They are a puzzle, these early Shabboses, chasing us faster and faster with each passing week. Yet they should come as no surprise. They were there on the refrigerator all along, on the calendar that arrived before Rosh Hashana. Though so much else has been lost this year — our sense of time and space, our balance and security and circadian rhythms, civility and indoor minyanim— we still changed the clocks. The geese, too, squawk in formation, flying south right on schedule, and the yellow leaves still do hang. Our garden, which I neglected all summer, needs tending now. I must put it to bed before the frost. But I digress. Fall back, the man says. And because we remain hopeful, and also grateful that we have not – yet – fallen down on the job of holding it all together, we do. Our microwaves, dashboards, watches, and alarms — anything we can figure out without a manual. The nights come too early now. When Shabbos arrives, I am breathless, not quite prepared. I light candles with flour from challah-baking still in my hair. But like a child again, I rush towards the holiness with my arms open wide, delighted, relieved to land gently in its embrace, as if into a pile of autumn leaves.