Brought forth

The last of the weekday grunge is wiped clean, so that you are empty and waiting.

The first sweetness and warmth of Shabbat feed your rising song, and each psalm brings a new ingredient. You dance back and forth, mixing together into a pliable mass that folds in on itself, kneading in and out with the pace of a heartbeat. Emotions press softly outward, voices weave together, in a mindfully prepared and delicious symphony.

And in the end, if there is fire in your prayers, you will create something that can sustain you.


Came for me

I didn’t expect Shabbat to come looking for me. Usually I’m the one trying to peek over all the heads in the room, wondering when he’ll arrive. This week I didn’t want to bother with the crowds. I went straight home, opened the door. Stepped inside—and there he was.

Fire in his eyes, hair oiled back, and—was that cologne? “You came to me,” I said quietly, unaccountably pleased.

He didn’t answer, but instead stepped forward until I was pressed against the closed door. We were so close that the tips of our noses brushed. I tried to recognize the scent he was wearing.

The kisses of his mouth were warmer than the summer evening.


Just be.

All Sunday long, I do errands.
Monday I do the weekday grind.
Tuesday I do the emergencies that pop up from every corner.
I do the slow march for the weekend, starting sometime Wednesday afternoon.
Thursday—time to do the shopping, do the menu planning, do what prep work I can.
So that Friday I can do those last few chores, trying to do everything on time.

Shabbat. I stop, I listen, and I take the time to be.