Friday night is the birthday of the world.  The world is 5770 years ago, or so the Jewish tradition would have it.  And, since global warming has kicked into high gear, it is not looking so good.  Especially after the immense amount of war casualties this year.  And the fall-out of the financial crises.  The world needs a spa millenium.

Anyway, we sang happy birthday in that Jewish way of taking a happy moment and pointing out how bad the world looks and how bad we look in the world’s reflection.  So, no cake for the world.  Anyway, there is not a cake big enough to fit 5771 candles, so a piece of sponge cake will have to do.

Services start at 6:30pm.  I meet POB (partner of blogger) who pulls out Pepto Bismol from her bag and offers me a swig.  This is not a required Jewish ritual for Rosh HaShanah, but many Jews do use the stuff because we have a high incidence of irritable bowel (that’s part of why we complain so much).  I have been suffering mightily recently and since I read the article on social contagion theory, I am sure that my cousin who has irritable bowel syndrome passed it on to me.  But I digress.

It is hard for a room full of Jews to stop talking so the rabbi’s job is hard.  That’s why there is at least a half-hour flex time between when the service starts and when it REALLY has to start. 

When we walked in, we thought we belonged to the synagogue “servicing the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered Jews, their families and their friends.”  Apparently, that is soooo older generation.  Now the synagogue “serves Jews of all sexual orientations and gender identities”.  Ahhhh.  Wait, there are more than two genders?  This is its own separate bloggable moment.  We have established, however, that POB and I are here, we’re queer and we are out of touch.  Ok, I digress again.

So, we sit through a lovely service (comfortably, thanks to POB and Pepto Bismol).  There is something comforting about the rhythms of the seasons and the traditions and chanting the prayers using melodies and tropes that have gone from generation to generation (even if one generation doesn’t understand that there are more than two genders).  The rabbi gets up and starts speaking.  She uses beautiful imagery but I get lost in the imagery and cannot follow what she is talking about.  I am thinking she doesn’t know either.  First, we learn that the founding of the Hudson River shares a birthday with the world.  400 years ago.  There is probably a cake big enough for 401 candles.  Soooo special.  The river flows in two directions.  The river’s water has lapped these shores as change has to come to the river and Manhattan Island.  Change is not fast, but a slow progression of miniscule changes the cumulative impact of which is only visible in hindsight. This is an excellent metaphor for the process of changing the nation, the world and humanity.  Then, the rabbi gets a little lost in the poetry of light beams dancing on the river and the blue of the river changing with the light.  I am hearing about lots of different blues.  I check my blackberry.  POB nudges me.  I stop messaging and start listening.  Still, lots of blue water lapping the shores while we fail to notice.  Lots of lapping blue that we could notice, but then we wouldn’t make it to work or feed our families.  I am really losing the point here.  I am dizzy.

We get home, where my sister and brother-in-law are staying with our son.  This is their way of observing the birthday of the world — watching videos and eating pizza and lying on the couch.  My sister is wearing my sweatshirt .  Apparently she was cold and didn’t want to hunt through our stuff (remember only two weeks ago, they hunted for a bird caught in our apartment), but knowing me, she could just go to my side of the bed, look down, and find something that was only partially worn that day.  Life is good when your sister knows you and loves you and will wear your slightly worn clothes.

POB and I went to sleep that night exhausted and dizzy, but happy because a new year brings new beginnings (and for me, more bloggable moments).