Night 6

It is 9:15 in the morning, and I’m taping together a paper dreidel. Diego paws at my side, and I shuffle my gaze between this kitchen table “craft” and my laptop’s buzzing emails. I notice a reminder about an upcoming doctor’s appointment, as KQED blares an update about yesterday’s record breaking fatalities.

Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah and I am anything but festive.

Due to a COVID scare (everyone is fine), Diego is home from daycare for the week.

Due to the COVID surge, I’m crafting a dreidel, rather than going into a store to buy one.

Due to COVID’s relentless force, it’s December-month ten-and I’m.losing.my.mind.

Earlier this morning, as I woke up, I flicked on my Kindle to check the time. The power warning lit up last night, so it wasn’t a shock that the first words to greet this morning were:

BATTERY IS DEPLETED. CHARGE IMMEDIATELY.

Oh Jeff Bezos, are you infiltrating my mind? Yes, I AM depleted. Every part of me is worn down. When I look out into the world-unfortunately, through social media’s lens-EVERYONE is exhausted. There’s no more energy left to charge.

***

I wish I could wrap up this little memory with a delightful reflection. A reflection like, later that night, as the three of us lit the menorah, and devoured crispy Trader Joe’s latkes, I was reminded of the story of Hanukkah. I was reminded that when we’re on our last nerve, and it feels like we’re pulling at the tiniest reserves, there’s still enough to keep going. That little oil drop, that energy spark, can sustain us through eight nights, a long winter, a brutal year, any present hurdle.

Of course, the thought crossed my mind as I scooped apple sauce on my latkes and watched the candles flicker off the bronze menorah Papa and Betty gave us when we got married. 

But it was mostly, it was just a thought. There was no energy surge, no pulling from an internal reservoir. I still counted the minutes until bedtime, the days until the weekend, and waited for something to recharge my exhaustion.

All I could do, sometimes all we can do this year, is go to bed, wake up, and do it all again.

And that’s what we’ve done. Except this week, each night, we light the menorah. We say the prayer, enjoy dinner, and play dreidel. To my surprise, that paper dreidel held up! We divide the chocolate gelt, and Diego awes us by reading the Hebrew letters on the dreidel. He lights up  when it lands on Gimel, yelling “Get them all!” and pulls the chocolate toward him.

Tonight was Night 6. Each evening, as I watch the candle flames dance, I feel the tiniest bit of strength return.

I know the ritual alone is not enough to recharge. There’s little measures of hope offering strength.

Diego returned to daycare. My doctor’s visit began with the most empathetic statement: “wow, you’ve had an intense year,” and continued with soul-lifting optimism. And yesterday, the most hopeful visual:  photographs of nurses, doctors and healthcare workers receiving the first COVID vaccines. 

Together, the evening ritual and these tangible measures of hope restore my battery as we push toward the end of the year. There’s officially 16 days left in 2020. I’m not quite naïve enough to imagine that everything will suddenly change on January 1, 2021, but I’m holding on to rituals and hope to push through to the New Year.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale, an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series “Tethered to Hope”.