My Book Is Always Open

Lifting a meaningful, glowing, brilliant Torah high into dark, dim, gray, after sunset evening skies--seeing the Words dance like high-kicking Russian dancers across the Scroll--starry-eyed gazing into metal mirrors from valleys below--deciding I like what I imagine. Proteins working great--heart pumping, muscles rippling. Continuing to defend Halakhah and mourner's rights. Torah, a tree, with branches like arms to an open Book of Life, all making perfect sense in a perfect instance. No other guidance, just intelligent wisdom of Health Ethics recorded 5775 years ago and before. Fingers flying, tapping, tap tap tap on smooth keyboards, no sounds other than heavy drum percussion pounding. Eyeglasses sliding down nose--see and be seen. Contemplating goodness and knowing when to stop contemplating. Thinking instead of feeling and then imagining instead of thinking. Feeling the bass, not allowing it to become a pounding brain rhythm, then allowing it to, and then relaxing, letting it move me toward my own space into friendly futures.