The frustrating thing is that I had achieved that intense kavanah, but now I have to struggle for it— more often than not, failing miserably. It doesn’t help that the Satan does some of his best work while I attempt to daven
I
n high school, davening was easy.
As soon as I opened my siddur, my mind would automatically enter “the zone”; thoughts focused on the words alone, concentration so intense that following Aleinu, I’d surface to awareness like a swimmer to the top of the water.
It was all downhill from there.
Ideally, davening should be a safe place, where I foist my burdens on Hashem, when I tell Him about all I have to take care of and ask for His assistance. Tell Me about your worries, I’d hear when I davened. Have faith in Me, mammelah.
But that occurs less often than I’d like.
The frustrating thing is that I had achieved that intense kavanah, but now I have to struggle for it — more often than not, failing miserably. It doesn’t help that the Satan does some of his best work while I attempt to daven. The phone rings, shattering my concentration. (Telemarketing should be made illegal!) Even though I left my breakfast simmering on the lowest flame with adequate liquid, I start to smell burning oatmeal. The doorbell chimes; it’s my father-in-law, stuck outside while I’m in middle of Shemoneh Esreh. I remember the obscure items I need to add to an online order: magnesium, apple cider vinegar. Then the standard groceries: bananas, zucchini. Are we out of yogurt?
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