Elul, Day Two

It feels as if I have rushed and tumbled to get here, to this spot, this starting line of-- what? Change? Forgiveness? Dare I say it-- redemption?

I have rushed and tumbled, and I have brought EVERYTHING with me-- all the expectations and sins and solace and doubt and joy-- it's all here with me, at this spot, threatening to push me over that line.  And yet, I am fighting to stay rooted. Here. In this spot. Off balance, arms windmilling, I cannot seem to move forward. I stare over the rims of my sunglasses, stuck.

Wait. Just wait.

I'm not sure if I say that to me, to you or to the eleventy-seven things I brought with me: bright feathers and colored glass (with jagged edges and mirrored surfaces), the sound of wind and the feel of light, all my love and my tender indifference: Wait. Just wait. I'm not ready.

But the month is here, whether I want it or not. It is just my fear, after all. It is the last bit, the final few steps. I have come to the jumping-off place for that exact reason: to jump. To leap or stumble or walk-- but to do it mindfully, and maybe find some joy in it.

The trick, though, is to do it. I cling to my eleventy-seven pieces as if they are what is keeping me upright. Here, at this place, this jumping-off place, I am reminded (at last) that the only way to be filled with the awe and holiness and the sweetness of the new year is to let go of my feathers and my jagged-edged glass, to lay down my doubt, to put one foot in front of the other and  do the thing I fear the most.

Jump.