Tonight begins the last week of Counting the Omer: Chesed she-b'Malchut, overflowing generosity within this, the material world, into which all the qualities of the other sephirot have poured.
It has been a very full day, partly guided. I did not know why I had lunch at a certain place, until I ran into a young man there whom I know, who will soon move East, and with whom a certain conversation had to take place. I am grateful for such times, when I end up in the right place at the right time to perform a function for which I am uniquely equipped, and there is no way I could have planned it.
I also went to our wonderful local indie bookstore, where I bought what must surely be a lifetime supply (if I live long enough) of unique and splendid blank journals. The bookstore owner had designed them years ago: unlined slightly off-white paper with a wonderful tooth, a delight to write upon with a fountain pen. They would also make great sketchbooks.
Bracha the cat is quite ill. She is not yet displaying the signs listed by the vet that would indicate I should call him. She is lying on her side on the towel over the heating pad beside me on the little salmon sofa, awake and contemplative. I assume she would be making some sound if she were suffering pain. She is not; but she is clearly not happy. Still, I don't feel I have the right to artificially shorten her life if it is not she, but I who am in discomfort. I am hoping that her time to leave us will not fall to the good lady who will be housesitting when I am away.
I am now going to attempt the near-impossible: going to bed earlier than midnight.
I will resist finding things that need to be done instead.
But the real truth is---I delay getting in it because the bed, our bed, is just too empty now.