You know the sentence. If I let go of this, it's all gonna fall apart.
I hear it from the women I work with all the time. And this week has a very old answer to it.
A roof with holes
This week there is an old custom. People build a small hut outside, in the yard or on a balcony. Thin walls, a roof of branches. They eat in it and sit in it for seven days, then take it down.
The one rule everyone keeps: the roof has to have holes. Enough shade to sit under. Open enough to see the stars.
A life built to be fully controlled has a concrete ceiling. Concrete walls. There is no room in it for Universe, for anything miraculous, for anything you did not plan.
Room for breathing. Room for newness. Room for something unexpected.
Holding on tighter
The more you grip, the less room there is for anything new to come in.
Leave one part open
Pick one thing you have been trying to fully control. A plan, a schedule, a project, a person. Leave one part of it open this week. Unplanned. Unfixed.
Say: There is room here for something I didn't plan.
Friday, October 2, at sunset
Your year is handed to you. Until then, you can still edit it.
The method is built on the lunar calendar and on years of studying Sefer Yetzirah. I do not teach the tradition. I use its calendar as an instrument, and I translate it into the language a modern woman actually lives in.