Today, I Was.

Today, I was.

When I am doing,

I am whole:

I am propelling,

I am hurrying,

I am moving,

I am shining.

When I am still,

I only am.

When my hands are empty,

When my soul is hurting,

When the world is dark,

When the world is silent,

G-d is beckoning.

He is calling me back to being,

He is handing me a gift

To return.

To just be.

I believe I need to shine,

But perhaps,

I need to just be.

If I am waning,

Am I really here?

Who am I?

If I am not doing,

What am I here for?

For the givers,

for the doers,

this is sacred work.

My worth lies not in what I can give.

My worth is here all along,

In the waxing and the waning.  

The sun is the show stopper,

The main event,

Yet the sun is burning itself,

To remain alive.

The sun can only give.

The moon can give.

The moon can receive.

The moon can be seen.

The moon can simply exist.

The moon waxes,

And it wanes.

The moon doesn’t need to shine

to be worthy

of its place in the sky.

I am moon.

I am not always whole

But I am always here. 

I am holy.

For I am human.

Inspired by listening to two “Human and Holy” podcasts back to back, the first with Chana Margulies and the second with Rivky Kaplan, on a bus ride back to Brooklyn.

–

Etti Krinsky

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash

A Sunflower Grows In Brooklyn

A single sunflower

Stands in the wind,

Bending, but never breaking,

On a corner in Brooklyn.

Surrounded by concrete,

It stands in defiance

Of every reason

Why it shouldn’t be.

From my window

Across the street

I see a sunflower

One single sunflower

And it whispers to me

Of hope,

Of belief,

Of bravery.

It questions not

If it belongs,

If its time has passed,

If others believe in it.

It knows its purpose

Lives on

And so it too,

Lives on.

This single sunflower,

Across from my bedroom window,

In a building in Brooklyn,

Has persevered,

Has been pushed to the brink,

Has survived floodwaters

And harsh winds,

Yet it stands.

Blooming.

Perhaps stronger

Than it ever has

Before.

–

Etti Krinsky

Photo by Conner Baker on Unsplash

This Garden

I’ve been dabbling
in positivity

seeing the sun rays
and the way the rain
waters the grass
and snow creates hills
to sled down.

I’ve been dabbling
in focusing
on the good

and knowing everything happens
for a reason
and every reason
is truly good
deep down good
all-around good.

Positivity sometimes feels
like playing pretend

dressing up
making something look
different than it actually is
but I’m learning
that the truth
is the opposite.

This world is good,
it is,
even though there is so much pain,
the people,
they are good.

I spend so much time
thinking about how
messed up this world is
how many things are wrong
how many systems are crumbling
it starts to feel
like a thousand bricks are falling
and I’m trying to stop it
by holding out my hands.

But what if
one brick
is all I need to catch

One step
today
One step
tomorrow

Because this world is worth saving
these people are worth loving
there is no such thing
as surrender
when you’re talking about
a world
that is a garden.

-Etti Krinsky

Photo by Florian GIORGIO on Unsplash

searching for you

i’m searching

searching for the thread of humanity

that links us all together

the thread that reminds us

that we all need food to survive

and a bed at the end of the day.

that

we all need people to love

and to love us.

we all have stared at an ocean

or a burning fire

or heard the rain on the window

and breathed easier

for a few moments.

we all have a favorite food

and a night that we remember fondly.

we all know what it feels like

to stub a toe

or to nurse

a broken heart.

we all have hummed a song

not knowing any of the words

and have burnt our fingers

while preparing food

for someone

we love.

we all have cried

and we all have laughed

we all know the meaning of loss

and birth

and growth.

and when the world erupts in flames

and we become enemies

somehow it seems that

it doesn’t matter

that we are all human.

we’re tired.

can’t we find some other way

to make our voices heard

without simply raising our voices

above

the

rest?

i’m searching for humanity

in a world of humans.

—

Etti Krinsky

Learning To Be

I took a writing class recently. 

It had been many, many months, or maybe years, since I had really pushed myself in my writing. Tried something new. Opened myself up to criticism. 

It was good. It was scary, and good. I was in a class where most of my classmates were about 20-30 years my senior, and then some. I signed into those zoom meetings, and looked at the faces of 60 year olds, 70 year olds, who had lived a life of adventure, and Hollywood, and experience. One of the writers wrote about her childhood escape from Castro’s Cuba. More than once I wondered: what am I doing here? I’m 23. I’ve experienced nearly nothing. 

But each time I read my writing to the class, I was surprised to learn that they were fascinated by what I thought of as my boring life. I love my life, and I feel privileged to have so much blessing, but a blessing-filled life doesn’t make for much of a story.

But I learned that for every doubt I felt in my writing, my audience heard truth. 

I haven’t put up a blog post in a long time.

In the time between then and now, I completed my bachelors. I took this writing class. I went through myriads of emotions as I returned to NY after living in my parents home for 7 months. I tentatively emerged from a safe cocoon.

I know so many people have watched their life fall apart in this last year. For so many, the world has become unrecognizable. A living nightmare.

For me, my life only took focus. I learned more about myself and my relationships. I matured, and grew.

How could one worldwide calamity be so brutal for some and so nurturing for others?

I’m an analyzer, and a thinker, and I like to understand things.

My father recently laughed as I realized just how many things are beyond my comprehension.

There is so much I don’t know. Will never know. Can’t ever know.

But I learned something in my writing class, and it was to stop trying so hard. To stop trying to be inspiring, to stop trying to be smart, to stop trying to get everything under control.

To just be.

And that is when people will hear your heart beating the loudest. That is when people will see you in all of your truth.

So, I’m back.

I’m leaning in. I’m learning to be boring.

I’m learning to just be.

_

Etti Krinsky

Featured Photo by Illiya Vjestica on Unsplash

A Different Utopia

When I think of the word utopia, it brings to mind green, green grass, bright, bright flowers, happy buzzing bees, and families that have never found the word conflict to be in their vocabulary. A world in which traffic never builds up, grocery store lines are a memory, a child never stomps on their mother’s toe, and love never has to be sought, begged for, or cried about in the middle of the night. 

That is what the word utopia has been given, a dream that is easy to dream, as it is simply a filter for what we consider to be failures. It is life without the pain, without the fear, just warm, sunny days, never a moment of overtime at the workplace. 

This utopia leaves me uneasy. I find myself leaping over white picket fences to find something between every blade of grass, trying trying trying to understand what is missing because there is something missing and it is difficult for me to understand why in a perfect world I can’t finally feel complete and relax and stop moving and searching and delving into every word as if it’s a treasure chest of further understanding about this planet, and why I can’t just be content with a life of no pain after spending so many nights achingly begging the G-d I believe in to stop all the pain because I hate pain yet now in a world of no pain, I seek the pain as if it can give me something I’m forgetting I used to have.

Pain is not a stranger to me, as I seem to invite it into my life by allowing my emotions to always rise to the surface. I step into the ring over and over again, with my heart unprotected. I’ve spent countless nights with my tears and my pen. I lay in my bed, in fury with the G-d that allows for grief, and loss, and tragedy.  

I’ve prayed for utopia. Praying comes like second nature to me, it has been a part of my essence as far back as I can remember, and it’s as natural as breathing – “please, let the light stay green”, “please, help me get this assignment done”, “please, let there be no more pain”. 

I pray for no more pain for my family, for my loved ones, for the world over. 

Yet.

In moments of pain, I feel my essence sharpen. As I rise from pain, my muscles are sore and strengthened. The locks on my heart’s chambers are loosened. From pain, I reach a higher state of being. And as I emerge, I pray again, no more, no more. Yet, the me that emerges is a me that I like better. A me that feels for others in a richer way. 

I have spent my twenty-three years searching, never content with what is in front of me, always knowing that there will be more to find if I push a little harder, if I dig a little deeper, if I pray a little harder. There will always be that next step, the step you didn’t think was there but then suddenly comes into view as you brush the dirt aside. There will always be a human in the stranger that is driving your Uber, and there will always be a human in the parents that you’ve begun to take for granted. There will always be a story in every moment, because stories are not born in a lab, they are born when conflict meets climax, and resolution sometimes means it’s okay to not have all the answers.

When I dream my utopia, I look for a story with threads at the end that I can sew together myself, putting a part of my heart in the plot to take with me wherever I go. A world that is a little messy, and leaves paint on our hands and in our hair, and deep, belly laughter when the picture isn’t quite as straight as we anticipated, and the rain comes down just as we put together our picnic, and the box that we are carrying in from the trunk breaks all over the driveway. 

I’m trying to write a utopia with a new language. 

It’s not so clear cut. It’s not easy to imagine even though it’s more similar to the world we inhabit today. But the moments I hope for in my utopia get hidden today in waves of anger and miscommunication, in unshared dreams and turning away from those that love us most. In political outbursts, and a deep desire to have the last word, to be the most in-the-know, to have the most New York Times articles quoted. The moments get lost amidst the he-said, she-said. Amidst the tears that are not wiped away by a loved one, but looked away from in fear of the vulnerability they invite. Amidst the words said behind each other’s back to avoid having to see the human for the human that they are. 

Utopia is a world in which, as one digs to find the deeper meaning, another comes to offer their two hands to help dig a little further than one man can do on his own. A world in which conflict hurtles us forward, rather than brings us to a standstill, in which no human takes pleasure in crushing their opponent, but sees them as a partner in growth. When we can recognize our differences to be gifts, rather than reasons to stop communicating. A world in which we don’t spend more time arguing which problem deserves our attention most, but work together to just take care of them all, because if we just all worked together, we would be so far past the state that we find ourselves in now. A world in which we can look past our own needs and wants and paint a landscape of color and vibrancy and goodness that brings all of us together. 

A world in which we never choose silence in place of connection. 

A world in which we never choose anger in place of connection.

A world in which we never choose to yell over the sound of someone reaching out for connection.

And when I find myself in that white-picket-fence utopian planet with smiling store owners and those green green trees and the sky that never stops being blue and food that always comes out perfectly well and nobody ever fights with their neighbor about the state of their garden or their dog that flies out of the house barking and nobody ever falls off their bikes and skins their knee and I’m running and running and running I suddenly know what I am looking for. I am looking for me. And I’m looking for you. 

That green, green, green utopian world asks us to shed the human, the red and brown leaves across our lawns, the sand in our hair after a day at the ocean, the shared smiles with strangers when our children have temper tantrums in the grocery store. It removes conflict for the sake of ease, it removes inconveniences for the sake of efficiency, it removes pain for the sake of no blemishes. But it’s a world we would tire of quickly, for it leaves no room for our hearts, and our souls, and our courage. It leaves no room for the spiritual, for the searching, for rough drafts and the screeching sounds of a child learning to make music. It leaves no room for the broken words of someone trying to express their love, or learn a new concept, or for the songs that make our hearts ache in a way that heals us. It leaves no room for the lighting up of the sparks that lay all around us, in our souls, in our early mornings, in our travels across the planet.

That world leaves no room for us. 

For the messy child in me, and the sometimes tear-streaked woman I am slowly becoming.

For my parents, for my sisters and brothers, for my dearest friends.

For the people I work with, for the people that read my words.

And for that Uber driver I once cried with on the streets of LA. 

And that woman in the grocery store, with whom I discussed which brand of Tahini is best.

And for every stranger I’ve ever met, and for every stranger I haven’t yet.

Photo via The NYU Dispatch

–

Etti Krinsky

Quarantine Poetry

It’s been 5 months…
…and I’m still here.

Over the last months, emotions have been kind of raw. All there, all at once. The kind of emotions that write poetry, but poetry that is so rough around the edges that if shared, it would be like walking around without clothes on. Too personal. Too much me. At least for now.

I wrote a poem a few months ago that I do feel okay with sharing.

I have been blessed, beyond blessed, to have listening ears and shoulders to lean on when I’ve been at my lowest during this time.

And I’ve been blessed to be able to provide that listening ear to others.

Quarantine has been rough on everyone, some more than others, and this poem is not addressed to one person specifically, but rather to a few people. But my message to all of them is the same, and for that reason, the message is the same to anyone who has been hurting recently.

For anyone who feels alone – I am listening. (For real. Feel free to reach out).

For you, I share:

Socially Distanced Pain

When I read your messages, all I want to do is
climb through my phone
and sit with you in your pain.
I want to get you a glass of water,
hand you a tissue, and hug you tight,
for as long as you need.
I want to be there.
For you and with you.
Yet, I am stuck, miles away,
behind a glass screen.
No amount of messages,
no amount of FaceTimes
can make up for the physical distance that sits between us.
I sit in my bed, on late nights, and early mornings,
and I read your words and listen to your voice over voice notes,
sometimes cracking with tears.
Life is hard right now.
Life was always hard, and now life is especially hard.
For you, it is possibly unbearably hard.
And I sit here wondering if I can possibly open my soul enough
to hold your pain
when my life has been so filled with blessings.
I wish to rush ahead of you with stones
and pave the way for you,
to protect your toes from getting stubbed.
I wish to paint a scene that makes life feel safe for you.
I wish to straighten everything up, organize your things,
and hand you the key to all that is still a mystery to you.
I wish to hand you the words that are written on your heart,
in a way in which as you read them,
you can fall in love with yourself the same way
so many around you already have.
But all of this is out of reach.
All I can give you is my small words of comfort,
my ear if you can tell it is listening from so far away.
I cannot give you a hug.
I cannot give you the water, or the tissue.
I can only give you my time, and my love, wrapped in a message.
And I’m tired of it.
I’m tired of having to love you from afar,
of listening from a distance,
of sending you virtual hugs and heart emojis that say so little.
But for now,
it’s all I have,
and all I can give,
and I hope it comes to you,
as the slightest bit of sunshine,
on the cloudiest day.

Photo by Raphiell Alfaridzy on Unsplash

–

Etti Krinsky

I Am Listening

I am here to listen.

All of my life, I have so deeply valued being heard. We live in a loud, busy world, and sometimes it feels like we can be shouting, with tears in our eyes, and still, nobody will be listening.

There is a difference between hearing and listening, and although we all know that on an intrinsic level, sometimes we still get confused. When someone tells us we aren’t listening, we may not understand how that’s possible. But we can hear without listening, and we can be present, without truly being there for someone.

For a long time, I did not understand the concept of holding space. I heard the term so many times, but I did not fully grasp its meaning. Right now, I get it. Holding space means making room within yourself, putting your understanding, your thoughts, your feelings aside, and holding space for the other person.

Even if what they are saying makes you feel bad, feel frustrated, feel confused.

Maybe you will never fully understand what they are saying, but they are simply asking you to be there, to listen, to open a space in your heart that says: “I care enough to listen to your feelings, even if we may never agree, even if we may never be the same. But I care about you, as a human, and a soul.”

I’ve hesitated to put my voice into the chaos.

For one, I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I don’t want to take away from the most important voices that need to be heard.

Second, our world is so full of people sharing their opinions right now, and I don’t want to be doing that either.

All I will say is that I believe in the power of love, the power of connection, and the power of being heard.

I’ve experienced the pain of not being heard, and I’ve experienced the joy of being heard, and I want to give that gift to others.

So, if you’re reading this, I’m asking you to hold space.

Hold space for someone that you may not understand.

Hold space for those who are in incredible pain right now, for those who feel like they are shouting with tears in their eyes, and are still not being heard.

Hold space for the black people in our lives, in our communities, in our world, who need to have their voice heard right now.

Whether or not you feel good when you hear what they are saying.

Because today, today is for listening.

Because only if we listen first, can we understand how to help and how to heal.

_______________________________________________________

Photo by Tatum Bergen on Unsplash

Overnight: A Poem

I haven’t had much to say

Because words feel useless
In a world that has become so small

Overnight.

I haven’t had much to say
Because for some, the ground is crumbling,
And I’m technically okay,
Happy, even,
While some people’s lives
Are turning to ash,

Overnight.

I haven’t had much to say,
Because these days I am afraid of my phone,
In the morning, I don’t like to look,
At who and what we lost

Overnight.

I haven’t had much to say,
Because whenever the phone rings,
My heart drops,
Wondering if we’re about to hear
About a nightmare
That developed

Overnight.

I haven’t had much to say,
As I quarantine with family
That I love
And that love me,
and I think of those who are alone
Or worse, with those they hate,
Or worse, with those they
Fear.
And I pray
That somehow
All of this gets resolved
Overnight.
–
Etti Krinsky

Photo by Rosie Kerr on Unsplash

Birthdays, Pandemics and Courage

Two weeks ago, when life was still selfish, and we weren’t aware of our every breath, and move, and action, I gave my students a writing prompt.

The prompt was courage.

When do we need to have courage? What does courage mean? What is courage when it comes to faith? Family? Friends?

I sat down to write with them, and this is what I wrote:
Courage sometimes gets stuck in my throat as I try to find the stepping stones to lift myself up above the fear. The tears always begin to fall when I admit I’m afraid, and often these tears are the fuel for the anger I need to stand up and get things done.

My faith requires courage because the world thinks the weak are the ones who turn to
G-d.

They think that faith is a crutch, an excuse, a way to ignore life’s pain. They don’t know how strong your heart has to be, to be able to believe.

I call on courage when my faith is sitting in my hands, ripped to shreds.
I call on courage when my voice is hoarse from calling out to a G-d I know is there, but can not hear.
I call on courage on the rainy days.
I call on courage when I look into my future and don’t know how the outline will be filled.
I call on courage, and I call on faith because sometimes they are one and the same.

___________

A part of me feels strange saying that life requires courage now.I associate real courage with risking danger, with sitting on the front lines, with looking danger in the eye and doing what you have to do anyway. So, yes, I’d say that anyone who is working in the medical field right now is courageous. But the rest of us?

Those of us who are being asked to stay home? To avoid danger? To keep ourselves safe?

It doesn’t necessarily feel courageous. It feels a little stifling. Life is really uncertain, and that makes me uncomfortable. The things I can rely on to give me joy, like teaching my students, or hanging out with friends and family are no longer reliable sources of joy in my life right now.

Which means that I have to turn inward.

And turning inward requires courage.

Turning inward, and accepting what you find there, that is courageous.

_________

Tonight is my birthday.

I’ll be turning 23, but it feels all so meaningless and unimportant while the world is in absolute chaos, while I have to settle my anxiety over and over again, while people are experiencing pain, loss, confusion, and epic disruption in their lives.
But…it’s still my birthday.

It’s the anniversary of the day I started out on this planet. Which means it’s the anniversary of everything I’ve ever achieved in my life, every leap I’ve taken, every fear I’ve overcome. It’s the day in which G-d takes me in his arms and says “I want you here, there is a reason you need to be on this earth.”

What better reminder could I ask for in the midst of the most confusing global experience I’ve ever lived through?
For the last few years on my birthday, I have made a point to do random acts of kindness for others. Sometimes I’ve had my students join in. Sometimes I’ve asked all of you to join in.

This year, right now, we’re not really supposed to be around people. This makes it exponentially harder to do easy acts of kindness, like helping someone with their stroller, a smile to a stranger, even paying it forward in restaurants or coffee shops is not really possible right now.

But if there has ever been a time to reach out with kindness to others, it’s right now. So, if you can, in honor of my birthday, I ask you to reach out to even one friend or family member via FaceTime or text and make them smile. Remind them that there is goodness and happiness and laughter still readily available to us.

We don’t have to do this alone.

_________
It takes courage to turn inwards, and right now, a lot of us are being forced to turn inwards.

It’s not necessarily a comfortable place for all of us, especially when we’ve carefully arranged our lives to allow us to not have to face our innermost selves all the time. Distractions, work, friends, obligations – it’s all so easy to make it all build-up, and then because you’re so tired at the end of the day, tuning everything out by watching or reading something is so justified. And then a new day begins, and then again, and then again, and we haven’t even looked ourselves in the eye all week.

Right now, we are being handed the necessity to look ourselves in the eye, to accept ourselves, to find joy and a sense of peace within our own minds.

It’s not easy. It takes courage.

But this opportunity is ours for the taking.

And we will all be richer for it.

___________

The other day, I was briefly discussing this situation with a friend, and how overwhelmed and confused I felt by it all, and she asked if I’d be writing about it.

I responded that it feels like so many people are writing, what else could I possibly say?

She said “just your feelings.”

So here they are, my fellow humans: for those in quarantine, and for those who are social distancing, and for all those who are feeling afraid and lost.

These are my feelings.

I hope they make you feel even a little less alone in your fears, your anxiety, and your stress.

Keep the faith. We’ll be out of the dark one day.

 

–
Etti Krinsky

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash