Something from the heart.

I know that this is a fairly new blog. There are only a handful of posts. Readership is growing, but still small. And while I will continue to post unique and often humorous insights in to the world of writing and the inkers behind them, I want to share something personal with you.

I have admitted, and will continue to admit, that a large purpose of this blog is to help me vent out all the mental dust-bunnies that are stuck in my head, in hopes to find something creative beyond them - a script or a chapter I've been itching to pen for months, even years. This is no different. And I do suggest the same to you, the readers of present and future, to flesh out these thoughts, in hopes for something substantial to surface in the aftermath.

This past weekend, I celebrated Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement. The day where we are not meant to eat, drink, wash, use any electronics, wear leather, or anything that might create pleasure in any form. Instead, we are meant to reflect on the year gone by and the wrongdoings we may have done during it. We sacrifice everything for one day, to repent, to pray, so that our book may be wiped clean, and all is forgiven.

I go to temple with my family and loved ones that day to do such. And, while there, we pray in Hebrew - a language that I can read fluently, but do not understand a word I am saying. I grasp the gist. We pray to our lord in heaven to be forgiven. We mourn over those we have lost. But, I can freely admit that, though I know the gist of my prayers, though I know why I am there, I do not know what I am specifically saying. Still, there is something very comforting about being in my house of worship. It is the same one I've been going to for nearly twenty years. I see face I don't get to see but once a year. I've seen families come and go. I've seen infants grow to teenagers. I have friends that, though I don't contact regularly, I see there, and it is as if we were apart for a day or two.

But, more than that, there is something within that temple that is beyond explanation. A presence that wraps itself around me, that courses through every fiber of my body. It's warm, it's welcoming, it's familiar. The pain, the stress, the potholes of everyday life are locked out. They are washed away by the smell of the air inside the walls, by the somber voices of the congregation, by that presence that I cannot simply put my finger on.

One of the highlights, however, of the service is the Rabbi's Sermon. Our Rabbi, Robert Pilavin, stands up on the bimah in front of hundreds of congregants, and for approximately 45 minutes, will speak on an issue that is close to his heart. I, for one, am fond of his speeches, namely for the fact that I understand what he is saying. His sermons are critiqued as black or white - either the congregation was satisfied with what he has spoken about, or thought it was pointless propaganda. And, I will admit, his speeches over the last few years have been rather disappointing for me. Do not get me wrong, I admire the man. I look up to him as my spiritual and religious leader, even to point of visiting him personally for issues I was dealing with. But, his sermons of late have been about the American economy, or Israel's struggle in the Middle East. Granted, very important issues, but not what I came to temple for. I came to be moved, for my heart to be touched, to be inspired to continue having faith in my religion and my God.

This year, my Rabbi decided to touch on a personal matter. He spoke of his father, who had passed away in December of last year. His father was by no means a religious man, nor were his children (albeit the one who would one day become a Rabbi). The Rabbi was in tears as he continued to speak of his father. The congregation was no different. Every which way I turned, women, men, and children who were listening, were red in the face, tears streaming down their cheeks, sniffling. He continued with a song that he sang to the congregation. It was a song that, whenever he asked his father what song he should play on the piano, this would be the one he would always choose:

The falling leaves drift by the window 
The autumn leaves of red and gold 
I see your lips, the summer kisses 
The sun-burned hands I used to hold 

Since you went away the days grow long 
And soon I'll hear old winter's song 
But I miss you most of all my darling 
When autumn leaves start to fall 



I thought about why he would speak about such a topic. A sad story, absolutely, but what made it of any relevance to this High Holiday? I then thought about my grandmother, who tragically passed away in May of this year. As I write now, I fight the tears, thinking about her. All she ever wanted was to see me succeed in my craft, my passion. She loved it when I sent her some of my work - scripts, short films. She told me to never give up. To always fight for what I loved to do, no matter how hard I was pushed down. And she still does. She is still here. That presence I felt in temple. It is her. It is those who are no longer with us in physical form. They are the ones who I feel when I enter that building. It is my connection to them, to her. 


Perhaps this is how my Rabbi felt. Through some way or another, his father was the one who inspired him, not to become a Rabbi, but to have faith, to pursue in something that he believed in. And though the times change, like the leaves of autumn, people move away, people die, your faith never falters. It remains, thanks to the people who have inspired you to do so. It remains, thanks to the faith you have in yourself. 


And, for that reason alone, I will never give up. And neither should you. Whether your dream is to write, or to educate, or to go to the moon, don't give up. Always remember those people who would tell you to do that.