Home for Shabbat

That moment on a late Friday afternoon when you’re sitting outside under a tree sprinkled with orange blossoms, and you’re drinking red wine culled from the craggy earth of the Golan Heights, and you’re dreaming of a cigarette that you won’t actually smoke, and your neighbor to the left is blasting Will Smith — (yes, Will Smith, because apparently it is 1997 and we’re all gettin jiggy with it na na na na na na na nana) — and from across the field of yellow flowers in front of you, you can smell the landlord’s Harayme cooking to perfection while a young boy strolls past holding a golden challah and singing Shalom Alechem.

That moment when  the clatter of the week softens around the edges, when you let the stress slide with the sunset, when you pour another glass of dusky wine, and lean back against the orange tree…

That moment, this moment when I realize that I’m whole with every mistake, every misstep that has led me home. .

Shabbat Shalom.