A Momentary Pause: welcoming the new year, 5780

Entering this new year has been a bit different this year, to say the least. I spent most of my life staying outside of, separate from, content with being needed rather than loved. Afraid of being loved.

And this whole past year, I've felt a change. Not a tsunami of change rolling over and crashing into me, but something infinitely more gentle, certainly less dangerous, a blessing, no longer a curse - because yes, love, for so long, felt so much like a curse!

This past year, because of my weakness, because of my vulnerability, I have learned to find strength in asking for help. I have learned to accept that I am not less than. It's hard. It still doesn't come naturally and I don't always act with grace, but I have learned to lean in to you and so roll on.

What a gift! It is not that it took my heart stopping to have learned this lesson. It is that, and the coming of this new year that have given me the opportunity to pause for a moment, to reflect on just who I am as I enter 5780. And here's what I found, the greatest truth of all:

I am loved.

Thank you for helping me find this gift. And in case I haven't acknowledged it, or said it enough, I love you right back. No strings, just love.

A happy, sweet and joyous new year. Shana tova u'metukah!

And, in case you missed it, I wrote the poem below to honor this journey I've undertaken, to acknowledge all of the twists and turns and difficult moments that had brought me here, to this place - of God and you and me and love.


The Longest Journey

The longest journey

begins with a breath -

   breath being one of the names of God -

and ends in Breath:

   as the name of God is a prayer: amen.

It is played out

on a bridge more narrow than fear

and wider than Heaven,

and gathers together
the battered, embattled rubble

of broken days and history.

It is - as if it ever wasn't - love,

that journey of unknown proportion,

coming not because of,

nor in spite of, but 

a love that is whole

and endless

   and love -

      God, yes!

         Love,

             in all its infinite

                 and glorious

                    unknowing

                       boundlessness -

                          Love.

                          Love.

That is the journey.
That is the breath

That is the name
of God

Amen.

Avinu Malkeinu

Today is a day of reckoning
And I can hear my mother say
"Wait ‘til your father gets home!"
Today we stand in our Father's house
King of the castle,
Lord and master,
And I am small again,
a child, waiting, trembling,
shuffling and awed

Will You hear us?
Will You save us?
We rise in Your house
Forgiveness and mercy on our tongues
standing on holy ground,
hearts bared,
heads bowed.

Please.

There is no place that god is not.
There is no time that god has not been.
But today the doors are open,
the gates flung wide,
and sunlight catches silver,
and it is holy holy holy.

We rise,
because we have fallen.
We have sinned,
missed the mark.
I have. We all have.

Who are we,
that You have regard for us?
Children of dust,
sins of ash,
and still You call us to return.

Avinu Malkeinu, hear our prayer

Afflicting the Soul

Afflict my soul ~

As if this were something new,
a commandment of some rarity!
I picture a three-taloned
scourge, held high
in front of me,
my hand clasped
lightly, with comfort
and all too familiar ease.
The tips of those talons
are bloodied.

My soul is afflicted.
It is a talent I have perfected.

But I am to afflict my soul
on that Day,
To hunger,
To thirst
To bear my discomfort
like a badge of unease,
as if, on all those other
days, I do not.

As if on all the other days -
new moon,
full moon,
sickle moons that have their
own power to draw blood -
on every other day
I wear the day
with comfort and ease.

But I will be bound
by these words
of commandment,
and I will hunger
and thirst and bend in
weary affliction.
My soul will find no
comfort as I walk to
the gates I erected,
the ones I barred
in Your holy Name.
Perhaps this year,
of all those years
and all those days,
I will lay down the
rusted talons that I carry
too easily, that fit far
too comfortably
in my calloused hands.

And these shall be my peace offering,
and I shall topple the gates,
and I will be whole.

On the way to an answer

Do not text me;
I will not notice,
And may ignore it
anyway.
How can one hundred and forty of
anything 
compel me
to answer,
unless I merely seek
distraction
and not return?

Do not leave a message
that I will not listen to
I will let the sounds wash over
me in my
inattentive attention,
while I wait
for the next thing
to move me
to the next thing,
so that I can wait
for something
to move me
again.

Do not call
Or cry out
Or speak the words to me
that You spoke
to them--
to Abraham
who held a knife,
Or his son
who let him.
I will not answer.
I will not hear
from the depths of this
wilderness
that is choked with
the bits and bytes
and slings
and arrows
of my days.

I will answer
the sound of the shofar
that stayed the hand
that meant to slaughter;
That rang out
and tumbled the walls
that surrounded my heart;
That sang
in aching and awesome mystery
to announce
the presence of God.
I will hear
in this wilderness,
I will hear
in my longing
and I will turn
and turn again
and listen,
and I will
answer.



(c) Stacey Zisook Robinson
2014

The Edge of Everything

We gathered,

all of us,

having walked this long road

Before.

There is so much I don't

remember of it:

Cold

and dust

and heat-cracked pavement.

And noise!

God, the noise--

It could tear you apart

and get inside your head

and all you want

is just a little piece of

Quiet,

A chance to

Breathe

without feeling like

Everything--

your hope

your fear

your love

and

doubt--

All of it,

All of you

was caught

somewhere in your chest,

or maybe your throat,

And all you want is just one small

Breath

to be easy

and quiet.

So we gathered

there,

Here

at the edge,

the very edge of

Everything;

Stopped in our noise

and our doubt

and fear.

Stopped

at the edge

of love

and hunger:

At the edge of want,

to catch the light

of a thousand suns

and ten thousand moons

and absolute

Stillness.

Glinting of silver

and an infinity of

Blue,

Subtle variations

of color

and depth,

Caught

in the  reflection of

Sky.

Caught,

all along the edges,

with light.

We gathered here,

Together,

at the edge,

bathed in

silence

and bending light,

weary and

ready, 
to leap. 
To dive into that pool
filled to overflowing
with love
and doubt
and hunger 
and hope,
that waiting pool of 
Self.

There, 
And filled now with sudden, shivery

Stillness,

and stars that reel

in mirrored waters.

And so I leap

With the light of

Heaven,

Of earth and sky,

Reflecting

all my doubt

my love

and longing.

And I remember

A road of dust and

Heat-cracked pavement

And I gather in the noise

And light

And breath-stopping fear,

Gather them in, to

Release them

In a single

Graceful sweep:
There is beauty in my pain.
There is more in
Letting go.

And so I breathe:

I am returned

To the edge of my

Beginning.


For Elul 5773
Dedicated to Craig Taubman, for first showing me the beauty of this month, and Julie Silver, for showing me the beauty of letting go. 

Stale Bread and Old Sins

The ducks grow fat on my sins.
The ravens, too.
I saw a flock of them--
A murderous gaggle,
as they swooped down in tight formation,
fat black missiles,
just after we stood on the bridge over the creek
emptying our pockets and plastic bags
overflowing with
stale bread and old sins.

Of course, not all the bread was stale
nor all the sins old.
I'm sure I collected a few
as I drove to our afternoon gathering
at the creek.
And, possibly,
if I'm being quite honest
(and now, I'm guessing, would be the time for honesty)
I believe there is the possibility
that I racked up several more
while wandering the wooded path
that led to the creek.

While wandering back and forth along the wooded path.
Several times--

-- assuming sarcasm is a sin.

But for a moment,
as my bread arced through leafy boughs
and landed in clear and cluttered water
that moved in a stately rhythm
toward some other stream
that leads to some other lake
that leads to oceans and streams and rivers and lakes
from here to the ancient shores of Phoenicia
to rain-laden clouds, pregnant and billowing.--

-- unless imagination is a sin.

But for a moment.
in that delicate and wobbly arc
of bread and sin combined,
there is a moment of
Lightness.
Of Emptiness
that stretches from my fingertips
to stale bread
and old sins
to that small point of infinite
that pinprick of forever,
carried away on sweetly rushing water
that fills me with light.
And breath.
And God.