Spare a thought today, for those of us not in shul.
It’s not because we don’t want to be there, to hear shofar and be uplifted. We can’t.
We can’t bear being there for hours, when pieces of our hearts are ripped out. When, at 8 o’clock in the morning, we went to get cream for our coffee and stared at the contents of the fridge that include last night’s lovingly and overly prepared Rosh Hashanah dinner leftovers and sobbed.
Spare a thought that every year we do this to ourselves – look at the last year and where we’ve come from and resolve to do better, to fight harder, to stop counting on a miracle and make one happen by sheer willpower. Spare a thought that we know that next year, when everyone is gathering their families close, we’ll be in the same place. Maybe go to shul, that reform shul with the guitar-playing woman rabbi where everyone wears a yarmulke and you’re called bat your mother for your aliyah. Maybe stay at home and sob into the fridge, looking at the honey cake with pomegranate seed sprinkles and cream cheese frosting worthy of a magazine cover, and know that trying is just a way we’re telling ourselves we’re doing anything just to breathe.