Holy Ground

If I took off my shoes
on this holy ground
and walked the forever walk
and crossed the forever sea,
would it matter?

What ground is not holy?
What sea is not forever?
What journey does not bring me
closer to You?

Is there anywhere where You are not?
All the earth cries out Your name.
It is holy, as holy as this earth,
and forever as this sea.

Forever as this bush,
burning unconsumed,
unnoticed until it is not.
It is sweet forever fire.
It holds Your name.
It calls You close.

There is no place where You are not,
and every shoeless step
is a benediction, a psalm
to praise Your name.

This Holy Place: a poem for Acharei mot

What do you sacrifice
to stand in this holy place?
Do you wear your sins
like fine linen and gilded shame?
Does your skin glisten
with water and oil
and the scent of blood?

What do you offer
to stand here in this holy place,
whose walls are fitted with mirrors
of silvered glass, and
edged in guilt and hope?
They reflect and refract to infinity,
a bountiful gift of an infinite Glory.
Their smoothed surfaces
of infinite hardness
show every crack and broken sliver
when the light shines upon them,
that disappear in the shadows
and dark.

Every crack is holy, here
in this holy place where you stand:
a sacrifice, an offering,
found in the corners and littering
the earth with their bounty.
Do you stumble?
Do you love?

Place your doubt here on the altar,
and light the fire to burn
with incense and your fear,
and stand here in this holy place
of cracks and reflected Infinity,
a prayer of grace upon your lips.

Elijah Invented Sarcasm - for the Haftarah of parashat Ki Tisa

Elijah invented sarcasm.
Before stones and altar;
before water flowed like blood;
before hearts moved backwards,
and fire rained down to
drench the waiting sacrifices -
First there was sarcasm.

Perhaps your god sleeps,
or maybe he's busy,
running a few errands,
said the Undying One.
We'll wait - and why not?
He had all the time
in the world.

Elijah is way too holy
to hide a smile behind his hand,
or wink on the sly
to all the terrified masses
assembled and cowering,
who had, after all,
backed the wrong horse,
and the wrong god
and knew not of sarcasm.

But they knew -
after the shouting and slaughter
the water and blood and fire
that streamed down like rain,
that lifted smoke and smells
to Israel's God.
They remembered,
and remembering,
returned.


Based on 1 Kings 18 1-39

How Shall I Know You: a poem for parashat Vaera

How shall I know
that you are God,
my Lord and Master,
Judgment in your right hand
And mercy on your lips?

How shall I know
that I am home,
that I will be gathered,
be beloved,
be returned?

Will I know You by my enemies,
by their decimation and ruin?
Is that Your glory, Lord,
Your secret name?

Are You the eternal Lord of Hosts,
battle-ready, all iron and stone -
My Rock,
My Redeemer -
Is there yet no give in You?

How shall I know You, God?
What shall I call You?
How will I know I am home?


Based, with a twist, on Ezekiel 28:25 - 29:10, the haftara for parashat Vaera

The Blessing of Bounty

The blessing of bounty is a fragile one.

So you reap what was sown,

though the corners are not yours.

Harvest the last of summer's promise,

and live, for a time, only

sheltered by grace.

Look up! Look up!

The lattice-worked heavens

of sun and moon and stars

dapple your harvest

of paper chains and pasta art.

The blessing of bounty is a fragile one.

Harvest the wind, gusty with rain

and the first fruits of cold.

Sit with me for a timeless time,

and feel the earth beneath us.

Let us be sheltered by graceful impermanence.

The blessing of bounty is fragile,

But oh! what a glorious thing!

Rise

There is a rising expectancy
A hold-your-breath
gathering in,
gathering at the edge
that drops away
ten thousand feet
and ten thousand more.

A moment--
just that one,
that separates you from
everything else.
You hold yourself so
still,
so poised.
so expectantly still.

There's a heartbeat's difference
between waiting
and ready,
a heartbeat,
a moment,
the distance between
breaths,
that narrow space
between God
and everything else.
And you have walked that narrow space,
that dry and dusty narrow space,
cradling the tethers
that bind you
to that rock-strewn road,
that narrow space between breaths,
between God--
between waiting and
ready.

You have walked the ten thousand steps,
and ten thousand more,
an eternity of steps
to cross that narrow distance,
to stand in hushed--
in waiting--
in rising
expectancy.

To leap into that moment,
to complete that breath,
to bridge the distance
between waiting
and God.

To stand
in grace,
in quiet stillness,
in breathless wonder,
on the other side of waiting.
And you gather in those tethers
that have shackled you
and bound you
to the narrow places.
You gather them
and let them fall,
let them lie
cracked and dusty and rusted through.

A breath.
A heartbeat.
A moment that stretches into
the rest of forever
(and then some)
And then
you leap.

Ready.

To God, who divides the waters: a poem in response to hurricanes

Nachshon ran from the narrow places, 
racing to freedom and God. 
He was stopped on the shores 
of the forever sea,
until he walked into the waters,

until they almost swallowed him whole.

Past his chin they came.

He walked; they rose.

And then they parted.

Just like that,
a miracle of divine order,
and the angels flew about,
singing sweet psalms
cheering the all those marchers onward,
until God reined them in,
showering them with shame.

The waters rise once more,
a new forever sea of
chest-high currents
that eddy and ripple and 
drag at the angels' sodden feet
and leaden wings, 
hosannas sung in a minor key.

Dear God, who moves 
upon the water's face;
who divided the waters 
and makes the rain;
Who sends the storms
and attends the tides -
do You wait again for Nachshon,
wrapped in his faith 
and in his folly,
to walk, and show You
once more, where the waters 
need to part?

The Gift of Rising - a poem for Shavuot

It was an ancient quickening -
older than mountains,
whose bones dug into the earth,
deep and long.

The gift of mountains is stone,
a sacred canvas
of unbending inscription,
holy even when broken.

It was an ancient burgeoning -
older than heat or light
an exaltation of urgency,
of joy and revelation.

The gift of light is sparks,
dancing in black fire
a cascade of stars, like
God's laughter tumbling upwards.

It was an ancient and tidal moment -
older than oceans
whose chaotic rhythm rushes,
like breath, like life.

The gift of oceans is water,
cool and sweet; it holds
the secret of mercy
and the bitterness of despair.

It was an ancient rising =
a burst of green
and laden boughs.
It was bending
that did not break.
It was fire
that did not consume.
It was sweetness
pouring forth like a mighty river.
Here beneath the mountain,
watching fire and darkness
and the rush of rain -

It is a gift of binding,
a tree of life,
beckoning me to hold fast.

I Will Carry the Rain: a poem for the Counting of the Omer

I will carry the rain
in all its gentle letting down.
I will let it run through me,
so that it waters all my secret places,
and watch each drop
fall from my fingertips,
to wash over the earth,
Mother of us all,
and holy.

I will carry the rain,
and gather her waters,
and walk shoeless
among my mother's bounty,
towards the mountain of fire and ash,
whose voice is thunder,
and heart is mercy
and binding is love,
and holy.

Like Echoes: a poem for the approach of Nisan

These are the days,
these final ones,
when I can feel the gathering
up of time and pain,
when our crying goes
opaque, flat and
non-reflective.

The animals feel it.
They low at odd times,
thrown by the plagues
and the hope dashed by
gathering stones
and obsidian hearts.

Still, I can smell
spring, like an echo.

Perhaps, this is
what God sounds like -
that barely-there
sound that rests
on my skin
like water.

We are running out
of desert and
time, a wilderness of
waiting, which is the
hardest part.
and I wonder
if our voices
are merely echoes
to God,
like spring,
or water,
and rest too lightly,
and fade too quickly,
and disappear,
like echoes do.

My Name Hides Me - a poem for parashat Shmot

My name hides me;
That's why there are so many.

I hear them, crying out
every one of my infinite names,

though some say there are only 72.
Perhaps; I've not bothered to count.

Still, names are binding,
and have power.

I spoke my name once;
not the ones you have given me.

You think them a benediction,
and do not see that they are merely parts,

adjectives of my glory.
They are not Me.

You call me justice, and sometimes mercy,
as if they are not inextricably twined,

as if they could be
made separate from me.

I hear their cries, and
all my names,

they hide me.
Still, I will answer.

I will make the ground holy
I will cause the bush to burn

I will be.
I am.

To God, who divides the waters

Nachshon ran from the narrow places, 
racing to freedom and God,
stopped on the shoes of a forever sea,
when he walked into the waters

until they almost swallowed him whole.

Past his chin they came,

but he didn't stop:
He walked; they rose.

And then they parted.

Just like that,
a miracle of divine order!
The angels flew about,
singing sweet psalms
cheering the all those marchers on,
until God reined them in,
showering them with shame.

The waters rise once more,
chest-high currents
that eddy and ripple and 
drag at the angels' sodden feet
and leaden wings, 
hosannas sung in a minor key.

Dear God, who moves 
upon the water's face;
who divided the waters 
and makes the rain;
Who sends the storms
and attends the tides -
do You wait again for Nachshon,
wrapped in his faith 
and in his folly,
to walk, and show You
once more, where the waters 
need to part?

I Know the Heart of a Stranger

I know the heart of the stranger.
It beats
And bleeds
And breaks.
I know this heart;
It is my own.

But this I do not know -
this hatred,
this tearing
and rending.
I do not know this
suffocation,
this strangled
heart of
darkness

The stench from
this sacrifice is not pleasing.
it is a desolation.
There is no delight in this,
only death and a heart of stone.

I do not know that heart.

Will you bring a rain
of scarlet hyssop petals
to flutter and fall
against the broken bodies
piled against altars
slick with blood?

I would know You, God!
I would know the heart of a stranger.
I would sing of Your glory
and teach Your ways with joy.

But this heart -
this heart of death
and desecration -
I cannot know this heart.
I will not know this heart.

If I knew that heart
I fear it would be mine.

Ninth Nisan - Perplex

I'm going to slip this in, under the wire, for PERPLEX, the prompt for ninth Nisan in #blogexodus.

I am perplexed by much of the story of our redemption, our Exodus from Egypt. Why did it take 400 years for God to finally hear our cries? Why would Moses, let alone God, expect this newly freed people, who had only known a taskmaster's lash, who had not tasted the sweetness of freedom and the joy of being bound to God - why would they expect the Spies to behave any differently? Trust? After all that history, on a seeming whim? Really? Why does it appear that Aaron got off scott free after the gossip transgression, while Miriam was doomed to suffer and be exiled from the community, until she was healed, until she was deemed fit to re-enter? Why was she not mourned?

I am perplexed about so much of our story. But today, I really don't so much care about the tangles of our story. I really don't care about its themes of redemption and hope and freedom and binding.

Today,.I am perplexed by a world that tacitly condones murder by hunger, by medical need, by neglect and indifference. Our texts are clear - there shall be no needy. Yes, yes - there will always be needy. Our text comments on that as well: If there are needy, give them what they need, with open hands and open hearts. I am, again, perplexed that we can be so blithe and blind to the ravages of need.

I am perplexed at the murder of anyone. I don't understand, in any way, the killings that we witness, every day. My mind absolutely boggles at the battlefields we have made of our homes, our cities, our seas.

We witness these murders daily: in Syria and Russia, Paris and Turkey. Senseless and horrific, they are atrocities, because of their scope and numbers. In Chicago, where I live, there are parts of this glorious city where children must walk through war zones to get to school and back; where innocents become collateral damage and we tag the murders of the not-innocents as something a little less than murder, and more like just desserts. As if the death of ANY person does not diminish us all.

We witness these deaths - murders and killings and atrocities - and we shake our heads, draw our families closer (even for just the moment, grateful that we can). We feel genuinely bad: shocked, perplexed, angered, saddened. We are indignant, and demand that something be done, dammit! All the right things, all the civilized, compassionate feelings. We witness, we feel. We know, down to our bones, this is a great and terrible wrong that must be stopped.

And the next day - hell, the next hour - we witness it all over again. Our perplexity consumes us.

Here's the thing: I don't have an answer. There is probably no one answer anyway, in such a complex, worldwide, ancient sin of ours, of all of us humans. I know that you have to feed people. Make them healthy. Educate them, clothe them, give them skills and jobs and hope. And you know what? In my naivete, I can bet that if we were only to place our efforts in saving people over making profit - if a human life were actually more valuable than an ounce of gold - we could change the world almost overnight.

How about this - how about we treat a person, not a need? We talk about the Hungry, the Poor, the Other, as if each need were a monolith of sameness, as if every person there were exactly the same, needed in the exactly same way. Every person in need is a person - a face, a heart, a soul, a voice. We want to create a little box, control it tightly, fit all the people with Need A into the box labeled Need A, then slap a lid on it, tie it up with string, and put it on a shelf, as we dole out a solution crafted to blanket the box - but not the people we've put there.

Those people - and the very fact that we can say "those people" is testament to the problem - are faceless. Those people are numbers. Those people are Them, inherently different from, less than Other. We reduce a person to a need, so we can discuss the problem of that need at a healthy, intellectual distance. We can provide solutions, that, if they don't work, we can shrug our shoulders and know that at least we tried - and then return to our regularly scheduled lives.

Forgive my broad brush here. Forgive the soap box upon which I've climbed. Notice that I say "we," not "you." This is my sin as well. Here's a novel thought: how about we unpack those boxes, and really see the people for who they are? How about we understand that we are all made from the same dust of stars and earth.

I am perplexed by how easily we can reduce people to the lowest common denominator - and then find even the trap door to that.

The people who were murdered, most likely by their own government earlier this week, whose homes have been made into bombed out shells, who have been forced to flee, again and again, until there were no roads left upon which they could flee - they are not Syrians, or Muslims or Christians or whatever label we attach to them to make them something Else - they are humans. They deserve our respect and compassion. They are not a sad little box to put on a shelf already over-crowded with other sad little boxes filled with human fodder and faceless Others.

They deserve honor. They deserve their names. Zichronam liv'rachah, may their memories be for a blessing. May their names be remembered.

\

1. Molham Jihad al-Yusuf

2. Yasser Ahmed Al-Yousef

3. Child- Ammar Yasser Al-Yousif 7 years old

4. Child- Muhammad Yasser Al-Yousef 10 years old

5. Ms. Sana Haj Ali, wife of Yasser

6. Abdul Karim Ahmed al-Yusuf

7. Child Ahmad Abdul Hamid Al - Yusuf 9 months old

8. Child Abdul Hamid al -Yusuf 9 months old

9. Ms. Dalal Ahmed Al-Sahh, wife of Abdul Hamid Al-Yousuf

10. Ibrahim Mohammed Hasan al-Yousuf

11. Child Muhammad Hassan al-Yusuf 11 years old

12. Ms. Hind Turki Al-Yousef

13. Omran Suhail Al-Yousef

14. Ahmed Suhail Al-Yousef

15. Nihad Ahmad al-Yusuf

16. King (Malak?) Turki al-Yusuf, wife of Nihad al-Yusuf

17. Nur Nihad al-Yusuf

18. Hassan Mohammed Al-Yousef

19. Ahmed Ibrahim Al-Yousef

20. Imad Al-Din Al-Qudh - Pharmacist

21-23. Children of Imad al-Din al-Qudh We did not get their names

24. Turki al-Qudh

25. The wife of Turki al-Qudh

26. The child Hind Turki al-Qudh

27-28. My baby Turki Qudh We did not get their names

29. Ms. Raja Mohammed Al-Mohammad

30. Anas al-Khalid - Teacher

31. Mr. Fatima Al-Sousi, the wife of Anas Al-Khalid - a school teacher

32. The child Mustafa Anas Al-Khalid

33. The child Alaa Anas al-Khalid

34. The child Shahd Anas al-Khalid

35. The child Abdul Rahman Ans al-Khalid

36. The child Khadija Anas al-Khalid

37. Ahmed Khalid Halawa

38. Khaled Halawa

39. The child Shaima Ibrahim al-Jawhar

40. Ahmad Shahoud al-Reem Abu Muhanna

41. Abu Ayman al-Jawhar

42. Ms. Safia Haj Kaddour, wife of Abu Ayman al-Jawhar

43. The child Meyar al-Mari

44. Amer Al-Naif- lawyer

45. Alaa Al-Naif

46. ​​Mohammed Al-Naif

47. Alaa Mohammed Al-Naif

48. The wife of Alaa Mohammed Al-Naif

49. Wife of Alaa Mohammed Al-Naif

50. Jamila Hafez Al-Qasem - A pediatrician.

51. Dirar Al-Aliawi Abu Emad

52. Mohammed Jamal Al-Qassem

53. The wife of Muhammad Jamal al-Qasim

54. Fatima Jamal Al-Qassem

55. son of Mohammed Said Barhoum

56. Hayyan Al-Ali

57. Wife of Hayyan Al-Ali

58-59. Children of the children of Hayyan Ali

(found on the Facebook wall of a friend)

Rise, Like Larks

I want to fly with the larks,
who rise in exaltation.

They know Your secret name
and sing it, each one -

An ascension,
into the vastness
of sky and wind.

a psalm
a song
a glory

Rising.

First of Nisan - Launch

I missed the launch. This should not surprise anyone. 

Yesterday was the beginning of the month of Nissan, and thus, the launch of #BlogExodus, a creation of my friend Rabbi Phyllis Sommer. The trick is to write, blog, post, snap or chat, based upon a prompt that she has provided, for the fourteen days that lead up to Pesach (Passover) and the Exodus.. Yesterday, being the first of Nissan, the prompt was "Launch."

As I said, I missed it. Oy. Well, almost missed it, if I can eke out a few words on the prompt before sundown. Glory be - Jewish days always begin at sundown (thanks to the original launch, otherwise known as Creation, where we read "it was evening, it was morning; one day"). Which, according to the prophet Google, is at 7:14 pm. So, I have plenty of time.

Which brings me back to "launch," and missing it - or just barely making it. I tell myself that I hate being latte, which I do. Late always meant sitting on the curb in front of the school, its windows dark and the sky going that lovely shade of gray just before dusk, waiting. I felt like Godot, every time, and wondered, will this be the time, out of all the times, that they forget to pick me up? They never forgot. They were just always late. So my mantra has always been "I'd rather be three hours early than 2 minutes late."

And I have awesome intentions of being on time. And I mostly am. But more and more these days, I run late. And the simply late is morphing into the merely late, into the very late, more and more often. So late, that I ran the risk of missing the launch altogether.

Which may not be a bad thing, in this case. One, I write better (so I like to think) under pressure. I hate having a blank screen to stare at, with nothing but time between me and the pixels. I spend most of that time writing and deleting the first sentence of the thing I think I am writing. My Editor, the one who lives in my head, has a veritable field day on those days. I don't have the time to dust off the eraser when I'm pushing a deadline (mea culpa (if I can borrow the phrase) on all my various typos and grammatical vicissitudes).

Two, though, now that I know I'm running late, racing for the launch (so to speak), I got to thinking about our ancestors of way back when, when they really were fleeing - and fast. And what about anyone who might have been late? 

Timing was tight, I think. We go from the actual passing over of the Angel of Death at midnight, to taking up their clothes and possessions, their cattle and goats and sheep, along with their bread before it was leavened, to "borrowing" the gold and silver from the Egyptians, who were weeping and wailing at all the death, to the journey itself - all those people, all those kids. Obviously, they had different kinds of kids back then - I have one (got a perfect one on the first try), and I have tried to leave lickety-split with him from infancy on, and quick - let alone orderly, with everything one is supposed to take for even the shortest journey on the first try - is a miracle of the highest order. For me, it was a miracle I could only dream about.

So maybe I re-think the "timing was tight" thing. There was a helluva lot of movement happening, and even more moving parts. Pharaoh was (I presume) still in dazed mourning, so he wasn't yet amassing his hosts and their chariots. Still, with 600,000 men, plus the women and kids and anyone else - that's gotta take a helluva lot of time to communicate, coordinate and commence.

It had to take some time to launch. And so maybe everyone launched together. Maybe everyone got it together, so if little Joshua forgot his pet lamb, certainly his cousin Ya'akov would grab it. And maybe Yael really needed to polish her cymbals, so Ruchel packed up the last of the plates and cups. And they all knew, once they got where they were supposed to go, it would all get sorted out in the wash.

Still, there had to be someone who was late. Someone who wasn't quite as organized as her neighbors; someone who had a few extra treasures he wanted to bring - a rock that looked interesting, that would remind him of the home he had made in these Narrow Places, or an embroidered tablecloth that had been handed down since the last time they were in Canaan. Or something. Someone of those 600,000-plus people had to have been late.

So - what then?

So maybe, redemption comes when it comes. Maybe it comes when we do the work of it. And maybe - just maybe - it comes when we are finally willing to leave the Narrow Place in which we find ourselves, when we let go of the bondage to which we cling so tightly, when we are finally able to look up, to see, at last, the wonders being offered to us with an outstretched hand, and so begin  our journey. 

So, today, the first of Nissan, we launch into our journey, some together, some rushing to catch up. 

I'll meet you at the Sea, timbrel in hand xoxo

For anyone interested in Blogging Exodus, here are the prompts Rabbi Phyllis has created:

Perhaps I am Free: for Shirat HaYam

I have never seen such forever water.
I hear its incessant burbling,
a chant, perhaps to God,
Who has come to us as Fire,
Who has come to us as Smoke.
Who has come to us
at last,
bringing wonder and magic
and freedom,
perhaps.

I hear chatter of freedom,
but my back is striped still
and there is this forever Sea,
murmuring its prayers to
the ragged shore.

Perhaps there will be
freedom.

I wish they'd get this
over with, this mad dash
to this forever Sea
that never stops chattering.
The fire of God rages,
and His smoke smells of
charred wood and honey.
I can taste wind there.
I wonder what freedom
tastes of, and I think
the of the sting
of brine on my
wounds.

Still, I like this sea
this forever Sea,
that has captured the sky
in its mirrored waves.
They tell us
the only way to freedom
is through its
crashing, crushing
beauty.

But I have learned
to sing its song, to walk
between its silvered edges.
I stand at the rim of earth
and air and fire
and water.
It parts for me,
this forever Sea.
a slow and liquid splitting.
and the sea,
forever and endless
and never quiet
is hushed,
waiting, perhaps
for me to begin.
And so I offer a hymn
with timbrel and lyre
and ribbons of fire
and smoke,
and I dance.

And perhaps -
perhaps I am free.

If not now

Who would have strength
to stand, truth to power -
a tightrope walk
against the wind,
with no net below
except for the hand of God?

Who would walk the road
less traveled, the one of
rocky crags and razor wire?
That curves into a
perilous wood and
still look up with hope?

Who would sing the song
of dissonance when it
is easier - far easier!
to slip into the stream
and be carried
by its current?

Who would dare
to demand justice,
show mercy,
offer comfort
shout defiantly -
who would love
in the face
of hate?

Puah stood, and Shifra
by her side, choosing life
and the cry of babes over
one man's harsh decree.
And Miriam, the one of
timbrel and drum
she danced across a river
and sang a song
of freedom's call.

Who will stand
now, if not for me?
who will rise
now and march
now and sing a song
of freedom's call
now? Who,
if not for me?

Once more, and
yet again
if not now
When?

Strange Fire

The world is on fire.
I feel the flames licking
along the walls
that have all but fallen.
They shelter only shadows now,
and hunger.

They call the bombs friendly,
and the damage collateral;
the deaths unfortunate
and their cause is
holy, holy, holy.

Does God hide in the shadows,
do you think, still
waiting for a pleasing odor
to feed an insatiable hunger?
Or perhaps God has fled,
the altars abandoned to
strange fire, whose only
scent is decay?

I would flee, too,
leave the altars behind,
and the crumbling walls
and this eternal fire
fed by hatred
and your war.

I would flee,
but there is nothing left
except fire.

I would beg,
but the shadows are empty,
and their silence
is a shroud.

I would leave, but
Pharaoh's heart has
turned to stone.

My Name is in Me

Will you name me,
before I can name myself?

Will you see my skin
and name me a color,
as if that defined me?
As if pigment is a thing
at all.

Will you see my sex,
my breasts that swell with milk,
and desire, and righteous indignation,
as if a mere body part
or two can claim the whole of me?

Will you find my name in my faith -
or what you think of as my faith?
Will you shackle me
and shame me,
blame me for what you
think you know?

My name is in my skin,
in its cracks and rough-edged
wrinkles, earned honestly
in the measure of my days,

It's in my sex,
in my womb that opened
and my breasts that fed
in my body that cradled life.
It's in my hands that reach
higher than I could ever grasp,
and my eyes that see
beauty in the chaos of a storm.

My name is in me,
in my back that is bent,
and my knees that don't
yet still they bear the
weight of all my days.

My name is in my faith
even as I wrestle
with the angels
who still climb their ladders,
and wrestle with me.

I feel it, the name that I
call myself, that I claim
for myself. It dances
along my skin, and fills me
completely.

Would you name me?
I have my own name,
I don't need yours.