A Shabbos for the World

    Many times, as I would walk down the road from my university's Jewish Society, usually late, on a Friday night after a dinner and the inevitable hours of conversation, I would see passers-by gussied up in too-few clothes (and too much makeup) to catch the bus for a night out. That's not my speed anyway, but on the Sabbath it's something different; I am in my own world—a temple of the mind—where no work is done, because the world is already complete. There's no rushing, and there's certainly no bussing nor raving. I'm not saying it was always serene (no one could say religious Jews are too solemn after a Shabbos-farbrengen) but there is a rest from activity. I have long found that a strange feeling to be totally separate from someone stood just next to me, who really could not understand. To that, I'll return in a moment.

    As I write this, I am living in York, England, finishing a degree that I've been working at over the last 3 years. It seems unceremonious in many ways to simply feel as though I am riding this pandemic out, and in another sense it isn't true. I'm not alone in my house, partly by chance, and I know others around the neighborhood, but I am nevertheless wrapping up my life, in a sense, to which I will not return once I'm gone. 

    One thing that struggle and strife often do, or perhaps simply other, less distant stresses do, is to go beyond the level of putting something into perspective—whatever that might be—and creating nostalgia. When I left my home at 18 in New York to move to England, I had 11 months to prepare myself with the knowledge. In that time, I wandered the streets; I sat by the river for hours and once cried at seeing a log go by knowing, in a neatly poetic sense I suppose, that I would be drifting away myself soon too, so to speak. It isn't that I didn't want to go—it was my choice after all—but that knowing the immanence of my departure made me realize that whether I'd ever move back, it certainly would not be the same life I had. Likewise, at times, I have really struggled living in York. I have felt that I have had to compromise on religious beliefs, dealt with real prolonged loneliness, and fought the institutions in the university when I've been pushed to do so. By the start of last summer, the 24th of June to be specific, I had decided that I would simply ride it out until I graduated.

    Now though, after more than two months having not seen the city-center of York, I went out on a Saturday around 6:30pm. This time of year, that is still a comfortable couple hours away from the end of Shabbos. Still, I was [am] more than a little bored, and I wanted to get out finally. I wanted to see the city, but mostly I wanted to stretch my legs beyond my walk to the kitchen and back. York is a truly beautiful city, and it is not usually a crowded one, but a Saturday evening anywhere is generally an exciting time. Ordinarily, I was used to passing shops seeing out their last customers, restaurants just starting to fill up for dinner, and bars filling up with the early birds of the evening. Instead, everything was closed. There were a couple of bikes—often just deliverymen—and perhaps a mere two shops (takeaways) open. Few cars went by and those that did spend along, clearly not meaning to stop. I wasn't upset by this. In a sense I was glad. People were finally acting like me; they weren't rushing along to spend money, traveling around for hen-do's nor any of the thing's I expect to come across. It isn't to say that all of my prior feelings about my time here, either the good or bad, were made immaterial, but that finally everything felt about as restful as could be, and that in turn gave me a bit of rest—not to mention a little bit of that nostalgic feeling—such that the serenity outside gave me a calm inside as well. 

    Of course, in my case this was simply a period from Friday at sunset to the first stars of Saturday. Then I would be back at my phone and my computer: back to work. The first time I considered observing Shabbos, which I mark as a clear turning point in my religious journey, I struggled with the notion of rest. It is—especially when alone, as I was—extremely difficult to be alone with one's thoughts, unable to write, use electronics, cook, or otherwise be creative. It seems from the surface like a limitation; it's actually a gift. It took a few tries, but what it really took was consistency; I was too lenient at first and undermined the whole process. By the end, it was ultimately a process of rewiring my mind to stop looking at the problems and the gaps that needed filling, and to realize that the world is alright as it is: that I and everything around me is enough as is, and will be until the next day. These days, in small ways (increased screentime notwithstanding), there is a rest in the world. Of course, for many this really is a struggle, and lives are lost, but at no point in history was that not true either. May G-d console the families among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. Still, I hope that while the world may be at a standstill in some ways physically, people may soon realize that they can reconnect metaphysically to the spirit of rest: Shabbos; completion.