Do-Overs

This week we celebrated Tisha B’av, and, already I have to stop, because who is the “we,” you ask? That is, if you have read this far. The pronoun, “we,” while suggesting inclusivity, is also a way of creating distance, as in, I’m not talking about me; though, really, I might be.

Tisha B’av is a Jewish holiday, one of many that Jewish people who are not observant or only mildly observant say, “What” or “Why are there so many holidays?” or some combination. “Celebrated” is the wrong word altogether. The holiday is a day of mourning. That its observance involves reading the book of Lamentations offers a huge clue. No eating, no sex, no bathing. For nine days prior, abstinence is the rule. Not much fun in the middle of the summer.

The holiday commemorates the destruction of the First and Second Temple, a day steeped in regret. Though the idea of regret does not seem to have reached Netanyahu, and I don’t hold out hope for that. There does now seem a slim chance that November will bring an end to Donald Trump, but much can happen between now and then.

In the meantime, while I was engaged in the genial thought that I am at the age when every day brings an opportunity for new regrets, I realized that every day in life brings new regrets.  That’s practically part of the definition of being alive.  Obviously, I am nothing if not upbeat.

In Lamentations, the poet offers a litany of regrets. No surprise that the book is written in verse. No surprise that it’s a book to which I keep coming back. How else, but through poetry, can one pour out one’s sad heart? Do not worry. I am not going to indulge myself and list f my own regrets here. I would find that way too personal, and you would find that excruciatingly tedious.

The past is sealed. Can’t change it. That’s at the core of regret, the desire for a “do-over,” a different outcome. Alas, we are stuck. See, there’s that pesky, “we” again. But summer continues and it’s best not to think about a holiday of which most people have never heard or claim unbelievably, like Edith Piaf in her wonderful song, that they regret nothing. I visited her grave once in Pere-Lachaise cemetery.

And summer brings Grandma Camp. It’s this week and an excellent distraction from anyone’s regrets and unhappy thoughts. Grandma Camp involves testing the limits of physical endurance for anyone over 70–a day at an amusement park, a day at the beach, miniature golf, shopping, cooking, eating. Two more days until I can collapse. Then I might even watch the Democratic Convention. I could be hopeful. Why not? Perhaps you will be watching as well.