There are moments that defy time. You forget to inhale. You don’t blink. You just…wait. And watch.
I spend time with my girl. We play this game. I check that her feet are firmly flat, and I let go. She hovers, hovers, hovers…and falls. And reaches her arms up, to be raised up, to try again.
I let go. I think of weebils. I think of yo-yos. Will she thud? Or will she pull herself up this time, to stay?
She hovers, hovers. I forget to breathe. I think of Wile E. Coyote after he runs past the edge of the cliff, before he realizes he’s unmoored. I watch. Everyone in the room watches.
I think of the t’kiyah gdolah, that loudest, longest call of the ram’s horn during Jewish prayers, when the blower blows for as long as he can, when the congregation silently watches, anticipating. They know it goes and goes and goes. They know it will end. But they wait, captivated by its call, its pull, the fibers of sound it sends through each penitent, propping them up. They listen, and in the waiting for the end, in the waiting for the moment after its end, time slows. Perception grows.
A body in motion stays in motion. And: you can’t turn back the clock. And: a rolling stone gathers no moss.
What’s begun can’t be unbegun.
I leave my girl and walk through my office. I hear, “can you believe he’s going to take Virginia?” and I hear “I cried last night to a political infomercial!” and I hear “I can not stop checking the latest online polls.”
The whole country has stopped breathing. The whole world has stopped blinking.
Two things are happening simultaneously that are captivating my attention. Two big, momentous things. I’m watching so intently these two things that are both so important to me. I shouldn’t feel so much wonder that they’re happening in lockstep, that they’re both keeping me in suspense. My world and The World are in sync, like a heartbeat. Progressing. My baby is learning how to stand on her own, and we’re days away from electing a new President. Yes she can. YES WE CAN.
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