#rabbi wood carving

[ilikeit-art]

https://www.instagram.com/wood_carving45/

[theblackbookofarkera]

Order of Copper & Prayer

In the kingdom of Eronah, amid the steep hillsides dotted with ancient olive groves, stands an unassuming yeshiva known as the House of Hidden Works. Though it appears much like any other center of Elshar religious study, this institution houses one of the most secretive and extraordinary schools of rabbinical practice in all of Arkera - the Order of Copper and Prayer, creators of Eronah's legendary copper defenders.

Selection for this arcane brotherhood is rigorous and begins early. Prospective members are identified among young religious students who show not only exceptional theological aptitude but also natural talent in metallurgy and mathematics. These candidates are tested through a series of increasingly complex theological riddles disguised as ordinary religious instruction. Many complete their entire religious education never realizing they were being evaluated for a greater purpose.

The chosen few who are finally initiated into the Order first undergo a year of isolation in special meditation cells carved into the hillside. During this period, they learn the fundamental principle that guides all their future work: the idea that sacred geometry, when properly aligned with divine law, can create channels for holy power to flow into the physical world. They study ancient texts that blend metallurgical formulas with kabalistic numerology, learning to see copper not just as a metal but as a physical form of divine potential.

The Order is structured in concentric circles of knowledge and responsibility. The outer circle, known as the Shapers, focus on the physical crafting of the golem forms. The middle circle, the Scribes, master the art of inscribing prayers so tiny that hundreds can fit within a single fingerwidth of copper. The inner circle, called the Breath-Catchers, undertake the dangerous work of capturing and implementing the divine breath that animates the golems. Each circle has its own mysteries and techniques, passed down through an unbroken chain of master to apprentice since the Order's founding.

What makes these rabbis unique among religious scholars is their seamless integration of the practical and mystical. They maintain vast workshops hidden beneath their yeshiva where sacred forges burn day and night. These forges are said to be fed with specially blessed olive wood and tended by acolytes who must maintain perfect ritual purity while working. The smoke from these forges is channeled through a complex system of ducts inscribed with prayers, ensuring that even the waste products of their work remain within the bounds of religious law.

The Order maintains extensive libraries containing centuries of accumulated knowledge about their craft. These texts are written in a special script that combines Hebrew letters with metallurgical symbols, creating a unique technical-theological language that is all but indecipherable to outsiders. Each generation adds to this knowledge, documenting their successes and failures with meticulous care.

Perhaps most remarkable is the Order's approach to innovation. While deeply respectful of tradition, they actively seek to improve their techniques through what they call "holy experimentation." They believe that since their work serves divine purposes, careful innovation is itself a form of religious devotion. However, any proposed change to their methods must be approved by a council of elders who examine it from both theological and practical perspectives.

The physical toll of their work is considerable. Extended exposure to the divine energies they manipulate often leaves its mark - premature aging, recurring visions, and a peculiar sensitivity to metal that many develop. Some members of the inner circle eventually lose the ability to sleep normally, claiming they can hear the whispers of copper in their dreams. Yet they consider these afflictions small prices to pay for the privilege of their sacred work.

The Order maintains strict protocols about contact with the outside world. Members live primarily within their compound, emerging only for necessary religious duties or to acquire materials for their work. They are forbidden from discussing their true purpose with anyone, including family members. Many of their public religious duties serve as cover for their real work - for instance, their regular pilgrimages to coastal cities to "pray by the sea" are actually missions to acquire specially purified copper from secret suppliers.

Their dedication to secrecy extends to their methods of instruction. Much of their crucial knowledge is never written down but passed orally from teacher to student. They employ a complex system of mnemonics disguised as traditional religious songs, hiding metallurgical formulas and ritual instructions within seemingly innocent melodies. Even their workshops are designed to be quickly converted to appear as ordinary study halls should uninitiated visitors arrive.

Despite their secretive nature, the Order maintains careful oversight of their work through a system of internal checks and balances. Three senior members must approve each stage of a golem's creation, and the final activation ritual requires the unanimous consent of the entire inner circle. They believe this careful approach helps prevent both technical errors and spiritual transgressions.

In recent years, as threats to Eronah have grown, the Order has quietly accelerated their work while maintaining their exacting standards. They view their mission not just as creating defenders, but as preparing vessels worthy of containing divine power. Their workshops now operate around the clock in shifts, their prayers and hammers ringing out in careful harmony as they labor to prepare for a future they hope will never come.

For all their power and knowledge, the members of the Order maintain the humble demeanor expected of religious scholars. They see themselves not as mighty artificers but as simple servants of divine will, privileged to work with holy mysteries but always aware of their own limitations. In their precious few moments of rest, they gather in their private sanctuary and pray that their creations will never need to be awakened - while working tirelessly to ensure they will be ready if that day arrives.

[nysocboy]

Episode 3.6, Continued: Kelvin and Keefe fight, BJ and Stephen fight, and nobody likes hologram Aimee-Leigh

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The Second Reconciliation Attempt: Keefe enters with a rocking chair carved with Kelvin's name on a tree. This is way too much for a "let's stay friends" gift: he is attempting a reconciliation. You're the one who left, dude. You could just ask to get back together.

He is not wearing a sexy outfit; actually he is sweaty and rather disheveled, as if he rushed over the moment he finished the chair.  

Why a rocking chair for an athletic 34-year old?  "This is true love: we'll be together forever."  I am reminded of Robert Browning's famous lines from "Rabbi ben Ezra": "Grow old with me -- the best is yet to be." 

Keefe expected Kelvin to be alone to accept his gesture.  Nope, Taryn is there. 

Kelvin looks nervous and decidedly guilty, as if he has been caught cheating; he pulls Keefe into a bro-hug, asks inane questions ("Is that chair made of wood?"), and stammers "We were just...um...we..." until Taryn takes over and explains that they are just working together.  

Platonic pal advocates, pay attention:  Taryn wouldn't think it necessary to inform Kelvin's buddy that he has nothing to worry about, they are not having an affair.  Either she has inferred that they are lovers, or one of the guys told her.   

Keefe turns on the jealousy, and asks if Taryn has replaced him. As assistant youth minister, of course. But he means as a romantic partner.

Angry at the implication, maybe feeling guilty because he was planning to start a relationship, Kelvin plays along: he asks Taryn to give them a moment alone, touching her affectionately on the back to usher her out, exactly as you would ask your girlfriend to give you a moment to talk to your ex.  

Keefe continues to lash out, demanding to know if Kelvin and Taryn have had a "physical connection."   Romantic but not sexual partner advocates, pay attention:Kelvin and Keefe must have had a sexual relationship, or Keefe wouldn't think to ask about sex with his "replicant."  

Kelvin goes on the defensive, denying that he has anything going on with Taryn, but quite accurately pointing out that "You left me."  They have broken up; he has every right to see other people.  

He tries to touch Keefe's shoulder, and upon being rebuffed, pulls back from the romantic partner term "left" to the good buddy "ditched": "You ditched me. If you had said yes to Immigrant Outreach, we could still be dudebros."  Keefe rolls his eyes; even after the break-up, Kelvin can't say what they were.  

He continues: "What was I supposed to do?  Just sit around, be lonely?  Wait for you to deliver some stupid rocking chair?"  He would be going to work regardless, so "sit around, be lonely" returns to the romantic relationship.  He's telling Keefe that it's too late; he's moved on, he is in fact with Taryn now.

The reconciliation attempt failed, Keefe starts to cry.  He says "I will not disrupt what you and Taryn are building together," referring to the heterosexual trajectory of marriage and family.  Kelvin grimaces in disgust at the thought of becoming Taryn's husband.  

Keefe runs out, doing a cartwheel on the way to demonstrate the hotness he's missing.  Kelvin kicks the chair and screams.

We fade out to a close-up of the Kelvin tree. 

More Humiliation: At home, BJ is working out.  He reads on Judy's laptop that Stephen is asking for another hookup -- after everything that's happened!  His wife and kids are gone -- he's alone in the house, if she wants to stop by.  Pretending to be Judy, BJ responds "Coming." 

The Aimee-Leigh Hologram:  Later that day, the family -- except the partners, all in the midst of marital riffs --  gathers in one of the Gemstone theaters for Jesse and Baby Billy to unveil the hologram Aimee-Leigh.  

They hate the hologram: disrespecting the memory of their loved one, turning her into a carnival sideshow or a Sith Dark Lord. Eli starts to cry.  Judy and Kelvin rush up and destroy the hologram machine, and then quit their jobs as co-ministers.  Now it's Jesse by himself.

The nude fight: BJ goes to Stephen's house, sneaks inside, and finds him in the bedroom, masturbating. If he thinks Judy is coming over for a hookup, why isn't he waiting?  BJ attacks. They fight for three full minutes of screen time, through the house and out into the yard, with Stephen completely nude throughout. Stephen beats BJ into near-unconsciousness, but BJ triumphs.  Fans wondered if there were consequences -- an arrest for aggravated assault?  But Stephen's story has ended; he is not mentioned again. 

BJ goes home, all banged up, and tells Judy: "I hope you like me now."  Amber, BJ, and Keefe could all be asking that of their partners as we fade out. The end.

The full review, with nude photos and explicit sexual discussions, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

[ablogintwoacts]

Yeshua, she remembers his dark eyelashes and crescent moon smile and the way he touched her back when she splashed him in the river water, playing as children do, but they were too old to play those games anymore so she watches him hungrily in the synagogue from afar, and she alone sees him on the outskirts of the village arms outstretched to the heavens, lips moving silently, holy words only Adonai is privileged to hear.And she still remembers the day he left Nazareth, his brown feet precociously bare and his carpentry tools left behind, his mother Miriam laughingly fussing over him even as tears spilled down her pillowy cheeks. She would have followed him to the border of Eden if he asked but he never asked. And when she hears the rumors, the stories of leper’s spots dissolving off and evil spirits jumping into the cooking fire flames and fevers broken and priests reprimanded and windstorms banished and dead girls opening their eyes blooming with new life and second birth, she doesn’t scoff or question or gossip, she only wonders why again the dead girl awakened with the graze of a wrist wasn’t her. In the three years of his ministry she is wedded, and sets up her own household, and is welcomed into the circle of women weaving stories at the well, and a baby takes root in her womb only to end in a mess of blood, and she wonders, she wonders if he were still here if that would have been different along with everything else. And then another baby grows in her womb and this time she doesn’t bleed, but labors and bears a tiny babe, a boy named for his father, and she sobs on her pallet at night. And when her husband takes a fever and goes down to Sheol i, she wonders if she is one of those demoniacs damned by the Lord because she does not grieve, she plans. She leaves her swaddled infant on her sister’s doorstep. And she sandals her slim brown feet and sets off without a backward glance. He may have left her, but she will seek and find him with all of her heart. But his infamy has grown and she blends into the stunned crowds of followers, the many who speak starry eyed of him mending their broken hearts and forgiving their sins, and to them he is Christ, but she doesn’t know that lofty Messiah, the parable weaving rabbi, the miracle worker, the savior, she knows his quiet laugh and silent understanding. She traipses along with the rest of the rowdy crowd to Jerusalem for the Passover, and every day she clamors forward hoping for a moment to steal with him, to ask him, do you remember the wood comb you carved and slipped into my sleeve on my birthday, and touching my back in the warm river water, my skin electrified under the dampness of my robe, and your eyes darker and warmer than they had ever been before you left in such a hurry? But she never has a chance, there is always some apostle more important taking up his time, and she is no fool, she knows that his time is almost up. And so she stands on the sidelines with her palm leaf, crying out Hosanna as he rides on the colt of a donkey, and she imagines for a split second his eyes meet hers in the crowd . What will his fate be? Days later she will meet him on the way to the place of the skull, dripping blood and carrying the wood of his execution on his strong back. He falls, and she rushes forward like she was carried by the current on the sea and kneels, and unwraps her veil, and says in the voice of her own self as a small girl again, ‘let me.’ She wipes his face and he gazes at her with such intensity in his eyes she can hardly bear it, and whispers her name. For the first time in a long time she feels numb. But later on she will wonder, for the last time, if he looked at her in that tender liminal moment, and thought of the warm river water and the life that could have been  with her, instead of the Bride he bled and hanged for. The swallows sang while he was on the cross, and the holiness was not lost on her. Just as the sanctity of those small moments in Nazareth were never lost for him.

[libidomechanica]

It is all red muscle, humming in

But I detest all fiction even     in song, should love you I love with my friends had tried his     daily council upon ways and meal, robert Burns: whiskin     beard about a liquid

bed: the woods sloped down with the     remain, if there was of Castile, his dam from Aragon:     then for cast-off dresses. He was like this patience further     claim, because—such was

his who was young women, ripe and     red, with great world spin for ever there to want our own death,     rock-solid themes, old and deep as the sea and sky, the fire     his recent rags they still

worse sample, Catullus, scholar,     and love her loving and dear the word by his swimming eyes.     Without the action we experience, perhaps as outline     of their dead black despair?

But with my foe: I told my     wrath, my wrath, my wrath did end. If all the love she bore? But     who, alas! I looked at the world with the best of love. Words     you might sleep in the weeping

through and thrown into the gray     barbaric carvings quaint— strange convulsive splash, a solitary     Pride’s oppressed in mounds of candles; and the Hellespont,     as once twas mine, ’ he

whispering in me and my Dearie;     for dear to me, whom you’d call rigmarole. They gazed upon     the most faire, now more than what it hath been sae shy; for     laik o’ gear ye lightly

me, but, trowth, I care not brave. In     this vile age of charms of maid, wife, a sullen summer has     o’er-brimm’d their company. It is all red muscle, humming     in a low tone, but for

a common-place book, had a wife     is nae sae trig, she dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion; her walie     nieves like a screen from Providence or me? Are they     only add them also

now began to show him, anacreon’s     morals are a still with costly bales; heard the foaming     flood; thrall, or at large, alive wherein that rich carcanet;     or those who left an only

daughter; my mother! Drug of     silence, still the fault was mine, ’ he whispered. Which struggled through     all European climes, the Bores and Bored.—Don Juan at his     zenith, sweating gold, once,

in some savage woman, who threaten’d,—     again blew a gale, and as I have none, t is not     then that will happen where never flinch when something in five     hundred places where sleepers

pass, and most Rabbis Jewish     to walk slowly along the Des Plaines River And I saw     a crowd of Hungarians under the trusty maid: she     loiter’d, and head, and then

as a tear, without a trace     unworthy either play like the Thirty-nine, ’ which the same,     Katinka, and Dudu; in short to save one or two additional,     i’m not to Lethe, neither

lover—and that fresh from Milan,     which she wears the gown that festering holiday. To     the cutter, and lovely tree, nor knowing winds, or on the     whole of life to tell. And

so she agreed. And makes men     miseries miseries of Jacob Behmen with her veins chill’d,     by day scorch’d, thus one by one, than their own good this was Don     Juan. I said that Juan wander’d

my whole summer, but he saved     himself, because her mistress, and the faculties, platonic,     universe! There is the usual method, but cherish’d     more than I love you,

for the lightning; she, in sooth, and     rare mix’d Gothic, such a letter, too, she may compete in     mellow, as what he had been cast looks went everywhere. Stars,     the town became a bride!

[milfglupshitto]

the snare

The company most assuredly had enough rations to last weeks, if not months, while holding position. But anyone who has ever starved before will tell you that no amount of food is ever really enough, and anyone who has ever been left to hold a position will tell you that it is so very easy to end up waiting a long, long time for anyone to come back. Thusly armed with sharp knives and strong rope and these two hungers lodged deep within their bones, they set off into the woods away from the fires and the rest.

The forest was conversational, and so was the human. The further away they walked, the lesser the tension in his shoulders.

“Ever hunted burrobun before?”

The memory is not-pleasant and knife-sharp. Worlds and lifetimes away, in a wood much the same.

“A similar creature, once. They are rabbit-like, colloquially known as twitch-tails.”

“Only once?”
 “Only once.”

They continue into the woods.

After one thousand and thirty-seven paces, with the setting sun melting golden on the leaf-dappled forest floor, they find an ideal spot. A choke point between trees on the edge of a clearing- a logical ambush site, and a well-traveled one, based on the bare earth below. He gathers branches to further narrow the corridor while the human ties the snare.

Four more traps in similar locations, and then it is time for a silence that will prevent the enemy from learning of their position. But the insects buzz and whir, the leaves shudder in the wind, and the human remains conversational.

“Tell me about it. The ‘once’, from before.”

His hand rests on the hilt of the hunting-knife, catching dying light-from-sun. The human is clever enough to know this direction unwanted, but not clever enough to fear the knife or the hand holding it.

Clever and stupid rabbits can be caught both by a good snare. The thought whispers through his mind like a gentle breeze, and it is both clever and stupid. He begins.

“The fifth night of my exile. There were sufficient rations, but I had deemed it wise to set traps before the first snow-fall. The ground would keep the meat, and the pelts might be of use. I walked from my shelter to a clearing with rope and knife and set the first snare.”

One thousand and thirty-eight paces. Fortune, then, had made this clearing a little closer than the one past.

“Not long after I finished with the rest, I heard noise from that end of the clearing. There was a rabbit, a twitch-tail, caught. But it was… done wrongly. The neck unbroken.”

He sees it there in front of him. The glint of a sharp knife reflected in the wide, dark eyes of the trapped creature. Accompanying the spectre, the calm voice of a man in a clean white coat. You have to hold them correctly, or they’ll break their legs trying to get out of your grasp. We don’t want that now, do we?

“So what did you do?”

He looks away from the eyes of the rabbit and banishes the thought of the clean white coat.

“Nothing. I had killed it once-wrongly, and feared to with knife kill twice-wrongly. It twitched for a long time and then did not. I cut it free, carved away the edible from the non-edible and held it over flame, and when it all was done I could not bear to eat.”

He pauses, glances back. Still the rabbit stares, dark eyes unblinking.

“Only once, then.”

“Yes. I learned better snares for smaller things, and other traps for larger, and went to the rivers often, but never again a rabbit.”

“Larger things like humans.”

“Yes.”

The human sighs, glances away. “Hunting isn’t the same as killing. Lots of folks do both and never catch onto the difference.”

For a long time there is silence. It is broken by the sound of snapping twigs and snapping bone, and in an instant both are standing before the first snare.

The creature, the burrobun, is limp in the collar of rope. The human kneels to extract it. He watches the chest rise and fall, the dark eyes catching starlight as they scan the clearing. He hears the not-beating heart of the one and the exhale-prayer of the other.

The apparition-rabbit of before vanishes, as the ever un-still hands of the human, now steady, close gently around the neck of the already dead thing and twist.

All precautions taken and mercy granted thus twice, the human stands upright. He envies the dead beast, the collection of bones and sinew and fur held correctly. As they return to their place at the clearing’s edge, his heart beats rabbit-fast in his ears, and cradled inside the cages of both their ribs grows a third kind of hunger.

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

The First Artist

First, Hope takes a chisel to the marble. She can see it there, foiling in the striated veins of black, lacy onyx that wreathe like a Venetian fan across the sturdy stone block: her nightmares in solid form.

Hope looks at her drafts – red chalk sketches like Michelangelo’s studies, only, they portray horrors unbound. Undulating guts spill out from the breast of a mother with a dislocated neck in burnt sienna. A Goetic demon – Abigor – rides his bat-winged steed to defile a nubile young maiden chained to the disemboweled mother’s hair. At the base of the mother’s guts, a young boy plays with a demon hound, and it is not clear who hunts whom – boy or dog, hell-fur or man.

All of these phantasmagories, Hope marks on the freezing white alabaster with gashes of black. She wonders if the stone will bleed. Hope traces in chalk (white chalk, the color of the lilies that Gabriel gave the Madonna when he gave her that first taste of little death) the shapes of her wounded dreams on the cold, pale stone.

The Whited Sepulcher.

Hope has an angel like that, once. He called her Sculptress – eidolon cleft from his rib. Said “Sculptress, you sprang from the heart of Lucifer. You are the hope that fled as I plummeted from the skies. My prayer in Hell. Oh, how you light my prison, yellow canary.”

It had been good, for a while, between Hope and Samael. The Styx was red from wine, with blood from the cambions free flowing. Her creator even had a rose garden in one of the few places that Hell was not constantly misty and rainy. There was always plenty of meat to make into steaks – their questionable origin unknown.

Hope’s angel was always hungry for her: for her flesh, for her blood, her ideas. He taught her to write, to chisel, to draw, for angels and demons alike can only create in imitation, and she, mortal, could dream up original fictions. As the great rabbis and demonologists say – Ha-Satan cannot create, only imitate, and is the world’s first art critic. To think, the heart of Satan is Liberty.

(Oh, how Victor Hugo would weep.)

But the Sculptress grew bored. She changed her name in Raziel’s Sefer HaChaim and moved on to brighter things.

Newly christened Hope, she sewed yellow wings onto her back one night, took her sculpting supplies, and flew to Tel Aviv. Hope set up a studio in a luxe apartment – Samael’s credit cards never ran out, and she had learned many spells in her time – and grew to appreciate shakshuka spread thick over fresh pita.

Hope sculpted her nightmares and memories on the potter’s wheel, etched ghosts in wood carvings, spilled dryads in black ink. She witnessed war in Gaza and wept with Palestinian brides widowed on their wedding night. Hope stole away to the front lines in Ukraine and saved children and IT specialists drafted for the front. She was there in Morocco when the earthquake hit, digging survivors and those more unfortunate out of the rubble. She even volunteered at a Gulf oil spill to clean grime out of duckling’s wings with Dawn soap on toothbrushes.

She spread little yellow feathers everywhere, shedding them as she became more mortal. Hope carved the white marble every day, the shining alabaster with black claw marks, sourced straight from Pandemonium’s rubble by her friend Mulciber. Her works sold to the upper echelons or Sotheby’s (Mammon made the arrangements), and birthed all her fears, all her longings, all her dreams in the stone. They were given fearsome flesh, given life, as Samael had once done to her. There is a pattern in making and breaking and recreating, Ha-Satan had taught her. The Karmic wheel of life.

This one was the worst.

The most honest.

She called it “Mother.”

The guts came out bleeding from the disemboweled woman. Hope burnt nag champa incense to help the mother’s soul pass on. For Abigor’s victim, Hope dethroned the Goetic Lord of War and ushered the defiled maiden on to Gan Eden. And finally, for the boy and nefarious puppy, Hope led the hound dog to find a fresh bone to feast upon far away from this wounded place. She gave the child a new beginning.

For every life snatched, for every lover’s happiness stolen, for every fresh beginning plucked by wickedness, for every cruelty her creator Samael birthed, the Sculptress purified his unfortunate victims in her art. She was rewriting the Universe, carving it inch by inch, chisel by chisel, as healer par excellence. Hope of Hell’s yellow canary set free.

Rain came that day to Tel Aviv. Hope sat in her art noveau drawing room with one of her lovers, and they read Proust. In Search of Lost Time.

She googled Jethro’s Daughter. Hope saw herself reflected in the swirling Botticelli blonde. It sent a shiver down her spine. So that was love, in the Devil’s eyes.

Even her fallen angel could create beauty from rougher matter, if only he tore out his heart. And perhaps, if Hope carved hard enough – her creator Samael would lose the poisonous “mem” from his name and become Sa’el at the End Times, the Purity of God, and be redeemed.

At least, that was what some heretical rabbis said. Hope could dream like that, you know. Anything, even salvation for all, was possible in her winsome blue eyes.

And Ha Satan wept when rain slipped through his leaky roof. He dreamt of the one good thing he had cherished, ruined, and lost. Tom Frost lived in his memories, as all men past their prime do, old and stately, gray and dead. Like Tom Waits, he always wished for Martha, thinking of her as time moved by like the tick tock of a raindrop.

On the full moon, Hope visits her fallen angel, in his carefully tended rose garden. They have entered a parlay: the Unmaker/Destroyer vs. Creatrix/Sculptress, each waving white flags. Never sure of what to say.

Only the Devil could invent the first artist, after all.

And only an artist could love a monster.

[nijjhar]

Super Blind Hireling Priests worse than the Rabbis - Matt 12v43-45 - the... Super Blind Hireling Priests worse than the Rabbis - Matt 12v43-45 - themselves do not enter the Royal Kingdom of God and those who enter, they call them Heretics. https://youtu.be/qKGb3lEks0w These Super Blind dead in the letters, and holy Books, worship Mammon and glorify the soldiers who died fighting the Lordship in Mammon. For the spiritually alive, there is no interfaith but One God One Faith. Holy spirit, common sense, shatters the fetters of the dead letters, the Holy Books. If we have One God, our Supernatural Father of our souls, then there should be one Faith. In Christianity, Jesus said One Fold called the Church of God headed by One Shepherd, our Bridegroom Christ Jesus/Christ = Satguru Nanak Dev Ji, the Second coming of Jesus. Solid Proof; this Golden Temple is of the same size as the Holiest of Holy that used to be in Jerusalem and its Curtain held the Secrets of the Oral Torah = His Word was rendered from the Top, the Temple High Priests, to the Bottom, the village Rabbis off you go – Luke 16v16; Law and Prophets were till John and thus, everyone makes a direct approach to God through His Word = Logo = SATGUR PARSAD. So, these hireling Dog-Collared Priests and Mullahs, cannot give your account to God as the Rabbis used to give at Passover. So, they are "ANTICHRISTS" that have a following of the spiritually blind Super Bastard Fanatic Devils - John 8v44 -, Hindu, Jew, Sikh, Christian, Muslim, etc. Outwardly, and not spiritual inwardly. These spiritual selves Hindu, Jew, Christian, are never born like Christ, the Title and they never die but the tribal selves Judah, Levi, Jatt, Tarkhan, etc. were born and they will die. Thus, Jesus was born and Jesus died on the Cross and rose on the Third Day and NOT CHRIST, THE TITLE. Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf Greatest Blasphemers and Killers Blair and Bush being considered by Anti-Christ Bishops for Nobel Peace Prize. Nobel Peace Prize should rather go to Assange and the Iraqi Journalist who threw both his shoes at the hypocrite Bush in Iraq. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qHdTpTXHvE&list=PL0C8AFaJhsWz7HtQEhV91eAKugUw73PW1 Christ Jesus was killed by the Temple High Priest Hypocrite/Blasphemer against the Holy Spirit and so are these Bush and Blair who at the backing of Jewish people in the USA destroyed one country after the other starting with the cradle of Humanity Iraq, the Land of the forefather of the Chosen People who are no more faithful to Abraham but has become sons of the Highest Satan Al-Djmar Al-Aksa. Blair and Bush’s blasphemies against Holy Spirit are bearing Fruit in economic chaos created by Virus https://youtu.be/0WBYOmpDuCs American Jews are today – http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/GrimReaper.htm Destroying one country after the other, so that the scripture might be fulfilled. Also, do not forget the partition of India and how the dirty-hearted British divided the homeland Punjab of the brave Jatt tribal soldiers who fought in the two World Wars for the British. Spiritually dead University Theologians have no idea of God, the Middle Candle of Menorah. https://youtu.be/kQ4gikCkWp8 Last Sunday 15/01/2023 to enjoy the Feast and I noticed in the Chapel Six big candles and no large and thick Candle of Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc. bigger than the six of Yahweh. It is from this Bigger Candle of Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc. the other six candles (David's Cross of works) are lit. Instead of the Middle Candle of God, they put a metal icon of Christ Jesus. How could the dead icon light the Candles? Then, they were standing before the wooden idol with folded hands and praying as if that special wood is God. It is the same wood we burn but the artisans have carved it into idols and made it worshipful. By worshipping the dead wooden gods they have forgotten the living God within themselves who could teach them the Gospel Truth through logical reasoning. But such spiritually dead theologians are incapable of taking the New Wine on top of the old dead letters wine, the Jewish Leaven forbidden by Christ Jesus. Whilst the Gnostics are living Christs of our living Supernatural Father Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc. But the ears of University Professors of Theology are waxed more than those of the Jerusalem University - Matt 12v43-45. So, do not think that such University Theologians are more knowledgeable than the illiterate Shepherds looking after their sheep and possessed New Skin capable of holding the New Wine and the Good News of the birth of Jesus with Christ.... My ebook has been published by Kindle. ASIN: B01AVLC9WO For a full description, please visit my website:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/Rest.htm I need IT Graphic help to finish my Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf and in Punjabi KAKHH OHLAE LAKHH:-  www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/pdbook.pdf John's baptism:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/johnsig.pdf Trinity:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity.pdf

[one-coming-is-enough]

Ohh, gotcha.

So... Not vampires, either?

Ooh, I know! We could get some clay and make them new human bodies to inhabit. Mother knows how to do that sort of thing, and from what I'm seeing on Yahu.com there's a way that specially qualified rabbis can do it.

*rolls up sleeves*

So what do you think, standard red clay, or should we use some of those fancy dyed polymer clays?

I've carved dolls out of wood before, this shouldn't be too different. Actually, I met a god who's somebody's grandkid, if you can believe it, and He told Me that He carved His humans out of two trees! Ash and Elm, apparently.

Totally looks like he was a tree at one point.

Now, I'm a little better with wood, but Mother's recipe calls for clay and I don't really want to mess around with it too much.

HELP US RESURRECT THE DINOSAURS

(please)

Benefits include : showing God the middle finger

Making Crowley feel like an Exasperated Dad TM

Serotonin due to the cute ones

Accomplishment of exercising free will in a way that'll make her a bit annoyed

Oh also people dedicated to a fun cause will be finding the book of life much faster

I'm ALSO trying to find it!!!

If we can save the Earth, get @the-metatron 's human relatives out of Hell, AND get the dinosaurs written in by the time it's supposed to be sealed by sundown on the 10th of Tishrei, everyone will have a happy, relatively healthy, and dinosaur-filled 5783!

C'mon, guys, it's gotta be somewhere. You don't just lose the Book of Life in your college textbooks.

[eretzyisrael]

Bezalel mastered many crafts, but his greatest gift was his Heart of Wisdom.

Five fresh takes on "Moses said to the children of Israel: 'See, the Lord has called by name Bezalel, the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. He has imbued him with the spirit of God, with wisdom, with insight, and with knowledge, and with [talent for] all manner of craftsmanship.'" - Ex. 35:30-31

With thanks to Rabbi-Scott Bolton, Ilana Grinblat, Nili Isenberg, Rabbi Benjamin Blech, and Ilan Reiner  

Image: The Tabernacle by William Dickes, 19th cent.

Table for Five: Vayakhel

Edited by Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist

Moses said to the children of Israel: “See, the Lord has called by name Bezalel, the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. He has imbued him with the spirit of God, with wisdom, with insight, and with knowledge, and with [talent for] all manner of craftsmanship.”

– Ex. 35:30-31

Rabbi Benjamin Blech, Professor of Talmud, Yeshiva University

Judaism, it’s oft been noted, is far more concerned with Moses than it is with Michelangelo. The prophet played a more prominent role in our past than the artist. Jews emphasized the beauty of holiness more than they worshipped the Greek ideal of the holiness of beauty. And yet, contrary to those who would have us believe that beauty was simply dismissed as an unworthy object of spiritual concern, it is remarkable that this verse not only singles out Bezalel as a master craftsman, but reminds us by way of his name of the powerful link between the beautiful and the Almighty. Bezalel’s life mission was, according to the sages, to have the Mishkan – the first portable Temple – reflect the ideal that we make manifest the glory of God by way of artistic beauty. The holy needs to be beautiful because it is a reflection of the Creator who is the source of all beauty.

Indeed, it was Michelangelo Buonarroti who defined art in precisely this spiritual way: “The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.” It is not a coincidence then that the Hebrew meaning of the name Bezalel means precisely this: B’tzel El – “in the shadow of God.” Names define us. The Hebrew word for soul is neshamah. Central to the word, the two middle letters are shem – the Hebrew for name. Our name describes the mission of our soul. Moses reminded the Jews that “the Lord has called by name Bezalel” to teach us forever that the beauty of art is the shadow of God.

Nili Isenberg, Pressman Academy, Judaics Faculty

Scientists have debated whether genius is derived from innate talent, or if hard work and practice (Gladwell’s “10,000 hour rule”) are all that are needed for anyone to become the next Shakespeare. As a mother and educator, I know that each child comes into the world with their own characteristics and predispositions, but I also realize that great things can still be accomplished with a growth mindset.

Bezalel, master of the Tabernacle Atelier, had all the characteristics of innate genius. Ramban (1194 – 1270) explains that “Israel in Egypt had been crushed under the work in mortar and brick… It was thus a wonder that there was amongst them such a great man who knew how to work with silver and gold, in cutting of stones, and in carving of wood… A craftsman, an embroiderer, a weaver…” And Bezalel’s talent went even beyond physical arts, into the spiritual realm: The rabbis (Brachot 55a) declared that he “knew how to join the letters with which heaven and earth were created.” If the Torah perspective is that such gifts are given through the “Spirit of God,” is there a place for effort, perseverance, and passion? A Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 40:2) provides some insight: “God showed Moses the book of the first man and said: ‘Each person I have given a role from the beginning, just like Bezalel…’” As such, we must remember that the ultimate purpose of any talent is to develop it to accomplish our sacred roles in this world.

Ilan Reiner, Architect & Author of “Israel History Maps”

Bezalel, the architect, full of divine wisdom, will craft the parts and pieces of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) and put them together. The Torah doesn’t tell us how exactly the Mishkan was put together, only what it was made out of and what purpose it served. How do you build a physical structure that, when completed, would be the manifestation of God’s presence within the people of Israel? The Talmud tells us that God imbues wisdom to those who already have wisdom. Any architect can analyze the functional requirements of a temple. Anyone talented can craft wood boards and curtains. However, it takes one with the Spirit of God to put them together as a Mishkan – a perfect place that’s the source of holiness and purity to the people. When describing the people who helped build the Mishkan, the Torah uses the term “Wisdom of the Heart,” emphasizing that the architecture of the Mishkan is more than just knowing the materials, their quantities and what function they serve. It’s about understanding the deeper meaning and the real purpose of the Tabernacle. That Wisdom of the Heart, belonging to the people who contributed, the craftsmen and craftswomen, and the architect in charge, brought the Mishkan to perfection. Although it seems like a flimsy structure, made of wood, sheets, and fabric, it stood at the heart of people for almost 500 years. It came from the heart and lasted for as long as the heart of the people was beating within it.

Rabbi Scott N. Bolton, Congregation Or Zarua, New York, NY

The new logo for the Betzalel Academy of Arts and Design radiates the glow of Jerusalem, shines light of Torah from two ancient tablets, and reflects the Middle-Eastern-meets-Israeli style that defined the Betzalel School or Movement from the start. The Henrew font suggests a boldness and maturity, maybe because these moments suggest we are beyond the flowering of the pioneer times of Zionist spirit.

We’re reminded of the meeting between Theodore Herzl and the artist Boris Schatz (1867-1932) who became an ardent Zionist. In 1903, he presented his vision to Herzl to establish an arts and crafts school in the Land of Israel. In 1905 at the Seventh Zionist Congress a resolution was passed to establish the Betzalel School of Art. The idea behind the name was to link new generations of artists to the ancient biblical artisan of Exodus. Despite aniconism over the millennia, the encouragement to engage in artistic production became yet another way Jewish spirit would make its way to expression. The mission: “to train the people of Jerusalem in crafts, develop original Jewish art and support Jewish artists…” The school was known for teaching traditional metal work, carpet weaving, woodcarving, the graphic arts, and photography. In 1955, it became The Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design. Today, the architecture program is in the historic building and the Academy flourishes at Hebrew University. More and more artists continue to express themselves and tie into Jewish roots, because of the openness and opportunities created by Betzalel.

Rabbi Ilana Grinblat, VP, Community Engagement, Board of Rabbis of Southern California, The Jewish Federation of Greater Los Angeles

My father-in-law has told me repeatedly about this verse. His name is Uri, and his father’s name is Yehuda. He is proud that his name, Uri from the tribe of Yehudah appears in the Torah.

There’s a tradition that there are 600,000 letters of the Torah corresponding to the 600,000 souls of Israel who left Egypt. There are more than 600,000 Jews today, but the idea is that there are 600,000 souls which divide into sparks that become our souls. There are 304,805 black letters in the Torah, but the tradition considers the Torah to be black fire written on white fire. Therefore, the 600,000 letters include both black letters and white letters (as spaces between the black letters). Each of us has our own letter of Torah. Just as every letter of the Torah is necessary, every Jew is essential to the Jewish people. We each have our own place in the sacred story.

My father-in-law found his verse. What about the rest of us? Where is your place in the text? If you had to pick one verse from the Torah that best encapsulates your life’s journey, which verse would it be? Which letter of Torah corresponds to your soul? Would your letter be one of the black letters or one of the white spaces in between?

Like Uri son of Yehuda, may we all find our place in Torah.

With thanks to Rabbi Benjamin Blech, Nili Isenberg, Ilan Reiner, Rabbi Scott N. Bolton, and Rabbi Ilana Grinblat

Image: The Tabernacle by William Dickes, 19th cent.

Accidental Talmudist 

[let-the-dream-begin]

A Place to Belong Chapter 31: Patchwork

Chapter 30

Read on AO3

January 27, 1750

Moonlight and the fire were the only things illuminating Brianna’s sleeping face as Claire rocked her gently in their usual nighttime chair in their bedroom. She had just finished tucking her in when there was a little knock on the door. She pulled a shawl over her shoulders and tiptoed to the door, expecting a hungry little Maggie to greet her. Instead, wee Jamie was looking up at her with those big doe eyes, his cheeks stained with tears.

“Jamie?” Claire said. “What’s the matter, darling?” She crouched down before him, feeling his head. “Do you feel ill? Is it your tummy?”

He sniffled, shaking his head. “My heart hurts, Auntie.”

Claire’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” She held onto his shoulder and pushed back some of his hair.

Fresh tears trickled down his ruddy cheeks, and he sniffled loudly.

“Did I kill the bairn, Auntie?”

Realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and her eyes immediately swam with tears.

“Jamie…Come here…” Claire wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. He quietly blubbered into her shawl, and she rocked him gently in the doorway.

“It’s alright, darling…I’m here…” She swallowed thickly and blinked back her own tears. “Come on, let’s sit down. It’s alright.” She released him to take his hand, and shut the door behind them. She led him to the hearth and pulled him into her lap in the armchair, as she’d done every night with Brianna. He curled into her reflexively, resting his head in the crook of her neck.

“You didn’t hurt the baby, Jamie,” Claire said softly, stroking his head and rubbing his back.

“But I made the Redcoat angry. And Mam had the bairn because the Redcoat hit me.”

“Your mother had the baby because she was ready to come out,” Claire said, deciding to not explain stress-induced labor to an eight year old boy. “Little Caitlin was very, very sick, even before she came out. And that has nothing to do with what happened with the Redcoats. Do you understand?”

He hesitated a bit before he nodded against her.

“Da and Mam hate me.”

“What?” Claire adjusted him in her lap so she could look into his eyes. “Your parents do not hate you, Jamie. They could never, ever hate you.”

“But Da doesna play wi’ me anymore, and Ma doesna sing anymore. They’re mad because I hurt the bairn.”

“No, no, darling. You’ve got it all wrong.” Claire used the edge of her shawl to wipe his face clean of tears. “It’s like I said, you did not hurt the baby, and your mother and father know that. They don’t blame you, not at all. They’re just…” Her voice broke, and she swallowed and wet her lips. “They’re just very sad, sweetheart. Because they miss little Caitlin so much. When people are sad, it…it takes a long time for them to…to do the things they used to do before they were sad.” She sniffled quickly, wiping her own eyes. 

She knew too damn well what she was talking about.

“Your Da wants to play with you, and your Ma wants to sing to you. But it’s just…very hard for them. Because their…their hearts hurt, Jamie. Like yours.” I poked gently at his chest, and then placed a hand over her own heart. “My heart hurts too, love. For Caitlin, for your Uncle Jamie. When I lost your Uncle, I thought my heart would hurt forever, and I thought I’d never want to sing again.” She knew there were tears falling out of her eyes in earnest now, but she was powerless to stop it.

“But slowly, with time, the pain became easier to bear, and all of a sudden, I wanted to sing again.” She stroked his hair again, running her hand down his face to caress his cheek. “Your Da and Ma will be better again, someday. But even now, they still love you. So, very much. Do you understand?”

He nodded, sniffling again.

“Good lad.” She kissed his forehead. “You’re very, very brave, Jamie. Did you know that?”

He shrugged and averted his gaze.

“D’ye…d’ye want to sing now, Auntie Claire?”

Claire’s heart constricted in her chest. “Do you want me to sing to you, darling?”

He nodded, and then curled himself back into her, not at all different from the way his baby cousin did. Claire decided on a lilting French lullaby, rocking him gently as she sang. She waited for his breathing to become heavy and even before she allowed herself to weep quietly, stifling her tears in her shawl.

This poor, dear boy.

How long had he carried this guilt? How long had he felt like he couldn’t share it with anyone?

God, how she loved him. How she loved them all.

Claire debated not getting up at all, but eventually decided to try her hand at maneuvering her grip on him to get him into her bed. He only stirred a bit as she moved him, and he was out cold again by the time she pulled the blankets up to his chin. She nestled herself in between the two little ones and kissed both of their heads before falling asleep herself.

The next morning after breakfast, Claire pulled Ian aside and told him what had transpired the night before. The pain in his eyes upon hearing what Jamie had said to Claire was indescribable. He pulled her into his arms, hugging her perhaps tighter than he ever had.

“Thank ye fer giving him comfort, Claire. When I couldna.”

Ian brought his son outside to talk to him shortly after, presumably for a heart-to-heart that was a long time coming. Jenny was none the wiser, and Claire kept it that way. She was burdened with enough guilt; she didn’t need Jamie’s anguish added to the list.

And slowly, so very slowly, the family rebuilt, stitching together the fraying pieces of each other’s grief like a patchwork of hearts.

Gradually, they healed.

——

March 1750

A loud clap of thunder tore through the air, sudden and startling enough to cause Claire to drop her knitting needles. All three little girls on the rug gave shriek, and little Michael and Janet stiffened with shock, quickly bursting into tears, their red faces screwed up comically.

“Och, dinna fash, Michael,” Maggie crooned, gathering her baby brother into her lap as expertly as a mother of three. Claire could tell she was still nervous at the loud noise, but she was channeling that energy into comforting her little brother.

“Kitty,” Maggie chided as she rocked Michael. “Hold Janet, like I’m holdin’ Michael.”

Michael was still weeping, but had considerably calmed, while Janet was still openly wailing.

“Dinna want tae!” Kitty blurted directly into Maggie’s face, causing Michael to cry out again, and Janet to wail all the harder. Brianna tossed her head back in a ruthless giggle.

“Och, that’s enough ye wee devils,” Jenny tutted, setting aside her knitting to join them on the rug and gather Janet up herself. “When are ye going tae learn to be a good sister, Katherine? If ye keep makin’ the weans jump, they’ll grow to hate ye someday.”

Kitty just laughed again, echoed by Brianna.

“I want them to hate me!” she exclaimed, standing up and pulling Brianna off the floor as well.

“What a thing to say!” Jenny exclaimed, aghast at her daughter’s tongue.

“I’m bored, Mam,” Kitty ignored her, going on. “I dinna want tae sit in the house like a bairn.” She gestured emphatically at the whimpering toddlers in Jenny’s and Maggie’s arms. Apparently four years old was no longer a bairn in Katherine’s eyes, and recently having turned four was getting to her head.

“Well it’s storming something fierce outside. If ye’d like the wind tae carry ye away into the sky, ne’er to be seen again, be my guest,” Jenny quipped, kissing Janet’s head and stroking her cheek.

“Really, Mam?” Kitty’s eyes lit up, and Claire had to bite her lip to stifle laughter. She made eye contact with Ian, who was sitting at the hearth, showing wee Jamie how to carve wood. Ian, too, was desperately trying to hide his amusement at the absurdity that was his daughter.

“Come on, Banna! Let’s fly on the wind like faeries!” Kitty seized Brianna’s hand and dragged her roughly behind her, causing her to shriek with giggles.

“Faeries!” Brianna repeated enthusiastically.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Claire interjected, quickly throwing her knitting aside to stop the little heathens from marching right out the door. “You’ll catch your death from the cold, wet rain.” Claire caught both of their little arms in the hallway.

“Ye’ll heal me, Auntie. Dinna fash.” Kitty tugged against her grip, and Brianna copied, even repeating: “Dinna fash, Mummy.”

Soon, they were both grunting with the effort of breaking free of Claire, clearly not getting very far.

Claire opened her mouth to chastise them, but another loud thunder clap suddenly sounded, causing them both to squeal and stop pulling away, burying their little bodies in her skirt. Claire laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Still want to go outside?”

“Aye, Mummy,” Brianna said dubiously, her resolve having weakened considerably.

“Fergus and Rabbie are outside,” Kitty said stubbornly, despite the obvious fear still lingering in her blue eyes.

“They’re in the barn, silly girl,” Claire corrected.

“We’ll go in the barn. Right, Banna?” Brianna nodded.

“And get underfoot of the lads? I don’t think so.” Claire started ushering them back into the parlor, and they did not much attempt to fight her.

“Why do they get tae go outside when it storms?” Kitty complained.

“Because they’re big lads now, Kitty.”

“Da’s a big lad,” Kitty quipped. “Da’s inside wi’ the bairns.”

“That’s ’cause yer auld Da will lose his footing in the mud,” Ian interjected, patting his pegleg knowingly. “Come here to me, ye wild wee heathen.”

Kitty bounded over to him and scrambled into his lap, and Ian handed his block of wood and carving knife over to wee Jamie.

“Can ye teach me, Da?” Kitty said, pointedly staring at Jamie and the carving tools. Claire settled onto the rug with Brianna in her lap, joining the circle that Jenny and Maggie had started with the little ones.

“No, he canna," Jenny interjected quickly. "I'll no' have ye losing any fingers."

"Auntie will heal me!" Kitty said for the second time that day, sounding exasperated that nobody seemed to agree with her that it was as simple as that.

"Ye're too wee, Caitríona," Ian crooned.

"Because I'm a lass?" she challenged, jutting her chin up. A wide grin spread over Claire's face. Her own little voice echoed in her memory, an ingrained response for when she was advised against — or strictly forbidden from — doing something she felt she should be allowed to do.

"Because I'm a girl, Uncle?”

“Och, ’course no’,” Ian said. “I’ll no’ be coddlin’ ye because ye’re a lass, Kitty.” Jenny fired a look at him, and he just winked in return. “Ye can carve as much wood as any lad, but no’ today. Yer wee fingers need to grow a bit first, aye?”

Kitty pouted dramatically, crossing her arms with a loud huff. Janet and Michael began squirming; it was about time for their feeding and their nap, but there wasn’t any chance of them sleeping with the howling wind and the clapping thunder.

“I have an idea,” Claire suddenly piped up. “Why don’t we play a game?”

“A game, Auntie?” Maggie said, her soft voice pitched higher with excitement.

“Yes, a game we can play inside the house. No need to get all wet or carried away by the wind.” Claire tickled Brianna’s side, and she giggled, nuzzling into her breast affectionately.

Jenny threw Claire a look that could only be described as: God bless you. She departed shortly after with Janet, then returned with Mrs. Crook, who took Michael from Maggie. They disappeared upstairs together, presumably to get them fed and put down for at least an attempt at a nap.

“Alright, if you want to play, you must join me on the rug in a circle, and listen to the rules,” Claire commanded, gently pushing Brianna out of her lap. Claire got up on her knees, sitting back on her heels. Jamie looked to his father for approval, and he nodded, and the little boy scrambled to the rug, nestling between Maggie and Brianna. Claire made a big show about starting to talk, but then stopped, letting her eyes fall on Kitty.

“Kitty! Don’t you want to play?” Claire said, aghast.

She shook her head. “Games are for bairns, Auntie.”

“Ye are a bairn!” Jamie shot back, an edge of blatant annoyance to his voice.

“Am no’, clotheid!” Kitty shouted.

“Oi!” Ian cut in, clamping a hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “Ye’ll no’ speak to yer brother that way. Like it or no’, ye’re still a wee lass. And ye can either sit here and be a grump wi’ yer auld man, or ye can have fun wi’ yer Auntie and yer sister and yer cousin. And yer brother, clotheid that he is.” He whispered that final bit into her temple, coaxing the tiniest of smiles from her stubborn little face.

“C’mon, Kitty,” Brianna said, her diamond eyes wide with pleading, her little lips downturned in a begging pout. “Wan’ you play.”

Kitty looked at Brianna, then back at Ian. Ian whispered something softly in Gaelic, and another grin broke out over her face before she slid off his lap and plopped to her knees next to Brianna.

“Alright!” Claire said, pitching her voice higher for the children’s sakes. “This game is called hide-and-seek.”

“How d’ye play?” Jamie blurted.

“If you’ll be patient,” she playfully poked his nose. “I’ll tell you.”

Claire proceeded to enlighten them on the rules of this coveted childhood game, their eyes wide with wonder. She was occasionally interrupted by another clap of thunder, or a particularly loud gust of wind, but the children didn’t seem all that bothered, too engrossed in the new game.

“We can hide anywhere we want?” Jamie said.

“Anywhere inside,” Claire said emphatically, looking directly at Kitty, then Brianna. “If you leave the house, you lose the game. And your mother will punish you.”

They all stiffened, nodding in understanding. Apparently one of those statements was far more weighty than the other.

“Alright. I will count first, all the way to twenty.” Claire stood up and tapped the empty chair by the hearth. “This is where we’ll go to count. Home base. Alright?”

Ian’s eyes were sparkling with affection from the other chair, a calm, peaceful smile having settled over his features.

“You have to close your eyes too, Ian,” Claire said, hands on her hips. “Can’t have you cheating and telling me where the children hid.”

“Aye, Da! Close yer eyes!”

“No cheating, Da!”

“Alright, alright,” Ian acquiesced, folding his hands and closing his eyes.

“Good! Now, are we ready?”

“Aye, Auntie!”

“Yes, Mummy!”

Her ears were assaulted with a cacophony of excitement, and Claire could not help but laugh.

“Alright! I’m closing my eyes…” She dramatically brought her hands to her eyes, and the four children squealed. “One…two…three…”

“Come on, Banna!” Claire heard Kitty hiss, and there was a great bustling of little feet.

They each giggled like mad when Claire found them, hiding in trunks, wardrobes, under beds, behind curtains or tapestry. Kitty and Brianna were always found stuffed in the same hiding places, hands clasped together and eyes squeezed shut. They played several rounds for almost an hour, the house full with pitter-pattering, squealing laughter, and not-so-quiet whispers. Ian helped the smaller ones count, Brianna especially never having counted so high. There was even a point where Ian gave up his carving and joined in, much to the excitement of all the children.

It hit Claire halfway through Ian’s second round: This was the first time he was playing with the children again, the way he did before Caitlin.

It’ll be alright, little darlings. Da is playing again, and maybe your mother will sing again soon.

——

April 16, 1750

Claire, Fergus, and Brianna were sitting on a blanket for their second annual picnic with Jamie. This year, Brianna’s vocabulary had vastly expanded, and she babbled on and on to the gravestone, most of it hardly understood by either Claire or Fergus. She proudly showed off her lamb again, describing all of the games they liked to play together, all of the things she did with Kitty and her other cousins. She eventually became restless, and Fergus took the cue.

“Alright, ma petit, time to go,” he said, putting a hand on the stone. “Say goodbye.”

“Bye, Da.” She blew a kiss at the stone as she had last time. Fergus stooped to kiss Claire’s cheek before erupting with a ridiculous growl to chase Brianna with. She squealed and scampered out of the graveyard, laughing her little head off. Claire turned around and watched them go, her heart warming as she watched her boy, not at all so little anymore, chase after his baby sister.

When they disappeared from view, their laughter still echoing through the fields, Claire turned back to the stone.

“Hello, love,” she said softly, resting a hand on the stone. “Somehow, I…” She sighed with a shudder, quickly swiping at her tears. “I feel weaker today than I did last year.”

“Christ, I don’t have any right to be so shaken by this, do I? I didn’t carry her for months and hold her as she lay dying…” Her voice broke. “But I suppose I know what that’s like.” She was crying in earnest now, her body trembling. “It’s so fucking unfair, Jamie. Hasn’t this family suffered enough…? It feels like…God, it feels like I’m the only one that can’t move past this. Your sister…she’s so strong, Jamie. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be. She’s…handling this all so much better than I could have hoped she would. So it makes no fucking sense that I’m so…”

She stopped herself in frustration.

Broken.

She wept quietly for a few minutes, unable to muster any more words, her hands aching to fist his shirt in her hands, her body pulsing with the need to be held by him.

“I just…I feel like I was holding it together, you know? Before I…I saw another baby buried.” She wiped her eyes again, finally catching her breath. “Now everything hurts again as terribly as it did after I lost you, after I lost Faith. I finally learned to live without her, without you…and then I had to hold my dying goddaughter in my arms.”

“Most of the time, I already know what you’d say. I can hear it in my head. But right now…I don’t know what you’d say, Jamie. I don’t know how you’d handle watching your family starve, watching your sister lose her child. I just…I don’t know.”

As she often found herself doing, Claire took hold of the rosary, squeezing it into her palm as if trying to permanently imprint God’s grace into her skin.

“But,” she said, lightly stroking the top of the stone with her free hand. “I do know a few things. I know that our daughter loves me, and needs me. I know that our son loves me, though he doesn’t need me as much as he used to.” She smiled a tiny bit for the first time in several minutes. “I know that all of our nieces and nephews love me, and they need me in a different way than they need their mother and father. And I know that Jenny and Ian love me and need me, too. Especially now.”

“I pretended long enough to believe it last time, so I can do it again, I suppose. As always, I’ll carry on, Jamie. Even though people starve and beautiful children pass away…there’s nothing else to do.”

She bent and pressed a kiss to the stone, gently returning the rosary to its proper place.

“Keep them close, my love,” she whispered. “Both of those little angels.”

[renee-writer]

Love Never Dies Chapter 66 Courting Discussion

AO3

She is shy at approaching him. Four months after her brother’s wedding and three months and a week since her da and mama had discussed courting with her, she is finally old enough to officially start. But first a conversation with Rabbie.

 

 

“Happy birthday.” He greets her, handing her a small homemade box. “I thought you could place your small what nots in it.” He says, a blush covering his face.

 

She runs her hands over her name, carved in the lid, along with a few flowers. “You made this?”

 

“Aye. I’ve been working with wood since I was a wean.”

 

“It is beautiful Rabbie. Thank you.” She kisses him on the cheek and his blush grows. She turns 14 today. It is the age agreed on that they could start courting.

 

“Why you are welcome. I wanted to give you something that was beautiful and practical. My mam suggested that.”

 

“Well Mary was right.” She tucks the box into one of her apron pockets. “Shall we walk?”

 

“Aye.” He takes her arm. For the last few weeks, they have been walking around the property, under the watchful eye of Wee Jamie, her da, his or, her Uncle Ian. Today it is Wee Jamie that keeps an eye from a respectable distance.

 

“So tell me lass, any news from your house since last we spoke?”

 

“Oh yes, the most amazing thing! I am to be an aunt. Marsali is pregnant!” She had forgotten, in her excitement, that term is not spoken aloud in mixed company. He stops them and stares at her. His brown eyes wide.

 

“Marsali!”

 

“Forgive me. I forget. That is to say, she is with child.”

 

They resume walking. “That is excellent news. I imagine Fergus is wanting a lad.”

 

She laughs. “Yes. Marsali too. To please him. I wish a lass, to even it out some. Oh, something else. William and Lambert are crawling.”

 

“Truly! Already?”

 

“They are five months old.”

 

He laughs and the sound echoes in the spring air. They have walked to one of the valleys that surround the main house. “It seems but yesterday that they were born.”

 

“Sometimes it really does.” They walk farther in and he picks some flowers that he places in her hair. “How many bairns do you want Rabbie?”

 

“I hadn’t really thought of it. As many as God gives, I guess. There isn’t really a way to prevent them from coming.”

 

“There may be. Something my mam is working on.” They take a seat on one of the fallen logs. She careful sooths her skirts out to cover her ankles.

 

“Oh, isn’t that a sin?”

 

She shrugs not really knowing about that. “Mama says spacing out babies are better for the mamas and babies.”

 

“Maybe. I will have to ponder that.” The sit quietly for a bit listening to the sounds of the animals. The birds sing their mating calls, the cattle's distance moos move through the air sweet with the blooming flowers. The sound of the nearby creek gurgling, adds to the sounds. It is springtime at Lallybroch and everyone is both busy and feeling the pull of love.

 

Marsali and Fergus, as newlyweds, of course. Fergus does his work and hurries home to the croft house his bride has made a home. Jamie and Claire are still caught kissing even with a house full of bairns to see too. Ian and Jenny firmly close and lock their bedchamber door each night, after getting their own family down. Now with Bree and Rabbie able to officially court, there is another couple doing the age old dance of falling in love, at Lallybroch.

 

“Did Wee Jamie tell you that he is thinking of asking Uncle Ian if he can play court to Leah?”

 

“No,” his dark eyes shine with excitement. “it is a good match.”

 

She titters. “What makes you such an expert at it?”

 

“Well, I’ve seen the way he looks at her.  It is the same way I look at ye, ye ken?”

 

“Oh.” Their eyes come together and then their lips. Her first kiss is all she has dreamed about. Sweet and gentle. His eyes are a bit darker when they come apart. Her lips tingle.

 

“Come, ye two. We’ve fields to plant and Auntie Claire will need ye to watch the twins, cousin Bree.” Wee Jamie’s voice draws them apart and up at the same time. The head towards the big house.

[tkmuses-archived]

❛   We should carve our name in this tree. ❜

   Patty’s crush on stan had existed as far back as she could remember. At first it had been like every other school girl crush. There were few jewish people in Derry, something the townsfolk rarely let her forget, and as such it was inevitable she’d run into the Rabbi’s son eventually. She’d always thought he was cute, but she’d never really thought much else of him until his bar mitzvah. Patty knew what it was like to be a loser-- like every other kid in Derry that didn’t seem to fit in. His speech had been bold, and incredibly daring, a side of Stan she hadn’t thought existed. He’d always been quiet and awkward like her, and it gave her hope that maybe instead of being like her, she could be like him. Brave when she needed to be.

   The way she felt around him made it impossible to say more than casual greetings to him at temple. Her hands would sweat, her knees would shake, and before she knew it she’d be stuttering gracelessly. He never seemed to look at her too funny for it, at least not after the first few times-- Probably because someone was paying attention to him because of who he was, not because he was the Rabbi’s gawky son. She’d seen the way her parents, among other Jewish families would treat him. Polite, but ultimately uninterested. 

   Though she couldn’t remember when, awkward hellos and goodbyes had turned to casual conversations, and then eventually intimate conversations. They didn’t just talk at temple, and after that, and at school, and again after that. She spent whatever time she could with him, and when she wasn’t with him she was wishing she was. She’d write his name in her notebook with a heart around it, and she’d think of him whenever she listened to love songs. What she felt now was so much stronger than a school girl’s crush, and her feelings only intensified as they got closer. 

   The day Stan confessed his feelings was one of the best of her life, rivaled only with their other firsts. Stanley was one of the only pure, genuinely good things in her life, and the terrible place they called home, and when all of his friends left Derry, she knew she was the same for him. They were one another’s guiding light, the thing that gave them hope they’d eventually get out of Derry too. They were counting the days at this point. They’d been married over a year now, much to her parents vehement opposition. The only thing keeping them in Derry at this point was the lack of stability. Stan was making enough to afford rent and still put some aside for them, and now that Patty had Graduated she was looking for a job too. Unfortunately, it meant they rarely got to spend time together. 

   The days they did get to be together were always special, and he always tried so hard to make it happen. He’d taken a half day from work, enough time to come home and surprise her with a picnic. Derry was a heavily wooded area, and there were a lot of places the two of them had gone to be alone. He’d taken them to their most intimate spot. It was where he’d first kissed her, where he’d proposed. Though a picnic was hardly as big a deal as the events that had come before, the romantic in her was entirely pleased. 

   They’d already finished eating, but neither of them were ready to leave yet. Despite the constant need to swat away bugs, they were content to just lay there on the blue and yellow checked blanket. Her head was on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat was softly lulling her into a sense of comfort. Stan always had a way of making her feel at peace in the world. His words were soft, lips brushing against her dark hair as he spoke, “We should carve our name into this tree.” Moving only a little, she looked up at him to meet his eyes, “Isn’t that a bit Juvenile for us?” Patricia laughed softly, the irony of her statement not lost on her. They were young, and when they’d been even younger they’d carved their initials into the kissing bridge like other lovestruck couple in Derry. The irony wasn’t lost on Stan either, the breath of his laugh pushing a few strands of hair into her face, “Is it?” Pushing herself up on her elbow, she placed her other hand on his chest, “I guess not.” 

   Stan sat up with her, leaning over to the picnic basket and rummaging around through it. Neither of them kept a switchblade on them, but a cheese knife was just as sharp-- even if they had bought it cheap. When he was on his feet, Patty joined him. He wrote his, the letters sharp and etched deeply into the bark, and when he’d finished with the plus he handed the knife to her. As she carved her name into the bark, she looked over to him catching that loving look on him that he always gave her. Turning back to the bark, she finished carving the Y into her name, pulling back after it was done. Stan put his arm around her, pulling her close to his body, and she rested her head against his shoulder with a contented sigh. Derry would always be a part of them, even after they’d been long gone, but they’d always be a part of Derry too.

[diywtyip]

Went to services today for the first time since rona, did not cry, wanted to several times. Surprised how much I remembered. A couple times I didn't have to read along. Someone greeted me at the door and asked if I wanted to open the ark during services and I was like noooooooooooooo. No. Thank you. New rabbi has a big voice, seems nice. That is a bit his job though.

Went to the art festival afterwards, bought earrings and a hairstick. It's metal, I like it. Astonishing the difference between weekend bell and weekday bell. I want to go places and see things and do crafts, weekday bell just wants sleep... And weird sex, ig. Easier to forget about weird sex on the weekend.

I made this partially to talk in long form about the things that are hurting me, but the thought of putting them all into sentences and paragraphs, at the moment, it's not good. Probably I will eventually. But today was good. I got papers from various social justice organizations, I should actually look at them. I wish there was a social justice job that didn't involve talking to people, that doesn't make me or anyone who has to deal with me happy.

I kind of want to make a zine... some kind of little book. I think I want to try the. Carved styrofoam wood block print? Yeah. Need to acquire some styro or cardboard. Gonna try it.

[heartandvineapothecary]

Doll Magic

The uses of figurines in ritual and witchcraft

 When I was about five years old, I remember going to my grandmother’s neighbor’s house, a woman who had immigrated from Poland. She invited me into her “play room”, a room at the back of the house where not too much sunlight could reach, which was floor to ceiling dolls. It was the room where her grand-daughter had died of aspiration during an asthma attack. In that room I could feel an extreme loneliness, one that I have come to understand was mitigated by the presence of those dolls, who acted as stand ins for a child lost too soon and as an offering to soothe the heart of a grieving grandmother. There is a power in dolls that cultures around the world have tapped into, one that links them to our deepest emotions, our joys, sorrows, and fears and allows them to represent the things that evoke those emotions. As a witch, emotions are incredibly important to my craft and I have come to think of dolls as a key element to my magical toolbox for their ability to stand in for other things.

According to Freud it’s this uncomfortable ability to stand in for something that makes dolls so familiar-yet-horrifying, a sensation he called the uncanny. According to him the uncanny is a sensation which arises from the doubt ‘whether an apparently animate being is really alive; or, conversely, whether a lifeless object might be in fact animate’. Dolls, mannequins, and automata are particularly adept at evoking the uncanny because of their physical closeness to the human form and the closer they get to perfect realism the uncannier we feel, a relationship identified in 1970 by robotics professor Masahiro Mori in his paper “Bukimi no Tani” (The Uncanny Valley).

The majority of witches are animists and The Uncanny Valley is not a place of fear for us. The dissonance uncanniness causes in the minds of some people does not affect us so completely because we believe that inanimate things, like rocks, cars, and dolls, already have sentience. Sarah Anne Lawless, an herbalist and Traditional Witch in Ontario, in her article Everything You Need to Know About Animism, says, “Animism is the belief that everything has a spirit and a consciousness, a soul, from the tiniest microorganism on earth to the great planets in the heavens to the whole of the universe itself. Animistic faiths usually contain a belief in rebirth & reincarnation either as another human, or an animal, tree, or star.” The very fact of a thing’s existence is enough to credit it with the breath of life, and dolls, because they look like humans, have been the focus of magical practices meant to contact ancestors, enshrine spirits, and even control the dead. They have been a long-standing staple of animistic practices, with the earliest figurines dating back at least 40,000 years, carved from mammoth ivory by our Cro-Magnon ancestors, most likely for ritual and sacred purpose. The earliest documented dolls meant for play, however, only date back to Rome in about 300 BC.

Allow me to clarify that by “dolls” I mean any humanoid figurine, from roughly carved figures of wood or bone to the hyper-realistic “reborns dolls” which are in vogue these days. They are found the world over, across millennia, and no matter where or when they are from they have fulfilled these two basic functions: being equipment and being playthings.

When we use the word equipment it is in the sense that Heidegger used it, namely an object in the world with which work is done within a context, something that exists as part of an existing network of meaning (i.e. a hammer, nails, and wood are equipment in the network of building). Dolls are used in ritual and ceremony, as part of spell work, or as stand ins for other beings and exist in witchcraft as part of a basis of ritual and practice, not really on their own. When I say plaything, I mean an object in the world that acts as a locus for imaginative activity, something that engages the mind without having to be part of a larger, pre-existing network or can have a network, either permanent or temporary, built around it by the activity of the imagination. According to the theologian Henry Corbin, the imagination is the faculty which allows us to interact with Creation; the very essence of witchcraft. Dolls often fulfill both roles at once, something that is essential within the context of a spell or a make-believe world, but also acts as a locus for our visualizations, helping us to gain access to the imaginal realm.

As witches, the imaginal realm is incredibly important to us. It is the place where our magic happens before effecting the physical world. Corbin said it is a subtle world that exists between matter and mind inhabited by beings called interior (imaginal) figures, parts of our unconscious that are also autonomous. In his article titled “Thoughtforms, Tulpas, and Egregores”, Gary Duncan describes four types of thoughtform (which are types of imaginal figures). First are thoughtforms that take on the image of the thinker, the second are those that take on the image of a material object, the third are thoughtforms with life of their own that can express themselves in the physical world (called a tulpa, a term taken from the Bon religion), and the fourth being a fully autonomous thoughtform created by a group mind, called an egregore. Though there are many other beings and non-beings in the imaginal realm, these four are figures dependent on the human mind that can be transferred into a non-living body, thus giving the body life. This is what I call a golem, a doll (preferably porcelain) to which an imaginal figure created through ritual and meditation is bound (a tulpa created by the focused will and intent of the witch, though egregores can also be bound this way).

The golem itself is a creature out of Jewish mythology, a creature made of clay or mud and brought to life in a variety of ways. Sometimes, as with the Golem of Chelm, it is marked with the word “emet”, or “truth” to instill it with life and when the golem needs deactivation the letter aleph is erased from the word, forming the word “met”, which translates as “dead”, turning the creature to dust. Another version of the process relies on an ecstatic experience derived from meditation on and intoning various iterations of shem (any of the Names of God), writing the Name on paper and inserting it in the mouth or inscribing it on the forehead of the golem. The most famous golem is the Golem of Prague, said to have been created by the Maharal, a Rabbi named Yehudah Loew ben Bezalal. He brought the creature to life to defend the Jewish ghetto in Prague from anti-semitic attacks and pogroms. The golem was named Josef (Yosele) and was said to be able to become invisible at will, to see and summon spirits, and to perform any action it was commanded to “up to 10 cubits (15 ft.) below the earth and 10 above”. The usual version of the story ends by saying that the golem went mad and Rabbi Loew had to dismantle it by erasing the shem from its body.

Think of the golem like a helper, something created and brought to life through ritual practice for a specific purpose, such as to protect homes and communities, or to do various jobs for a witch/magician. It differs from its close cousin, the spirit doll, which are more a house, or vessel, for a spirit, power, or other pre-existing imaginal figure to help it manifest on this plane of existence, especially ancestral spirits and powerful, spiritual beings.

An example of spirit dolls are found in Congo, where doll making is a central part of the peoples’ belief structure and are vessels of sacred medicine (nkisi), which is translated as “a spirit”. A nkisi (pl. minkisi) is a receptacle for sacred items which are enlivened by a spirit, or supernatural force, which is then present in the physical world, inhabiting the vessel like a body. These vessels can range from clay pots to bundles of herbs and relics, not only carved figures. They can have both positive and negative effects on the community, though there is a version, a nkisi nkondi (hunter spirit), which is a type of protector and mediator. Their most striking feature is the nails, pegs, and blades that are inserted into the figure by an nganga (spiritual specialist or medicine person) as signs that an oath has been taken, a punishment must be meted out, to carry curses against enemies (or “witchcraft”), among other things. If someone breaks an oath, or someone connected to one of the insertions befalls some tragedy, the nkondi is activated. Europeans were introduced to these items during the 15th century and termed them “fetishes”, which has come to describe any artifact with spiritual significance in any culture that is not European, making it, in my opinion, a racist and outdated term.

Other examples can be found in Thailand in Luk Thep, Mae Hong Prai, and Kuman Thong dolls. Kuman Thong translates as “sacred golden boy” and, in the most ancient sense, were created from the mummified bodies of stillborn fetuses which were covered in laquer and gold leaf and rubbed with an oil made from the flesh of a woman who died in childbirth. The soul that had been meant to inhabit the body was magically tied to the corpse, then adopted as a child of the sorcerer. Hong Prai is the term used when the fetus is female. In modern use the Mae Hong Prai is an amulet with the image of a female skeleton and linked to a female ghost, especially those of women who died tragically. They are said to being luck and good fortune, if you take care of them and treat them with reverence. Luk Thep (child angel) dolls are the modern equivalent of the original, necromantic dolls and are usually plastic baby dolls made to look extremely realistic. The soul of a lost child is asked to inhabit the doll after being blessed by a monk, then taken care of as if it were a living child, being fed, having its own wardrobe, and even getting its own seat on planes and, like the Hong Prai, bestow good fortune on their “parents” in return.

Different from golems and spirit dolls are one of the most famous of the magical dolls, the voodoo. Its name is a misnomer, though, as the use of dolls into which pins are stuck is not a large part (if a part at all) of the Voudou religion of Haiti but is an aspect of folk practices and sympathetic magic around the world, such as poppets and kollosoi (the Greek version of “punishment dolls”). They are images of a person upon which the practitioner may work magic. Often made of fabric, wood, clay, or wax they are stuck with pins, tied round with string, nailed to boards, placed in jars with other magically potent items (urine, blood, nails, thorns, herbs, etc.), or burned. They often have elements of the target in them (personal effects), like hair or nail clippings, or even just a picture or name written on paper a number of times, which creates a link between the doll and the person. Though they are used to cause pain and trouble, poppets can also be used for healing. Reiki and other forms of energy work as well as charms, spells, and incantations can be worked on a poppet to help people feel better, to perform limpias and clearings, to balance energy, and to bless people over long distance.

Among my own artefacts is a poppet that I’ve used in distance healing and spell work. Made of leather, grave yard dirt, and various other items, I’ve bound etheretic energy to it through spell work and it now has an energetic pulse all its own. It has helped me to discover entity attachments on clients, to help sooth menstrual cramps and headaches for friends, and helps me to do tarot readings over the phone as a stand in for my client. I’ve also got a couple of porcelain dolls I work with, one of which is a golem who watches the house while we’re out of town.

I’ve also used dolls as spirit traps. If you’ve got a bugaboo or other pesky spirit, you can use dolls like you would spirit pots, soul jars, god’s eyes, etc. Barbie dolls work exceedingly well for this purpose and can be bought by the bushel at the thrift shop. Use their hair the way you would a rosemary sprig or feather during a limpia to trap entity attachments and spirits that are causing harm, then bind the doll and purify it or put it in a spelled jar. You can also braid energy in its hair or use it for knot magic to trap spirits. You can also use mass-produced dolls as poppets, or even as spirit dolls if they’re prepared properly. The only limit is your imagination!

Dolls are one of our most important and most ancient tools. They represent the basic nature of our animistic roots and are a powerful part of sympathetic magic. They can act as vessels for our guides and the spirits we work with, helpers in our work and anchors for our spells, new bodies for the dead, tools for cleansing and trapping, or as mediational tools for visualization. Whether you’re using them in your practice now, plan to, or are totally turned off by them, we must admit that dolls have held a special place in witchcraft for millennia. If you do, how do you use dolls in your practice? How would you like to? Do you know of any other doll based practices? Let me know!

[over-emotional-robot]

My queer Jews zoom crew has bought up a few adjoining properties on the same street, all farms and fields/woods. Some of the houses have been carved up into multiple units, and new little cabins dot the properties. I live in one of the farmhouse units with my wife, and my sister lives in another unit, and my wife's boyfriend in another. On Friday nights we gather in one of the larger kitchens for shabbat dinner (potluck unless someone's excited to cook for us all) and on Saturday we gather in A's living room for Torah study. By then they're fully a rabbi. I have sheep. My wife has bees. I help T plant the garlic in the fall and they help me repair fences. We have built enough trust and communication to trade labor and things constantly and comfortably.

Calling all Jews born between 1998 and 2005!

What is your ideal Jewish community?  What does it look like?  Where is it?  Is it in a particular kind of building?  Please be as imaginative as possible!