I looked at the clock, sure it was a quarter to three, but it wasn’t. It was a quarter to four. That can’t be, my mind insisted

Last Monday, I lost an hour. I mean, I was sure I knew where it was, but then I couldn’t find it.

It was a typical Monday. I got up at my usual hour to daven before I had to wake up the kids. They’re pretty independent teenagers, so I don’t need to do much to get them out of bed. In the meantime, I handled my morning tasks — a load of laundry, wiping down the bathrooms, giving a good sweep where needed. I didn’t lose my hour there.

On Mondays I don’t go to work, but I do have a weekly chaburah. We’re a small group, and learning the timeless values in the sefer Orchos Tzaddikim has bonded us together and developed our neshamos. I certainly didn’t lose my hour there. The women in the group are on tight schedules. We were finished by 10:15 sharp.

My next stop was a clothing gemach where I volunteer. As we sorted through the various donated garments, the other volunteers and I also rummaged through our thoughts, worries, and triumphs. One volunteer described a workshop she attended. The women paired up, and one of them was handed a bottle of bubbles. She blew the bubbles at the second woman, who was instructed to pop a bubble each time a thought entered her head. My friend described how she popped bubbles madly at first, and then her thoughts slowed down. Maybe if my thoughts would slow down, I could find my lost hour. Should I get bubbles?