Trying to engage with life a little differently.
Went on a faux European getaway to wake myself up some, to appreciate a city not far from me. It worked well. Visited a dear friend with a Paris-sunlit flat. East Indian-themed dinner party. Did the dishes by hand in a kitchen with no counter space but lots of charm. Met new cats and dogs. Went to Oktoberfest (in September) and listened to the Bavarian Barons play. Had Spaten Oktoberfest beer and a warm pretzel in the middle of a drunken crowd. Roamed through a fantastic flea market/antiques center, oohing and aahing over crystal doorknobs and ancient carnival rides, dismantled and for sale. Took photos of carousel horses and stone cherubs. Walked the dogs in a rainy, misty park. All that was missing were the Euros.
The week before, traded labor and company at a daylily farm for some beautiful lilies that will surprise me next year when they bloom, and a paper bag full of organic green peppers and cucumbers. “Girls, gather around. Mommy worked today and earned us THIS.” Wry glances. But the Caroline Ingalls in me was never more pleased with herself. Dirt still under my fingers, memories of tagging daylilies with wonderful names like “Epic Poem” and “Kiss the Girl.” I managed to not park directly in the pond. Lunch in the woodstove-heated greenhouse: smoothies and a flaky croissant with cherry preserves, eaten with dirty fingers. There were orders to get boxed and shipped, after all. No time to waste. The lilies would not wait. There is a longer post here, about the Lily Kingdom, but it will not come today.
The Yom Kippur folks have not yet shown up on my doorstep. I think it should be more like Halloween. We all take shifts, receiving and making atonement, amends. I would offer folks forgiveness and Nutella, but they do not come. All is quiet. I don’t know where to put my atonement.
This is a Jewish holiday that I don’t understand very well. Does only God need to hear our atoning? That sounds kind of Catholic to me. Why the Middle Man? Does this solemn holiday include listening? Accepting each other’s apologies, and saying so, with humility?
I think there’s only so much God can do on his own, only so much that fasting can do, no? I’d rather hear, “I’m sorry,” in person. Geez, I’d rather say it in person, too. Let’s all go around dropping off flowers and jam and bread, yes? Maybe next year?
{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
If you ever want a brief getaway to Columbus, Ohio, let me know. We’re not the most glamorous of cities, but we’re friendly. *hugs* See?
I’ve never understood what I’m supposed to be atoning for just a week after I’ve thrown away all of my sins.
If you feel yourself starting to become overwhelmed at the urge to say, “I’m sorry,” in person, you could, if you wish, start with me.
I can’t blame you though, really. The crossing of our paths was likely far too fleeting for anything of significance to have occurred, and the whole event has already been blown up all out of proportion in my mind. I can’t stand to imagine how very pedestrian it would now seem to you, were I to describe it (after your apology) in person.
You were walking the dogs, remember? Yes, I know we both do. I was the lone occupant of that table outside the cafe on the banks of the Seine. It was a table for two. Does that matter? It did to me. I had on my ascott replete with requisite pretention, legs crossed at the knee, and my freshly pressed coffee (none of that drip swill, please!) cooling in the bracing autumnal air.
I stared at you unwaveringly as you drew nearer. Can I call your hair wispy and have you take it as a compliment? I hope that you will. It danced unabashedly about your head as the dogs tugged at their leads, both seeming to seek a freedom denied them. I convinced myself there was much about you revealed in that.
Yet, as unwavering as my glance was, you never met it. I like to think, perhaps, in an instant when your hair obscured your face, that you offered a fleeting glance. Then, pulled by your dogs and the urgent restlessness of your hair, you allowed yourself to be carried along, and away.
Come back to Paris any time. You don’t even have to say you’re sorry.
What say you “fake,” Jenny? Ze European, or ze getaway? Ze European, surely. Getaway is real, no? Try “faux”?
::argh!:: I entered the correct anti-spam word, but your site said I didn’t…and it ate my entire comment.
It was the lengthiest one I’ve done yet. Allow me to attempt to re-do, because I love you.
Your Oktoberfest experience reminds me of somthing: I play World of Warcraft (yes, I embrace my inner flaming nerd) and there’s an in-game, two-week-long holiday going on called Brewfest. during said holiday, you (as your character) get “drunk” [the game is programmed to blur your screen, make you swerve drunkenly and speak with a slur] and run around Azeroth doing crazy things to earn tokens, which you exchange for Brewfest souvenirs (like the blue hat I got the other day, or the miniature pink elephant I got two days before that). The music is exactly what one would expect for Brewfest.
I like picturing you tending the lilies with your loving hands, immersing yourself in the moment.
I like your idea of a more open Yom Kippur. It could even stand to be more frequent; why not view each new season as a fresh opportunity to treat each other with renewed respect, gentleness and open-minded acceptance?
Yo, Becket Kate,
Pro Tip for commenting (from one who has lost LOTS of lengthy replies:
After writing your heartfelt epistle and are prepped to post, ALWAYS do a CTRL – A, CTRL – C (select all, then copy) just prior to posting. That way it’s all saved to your clipboard and can be retrieved with a simple CTRL – V to paste it back in the box. (Or for those Mac users, use the “Command” button in lieu of control.)
Also, totally unrelated, inner flaming nerds are teh hawt! I’ve never done WoW, but my own inner D&D geek sees your flaming nerd and wants to give you a high five or somethin’.
J, God cannot forgive the sins we commit against each other, only the sins we commit against God. The week between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is for approaching the people in our lives who we have wronged, apologizing and asking for forgiveness. Does that sound better?
There’s so much I want to say in response to this post! I’ll be brief, and consider this “to be continued” when we finally manage to have coffee.
I love the vision of you with the daylilies. And on the faux European getaway. \o/
Re: Yom Kippur — you’re actually quite aligned with Jewish tradition here. One of our most central and classical teachings holds that for sins between us and God, Yom Kippur can atone; when it comes to sins between us and us, then Yom Kippur cannot atone until we’ve done the work of repentance and apology. In an ideal world, we’d spend the weeks leading up to the High Holiday season reaching out to one another and making amends where they’re needed. Yom Kippur is a kind of day of catharsis — a day to set the world aside and sink into the contemplative inner work of figuring out how we need to realign our course in the year to come. And God is always listening — whatever we understand “God” to mean — whether it’s Yom Kippur or not. But the day itself doesn’t hold magical powers; it’s what we do with it (and maybe more importantly, what we do leading up to it) that has the capacity to transform us.
I need to take lessons from you on how to nourish myself out of a funk. Nobody else is gonna do it for me, and with all of your culture-in-your-backyard getaways as of late, I think you’ve got it down pat.
As Mrs. G said, teshuvah is very much a part of this time of the year…but it’s not something God gets involved in. Although, I will say that I spent some time yesterday, between services, trying to get in last-minute amends-makings with people I’ve had issues with over the year…just in case God was watching and would look upon my more favorably for the effort. Of course, it’s just as likely that God smply scoffed at me and said, “Oh, there’s TC…waiting till the last second as always!”
I don’t have an inner Caroline Ingalls. I don’t even have an inner Charles. You’re lucky you have an inner Ingalls.
‘Daba el reloj las doce… y eran doce…’
Daba el reloj las doce… y eran doce
golpes de azada en tierra…
… ¡Mi hora! -grité- … El silencio
me respondió: -No temas;
tú no verás caer la última gota
que en la clepsidra tiembla.
Dormirás muchas horas todavía
sobre la orilla vieja
y encontrarás una mañana pura
amarrada tu barca a otra ribera.
That was a poem by Antonio Machado I just sent, it was supposed to have my message attatched but something happened… anyway, here’s what I wanted to say:
I love that you had smoothies and flaky croissants with cherry preserves for lunch –at a woodstove heated greenhouse! With dirty fingers! That one line in your post paints a beautiful picture. I can almost taste it, and I can certainly see the colors.
And I love that you read Neruda poems to your new cat and I love that you told off the haters in one of your other posts.
You’re alive!
So, the poem I sent previously talks about fearing death (or whatever it is you fear) and a silent voice saying you’ll sleep on old shores for a while but not to fear because one clear morning you’ll wake up to find your boat tied to a new shore.
I feel I’ve found mine, and you’re on your way to yours. We’ll drift, like little cuban rafts, many more times than we’d like, but we’ll inevitably find our way again. Always.
I think I must be pretty shallow because my mind latched onto your daylilies (one of the perfect flowers because they are unkillable) and meeting new canines (one of our favorite activities) and just blew past Yom Kippur until I started reading the comments. Thank heavens dog and daylilies are both forgiving and need no atonement.