This blog popped into my mind this morning; I hadn’t thought about it at all since my post last December. 2024 has been: feh. I am OK. Nothing terrible happened in my immediate life, unlike in this country, Israel, the world. Perhaps as a reaction to so much swirling misery and turmoil, I had the sudden desire this summer to play the piano again after decades away (I used to be very good, although I never loved it). My childhood teachers, some wonderful characters who weren’t great at their jobs, taught me minimal theory and instead focused on the feel and emotion of the music, not a bad thing at all. I spent years swaying back and forth at the keyboard just like they did, and enjoyed lots of over-the-top emoting with my fingers. All great if you’re playing Chopin from notes on the page; not so much if you want to understand how those notes relate to one another, and play from what’s in your head. And that’s what I suddenly wanted to do, after randomly watching a video of Queen at Live Aid in 1985 and being astonished by their talent and power—to finally move that music to my fingers. (Doesn’t everyone have music in their heads? Maybe not.).
So I bought a keyboard and am, slowly, learning. It takes a lot of practice, as I know from chanting Torah. It’s nice to have no deadline or timetable for this new goal. I love that I’ve discovered a new antidote to stress: sit down and play the blues.
This summer was not all music and nostalgia, though. An old friend died a few months ago as I sat with her the hospital. Still trying to absorb that experience. I’ll be OK.
And I continue to chant Torah, which continues to be great fun.
I have not gone into detail, nor will I, about the complicated relationship I now have with my synagogue, but it’s been another kind of sadness these past few years. I’m still there often, aside from big chunks of the High Holy Days. But nothing is the same. I guess that’s how life goes. I don’t like it, but maybe it’s the universe’s way of pushing me further out of the nest and into the next phase of growing up. Those stages never cease to sneak up on you. As we approached this time of year, I was certain that time was all done with the with healing part—last night, at the Selihot service at a little synagogue in my neighborhood, I realized it wasn’t so. But I’m grateful that at least I know which parts of the marathon will be hardest for me, and can make necessary adjustments. I’ll be OK.
Wishing everyone (anyone?) who reads this a meaningful and restorative season of Awe.
