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Updated: May 19, 2025
Looking back now from the brink of the grave, I see how all is written in the book of fate: for had not my Peninah been taken from me, or had I accepted one of the many daughters that were offered me in her stead, I should not have been so free to set out on the pilgrimage to my dear Master, by whom my life has been enriched and sanctified beyond its utmost deserving.
At first, indeed, the loss of Peninah, to whom I had become quite attached for she honored my studies and earned our bread, and was pious even to my mother's liking threw me into a fit of gloomy brooding. My longing for the living waters and the green pastures partially appeased by Peninah's love as she grew up revived and became more passionate.
I had wild fits of weeping both by day and night, not of grief for Peninah, but because I seemed somehow to live in a great desert of sand. I was indeed long since qualified as a Rabbi, and only waited for some reputable post. But a Rabbi I was never to be. For it was then that the luminous shadow of the Baal Shem fell upon my life.
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