Riddles in the light, and that’s what they tell us to look for when we can’t remember if G-d exists. There’s this whole story about hide-and-go-seek and how we’d be bored out of our minds if we were plopped down into this life and G-d was right there before us and we saw Him and we knew Him and we understood Him. Apparently, humans don’t like to bored. Somewhere along the way we created this elaborate game, this treasure hunt, and we separated ourselves from the Divine just so we could have the joy of searching and the joy of finding and the joy of reconnecting, and the challenge, too. There are riddles in the light and it’s being born in the Week of the Enigma and on the Day of Difficult Demand and maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all, but that’s no different than the rest of this world. When I was still tiny, She taught me how to thread the light and remember Him. And tonight I lit the Shabbat candles and sang the blessings with my mother and it was so precious so sacred so much of my heart and hers dancing there, right out in the open, and it was the best feeling in the world. My eyes were shining and I wanted to fall into the bluest part of the candle’s flame. I couldn’t stop admiring the candlesticks because they were handpainted and they were gorgeous and they had greens and golds and red on them. There’s something about being in pain that makes all of the beauty that much more vivid. There are riddles in the light and there are riddles in the darkness and the darkness isn’t really darkness at all, just an voidspace that needs a good hot oil massage and a love letter in pink ink. Now my hair is straight again; it feels better. When it’s curly it’s like jumping through streams and the energy spirals too much– much too much –and it’s hard to keep up with, especially when dizzy. Those moments that I spent curled up into a ball on the floor in the dining room were quite incredible. I want to kiss the ground to make love to the earth and I want to be in that space again where all of the blessings ricochet off of me and off of everyone that I love. It’s like that night at Star House way up up up in the moutains and there was snow everywhere and there was no electricity and all glass walls that looked out into the wilderness and it was lit by candles and hearts alone and inside we gathered for Zikr and there was dancing and chanting and no one knew what they were doing and we all kept running into each other and Habiba gave me the best hug I’ve ever received in my life and we all kept running into each other because there are riddles in the light. There were all of the incantations and I miss the holy words. (And all words are holy, really.) (But I miss them all the same.) I remember when it was explained to me that Catholic churches are meant to represent the womb and they feel like it inside to me, but until that Wednesday, I had only ever been inside of churches when there were funerals to attend. There are riddles in the light and tonight I had orange spice tea with honey and a piece of freshly baked bread and it was simple and delicious and even though I love adornments I love simplicity, too. I think that when I’m sick it’s easier to find comfort in the simple because all of my senses are already so far overloaded. I need to get another copy of that woman’s book that was stolen out of one of my boxes between Boulder and Chicago. It talked about moon cycles, and it was the book that was almost responsible for the mischief with the gemstone eggs. There are scars and steps and stars. There are riddles in the light. I’ve lived in a lot of places. Under the wide Texas sky and in a quiet mountain town. When the wind blows, it picks me up and carries me into a different kind of tomato soup. One broken bone, but too many times being cut open. And the Messiah is supposedly coming because the moon is getting brighter because women are getting brighter because what does that even mean anyway? I just want to stare at Venus all night; I like the way that she glows. There are riddles in the light and there are riddles in the light. And I’m scared of crossing the rope bridge. It was pumpkin bread in the oven and writing up a new recipe for cornbread. It was finding all of the things that soothe me, and putting them together in a list so that later on I didn’t have to think about it, could just reach toward something that would be of benefit. The pain is spreading and it is radiating and it is gnawing at me– eating me from the inside out — and I don’t know what to do about it except to keep breathing because there are riddles in the light. It is a pulsing a stabbing an aggressive malicious pain. It is a persistent, noisy, penetrative pain. It is a smothering pain, and it is clingy and it doesn’t want to do anything without me. It’s time for more phenergan or promethazine or whatever it’s called and in the hospital I thought it was phenegran for a whole week and I couldn’t tell the difference in the morphine/valium haze anyway. I want to push my way through the mists; I want to part them. There are riddles in the light and we all get through it in different ways because that’s how it’s meant to be and it keeps all of us on our toes. Seven minutes and I fall into the pages and pages explaining the gematria and I miss having energy to be scholarly. Layered exhalations and staggered inhalations and the ashes of the fire hold that gap between where the magic hides. There are riddles in the light and that’s about all that can come loose right now because it’s all about the tiny things, the little (sometimes random) acts of kindness that can spread smiles. It’s about the laying down of gems and the sacrifice of self that unveils that which cannot be glimpsed by the naked eye. There are riddles in the light and the largest Sycamore tree west of the Mississippi is on Naropa’s campus and she’s a beauty, but I favor her little sister with the hanging rock waterfall monument, a cascade of stillness. No matter what does or does not happen, do not burn the manuscript. Be brave enough to leave the vacuum cleaner running. Take another step. There are riddles in the light and the edges are frayed and the walls are closing in on us.

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