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Ten minutes before I begin leading High Holy Days services, a large dog leaps up and takes a softball-sized bite from the bottom of the two-foot-long challah on the table.I pause, oddly grateful that this is the first year such a thing has happened.My services are decidedly outside the box: bring-your-own-chair, under a metal canopy, […]

✧✧✧ Vignette #1 “I’m afraid I won’t be able to get through them,” the future bride says laughing, bu tearfully. I’m crafting a bespoke marriage ceremony for her and her partner. I just detailed some Jewish vow traditions we might or might not use. “How about personal vows?” I ask and continue, “These are promises

  Note: Setting boundaries is like painting a room. Before you actually start painting—which is, relatively, the easy part—there is a lot of prep work.  Similarly, the first seven steps to setting boundaries are preparation. Boundary setting doesn’t come until step eight. 1. Develop Self-Awareness Learn to notice your needs, wants, values, and limits. 2.

“I must be a bad person,” my friend J tells me. I called J just as I started my mid-day dog walk. He continues, “Maybe I should ask if you can forgive me… though I don’t know if that’s a thing rabbis do.” “Lay it on me. Let’s see what I can do.” “Well, I

Hi. It’s me. Brian. Rabbi Brian. Writing to you, beloved. How are you?What’s going on?How’s life? Me?Getting used to having a house without my son. Earlier this month he started his freshman year at Wesleyan, in Middletown, CT. And, I’m writing an article—in the form of a letter—that I’m planning to send to the ROTB

  4:1 Rule — It’s not easy. But it’s doable. And, worthwhile.     I hear the canister signaling that the process of carbonation is complete as the button is rhythmically, continually pressed.   Psssh. Psssh. Psssh.    Psssh.    Psssh-sh-sh-sh-sh.    Psssh. Psssh. Psssh Psssh.  Psssh-sh-sh-sh-sh.    Psssh. Psssh. Psssh.  Psssh-sh-sh-sh-sh.    Emmett presses the carbonating button on SodaStream

  5:6 WHERE LOVE MEETS US   One day, after swearing me to secrecy, a friend, stammering and sheepish, admitted she was experimenting with wearing a binder to flatten her chest, hoping to present as less female.   She also told me she was considering taking voice lessons to sound more masculine—or at least more

  I know better.   I know better.
   But I made a mistake.   I wish I had known better at the time.   But I didn’t.   And it cost me (1) a pair of prescription sunglasses, (2) a favorite sweatshirt, and (3) the case for my French horn.   Moreover, my mood

Portland, Oregon  Winter, 2012   Emmett, age five, is in the backseat, and I’m driving.   We approach a red light, where there’s a man holding a cardboard sign.  “What’s the sign say?” my boy asks.   “Homeless. Hungry. Need $18 for a shower and some place to stay. PLEASE HELP.”   “Can we give

Sometimes the pain is too much to feel—and that’s okay, too.   I’m in a quandary. Jane is weeping hard, her head pressed to my chest. She sobs. I hold her, and she holds me.  Tightly. Jane’s crying over the death of someone named Anne—but I’m pretty certain she’s not crying about the same Anne