As we approach the High Holy Days, I am reminded of a discussion held in our sanctuary one recent Shabbat morning. A question was posed: “What is holy?” It was a reasonable question. Prayer after prayer in the Siddur refers to holiness — the holiness of God, the holiness of Shabbat, even the holiness of prayer itself.

If you Google “holy,” you will find terms as inscrutable as the word itself — words like divine principles, moral purity, sacred, consecrated to God. What does all that mean, really? For me, they are words that do not truly communicate the essence of holiness.

Reading on, I found the word “separateness,” that something holy was, in an observant way, separate, unique, a oneness. Maybe that brings the term a little closer to understanding. To say that Shabbat is holy means that it is separate from all the days of the week, that the distinctions associated with Shabbat separate it from the remaining six. Only on Shabbat do we light candles at dusk; only on Shabbat do we perform the beautiful Havdalah ceremony that, according to Jewish tradition, concludes Shabbat at dusk on Saturday.

Shabbat itself is distinctive, too, as the weekly day of rest and spiritual enrichment. It is a time to cease work, engage in prayer, family time, and introspection, a day separate from the regular workweek and other holidays.

But early on, an active and often boisterous Jewish child growing up in a deeply Jewish household, Shabbat wasn’t holy; it was a day to be endured. A strange confession, I know, coming from someone who is the current president of the shul. Nevertheless, what was I to think about an intensely quiet day in an intensely Jewish household when, as far as I was concerned, absolutely nothing was allowed. Nothing. Not because I couldn’t think of anything to do, but anything I thought of probably wasn’t appropriate for a day as holy as Shabbat. And so it went: Shabbats coming and going, boredom unending. Would it be heresy to mention also Yom Kippur in this context? Yom Kippur, at least, was one excruciatingly long day in a year; Shabbat rolled around every week.

Who could have guessed that half a century later — husband and I zipping along Interstate 95 on our way to soak up sunshine and warmth in Florida — that driving through the scrub pines of South Carolina, I would come to understand one of the ancient lessons about Shabbat. A strange place for a learning experience in Jewishness, I must say. In fact, considering the harshness of the landscape — not the terrain where Jews tend to hang out — and the folks who had been scarfing up ham and eggs with abandon at the table next to ours at a local eatery — I wondered whether or not most of the people in these parts had ever even seen a Jew.

Bypassing the car radio’s music stations playing country, blues, soul and gospel, I was finally able to lock onto the one-and-only talk station in the area. As I tuned in, the host was in the process of interviewing two guests about something called the Worldwide Slowness Movement.

“Our lives are dedicated to a veneration of speed,” one of them was saying. “Our civilization is dedicated to a culture of hurry.” Well, ho-hum, I thought. Nothing new. People these days do seem to be constantly rushing from place to place, and the days are never long enough for the to-do list.

The guest prattled on about how decelerating relieves stress and tension, improves relationships, cures sagging morale and burnout, and encourages introspection. We need time to “have a think,” he said. Wow, I thought. I like that phrase. I continued to listen.

The second guest talked about seeking serenity, peace of mind, and calm. She described us as a nation of strivers, a people who need to do more, produce more, to get richer, more energetic, thinner. Then, just as I figured I’d had about enough of this negativity, she said something I thought remarkable. She said that we must learn how to master the art of  “the sacred pause.” Wait. What?

The sacred pause. Of course, that’s what Shabbat is about. A pause. Shabbat is less the proverbial day of rest, as I’d been taught since childhood — a seemingly interminable length of time to a task-oriented person — but is more of a pause, a sacred pause, a manageable interlude in which to have that think. For sure, the speaker hadn’t intended her remarks to apply to Jewish law and ritual, and yet…

Some might say I’m engaging in an arcane exercise in semantics. Maybe so. But I like this idea of the sacred pause. It doesn’t decree that I power down. It invites me, rather, to set aside — just temporarily — the everyday demands of the workweek.

I wanted to thank the station, the host, and his guests, but as we were exceeding the already generous speed limit on I-95, we were out of range before I could identify any of the participants. Nevertheless, I am most grateful to them for introducing me to this unusual concept of a sacred pause in which to have a think. That, to me, sounds a lot like what Shabbat is all about, and what separates it from other days, what makes it holy.

I could have this think in shul, maybe during the silent prayer. It could be on a leisurely walk in the neighborhood, or on the pathway from my apartment at Peconic Landing to the Sound. It could be in the quiet of the morning, while I’m rinsing my breakfast dishes. All I know is this: Every Saturday, I acknowledge that Shabbat is separate, a oneness from the rest of the week. The perfect time for a think. It doesn’t make the day intensely long. It’s just a pause. A sacred pause.

I hope you will join me in shul on Shabbat, to light candles on Friday evenings, and to take advantage of the opportunity that comes to all of us every Saturday morning — the opportunity to have a “think.”

In a similar spirit of communal prayer, I bring members and friends warm greetings from the Board of Directors as we welcome this year’s High Holy Days, commencing on Erev Rosh Hashanah, Monday, Sept. 22. High Holy as compared to Holy is, by Jewish ritual, as separate as you can get. The term “High Holy Days” refers to the 10-day period between Rosh Hashanah (the New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement), as well as the period of repentance between them when, by tradition, we reflect on the solemnity and spiritual significance of this period, referred to as the “Days of Awe.” Nothing else in Judaism compares to this holiday season. In terms of observance, the High Holy Days are as High as Holy gets.

L’Shanah Tovah to all. Wishing you peace, good health and joy throughout the year.

—Sara Bloom