sabbath

this evening has an apple-cider-sunday sort of peace to it. it's slow flowing: my childhood sundays were meandering affairs, curled up in a blue comfy chair reading or playing chess or slowly watching castles and spaceships take shape from the lego bricks that formed the building blocks of my playground. all was quiet, for mom and dad were napping after our formal sunday meals, and all was slow, for our chauffers were taking us nowhere and we had no work or school to occupy our days. sunshine poured in through the silence and warmth bathed our solitude, our creativity, our joy.

today, the sunlight is already gone, but the warmth persists in my scratchy wool sweater and battered easy chair. i woke a few hours before sunset, to the stillness left unmolested by alarm clocks and phones and their ilk--i woke to smile and relax and ponder the strange dreams that filled my daytime slumber. i took idle note of some imposing restlessness: i worked almost eighty hours this week, six overnights straight with little time but to sleep and eat breakfast and hit the road in between. in two days i will work at least four more, and my larder is as empty as my laundry basket and email inbox are full. my bike my only vehicle, needs maintenance and there is also the pressing impulse to justify my recent library additions by actually reading them. the wasted time was beginning to pile in on me.

but, graciously, my baser instincts asserted themselves, and i curled up in my sleeping bag and with a cheerful grin acknowledged the day's unfettered potential for procrastination and thought about breakfast. breakfast. i decided to forego breakfast as i was out of syrup, eggs, and bread, and had been subsisting for entirely too long on cereal. if Cheerios lose their inherent joy, i shall truly be in for a long string of morning drudgery.

well. that left beans and rice. i was uninspired. i wandered downstairs, past the tragic empty spaces on my food shelves, clinging to my shabby hiking shorts and scratchy wool armor (manfully worn with no intervening t-shirt) for warmth and comfort and memories of mornings on the trail. i sadly shook a box of swiss cake rolls, knowing from yesterday's shake that ther would be no reassuring thump of one last happy little package tucked in the back. granola bars and canned green beans simply wouldn't do. the box pile of odds and ends salvaged from my brother's relocation to Africa yielded crackers, a novelty for my palate these days. not bad. lima beans, stuffing and turkey helper? uninspiring.

but the fridge yielded gold: the remnants of a half-gallon of apple cider that Mike and I split on a whim a week or so ago. suddenly rice and crackers and beans didn't sound so simple. apple cider is exciting, in an expectant sort of way. you cannot drink apple cider in a hurry--it's disarming presence gracefuly disallows action. like sundays at home, it must meander in gentle sips, cradled in both hands, to be enjoyed in solitude and peace or the glowing warmth of fireplaces and fellowship. it is a drink for warming the hands while coming in from the cold, to share with friends when the day's business is done and there is to be no hustling, bustling, or voices raised in anything but laughter. it is for sprawling on couches or huddling on logs or being tucked into scratchy old sweaters and curling up in comforters. it proclaims evenings settled in, boots tucked away and ignored, and the anticipation of trekking no father from the living room than the kitchen, the den, or where two or more are gathered in unpurpose-driven fellowship.

it is, in short, an excellent excuse to postpone foraging forays and any quest or duty reeking of importance--as long as it was still good. i had yet to actually drink any: i hadn't found the time on my 4 p.m. "morning" dash out the door find and clean a proper cup in order to partake. the old empty plastic gatorade bottles and glass beer bottles that carry fauceted water to my hydration needs simply will not do for cider: it's too tough to pour cider into the beer bottles and drinking cider from plastic nears blasphemy for lack of proper ceremony.

a sniff from the jug provided enough hope to scour the cupboards for glass, to be thoroughly cleaned for taste's sake and thoroughly rinsed in cold water to preserve coolness. the cider poured as it should. it looked as it should, in simple unassuming brown. it tasted as it should. i read a little, of the beauty of Oregon and the change of seasons and the cycle of births and deaths, leavetakings and homecomings, and how all things grow and change and return. soon Jake joined me from the cellar where he dwells, and i ate my rice while he cooked his. we talked about the outdoors and wand'ring and friends who have hitch-hiked or train-hopped or bicycled their ways across vast distances, great oceans of beauty. i sat and sipped cider. after a long week's labor and stress and isolation, i was still and at home, my day for cooking a slow meal and sipping cider and for rest.

and then i remembered. today is sunday. apple-cider sunday.

shabbat shalom!