Passover & A Pink Supermoon

Before I had kids, I’d wake up at the witching hour - 3AM - to write. I didn’t set an alarm; a physical force — energy that can present as anxiety (creativity!) pulled my body out of bed.

I stopped this practice when I had children; when they were newborns I needed those hours to rest.

But even after they started sleeping through the night, I still felt that I had to stay in bed to be my best-self, when I was needed, at 7AM.

Since this shelter began, I wake up every Tuesday when I hear the rumbling of the first garbage truck — around 4AM — and I go downstairs to the pantry-turned-writing-space to record the week’s consolation.

I now know that my best-self gets several hours of solitude and creative time before interacting with other humans. At the very least, as a weekly practice.

There’s been an ease to this discovery, to this Passover.

Not eating pizza for a week doesn’t feel like a sacrifice this year; it feels like the wise suggestion of a loving friend.

Examining my daily routines and rituals — and bad habits — that go unchanged because there’s no break in my busy over-scheduled life, also feels like a gift now — there’s enough disruption to make changes.

I took a ride with the kids as night began to fall last Tuesday.

Driving down one of our favorite hills, I stopped the car. I pulled up the emergency break.

People were standing in the middle of the street taking pictures of the huge pink supermoon.

It was a complete surprise to us — this stunning beauty on our unplanned evening drive.

“Look at the moon!” my kids yelled out the car windows.

“There it is!” they shouted trying to follow it as we headed towards home.

There it is, a constant consolation.

Look up.

Happy Passover.