The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, —
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That cannot keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.
My month-long writer's residency at Millay Arts overlaps with the Jewish High Holidays. Rosh Hashanah fell on the Friday of my very first week. I hadn’t made firm plans, as I was still learning the rhythms and routines of the residency—unstructured and self-directed, except for dinner. Every evening at 6:30 p.m., all six residents meet at the main house for a sit-down meal prepared in advance by the talented Chef Donna.
The dinners are long and leisurely, sometimes stretching past two hours. Over an unhurried meal, we tell our stories and fill in the missing pieces of the bios we submitted with our applications. A few revelations:
I am the oldest in the group, but only by a few years. Phew! I had convinced myself I would be the Alpha Mom in a house full of Gen Zs.
None of us is from New York. We hail from a mix of red and blue states: Kansas, Texas, Minnesota, California, Ohio, and Illinois.
I am the only sober person—though barring the ghost of our hostess, party-girl poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, it doesn’t seem to be a hard-drinking bunch.
I am the only Jew—a rare occurrence in my Upper West Side milieu.
So it was surreal, and a little sad, to be away for the High Holidays especially since the central spiritual focus is teshuvah—which literally means return. How strange to be on the family text chain with all its “Happy New Year!” and “What time is lunch?” and “Who’s bringing what?” messages and not respond. How lonely to live stream our synagogue’s service on my laptop instead of sitting next to my husband in Row O, Seat 113, right behind our dear friends. As Friday approached, I felt a little homesick.
Up here, Rosh Hashanah wasn't even on the radar. I kept waiting for someone to mention the holidays, but with a name like Patty, it's possible nobody realized I was Jewish.
I’ve never met another Jewish Patty. But I was super excited last winter reading Patti Smith’s memoir, Bread of Angels, to find out that—spoiler alert—she’s Jewish!" Nobody, including Patti, knew until she took a DNA test at age 70. I always thought Marge Simpson’s sister, Patty, might be Jewish due to her Fran Lebowitz vibe and because she was voiced by Julie Kavner—who played Brenda Morgenstern on Rhoda and was basically the first Jewish person I ever "met." A quick Google search confirmed Patty is not Jewish—though she is gay. (I'm a few years behind on The Simpsons, but go, Patty!)
So just as my writing is self-directed at Millay, I had to curate my own spiritual program. I had to make Rosh Hashanah work with this makeshift Midwestern family.
After dinner on Friday night, having watched the evening service online, I slipped into the kitchen and sliced some apples and located a plastic jug of Price Chopper honey in the pantry. This will do, I thought as I prepared a platter and brought it out to the table.
“Tonight is the first night of the Jewish New Year," I announced to the group, "And it’s a tradition to eat apples and honey if you’d like to join me.”“Yes!” they said, more enthusiastically than I expected.
Had I taken this annual treat for granted? The artists couldn’t eat it fast enough.“Here’s to a sweet new year!” I said, raising my honey-dipped apple slice in a makeshift toast.
"Thank you!" they exclaimed.“Yum!" they said as we dipped and crunched.
One of the residents asked what else happens on Rosh Hashanah. I shared that we usually eat a round challah to represent the cycle of the year and that we blow the shofar—a ram’s horn that serves as a sort of spiritual wake-up call.
“But my absolute favorite ritual is Tashlich,” I said, referring to the custom of tossing crumbs into the water to represent the bad habits, negative experiences, destructive behaviors and anything else we don’t want to carry with us into the new year.
“I just need to find a lake around here," I said.
“What about the pool?” someone asked.
The pool?
Oh, right. How could I forget?
In the forest just across the road from the barn are the ruins of an outdoor garden retreat where Millay hosted monumental bacchanalia in the ’20s and ’30s, and "the flowers were watered with gin." The centerpiece is a large, in-ground swimming pool where guests would revel and swim au naturel all summer long.
“I love that idea,” I said.
Wait, do I?
The irony of a sober woman performing a cleansing ritual like Tashlich at the epicenter of Millay’s booze-soaked revelry was not lost on me. But I hadn’t come here to celebrate her legendary excesses. I’d come to honor her creative legacy and to remove the blocks keeping me from doing that.
That will do, I thought.
“I’d be happy to join you,” said one of the other residents. The following afternoon, we met outside the barn and walked up a short, wooded trail to the ruins of the pool—a large concrete hole surrounded by wild shrubs, century-old stone birdbaths, and mossy benches. It was partially filled with a murky mix of spring and rainwater.
My companion handed me a hunk of sourdough she’d bought that morning at the Hillsdale Farmers Market. We began tossing our crumbs, reciting what we wanted to let go of in the coming year:
Self-doubt.
Perfectionism.
Envy.
Shame.
A burgeoning addiction to Trader Joe's Snacky Clusters.
Anxiety.
Dishonesty.
People-pleasing.
Procrastination.
I pulled out my phone and read a secular prayer I found online:
Source of all Creation, I am ready to let go of all the ways I’ve missed the mark. Help me know that last year is over, and let those things that no longer serve me float away like crumbs in the current—or in this case, let them biodegrade into the ruins of this spring-fed party pool.
Then we stood in silence, side by side in the golden glow of the waning light, as a red-tailed hawk swooped low and soared above us—a lapsed Catholic and a convert, strangers just days ago, now linked by a moment of quiet, unexpected grace.
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