I want the universe to have a backspace key. I would like to re-do today. Apologies in advance for the grumbling.
This afternoon, as I fielded calls from annoying clients (who were probably not at all rude, but in my foul mood I was incapable of seeing anything else), I got an email from the cantor with my assignments for the High Holy Days. My heart leapt--and yet, the moment I read it, my heart dropped even faster. I think I expected that receipt of this email would fuel me with some sort of elusive, hidden power, or make the world seem like a happier place. But it didn't. It was just a list.
As I was castigating myself for this reaction, my dearest friend in the world called to say that her father was in the ICU and would I please come to the hospital. So I did, for the next six hours. He's stable now, thank goodness. I, on the other hand, am in need of a big, psychic colander to sift through a stew of emotions, remove the nastiest chunks, and leave a clear broth of gratitude--for health, friends, and joy that drops right in my lap even when I forget to notice. I'm going to a meditation retreat this weekend which I hope will remind me of the following (from yogajournal.com, via the always wise Regina Clare Jane):
Part of yogic philosophy is the idea of "detachment." This means that, instead of hanging on desperately to people, activities, or objects, we should learn how to flow with the current of life and recognize that change is the only constant.
I would add another, very good constant: Shabbat, flowing on the current of time. Change is part of that same river, yet we fool ourselves into believing we can defy the laws of nature and make it stop. The truth is that this year I will sing differently than last year. Today my friend's father will be here, tomorrow perhaps somewhere else. It's not the destination but the parts in between, the flowing, breathing, crying, singing, that make up a life.