Siyum

by MB


Where I learned to be Jewish. Where prayer became not just an act of God, but a connection to the everyday.  

The place where song and ritual were born within me.  


Saturated Moments - Hope, Joy, and the Future

by MB


I loved to hate my job today. The hating made me feel alive. Infused with passion and burnished by the rage - so obvious it nearly stunted my vision - I felt, more than once, that I loved my job.

Not because it served a purpose or because it was important to someone, but because my voice mattered.

I've felt recently that my voice does not matter. Or even worse, that my voice is not heard.  In conversations with G, with Mark, about my job and my goals, about my future and my uterus. Those conversations controlled me life, but included variables into which I had no input.

Let us not turn this into a diatribe on control - eating disorders and control, anorexia and control -the monotony of it all often deafens the purpose of the movement.

This is a story of me taking over my life. Of acknowledging that I am happy when I am making a difference. When I'm in the diver's seat. That as much as I love autonomy and the freedoms to design my own role, I like that at the end of the day, what I am doing matters. 

I've lost that control at wok. I've lost it in my own life. I"m not saying I want my ED back because I don't - those demons aren't the ones that haunt me this time - but I do yearn for its knowingness. The simplicity it affords.

I miss the crevasses between being important and being utterly invisible - unknowable, and yearn for that in between space.

I guess others might call that progress. I call it self awareness, And years and years and years of therapy. 


Week 3 - August 2016 (reflections)

by MB


I've been in Hong Kong for three weeks. I haven't been in New York for four.

These numbers seem small and insignificant, but I have found myself playing with them anyways. Only 23 more of these passages of time until this life experience is over. Who knows where I will be in 23 months? 

I'm inspired to write but am afraid I have nothing to say. I'm afraid that what will come out of me will be wrong, or not what I want to say, or maybe too much what I want to say and therefore not at all what I want to say. 

Gabrielle told me the other day that one day the disordered part of my life will become something that I will share with other people. That I will recognize it is as a part of my past, a vital part of the thing that makes me me and I'll be ok with sharing it. That I'll want to share it. 

It's part of the fabric of my life but it is not my life - a distinction I'm having trouble making. It's the piece of myself I recognize the most. It's the place I go back to when I'm afraid or tired or vulnerable or alone. It's the voice I hear when I look in the mirror and hear the whispers of "you're too much" swirling around me. 


Conversation weekend

by MB


The lazy days often turn out to be the most exhausting of them all. Introspection, a side effect of solitude, breeds emotions from deep within.

Yet for the first time, legs resting on the snoring body next to me that makes me whole, I do not feel alone. I am not alone. The loneliest days are never as alone anymore.  

This isn’t a love letter. But it’s a real letter. I love you G. Thank you for this weekend with me.  


Day 2: The Day that Wasn’t

by MB


Se me olvido. It lost itself to me. 

Day 2. Still writing.  

A belated but well intentioned attempt - a display of resolve. 

A resolution lost in transit. Above the earth, transcending the crevasse that separates yesterday and tomorrow that is not today  

Back in this city streaked by pink sunshine and lit by the brightness of the moon. Next to my beloved, again in motion - always in motion - communicating as though we are miles and not inches apart.  


Day 1: Every Damn Day

by MB


The birth of a resolution.

Write. Every. Day.

Every. Damn. Day.

Even when you'd rather not. Especially when that's the case.

When you're so overwhelmed you can't think. When you're so creatively focused and inspired that the words pour out of you, thick and steady, like the honey you found at the farmers market whose taste was surprisingly bitter, but finished sweet.

Because it is a muscle meant to be worked, craving the burning sensation meant to indicate growth. 

Because you can. Because you must. Because you know it's inside of you, this passion. This itch.

Because the person you love more than anything - who loves you more than you understood the infinite capacities of love to be possible - encourages you to. 

Because you have a story and it's beautiful and boundless and so very messy. A story that turned out, in most respects, to be entirely different than the one you wrote for yourself. Because you are imperfect and human and silly and flawed and a little cocky and wildly, madly, deeply in love.

No excuses.

Every.

Damn.

Day.