As I was lying in bed on Shabbat, watching the sky alternate between a brilliant Spring blue, and a gloomy, maximum-Winter grey, it struck me how the weather in this country is SOOOO holy.

In the UK, where I’m from, the sky most days is some version of grey, with the odd patch of blue showing through in between the clouds (occasionally, in the Summer time…)

When I lived Montreal, a place known for its massive extremes of weather, you could certainly have a tremendously cold, but still sunny day in the middle of the snow season; and you could also have a cloudy day in August, prior to one of Montreal’s spectacular Summer thunderstorms.

But what I’ve never seen anywhere else is a sky going from powder blue, to darkest grey, to powder blue, to darkest grey – literally changing every 10 minutes from one extreme to the other.

I was watching the heavy snow fall in Jerusalem, and interspersed with it, I was watching the sun shine out unabashed, and it took my breath away.

I could deal with the grey, snowy horrible weather so much better, because I knew the sun was literally a 10 minute wait away. I could also enjoy the sun, because I knew that we’ve had enough rainfall this year to last us a decade (but that won’t stop them printing ‘drought imminent’ stories again next year, as soon as we get past Pesach.)

As I lay there, looking at the sky, I realized G-d was given me a mashaal, or an allegory for life, especially life in Israel, and especially, my life at the moment.

I’ve hit every ‘grey’ extreme going the last few months. I’ve had days when I literally felt like I couldn’t take ‘it’ any more, and I felt like I was going to explode, or break into pieces, if something didn’t change, pronto.

And then, the clouds parted, and I’d feel so much better, and calmer, and even a little bit happy again. I was back in my ‘blue sky’ mindset. And then 10 minutes later, the freezing wind and hail and snow showed up again, figuratively speaking.

The other day, I was trying to work out what’s been the most difficult thing to deal with, emotionally-speaking, and after I did a mind-map on the subject, what came through loud and clear was ‘uncertainty’. Nothing is certain. Not only that, my life, my attitude, my outlook, can flip from stormiest grey to sunniest blue in a second – and then flip back again in another second.

It’s enough to drive you bonkers.

But then, I looked at the sky on Shabbat, and I saw that this uncertainty is actually a blessing, in many ways, because it’s hiding the certainty of G-d, and His kindness, and the way He’s directing the world and my life.

After half an hour, I really got that G-d is controlling the extreme weather; G-d is flipping the switch; G-d is tipping things from grey to blue, and back again. When I need grey, I’ll get it. When I need blue, I’ll get it – and things will change according to what G-d decides is best for me.

And that’s for certain.

So like I said, even the weather in Israel is holy, and can teach us some profound lessons about how G-d is in charge of everything. We just have to take that half an hour, or five minutes, or 2 seconds to stay still, sit quiet, and try to work out the message He’s hiding in everything, even the freak weather.

I’ve just been listening to another amazing class by Rav Ofer Erez – and I simply can’t put into words how amazing his Torah is. For those of you who don’t know, Rav Erez is a colleague of Rav Arush, and a student of Rav Berland.

His teachings are currently only available in Hebrew, but they are blowing me away. Each time I pick up one of his books to read, or listen to one of his classes, I’m getting stupendous insights into life generally, and my life, specifically. He speaks with such depth and knowledge (and kaballistic stuff), but also with such simplicity and humility, that you can actually ‘get’ it.

This latest class, Rav Ofer Erez was explaining about how when Noah sent away the raven and the dove, he was actually trying to do some very big tikunim, or spiritual fixing, in the world.

(I’m going to try to explain what I learnt, but I’m not going to do it any justice. But here goes anyway…)

There are 2 opinions about what the raven represented: Chazal taught that it was the ‘klipa d’Esav’ that turned into xtianity. What is the main ‘theme’ of the xtians? That the Jews had their chance to be the chosen people, but they blew it, and G-d gave up on them, and picked the xtians instead to be the new ‘chosen people’.

That external klipa translates into internal feelings of despair and sadness. To paraphrase Rav Erez, whenever we feel that overwhelming despair, and that G-d isn’t with us, and doesn’t want us, and doesn’t care about us – we’re getting that from the ‘vicar in our head’, that wants us to buy into that horrible xtian worldview.

How do we counter that?

Ein yeoush beolam klal!!  – Rebbe Nachman’s rallying cry, that there is no despair in the world. That doesn’t mean we don’t feel despair, at least occasionally, but it DOES mean that G-d never despairs of us. He always wants us back.

The second view of what the Raven represents is brought in the Zohar Hakadosh: There, Rashbi tells us that the Raven is King David, the Melech Moshiach. Like the raven, G-d sent King David ‘away’ from him more times than you can count, with suffering and trials and tribulations. But King David kept crying out to G-d, and kept on coming back to Him. He never gave up, even when he thought he’d lost everything, and his own son was pursuing him.

How do the two things go together?

Rav Erez explained that right now, before moshiach, there is a war going on between our tzaddik (ie, Rebbe Nachman) and their ‘tzaddik’, ie, yoshki, about who is right. Is moshiach going to be ‘ours’, or ‘theirs’?

(Of course, we already know the answer…)

But if you want to know why things are so tough for so many of us right now, and why so many Jews feel sad and depressed right now, and that the exile is never going to end etc – it’s because we’re fighting that spiritual war against yoshki.

The outside struggle over control of Mount Zion and the Tomb of King David (!) is just mirroring the inside struggle we’re all going through: to believe the ‘vicar’ in our heads, that G-d gave up on us a long time ago, or to believe Rebbe Nachman, that G-d will never, ever give up on us, no matter how bad it gets, and that there’s always hope.

It’s a fight to the end. It’s going up in intensity. And now, at least you know you aren’t bonkers. If it feels like every spiritual effort you’re making is being frustrated, you’re right, at least on some level.

The only way to overcome the ‘klipa’ of the xtians, is via King David’s attribute of never letting himself get pushed away from G-d. He kept coming back and coming back and coming back again, no matter how tough, how far he fell, how horrible it got. That is the path of Moshiach, and we’re all currently living it in our own life.

Don’t give up! That’s what the xtians want (in more ways than one.)

Hang on to Rabbenu’s teachings, hang on to G-d, and you’ll see how it will all turn around for the best, very soon.

When my family got ‘frum’, when I was around 16, I started reading a whole lot of biographies and stories by interesting Baal Teshuvas. In nearly every case, Jerusalem had a starring role. People would be surfing, studying for university, back-packing in some 3rd world country, and somehow, the call of Jerusalem would reach them, and they’d stop everything to come and answer it.

If they were writing a book for Baal Teshuvas, it always meant that they’d got hooked on Jerusalem, on holiness, on G-d, on yiddishkeit, and that now they were here to stay.

I used to get very starry-eyed about the Holy City portrayed in those books: a place of quiet simplicity, homemade challot, tzaddikim on every corner, and colourful, real people who’d sacrificed every aspect of ‘normal’ and ‘comfortable’ to follow their souls towards G-d.

Of course, after living in Israel for 9 1/2 years, I kind of forgot all that starry-eyed stuff, and Jerusalem became much more a place where I could find long skirts, kosher ‘mehadrin’ falafel and a great zoo.

When we moved here in the Summer, that vision of ‘Jerusalem, past’ got even more blown to smithereens. My neighbours were dutch goyim; the Old City was a war zone; and my own striving for spirituality got so severely curtailed it almost evaporated.

A few days’ back, someone lent me a book to read called ‘I remembered in the night your name’, by Varda Branfman. It was a collection of short stories and poems, based around the author’s experience of making teshuva in the 70s, and coming to live – where else? – in Jerusalem.

There were a couple of things that caught my attention in the book; the main one for this post is that she was describing the holiness and simplicity of the Jerusalem neighbourhood called Geula.

I nearly fell off my chair.

Geula is a 10 minute walk from me, via Meah Shearim, and ‘holy’ and ‘simple’ are not the first words that spring to mind. Try: ‘glatt pizza’; ‘clothing stores’; ‘hustle and bustle’; ‘trendy opticians’; and ‘Brooklyn Bake Shop’.

I go to Geula to spend money, and that’s about it. It’s always been one of the least spiritually inspiring neighbourhoods in Jerusalem.

So I was stunned by the author’s description of it. Was I just not seeing all the holiness there, or has it changed beyond all recognition in the last two decades?

Varda’s book reminded me of all those ‘BT biographies’ I used to read, and I suddenly got a lump in my throat about ‘Jerusalem, past’. I remembered how I yearned to be here, 25 years’ ago, and how I was sure it was full of holy, crazy, friendly, amazing people, that would invite anyone and anything for Shabbat, and literally exude ‘connection to G-d’ and spiritual inspiration.

Now I actually live here, and I wonder what happened?

Does that place still exist, and I just haven’t found it yet? Or did it disappear under all the ‘gashmius’ and 5 star apartment complexes?

I don’t know what the answer is. But it gave me renewed strength to start searching again. Jerusalem IS the holy city; even with all the face-lifts, and all the xtians, and all the politics and all the pizza, somewhere underneath all that, is a city of spiritual gold.

And now, I’m on a mission to rediscover it.

Have you ever had one of those days when you kind of feel like G-d forgot about you? Yes, He made you, He gave you life, and maybe even a husband and kids and a mortgage – but now He’s busy with the civil war in Syria, or ISIS in Iraq, or the Israeli elections, and you’ve just kind of fallen through the gap…

I was feeling that way yesterday. I’ve been praying for things to turn around for ages, and they haven’t (as far as I can tell) and yesterday, I was convinced that G-d had forgotten about me.

Where’s my book deal, G-d? Where’s my parnassa? Where’s my ‘success’, my new house, my new car, my new outlook on life?!?!

I was really dejected, but I’d already made an arrangement to meet a friend at a Tu B’Shvat event, and I didn’t want to let her down.

I got there, and it’s a larger than life Temani grandma running the show, making millions of pitas and telling us all about G-d and emuna.

Within the first five minutes, she’d already covered talking to G-d, doing six hours, how G-d answers every prayer, and the stupidity of worrying about tomorrow instead of living for today.

More was still to come: she moved on to the topic of liking ourselves, and how when we don’t like ourselves, we’re always looking for acknowledgement and recognition and praise from outside, and how unhealthy that is.

I sat straight up in my chair.

“Don’t keep whining that no-one’s praising your cookies!” she said. “If the plate’s empty, it’s a sign they like them. Give yourself a pat on the back, and be happy!”

As if I hadn’t already realised that she’d been scripted by G-d to tell me exactly what I needed to hear, the Temani grandma then started listing all the weird physical symptoms she’d developed a few years’ back, by getting too stressed about things instead of trusting Hashem to come through for her:

Funny eyes; weakness on one side of her body; extreme exhaustion, etc (IE, all the weird physical symptoms I’ve had, the past few years.)

OK, OK, I got it!

G-d is aware of what’s going on with me. He’s noticing everything. The prayers are all being heard, and they’ll be answered in due course.

Ein Od Milvado! The Temani grandma yelled out, and winked at me.

I don’t know if Eliyahu Hanavi ever comes back as a woman, but if yes, I think I may have seen him in action yesterday. And let me tell you, he cooks a mean pita.

I’ve just finished reading a book called: ‘I remembered in the night your name’, by Varda Branfman, and I really enjoyed it.

A couple of things in particular caught my attention, one of which had to do with the author’s experience of seeing a true tzaddik, (who happened to be her Rabbi) in action.

Someone the author knew had been struggling with a massive decision, and didn’t know what course of action to take. Everyone was weighing in with their own opinion, just muddying the waters further, and the person was getting more and more confused.

The person with the big decision decided they needed to visit this particular Rabbi, to ask his advice. For 15 minutes, he gave all the angles of the problem, then sat back and waited for the Rav’s pronouncement. Here’s what happened:

“Until that moment, the Rabbi hadn’t said anything, but then he stood up and slapped our friend on the back. ‘Well, take a shot at one of the other.’ And then he left the room….The Rabbi was telling him that the choice between one or the other was not the crux of the matter. His own personal growth depended…on the way he, himself, chose to respond.”

Sometimes, we can feel so overwhelmed by ‘choice’ that we’re desperate to abdicate our ability to make a decision to others. But as I’m learning more and more, G-d sends us decisions, even very hard decisions, because He wants us to flex our free choice muscle, and decide for ourselves.

If we do that, even if we choose ‘wrong’, we still accomplish so much, spiritually – far more than we would by choosing someone else’s ‘right’.

I loved Varda’s ‘Rabbi’ story because it so simply and poignantly demonstrated this principle in action. When someone is really connected to G-d, they know that you actually can’t make a wrong choice (strange as that sounds…) These individuals believe so strongly in G-d’s goodness, and ability to ‘fix’ what’s broken, that they know that even if you take a wrong turn, or a misstep somewhere along the way, it’s not the end of the world, and you’ll still get to where you need to be.

That’s why even when pressed, genuinely holy people will very rarely make a decision for you, and even when they give you advice, it won’t be forced down your throat: they are issuing guidance to help you make the right decision, not barking out orders that must be followed.

Sadly, I’ve had to learn this lesson the hard way (maybe, there is no other way of learning it.)

The last few months, I’ve been picking over a lot of decisions I felt compelled to make after following other people’s ideas of how I should be running my life. It’s been very hard spiritual work, for a lot of reasons. Firstly, I realised that abdicating my free choice was not the high spiritual level I believed it to be. It was the shortcut that’s ended up taking me and my husband round a very long way.

Secondly, I’ve also had to work pretty hard on developing the emuna that even when we followed the ‘wrong’ advice, it was still exactly what G-d wanted. Let me tell you, when you’re trying to deal with the fallout from making a series of apparently ‘wrong’ decisions, it can be a very big test to see G-d behind it all, believe it’s good, and not start blaming anyone for the big mess you appear to be in.

But that’s the process of growth and development. And that growth, more than anything, has been the spiritual pay-off of all the apparently wrong ‘choices’ we made.

Now I’m seeing first-hand how bad decisions have hidden benefits, it’s making me much more relaxed over the choices my kids are making. My daughter is currently picking her high-school, or ulpana, and I’ve given her guidance, but left the actual decision of where she goes up to her.

She’s the one who has to live with her choice. She’s the one who will grow and develop from her experiences, however they turn out, even if they’re not apparently ‘perfect’ or ‘correct’.

And that’s OK! That’s G-d’s plan for her, for me, for everyone. We think, and we pray, and we choose, and sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t, but ultimately it’s all ‘good’. No one can take away what is meant to be ours. No one can give us what G-d doesn’t want us to have.

That’s the real secret of happiness. And without all the mistakes I’ve made recently, I don’t think I ever would have discovered it.

You know, it’s just struck me how so many of us are so busy ‘competing’ for attention / kudos / success / popularity etc, that it’s making it really hard for us to appreciate what other people are actually trying to do to build the world. (As always, I’m talking about myself…)

Someone sent me a newsletter for her new website: it was beautifully done, and very colourful and professional. My first thought was: ‘Wow! This looks so impressive!’

My second thought was: ‘Man, I could never do something this good…’

My third thought was: ‘What the heck am I saying??!?!?’

Because instead of appreciating the time and effort that had gone into my correspondant’s beautiful site, my yetzer instead had me wasting time and effort on tearing myself down.

I had to work for a good half an hour to stop feeling like a complete loser again, and to focus on what G-d (and Rav Arush…) want me to focus on, namely, gratitude.

Whenever I get sucked into ‘competing’, I can’t be grateful for the beautiful light others are shining into the world.

The ‘plus’ that G-d sends my way turns into a ‘minus’, and instead of feeling happy that there are such amazing things going on around me, I start fretting that someone else’s light is somehow detracting from my own.

But it’s baloney!!

Once I worked all that out, I decided I needed to call the person in question, and tell her how great her site looked. I needed to appreciate her time and effort, and get my own insecurities out the way. So I did.

I’m currently re-learning, for the millionth time, that it’s not a competition. There is enough success / attention / kudos / appreciation / light available for everyone, and instead of worrying that I’m not ‘good enough’, I just need to appreciate all the good out there, and to trust that G-d will help me to shine my own light in whatever way it needs to happen, whenever it needs to happen.

The other day, I walked past a billboard in Meah Shearim for one of the local healthcare providers here in Israel, that had a big picture of a smiley charedi doctor doing two big thumbs up. The slogan underneath read something like: “A billion children’s visits to the doctor!!”

Apparently, the healthcare provider felt that this was cause for some celebration, but I walked away scratching my head.

Israel is not a big country – it’s got about 6 million residents. The number of children is clearly less than that. The number of children going to this particular health care provider (probably around 50%) is even less than that.

Now, I’m not a maths whiz, but that sounds like an awful lot of sick children, too me. I mean, by the time you’re taking them off to the doctor it’s usually already up to a level of ‘serious’.

What’s going on here?

Why are there so many sick children walking around?

(Of course, I have my own ideas, but what do you think?)

On a separate, but related note, I was telling someone about my new book, which G-d willing is approaching completion, which talks tachlis about how to keep ourselves mentally and physically healthy by getting G-d involved in our health.

I’m planning to do two versions – one for the ‘frum’ Jewish world, and one for the non-Jewish world.

She told me very candidly: “You’ve got an uphill struggle. Most people in the Jewish frum world will just tell you ‘G-d made Prozac, and He wants us to use it’, and that’s the end of the conversation.”

I was a little bit shocked.

Are things really that bad? I mean, yes, G-d made Prozac, but He also made heroin, cocaine, Rocket Propelled Grenades, Arab terrorists, internet porn and the IRS.

If someone came up and told me ‘G-d made heroin, and He wants me to use it to feel happy’ – that argument really wouldn’t fly with me.

G-d made EVERYTHING, in the world, absolutely everything. Our job down here is to choose between ‘good’ and ‘bad’, and between ‘what G-d wants’ and ‘what G-d doesn’t want’.

Sometimes, I can’t believe the moral madness I’m trying to deal with. If I was dealing with a bunch of atheists who were big believers in the idea that ‘bodies are all there is’, and they were telling me this stuff, that would be one thing. But when you’re dealing with the people who are meant to be the ‘light unto the nations’? It’s kinda depressing.

When G-d is out of the picture, who’s to say using heroin is wrong? I mean, if you could get it on prescription, what’s the problem? It’s probably cheaper to produce and has less side affects than most of the other things being produced by Glaxo…

Sigh.

One step at a time. One day at a time.

And who knows? Maybe one day, someone in Meah Shearim will still buy my book.

Life is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? We don’t like to think of it as being so (especially if we’re parents), because it would make it too hard to function, in some way, if we really ‘got’ how temporary everything is.

But when we don’t grasp the ephemeral nature of life, we can so easily end up missing the whole point of being alive.

The same day I got the terrible news of the car crash involving the Rav’s son and family, my daughter’s pet bird died. (I’m not for one moment suggesting there’s a parity, G-d forbid.)

But my daughter loved her pet, as children do, and was terribly distraught for two days’ afterwards. She also has a hamster, and now that the bird had gone, she was worrying that something ‘bad’ was going to happen to her other pet.

When she found out about the car crash, that seemed to tip her over into some massive ‘where is G-d’ moments, and she was really angry that G-d could let so many apparently horrible things happen in the world.

‘Why was G-d killing innocent pets, and even more innocent people?’ she wanted to know. ‘How can G-d be good, if He’s doing things like that?’

These are not simple questions.

They go to the heart of what it means to really live our emuna. They underpin a whole worldview, and whole perception of life down here as just being ‘prep time’ for the place where it’s really happening.

If it was just the bird, I probably would have managed it better. Bird and crash together meant that G-d was giving me a big exam in emuna, too. Because kids know when you’re sincere, or when you’re just parroting ‘religious’ stuff at them because it’s the right thing to do, and not because you really believe it yourself.

We ended up having a long discussion about it (relatively – she is still 11), and I can’t say that I totally convinced her, at least, not initially, that there was a big plan and that everything was exactly how it should be.

As I was talking to her, I could see I still needed some convincing myself. I mean, Rav Arush is my rabbi, and as I’ve posted here a few times already, he is a very holy, kind, humble, sincere person. And so are his kids.

On some level, I hate what’s just happened.

On some other level, I know that what Rav Arush himself wants from me is to NOT question G-d’s ways, and to accept 100% that G-d is only good.

I went to a ladies’ prayer thing at the yeshiva yesterday, for the refuah of R’ Shimon and his family, and that message came across loud and clear:

We do not question Hashem’s ways!

Rav Arush and his family are being tested so hard because he’s standing in the breach for Am Yisrael. We moan about our parnassa, or about our housing, or about our pet bird dying – instead of trying to be grateful for all the blessings G-d is continually doing for us, and all that complaining creates a massive spiritual debit against Am Yisrael.

That our tzaddikim pay off with their mesirut nefesh and suffering.

But I don’t want Rav Arush to suffer any more on my account!

The other thing that came across loud and clear from my prayer thingy is that GRATITUDE is the main area that really needs the work.

The more I, you, everyone, says ‘thank you’ to G-d, the easier it’s going to be for all of us.

I’ve struggled to really be grateful, especially recently. But I decided I owe it to Rav Arush – and the other tzadikim who are holding the fort for Am Yisrael – to really give it my best shot, now.

I want to hear good news from the hospital. I want to enjoy my own temporary life as much as I can, while I’ve still got it. I want geula to come fast, the sweet way. And I want to really show my children that G-d IS good, even when their pet bird dies unexpectedly. And I think working on my gratitude, and my emuna, is the only way I’m going to be able to do it.

As you already know if you’ve come to this blog from breslev.co.il, my kids now go to school in the Old City of Jerusalem. Yes, that Old City, with people (apparently) getting stabbed with screwdrivers, knives, bits of rusty fencing – whatever the Arabs have to hand, basically.

Usually, someone tells me a particularly ‘juicy’ stabbing story five minutes after my kids were just in the same location, or are planning to go there tomorrow, to visit some friend who lives in the Muslim Quarter, or Ir David (right next to Silwan Village) or Maalei Zeitim – that has it’s own machine-gun outpost.

Cool!

If you don’t happen to be their mother.

If you’re their mother, what else can you do besides making sure you say Tikkun Haklali pretty much every single day, and doing a ‘mini’ Pidyon Hanefesh for them every time they step out the door.

Because apart from one kid who lives in Har Homa, and another from Givat Mordechai, pretty much every single one of their classmates comes to school under armed guard – what’s called ‘levuyi’, in Hebrew.

Sometimes, when G-d gives me a rare moment to catch my breath, I think about the enormous bizarreness of so much of my life right now, and it almost makes me laugh: I mean, Arabs scare the pants off me! Almost as much as having to wear a tichel…

So the fact that my kids go to school through the Arab shuk, and that all their social engagements involve two big ex-soldier guys with guns is still something I often can’t believe.

It’s a constant, daily reminder that G-d is running the world, not me.

I have to work, constantly, to give control of so much of my life back to G-d at the moment, and to do my best to be happy about my present circumstances.

But that’s the true definition of emuna: being happy with your lot.

It’s definitely easier when your kids are going to some quiet, village prep school with excellent academic standards, you own your own house, your husband has a steady job, and you have maybe half a clue of what you think you’re doing and what it’s all about.

That said, I’m actually starting to enjoy the craziness, in a funny way. The other week, I went to Kever Dovid to do a bit of crochet and personal prayer for an hour. I felt so filled-up by that visit.

The Old City is such a holy, crazy place to be intimately involved with. On the one hand, I’m thrilled my kids are there in school, and on the other hand, I sometimes wish they were anywhere else in the country.

But then, my daughter told me an Arab stabbed some people on a bus in ‘safe’ Tel Aviv this morning (she has all the latest ‘Arab stabbing’ news, often even before Ynet), and I realised that G-d really is in charge.

We need to do what we need to do, and trust in G-d’s goodness, and then let go. We’re really not in control.

Of all the lessons I’ve learnt from my children’s school, that’s probably the most important.

I love the simplicity of energy medicine. I know I’m not doing the world’s best job of explaining it (yet…) on this blog, but hopefully that will change soon, especially when I get all my diagrams of acupressure points sorted out.

In the meantime, I just wanted to tell you a bit about pulse points.

Acupuncturists usually train for decades, to be able to tell if one of the 12 meridian pulse points is too weak, or too strong, but if you use energy (or muscle) testing, you can literally pick up the basics in an hour.

The 12 pulse points are located on the thumb side of each hand, six on right wrist, and six on the left wrist.

If you press lightly with three fingers, you get the pulses for the external, or ‘yang’ meridians. If you press deeply with the same three fingers, you get the pulses for the internal, or ‘yin’ meridians.

Today, I was feeling really, really low, and I had no idea why. I mean, OKAYYY, times are currently tough in the Levy household. But sadly, it’s been that way for years. If I let that get me down I don’t think I would’ve smiled once the last 12 years…

So something else was going on.

(The last time I felt like this, btw, was a few weeks before the last Gazan war.)

Last time, I literally felt I was going to have a heart-attack for weeks, G-d forbid, for no obvious reason. This time round, thanks to the pulses, I could at least check what meridians were out, and try to figure out how to unblock whatever needed unblocking, or strengthen whatever needed strengthening, before my toes went numb.

I checked, and I got the following information:

Kidney, small intestine, gallbladder and heart were all out.

I vigorously rubbed the associated neurolymphatic points for each meridian, to get the energy going again, and now they all tested strong, except heart.

Ahhh, the heart.

Heart energy gets weakened by heartache and heartbreak. I’d love to tell you that I have no problems in that area, but I’d really be lying. I’ve been trying to deal with a broken heart, for various reasons, for about three years now.

Every time I think I’ve turned the corner with it, I smack straight into a big wall.

But G-d is showing me again, that I have to keep trying to heal my heartbreak, and keep looking for ways to put love out into the world, however difficult that’s been for me recently.

The only thing that’s more spiritually and physically damaging to a person than a broken heart is a heart of stone.

So even though it still feels pretty risky to hope and to love and to try again in any genuine way, that’s really the only way forward. I have to trust G-d that any heartache He throws at me is coming to heal and not to hurt, and to stop worrying so much about ‘what will be’.

That’s quite a tall order.

But I prefer it a million times over to having my toes go numb again.