At its center, as I sit with myself for my daily twenty minutes, I observe something slow and gentle about life and death. I don't look at mortality head on, but I try to grasp the ungraspable bit by bit. The clock ticks. Time trickles on. Erev Rosh Hashanah, 5773. Life and death are weighty matters. So it shall be written: who shall live and who shall die. The questions are ominous and I am only too glad not to know the answers.
There is much that is precious to me and tomorrow when I sit in my synagogue, not in silence and not alone, I will observe the Jewish New Year, in all its terrifying glory.