Israel does not ease you into the new year. It hands you an apple, asks why you have left dress shopping until the last possible minute, blows a shofar at your remaining illusions, and then empties the roads so you can think about what you have done. A few days later, it expects you to eat outdoors beneath foliage secured by optimism and cable ties. This is known, apparently without irony, as the season of our joy.

Rosh Hashanah arrives in a rush of honey, good intentions and the conviction that this year we will be organized. We promise to be more patient, more present and less likely to agree to something without writing it down. I managed to forget an invitation made to me on Shabbat Shuva and accept another one for the same Sukkot meal. My hosts had to remind me of the first. Nothing says spiritual renewal quite like explaining to the people you adore that your calendar exists in several locations, none of which are accessible to your brain.

Yom Kippur is supposed to stop the noise. In Israel, it actually stops the traffic. The roads empty, the airspace closes, and for a brief, astonishing interval the country sounds as though it might let a person finish a thought. Mine did not. At shul I saw my older brother, who has withdrawn from me and much of........

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