dreams

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

A Shoulder To Lean On

A few months ago, I wrote this article, inspired by a tree (see the linked article for an image of the tree) my father saw on a family friend’s extensive, gorgeous property. His house is edged up on a lake, surrounded by acres and acres and acres of trees, wooden cabins, wildlife, natural creeks, and old beaten paths. Nature at its best. But one tree stands out. A short hike from our friend’s house stands a tree, that our friend introduced my father to months ago. He photographed it to send to me, as inspiration for my writing. The trees long trunk is lying on the ground, as dead trees often do, but it’s trunk then takes a wild turn upwards, growing towards the sky. I took one lesson then, about anti-Semitism, and the ability to get back up when everyone else believes you’re at death’s door.
Today, home for the week of Passover, I went with my brothers and father to see the tree for myself. As I laid my eyes on it, as we stood around it and took in its grandeur, I learned another lesson from this tree.
You see, this tree is huge and old, and strong. It beat the odds, it is impressive and beautiful, and even still has buds on its highest branches. But as it soars to the sky, it leans against another tree right next to it, inching past it in height, but clearly reliant on the other trees strength for survival.
I’m studying psychology and counseling at the moment, with a goal to one-day practice as a therapist, g-d willing. Each day, I learn more about the intricacies of the human brain, the fragility of it, and the impossible tenacity of the human spirit. We, as humans, can endure incredible pain, and still come through. It’s true.
As we climb through a crisis, beaten and bruised, we come through stronger, somehow. We fold back into our lives with more wisdom, more depth, more beauty. It’s easy to credit ourselves, and it’s easy to believe we can do it, all on our own.
Because we can.
But do we have to?
When I study psychology, about the various disorders, about the ups and downs of the human experience, I ache with the desire to have all the knowledge already. I just want to know how to help, how to have the answers, how to be there for people and be able to guide them through their life.
Today, as I looked at the tree, I realized that I am training to be that tree. That supporting tree, the tree that is simply there to help another tree stand. I realized that I, myself, have quite a few trees just like that, supporting me.
And I realized that it doesn’t make the tree less impressive, needing to lean on its friend, it only makes the scene that much more moving, that much more impressive, to see one tree standing strong, helping another tree soar.
How often, as humans, do we just want to be able to take care of ourselves? How often do we resist leaning on others for support, at the risk that we will look weak, or tired, or incapable?
As a future therapist, I hope that I can be the strongest supporting tree possible. That every client that walks through my doors can lean on me, and soar.
And I can learn to look at my support around me, and recognize them for what they are. We all need each other, and we all can be the support that someone else needs to climb a little higher.
That tree would die without its friend. As impressive as it is, it needs support to thrive.
Humans aren’t all that different.
So if you have a working shoulder, stretch it out for someone to lean on.
And if you’re a little tired, and your shoulders are drooping, I’ve got a shoulder that I’m willing to share, and I think you’d be surprised to discover how many shoulders are surrounding you, waiting and ready to share the load.
So far, this tree, this incredible, beautiful, stoic tree has taught me a lot. In the words of our friend, who stood there with us: “You can learn a whole lot from trees.”
It’s true. Oh, is it true.

7/52

(P.S: Due to the busy week prior to Passover, and the start of Passover, I did miss a week of writing! The good news is, I got to spend the time with my family, who are all home for the holiday, and they’re some of the strongest shoulders I’ve got.)

Photo by Neil Thomas on Unsplash

It’s Midnight

 

at midnight, the world quiets

the flowers close

a baby cries

a wolf howls, maybe,

in the distance.

 

someone turns in her bed

her mind awake

with millions of colors

and millions of dreams

a future calls, maybe,

in the distance.

 

someone lays in her bed

thinking about 6am

and the to-do list

and the endless journey

there seems to be

to tomorrow.

 

It’s midnight,

and everything is dark,

and the future

is hard to see.

 

5/52.

Photo by nrd on Unsplash

The Road Between
There is so much that I want from life.

Recently though, I’ve boiled down my prayers to be pretty specific:

If there is one thing I do right in this lifetime, may it be my family.

My prayers don’t end there, certainly not – but each time I turn to G-d I let Him know that that is the key aspect of my prayers. That if He’s unable to grant me anything else I ask for, He still gift me with that.

If nothing else pans out, allow me to still be capable of a loving marriage and raising my children the way I hope.

. . .

I am a spiritual person.

Rosh Hashonah is a very spiritual holiday. Even as a kid, I would look forward to the familiar tunes and prayers said only on Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur. That excitement has not faded and has only strengthened through a deeper understanding of what the holidays represent.

Over this Rosh Hashonah, I was deeply connected and focused.

I was rudely awakened yesterday as assignment due dates and to do lists came back into focus, and I was reminded that I am not a spiritual being, I am actually so very human.

Our days are made up of so much, our world is made up of even more, and there is no end to the opportunities and challenges that arise each day.

In the end, our joys and our pains are oh so physical, not so much spiritual.

Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur are nice – and more than that, they are truly truly important.

But they are the spiritual half of our journey, and in a way, the much easier part.

I didn’t forget I was human on Rosh Hashonah – I prayed for all the parts that are human in me. But somehow, on Rosh Hashonah, being human was easier.

And yesterday, as I emerged from the cocoon of prayer and spirituality, it was a startling wake-up call to what being human really is about.

Because our life is not made up of enormous life-changing events, like the ones we pray for.

Our life is not made up of graduating college, getting the dream job, getting married, or having children.

It’s made up of all the tiny things in between, the tiny things that are easy to forget about when you’ve got your eyes on the big picture.

But when you face life, those tiny things are exactly what it is.
I prayed for the big things, because they are easier to pinpoint.

Today, I pray for the small things.

As I transition back into my world, suited up with spirituality, I pray that the small things go right. That our lives are filled with the small things that count.
I pray that the big things are so great that I get to appreciate and notice the tiny things.

. . .

At the end of the day, my prayer still stands – if I do anything right in this lifetime, may it be my family.

Yet I mean that in a thousand ways, as it filters down to real life.

All the roads that lead towards it – may they be brightly lit. May all the roads we take in life be brightly lit and filled with joy.

Because it is the road we’re on that that counts. The destinations are important, but it’s the rest stops that make it better. The music we choose, the snacks we eat, the people we put in our passenger seats.

It’s those tiny things that make up life that make life worth living.

And I look forward to G-d granting me these prayers. That ahead of me, I have a life filled with sticky fingers, dirty kitchens, late night deadlines, busy work days, hugs and kisses, aching laughter, days in swimming pools, and a heart filled to capacity.

On Rosh Hashonah, we pray.

And on Yom Kippur, may it be sealed.
break

Blog Post 51/52.

Featured Photo by rawpixel  via Unsplash

Watching the Pot

I’m a firm believer in G-d, but I often struggle with Him.

He has given us various ways to begin to feel the joy He feels.
He gave us artistic talents so that we can feel the joy of creating something beautiful, something awe-inspiring with our own hands.
He gave us words so that we can weave them together into stories, build universes, and create characters with extensive personalities.
He gave our bodies the miraculous ability to create and birth humans, allowing us to feel an unbreakable and impossible joy in their achievements and pain.
He gave us the ability to teach, inspire and care for others. He gave us the power to be the pavers of our own paths, to make choices every day, to build a life made up of so many various different activities and people.
He gave us the ability to believe that we are the masters of our own destiny.
He went so far as to take Himself out of the picture, to allow us to think that we are the ones creating the lives we have, forgetting that we are but characters in a storybook, a paintbrush in an artists hand, a body at the mercy of its mind.
To me, the reason He did all of this, despite the pain it must bring Him, is so that we can relate to Him. So that we could begin to imagine the magnitude of what He has done.
One who has never felt the joy of creating something all their own could not possibly understand how it aches to let it go, to allow others to criticize, adapt, and misunderstand their work.
G-d watches us do this each day, take His perfect handiwork and destroy it.
I constantly walk the tightrope of knowing that I’m not in charge, yet believing that I am. I constantly struggle to let go, to fall backward and allow life to happen to me, for the dangers of that seem to outweigh the benefits.
I watch the pot, achingly waiting for it to boil. I daydream and write my future story so clearly, I often worry I’ve ruined it for myself. I so desperately want to be the author of my own life, yet I am deeply aware that that would make for a terrifying reality.
I often wonder – what does G-d want from me?
Do I plant the seeds or do I stay away from the garden?
Do I raise the flame, or walk away from the kitchen?
Do I write in pen, or do I drop the pencil?
How do I find the balance between grabbing life by the horns, yet allowing life to follow its natural unfolding?
I take great joy in creating something new – a poem, a meal, a story.
I know that my abilities in creation are limited, much more limited than His.
Yet when I look at my life, and my heart aches to make life happen on my own, without waiting, without holding back, without watching the calendar turn pages, I turn to G-d and beg Him to allow me to hold the pencil.
Allow me to feel as if I am writing my story.
Allow Your plan and my dreams to collide, to leak into my life.
G-d, allow my dreams to come true.
For when they do, I’ll know without a doubt that I am only a character in Your story, only a sketch under Your pencil. I’ll know because only You know the intricacies of my brain, my soul, my heart. You handcraft my dreams just as You handcraft my reality.
You’ve given me the ability to create – now allow me the joy of taking life into my own hands and watching my dreams blossom from the seeds I plant, the water I boil, the life I live.
Blog Post: 47/52

Featured Photo by Kowit Phothisan on Unsplash