The sun sank in streaks of pink beyond the pond. A fountain sprayed its arms over the serene little pool, our view a painting. On the grass, children ran in circles, collecting pine cones.

It was the first time my children had been to Friday night services ever. Usually we plopped on the living room couch in our pajamas. Hundreds of people gathered in white folding chairs on the patio at Temple Israel.

Music, emanating from the bimah, pulled us in like a favorite friend and we danced, jumped, spun circles. It was reverence and serenity, peace and place.

“Maybe this should be our new shul,” Asher said. “I like that the women and the men sit together. It’s too hard the other way.”

It wasn’t my intention to show one way or another as better, just that there are many ways to find spirit.

I often go back to the mountains I have climbed, listening for the wind in the wildflowers, tasting the strawberries from my backpack, remembering the moments I wanted to record but, without pen to paper, had only to hold in the texture of my fingertips. Sometimes, I trust experience more than written word to take me back.

How cool to think of life like a series of scrapbooks, moments and smiles and tears pasted in some fashion of order on pages in my mind. Like scrapbooks, though, I never take them down from the shelf, but rather walk through my days being that collection of memories.

Lately, Shaya has shown uncanny wisdom for a two-year-old. He’s an existential toddler: “Mommy, I am wearing these pants because I am wearing these pants.” He’s like the painter Magritte ceci n’est pas une pipe.

This morning, I turned off the a/c and opened the windows. It’s the moments, I swear; living in the moments is everything.

When I look back over just this one week, I see so many worth sitting in. What a joy. What a gift.

Right now, the yellow light from my desk lamp casts a warm glow over my fingers. The air from the window, minty and cool. Asher and Eliana are sleeping. I am loving this moment. Loving it.

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