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| LifeTakes |

The Gift of Sleep   

            That’s what they told me. That just to lie still, to close your eyes and feign, that alone can refresh you

Downstairs the detritus of the meal is still half on the table; somewhere below kids play. Their aunt is here, she’ll take care of them, someone will. I’m so, so tired. I’m nodding off, giving in to exhaustion, when I remember: Don’t sleep on Rosh Hashanah afternoon, men ken farshlufen dee mazel.

I start and sit up in bed, but crumple back down. Does it even apply to me? Here? Now? I’m a young mom, and I’m sapped from the day. I don’t — can’t — push myself the way I used to. I keep halachah, I do what I need to do, and inyanim are nice, but maybe they’re luxuries? My mother would never have slept. She pushed herself for every inyan, every minhag, with a dedication I just can’t seem to muster.

Are we weaker now? Am I?

I pull the covers over my head. It’s not about that, it’s that I’m exhausted and I have this horrendous relationship with exhaustion….

Sounds float upward, flying, then swirling through the air.

In half an hour we go to Tashlich.

Already dusk hangs over the sky like a milky veil. The day is almost over, and I am sleeping. But I’m not quite, something’s keeping me back. My mother’s voice, we don’t? I’m in that gossamer space: almost taken, still here.

Even that is restful. That’s what they told me. That just to lie still, to close your eyes and feign, that alone can refresh you.

Excerpted from Mishpacha Magazine. To view full version, SUBSCRIBE FOR FREE or LOG IN.

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