Be kind. Be ridiculous. And may your memory be a blessing

So here’s something I love about Judaism:

Our day begins with a gratitude—a Modah Ani, a prayer that brings us back to the astonishing gift of simply waking up.

It’s a reminder to pause, to feel the weight of our own breath, and to honor each day, each hour, as something miraculous.

Jewish life is filled with this mindfulness, woven deeply into our rituals and practices. When we encounter something new, something that lights up our hearts or opens our eyes—a taste of the first fruit of the season, the glow of the first Hanukkah candle, the movement of the lulav and etrog in the sukkah—we recite the Shehechiyanu. This blessing is for the sacredness of this moment, for being here, right now, witnessing the world just as it is, just as we are.

These prayers carry a quiet, vital truth: life is brimming with fleeting gifts, and our time here is a treasure to hold close. But Judaism teaches that what we do with this time ripples beyond us. Our lives aren’t measured by what we accumulate; they’re measured by what we leave behind in spirit and memory. “May their memory be a blessing” is more than a wish for comfort—it’s a wild, holy hope that our lives will be remembered for the kindness we spread, the joy we created, the light we brought into the world.

I try to live by this belief:

Every morning, when I open my eyes to a world blurred and quiet, before my feet touch the ground, before I check the news or brew my coffee, I say this prayer: Modah Ani—I give thanks.

My voice rough and thick with sleep, but I say it — I may sound like your chain smoking auntie who’s a little hungover and late for Mahjong but I freaking say it .

And I am grateful: I am here. I am alive. I get to hold the morning in my hands and thank the One True Singular Force that I opened my eyes again, one more time.

Lucky me.

This is a gift. Each breath we take in is a gift.

Even during days of pure, raw suckage, it is a gift.

Each sunrise and moonrise, each change in the seasons, each warm cup of this or cool glass of that, is a gift. Each opportunity we have to love, connect, and create together is a gift.

And whenever another season rolls around, and I eat the first pomegranate or fig or sweet, ripe strawberry, I look up and ground myself in the present moment. This is the first taste in this year’s cycle, I think. This is the first Hanukkah candle of THIS Kislev. And again, I marvel at how wonderful it is that I get to be here in the present moment for it.

The thing is, all the things we gather and collect while we are alive—the ones we earn through hard work and sacrifice, and the ones given to us by sheer blessing or just dumb luck… we don’t take a damn thing with us when we die—not our homes, nor our cars, nor our books, not even our dreams.

But what DOES matter is how we choose to be in the present moment… how we use the gift of time we are given when we get to open our eyes and get out of bed…

And here’s one of the things I know:

If you can only be one thing, be kind.

Just be kind.

One small, gentle act can ripple out in waves of light into the farthest reaches of the universe that Is, that Was, and that Will Be.

Be kind.

BUT if you can be MORE than one thing, then please: be weird and sparkly and legen…DARY and have adventures and take lots of photos and tell the young ones listening all the stories you can share so that way, far down the line—so far that you can barely even picture it in the furthest reaches of your feral, hungry imagination—your great-great-great-great whoevers will know that once, they had a far-back, distant ancestor who insisted on both being kind AND doing crazy, epic sh*t and having a spectacular time.

And then, your memory can be a gift for THEM—and maybe even a blessing forever into the infinite cosmos.