In this month’s Sun Magazine the main article (always a feature interview) focuses on a guy at the UC Berkeley Psych Department who focuses on awe. As an awesome. And all the attendant emotions, such as enchantment, bedazzlement, curiosity and humility. Who can argue with the theme, right? And since these are the Days of Awe, Yom Kippur being the last of them, it’s damned appropriate, right?

And I was thinking this, of course, on the 49 Muni bus headed to services this very morning. And, Gentle Reader, not feeling very good about the whole thing. YK isn’t a fun holiday, after all. No one has ever wished anyone a Happy Yom Kippur. No one sane, anyway. Still it’s a human ritual. And we need ritual. And we need humans. So there I was on the 49 bus, and noting that I do find something related to awe on the city’s transit system. Systems. At that very moment I was gauging the relative merits of getting on the #49 as opposed to boarding the 14R (as in rapid) and speeding along as that bus skips every four or five intervening stops. And you know what it is to pull out all the stops. Pull them out on a bus route, and it’s especially gratifying, trust me. Where was I?

Mission Street. And heading for the Herbst Theater, temporary home for my congregation during the high holidays. I arrived late on purpose. Yes, I felt a little guilty. But I also felt a little happy to have missed the initial 45 minutes. Because as it was, I was there for the full two hours and 15 minutes remaining. And that’s a lot of sitting for this aging quadriplegic. But anyway, moving down Mission Street, it became clear that the 14 express had absolutely nothing over the existing bus. Because I was going to have to transfer to this #49 anyway. Sorry to be so boring, but in this moment I was taking delight, if not quite awe, in having optimized my bus activity.

And then there was this next thing. Which was watching the bus turn due north into the Van Ness Ave. Busway. Which is what?

Well, it’s something that cost several hundred million dollars. And took at least two more years than it should have. In other words, it was a very typical San Francisco infrastructure effort. But it has transferred the pain of one of the city’s essential north/south thoroughfares elsewhere. Driving the thing in a car probably hasn’t changed. But if you’re a bus, happy days. Your red lane (yes, actually red) is physically separated from the rest of the street. The bus stops are permanent structures, some with very fanciful roofs and architectural décor. And speed? Not only do the buses hurtle right along in their special lanes, they force various traffic lights into the green position. Nothing gets in their way, in other words.

And by the time I got to Yom Kippur services, I was in the right mood. Awesome. I was ready.

There’s a time during YK in which those present recite a very long and comprehensive list of human sins. Transgressions. Failures for the year. After which, the observant are invited to have a few moments to think about their own versions of that list. What do we want to make better for the new Jewish year? In the silence that followed, my mind shifted to the torture factory within my head around being a “failed writer.” My great supposed opus unpublished. And it’s all so bad, and on and on, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Which, I realized, falls into the category of sin. Or failure. Or bad for the community, showing no respect for the common good, the common anything. Doubtless in the realm of vanity. Whatever. Moralizing isn’t the point. What is the point? The point is to find the point. Or just search for it without finding it, but to keep looking. And wringing one’s hands about missing literary fame and fortune is ever so slightly off message. Off track. And so on.

And I vowed to make amends, one might say. And one might say anything, but on this day, when one’s fate for the year is supposed to be sealed…one won’t. I felt good about it. I felt good about finding my way. And I even found my way home. To Jane and her latest crop of bread. To marry a good cook is one thing. Marrying a good baker is another. Onward.