If you want to take part of Shabbat with you through the week, wear opals.

Opals are every bit as white as Shabbat in her splendor. Like Shabbat they are precious—but crack if they’re handled roughly.

And if you look at them in the right lighting, from just the right angle, you can see a little someone who looks a lot like Shabbat dancing inside, an aurora of flame.


Cohesion (or, Shabbat shalem)

When its day ends, Shabbat doesn’t just walk out. It dissipates, wafting through the world in shards and wisps, nestling into restful crannies.

So sing your welcome loudly if you want it to hear you. Your voice needs to reach all the way to Shabbat—pressed against the binding of your favorite book, to Shabbat—burrowing through the pillow down, and all the way to the bathroom—where Shabbat has spent the week riding the ripples astride your rubber duck.

Call out, and Shabbat will come running in spirals from the deepest core of the conch shell. You won’t hear its footsteps above the soft ocean murmur. It will arrive with the speed of light, returning from an aweing desert sunrise.

And when the final piece flits from the corner of your smile, all of Shabbat will stand whole before you, ready to say, shalom.


The anniversary when numbers stop mattering

I bend down to grab a bowl; Shabbat reaches over my head for a plate. At the same moment that I step forward with my left foot, Shabbat takes a mirror image step back on right. Shabbat doesn’t bother saying the things that I already know, and I bring home the same presents every week because Shabbat likes them best.

There’s no fumbling to it, no exotic mystery or unexpected discoveries. We have a schedule, and we both do our best to make it work.

We fit together, not an inch of space between us—but not because of natural serendipity. We have been shaped by years of gentle sanding, the erosion of consistency. Shabbat has heard all of my serenades before, and knows them well enough to ask for favorites.