Journal entry by Eve Ilsen — 24 minutes ago
I remember now: this time in between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur always feels like time-out-of-time. Nothing is regular or normal. I feel the tectonic plates of the heart shifting.
Even Mishka feels the diffrence in the air, and is behaving a bit oddly. (She still wants me to sit in that one particular chair with my morning coffee, for lap time.) The one morning I don't do that is Thursday, when I am scrambling to get to minyan somewhat on time. Right now she is curled up on the desk next to my right arm, as if she knows that tomorrow I will leave the house without the morning coffee.
I am grateful for the silent presence: I am in the midst of heshbon ha-nefesh, an accounting of the soul.
This year, what rises to the surface is the memory of phone messages left by a 90+-year old friend who knew she was dying, asking me to ask Zalman to call her.
I cannot remember if I told him in time.
And now that he too has gone, and I am closer to the exit than the entrance, I am horrified at the possibility that I may not have accomplished that errand.
Approaching Yom Kippur, I face the list of mistakes that cannot be repaired.
I must remember not to allow myself to become paralyzed by grief or shame, but to let those feelings excavate deeper places in my heart.
I will take these themes to bed with me tonight, and to shul with me in the morning: we are in the "aseret y'mei t'shuvah", that no-man's-land between Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur when we may become conscious of what needs repair in our lives, and go about doing it.