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What the cow does

14 0 0

In an old neighborhood of Jerusalem, I stood with my daughter strapped to me in a Snugly baby-carrier, waiting to speak with a certain renowned rabbi. One of his assistants hurried out of the rabbi’s house and stopped for a minute to say hello and ask me how I was. “Fine, thank you,” I said. “But I’m here to talk with him about having lost control of myself a lot lately.

He squinted in the sunlight. “We so many times speak of losing control, though we never had the control in the first place. Like a car that thinks it’s driving itself, or a pipe that thinks it’s the source of the water flowing through it.” The front door opened and someone gestured to me to enter. “Be well!” called the assistant as he scurried off. I entered a high‑ceilinged, violet‑wallpapered dining room, dim and cool, a relief from the summer day. Books lined the walls. I was shown into the living room, where at a table in the middle of the room sat the white‑bearded rabbi. A dish of melon slices lay before him on the table. He gestured to the chair opposite him. As I took a seat, he forked a slice of melon and slid it into a dish. “Here, please.”

“No, thank you.”

“You left your house without breakfast, maybe? Here.” He passed me the plate. “Of what would you like to speak?”

I had indeed left the yishuv without breakfast, and I doubt if anyone else had been able to eat either, so determined was I to make the eight o’clock bus to Jerusalem. “My anger, Rav Simcha. I lose my........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)

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