Winter white

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

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.

Becomes easy

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

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.

Not white

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

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.

The luckiest person

“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.

The Bride

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

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

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

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.

Grandpa's house

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.

The Sabbath Bee

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.

Havdalah

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 day after Purim

Shabbat arrives as usual, dressed in silk with her hair and make-up beautifully arranged.

The room is a mess, and with the exception of a pair of candles glowing on the table it seems that nothing has been prepared.

“What is this?” Shabbat demands. “You knew I was coming! Where is my welcome?”

I scramble, bleary-eyed, to a seated position on the couch. “I’m sorry—really sorry Shabbat, but last night your little brother came in from Persia. He kept me up all night partying. Then this morning he pulls me out of bed again, just a few hours after I fell asleep. He’s exhausting!”

“Oh, him.” Shabbat settles beside me on the couch. “Did the two of you have a good time, at least?”

“He’s a fabulous guy.” I lean into her, nuzzling her neck. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”