It wasn't supposed to be, really. I intended for Vanĕk the coonhound to play the roles of a small host of seder participants, but he woofed down one big piece of matzah and decided to limit his participation to reclining on the couch and watching out for Eliyahu. It is the first night of Passover, and I am alone. Not getting invited to a seder is perfectly understandable. Firstly, I'm not really anyone's family. And, secondly, who wants to invite someone like me? "She'll come for a short while, sit there silently, and then find a pretext to leave early." That's me, and that's what they say--on a good day. It's awkward for everyone. "She's always so serious, and so depressed." That's me. If this all sounds a lot like self-pity, well, there is that, yes. "Poor-me-ism" is a definite part of my condition. I could/should have held a seder of my own, found someone else who had nowhere to go. There's always enough t
Meditations from Hillesum Farm in Ontario, Canada