Stillness of Time

It’s been a rough—weird—week.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve felt like I haven’t been able to just be still; to sit and let myself expel the pent up pressures, to release the tears that need to flow, to enjoy the quiet of the morning, to allow myself to just be.

You would think I’d remember to do it on Shabbat, but even that has become a day of “work” due to specific obligations, sacrifices, required of me for now. So much of my life right now is dictated by Time, I am trapped between necessary conformity in order to survive and the desire to break from the bounds of a societal ontology I can’t accept as my own.

If I miss anything from the lockdowns and shifts we saw during the height of COVID (and by the way, while I’m mentioning it, the pandemic isn’t over) it’s that in our rush to return to a sense of normalcy because of our discomfort with change—we’ve forgotten how to slow down, to breathe.

Myself included.

It’s as if in those quiet moments there was an urgency, a restlessness, that grew so fierce, Time in its relativity felt like sand slipping through a sieve leaving me behind. Now desperation consumes me to catch up to whatever preconceived notions I had of what my life would look like in this present moment.

But as I said, Time is relative. Time is what we make it. It only has as much power over us as we allow it.

That is what makes the Jewish people different, I think. It is our understanding of Time, of how Hashem orchestrates its fabric. We know it is merely an illusion we can step out of at least once each week.

Perhaps I should reread Heschel’s Sabbath next. I think I’ve forgotten the illusion behind the act.

Perhaps that is why we ache for Eternity, for the Olam Ha’Bah. We are seeking the stillness of Time, the freedom to just be.