There are no holidays in the month of Cheshvan. No day in Cheshvan to prepare for and say this is the particular face we focus on to guide us towards what is holy now. No guide for my eyes and heart to land on to celebrate You.
It’s the mysticism of ordinariness. The mysticism, perhaps, of boringness, of this is what you get when the magic stops.
Of pancakes and the pancreas,
Of over-reacting, of relaxing, of this un-particular face of holiness
that is totally unique to you.