Aussie, a friend, and I arrived in Cape Cod in the middle of a 2-day nor’easter in the early afternoon of Saturday. Since then, the sky has been mostly cloudy; yesterday, when we drove up to Provincetown, was the sole exception so far.

But when I woke up Tuesday morning and washed my face, I couldn’t help noticing that the blue shadows under my eyes, which have accompanied me throughout my life, were fainter and not as deep as usual. They were even fainter this morning, Wednesday.

That was the first sign of how relaxed I was, getting up to feed Aussie, sitting while looking out at the pond below the house, hanging out with my friend, not looking much at the watch, not thinking of the list of things to do, and getting a late start on trips to explore the Cape’s beaches, dunes, and hidden inland fresh-water ponds.

After the trip to Provincetown, at the northern tip of the Cape, I went into the glorious hot tub right behind the house. The sky was twilight-dark, and as the water temperature climbed and the jets came on, one star appeared, then a few more, with red-dot planes following one another out of Logan Airport heading towards Europe. Crickets sang in the hedges and Aussie chased rabbits.

I couldn’t forget the world. Two thought streams threatened to cast their weight. One was caregiving issues back home, of which I won’t speak here. The other, of course, was the escalating war in the Middle East, with its horrific and destructive violence. I thought of an impending Israeli ground invasion into Lebanon, of family members going into the army again. I thought of what’s happening in the West Bank, which is so pivotal to peace in that area. I thought of what human beings do to one another.

I’m what they call a second-generation Holocaust survivor, a label I dislike even more than I dislike other labels. I was also born in Israel, in that same Middle East that’s tearing itself apart. How can I stretch out in a hot tub when so much is happening? How can I let the generous jets massage my feet, ankles, hips, and back, the self settling down and settling back? How can I count stars (did you know that three stars mark the end of the Jewish Sabbath)? How can I find ease in the middle of so much hardship?

Who gives me the right to explore ponds, beaches, dunes, the local fish, throw sticks into the water for Aussie, have easy conversations with neighbors, and read books or stream a movie at night—all while so many others lose sleep from anxiety and fear? Lie naked in warm water under a starry sky, thinking lazily of the coyote that visited us the other night, while people starve, are wounded and killed, lose homes and children, suffer from malnutrition and war? Who gives me this right?

A flock of geese honked overhead, flying south. We give you the right, they seemed to say. I felt the warm water frothing from the jets, and it said: I give you the right. I watched a cluster of clouds speed across the sky, and they, too, seemed to say: We give you the right. The green moss on the enclosing oaks said the same, while the cooling air blew me a kiss.

I felt like the Buddha, who was asked to provide a witness for his enlightenment, for the fullness of his humanity, and he touched the earth as if to say: The earth is my witness.

The winds don’t stop blowing because of Gaza. The brown-purple hydrangeas still dot the hedges, the leaf edges turn subtly autumn red, the water in the pond we visited today, just the three of us and no one else around, stays crystal clear.

They’re my witnesses, I thought, of what it is to be human, to be sad at times and overjoyed at others, to accept the generosity of friends (especially the friend who lent us her beautiful home here) as well as the demands and needs of others, the rising and falling of the day and night. Aussie smacking her tail demanding a belly rub, the speeding minnows and scurrying crabs in the water, all of life insisting everywhere: We give you the right.

I came out of the tub, shut the cover, turned off the controls. As I walked to the deck a lone goose flew above me, veering right, then left. What happened to you, I wondered. Did they leave you behind? It turned and flew south, and I made a wish that it catch up with the others. Then I walked up the steps and went inside.

The blog will be quiet till early next week. It, too, needs a break.