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neshama_writersIt is near sunset when I light the Shabbat candles, the two small flames struggling to compete against the last burst of daylight streaming through the many dining-room windows. I chant the blessing and, gazing into the dancing flames, reflect on the week just past -- the hectic pace of work, the many interactions with family and friends, the struggles to nourish my soul in a hostile world. And I give thanks -- for my family, friends, rabbi, health, passion, and quest for spiritual growth.
The room slowly darkens and the flames seem to grow, re-assured in their self-confidence that they can, indeed, illuminate the room, and the soul within, on their own. The golden glow warms the room way out of proportion to the flames' size.
Once a year the Shabbat candles are joined by their smaller but more-numerous cousins in the chanikiyah on the windowsill. The chanukiyah's light is brighter; its job is not to warm the soul within but to proclaim the miracle to all and sundry. But its light is also briefer; long after we have finished today's declaration to the neighbors the Shabbat candles are still there to nourish me. It will be hours yet before they sputter and die, and by then I will have been warmed enough to enter Shabbat.
The room slowly darkens and the flames seem to grow, re-assured in their self-confidence that they can, indeed, illuminate the room, and the soul within, on their own. The golden glow warms the room way out of proportion to the flames' size.
Once a year the Shabbat candles are joined by their smaller but more-numerous cousins in the chanikiyah on the windowsill. The chanukiyah's light is brighter; its job is not to warm the soul within but to proclaim the miracle to all and sundry. But its light is also briefer; long after we have finished today's declaration to the neighbors the Shabbat candles are still there to nourish me. It will be hours yet before they sputter and die, and by then I will have been warmed enough to enter Shabbat.