I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room listening to my boys upstairs. They are master players.
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Last fall and throughout most of the winter, I felt incredibly off-kilter. I had lost a lot of the rhythms that make life not only tolerable but enjoyable. And this Spring, I am slowly bringing them back.
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Years ago, before kids, when Matt and I had all the time in the world, we began a weekly rhythm of celebrating Shabbat.
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It’s been nine years. Year one still carries the scent of baked potatoes and cheap apartment life. Of emptied change jars and afternoon naps for no reason at all.
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Before the boys, our sabbath looked like lazy drawn out mornings unfolding in coffee refills and hour long quiet times. The hours seeped into each other, morning to afternoon to evening, like waves lapping the shore.
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