The Sabbath Bee

Hovering

2010-08-13T09:04:00.000-04:00

Just a few more touches and everything would be—

“Did you add the garlic powder?” Shabbat asked. He was right behind me, practically bumping my shoulder. I hadn’t even realized he had arrived.

I almost jumped. Almost dropped the tongs, almost yelled something. I managed to stop myself though, and just took a step to the side. “You’re hovering again,” I warned him. He made a face.

“Did you set the coffee pot? Is the porch light on? You remembered that Mark’s allergic to sesame, right?”

Instead of replying, I sprinkled coriander on the salad. “I’ve got it under control,” I said, trying not to clench my teeth.

Still he continued. “Is the laundry out of the dryer? Did you child-proof the house for Olivia? How many bottles of wine did you buy?”

Over time, his pestering diminished into the background.

Journeys of fancy

2010-06-04T08:30:00.000-04:00

Shabbat is a chameleon, blending into the best part of where you want to be. It’s your happy place—your escape. If you wish you were back in bed, then Shabbat is a fluffy down comforter. If you imagine yourself at an amusement park, then Shabbat is the best roller coaster, nobody in line. It’s all relative.

Sometimes the day stretches long and empty, like a dusty, baking desert road. Tedious hours of trudging spent under the constant fear of bandits, in a place so far from home that the stars have no names.

If you let it then, Shabbat will be an evening oasis—with cool winds and rustling leaves, with music and spices in the air, with refreshed travelers telling stories of places you’ve never been but have dreamed of all your life.
What does your Shabbat need to be?

Rose tinted reality

2010-05-28T08:28:00.000-04:00

Shabbat places an indelible sheen upon the world, obscuring the otherwise clear and causing tiny theological ponderings to loom larger than practicalities.

It sands happiness to the precision of ecstasy and devours doubt, grinding sadness into discomfort and whispering solutions just a little too true for the world to bear.

6+?

2010-05-21T10:28:00.000-04:00

Shabbat can’t do it without you.

New baby

2010-05-14T08:30:00.000-04:00

They haven’t been the same since Shabbat joined their family. They never go out anymore. We only see them when they invite their old friends over, in twos or threes, for sedate home-cooked meals.

We come and we walk on eggshells, terrified of somehow upsetting this demanding, easily displeased presence. Shabbat doesn’t even have to be in the room to be the center of attention. Shabbat has turned their lives upside-down.

After dinner, he walked me to my car and I asked him how he handled all these new restrictions and responsibilities. “It’s hard,” he admitted. “And nothing will ever be how it used to be. But I don’t think I can explain to you how—how worth it it all is. How empty the old days seem now. But who knows? Maybe it’ll happen to you some day. Then you’ll understand.”

Not likely. I said goodbye and left.

Ritual helps but isn’t necessary

2010-05-07T08:31:00.000-04:00

She came without candles, she came without wine.
All she needed was quiet, a chance to unwind.
No blessings were uttered, but time ticked along,
Past gloaming and sunset, to twilight then dawn.

And she’ll leave without spices, when the hour’s passed away.
She’ll slip out like clockwork; don’t ask her to stay.
She’ll come again next week, a fresh new Shabbat.
To rest on your home, invited or not.

Opals

2010-04-23T07:55:00.000-04:00

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)

2010-04-16T07:53:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-09T06:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Carpool

2010-03-26T08:11:00.002-04:00

The fiery horses were already hitched to the chariot, so Shabbat accepted the offer of a quick ride down to Earth.

“This was a bad idea!” she announced as they surged in from the east. “We’ll be late! You always are! I can’t remember the last time you showed up at a decent hour.”

“Relax! I know your schedule,” the prophet yelled, above the startled honks of a V of geese. “And besides, there’s late—and there’s late. I only arrive after the action because I leave at the last possible minute. Spend all my time sitting around, asking our mutual friend to join me for the ride.”

“Any luck?”

“Have you seen the state of the world?”

Shabbat sighed. Molten hooves thundered to a stop on potholed blacktop. “Pick me up at the usual time?”

“Who knows—maybe tomorrow I’ll come early. Always have room for one more passenger.”

Precision

2010-03-19T12:21:00.002-04:00

The ball drops at midnight. The rooster crows at dawn. Every hour on the hour, and at 15-minute intervals, the bells clang. The train pulls out of the station each morning at 7:49, whether or not you’re onboard. And the library will invariably close 5 minutes before the posted time.

They will have you know that Shabbat comes in 18 minutes before sunset, a time that occurs at this latitude sometime between 4:10 PM and 8:15, depending on the season. See an almanac or chabad.org for further details.

The hands circling the face of the clock can’t tell you everything, of course. They don’t understand that sometimes Shabbat holds back, waiting until long after you’ve started the party and perhaps not even crossing the foyer until after the guests have started trickling out.

The schedule’s for your benefit. Shabbat comes and goes as it pleases.

Candle secret

2010-03-12T10:13:00.000-05:00

Do you know why we light candles for Shabbat? I do. It’s because their fire is the same light as every person has glowing inside of them. Some people have big lights and some aren’t so bright—and some people’s lights even make everyone around them brighter! If you pay attention, you know that everyone’s the lights change through the day, or flicker or turn ugly colors when bad stuff happens. Sometimes, just because someone gets sleepy his light starts to shrink.

So that’s why there’s the candles… because if you watch, the fire goes inside the person who lights the wick. Then at least for a few minutes it makes their shine fill up the room!

Light-maker

2010-03-05T10:11:00.000-05:00

Don’t ornament Shabbat with diamonds. Never bedeck her with perfectly faceted jewels—not a single one. Do not ask her to condescend to rubies darker than wine, to topaz that glows like orange blossom honey. No sapphires smooth as tide pools, nor emeralds bright as a utopian rainforest.

Because when light pours into these precisely cut prisms, it cracks and breaks. The perfect stream is disrupted to rainbows, stretched red to violet and scattered across the floor.

Shabbat’s wrists are bare, her long neck unadorned. Nothing weighs upon her earlobes, nor her silken fingers. Shabbat does not take in light but instead collects the divided colors, unifying the fragments. After the spectrum passes through her it emerges in full photonic splendor, pure and radiant as the sun.

Forshpeiz

2010-02-26T08:24:00.002-05:00

Pink and sliver Shabbat tumbles in a giggling cornucopia to mystery and suspense, until the sparkles and ooh! glitter! until the clouds are brighter than the sky because it’s time now time now so come on!

And they’re wearing their fanciest stories and there’s singing and the singing is the best part actually won’t it go on forever and he hopes there’s dancing because he can fly when they finally ask him, grabbing every single hand and kissing the night to make it blush.

Sometimes you spin and you spin and it’s just dizzy after you stop, but thanks to streamers and wands and all that noise this time when we’ve gone all the way back to the end that’s when the party pours in.

Oh and did I mention there’s peacock feathers involved?

Storming (Psalm 29)

2010-02-17T15:22:00.002-05:00

Revere the Lord, all you mighty ones. You who sit on high, secure in your dominion, bow before God’s raw power.

The voice of God thunders down the mountaintops, it roars from the waves. It whirls across the prairies. The voice of God incinerates everything in its path.

The voice of God arcs across the buzzing sky. It swells above the coast. The earth trembles at God’s voice, and all who hear whisper awe to the unfathomable.

The voice of God strips the suburbs bare. It disrupts the work of mighty cities—causing metropolises to stagger and buckle.

God in the flooding streets, God in the raging flames. God in the gray ash descending, in the gathering darkness and the searing flash.

And in the preternatural early morning stillness, it is the voice of God that silently whispers peace.

Snowfall

2010-02-12T08:07:00.000-05:00

Early morning when we left the house, the streets and sidewalks were still feathered with whitewashed wonder. Our neighborhood had become cleaner, brighter and so close to perfect that it could have been another world. I was sorry I didn’t have time to explore this place that I used to know but didn’t recognize anymore.

Later, just before Shabbat came in, I walked through the rooms of our freshly scrubbed and organized home. The hallways were quiet as snowfall. I looked back to make sure I hadn’t disturbed their cleanness with my footprints. The kitchen counters sagged under the weight of accumulated foods. For just a few minutes, before the guests arrived, everything was as perfect and undisturbed as the streets had been that morning.

Distinction, המבדיל

2010-02-05T11:54:00.000-05:00

First he washed and shaved and trimmed his nails. Then he pulled on a simple cotton robe, and his loved ones spread a prayer shawl above his head. Everything was prepared, because she had arrived.

She approached—also dressed in white. So beautiful that the rest of us had to turn away. She surrounded him, circled him and became his everything. With each step she took, he forgot a little more of the world beyond her embrace.

When she finally stopped before him, he placed all that he valued into her open hand. She scattered worldly concerns beneath his feet, where they lay motionless—brittle and fleeting. In the end she led him away. The rest of us remained behind, in bittersweet abandonment.

Fruit of the tree

2010-01-29T11:53:00.000-05:00

The branches of the pomegranate tree sagged for six days while their yield ripened. By the final evening the murky red skin split, unable to stretch farther across the bulging fruit. The goldenrod sunset flickered through the branches, reflecting off the glistening amber-red seeds.

I did not pick the pomegranate. I left it where it had bloomed, though I did cup it in my hands. I pressed my lips to its edge and the skin trembled between my mouth and the fruit within. The seeds were still warm with the heat of the sun, not sweet as honey but tasting instead of themselves, tart and light and complex.

The evening dusk obscured my red mouth, my dripping chin. The fruit remained on the bough, still thick with promise but spread wide, open and depleted.

Dozens of well-wishers

2010-01-15T19:31:00.000-05:00

Everyone in the room is so excited for Shabbat that I know I’m not getting any one-on-one time tonight. Even so, I can’t wait the see the look on his face when he comes in and sees the enthusiasm and the glow in everyone’s eyes when the clamor to greet him.

Eshet hayil

2010-01-08T12:01:00.000-05:00

Have you ever seen anyone like her? She’s worth her weight in gold. By 5:30 she’s up, doing a load of laundry. She gets the kids off to school, and she studies with them after dinner. Late into the night she’s on the phone with clients, and her accounts are always up to date. She directs her employees with competence, and charitable foundations contact her daily. She is the first person her friends call when trouble strikes. (Does she ever sleep?) Though she provides luxuriously for her family, she never fails to put money aside for retirement and college tuitions. Her children are clean and well-behaved, and her husband is highly respected.

Her skills are unmatched, and no one else could take on all of her roles. And yet it is her open heart, her love and purity of purpose, that leads me to praise her valor.

Festive visitors

2009-12-18T12:48:00.000-05:00

This week, Shabbat is babysitting.

“I’m the youngest of seven,” she says, “and sometimes I miss all the activity of a full house.”

She’s pulled out all the stops, bringing in heaps of toys and candy to keep everyone happy. When her eight fiery-haired nephews come spilling in through the front door, Shabbat instantly shifts from the perfect hostess to “the cool aunt.” It doesn’t seem to bother her that she’s about to have a house full of rambunctious troublemakers all hyped up on sugar.

“Let them have their fun,” she says when the youngest splatters olive oil across the tablecloth and the rug. “I barely ever get to see them. I want to make sure they enjoy their visit.”

Luminaries

2009-12-11T12:40:00.002-05:00

We greet Hanukkah first, before Shabbat arrives.

Each time a wick catches, we childishly pray
That its sputtering hope never dies.

Then a light to remember, another to guard, (’neath the beacon that helps light the way)
For the first night of miracles in ancient times,
In this season and maybe today.

Their murmuring beams seem like paltry replies
To the neighborhood’s green-red display,
But Shabbat owes its flame to the bright battle-cries
That protect its blue core, come what may.

Clubhouse

2009-12-04T11:57:00.000-05:00

“We built our clubhouse together, the two of us. I painted and found some old furniture and made it look nice, but I don’t know nothing about construction. If I had made it by myself, the roof would leak and there would still be holes in the walls near the ground.”

“Sure, I did the patching and the roofwork—but it would have been a pretty pathetic place to hang out without all your work to make it feel like home.”

“Oh—but don’t forget Mom and Dad! It was Dad who let us use his old shed and paid for new materials. Otherwise we wouldn’t have this place at all. And probably we won’t have worked so hard if Mom didn’t make snacks and always say what a good job we were doing.”

“So it was a team effort, huh? No one could have made this great clubhouse alone.”

Meeting the parents

2009-11-27T11:06:00.000-05:00

It’s always awkward bringing someone home for the weekend. With Shabbat it doesn’t help that my parents don’t approve of how serious things have gotten. They tolerate her at least, and they do admit that they like her cooking. She’s doing the charming routine. I asked her not to be judgy—and I can tell she’s trying. At least Mom and Dad are talking to her.

Late at night Shabbat sneaks into my childhood room. I blush when she looks at the photos from high school taped to the walls, at the action figures prominently displayed in their original packaging. “Everyone was into them,” I whisper defensively when she starts giggling at my old CDs.

Having her here is awkward, but somehow—when she slides between polyester sheets and hugs her body against mine in the narrow twin bed—she seems to belong, even here.

Reluctant Shabbat

2009-11-20T12:00:00.000-05:00

Shabbat was hiding.

Somewhere in the house, I hoped. The windows were all closed, and anyway I hated the idea of him lost in the hard, unfriendly outside. I looked everywhere, pretending that I was just cleaning as I checked under the couch, behind the curtains, in drawers.

No luck. Next I tried to lure him with the smell of pie just out of the oven, fresh bread from the bakery. Nothing.

I lit candles hoping to attract him like a moth. I sang his favorite songs.

Finally, I gave up. I collapsed on the sofa and watched the candles burn until the room went dark.

....And sometime in the middle of the night I woke up with a crick in my neck and the warm, fuzzy feeling of Shabbat curled up warm against my stomach. I shifted to a more comfortable position and fell back asleep.

Stopping by the bookstore on a snowy evening

2009-11-13T12:00:00.001-05:00

Stopping by the bookstore on a snowy evening

(Just to browse for a while, because I’m already keeping one of the most important promises I’ve ever made, and I don’t have far to walk before I get to curl up under my comforter and sleep uninterrupted through the cold, still night.)

Pearl diver

2009-11-06T12:00:00.000-05:00

The first time she saw Shabbat she stared, long and hard, but stayed at a careful distance.

Later, she poked her toes in. Stepped forward. Went up to her hips, to her neck, learned to float and sluice through Shabbat for hours at a time.

Eventually, she dove in. She may have been surprised at first at how easily she dipped below the surface of Shabbat. The skills she had acquired while she treaded above helped her go deeper, stay longer, explore.

How did she respond to the magical world below? To the colors, to the wholly different varieties of life? To the treasures she found deep below, obscured from the air-dried roads?

She still lives above (most of the time), but if you see her now you can’t miss the ropes of pearls she wears, gathered from the recesses of Shabbat during long years of exploration.

Off the runners

2009-10-30T12:00:00.000-04:00

There are weeks when, even before you arrive, I feel the universe click into place and I know everything will go smoothly. We will be in step, like professional dancers or chess masters. Each subtle shift you make, every variation I try, is accommodated for and incorporated into our flawless but dynamic duet. We dip into each other.

This was not one of those weeks.

This was the kind of week when some grease drips in the oven and fills the kitchen with smoke. When everyone brings salad to the potluck. When I spend twenty minutes waiting for you while you stand on the porch, fuming and pressing the broken doorbell.

So we look at each other and shrug, because what else can we do? We both know the other one meant well. Our relationship is stronger than these minor debacles.

We’ll try for better next week.

Too far

2009-10-23T12:51:00.000-04:00

I lit every candle in the house, hours before sunset. You probably felt like I was holding my finger down on your doorbell, or yelling up at you from the courtyard. I don’t know if you thought it was endearing and cute or really f-ing annoying.

It’s hard to tell with you sometimes, and I don’t always think it’s fair. You demand so much of me that I sometimes wonder if I’m losing myself in you, but if I do lose track of me in the day-long spans of you, then there you are shaking your head and muttering that I don’t get it at all. But the second I do something you don’t like, you let me know. Boy, do you ever let me know.

If I tried too hard this time, then I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to make you smile.

Quiet spaces

2009-10-16T12:49:00.001-04:00

Shabbat loves the quiet spaces, you know.

Sure, you expect to see him in big, boisterous rooms filled with laugher and singing, sitting at tables warping under the weight of good food, writing guest lists a mile long that keep growing with every somebody who looks a little lonely on the way home.

But Shabbat also likes the quiet spaces.

He likes big, yawning chambers, with maybe two or three people talking earnestly in the corner. He likes simple companionship, the silence between good friends. Shabbat values quality above quantity. He would rather have all your dreams than everyone’s favorite movies.

When you see him laughing in a crowded room, you might notice that he’s not always all there. He likes the bluster and the mirth—

But he loves the quiet spaces.

Memory lane

2009-10-09T12:47:00.001-04:00

Shabbat plopped down beside me on the couch, holding an open photo album. He pointed to a picture of the two of us sitting together on a park bench. “Remember our first date?” he asked.

“‘First date’?” I snatched the album away and flipped back a few pages. “We’d been going out for almost a year by then.”

“Were we? You weren’t that into me in the beginning,” Shabbat said frankly. “You were always ditching me for anyone more interesting. Not taking me seriously.”

“Well, you were really high-maintenance. Not to mention freakishly commitment-oriented.”

“So I have high expectations. I’m not so hard to live with, am I?”

Before I could really get the fight going, I noticed a picture of one of our more sublime evenings. “You’re an acquired taste,” I conceded. And quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear, “Acquired and addictive.”

Garden fantasy

2009-10-02T09:45:00.000-04:00

After a long afternoon of reading stories with the kids, I started to imagine Shabbat visiting the community that crawls and slithers around my garden. When evening sets in, the earthworms stop working the soil just long enough to poke their heads aboveground. The more refined cicadas climb out of their drab weekday dress for the occasion. The ladybugs gather, catching up on local news and munching aphids while they wait.

And then Shabbat arrives on nimble feet, a tiny Thumbelina in a cottonwood gown. Or maybe she’s a frog princess, vivid in yellow and red.

The spiders have covered the meeting space with a latticework of webbing that drips with flower petals, plump flies and other tasty treats. When Shabbat looks up through the impermanent ceiling she might see fireflies blinking in and out in time to the cricket philharmonic.

Rehearsal

2009-09-25T09:15:00.000-04:00

The evening was already half gone when Shabbat staggered in, charming as usual but a little distracted. She looked wan and washed out in her unabated white, and when she smiled in the receiving line her eyes had a faraway and wistful quality to them.

All through the night her lips moved as though she were memorizing lines, and in off moments she hummed long, clear notes that arched upward near the ends toward the wide, black sky.

At the end of the day she flitted out quickly, with barely a goodbye. Later this week I expect to see her among the angels, singing her heart out in seraphic devotion and shining in dazzling purity among all the other promises I have tried to keep.

Coming full circle

2009-09-18T11:21:00.001-04:00

Evening arrives with a soft hum, slowly expanding to the O of a conch. It thrums and vibrates down to the toes, it whirls as it grows, circling, eddying, rising around itself in a ramhorn spiral, warning that the day is closing and giving a cochlear reminder that another rotation is nearly complete.

The last pre-Shabbat moments tumble too fast around the clock face, egged on by the high drone of whirring processers, vacuum rollers, curling blow-dryers. The frenetic preparations crescendo, the windows shake as the air blasts with warning, until no one can ignore Shabbat’s siren song. With a sharp upturned ripple the day/the year/the moment passes, and Shabbat swirls in—plump and curvaceous but nevertheless eclipsed by the new moon.

Water damage

2009-09-11T10:43:00.000-04:00

Sometimes life slams into you like raging floodwaters, ripping up your most carefully laid plans and clearing away the collected dust and debris of the years.

Sometimes life seeps in, boring subtly through the hidden cracks to drip questions and new growth into your unsuspecting world.

That might be why Shabbat sometimes appears slowly, like a gathering of gray clouds on the far horizon, and sometimes with the immediacy of a lighting bolt ripping through the retaining walls.

Closets

2009-09-04T10:42:00.000-04:00

Shabbat has deep, dark closets lining its hallway, dank from tears and peopled with a cemetery’s worth of moldy skeletons.

Shabbat’s closets are formidable, but so are the thick hardwood doors that close them, the iron locks that twist shut with a dry clang.

And carved on the doors in thick gothic letters are the words, “Do not open until Saturday, after dark.”

Invisible royalty

2009-08-28T10:41:00.000-04:00

Because Shabbat has no physical form, it instead imposes reality upon the pre-existing world around it. It smoothes over rough walkways, adding a sheen and a softness to cement and filling out the missing branches of storm-damaged trees.

This improved world is only visible to those whose hearts beat in time to Shabbat’s singular destiny. Their neighbors must think it odd see otherwise rather sane individuals carefully pulling off coats and gloves as though they were made of ermine and velvet, and raising plastic cups of juice in tribute as they would goblets of gold-flecked ambrosia or sparkling Champaign in the hall of the king.

Big and small

2009-08-21T22:40:00.000-04:00

I believe in the relevance of this nightfall when I stand in the prairie, under a round sky deeper than eternity, colder and more distant than the human mind can bear.

I believe in the significance of Shabbat, though the urban skyline pushes me in, and the only stars are the ones that circle above, waiting for permission to land.

I wrap myself, my family, my life in Shabbat because it holds back the agoraphobic world, pulls in horizons and levels the sprawling towers. In another day they will spill out uncontrolled, but for tonight the world is made up of only a handful of people and enough time to enjoy their presence.

Double manna

2009-08-14T12:57:00.000-04:00

In olden times, when food from skies was the only way to dine,
And the Sabbath’s rest was ensured and blessed by Friday morning time
With manna once and manna twice, double providence divine,
Our stomachs filled with heaven’s yield, headier than wine.

Pet shop with allegory

2009-08-07T10:55:00.000-04:00

Shabbat tells the story of the time when she went to the pet store. There was a box full of adorable tiny puppies, but she could only pick one. The puppies all ran away from her—except for one little runt with floppy ears. And Shabbat picked up that puppy and she said, “I will love you and feed you and take you on walks, so long as you play with me and welcome me home every day.” So Shabbat and the puppy lived happily ever after.

“A puppy?” I ask when she finishes. “Really? In your version I’m a puppy?”

“Yeah, why not? Just look at those big brown eyes. You are so cute!”

Before I can stop her, Shabbat leans over and ruffles my hair. I protest, but I know that if that’s how she remembers the story, then that’s how the story’s getting told.

To the choirmaster, a solo for violin

2009-07-31T12:51:00.002-04:00

Holy is the empty space, the void within form.

When we are pulled taut by the extremes of life, by conflicting desires, when we tremble in the guideless air, isolated even from those who are closest to us,

Holy is the gaping dark.

Though we are powerless before the rod, caught within our own chafing limitations, the forces that press and move us—nevertheless,

Holy is the unknowable abyss below.

Because in the clear still night, when we cry into the holes in the center of our being, our voices will echo in the place where there is nothing, and out will pour a song of comfort, clean and pure and soothing against the black.

Dancing shoes

2009-07-24T12:49:00.000-04:00

These shoes? I’ve had them for years. They’re really good shoes, comfortable—the kind that you can wear your whole life so long as you take care of them. Every week before I put them on I look them over, polish them up, but besides normal wear and tear they don’t need much maintenance. The stitching is strong, and the leather is still in great condition even after all this time.

Obviously I don’t wear them on the street or every day—they’re dancing shoes, after all. They need smooth wood surfaces. The grit and gravel would ruin them. They’re made for a specific purpose.

And just so you know, when the music starts and I slip them on, sometimes I feel like I’m flying.

Just cuddle

2009-07-17T12:47:00.000-04:00

Battered by the week, I lean into Shabbat. “Can we just cuddle tonight?”

Candle afterglow

2009-07-10T12:48:00.000-04:00

When the candle wicks start to burn, it’s easy to see the world in a different light. There’s a subtle sheen that influences vision as soon as she lights the candles, making colors brighter and surfaces shinier.

It creeps into the children’s room and makes the ponies and dinosaurs on the glossy covers rear and dance. It smoothes over photographs and makes the subjects younger, happier than they were even in the glow of the camera flash. It’s a light that brings twinkles to eyes and illumines the darkest corners—at least for a few moments.

It does sputter and fade before true dark sets in, of course. It’s not for keeping—just for enjoying.

Road ends

2009-07-03T12:09:00.000-04:00

Shabbat? It’s a lot like driving forty miles over the speed limit when all of a sudden a sign in front of you announces, “Road ends, 500 feet,” and sure enough, 500 feet later there’s no road and you have to smear rubber across the highway because otherwise you’ll drive into thin air. You’re in a hurry and there are places you have to be but the road just isn’t there right now, though the workmen tell you to be patient because it’ll be up again soon… -ish.

You can get mad, sure, you can yell or make frustrated phone calls and pace, but instead maybe you pocket your keys and step outside. There’s a field of wildflowers in the median and the birds are singing, and even though you’ll have to work twice as hard to catch up, you don’t mind the delay—not really.

A song for Shabbat

2009-06-26T12:11:00.000-04:00

Shabbat she sits, staring—seeming to stir when I start to sing but only swaying softly, her starlit eyes conspicuously somber as she searches across the scattered landscape. Does she seem scared? I yearn to assuage her fears, to assure her even in her unsettled stupor that she is the sole possessor of my spiritual devotion, that if she should smile—only smile!—my soul would shatter into shards and wisps of splendor.

Geode

2009-06-19T13:13:00.000-04:00

Shabbat is a time for contracting, for drawing in the widespread arms and fingers of influence. It is a time to abdicate some of the enormous responsibility of the earth, to admit that the sun and moon will continue dancing across the sky whether or not we try to prod them on their way.

On Shabbat, the world becomes a geode. It sits and waits. Later, when we look into it, we might find just a few tattered shards of meaning. On a perfect, transcendent week though, the simple act of drawing back from mundane concerns might led to something entirely new—a glittering paradise that would never have been possible in a more densely packed world.

The art of a perfect sunset

2009-06-12T13:12:00.000-04:00

Shabbat was already on the patio when we walked outside to eat. He wasn’t dressed for a summer dinner, though. He wore overalls splattered with glittering, iridescent paint—colors that could have come straight from another world.

“Dinner entertainment,” Shabbat said, guessing at our question. “Don’t mind me. Just sit down and enjoy your meal.”

And then he dipped a paintbrush into the carrots. He lifted it and the blob of orange at its tip toward the washed-out blue-white sky, and he applied the color just below some wispy clouds. He did the same with the cranberry glaze and the curried lentils, and then he splattered some wine on the eastern horizon, letting it seep through and darken his canvas.

He kept working through dinner and dessert, until the time came to roll coffee over the sky and scatter handfuls of sugar crystals across it to sweeten the darkness.

Four somethings

2009-06-05T13:11:00.000-04:00

Shabbat is…
…as old as the shift from day to night, the desire for rest after hard work.
…newer than today’s dawn, and fresher than this morning’s dew.
…borrowed time from the world to come, a dip into eternity.
…that shade of dark, poignant blue that comes to the sky after sunset, before pure night. The color so thick with tones and subtleties that it almost hurts to watch it change into black.

Wardrobe choice

2009-05-29T17:20:00.000-04:00

I can imagine Shabbat standing in her walk-in closet this afternoon. She probably pulled out the rainbow mini-dress first, the one with every color imaginable splashed across it, like an iridescent—and very fashionable—Jackson Pollock canvas stitched into a shape that hugged all her curves.

And then the basic, backless midnight-blue sheath, made from silk woven from the first dreams of bedtime. A simple and elegant, admiring “wow” of a dress, as opposed to the eye-catching, elaborate painted extravaganza.

In the end she put on the colorful one, along with striped tights and clunky, candy-colored bangles, peacock feathers in her hair and makeup straight from the eighties. Don’t get me wrong; she pulled it off marvelously. Still, I do wish she had worn the simpler dress tonight.

Or, alternately, just something from the lingerie drawer.

Pomegranate

2009-05-22T17:19:00.000-04:00

Shabbat is in my kitchen late Friday afternoon, standing beside the fruit bowl and examining a dark, round pomegranate. “What is this?” he asks.

So I tell him that the pomegranate is one of the seven species, that its profile was stitched on the hems of the high priests’ robes. I mention that the rabbis claimed that it has 613 seeds inside, one for every commandment.

“Really?” Shabbat tries to smell the odorless fruit. Then he perks up and presses his nails through the thick outer skin, splitting it down the middle. He looks carefully inside, as though counting every seed, and then he shrugs and hands me half. With cherry-stained fingers, he pulls out a clump of seeds and stuffs it in his mouth like a greedy child. “You forgot to mention that they’re tangy and sweet… and crunchy,” he reproaches me, his mouth still full.

Macaroni necklace

2009-05-15T23:56:00.000-04:00

It was a macaroni necklace day. A seat of your pants, I saw this thirty seconds ago in a shop window and it sorta reminded me of you, you shouldn’t have—no really, you shouldn’t have—sort of a day.

I should probably be embarrassed. I made tea sandwiches for the queen of the week and left the crusts on. I nodded off in the corner and slept through the entire grand fanfare, trumpets and all.

But Shabbat didn’t say anything. In fact, I may have just dreamed it, but I’d swear she pulled her foot out of her diamond-studded heel at one point to show me the run in her stocking, one toe poking out, before she tucked her foot back in her shoe and let a boisterous gang of children lead her onto the dance floor.

Exact timing

2009-05-08T15:52:00.000-04:00

I wanted to know the precise moment when Shabbat came. I wanted to see the shift, from week to –end, work to rest. They told me that Shabbat came with the sunset, was born in shadows, and so I sat and waited on a high peak. Behind me, the sinking sun. Before me, the stretching shadows.

And as the blush turned to gray and the shadows grew quiet, the wind laughed. “You could have called me. I was waiting, and you could have saved yourself some time.”

“I didn’t see you come in,” I whispered, sorry that I had failed.

“You must have blinked,” the wind replied, blowing past me and into Shabbat.

Flower bride

2009-05-01T18:03:00.002-04:00

Stitch lavender into your hems, my dear, the purple buds like the first dark corners of evening, the smell of comfort and treasures lovingly, safely packed away.
Weave anemones through the fringes of your gown. Mix dark and light in single broad flourishes.
Teach the sweet peas, with their smell of clean and open spaces, to grow along your train.
Tuck lilies of the valley into your hair my love, and clip gardenias around your ankles so that their rich, noble fragrance will follow your footsteps.
May you be sated with delicacies of candied pansies and roses, to bring deep red to your lips and pink to your cheeks, purple to color the irises of your eyes and palest white to your fingertips.
And meet me in the garden and nightfall, under the wisteria canopy.

Hiddur mitzvah

2009-04-24T18:42:00.000-04:00

So this Wednesday in Hebrew school we learned about hiddur mitzvah—that’s making all your Jewish stuff look as pretty as you can because it shows God how much you like being Jewish and making God happy. And anyway, so I decorated my very own shabbos candlesticks, with gemstones and yellow paint, and I worked really hard at it, and at the end of class my teacher smiled and said, “Good job!”

Last night Friday, while Daddy was driving home he stopped at the light on top of the hill, and after he stopped Mommy said, “Look at that sunset!” And then we all looked, and it was bright pink and my favorite color orange with just a little bit of sun halfway set, and the clouds looked like carnival cotton candy.

Then the light turned green and Daddy kept driving and I whispered to God, “Good job!”

Lifeblood

2009-04-17T21:45:00.000-04:00

They all entered into the flow, constricted by the walls but refreshed, red with excitement and propelled forward by a force they could not control.

They came trudging in at the end of the cycle, fatigued and stumbling along, demanding replenishment, needing energy before they could do it all again—

And then they joined together, pulled by an irresistible desire—and with an uprising of might they crushed through, crossed the barrier into a new realm—which was the same realm they had entered thousands of times before.

Past the electric, frenetic crush, the sweetest part came—when they entered the red-walled chamber, the treasure-room where fresh air and new energy were freely given to all. They lingered for a moment, luxuriating, before they began the cycle again.

Kneading

2009-04-03T17:01:00.001-04:00

Dear SK—
I don’t go to this much trouble for most people, you know.
Heck, I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.
I baked bread for you.
Bread.
Me!
I was actually standing there in the kitchen, up to my elbows in flour, dough digging under my fingernails, because I know how you feel about fresh-baked bread on the table.

And did I tell you that the phone rang?
Yeah. And because I was expecting a call, I went digging through my bag with powdery hands, so my stuff was left covered with smudges from the flour, from the dough for the bread that I wouldn’t be making for anybody else.

So I hope you appreciate the effort.
Because I don’t do this for just anybody.
—Me.

The Sabbath tree

2009-03-27T21:07:00.000-04:00

One Sunday, when I was small, I took the bag of havdalah spices and buried it in the back yard. The sun shone down on the spot, and I watered it daily. A tiny stem sprouted, with silken-green leaves, and every day it grew more. By Friday morning it was a sapling taller than I was, with tight buds at the end of its branches. Through the day I checked on it, watching the buds slowly open.

As the sun set, the smell of spices seemed to fill the air. Just as darkness crept into the yard, the flowers opened wide. They had white, glowing petals that curved like shaved cinnamon, with tiny star-anise-shaped patterns within. I sat under the tree all evening and much of the next day, breathing in cardamom and turmeric until the sky darkened again and the petals snowed slowly down.

Cause and effect

2009-03-20T21:02:00.002-04:00

Shabbat called me Friday morning. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. You have something planned, right?”

“Wha—I—of course. Of course I have something planned, Shabbat. Why would you even ask?” I looked guiltily around the room, hoping no one would catch me in the lie. A few choice words came to mind while I scanned my contacts, trying to think of anyone who might be free, who would be willing to get together for a last-minute shindig.

That night, after a great meal and in the middle of a lively conversation, Shabbat leaned over to murmur in my ear. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

Shabbat gestured around the room.

I frowned. “You think I’m thankful to you for the party that I put together for your benefit?”

The look Shabbat gave me was a little pitying. “Seriously. What would you be doing tonight if it weren’t for me?”

Haiku

2009-03-13T23:53:00.000-04:00

If the collected knowledge of the world were condensed into a single haiku,
Shabbat would be the fleeting and pleasant sound
Of the brush stroking the parchment.

If all eternity were lived in the span of a single day,
Then the magical, liminal moments of dawn and dusk
Would be the eras of Shabbat.

When a table is set with every delicious treat of nature,
Then Shabbat is present
In the laughter and conversation of the diners.

And if all love were collected in a single heart,
One would find Shabbat in the curve of the arm, the sound of the voice,
That significant detail that means “you” to me.

Water balloons

2009-03-06T21:55:00.001-05:00

I was walking down the sidewalk, my mind on other things, when a water balloon splashed onto the ground in front of me.

“Hey!” I yelled, jumping back too late to keep my feet dry. From an upstairs window, two freckled, gap-toothed faces grinned down at me. “Purim, cut it out!” I yelled, glaring at the younger child.

“It was her,” Purim said, pointing at his partner in crime. Shabbat nodded, grinning wickedly.

“I think I can guess who came up with the idea,” I muttered, right before another water balloon hit the crown of my head.

“All right, three-pointer!” Purim announced. I wiped water off my face and looked up just in time to see them exchange high fives. Purim handed Shabbat another full balloon, and I started running.

Sunday's child

2009-02-27T18:49:00.000-05:00

Sunday’s child knows what’s coming,
Monday’s child starts the week running.
Tuesday’s child is tied up in knots,
While Wednesday’s on schedule but sort of forgot
That Thursday’s needs help with a major display
That’s in shambles and can’t be put off ’til Friday—

While the Sabbath’s child (it would be understood)
Is blithe and bonny, gay and good.
He’s the king of the couplets, the crown of the rhyme,
The nursery’s champion; a child sublime.
He is always well-mannered, cheerful and meek,
For he dumps all his flaws on the rest of the week.

In a single word: בדיבור אחד

2009-02-20T19:13:00.000-05:00

Come home early from work. Dance under the stars at midnight. Eat ice cream. Watch a movie. Play hide and seek with the cousins. Laugh until your ribs hurt. Go to synagogue. Play with the cat. Sleep and sleep and sleep some more.

They all sound so different, but when I listen to what everyone is doing tonight, I only hear one word, really.

Shabbat.

Above the tablecloth

2009-02-13T16:06:00.002-05:00

Tonight, I’ve invited Shabbat to come home with me.

I tried to act casual about it, but I can barely contain my excitement. I’ve laid out a freshly-laundered tablecloth, smoothed it over the surface of the table and covered it with laden bowls and platters. I meet Shabbat over the tabletop and we make small talk. We speak casually, as if we don’t know where the night will take us. Shabbat notices the ambiance of candleglow, and I know that Shabbat has been waiting all week for this meeting.

Music rises softly—nearby, someone is serenading my guest.

The tablecloth is rumpled. Plates tumble and crash to the floor. Sated and exhausted, I pour wine as words tumble from my mouth.

Pity date

2009-02-06T18:33:00.001-05:00

When I come running in—late, frazzled, tossed together—you are already there. Everyone is gathered around you, and you look good. You probably spent the whole week choosing just the right everything, while I was keeping appointments and rushing to catch up and losing sleep over every workaday disaster.

Now though, my shoes are scuffed and considering how rushed I was to get here I’m lucky if my buttons are even aligned. If anyone saw the two of use together they’d probably assume you were on a pity date. I blush and hang back, letting you flirt with your gaggle of well-wishers.

But then a hand touches my lower back and there you are! “It’s so good to see you,” you whisper in my ear, words that I know you mean only for me.

On Shabbat

2009-01-30T20:14:00.001-05:00

She came early, letting herself in through the front door and running into the living room on wobbly legs.

“Hi there,” I greeted her just before she pounced.

“It’s so great to see you!” She wrapped her arms around me, almost chokingly tight. “It’s been forever! Is that a new shirt? It looks great on you. Gorgeous. That color really works. Is that water you’re drinking? Can I have some?”

She grabbed my glass and drank. “Hey, this is good water! I love it! Where did you get it?”

“The… tap?” I watched her savor it like fine wine. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

“I feel fabulous!” She kicked her feet into the air, toes wriggling, as she giggled.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. “What are you on tonight?” I demanded.

“Shabbat!” she announced, falling on the couch and laughing like she would never stop.

Fairy tale

2009-01-23T21:15:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, a farmer stumbled into an underground bower where a fairy of astonishing beauty begged him to cease plowing the land just above her home, lest he tear through her packed-earth ceiling. In return for protecting her and voluntarily lessening his crop yield, she plied him with platters of fruit, bright as jewels, and a bowl of nectar gathered from midnight-blooming flowers.

The clever storyteller will say that the farmer is the Jewish people and the fairy is Shabbat, providing immeasurable reward for a day’s leisure.

(But I see Shabbat in the bowl of honeyed nectar, warm as a midsummer evening and smelling of lavender, primrose and jasmine. Surely the bowl must remain full to the brim no matter how many mouthfuls the greedy farmer drinks, as his fields, his work, and all sense of time slip away, replaced with giddy satisfaction.)

Winter wonderland

2009-01-16T09:59:00.000-05:00

Shabbat has strong features, dark hair, and he is wearing a tuxedo when he beckons me from the other side of curtain.

I join him in a tent made of silver, walls arching toward the sky and frost-kissed branches tangling overhead. I am suddenly wearing a silver-sequined gown, glittering in the light of a thousand candles shining two by two in the periphery.

Shabbat settles a firm hand beneath my shoulder, and as the music starts we sweep into the crisp stillness of the early winter sunset.

Snowflakes

2009-01-10T23:10:00.003-05:00

Each human being is as unique as a carefully crafted snowflake, as breakable and fragile as a tiny shard of frosty rococo.

Shabbat remains as faithful and unmoving as stone.

Those drawn to Shabbat come in gusts and flurries, soon to be gathered and tightly packed.

The sky darkens. The snow deepens, swirling and eddying upon a frozen mountaintop.

Uniqueness piles upon uniqueness, pressing together, unifying beneath a thick, churning storm.

Snow falls week after week.

If enough snowflakes gather, the mountaintop will hum and vibrate—

And all the collected drifts will surge together into the valley below.

Tropical paradise

2009-01-03T23:15:00.003-05:00

I dressed for winter before stepping outside to pick up Shabbat. He was waiting by the bus stop, holding an overnight bag and wearing a bright, almost glowing Hawaiian shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” I called as I walked toward him. His tanned brown skin, open to the elements, clashed with my thick, water-resistant coat.

“‘Cold’?” He stretched out his arms. “Are you kidding me? Baby, it’s sunshine and mai tais 24/7 over here!”

I looked doubtfully at the gray, packed-frost sidewalk. Then I frowned. “Are those orchids growing out of the cement?” I demanded, pointing at a short trail from the curb to his sandaled feet.

Instead of answering, Shabbat wrapped his arms around me. He smelled like coconut with a soft tang of seawater. I wanted to ask him what kept his skin so warm, but as soon as I opened my mouth he smothered me with his tropical optimism.

Pockets of delight

2008-12-26T22:39:00.002-05:00

And when God had finished all of God’s work, mankind took charge. The wonders of creation were replaced by the assembly-line precision of resentful accuracy. Mindless hammer blows beat swords into plowshares, then back into swords, depending upon which was more fashionable at the time. And work never ceased, from one day to the next.

But there are pockets of delight to be found, moments and places of fellowship where one unique and beautiful human speaks to another, where worth is measured by kindness and where the sparkle in a loved one’s eyes is worth more than diamonds.

Letter

2008-12-19T21:09:00.002-05:00

The letter arrived halfway through the week. On heavy cardstock, You know I’m coming. Be ready.

I sighed and tucked it into my pocket. The reminder really hadn’t been necessary.

Nights like this

2008-12-12T21:03:00.000-05:00

On clear nights like this, when the glimmers of tiny distant suns sparkle pristinely in the firmament above,
When the rotation of our orbiting world has brought forth the evening, and the heavens proclaim the glory of God,
On nights like this, when all the children of Abraham are represented upon a cloudless canvas,
And the moon is nearly overflowing with light,
The frozen sky would still feel lonely,
If I didn’t have you to share it with.

Winter white

2008-12-05T20:07:00.003-05:00

Shabbat stopped in front of me when I was hurrying along the sidewalk. “Why the rush?” she asked, wrapping her thickly robed arms around me.

The wind was slicing though the wool and cotton that I wore in layers, but the fluffy softness of Shabbat’s wrap kept out every hint of winter. Shabbat’s fingertips glowed and were almost hot as she stroked them gently up my arm.

I fell asleep in a thick warm haze.

Guerilla performance art

2008-11-28T21:04:00.000-05:00

Shabbat came like guerilla performance art, like a carefully orchestrated act that began so subtly that few pedestrians even noticed until it was underway. The streets were full, and everyone seemed to be doing their own thing, but then at some secret sign they came together for a shared purpose. It wasn’t destructive, not particularly helpful—it just was. The observers, the people who hadn’t been involved in the act, shrugged and went on their ways.

Looked everywhere

2008-11-21T01:05:00.001-05:00

I was looking for you on Tuesday, even though I knew you weren’t coming until Friday. There was this glittering, perfect moment, and it felt like you were near. Then Wednesday night, out drinking with friends, I felt carefree in a way that made me turn around, sure that you were somewhere in the room.

By Friday night I could hardly wait. I craned my neck every time someone approached, and when I saw you coming toward me I rushed to meet you.

Becomes easy

2008-11-14T12:37:00.002-05:00

The first moment of Shabbat is when everything becomes easy.

Shabbat is the waterslide after waiting in line under the summer sun. Shabbat is the tiny change in calculation that makes X finally mark the spot. It is the moment when the 3-D picture resolves itself, when the pie dough reaches the right consistency. Shabbat is slippers after stilettos, a real hug after a week of quick pats on the back. When the curtains open and the first streams of Shabbat shine in, the middling details and distant humming vanish.

It all happens in the flare of a match, the last sliver of sunlight. You just have to know the magic words.

Time change

2008-11-07T12:34:00.002-05:00

Shabbat scrambles in on polished Mary Janes, rushing across the room to where I sit at my desk. “I’m here!” she announces, throwing her arms outward.

I keep writing.

Shabbat grabs my pen, throwing it across the room.

“Hey, I was using that!” I snap.

“But I’m here!”

I glance at my watch. “Well, you shouldn’t be. It’s only 4:30.”

Shabbat folds her arms. “But I’m here.”

I sigh. “I see that you are. So, how do you want to spend all this extra time?”

Shabbat stares at her feet. “Um…”

I resist the urge to groan. “You’re here an hour early, and you don’t have a plan?”

“That’s your job!” Shabbat yells, stomping one tiny foot. Then she collapses on the floor, red folds of skirt fanning out around her.

I settle beside her, wrapping my arms around her narrow shoulders. It’s going to be one of those evenings.

The sleepy guest

2008-10-24T17:57:00.002-04:00

I arrive home from work to find Shabbat asleep on the couch, one bare foot dangling over the edge. I put down my things and creep into the room as quietly as I can.

Shabbat’s eyes open, bleary but content. “Welcome back,” Shabbat murmurs sleepily, burrowing deeper into the cushions.

“Welcome back yourself,” I say, lowering myself to the floor so I can look at Shabbat face-to-half-awake-face. “We’re not going out tonight, are we?”

“I baked cookies,” Shabbat says, and I notice that the room does smell of sugar and chocolate and childhood. “Let me sleep some more, and maybe we can hang out later. Okay?”

I lean forward and kiss Shabbat on the nose. “That sounds perfect,” I say.

Nothing new

2008-10-17T17:53:00.001-04:00

Week after week Shabbat comes in, Shabbat goes out. The Earth rotates without end. So long as twilight gives way to dawn, there will be one day in seven when Shabbat can slip into the world.

For those waiting for that seventh day, Shabbat is a constant. An eternal connection. Generations pass away, new ones arise, and the same songs lift to the same sky from different mouths. The young become old, the living pass away and new feet take on the inexorable march to death, but Shabbat does not change. If the short-lived people who look to the sky invite Shabbat again to their table, Shabbat will come. Until the sun goes out and Earth ceases its circling.

(…And even then, if our descendants escape before the end they will probably find a way to take Shabbat to other worlds.)

Not white

2008-10-10T17:41:00.002-04:00

Yom Kippur’s robes are the color of light that has never fractured. Unadulturated, all-encompassing, streaming, shining white. Yom Kippur wears the white of the sun, of angels and the holiest consecrated secrets. Watching it too long is to risk earthly blindness, to willingly wither away.

There are millions of colors in Shabbat’s coat—a rainbow in every fold. Yellow-brown, ruby-black, rust-gold, cream-peach and more blues than there are permutations in the sea.

Shabbat does not wear Yom Kippur white, though. Every thread in Shabbat’s coat is a remnant of shattered perfection—a soothing multi-faced retelling of the cornea-burning whiteness.

Yom Kippur is draped in purity. Shabbat’s sleeves are lined with loam-brown and blood-red, edged with silver-embroidered teardrops.

I wear Shabbat’s coat because it matches the world I walk through. It looks like peace and restlessness, compassion and gloating, spring, autumn and dawn. It is cut to human size.

Combat nurse

2008-10-03T10:06:00.001-04:00

The siege ended two days ago. Now is a time of respite and negotiation. The battered and injured are still, gathering their strength in this quiet time between battles.

I see Shabbat approaching, but she is no longer my well-heeled, festive beloved. She has laid aside her glittering gown for a plain white smock, tucked her hair under a kerchief and scrubbed her face clear of makeup. She pauses beside each soul, offering rest and comfort to those who quake at the prospect of the coming struggle. Her feet slap softly against the rough floor as she approaches me.

“Take courage,” she whispers, lifting medicinal wine of my lips. As she presses a crust of bread to my palm, her smile offers a promise of sweet times yet to come. She moves to her next patient, and I realize that she has never been more beautiful.

Beads

2008-09-19T19:03:00.000-04:00

Shabbat clinks into place with the lacquered clarity of a bead sliding onto a necklace string. At this stage, the new Shabbat is clear and unmarked—a perfect pearl.

It takes its place along the length with nearly a year’s worth of Shabbats, each one engraved with the faces of all the people I saw that day. The workmanship is flawless.

Soon this bead too will grow heavy with the gilt edges of delicate designs, dozens of tiny faces etched upon its surface.

The necklace weighs down like a yoke upon my shoulders, almost choking me.

Is it heavier than usual, or do I simply notice the weight because I know that the jeweler will be coming soon, to examine each individual bead and determine the value of my year?

The luckiest person

2008-09-12T17:23:00.001-04:00

“I had so many calls to make at work today—but just when I thought I would go crazy, Shabbat told me to go home and said he’d take care of the rest.”

“Really? I was at the end of a long checkout line with just one item, and Shabbat let me go ahead of him.”

“Shabbat gave me his seat on the subway when I was so tired that I thought I would fall over.”

“This Shabbat sounds like the same guy who cleared my sidewalk along with his own after the last snowstorm. What an amazing guy! I wonder if he’s seeing anyone.”

“When he opened the door for me yesterday, I noticed a wedding ring. Man, what I wouldn’t give for a guy like that!”

I glance down at my own right hand and hide a smile. He’s a catch, all right.

Storm

2008-09-05T17:21:00.000-04:00

Where does the storm come from? What ends with lightning and thunder begins with the twin wings of a butterfly, magnesium blue, flickering and fluttering across the dreams of creation.

It might take a while for the sky to open, but from that first wing-beat the storm is inevitable. Pressure eases, clouds begin to gather, and a warm wind blows.

Evaporation, condensation, precipitation. The cycle began long before humans. Before monkeys, before birds or even plants. It is a part of our world, ecologically ordained. When the air changes though, it affects something primal within every living thing. We look to the sky. We wait for the rain.

The Bride

2008-07-25T09:29:00.000-04:00

A white leather pump splashes through a puddle on the curb but continues on its frenzied way. The light is red, but the woman in the full-skirted wedding dress runs across, her arms full of white ruffles and tulle. Cars screech to a halt, taxis honk as she glances briefly at them, but she can’t stop. Everyone is expecting her.

The Sabbath bride throws open the double doors at the back of the synagogue just as the people rise to their feet. Her chest is heaving and her hair has come loose to fall in curls around her face. Her cheeks are red from exertion but she can’t help smiling at the exhilarating feeling that she gets every time a room full of people turns to welcome her home.

Running over

2008-07-11T17:30:00.000-04:00

Shabbat remains bottled all week, shelved and corked, but present. On Friday night it is unstopped and released into the world, filling every cup in the house and spilling over the table’s edge.

Shabbat continues pouring out, drenching my fingers and seeping into my shoes. Soon the entire house will be ankle-deep in Shabbat.

After the front door crashes open, Shabbat continues to pour out into the world.

Blanket

2008-07-05T00:14:00.000-04:00

Shabbat is a blanket large enough to cover my head and drop all the way over my feet. It is thick enough to block everything out, and comfortable enough to provide me with the best nap of my life.

Brought forth

2008-06-21T00:15:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-13T15:00:00.001-04:00

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.

2008-06-07T00:12:00.000-04:00

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.

Sunlight creeping

2008-05-30T09:25:00.001-04:00

I sit reading under a wide-leafed tree on a late summer afternoon. The hours must have tiptoed past, because golden-yellow Shabbat has sneaked up behind me, crawling close on flaxen fingers.

The cicadas hum a restful melody, and the red-winged blackbirds know all the right songs to greet the rising dusk.

Grandpa's house

2008-05-23T17:18:00.000-04:00

I can’t wait to go to Grandpa’s house! I’ve been looking forward to it forever. We’ll get out of the car, and he’ll be waiting on the porch for us. He’ll give me a giant hug, and he’ll say, “Look how big you are! You’ve been eating your vegetables!” And, and, I’ll go inside and sit in the sagging green chair, and eat cashews from the candy bowl and Grandpa will let me have some coffee in my milk, and we’ll hear the latest news about the neighborhood, look at pictures and tell stories about things that happened before I was born!

Dad smiles. “But that’s what happens every time we visit. Shouldn’t we try something new?”

No way! That’s how visiting Grandpa goes. If we changed something, it just wouldn’t be the same.

Weekday ruins

2008-05-10T00:10:00.002-04:00

The sun sets on the city where people once toiled. Darkness falls over stone structures, walls crumble to ruins.

The piles of stone are given time to grow.

Rain falls, the sun shines, and green shoots peak through the cracks on a once flawless façade.

When human labor ceases, the earth returns to its original state. The garden creeps in from the edges, and with every day of rest the Tree of Life lowers its branches nearer to the ground.

Blind date

2008-05-03T00:08:00.000-04:00

There are a thousand things I could be doing right now. Exciting things. Necessary things. But, no. A mutual friend foisted Shabbat on me. Because I owe this guy big I put on a strained smile and said, “Great. I love hanging out with Shabbat!”

I sit across the table from Shabbat, making polite conversation and watching the clock.

Just twenty-three more hours, and I’m free. Twenty-two more hours. Twenty-one....

No briefcase

2008-04-25T17:37:00.000-04:00

Shabbat does not come in with the clink of polished black loafers. He does not settle his briefcase or his laptop case on the floor. He doesn’t even own a wallet.

Shabbat isn’t stressed out, doesn’t bring the office home with him. He doesn’t tell the kids to leave him alone for a few minutes while he unwinds.

It’s easy for Shabbat, because he doesn’t have an office. His workweek consists of sitting at a table with friends, with wine and good food. Shabbat comes in after the errands are done, when the table is set and everything is out of the oven.

Still, after Shabbat settles in he’s so likeable that it’s hard to be frustrated with his happy-go-lucky lifestyle. And I do keep inviting him back. The weekend wouldn’t be the same without him.

The Sabbath Bee

2008-04-19T00:06:00.003-04:00

All day I have been traveling from flower to flower, distracted by every bright color under the sun. Now as darkness falls I lay down my burdens, the collected pollen of a day’s work, and I give myself over to a welcoming family and the sweetness of rest.

The first real day of spring: ימין ושמאל תפרוצי

2008-04-12T00:04:00.000-04:00

After six months of winter, Shabbat exploded into spring. To the left and to the right daffodils and apple blossoms, fresh grass and blushes of green burst out. Shabbat brought with it the first perfect day of spring.

…Except that it wasn’t the first. Thursday was just as nice. Thursday was just as warm. But on Thursday, sunrise to sunset, I had ten minutes to spend outside.

Shabbat is not a perfect day. Shabbat is not the warm breeze, the fresh air or the greening terrain. These things could appear any day of the week.

So, what is Shabbat? Shabbat is the walk in the park, the moment spent under the apple tree. Shabbat is the chance to taste the sweetness that languished, unappreciated, for the first six days of the week.

Havdalah

2008-04-05T00:03:00.000-04:00

Shabbat is a single flame, shining through our interwoven lives. Shabbat grows in intensity every time another soul joins her tapestry, dancing and growing until it seems that her light will illumine every dark place. The flame expands and brightens, overtaking the world of darkness until—suddenly—it goes out.

The Muse-Shabbat smack down

2008-03-28T23:29:00.000-04:00

Friday at 6:45, my muse knocks on the door.

Shabbat answers. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?” she asks.

“Who is it?” I call.

My muse starts to answer, but Shabbat cuts her off. “No one! Just a salesperson!” She glares at my muse. “You can’t come in now. It’s my time.”

My muse raises her hands in confusion, diaphanous robes fluttering. “But, I just have this one really great idea—”

“Tough. Come back in twenty-five hours.”

“Can I just leave a message? A short little—”

Shabbat glares. “I don’t take dictation,” she says, slamming the door in my muse’s face.

I watch from the end of the hallway, slipping back into the kitchen before Shabbat turns around. When she glides back into the room and cups her body against my back, I pretend nothing happened.

Shabbat is a taste of paradise, but she can be jealous.