I’ve always believed my grandfather was my inspiration into spirituality. At a certain age, likely seven or eight, I began studying him more closely when he was engaged in his daily prayers. I tend to think that something ignited then. He was an orthodox Jew, Sephardic, emigrated from Turkey to Ellis Island. He and my grandmother spoke Ladino, a mix of Spanish and Hebrew. When we moved from New York to Massachusetts, they came for extended visits. I’d give up my room and bunk with my little brother in the room next door and for that week or two, they inhabited my space apologetically, gratefully. It was never a chore for me. Their visits were cause for celebration. At night I’d listen to their bedtime banter and then their tandem snoring from the other side of the wall, thinking of them tucked into the twin beds in my room, under the pink chenille bedspreads. Gramma in my sister’s old bed, before she moved downstairs, and Grampa in mine, with the view of the moon from the window. Continue reading My Grandfather’s Prayers →