Humidity, thunderstorms, threatening hail- without hummingbirds, lizards and fragrant sage growing wild. I’m in a very different place now, back home, here in the Berkshire foothills, far from my month outside LA teaching and sharing stories. During this week before Tisha B’Av, I’m remembering a conversation with Nimrod (a young, post-army Israeli) about the hard work for men to reclaim our tears. Here’s a poem for those on this journey.
The first grown man I saw openly crying was in Jerusalem, on Tisha B’Av, our day of mourning ...
