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KJ Hannah Greenberg

This-A-Way and That-A-Way

For me, Shabbot meal prep remains a heartening activity. Peeling kohlrabi, beets, or radishes can cause me to remember the source for an incomplete footnote in a shelved essay, at the same time as sautéing leeks, mushrooms, or zucchini can make me, suddenly, discover the perfect end rhyme for a stanza within a developing poem. All the more, when I’m slicing chicken or turkey, or, otherwise, estimating the measure of cumin, garlic, and turmeric that belong in a soup, I often have an epiphany about some other unfinished assemblage of words that sit not in my kitchen, but on my office computer.

Like most folks, I am soothed by rhythmic, repetitious actions. Until nearly a decade ago, washing dishes provided this solace. Then, I was regularly comforted by the sudsy strokes I drew across ceramic and glass surfaces. The steady sound of unsullied, pouring liquid, plus the light mist that arose from my exertions enabled me to switch from right brain focus to left. That modification, in turn, enabled plenty of looked-for ideas to float up to my consciousness. More exactly, not only did steel wool, sponges, and scrubbers help me to replace sticky, messy vessels with polished spotless ones, but they also efficiently emptied my mind of overflow, leaving me with surfaced bits and bobs of ideas.

Remarkably, no one protested when I offered, or even insisted, to be allowed to make sinks’ contents spick and span after dinner. Maybe, others regarded me as a dupe. I suppose that they never considered that lavation was my reliable escape from idle chit chat or that after scouring pots, I could smile, once more, at persons more full of themselves than roast (obviously, this tactic failed on Shabbot and Chagim.)

Likewise, raking leaves was another form of cheer that I repeatedly employed (and that was prohibited on holy days, too) until I aged out of that activity. The soft chirrup of tines gathering fallen foliage on autumnal grass was uplifting. Whereas the air beneath my trees, between September and November, was stippled with sunlight and whereas the season’s temperature allowed for exertion without discomfort or layered clothing, it was always the scratch of metal against the partially dried organic matter and the assuasive, recurring movements of my arms that lulled me into a relaxed state. While my children were busy gathering acorns and pinecones and my husband was occupied, in his not-so-distant office, I  contently formed piles of oak and poplar fragments.

Be that as it may, currently, my knees and back make standing over a sink for extended periods or pushing and pulling a long-handled garden tool prohibitive. Although senescence provides perspective, concurrently, it sets up constraints. Not just “ordinary” exercises have become more and more difficult to me; yardwork and housework, as well, have become progressively challenging.

Consequently, my Shabbot preparations have increased in importance. Unquestionably, it’s crucial that I set aside time to honor the Queen, but, on top of that, it’s necessary that I make time for self-care. Dicing tomatoes, cubing cucumbers, and chiffonading fennel launch me toward celebrating The Day of Rest as well as assist me in making peace out of my weekly labors.

When I prepare stir-fry, for instance, it’s not so much that I paysanne my daikon and sweet peppers as it is that I gift myself with good reasons for sitting mentally still for more than five minutes. Similarly, when I fashion fish wraps, it’s virtually immaterial if I use rice paper, taco shells, chard, lettuce, or napa cabbage as their shells. Still and all, it’s “imperative” that I baton whatever amount of parsnip, endive, sour pickles, and bok choy that I’m inserting alongside of the sea critters. Further, it’s “vital” that I tourney my sweet potatoes and my jicama. To boot, I prefer to wedge my bitter melon, delicata, and hubbard squash regardless of whether I cook them “sweet,” i.e., with cinnamon, apples, and silan, or “savory,” i.e., with thyme, parsley and caraway (and, maybe, a few sliced almonds). As long as chopping returns me to four square breathing or macedoing restores my equilibrium, I’m flourishing. I maintain that hewing produce into wee pieces quiets me faster and better than consciously focus on the nature and duration of my breaths or my heartrate.

Notwithstanding the fact that I thank The Aibeshter for all aspects of Creation, including and especially the bounty of consumable plants that he’s made available to the world, I thank Him for the opportunity to use observance, meaning, my dedicated practice of getting ready for Shabbot, not only as a means to serve Him but, correspondingly, as a method for regulating my frenetic emotions, for reestablishing inner calm.

It’s said that rewards from performing mitzvot are secured in The World to Come. Sometimes, however, we can enjoy their dividends here and now.

About the Author
KJ Hannah Greenberg has been playing with words for an awfully long time. Initially a rhetoric professor and a National Endowment for the Humanities Scholar, she shed her academic laurels to romp around with a prickle of imaginary hedgehogs. Thereafter, her writing has been nominated once for The Best of the Net in poetry, three times for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for poetry, once for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for fiction, once for the Million Writers Award for fiction, and once for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay. To boot, Hannah’s had more than forty books published and has served as an editor for several literary journals.
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