In the Beginning

For Isaac Luria - HaAri

1534 - 1572

Chapter One: in which Heaven and Earth-- and Light-- are created.  

1.  In the beginning, there was God. 

2.  God was – is – will always be - endless and forever.  There was no place that was not God.  In fact, there was no Place.  No Something or Nothing or Anywhere. Not even an Anything as finite as a Somewhere.  There was just God.

3.  And because there was no Place, there was no space into which God could bring forth Creation, and creating was God's greatest and truest desire.  So into the Infinity that was God, into that Divine Everything, God gathered in Her (His) breath, so that there could be an Emptiness into which there could be created a Somethingness. 

4.  And in that breath, into that Divine contraction, God spoke, and the World came to be.  There was Heaven, there was Earth, and into this roiling, riotous, joyous and searing Act, into this rending of the Endlessness into Somethingness, there was Light. 

5.  And God declared that it was Good.

6.  Now understand: this Light was like no light you have ever seen.  It was neither sunlight nor starlight - they would not be created for several more Days.  This was the Light of Creation itself.

7. This Light was pure and luminous and filled with Everything that God thought to speak into being.  God didn't miss a thing (as if God could!). The Light of God blazed forth and illuminated the All, growing brighter and brighter, creating shadows where once there was only God.

8.  "What a shame," God thought, "that My Light should overshadow all My other creations." 

9.  So God thought to capture His (Her) - or really, no Pronoun at all, because God is an Endlessness, defying division - so God thought to capture the Light, and contain it. 


Chapter Two: In which the Light is Contained.  

1.  God crafted ten Vessels, made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water.

2. And God is okay with inconsistency; some of these elements hadn't quite been created yet, and weren't on the docket for several more Days. God didn't let that get in the way of a good story. 

3.  Into these Vessels God placed the Light of Creation, that shone with the holiness of God - that illumined the Everything of Creation and Eternity with God's own radiance, and which contained all the sacredness and transcendence that God could gather. But this was an awful lot of holiness to occupy the same Place at the same time as Anything or Everything all at once.

4.  The Light stretched itself up and out, seeking a path in which to flow and leap and dance.  The Vessels, though, were static, being made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water.  They could not hold that holy radiance, though they tried - oh! They tried to stretch with the Light, and move with it, and so contain it all.

5.  Instead of moving with the fluid grace of that radiant Light, those Vessels, crafted by God, made beautiful and holy by God, those Vessels shattered.

Chapter Three: in which the Light, along with the Vessels, is scattered

1.  The shards of those shattered Vessels were scattered into the Everywhere.  The Light, once contained, rose and leaped and was free again. 

2.  It soared and danced and sang a psalm, a joyous hymn to God.  "Hallelujah!" cried the Light.

3.  The Light grew brighter, illuminating Heaven and Earth and All that was in between, brighter and faster and more luminous--

4.  More holy, infusing the darkness with Light--

5.  More radiant, wrapping around the Everything it touched--

6.  Over and under, everywhere and all at once: holy, holy, holy! In the space of a heartbeat (though hearts were long from being Created), in a moment of Endlessness (though there were Beginnings), the Light, with each turn and tumble and leap, left behind a Spark, nestled in the subtle curve and rough edges in each of those myriad and broken pieces.

7. And so the Vessels, though they could not contain that holy and sacred Light, could instead be sheltered by It. Could instead offer shelter to It.

8. A multitude of Broken. An Infinity of Holy, bound together, scattered to the Everywhere of Heaven and Earth.

Chapter Four: In which Things are Revealed

1.  God watched that shimmering cascade, reminding Him (Her) (God) of celestial fireflies on a clear summer night (for while there were finally fireflies, Summer was still a long way off) (But God can remember forward, so it was Good).  God saw, but was sad.

2.  Creation, by its very nature, is an Act of separation.  It is a Breaking-- glorious and breathtaking in its wondrousness to be sure-- but a Breaking nonetheless.  Creation makes a space where once there was none, separates the Not into the Is. Creation has the power to break vessels and scatter Light.

3.  So if God's greatest Desire is to Create, God's greatest yearning is to Complete and bring to Wholeness (because God is, ever and always, ok with inconsistency).  God watched that glorious, electric, magnificent display, and decided to Fix it.

4. Now God could not un-Create: what was brought into being, what now Was, could never be Not - not anymore. 

5. Just as God breathed in to make a Space for Creation, so now God exhaled, in a great and gentle rush of breath.  As with the Light, God's breath danced and leaped and rushed over the All, and those shards, those broken pieces made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water danced with God's breath, and they flowed and shifted through the Everything.

6.  But they were not yet repaired.

Chapter 5: In which a Path is Made Clear, and a Purpose made certain

1.  Into each piece of Broken that lay shimmering before Her (Him) (God), into that infinite field of possibility, God breathed a Name, a Soul, a Heart. 

2.  And with that singular, miraculous breath, God declared, into the Was and the Is and the Yet to Be: "What I broke, in My desire to Create, let My creations, in My yearning for wholeness, be charged with its repair."

3.   And into that glorious, wondrous swirling cascade, God sang out: "Heal the World." And God knew (because God is smart like that) that it would be Good.

4.  And so it is, and so it shall ever be: each of us-- every Heart, every Soul, we each of us have a piece of the Broken that is ours, to find, to heal, to bring together with all the other infinite pieces of Broken. Some infinitely small, some excruciatingly large, waiting to be found, aching to be healed. Yearning, as God yearns, to be made Whole again.

5. And so into this glorious expanse of Broken and Whole, into the endless beauty of Creation, let us say, "Amen."

Platespinner

Call me Platespinner.

You know Platespinner, don't you? He's the guy, that vaguely Eastern European-looking guy who wore a red satin shirt and tight-but-balloony black pants, who ran around the stage on the Ed Sullivan show, while some invisible orchestra played The Sabre Dance in the background, and the guy, the Platespinner guy, ran around the stage to keep the thirty-seven five-foot tall dowels spinning in mad counterpoint to the music, all to keep the plates that lay on top from toppling.

Manic. Frenetic. Exciting. Exhausting.

No time to think: just act. Keep it all spinning. Forever.

Call me Platespinner. Welcome to my life.

I don't remember a time that this hasn't been the metaphor for my life. Some people have theme songs; I have a metaphor. And ok, I probably have a theme song, too, but that's a subject for another time, a different essay. Because this is all about

This is about

What I'm trying to say is

Here's the thing --- Why are there so many fucking plates spinning on top of those fucking spindly dowels, for God's sake?! 

Who the hell put them there? And what the hell do I care if they spin or not? And why, God - God of Infinite Mercy, God of Sneaky Irony, God of Whatever Thing You Want - why do I never once stop to question why I keep adding plates  to this unholy fucking mess? Seriously. Even this has become merely a new plate to spin. And it has already become lost in the forest of all those naked dowels. Just add one more to the pile. To the pyre.

Because at some point, this forest, this pile, it all becomes a pyre, and those flames will burn hotter than my guilt and shame put together. They will skip and dance up to heaven itself, and carry me - consume me - along the way. And I just keep adding more fuel. And more plates, over and over.

There's work stuff and Nate stuff and house stuff and God stuff. There's carpools and repair shops and therapy for me and grocery shopping and what do we do about Mom and did you remember to pay this bill and what about that library fine and you promised we could, you said that I could and have you talked to Dad lately and can you help with homework? And can you bake for this? And can you fix that other thing? Can you talk - write - pray - sing - do - run - drive - go - cook for me? For them? Just a little? Just this once?

And that's just the Stuff stuff. The tip of the iceberg, everyday, ordinary stuff. That doesn't even come close to the other stuff - the Dream stuff, and the Fear stuff and the Hopes stuff - all those things you put into all those boxes you've labeled "Pandora." Mostly you keep those lids on pretty tight, but every so often, almost like that scab that you just can't quite leave alone, you pick at one, open one, just a crack, and out slips - something.

All those Dreams you had, of becoming something – someone – great. Or maybe that secret fear, that really is mostly just shame dressed up into something so much finer, that you thought you had conquered that last time, but there, in the dark, when you're tired and maybe a little lonely and, ok, let's face it, cranky, which you'd really like to blame on the hormone thing, but, if you had to be honest, it really is that you're angry - out creeps that shameful, dressed up fear. It crawls out of the box and up onto a plate, spinning now like a whirling dervish, and singing at the top of its metaphoric lungs.

And don't forget your Hopes. For you. For your son. For your friend, who's been struggling some lately, whose mom just died, whose dog is sick and her husband got laid off and left and what hope is left for her? And, of course, you can't forget your hopes for the world, and all the starving people who seem to multiply daily and the poverty that threatens to drown entire countries, and maybe even continents in endless, insatiable need, and all the oppressed people, and the dolphins and baby seals and bees. What the hell is happening with all the bees, and what the hell are we going to do if they all just die off? Who is going to fix that?

Have we hit thirty-seven plates yet?

In a walk.

I breathe, and six more plates pop up, almost of their own volition. And I never once stop to question why, God, why do I just keep adding fucking plates. I never once stop to ask what would happen if a couple dozen of them came clattering to earth, scattering into shards and dust and broken, jagged pieces.

And right now, this very second now - there is nothing left. The field is full. Fuck the plates and my insane drive to keep them all spinning and unbroken. If I try to put in one more dowel, add one more plate - no matter how fine and delicate the pattern - I will break. 

This has happened before. I live my life, spinning and whirling and running as fast as I can, gathering up plates and piling up stuff and sealing boxes that keep cracking at the seams, just moving until I am lost, and moving for the sake of moving, mindless and driven by all the hounds of hell.  There's no fucking reason, other than to keep it all in the air.

Because I can. Because I must.

I am the Fixer of Broken Things. I fix. I heal. I mend. I do. And I do. And I do. No help. No questions ever asked. No hesitation. No pause. Fix it all. Take it all on. Take it all in. Alone. Because you hurt. And you need. And you want. And you ask. All for you. And please don't confuse my frenzied action with selfless sainthood! Good God. It is all self-preservation! Because if I can fix you and mend you and focus on you, then I don't have to look at me. 

Because I could do it all. Because I didn't need anyone. Because asking for help meant being less -than and wrong and horribly, painfully vulnerable. Because that's when the white hot pokers came out, looking for all the soft spots. Because I would rather die than admit that I needed help.

Because I knew I would die if I asked for help.

Because I knew, way deep down, that if I asked for help, it wouldn't come.

So you breathe. And you breathe again. And you add a plate; then another, and another and another. Just pile 'em on, do more, run more, breathe and gasp and stumble and spin and spin and spin. Keep spinning. Just keep it all going, more and more, until you're bowed and bloody and broken. And then you just - do more.

Until it all comes crashing down. Until you are buried under the weight of your failure and your guilt.

Please God, you whisper, no more. Please. And you ache and you twitch, like an addict desperately seeking - and hopelessly dreading - her next fix, you tweak and you sweat and you crave, actually crave setting up the next plate and setting it into motion. It is your motion of the Heavenly Spheres, perfect and glorious and deadly in all that vast and empty space.

Please God, you whisper into that dark and dangerous place, please; I am so tired. Please - can I stop now?

And you wait. And you listen, straining past the breaking point to get an answer, that it's okay to stop, to rest. To just let it all go, plates be damned, because the world will spin on its axis without any help from you. And you feel as if you could die from listening so hard, and your body is fairly thrumming with the effort, and your chest is about to explode because you haven't actually taken a breath in a while.

And it is silent. And it is cold and lonely and vast. 

One more plate. Just one. Promise...