a tribute to Brooklyn; Journey Home

The rough copy:

The black pavement glistens, wet with the overflow of the clouds- they couldn’t hold it together anymore, I guess, and so down they came, breaking apart the tumbled to rebirth- they will ne reformed to overload, and then fall again. But I barely consider this as I sprint for the bus, anxious to get home to my dreams, back to the family I get to be part of once a week, where I fit in.
Home, at least on Friday’s, is a bus, a train, and a subway away. The second the clock hits five, out of work I run, in a rush to start on my long journey. The next two hours are spent in transit, where I find myself in quiet reflection, decompressing from the stresses of a life without sleep. Every other moment, I am a student, a worker, a friend. But on Shabbat, on Friday nights, I am nothing more than a child of my Father, returning for dinner.
Sometimes I try to explain the allure of this event to others in my normal world. “It’s just relaxing,” I try (of why I go). “I just like being there,” (of how it could be worth the long journey). “They just understand me,” (of my love for the people). Just, just, just. As if this is a trivial phase in my life, filling a hole left by something else, saving the space for the next best thing.
What I can’t seem to express is the truth of my desire to be there. I can’t put into words that the physical traits that hinder me in real life have no power on the Sabbath; on Friday, I am not self-conscious. I am not afraid to wear my favorite baggy sweater. I can stutter and stammer and no one laughs. I am effective in what I say, because I am me.
What I cant get out is that it’s worth every mile, whether it takes two hours or six, because the second I get in the door, I start to breathe again. How with each step leading towards that back walk, my problems start to fall away, and how by the time I sit at the table only the most important issues are left to be discussed. The things that don’t matter are brushed away.
What I just cannot seem to say is that when I start to talk, I am respected. That my opinions are valued, that I never have to make things up. I never have to prove myself because my Brooklyn family has decided that I am credible, and worth listening to. They agree with me on many things, and they disagree with me on many more. But we don’t argue, we discuss. We love each other the way only a family does- we will be there for each other despite the world.
What I don’t realize as I tread over the wet ground, is how like the clouds I am., sustaining myself the best I can until Friday, when I can fall apart and start all over again. For a few hours each week, I get to spend some time, to be real and new. It is a passion that you would have to experience to understand, but it doesn’t matter who gets it anymore. My Brooklyn Shabbats are not filling a gap- indeed, without them is when such a hole would occur.