, cooked foods, churning out expensive fare, now, at closing, has a fog, slowly pulled toward the vents, the drifting cloud comprised of and smelling like cherry tobaccos, Marlboro reds, and reefer.

Finally, only E. remains finishing up the last of that station and the work day ending, Chef doffs his white coat. It’s heavier now, stiffer with grease and bits of food matter from prep, cooking at service. He takes her jacket when she finishes and throws both of them into the dirty laundry bin.  

Chef stands at the line in his white t-shirt and faded black cargo pants and pours a half glass of the red E. had been nursing, finishing the bottle. She comes over, kind of presses up against him and smiles in an awkward gesture of, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t read signals well, thanks, maybe. They both laugh a little nervously and the kitchen is quiet.

Tomorrow, she’ll be a waitress again, he’ll be Chef, and they’ll both act like nothing of this sort ever happened.

I wake up, all that pressure to succeed; all those other restaurants doing great things, and I think, who am I? And believe me, it is an uphill struggle to not conclude in the negative. Esteem waxing and waning. That voice, I hear it over and over again in my head, telling me, “and anyway, you’re just a cook.”

And a shitty one at that.

Then the drive to work, it’s quiet and my mind turns over flavors, textures, colors, tastes. When I pause the thoughts, life rushes in, with all the flotsam of wrecked ships drifting ashore and the heart combing through the lost content, saturated in regret, and I push it back out to sea and reclaim my focus on the process of making things. That quiet ride is never long enough and soon I am parking and consolidating the day’s plan, blocking out that voice badgering me into self doubt before busting through the doors that lead to the cocina.

I arrive in the kitchen and say, “BE FUCKING GREAT OR QUIT!”  The whole crew is afraid of what’s coming, where we’re going; they think Chef is loco, but they overcome their anxieties, too, and execute. We get better, we do amazing things and the days improve.

Except when we don’t.

When that happens, and we falter, motivational speeches can be a great way to get the team together and riled up for another shove towards success. When your crew is small it can be even better and the camaraderie more intense.

A few years ago, Chef Champ Warshaw brought me on board to be his Chef De Cuisine at his short lived kosher Italian gem, Et al Trattoria.

It was an ugly and stained establishment, old and neglected (there was no money to invest) but it had 26 seats and a small kitchen tucked into a strip mall in Milbourne, NJ. We opened it up in two days, hit the ground running on a Thanksgiving and cooked some great food there. 

The first few weeks of business the kitchen would sometimes reek like marijuana and we couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. One day I stepped outside the back door and saw our neighbor from 7 -11 smoking something and noticed, also, the smell of marijuana again and thought I had figured the whole matter out.

A couple of days later, in the prep room, I found a shallow six pan stashed away up on a high shelf and lo, there were maybe, six or seven roaches, the butts of joints in it. Well, there was the source of the smell. The guys at 7/11 were smoking blunts and then depositing their stubs in our kitchen! I had to put a stop to that right away and went to the 7/11 but nobody there could understand me, they spoke neither English or Spanish.

I returned to the restaurant and made my way to the kitchen after talking to E., one of our waitresses, just an quick inquiry as to how she was, and my dishwasher was rolling a blunt right on the prep table, right out in the open.

“Shit, K., can’t those fucking 7/11 guys roll their own?!”

We had been having a few problems during service with waiters delivering food to the wrong tables. When it happened again, after a slew of remarks addressing the matter over a couple of days, I just asked the waitress to go out of the kitchen, “hey,  E., would you mind stepping out a minute I have to deal with something over here, in private.”

She walked out and I picked up my 14” sauté pan and struck the wall with it, hard. The other side of the wall happened to have faced the dining room where we had a packed room, it was the hey day, and also held a series of shelves holding glasses.

The drywall and studs shuddered, the pan left a 4” long divet, 1/2” deep in the gypsum and the glasses all shook making a brash ringing sound in the dining room. The whole room quieted, patrons were startled and looking about, my waitress ran in, “Chef, is everything ok?!”

“Yeah, I dropped a pan.”

All was settled until it happened again, later that night, and rather than smash something again, I decided to give a motivational speech the following day.

These events are great and happen before service, everybody generally looking forward to them. You can employ all sorts of techniques, but I like the the classic shout and pace most. I developed pacing skills over the years. Mostly in my late teens to mid twenties when I lived in a 2000 sq. ft. loft that allowed for hours of pacing and meditating and discussions. It hampered the maturation of my social skills as most of my guests felt at unease because I wouldn’t stop strolling about the place as we engaged in conversation. I couldn’t understand why it mattered until later. When you move around a lot and the other person is sitting, they feel like they’re not doing anything, like they should be busy. In a kitchen this isn’t a problem, it is a space full of pacers, of people who want to move. When I am at home, at family functions, it is much harder and I usually jump at the offer to “man the grill.” Otherwise,  I’ll bounce my legs and my ex, or my daughter, will ask, “why is the table, the floor, the coffee table, why is everything shaking?” They know the answer but ask anyway for the effect.

The end result wasn’t great, it seldom is when you are dealing with people who just want to get paid something and who would work at Walmart if it meant less pressure. My best waitress, whom I motioned at mid speech, signaling to her that it wasn’t directed at her, missed that signal and spent two hours afterwards locked in the bathroom, crying, refusing to come out. She eventually was talked into coming out only to disappear into the loo again and eventually she left for the night, unable to calm herself. She did ask for permission, breaking down between words with sniffles, and nobody laughed, so all things considered, it could have been much worse.

Returning to the kitchen, the  crew were still working but had overheard the event and I acquired another nickname, when K. called me ‘el Fuego Negro.’

E., who was hanging out by the line, wanted to know why my nickname was “the Black Fire.” Jas, my other line cook answered, “cuz Chef is a fiery nigga!”

This angered E. and she replied, “Chef is white, Jas. I am black and you treat me like I’m white. Why do you do that?!”

“Whoa,” I broke in, “what the fuck does that mean, E.?” But I started laughing a bit and couldn’t really get serious; I didn’t care about what she meant, black, white, whatever, they were just posturing during the down times. Jas goaded her more into a few extra hysterical reactions and K., my dishwasher/prep, jumped in free-styling a rap mocking E. for being white, which she wasn’t.

She angrily left the kitchen shouting, “Chef is white, not me!”

Jas grabbed her crotch (she was butch and soft packing) and shouted, “no he ain’t, you’re white, E.!”

The waitress, D., who had been deeply affected by the talk, sent a handwritten two page letter to the restaurant owner explaining the difficulties she had working for me. I remember it well. N., the other partner, came into the restaurant early, a week later, at the time when I was there by myself.

He asked me, handing me the letter, “Chef, what’s this all about?”

I read it with real interest since it displayed excellent penmanship.

“Oh,” I answered, “That was a motivational speech, I gave.”

“I figured it was probably something like that. Well, keep up the good work.”

I made a N. a hamburger and we talked about the condition of his other restaurant.

D. stayed on board and remained my go to waitress till the closing a half a year later, which was sudden and unexpected.

And that was that.

Tonight I made my first ex wife crack.

We have an older Polish woman who is a waitress for parties. She is an insurance agent by day and she waits private functions at night. She has an obvious like for me and every time she works for us, my line cooks crack jokes and call her my girlfriend in Spanish.

Tonight, I was getting into it with another waiter, and this waitress, A., suddenly blurts out, “nobody gets anything past chef!”

I paused, and replied, “except my ex wife.”

I think, after five years, that is the first crack of that nature I have made.

We have a new line cook, to replace the young woman who left. He is this 50 year old Russian guy, a shred taller than me and wider. I was intimidated because he looks tough. But then he got plucky on the line during a rush and I put him in his place with a controlled blast of fury. It is always tough in the kitchen and today the various personalities push here, pull there, and I have to manage them, viscerally, to keep them producing at a high level of quality.

To have to be pushed to execute at a high level is strange for me, because I have always wanted to do that, to be great. But I suppose we all have our limits, where we say, no, it is too much, I don’t want to make that effort, I am OK here for a spell.

The other day, M. came up to me and said, “we have a red flag issue, there is a problem with consistency. Someone said they came in today and the BBQ sauce tasted different and we have to make sure it is the same everyday.” I thought it over and was like, yeah, that makes sense. Right before service Jimmy knocked over the cambro of BBQ sauce, we were out of a primary ingredient, and so I mixed what remained of our batch with a brand I like from the store.

M. likes that when she notes discrepancies I can usually pin point the reason for them. It is a good management style on my behalf, showing our successes and misses are not random and it gives the owners confidence in what I am doing with respect to our successes.

One of my favorite vorts from Rabbi Zaidy, z’t’k’l, was the story from the Gemara of the upside world. I first heard it in Lakewood, during Pesach. In this event, a sage has a near death experience, where he is in a coma. When he comes to he sees his father.

His father says, “my son, you’re alive, but you had been dead, what did you see?”

The son says, “I saw an upside down world. The great people of this world were little, and the little people of this world were great.”

The father says, and even now I am crying a bit typing this, “No my son, you saw the clear world. This world here, is the upside down world, the world you saw was the clear world.”

It was a fear I had many times, when I was in full throttle, that subtle element of G-d’s greatness in this world being absolutely humbled by our free will, and it is upside down.

We’ll always have

crazy horses

thigh bone pipes

fire

till solemn hours mount

towering slopes

falling

along curve and twist.

We’ll always have

our delicate sensibilities

pale winters bundle

under jawing stars’

lope;

the day full of yawn,

and stretch,

run.