Pomegranate

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.

Hiddur mitzvah

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

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.

The Sabbath tree

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

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?”

Sunday's child

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

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.

Winter wonderland

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.

Tropical paradise

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.

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.