Sabbath: I awake to the world again.
Ten in the morning, and I am still in the clothes I slept in. The morning has woken with a whisper.
I am alone and not alone. As the tarot card reader nineteen years ago spoke to me in wonder, saying, "I've never seen so many spirits trailing around behind a person. You need to know you are never alone," I feel the presence of angels on Sabbaths like this one.
My hair is clinging to my head in the place where it met my pillow, and the moons under my eyes are still blue with sleep, but there is a sun out there beyond heavy cloud cover. And this time is sacred (what time isn't?); it is the holy guest who arrives each week, ready to celebrate the wonder of God, the ongoingness of God, the very presence of God.
Last night I think I forgot. I didn't light the candles, which are nearly burnt down to nothing anyway. I didn't sip a wine or even pray, not in any way anyone would have noticed, but still I was there under the open sky, under the dogwoods, as the heat of the day began to relent and the sun, just above the street, peeked through houses. I was reading about praying mantises, and I began to get cold, so I came inside and forgot to notice the inbreath of Sabbath.
She sneaked in again, without me noticing, this sabbath moment that creeps into the week and slows and ferments and remembers. And it was evening, and it was morning: the seventh day.
Daylight came while I was thinking of other things. But now a damp breeze is moving across the week and blows my hair against my cheek.