The first chapter, "Beginnings," is a narrative which explores the spiritual components of early childhood, then follows with the spiritual awakening of a secular adolescent encountering Jewish tradition and community.
Earliest of all I remember the sunlight. I am sitting on a child's chair, next to my grandmother. She had long white hair--actually, not "white," rather, yellowed, ivory. It was braided, then knotted in a bun. She's wearing a dark Old Country dress, it buttons down the front, covering a body which is sturdy yet soft. Black leather shoes lace up to her ankles, "old lady shoes." We are sitting in the sunlight, perhaps it is autumn. The warm sun penetrates me, embraces me, I feel relaxed, cradled. It is a sensuous moment, a moment of safety.
I am in high school. It is the end of my senior year. We go on buses from New York to Washington, D.C. for the senior class trip. We stay in a motel--a first for me. I am excited by the motel, by sleeping in a room with girlfriends (I've never done that before either). We drive around Washington at night, I am thrilled by the buildings and monuments lit up, my eyes are wide open. I don't come from New York really, I come from the province Brooklyn, I've hardly ever been out of it. The weekend is over, the bus brings us home in the dark, my classmates are singing--folk songs of the early '60s, Broadway show tunes. Finally I can sing no longer, I go sit in the back of the bus and look out into the darkness. It hurts so much to be alive. Some of my favorite teachers have chaperoned this trip, a debate rages within me: could I trust my secrets to one of them, could one of them offer me relief, could one of them break through my isolation? I don't want to go home, I don't want to go home, the wheels of the bus go round and round, I don't want to go home, beautiful Washington with its white buildings lit up in the dark, beautiful Washington is getting further and further away, closer and closer is Brooklyn, the no exit apartment, the pain in the walls, in the linoleum of that apartment ... One of my teachers sits down next to me, he senses the pain relentlessly throbbing, he senses that I am somehow in terrible trouble, he is caring, responsive, but he chooses the tactic of making me laugh--he doesn't have the courage to be a listener.
Many moments come after these moments, but these moments are the beginnings for me. The beginnings of spirit.