Figure Skating and Tandem Bikes: Jessica Gingold, 1L, on Finding Spirituality in All the Right Places

I did a TALK at law school a couple of weeks ago. 

(if you click on that link, you will be directed to a 35 min video of said talk)

And this picture was blasted to the entire student body and plastered around the halls to induce fellow law students to come hear what I had to say on... spirituality. 

Me as Annie (obviously)

Yep, I talked about spirituality at law school. To be clear, I didn't just wake up one day and say, "man, I really need to tell law students about my spiritual journey through life," and then proceed to organize this. I know I have an ego, but it isn't that outrageous. Rather, I did this talk as part of a student-run effort to get law students to share a bit more with each other than outlines and notes. I discovered TALK, as they call themselves, at the start of the semester, and quickly found it to be one of the few communities within the law school that fully tapped into who I am and what I love most in life (their website can be found here). They wanted a 1L to present, as there had only been 2L and 3L TALKers thus far, and thus I stepped up.

***Spoiler alert: below this I will write a little bit about the content of my talk, so if you'd rather watch it, click here***

As most people who know me know, I am a Unitarian Universalist (UU). I went to church nearly every Sunday for the first eighteen years of my life. I was nurtured by a spiritual community that didn't exactly give me the big metaphysical answers, but did provide me with the tools to continuously ask questions and seek my own truth. When I was sixteen I had to write a spiritual autobiography as part of our coming of age program. I wrote that the most spiritual things in my life were the love of my brothers and...figure skating. In preparing this talk, I was able to process what those symbolized in my life then and now. On a walk through the woods with my dad, he reflected back to me that it was maybe the combination of being surrounded by a loving community while being vulnerable in my own individual pursuit--community/vulnerablity. The balance of those elements were my spiritual grounding. This frame was helpful to me in charting what my spiritual path has been since I was a 16-year-old, thrift-store-clothes-wearing, Ani-Difranco-blasting, emotional girl. When I have felt more distant from my community or stagnant in pushing my own limits, I have floundered. When I feel love and support of those near and far and am vulnerably fording ahead, I have thrived. Here at law school I definitely feel my personal limits being tested, and doing this talk was part of my way of contributing to a community that can provide me with the love that sustains. 

It is maybe a bit odd that now in my first semester of law school I have submitted a story about peeing my pants to my contracts professor and told a room full of law students about running away from a meditation retreat. Don't worry, I have also read a lot of cases with words like assumpsit and tortfeasor. Law school is unlike any educational experience I have had to date. It is less interested in our individual personalities (at this point), and more interested in having us learn and analyze the law. We don't write reflective papers or share our own stories. I am not in ed school anymore. At times this is a huge challenge for me. Though, I also realize that there is value in learning the law in this way, of being forced to step away from and challenge my subjective understanding of the world. Somedays are better than others. But, I am definitely learning. Doing this talk was a small way for me to carve out space to be me in this experience that does not necessarily demand that of us. Maintaing a spiritual grounding in the day-to-day is a balancing act. One I am far from mastering, but grateful to be trying again and again. Even while I am at law school.

1L: Week One

In my first week of law school I have learned the official definition of battery and assault, cried from complete brain fatigue, gotten high off of the adrenaline of contracts finally clicking, been awe-stricken by the legal system and its (too) many rules, drawn pictures of dream houses and gravel lots to digest the facts of cases, and sent an e mail to my contracts professor about a time I peed my pants when I was ten. 

Presuming that contracts and torts are not the stuff most readers are entertained by, I’ll expound on the pee story. Everything in law school is tinged with a hint of competition. Thus, my contracts professor offered up a little challenge to us on our first day. Sitting on his desk were six extra copies of a supplemental book that we need for his class. He was willing to save six of us lucky students the money and trouble of going out to buy our own copy by relinquishing his extra books. Now, there were two ways to “win” one of these books. By 7pm that night you could send him a question –any question. He would then choose the two best questions (those people winning books) and pose them to the class. The four best answers by 7am the following morning would win the remaining four books.

After a solid 14 hours of reading and comprehending (turns out law school is really hard—more on that later), I checked my inbox. It was midnight. I needed to sleep to get up and do it all again the next day. But, I opened the e-mail containing the winning questions, and one of them taunted me—dared me to respond. I told myself I didn’t care about winning the contest. I told myself to go to sleep. But, the question was just too…me. It asked, “What is something embarrassing that has happened to you?”

And I proceeded to spend the next thirty minutes carefully crafting the following story:

While I cannot speak to the size of the ruler one should use in measuring property [this referred to the other question posed in the e mail], I can present an interesting case of embarrassment. This story takes place in the year 1996. It was a Friday night, and my friend Mare's cultured family was taking us to the Pendleton Art Center--where art galleries were open to the public.  We were making a night of it beginning with dinner out on Ludlow Ave., a street in Cincinnati similar to State St. in Ann Arbor. After dinner, we did some strolling to kill time until the art center was open. Mare and I entered a store with a wide-variety of trinkets, world music and spiritual paraphernalia--most of which my ten-year-old self had no use for. Mare got drawn in by the instrument section and started plucking a stringed instrument along to the background music of Enya. I walked around, taking in the psychedelic fabrics, progressively feeling those six cups of water I drank at dinner (it was Indian food). My wandering soon became a dance as I looked for a restroom to relieve myself. Unable to locate one, I urged Mare that it was really time to move on from the store. She rejected my idea as she picked up a maraca and shook it in delight. Exasperated, I went to the candle section. Holding a circular candle featuring a starry night, I had reached my limit. I could no longer hold it. Right there, in the middle of the store, I peed my pants...at age ten...an age when it was really no longer ok to pee your pants. As the puddle formed below me, I tried to ignore what was happening, staring more intently at the candle as if my attention to the candle would make all else go away. If I only saw the candle, and no on else, no one else could possibly witness my current act. That was when the store manager walked over to me and tapped my shoulder. He leaned over and kindly asked, "would you like me to show you to the bathroom?" At this point, there was no denying the truth. I followed him with head hung in shame to a secret door hidden within a shelving unit. I did the best I could to remedy the situation, returning to Mare's side a few minutes later. Still in musical ecstasy, she had missed the entire scenario. I chose not to tell her and continued on to the Pendleton Art Center with uncomfortable jeans and whatever shred of dignity I had left. 

I definitely lingered over the send button for a good couple of minutes. Would it be appropriate to send an e-mail to my new law professor about peeing myself? I couldn’t possibly press send…could I? Will he always think of me as the girl who peed her pants? Is that a bad thing? In a state of delirium, I pressed send.

The next morning, I won a book.

This is law school.

This Week

This week.

This week is why people live in California.

This week is the week that I will look back on and sigh, “those were the days…livin’ in Berkeley.”

This week started out with a typical Monday for a freelance project manager, live-in aunt. Five forty-five am, Oliver cries with conviction, earlier than usual. I roll over and disregard it. Oliver’s cries and yells persist. Six-thirty am, I continue to ignore. Seven-thirty am, I emerge from my bedroom to two parents who have already fed a baby, eaten breakfast, ran laps around the house, and watched their neat living room turn into a children’s book and random kitchen pots-turned-toy minefield. Despite their hands being full, my dutiful brother Ben made sure to save me a bit of garden-fresh sautéed swiss chard, a slice of homemade olive-rosemary-lemon bread, and a warm cup of coffee. I think he may even have apologized for not preparing my fried egg for me.

Monday was a workday. This meant I ate my breakfast, wrote in my morning pages journal, then settled into the couch and got to work editing the forthcoming National Action Civics Collaborative website. My sister-in-law Katy, also working from home this particular Monday, prepared a lunch of leftovers for us at 12:30. Then, it was back to work for a couple of hours until I finally got dressed for the day and biked down the hill to my favorite community pool for some lap swimming. The evening hours were spent finishing up work, playing with Oliver, and eating a family dinner of a cherry tomato galette prepared by Katy straight from the garden. And to think. This was the kind of day that has been typical this summer.

Tuesday was a playday. This meant I, again, slept through Oliver’s cries until I felt ready to confront the day. And soon after was swooped up by two good friends for a journey into wine country—Sonoma, not Napa (the more “down to earth” experience). We arrived in Petaluma, CA where one of my best friends from college, Yeshe, lives (ok, ex-boyfriend from college, but we are totally cool and friends now). 

Yeshe has taken a deep dive into all things wine over the past two years. Working at a winery and wine bar, studying enology and viticulture at a local college, and drinking a healthy dose of California’s best to refine his taste buds. Yeshe would be our personal “industry” tour guide for the day. 

First stop: Wind Gap Winery. Yeshe schedule a private tasting for us at 11am.  Yes, I tasted five wines before noon. That was the kind of day it was going to be. Wind Gap was not scenic per say. It was in a warehouse in Sebastopol nestled among identical warehouse neighbors. But, inside, magic was certainly a-brew. Scott, the third of three guys who pretty much do everything walked us through each wine, answering our many questions patiently. I may have asked a few extra questions due to his charming blue eyes and alarmingly manly stubble poking through perfect California farmer-tanned skin. But that’s beside the point. The point was, of course, the wine. Wind Gap had great wine. One tasted like pepper. Another was definitely wet river rocks. I’ll spare you my amateur descriptions of each taste, and leave it at that. I didn't take any pictures of this place. Everything and everyone there was too cool for tourist photographs.

Second stop: Leisurely lunch at Lowell’s in Sebastopol. Wood-fired pizzas. Pasta with bacon. Organic vegetable antipasti. All paired with fresh Gravenstein Apple Cider brewed by Hunter, Yeshe’s best friend from high school. Apparently since all the vineyards have moved into Sonoma, the Gravenstein apple has become endangered. Thus Hunter and his wife are merely doing their civic duty living on a beautiful farm, brewing cider.

Third stop: Lynmar Estate. If I’m being honest, this wine was not so great. But, the winery was beautiful, beckoning us to linger on the estate. Oh, you want me to go eat some fresh tomatoes from your bountiful garden while I taste my wine? Ok. Fine. The flowers were reason enough to go. It was the kind of flower garden that poetry is written about. Divine, really. So, I think of that stop as more of a botanic garden than a delicious winery. Who doesn’t love a botanic garden?

 

 

Forth stop: Iron Horse Winery. And this was it. Everything. The rustic wood outdoor tasting bar. The view of the vineyards and rolling hills. The pinot noir and sparkling wines. The buzz that made everything feel just a little hazy, like just maybe this was all a dream. The golden hour set in as we sipped our last drops, and all I could feel was deep gratitude... and a little giggly.

Fifth stop: Hopmunk, Sebastopol. More food. This was a somewhat embarrassing spread of fried foods that I would rather not recount.

Final stop: Russian River Brewery. My brother Ben's favorite beer is Pliny, the Elder. Knowing I was so close to the brewery inspired a final stop. Russian River Brewery’s beer is special. My Pliny tasted like drinking a redwood forest. Maybe a redwood forest full of fairies. I left the brewery with a growler of Pliny for Ben, and we could call it a day.

It was a decadent day. One that truly captured the spirit of vacation. The kind of day that sustains all the other days that you work and do what you are supposed to do. So sensual that you can feel it for years thereafter.

***I do want to assure that we were safe throughout the day, mindful of safe driving (I was not the driver)***

So, the thing is… I have only written through Tuesday. This post was supposed to be about how great this entire week has been. But for now, I think I will leave it at Tuesday. Perhaps that says more than three more pages of writing could.

                               

Baby Energy

When I sit down to write something I should write, I inevitably don’t write it. The beginning of a blog post about our glorious backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada Mountains replete with 25-foot cliff jumping has been lingering in my open tabs for a week now. I felt a duty to report out on what it was like backpacking with a one-year-old. How starry the starry nights were. How I really did spend most of the trip in a patriotic tube top romper, in salute to Fourth of Julys past. I thought I must declare to the world that I achieved a life fantasy… hiking in 3 miles to swim in what seemed to be a secret lake that no one else knew about (ignoring the fact that there had been an article in the San Francisco Chronicle)—no—this lake was ours. At least for nearly the first two hours we were there. On the day we hiked out, it seemed a small community had decided to transplant there. I couldn’t really blame them. I also felt obliged to share about my own physical challenges. Having not backpacked since before my first ACL knee surgery, it felt good to get back out there. Though, of course only with my big brother by my side. So, yea. That was what I was going to write about.

This:

 And this:

And of course this:

But, now, after a week more of California living and pseudo-parenting, there is something else on my mind. Oliver, my 15-month-old nephew. Or more accurately, lessons learned from Oliver. Or still, to be more precise, a key lesson learned from Oliver. I fear this will be a trite post. One we have read before in wellness magazines with pictures of sunsets. One that comes from the wisdom of the Buddhist tradition that my writing could hardly begin to capture. Or maybe one I have even written before after walking along the Oaxacan coast. Still, learning this lesson from a baby somehow feels more poignant. Here it is.

All that matters, really, is right now.

Last April, a friend of mine at school shared a Native American tale with me that he had learned at his previous job. I am sorry to say I do not recall the exact origin of the idea/story and will likely not do it justice in my retelling, but it went something like this… each generation of people has a unique relationship with energy in this world. And we all need each other. Broken down into four distinct groupings. Infants are particularly good at letting go of energy. They do not hold grudges or hold onto excitement. They experience, may be perturbed for a minute or elated for a prolonged second, and then they move on. Adolescents are particularly good at putting energy into the world—they express and emote and create and go, go, go. Adults are good at holding onto energy. On the positive side, they can harness it into more efficient and effective ways of being. They also can bury it within, building deposits untapped. Elderly people are good at taking energy in. Receiving it from others. And the cycle goes on and on and on. This basic storyline has stuck with me since my friend shared it. And, especially now as I watch Oliver, and learn his way.

I have always been aware that babies get over sadness quickly. They hit their head, cry, and then see something shiny and forget their head was ever hit. But, I have also been caught by how babies also don’t hold on to their extreme excitement. Oliver will be on top of the world, arms flailing, laughter booming, tongue hanging wildly out of his mouth, and the next minute he will be in tears. I find myself frustrated at times that I can’t call on him to remember how just a minute ago we were having the best time of our lives together. That minute no longer matters to him. It has made me realize how much of my life with other adults in this world is built on the capital of shared experiences and nostalgic moments. That, we reminisce while we are in the moment, “We are having the best time right now, I can’t wait to post pictures of it on Facebook.” As if we experience the now in anticipation of our future feelings about this moment. Countless times I have thought about how great it will be to tell my children someday about the time I [backpacked around Europe, studied abroad, quit my job, fell in love, lived in California for the summer…]—never mind that I am not even in a relationship.

I am not advocating that we are wrong for holding on to the good so fiercely. But, I also know that we often discuss letting go of the bad, without realizing that maybe that skill of not holding on to the bad is the same skill of not being too attached to the good. That it is all about us controlling the now, taking it in and adding it to our life story—the narrative of the then, now, and future. I don’t think it is realistic to abandon that tendency. There is a lot of good that comes from the stories we create, the memories we make and hold on to and the warning signs we have come to know, understand and avoid. But, I also watch Oliver intently and see that there is something important that he knows and we all once knew. That presence. That surrender. That lack of worry about what your face looks like when you are just too happy or how dirty your knees get upon diving headfirst into a muddy puddle. That being over becoming. 

When I first arrived to California, I think I came with an expectation that Oliver and I would build so many great memories. That I would become his besssst friend. That each day would be more miraculous then the next. Then I realized, he is a baby. And, thus, all we have is the now, together. And some days he will pull in my face and give me a kiss, but it is best not to hold on too tightly to this as the new norm. Because shortly after he will be yanking my hair and then he probably will forget I exist. And all of that is just as it should be.

Because in Oliver’s world…all that matters, really, is now. Thanks for sharing your wisdom, little guy.

Summer Plans

Most people have their place of clarity. The place when whatever confusion was obscuring their mind is magically solved. For some, it is the shower. For others, hiking in the Rocky Mountains. For me, it is on my bicycle.  It is on top of my bicycle that I usually plan meals (or rather get inspired to take on ridiculous creative culinary adventures, usually for one). It is on top of my bike that I envisioned the beginning of this blog post. And it is on top of my bike where I made my most recent “big life decision.”

I was riding to Union Square from Harvard for my weekly acupuncture session. I know, that sounds bougie, but it really works to keep me healthy. Anyway, I was riding my bike thinking about my summer plans. This was nearing the end of May. My original plan was to graduate from Harvard at the end of May (with my Masters in Education for those who may not be totally up to date on my life happenings), and start a fellowship in the Bay Area two weeks later. I would pack up right away, drive to Cincinnati, throw a baby shower, fly to San Francisco, move in with Ben, Katy, and Oliver, and show up for my first day. As I rode and thought about the rapid changes ahead of me, I heard one of those inner voices say, “Do you have to do the fellowship?”

Huh. Hmmm. Interesting. So the thing is I got offered a really prestigious fellowship in March. I had gone through four rounds of interviews to get it (and even bought my first suit). And I of course wanted to live in the Bay Area for the summer to be with my family there. It made good sense to do it. Why wouldn’t I do it? I had not once considered not doing it until I was riding my bike that afternoon. I think part of why bike rides are a good time to face complicated matters is because all I am doing is pedaling. I can’t distract myself with Facebook or text a friend for input. It is just me and my thoughts and the road. So, the question hung for a second. I pedaled a bit more. And then the reasons for asking the question started rolling in.

 “I don’t feel done with my work here in Boston. I want to edit my papers down to be published and that would be easier if I can work with my professors here. I don’t have a good match organization at the fellowship yet, and I don’t want to spend my summer doing work that doesn’t speak to my soul. I might be able to continue working for the National Action Civics Collaborative (NACC) for the summer on a contractual basis. I am not ready to say bye to my friends here. I need more time to transition. I could still come to California for less time. Do I really need this fellowship when I already have a Harvard degree and am going on to Michigan Law? The fellowship will mean I can’t go on my family vacation in Minnesota and that I will work right up until I start law school…”

And then the part of me who had not even considered this question before spoke up, “Wait. But I want to live in California this summer. This is such a special opportunity to spend time with my nephew and be close to my brother and sister-in-law. The fellowship comes with a community and professional development opportunities. I haven’t had a real job in a long time—it would be good to get back into a routine. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. You don’t turn down things like this."

And then I got to acupuncture. With the needles in me, I shut everything off, and meditated…err fell asleep. All this to say, I listened to that question, talked to all my most trusted advisors, and ultimately decided to shift my plans. 

So, now I write this from Berkeley, California, sitting on a couch with my feet nestled into my sister-in-law’s side. I arrived here on Saturday night. We woke up Sunday and in typical Ben and Katy fashion, were off to the mountains for a glorious hike full of ocean views and Redwoods. While I am here, I am working as a consultant with NACC doing work I am passionate about for a cause I deeply believe in. I make my own schedule and will be able to go on our family vacation in Minnesota. To get to this place...

Terrible picture, but you get the point. We are a family. We hike.

I stayed in Boston a few extra weeks and was able to close out my time at school and with friends with as much peace as can be had (though I am still reeling a bit from leaving the side of my soul sister friend, Ari, who made my life in Boston so unbelievably rich). I may or may not have made the reservation for that dinner at a restaurant in a different city (I thought the name was Il Posto, it is actually just Posto...my bad).

Amazing goodbye dinner with wonderful friends

I took a two-day road trip with a friend from Boston to Cincinnati full of Subway sandwiches, New York camping, and waterfalls. 

Harvey was a trusted companion for the road trip

I spent a week in Cincinnati to drop off my stuff, go visit the Buffalo Trace Bourbon distillery with my brother Adam, his wife Meredith, and my Dad (worthy of its own blog post), have a moment on my Aunt's farm that is for sale and host a baby shower for my childhood best friend, Hilary.

Bourbon barrels

Aunt Kathy and Uncle Bill's farm

It was an elegant, evening affair

This isn't make-believe anymore

And now, here in Berkeley, we are enjoying the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) strike which has meant that Ben, Katy, and I have all been working from home, having gourmet breakfasts, lunches, and dinners together. Oliver and I are finding our rhythm. I know he really loves me because he can’t stop pinching me.

I am feeling lots of gratitude for bike rides, ah-ha moments, supportive family and friends, and the freedom to ride the unexpected waves of life. This is going to be a great summer. I have decided to pick back up the blogging, because as far as I am concerned, California is a different country. Thus, I am working abroad for the summer. That is the stuff of a good blog.

Reflections From a Hard Week

Monday

There are never words for times like these. I write that as if I have had times like these before. But where my words fail, my body speaks.  Heavy. So damn heavy. Cement-filled veins anchor me to the ground. Grateful that my feet are still here holding me steady as the world violently shakes around me. But I am strained. It isn’t easy to stay standing when so many fall. But it isn’t even the numbers, though the numbers matter. And it isn’t even that it could have been my friend's dad, though that matters too.

           I think I feel the tears in the collective sky reverberating through Boston. I wouldn’t be surprised if it began raining soon. Wash this all away. Wash this all away.

Thursday

I was locking my bike in front of church tonight as the three boys walked down the street. Teenagers, texting with headphones in while carrying out a conversation, “Can you imagine dude, being down there… not running away, but running toward the violence. Helping even when they are covered in blood. So much blood.”

            “You just gotta tune it out I think. You just gotta forget there is blood and help.”

            “Yea…”

            They walked on. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that they were not talking about some foreign war or a video game. No, they were walking down the streets of Boston just a few blocks from where the bombs went off three days ago. They were talking about their home. My home, if only temporary.

            The lump formed in my throat as I biked down Beacon St., but it was when I stepped through the front doors of the church that my eyes welled up. Once the music began, the tears came, almost against my will. My thoughts vascillated between being so grateful to be in a place where I could cry, yet also analyzing myself—why now? why are you crying now when you were "fine" all day?, and then wondering if I was allowed to feel this sad. I am not from Boston. I’ve joked since coming here that I am on a study-abroad trip for a year from the Midwest. My home here is across the river from Boston in Somerville. I attend Harvard. Copley square was a place I had been meaning to go all year, but had not yet made it to. And now I instantly want to launch into the reasons I am allowed to feel sad… I had been watching the marathon just before. My friend’s dad was running it, though, thankfully, was having a bad race and did not make his target time, the time the bomb went off. That I feel this as an ally to the pain so many feel directly. But… that all misses the point. It is not about who got hurt most or who was closest to the blast though those things do matter. This blast shook more than the ground beneath it.

Friday

            It wasn’t the worst thing to be on lock down with one of my best friends in the entire world. Not that I enjoyed it. But if I was going to have to spend a day in an apartment because an “armed and dangerous” boy was on the run, doing it with Ari was the way I wanted to do it. I'm glad at twenty-seven we still plan sleepovers that would have me over at her house on this morning. Like most Americans we were glued to our TVs from 6:30am until at least noon before we stepped away. We kept being sure it would come to a close soon. At 1, we napped with the TV’s soft murmur behind us. The incessant sound of the Watertown shoot out becoming a familiar backdrop. It was 3 when we finally ate a proper meal and 4:30 when we started giggling inappropriately all the time because we had been inside too long and the world wasn’t making sense. At 5, I finally got a little schoolwork done. Eventually the seventy-degree weather called us to brave the outdoors, breath in the spring sprinkle, see the flowers. With another friend we walked amidst freshly blooming trees that did not seem to have a hint about what was going on. I took my shoes off and felt the grass beneath my toes. I smiled the kind of smile that only the natural world can invoke. When we got home, we settled into a night of pizza making, wine-sipping, and debriefing. We kept an eye on the developing story of Dzokhar’s arrest, but we weren’t glued to it. We got sucked into conversations about violence, and its roots. We asked questions like, “what rules can a society have that really make for less violence?” We questioned what role rules even have in such big questions. We bemoaned the polarization of our leaders and our neighbors. We wondered how we might sustain the kindness that has emerged this week past this week. We felt relief that Dzokhar was no longer “at large,” but also felt deep sadness that his life had come to this moment. We held hands and did a Quaker prayer before eating pizza and diverging into conversations about first memories and childhood crushes. It was a complicated day. Not all bad. Far from good.

            Eventually, it was time. Time to go back to my home in Somerville. Time to go feel this in my bed where I felt this all Monday night. I was ready to take a deep breath in my home, however temporary it is. As I drove home, I put in my new birthday CD from my roommate Michelle—a mix of female empowerment songs named for the famous Rhianna song and my personal 2013 mantra, Shine Bright Like a Diamond. I momentarily felt guilty for listening to music and not the news, but not guilty enough to switch back. As I drove around Jamaica Pond, I felt my adrenaline start to give way to feeling. I remembered waking up to a text about the lockdown. I shook my head in disbelief. My fingers clenched the steering wheel as if I was driving home after watching a scary movie, flashing back to all the scenes, looking over my shoulder every once in a while. Only this horror movie is real life. And it’s been five days long. As I processed that thought I realized my car was passing Beth Israel Hospital, where Dzohar had been taken. I felt a chill at just how close this has all been to me and so many I love. That is when the swarms of college students appeared on either side of my car going down Brookline Ave. At first I thought maybe there was something happening. They all had their phones out and were taking pictures. As I got closer, they started pouring out into the street, looking forward, photographing, cheering. Soon, my car was stopped, completely swarmed. All around me people were chanting “USA, USA, USA.” The champagne bottles were out, being shaken and released. People were prancing in boas and top hats and goofy sunglasses, climbing on each other’s shoulders, smiling, thrilled. Still stuck in my car, I was unsure what to do. I felt invisible. Eventually a man who appeared to be dressed in medical scrubs, who likely had just gotten off an arduous shift approached my car from the car behind me, I rolled down my window, “Are you going through?”

            “That’s my intention,” I said, unsure if maybe they were hollering because the suspect had not yet been brought and was just approaching. Or for a minute, I actually wondered if there was a big international sporting event that happened today that I hadn’t heard about. Maybe they were just celebrating that.

            “There’s nothing in front of them. Just go.”

            I blasted my horn, and eventually the sea of celebration parted. I crept my car through as the people frolicked in and out of traffic, fearful of taking another life on this fragile week. As I drove off, my heart beat hard and fast and with such great disappointment. Tears bubbled over. This is not the point. This is not the point.

           I get it. Those of us who have survived this week are damn happy to be alive. But, this is not the kind of happy that makes me want to jump in the streets, shake champagne and chant patriotism. Dzokhar was an American. America didn’t “win” today. I am so grateful for the hard work of the police, FBI, first-responders, doctors, nurses, chaplains, parents facing impossible questions from their kids and the many helpers big and small. I am so impressed with the people who have stayed calm, held tight, and felt this deeply together. But I do not feel like we are winners right now. I ache for the families who lost loved ones, and those who are physically left with reminders of this week that may never go away. I ache for Dzokhar, and whatever it is that led him to this moment. I ache for his family and friends who can't make sense of this. There has been a lot of death, too much of it, this week. Not only in Boston. And there is a lot of death a lot of weeks. There is something underneath this violence that needs to be understood and worked through and healed. We aren’t going to get there with one side as winners. We are going to need to do this one together.

            As a lifelong Unitarian Universalist, I don’t always know what to do in times like these. Some of us pray, but it isn’t exactly a core part to the faith—or at least it isn’t taught in religious education. We hold on deeply to love and justice and each other. I have felt those values tested this week. I continue to. But, I have to believe that underneath all of this there remains a force of good stronger than evil; a force of love stronger than hate; a force of empathy stronger than othering; a force of community stronger than alienation. At dinner growing up, I loved saying our grace. It went like this, “We love each other. We help each other. We live together in peace.”

May it be so.