I take my hiskashrus seriously.

Rambam is non-negotiable.

It’s not inspiration. It’s awareness.

The knowledge that I have to do Rambam sits on me like a backpack I never take off. I don’t always look at it, but I feel the straps. I move through the day with it. It bumps into doorways. It holds weight.

And for a long time, I learned Rambam hard.

I’d knit my brow.
I’d force it down.
I’d gear up and head out on a hike—halacha by halacha—no shortcuts.

I pulled shiurim.
I opened Rambam HaMevu’ar.
I rummaged through footnotes like I’d lost something important in there.

I argued with the Ra'avad. Out loud.
I had positions.

And when I hit Kiddush HaChodesh, it was over.

I wasn’t learning anymore—I was airborne.

I built galaxies.
I floated among the galgalim.
I brushed past the element of fire under the moon.

Diagrams everywhere.
Circles inside circles.
Me, Rambam, and the universe, shoulder to shoulder.

This was learning.

And then—

without drama,
without decline,
without a decision—

something changed.

I still opened Rambam.
I still read every word.
I still finished.

But the expedition ended.

No brow-knitting.
No cosmic travel.
No arguments filed.

The words moved.
I moved with them.

That’s when I realized.

I hadn’t stopped learning Rambam.

I had joined the Rambam Mumblers Inc.

Same Rambam.
Same loyalty.
Same backpack.

I just… I boarded a ship—and it sails gently on top of the lines.

I still opened Rambam.
I still read every word.
I still finished.

But now it was recital.

Clean.
Fast.
Almost suspiciously easy.

Sometimes I’d finish and freeze.

Already?

That moment has a name in the Rambam Mumblers Society.
It’s called Completion Shock—the brief disbelief that the Rambam has, in fact, been fully executed.

The standard response is immediate self-confirmation.

No, no. I did it.
I went through it.
It’s done.

That reassurance is important. Without it, you might reopen the sefer just to check, which is considered unnecessary but understandable.

Every day ends the same way.

I close the Rambam the way I close a siddur.

Calm.
Satisfied.
Slightly confused.
Deeply at peace.

No analysis follows. No review urge. Just a settled feeling that something solid has taken place.

And sometimes—this is harder to explain—I can feel others.

Not see them.
Feel them.

People in other rooms, other cities, other time zones—opening, reading, closing. Same pace. Same neutrality. Same quiet certainty.

That’s also a known phenomenon.

Ambient Membership Awareness.

You don’t talk about it. You just sense you’re not alone.

The Rambam Mumblers Society isn’t loud.
It doesn’t celebrate milestones.
It doesn’t announce itself.

It just goes.

It’s the unspoken club—for Balabatim, Elter Bochrim, Shluchim where Rambam gets said, and nobody needs to say anything else.