Shvayg Shosh

I want to write her name in the sky. And watch it blow away in the wind.   I want to scream her name with joy Pronouncing every syllable Savoring each sound like fine wine Or rich chocolate cake. I want to fold perfect paper airplanes filled with each letter And fly them into space.   I want her name in a bottle Across the sea. I want her name to mean something in this world. I want to know it is more than a whisper from my mouth Or a dream inside my head. I want the idea of her to be Honored and exalted.               She is holy and her name is holy   Her name is my love Her name is forgiveness Redemption And light Her name is my devotion my loss my grief my pain my wonder Her name is my secret My heart is broken but when they cut it open, no matter how they poke and prod, her name will remain in my swishing heartbeat in the oxygen that fills my body Lifting my exhaustion...

When I was editor of the Jewish VOICE, I wrote a reflections article on my problems with Passover. As Passover approaches, I thought it would be good to share. Liberation Theology By Shoshana Kohn, Editor I spent a long time staring at a blank page.  Why? Because as a part of a greater Jewish community, I realize that we are hold our own beliefs and these beliefs mean everything to us.  However, I think most of us struggle with something in Judaism, and if we don’t talk about it, and share it, we may never get over that struggle.  So, let me start by saying, while you, dear reader, may not agree, I, Shoshana Kohn, am a Biblical skeptic.  Therefore, as I grow older, I find myself more and more troubled with Passover.  When it comes to historical fact and the bible, the academic world is very complicated. We know King Solomon was real. We know there was a Kingdom of Israel and a Kingdom of Judah.  Clearly, we know there was a Babylonian exile. Howe...

This morning I read an article on Huffington Post, This is 38 . It didn't sit right with me. Not because her reality wasn't truthful, but it was so different than my own reality. So, on the edge of my 35th birthday, I thought I'd write my own version. ( And, a note to the grammar police, I decided to write 35 instead of thirty-five. ) This is 35 35 is rejections you thought would be over by now keep coming. It is losing the job that looked so impressive on paper. It is realizing that you hated your boss anyway. It is wondering where that perfect job you worked so hard to have will jump in your lap. At 35, looking towards 40 is much more appealing than looking backwards at 30. Being 25 sounds awful. Getting carded is no longer fun; it’s just confusing.  Being 35 means leaving your old life and starting another. It means ex-husbands and anger. Missing children and sadness. It means that being the First Wife is a much happier life than being the Forever Wife. 3...

He is tall and slender with a crooked nose, big eyes, full lips, a steady professional job, and a neatly button-down shirt. His ordinariness is so extradinary it makes my heart ache. He belly laughs at my goofy, well-timed joke. His wedding ring laughs at me when it bumps against the table. I am unsure what hurts more: the baby at the next table or him. Both of them hold someone else's joy and on another day, in another week, in another year, neither would grab my attention with such strangling unyielding force. And oddly, it's his force that pulls me more than the baby. Because, well, through all of this, my lack of a partner has left me emptier than I've ever known I could be. Even while pregnant, the loneliness grabbed me and pulled me down forcing the howl out of my throat. And don't tell me about the kind of loneliness you feel when your partner isn't really your partner. I know every nook and cranny. I know every sharp edge. But I can gather as many f...

A few months ago, my friend Jasmine posed on a question on her Facebook wall:  What makes you Howl?  Right now, the last thing I want to do is howl. Right now, all I want to numbness. Numbness and an empty head.  This, of course, is asking a lot from me... At the end of a long summer of unemployment and dating, I found myself still single, still unemployed, and newly pregnant.  After a moment of hesitation, a scan on one internet site on the abortion pill that after ten seconds left me in tears, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was having baby number three.  Unlike my other two children, this child would be mine and mine alone.  While the complications of my current life would make this a challenge, my parents, sister, and close group of supportive female friends allowed me to see that this task would not be impossible.  Secretly,I was delighted.  Secretly, because for the first time in my life, I was completely taken over by an ...

Last January, my friend Galit Breen published an article on Jews and Tattoos . I was lucky enough to be a part of it. Today, I've added more ink to my body. Like everything I do, my ink has everything to do with my Jewishness... I am a tattooed Jew. Most of my  tattoos define my Judaism.  I reject the prohibition against tattoos. I am not committing idolatry nor am I debasing my body by making it more beautiful. I am a Reform Jew. I am the mother of two children whose father is not a Jew. I am a Queer Jew. I am a Jew who loves, honors, respects, intellectualizes and questions my people and my religion every second of every day. My Jewishness is at the core of my very being, and my tattoos reflect my identity.  The tattoo on my leg is Eve, naked in front of a tree, holding an apple with a Torah scroll wrapped around her body. The words-  Etz Chaim - tree of life are above her head. Frankly, it’s a lot of information to unpack.  For me, Eve is the most impor...

I'm staring at the coffin, plain, wood, filled, when she walks into the sanctuary. I can feel her as her heels pad softly against the flat brown carpet. The weight of the air shifts. Particles gather around me, closing my throat. All I can smell is my wife on her clothes. It's as if their pheromones mixed together just to taunt me. My body heaves forward. I try in vain to blow out stale fearful air, but her presence suffocates me. The word lover whispers in my ear from some unknown voice as I tightly close my eyes. I'm sure the congregation thinks I'm holding back tears for her. I am. I'm not. I don't know. I've never felt jealous in my whole life. I've never understood the nights my wife would cry in our bed or on the floor because she felt I was keeping some dark secret. For her, jealousy lived just under the surface, a constant threat to our marriage. Her crying pissed me off so much; I fantasized about hitting her, just to shut her up. Every time I ...