Chaya Quotes

You are a name, not a number. Never forget that name, whatever they tell you here. You will always be Chaya—life—to me.

No, Chaya. As much as the Nazis want to take our lives, they want to take our faith too. We fight for one, Avraham's friends fight for the other." "What good is faith if you're dead?" "What good is life without faith?" A soft sigh escaped her lips, but she remained more patient with me than I ever was with her. "We'll all die one day–no one escapes that fate. Our only decision is how we live before that day comes. Our path requires courage, but so does theirs. Both paths are ways to resist.

Live," he whispered. "For my Chaya. For all our Chayas. Live. And remember.

I'm so grateful — the love me and my daughter Chaya share is so powerful and so potent and so pure. What we give each other is unconditional and unrestrained love. We pour that love into each other, and we embrace that love from each other with thankful hearts. So much so, that parts of ourselves live within the other. Nothing and no one could separate us. Nothing and no one could jeapordize our love. That's the magnitude of our daddy daughter love. That's me and Chaya.

When managers use ESG frameworks to inform choices, risk is inherently minimized.

As an entrepreneur, it’s critical to have a vision and to have faith in your vision. Almost every entrepreneur has to go up against some doubters, and faith provides immunity against doubts.

The Matriarchs The Tales of Terror Phasaelis and Herod Antipas My Life in Nazareth Lamentations for Susanna Jesus, Beloved Yaltha of Alexandria Chaya: Lost Daughter The Ways of the Therapeutae Thunder: Perfect Mind Remembering

the Royal Scribe of the Metropolis from Haran ben Philip Levias of the Jewish Council. I attest that Chaya, daughter of my sister, Yaltha, died in the month of Epeiph of the 32nd year of the Emperor Augustus Caesar. As her guardian and kinsman, I request that her name be entered

To the Royal Scribe of the Metropolis from Haran ben Philip Levias of the Jewish Council. I attest that Chaya, daughter of my sister, Yaltha, died in the month of Epeiph of the 32nd year of the Emperor Augustus Caesar. As her guardian and kinsman, I request that her name be entered among those who have died. She is not default in the payment of taxes being the age of two years at the time of her death.

An empty vessel clangs the loudest. That’s the adage I hear continuously, from Chaya, from the teachers at school, from the Yiddish textbooks. The louder a woman, the more likely she is to be spiritually bereft, like the empty bowl that vibrates with a resonant echo. A full container makes no sound; she is packed too densely to ring. There are many proverbs repeated to me throughout my childhood, but this one stings the most.

It’s joyful to know you could be diagnosed with a mental disorder but to opt out, to say yes to yourself instead, to have the patience and care to resist the label that never got you anywhere before, that was voted into existence as an illness, that simply isn’t helpful in looking at your life. Nothing tastes sweeter than inching toward self mastery, self intimacy, the progress that comes slowly over a long period of taking good care of yourself, the very best way you know how to, and very imperfectly at that.

It is not about the scientists and teachers and lawyers they become and the things such people accomplish for others. It is not about the immigrants like Chaya who worked and saved and sacrificed to get a decent footing in America. It is not about the wonderful peaceful days and nights you spent growing up in our house. It is not about the lovely friends you always had. No, it’s about Essie and her hammer, and Sidney and his chorus girls, and that shyster of Essie’s and his filthy mouth, and, as best I can see, about what a jerk I was begging them to reach a decent compromise before the whole family had to be dragged up in front of a goyisher judge.” “I didn’t depict you as a jerk.

All my aunts and uncles are hard on their children, it seems to me. They berate them, embarrass them, and yell at them. This is chinuch, child rearing according to the Torah. It is the parents’ spiritual responsibility that their children grow up to be God-fearing, law-abiding Jews. Therefore, any form of discipline is all right as long as it is for that purpose. Zeidy often reminds me that when he is delivering a harsh lecture to a particular grandchild, it is only out of a sense of obligation. Real anger is forbidden, he says, but one must fake it for the sake of chinuch. In this family, we do not hug and kiss. We do not compliment each other. Instead, we watch each other closely, ever ready to point out someone’s spiritual or physical failing. This, says Chaya, is compassion—compassion for someone’s spiritual welfare.

we will always be at the mercy of the world and of circumstances beyond our control.

I was asleep. All along, I was asleep and never understood. But now, as he stares at the relic bo tree, something shifts. Nothing lasts forever. A kuti is a cell. This cell is a prison. He sits in a prison, while the ones who took Chaya live and drink and whore and laugh. Nothing is permanent. This is the central teaching of the Buddha. Not a career, not an institution, not a wife, not a tree. . . All is change; change is the only truth.

Padma shook her head and sighed loudly. Her friend was foolish to think evil would simply disappear and leave them alone. “There is talk of a syndicate rising up. They are not happy with what you have set up here.” “Of course they’re not. But that’s just too bad.” Charlie sat across from her and frowned. “Before I was abducted, I was aware of poverty in the general sense, but the personal stories of bondage are so real and so heart wrenching.” “Charlie, please, you need to focus on the matter at hand,” Padma urged. “But don’t you see, it’s all connected. More than thirty million people are in some form of slavery worldwide. Thirty million!” Drumming her fingers on the desk, Charlie gave a weak smile. “I cannot stand by and do nothing. India has my heart and sadly it is one of the worst countries for human trafficking. You and I can attest to that.

We saw beauty in a different way. A deeper way. Chaya Aronovich was a beautiful person. She took the time to befriend me and teach me the ropes.

With that in mind, reflexology is an effective treatment for relieving some forms of pain, especially headaches and migraine, anxiety, depression, sinus problems, stress, and many other ailments which will be covered in greater detail later.

the mind remains open and fluid without wavering or losing the direction of action, a well-planned yoga session will reflect the saying that all motion ends in stillness while stillness ends in motion.

If you want to do us all a favour, either get over Chaya or get her back. But stop living in this half-world where she’s yours, yet with another guy.

Just be fucking happy, Chaya. If it hurts this bad, one of us should be.

You want to celebrate your faith in your own way and be happy with me, you seize the fucking moment, Chaya.

La literatura es mi sedante para esta herida que no cierra.

Look, Jeevan, first go and find a job, a respectable one, and then come back for Chaya,” he said. “If you continue here, it will not be safe. Not only for you but also for your family. For your sisters.

A known Shadchan (religious matchmaker) in Crown Height’s bustling Chabad community set up Zephaniah and Chaya.

sounded like another language entirely. I felt relieved, momentarily, to be a relatively worldly Lubavitcher, even if I didn’t entirely fit in with the Crown Heights crowd. — Much to my disappointment, Miri was rarely to be seen. Most days she left the apartment around ten in a giddy rush and returned in the early evening with armloads of shopping bags, only to leave again for dinner with her friends. But one morning, when Leah was otherwise engaged, I was finally recruited for shomeres service. We were going to Ratfolvi’s, in Flatbush, to pick up the sheitel that Miri would be required to wear as a married woman. Pulling up to a residential building, we let ourselves into Mrs. Ratfolvi’s wig shop/apartment and sat down in the reception area, where four or five women were chatting away on a damask sofa and chairs. While we waited our turn, I examined the rows of wigs on display: there were various shades of brunette, blonde, and ginger; short, teased bouffants and glamorous, shoulder-length falls; wigs encased in rollers and wigs that were fully styled, needing nothing more than a final shpritz of hair spray. They were set upon Styrofoam heads complete with turned-up noses, high cheekbones, and luscious lips that looked like they could come alive at any moment. I longed to get my hands on a brush and a pair of scissors so that I could create my own visions of tonsorial loveliness. I did this from time to time to my dolls, to my mother’s great irritation, and here was a whole wall of victims. When Miri’s name was called, she plunked herself into the salon chair and pulled the silk scarf off her ponytail. I stood as close as I could without getting in the way. From conversations that I’d overheard between my mother and her sisters, I knew that Mrs. Ratfolvi was considered “the best,” and I was eager to watch her at work. The “rat” in her name had led me to expect someone old and unattractive, but she was actually a nicely put-together middle-aged woman. The receptionist brought over a plastic case about the size of a chubby toddler. In one expert motion, Mrs. Ratfolvi clicked it open, withdrew the fully styled wig on its Styrofoam head

I-Chaya is dying. Burnham has just returned with a healer from a nearby village. The healer has examined I-Chaya and made his prognosis. All his medicine can do now is prolong I-Chaya’s suffering. It would be unseemly for Burnham to cry. She is Vulcan. “Release him,” she tells the healer. “It is fitting he dies with peace and dignity.” As the healer prepares his hypospray, Burnham’s adult cousin Selek watches while she whispers her farewell to I-Chaya, with her thanks for his courage, his loyalty, and his sacrifice.

We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves.

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All the asanas fall into one of five categories: bending forward, bending to the side, bending backward, twisting, and balancing. These five actions can be done standing, sitting, lying face down, face up, on one’s side, or inverted. These five bodily positions correspond to the pancha mukhas (five faces) of Lord Shiva.

She was successful at sustainable unhappiness, stable enough so that she came to work without fail but soaked so thoroughly in misery that each night she couldn't remember what she'd done that day and melted like a rum cake in her whipped-cotton-sheeted, cool white bed.

In the beginning, they were grateful to see their brother married off. “I made him into a mensch,” my mother tells me. “I made sure he always looked neat. He couldn’t take care of himself, but I did. I made him look better; they didn’t have to be so ashamed of him anymore.” Shame is all I can recall of my feelings for my father. When I knew him, he was always shabby and dirty, and his behavior was childlike and inappropriate. “What do you think of my father now?” I ask. “What do you think is wrong with him?” “Oh, I don’t know. Delusional, I suppose. Mentally ill.” “Really? You think it’s all that? You don’t think he was just plain mentally retarded?” “Well, he saw a psychiatrist once after we were married, and the psychiatrist told me he was pretty sure your father had some sort of personality disorder, but there was no way to tell, because your father refused to cooperate with further testing and never went back for treatment.” “Well, I don’t know,” I say thoughtfully. “Aunt Chaya told me once that he was diagnosed as a child, with retardation. She said his IQ was sixty-six. There’s not much you can do about that.” “They didn’t even try, though,” my mother insists. “They could have gotten him some treatment.

After both of us have devoured the brownie, she pauses and wipes her mouth. She says that she wanted to take me with her, but she couldn’t. She had no money. My father’s family threatened to make her life miserable if she tried to take me away. Chaya, the oldest aunt, was the worst, she says. “I would visit you and she would treat me like garbage, like I wasn’t your mother, had never given birth to you. Who gave her the right, when she wasn’t even blood?” Chaya married the family’s oldest son and immediately took control of everything, my mother recalls. She always had to be the boss, arranging everything, asserting her opinions everywhere.

In the afternoon, Eli suggests we take a nap so we can be rested for later, but I stay awake watching his blank sleeping face, his hand tucked restfully beneath the pillow. The doorbell rings and I pad out into the living room to press the intercom button. It’s Chaya, and I press the buzzer to let her in. “I heard what happened,” she says, after she is seated at my new dining room table, stocking feet crossed neatly under her chair. I wait for her to come to my defense, to say something soothing. Her face is hard when she continues. “If there’s one thing that makes a marriage work,” she says, “it’s that a man must be king in the bedroom. If he is king in the bedroom, then he feels like a king everywhere else, no matter what happens.” She pauses, looking intently at me, her hands clutching the handles of her black bucket purse. “You understand me?” she asks, waiting for confirmation. I nod, too flabbergasted to say anything. “Good,” she says, firmly, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “Then everything will be taken care of. I’m not even going to tell Bubby and Zeidy about this; why give them more bad news in their old age and fragile condition?” I hear the implications of that statement and feel immediately guilty. Still, as the door shuts behind her, I wait for it to hit me. How exactly will everything be taken care of? I wonder. Does she have a plan? Because I don’t.

My generation, the first born in America, has the luxury of the freedom to choose where and how we wish to live, but with choices come accountability, and with freedom comes guilt.

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