It was a day of lovely surprises, starting with morning minyan, and seeing two of my favorite young women there.
The day ended with the event at the Jewish Renewal shul---an evening in honor of my beloved's secular birthday. We watched some of the film clips Michael had recorded. We sang niggunim, heard and told stories, and gave brachot, and munched rare goodies, like great halvah.
Shifra sent me home with a beautiful small bouquet of flowers for shabbos.
Now that I sit and write about it, I feel the difference between public and private. At the event, I could appreciate the openness, the warmth of heart, the generosity of all present.
Here at home, in the presence of two resting cats, all is quiet, and I feel how deeply I miss the live presence of the man I loved, and that I love still.
I wish us---and I wish our country---a good and peaceful shabbos, in which to renew and refresh ourselves, to regain perspective and clarity, and recover strength.
Well, it took me one cup of warm milk, three hours, and the last third of a Doris Lessing novel to come to this other place of truth: that tonight was very hard on me. That seeing Zalman speak on a screen made his absence in current physical reality sharper and more wrenchingly painful. That I recognize the man whose wisdom has been captured on a reproducible medium, to share with so many; but the one I miss is irreplaceable: the one who touched my heart, and tickled my mind, who played with me and fought with me, and would whisper me awake with "Modeh ani..." and then the weather report. (Even Bracha the cat understands that I am coming apart a little, and has come out of her basket to sit by my side for a moment.)
That the most painful line from King Lear reaches up to grab me by the heart:
"Never, never, never."