Somewhere around the first verse of Yigdal, he stands up. Or, in truth, he never sat down.
He’s not leaving. He’s just going. Up the side aisle, across the back, down the middle, and then, for variety, up the side aisle again. He davens best at three miles an hour.
Pacing itself is not the problem. There are plenty of good reasons for it: ADHD, hemorrhoids, three coffees, a new knee, or just nosiness. All valid, and all best appreciated from a safe distance. Distance, as it turns out, is the whole issue.
Start with personal space. There is an invisible bubble around every person, in every room, at all times. This is America. If you can read from his sefer, you’re too close, and you should have done an about-face a full seat back. If you can tell what he had for breakfast, or whether he’s on the right page, you’re way too close.
Then there’s real estate. The pacer has a gift for finding the one spot in the shul that everyone else needs. The door. The shelves. The main artery of the shul, where he slows to a stroll and a line forms behind him, everyone doing the polite shuffle. Nobody says anything. Nobody ever says anything. They just notice.
It doesn’t have to be this way, but it takes a few adjustments. Don’t stare off into the distance or down at the floor. Know where you are. Keep your head on a swivel and take in the room. And by gosh, don’t walk right up to someone only to turn around and shuffle off.
But that’s only half of it. Because sometimes he isn’t just walking. He’s davening. Out loud. At volume. While walking.
That’s next time.
Leave a comment