Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Holiday (04/05/12)
TITLE: Soul Away
By Lizzy Ainsworth
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When the day rushes by and you are left at the end, at home with the dragging of the feet, grasping at brief moments and yet forging ahead towards the end, you wonder how one can grasp life with both hands and hold on.
Life crashes on, the relentless, pounding of waves on the sand, so many waves every day and it only seems like one big wave of rest at night and the waves of time keep pounding. Ever changing, foaming and white, clear and swirly, salty and spitting. Will it ever stop? Should it ever?
My soul longs for quiet, for rest, for a calm over a reef, time to look down below the surface of the pounding wash, because can one stand firm forever in such a strong tide or will one be tugged under, over, through and come out bedraggled?
So picturesque, a teacup and saucer, drained but of a few coffee dregs, it sits firm on the wood of my desk but all I see is it and I are floating, struggling through the waves, if we could but stand still and quiet.
I awake one morning, seeming to be thrown on the sand, lying in sun and waves gently wash. My cove of rough has calmed, a reef beneath to be seen. Can it be the same sand I wake on every morning, only my waters have changed, or perhaps only my perspective? It must change or I will drown, one morning of every seven, my waves must calm and slow and I float above the reef to stroke down to beauty.
Slowly and swim and reflect on each everyday though that pounds every other morning, but today is Shabbat, a time when the soul must 'soul away', maybe in a teacup, just to relax and see sun and feel the spray that I am other days drenched under. If I rest just a little, for just one seventh I can stand and swim through the pounding surf of this cove of life, but if not, I will sink, thrown to the bottom, scrubbed by sand and caught in a rip, a rut, no rest.
I must have a holiday of the soul, yet a Holy Day of the soul. Rest and grasp the moment and yet it will trickle through the fingers as sand, a bed to rest.
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