2100 years ago (in a former life) I was a young rabinical student charged with writing out pages and pages of sacred text. It was a beautiful summer day, birds chirrped, bees buzzed and a couple of sisters were doing laundry in the nearby river. I longed to join them as they splashed and laughed and rucked their skirts up above their knees. To be honest, I was not a very happy student. I hated reading and writing, and as I had told my father on the day he left me at the gates, "All I really want to do is Sing!!" But he did not care. On my third day of residence, I was taken to a small room with a single window and told to copy the text of a huge collection of writings. They told me it was the word of God, but I recognized the writing style of my great Uncle Zeek. So, can you blame me for having a little fun inbetween bouts of writer's cramp?
