480. Washing machine

Cat as my neck rest, I'm sitting in the comfy chair wrapped in a thick blanket of silence (aside from the rumble of an occasional bus, or an airplane meandering over Harlem en route to my old neighborhood). The quiet feels like a warm bath. I don't want to move. This past month has been been full of prayer, song, introspection, joy, and many good words--perhaps too many. I love the spring holiday marathon, but can hear the warnings of my old trainer at the gym reminding me that rests between sets are necessary in order to make the sweat useful. Purim was exhilarating and exhausting; three chapters of Esther will be a breeze next year, but this time around felt like a great workout with no cool-down afterwards. I think my muscles were still sore when Pesah rolled around. Seders, services, reading Torah, more services, rinse and repeat (on Thursday and Shabbat I sing about those kosher birds once again, this time in Parashat Shemini)--I expect to get a little burnt out over the High Holy Days, but not now. I'm tempted to skip services tomorrow morning, chill like I did last year on the seventh day. I'll get to services early, instead, and close my eyes for a half hour during the silent weekday version of the Pesukei D'Zimrah and think about psalms and peace. I'm sated, it's true, but the spirit is not a washing machine. You can't over-fill. The extra suds end up in places you didn't even consider giving a good soak.