The moon is  bright. Nearly three quarters visible in the blue sky. The sun is climbing the wall of the house tinting the tips of the yellow winter jasmine with gold. The air is still and cold. An occasional bird peeps, but the overriding sound is rushing from the neighbours’ water feature below my garden.

I sit in our tiny succah: the fold up table covered with sailboated plastic where the pewter candlesticks rest, the fold up wooden chairs open at awkward angles, the netted fruit  and the flower fairy lights dangling in the space above. I haven’t yet bothered to roll up the windows. One faces the fence- there is not much space between, not even for the cat; one faces the conservatory and the winter jasmine; the third faces the garden- a fair sight even in these browning days. Only the s’chach falls over the roof that side and obscures whatever greenery there is. The door is open to the steps up into the house, the alleyway,  the rubbish bin and the three failed hanging baskets. There is no heat in my succah.

Even so, I sit in the succah, drinking my coffee, eating my muesli and relax. Cocooned. For this brief moment in the day there are no extraneous sounds to break my mood. No creaks in the ceiling to let me know others are up. No sense that other than being here, now, is where I need to be.

Breakfast in the succah is peaceful. Ushpisin, though welcome at any other time, needn’t put themselves out to visit me yet. No cars roar, no children cry out, no footsteps clatter. I am enclosed yet so opened to the world.

I don’t have long. Just enough to finish the bowl, drink my coffee.  Then I carry the dishes back up the step into the house. I return to zip up the netted inside to keep the flies out.

Today, because the sky is so bright, I will leave the door flaps rolled back. Whilst I zoom around the house, I will catch glimpses of my oasis and long to sit for a few seconds more in the succah.