Although it has been years since I stopped living as a religious Jew, Saturday comes and cloaks me in its restfulness automatically.
I wake later and linger in bed. I cherish the quiet of a peaceful morning, windows open, breeze sifting through window screens. I almost don’t need to meditate, as the day itself is so inherently meditative.
A farmers market stroll, noticing all the glorious colors of produce, the shapes and sizes, the flavors dripping down your chin. God-given.
And then return home to, what, sit for hours with a book and a blanket and the careful refrains of some song or other, they all sound alike, reverberating in their hymnal-effects.
It’s like the Sabbath overtakes me, even when I don’t believe in the hard and fast rules of organized religion.
If even, now, the way I feel this day of rest is so much holier and reverent than it was when I was bustling to set the table, dress up the kids in their fancy clothes and shlep to synagogue, sweating and rushed, to hear the last trailing refrain of a man’s voice belting out scripted words.
I am so much more religious now, full of belief and awe.
Unscripted, that’s what’s holy to me. Bless this day.