Self Potato

Starting this Chanukah in melancholy.

I’ve been living purposefully, ecstatically this year. We’re offered a life with depth, connectedness, the opportunity to regularly access joy. Embracing that is the best choice I ever made. I feel fulfilled, sweetly vulnerable and cocooned by a network of people who care for each other and the wider world.

Between those moments I pass through locked doors, ID checks, men armed with pistols and rifles: reminders that our joy is safest when it’s tucked away, and only sliding further so. Hesitant to thank them because I’m choking on tears. Thinking of how close we came to losing her. Sickened society and time didn’t give my grandparents the respect they deserved by marching strictly toward progress.

I’m so angry that our joy is never allowed to be pure. That every holiday on the calendar carries reminders of recently being marred by terror. I’m angry that we can’t confidently celebrate publicly, invite people in, trust.