Phillip, Andrew and I strolled along a white path, as white, in the moonlight, as if made of crushed shells. Galilee was flat and silvery. Andrew continued to comment about the “bread and fish” at almost every turn of the path. His youthful, enthusiastic face warned me, warned me that youth is irresponsible. What is the proper age for wisdom? As for miracles is there a miracle surpassing the miracle of faith?
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Peter has made me a tent. It is dark green, and big enough for two. The tent pole is an antique shepherd’s staff. A charioteer and a number of untranslatable characters have been carved on the wood.
“Papa gave me that staff long ago. He said it is Assyrian.”
I can carry the tent comfortably and the staff is never out of my hands.
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Peter’s
Kislev 6
Last night I dreamed I was a tree—a cedar tree.
“Don’t cut me down,” I begged. “I am shade...I am the home of birds.”