It washes up my throat, pricks at my eyes, swamps my chest and stomach. My remedy is to go for a walk, to hunch over a book, to gaze out the window at a hard-blue cheerful sky, at gold trees and people, families, children. The anger drains away (some of it was so silly anyway); and I think that it's best to deal with each person in the present moment, particularly if they have changed in important ways from how they used to be. I forgive, and though I can't forget certain things I think that maybe I should live as if I have.
The thick wooden window slats admit glowing fragments of tree and sky.
Sometimes our conversations are hurried and seem perfunctory. But there are other times when, in several short precious minutes, I learn something wonderful and wise that changes a part of me for afterwards.
The resolve, the strength firming, the sense of hard-won peace and powerful yearning - I hope they flow out from this day to the rest of the year.
When the plane leaves the ground, I hold my breath. There are what seem to be a few still moments on which everything depends; the plane and the passengers are suspended above earth. Will we keep rising? The odds are tremendously in our favor. Still, I hold my breath and look out the window to make sure.
I hear them coming down the hall, I hear their whispers, their hushed speculations ("What if she's not in her office?") and I wait patiently with a smile growing on my face, before they burst through the door.
I love the energetic melodies best, the ones that resound with strength and joy. There's a particular melody that comes at the conclusion of every service, and just hearing us would you know that we're fasting? We sing long and loud, affirming that we're here, that we're repenting, atoning, rejoicing, living. That we are full of love.