Opinion

Recently, Rav Shaul Alter, the Gerrer Rosh Yeshiva of Yerushalayim, visited the New York area. When it was announced that he was coming to Monsey and speaking at Rabbi Scheiner’s shul (Beis Medrash Ohr Chaim) at 4 p.m. one afternoon, I decided to attend. Aside from the fact that my family roots are in Ger, it was an opportunity to see a renowned talmid chacham.

I recently mentioned to a neighbor that I am returning to being a therapist in private practice, part-time. Instead of wishing me hatzlachah, he launched into an unsolicited lecture that included all his opinions and grievances about therapy and therapists. That included complaining that therapists are always asking how something makes you feel and what’s that like for you. I asked him how it made him feel when therapists asked him that?

The other day, I was sitting at my desk and wanted to grab a book that was just out of my reach. I stood up quickly, without realizing that my jacket pocket was caught on the arm of the chair. In sports vernacular, they would say that it was a career-ending injury for my suit jacket.

The other day at lunch in Yeshiva, I was taking salad from the serving bowl. Just ahead of me, a colleague was putting dressing on his salad. He looked up at me and said “elef iyim,” Hebrew for a thousand islands. He explained that in Israel that’s what the dressing is called, translated from the English “Thousand Island dressing.”

When we moved into our home 14 years ago, there was a beautiful path comprised of slabs of bluestone, from our front door to the driveway. Over time, some stones became loose, and the concrete started to crack. It made us nervous every time guests walked up the path, especially elderly guests.

Over the years, as our family has grown, baruch Hashem, coupled with the fact that we enjoy having guests for Shabbos meals, we have outgrown our dining room table.