This is obviously not a modern concept.

Samuel Langhorne Clemens had a very similar concept “a minimum of sound to a maximum of sense” which he published at the beginning of last century.

It seems strange and unnatural, that life is at times lived in sound bites.

The romantic in us wants to think that they are living (in reality this is only what we aspire to), what we are really doing is plodding along hoping for the highlights and dreading the inevitable lows.

Many years from now, we won’t necessarily remember a gorgeous sunrise or the morning greeting of a loved one. We won’t remember the day we spurned a lover and the look in their eyes.

We may remember an instant of our child’s birth or their first conscious kiss, but mainly these details escape us daily.

We struggle to remember, citing as irrelevant, the constant varying events of our lives which cumulatively form us as we travel, the mundane, the obscure and the truly hard.

These formative experiences do not make it past the cutting floor, they are faded out into oblivion.

So when we review the slide show of our lives we see selective sound bites which often distort the truth into a fanciful HD presentation of the person we would like others to have known. #markbaranov

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An acute observer like you, will upon occasion, see this phenomenon. A mother walking down the street or sitting in a cafe with her children.

Being aware and discerning, you know that the children are hers. Not only by the contact and interaction but, also by the absence of it at times. The natural and complex human ability to focus completely on the self, even within the closest proximity of the very loved.

So it’s mother and her children, that you are sure. Looking closer at the children you notice that they don’t resemble her in the slightest. They are Caucasian with a pale complexion, light blonde hair and deep grey blue eyes in contrast to their mother who appears to have oriental roots with her complexion, her narrow cut jet black eyes and the straight flat black hair.

By this stage, you the reader, are outraged by this stereotypical portrayal as experienced by you the observer and my potentially racist descriptions.

Let me appease you, dear reader. You are drawn to these conclusions not by the mothers’ features but, by her mothers’ presence. There, I hope you can now relax the shoulders, gently turn your neck and let go of the angst and indignation which you may have a felt moment ago. Much better.

The grandmother is there and there can be no doubt that she is her mother, because of the love you see in her eyes for her child and grandchildren. Her features are not subject to debate or speculation, she is Asian.

But I digress, I believe we were talking about blood.

I want you to understand that I’m not talking about some pure-blood doctrine, which is abhorrent to you and I and all we stand for. I’m talking about God. His magnificence in everything He does.

Each child is born to the right parents no matter what they look like, expressly because only God sees the greater picture. The picture vastly obscured by, some much irrelevant observations of our acute observer or the author herein. #markbaranov

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After spending a relaxing Shabbat with friends we attended a birthday party where we were introduced to a recent arrival, we proceeded to find intersection from various places. A particular name was mentioned, whom I did not know but for some reason stuck in my head.

Afterwards, as is our custom on a Saturday night, we jumped in the car and started driving. I turned around to my wife and said, “Where to?” Only to be told about cafe Paris which is a 5min walk from home. Since we were already in the car and there is never any parking near this place we decide to drive into town for my favourite haunt, Kadosh cafe.

As per usual we couldn’t find any parking around there and decided we would park at Mamilla and walk back up.

Walking through Mamilla we stopped at Roladin (certainly not my favourite cafe) and agreed to get online to wait for a table having somehow forgotten why we came to Mamilla in the first place.

Whilst waiting outside I spotted a dear friend, whom unfortunately we could not host this Shabbat walking towards us and instantly I understood that this is why I was here at this moment, to embrace him and apologize personally. He was with friends and during the introductions, one of the names was the very one which registered earlier in the night. I recalibrated my observation about the reason for why I was there to include needing to meet this person.

As we had been shmoozing outside for a while, I asked the girl managing the list, “How long?” She told me she had no idea as they were very busy. I turned to my wife to say maybe this is not meant to be and we should just get takeaway coffees, at that moment the girl calls our name and we are ushered into the cafe.

We sit down and my wife proceeds to tell me an interesting observation. As I’m leaning in to hear better, above the din of noise around us, a mobile phone is literally shoved in my face. I look up to see the lady next to us indicating for me to take a picture of her and her elderly mother, naturally, I agree.

They get into their pose and I’m focusing the camera when I see through the screen that the lady’s head is in flames from the candle on their table. I throw down the phone and proceed to pat out the flames on her head with my hands.

After I made sure that the flames were out I removed my hands from her head and made eye contact. The lady said to me “What are you doing?” She hadn’t even realized what transpired.

At this point, after I settled down and washed my hands from the smell of burnt chicken feathers, I recalibrated the events of the evening and this now became the focal point for why I was there last night to save her disfigurement or perhaps her life even.

I said to the lady, “you should say Grace”, she agreed and instantly took out a prayer book and was saying many prayers of thanks.

So after an eventful evening, I had to further reflect and recalibrate. Perhaps I was chosen to be there at that time to bring this lady closer to GOD and perhaps that was the nuance whilst everything else was just the stimulus required for me to be the vehicle of GOD’s will.

I’m in awe of the minutiae of events which culminated in the revelation of a divine plan, and being a part of it. I simply felt I had to share. #markbaranov

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Being in love is a vapour, an almost spiritual experience which cannot be grasped or quantified and yet it’s presence or lack of, is amply felt.

Love, on the other hand, is a tangible thing, almost solid, it’s represented as building blocks allowing individuals to grow their bond with definitive thoughts, words and actions promoting an ever changing level.

We know that being in-love leads to love, but we must always remember that in order for love to continue to grow, it needs to promote the state of being in-love as well. Both elements are forever intertwined and required in order to attain and maintain this essence of creation. #markbaranov

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Defining it as;-relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief.

Without diving in and trying to do mental contortions to understand the subtlety of the political innuendo in this definition, i cannot help but to reject it out of hand.

Truth is truth. Pre, during or post. It is constant, it is indivisible and eternal. Any suggestion that truth is meaniable or is open to subjectivity denies its existence.

Perhaps the chaps at Oxford should consult another word in their dictionary, Oxymoron.

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I’m enamored every day,

By the way you hold your course,

Amidst the turmoil strength you source,

Although our journey may be trying,

Your commitment is undying,

You are my best friend every day,

In every single little way.

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