Not g-d, but rather love

Erev Rosh Hashanah will not find me in a synagogue. There is no happy new year there for me. And being the workhorse for the congregation, it is not a place of celebration. I celebrate that it is so for them. But I prefer the quiet times, the empty days alone in front of the eternal light, alone before the yarhzeit plaques. No audience except my own thoughts, unbiased by observation or influence.

So it is the Jewish New Year – and although raised as a Catholic, I’ve always felt that September was the time of the new start: the fading of the flower, the return to education, freshly shaved pencils, the smell of shoe polish on saddle shoes, crisp white cotton blouses, plaid skirts, the chill air sweeping stagnant summer. So September was always the opportunity for a new start, a chameleon leaving skin in the parched August earth and discovering new colors.

Last fall, I was disheartened in matters of the heart and casting off the idea of romance and oddly, I find the same sentiment strong within me now. Last year, it resulted in making plans to travel to Truth or Consequences with another woman of similar mind. And of all the things that have transpired this year, that is one for which I’ve no regrets. It is disturbing to discover that 10 months ago I was as I am right now. So obviously something is needed.

What? I am a woman of strong passions: my children, my writing, other writing, my brothers and sister, all the sensual pleasures that life offers, my loves. So where is the dissatisfaction? My loves. My love of men has not proved successful. Please do not misunderstand. I place no blame on one party any more than the other. Is it because I do not choose well? Or perhaps it is my nature in the relationship? Or even in the way it begins?

Since my romantic life began, I do not think there was ever a time I was not either engaged whole-heartedly with a love or pursuing one. I love men; their furry arms and legs, the Adam’s apple, the strength of their stride, the width of their wrist, the boy still living within. I do not think that is a mistake. But I wonder if I should pull up the bridge, fill the moat with an alligator or two, and spend some time denying the pursuit, the pleasure, the idea that someday I will meet my man, counterpart, true heart.

Even as I write those words, I doubt my ability to stay absent. The ache in my chest and the impulse for my arms to reach and the tilt of my head and exposed throat and the tears that burn at the back of my eyes lead me to believe it may be a foolish thing to think I am capable. But I can try.

So here is to the new year, the year of giving my best to my art, my children, my career, my home, and to my fitness. Here is to seeing how it is to be invisible, to fly under the radar, to walk the land where “beyond this point be dragons.

But it takes more than words to make us whole. And not god, but rather love, love is my witness.