My mother’s house is across the street from a local synagogue. Earlier tonight, I was looking out the front window idly watching people drive up, and remembering a time when I made the mistake of letting the dog in the front yard on Friday night.
Some of the guys were walking over, and Cubby (the dog) would not shut up. She kept pace along the fence, barking and barking. I kept yelling, “Cubby, stop it.” (Bark, bark, bark.) “Cubby, come here.” (Bark, bark, bark.) “Cubby, let’s go inside.” (Bark, bark, bark. She wasn’t buying.) I was completely appalled and kicking myself for not thinking. However, the guys were doing an admirable job of ignoring Cubby (and my yelling at Cubby). I was impressed.
I admire the idea of walking over to services. Somehow, I would think the act of walking would pull it off of the to-do list more than driving (first I’m here, then I’m there, and then I’m somewhere else…) And that’s kind of the point.
No dog problems tonight. When my mom got home, Cubby and I sat in my mom’s gazebo, and my mom and I talked about her day, and what I wanted to do in the rest of the time that I’m here, and similar topics. She said that she has really enjoyed having me here and will miss me, partially because she’ll just miss me, but also because she doesn’t take the time to sit and relax when she gets home when she’s alone. And she has no one to wrap up the day (or week) with.
The end of the week was feeling surprisingly poignant to me. Part of it, no doubt, is because I’m almost at the end of my vacation. (I leave on Sunday.) I had tons of plans for this week, much of which didn’t actually happen.
But isn’t that always the case? The mark of a good vacation is having as many reasons to come back as to go to the destination in the first place. The Shabbats, vacations, sabbaticals are momentary pauses in the flow of our lives. The real living happens in the rest of the week.
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