A few Friday nights had come and gone without our usual ritual of lighting the sabbath candles. There was no particular reason other than the tired inertia that the family slips into at the end of the week. We forgo the chance to renew ourselves when we are the most in need, separated in space rather than united in Heschel’s sanctity of time. But last night we brought the sabbath light back into our home.
Stuffed with Mexican food, we took an after-dinner stroll from Wittenberg Platz to Viktoria Luise Platz before heading home. As big as she is, I didn’t notice Yolanda at first because it was dark out and she is tucked back into a corner. There she stands in all of her bronze glory and waits for the passerby to behold her. I was entranced by her size and strength, her uninhibited stance, and her defiance of societal standards of beauty. I stood before her and felt uplifted, while the three male members of my family quickly lost interest and moved on.
We took the U-Bahn home and lit the candles, and I thought about Yolanda, a woman of Berlin, maybe even a Jewish woman, a woman to represent all women.