Amanda jaffe

You awake with a gasp. It happens a lot lately.

There’s nothing gradual about waking when you're fifty-seven. Your eyes leap open, like those spring-loaded roller shades in the apartment you slept in when you couldn’t even imagine fifty-seven, when waking up was slow and purposeless, unless the purpose was to curl with sly, drowsy intention into the warm body next to yours. That’s not waking up at fifty-seven. At fifty-seven, you awake with a gasp.

In the Jewish tradition into which you were born and somewhat raised, there is a body and there is a soul and, depending on your degree of observance, a belief that your soul leaves your body while you sleep. The specificity of where your soul goes depends on your degree of observance as well. For the most observant, your soul goes to sit with God, where it is restored. This, however, is not your end of the observance spectrum. Your end of the observance spectrum — at least your personal corner of your end of the observance spectrum, which you’ve built to your specifications as a sort of DIY project — believes in a communal goodness that comes from the good that lies within each of us. While you’re willing to characterize the within as your soul, where it goes while you sleep is complicated.

You weren’t thinking much about souls at thirty-seven. Waking at thirty-seven meant waking into the fuzzy sensation that you were being watched, peeking through semi-closed eyelids to find a worried, wide-eyed, four-year-old face inches from your own, come to check, perhaps, that your soul hadn’t gone anywhere. A face attached to a pint-sized body that ached to be reached for and embraced, reassured in the womb-like warmth of your bed.

At fifty-seven, it isn’t an expectant face staring into yours in the barely blooming light. It’s your fifty-seven-year-old soul, back from a night of wandering, tapping its toe, sighing, wringing its hands. At any other age, waking in the presence of your distressed soul, let alone the thought of your soul having a presence, would have been distressing in itself. At fifty-seven, you’re only mildly surprised to find yourself only mildly surprised.

Finally, your soul says. I’ve been waiting a while.

Where were you, you ask.

Traveling the world, your soul replies. (On hearing this, you smile. You always knew you had the soul of a traveler.) The world is still beautiful, but there’s a lot of bad stuff out there. Seriously, your soul sighs, I think I’m coming down with something.

Your smile dissipates. What time is it, you ask.

Time? Your soul looks at you, perplexed. Time isn’t really your soul’s thing.

You reach for your phone and your soul rolls its eyes.

I thought you’d promised not to do that first thing every morning, your soul complains. You know it’s not good for me.

You lay the phone down, then reach for it again. The phone promise was foolish, especially considering that the only clock in your bedroom is the one on your phone, all but ensuring it's the first thing you pick up every morning.

It’s 6:00 a.m., you say.

9:00 a.m. back east, your soul responds. Just an observation.

Just an observation. Friends and family you left behind when you moved from the east coast to the west last summer are already halfway through their mornings, probably thinking about what they'll have for lunch. You try to swallow the sensation that you’ve already wasted half the day, but your mind alights on another aspect of your Jewish tradition. Unlike the secular day, which begins at midnight, or the figurative day, which begins as the sun pierces the horizon, the Jewish day begins when the sun goes down. By this measure, you’ve only just awakened, yet the day is already half over, exacerbating what moments ago was just a three-hour time difference, drawing you into an acute spiral of wasted-time doom until —

— and then I passed through Ukraine, your soul continues. It’s pacing now. Like I said, a lot of bad stuff. Your soul pauses, irritated. Are you even listening?

You sigh.

Yep, still here, your soul says. Can we discuss the increased risk of nuclear war in Europe?

No.

Those new gray hairs you found last week?

No.

Whether democracy has a future? Whether you still look young for your age? Reproductive rights? Climate change? Can we please talk about climate change? Don’t pretend you’re not terrified.

It all terrifies you. You turn to face your soul.

Believe me, I know, your soul shrugs. They call it baring your soul for a reason, okay?

I’m not sure it’s supposed to work this way, you respond. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be here, waiting to ambush me when I wake up. This is starting to feel like an Ingmar Bergman movie.

Your soul rolls its eyes. I don’t play chess, and I’m not Death. Quite the opposite, actually. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be taking better care of me.

You’ve got to admit, your soul has a point.

The light in your bedroom begins its transformation from the ambient, below-the-horizon light of early dawn to the burgeoning light of daybreak. Beams of gold begin to filter through the gaps in the window blinds, shimmering on the wall beside your bed. When you were seven, you’d wake to beams like these. Fairies, your mother would call them when she came to wake you, and because she was your mother and because they were the first thing you saw every morning, that’s what they were, and they were yours, and they are here.

And with the shifting of the light, another aspect of your Jewish tradition comes to mind, one that surprises you, both because it involves a prayer and, to be honest, because it's been a long time since you've given this much thought to your Jewish tradition. It’s the Modeh Ani, a prayer intended to be said upon waking and one, up to this moment, that you’ve never said. It’s a prayer that expresses gratitude that your soul has (been) returned to you. As with other aspects of observance, the words come in varying degrees of specificity regarding whom you are thanking and for what.

You close your eyes, because closing your eyes seems like the right thing to do, and you think about the words and you decide to keep it simple. Thank you, you say.

What do you mean, you hear your soul ask.

I’m grateful that you’re here, you respond, your eyes still closed.

When you open your eyes, your soul is there, still filled with worry but also with wonder, aching to be reached for and embraced, reassured in the womb-like warmth of your bed. You pull back the covers and extend your arms. Come, you say, as your soul reaches out to you. Let’s just lie here a while.

As you lie in bed embracing your soul, watching fairies dance on the wall, your thoughts coalesce and you gasp again. The world is awful. The world is awe-full. At fifty-seven, what can you do but embrace your soul and gasp at the horror and wonder of it all?

On Waking When You're 57

Amanda jaffe