All of the mirrors in the house are covered, while you sit Shiva for a fellow Jew that has passed away. One explanation is quite simple - this helps you avoid distraction. Another, that there is a connection between our world and the other side, and this thin layer of cloth somehow helps us maintain a safe distance. There will be no crossing over. But what makes the most sense, is that this moment is not about you. A traditional Shiva lasts for seven days, but the one I am wrestling with has gone on for a good month and shows no signs of finishing.
I always understood that the act of creation is a selfish one, but that it can be balanced by a humble goal, a mission to ease the wounds of a stranger, to help erase a scar until it becomes a thin white line, not a red and swollen lump. To be of service, to do no harm - these ambitions are scrawled with invisible ink or every set of walls I have lived inside. But I’ll be damned if I feel like writing anything more than these Monday morning postcards from the edge of night. No songs are being written on a sun drenched chair. No big ideas are scribbled in the corner of a page about a film to shoot in this magical city we now call home. It feels more than selfish, but tone deaf to create. I have nothing against protest songs (although they are often preaching to the converted) but there are no protest songs in me. I am absorbing a war, a tectonic shift in reality, a string of catastrophes and hard luck that cannot be discussed.
The thing is, I am in mourning for a hundred reasons.
Yes, I scour the new neighborhood for where the bread is best, where they had asparagus last week, where to buy a light bulb, or a pencil sharpener. There are little pleasures, bowls of glistening pasta to be made on a makeshift set of pans while the new ones wait to be delivered. There are morning cups of coffee, strong and sweet - sitting in a soft chair with my head tilted back, as the sun fingers around the courtyard outside the windows, as neighbors pin wet laundry to clotheslines, as the birds chirp and flit around, as a breeze shifts the curtains and tall trees lean back and forth outside the new windows. For once, I am in no rush. The furious pace has been replaced by a measured walk, because the book waiting to be published is not going anywhere, the new songs that were recorded two months ago are not going stale, and all of the rest can take a well-earned sabbatical. The mirrors are covered, and I am going to sit, and recalibrate, take long walks up the steepest hills, wrestle with my worst and best angels every time my face hits a pillow and at some point things will fall into place, my feet will find their way to the ends of my legs.
This time is not about me.
I have no words to describe the extent to which yours moved me.