Sunday morning, on the couch, pancakes made (egg whites for me), organ jazz playing, otherwise quiet.

Just a little post-Shabbos Shabbos.

I wonder sometimes, why we insist on breaking up our rest into one uninterrupted block. Because God metaphorically did so after the world was created? An entire day? That’s a pretty massive undertaking in and of itself.

I’ve been entertaining a 3 and a 4 year old all weekend. It’s not exactly galactic architecture, but I feel like I’ve earned this 12 minute respite while they excitedly enjoy Bananas in Pajamas. (Say: Ba-nahhhhnahhs). Maybe it’s a relatively logarhythmic rate of restful return?

(That was, for the record, at once quite the geeky and alliterate question.)

In The Confessions of a Misfit, Mokokoma Mokhonoana writes “…We are so used to working that not working is the new hard work.”

I guess when I think my phone is buzzing all the time (when it fact, half the time it is not, and I pick it up in confusion), when I feel obsessive about checking email, when I’m sure that some crisis is happening while I’m determined that my mind be elsewhere, I become sure of my status as a victim of societal enculturation. Perhaps it’s the curse of living in NYC? Everyone here is working all the time. I think, though, that we make our own choices, be that circumstance tends to wreak havoc with our intended plans from time to time.

And so, I bid you adieu. I will turn my attention to the remaining 4.5 minutes of Ba-nahhhhhhnahhs in… (well, you get it), and shall proceed outside with my kidlings to have some rest… a different kind of rest. The best kind.

The “new hard work.”

Shavua tov.