I love living small.
It’s a blessing. I loved living larger. I loved the home we had. The gardens. The space. The privacy.
But now I love the other. The noise of the city. The community of people who share my interests, or not. I love walking across the driveway to the pool or to the fitness center where I now teach my pre-ski season lazy person workout once a week. I love walking a block to grab lunch.
I absolutely adore talking to people as they walk down the sidewalk in front of our apartment. Of course, I talk to anyone with a dog. I live for a siting of the Newfie that lives across the street and when spotted, I chase him down, give him a hug and a kiss, ignore the owner who, by now, has probably learned to walk elsewhere, so I don’t get to see Allman (that’s the Newf) very often.
Last Saturday, the Rabbi from the Chabad was walking down the street. He had finished Sabbath services and was on his way home. For those of you who don’t know what this is, I’ll give a brief explanation. A Chabad is a synagogue. Chabads are operated by the Lubavitchers, an extremely orthodox sect of Judaism. There are Chabads all over the world and their purpose is to connect Jews to Judaism. They provide religious services to their members, all Orthodox men and women. Women are covered and encouraged to have as many children as possible. Men and women who are not closely related do not touch. No hand-shaking either. Here’s what’s interesting. The Chabad is open and welcoming to all who are interested at any level of participation. GB and I took classes from the Chabad of Lonetree led by Rabbi Mintz. Our move to Stapleton put us 45 minutes away and out of range. I had asked if there was a Chabad near us and learned there is one just two blocks away.
So, I was excited to see the Rabbi strolling down the street and I shouted, “Good Shabbos”. He stopped and we began talking, then, as is my habit with any Rabbi I’ve ever met, I began arguing with him about the Orthodox rules on gender. I’m not a fan. Good news, he said. I don’t have to be. I can come to their dinners. I can come to their programs. I can come to all sorts of things, and I won’t get bored or irritated. He then looked over and said, “I like your Mezuzah”. The Mezuzah we have was specially made. It’s a ceramic with two Newfies and a cat. GB wandered out to see who I was chatting with, introduced himself and the conversation ultimately ended with the Rabbi hugging GB. I objected, of course, that I would not be receiving a hug. “Oh,” he said, “I’ll give your husband an extra hug from me.”
“I don’t accept third party hugs,” I said.
At that point, the Rabbi let us know that there would be a speaker Monday night. Omer, a young man who had been held hostage for 505 days in Gaza would be talking about his experience. The Rabbi promised a powerful evening.
We registered and walked over to the speech. Omer is a handsome, young, vibrant, positive man who underwent unspeakable tortures. I was cringing at the thought of listening to him recount his experiences, but he did a strange thing. He glossed over them. Instead of dwelling on what had happened to him, he focused on what kept him going. At one time, he spent about 40 days in an underground cell that wasn’t high enough for him to stand or broad enough for him to stretch his arms fully. There was no light. He was in the blackness. Once a day, he would receive a biscuit to eat. He spent the day nibbling it and each time he took a bite, he thanked God for the delicious food.
After 40 days, he was brought to a different level in the tunnels. And here’s what he did. He asked his captors what he could do for them. He could cook. Clean. If they would just give him a meal each day.
Every day, he woke up and prayed to God. This young man didn’t ask God to save him. Or get him home. He asked God, “How are you doing?” “Is there anything you want me to do for you?”
“God, how’s your day going?”
As Omer was speaking, my mind drifted to the horrors of that region. The inescapable truth that Israel has gone terribly wrong in pursuit of its justifiable defense of itself. The destruction of Gaza will be poorly treated by history, much like Dresden. The monsters that perpetrate this war, Hamas and Netanyahu, are doing themselves no favors. Just my opinion.
My mind returned to Omer. How utterly amazing he is. And on the way home, I kept wondering why he didn’t speak more about his despair. Today, I figured it out. He doesn’t want to stay there and as long as he focuses on it, he never gets to leave that dungeon. He’s fighting for a good cause. He’s channeled his pain into action. He’s a hero.
Because I live small, I have more time to observe, and I’ve noticed one difference in people who seem to age well and those who don’t. I can get into trouble here because I’m not exactly an expert on aging, but, what the hell. That’s what this blog is supposed to be about.Some people remain stuck in the past. They mourn the loss of muscles that used to respond to an immediate request. Or they worry about the many things they forget. Or they stew over selling a house and moving to an apartment. Not being able to have a giant breed dog anymore because physically, it can’t be handled. There are all sorts of changes that come with age. Being stuck in the past is just one. Omer is a lucky man. He learned early that the past is nowhere to live
Air. 
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