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.

In the Space of Tekiyah - a reflection on the birthday of the world

It seems I have been writing this particular essay every day for the last seven years. Some days, I merely rearrange a comma or two; others, I'm excising whole paragraphs or creating something completely new and brilliant. If I'm to be honest, I know I cannot rewrite my brother's life or his death. I cannot rewrite my search for God, nor my constant hope for redemption, even when I'm sure I deserve it least.

I fear there are too many words, too many ideas and things to say, floating around in my head. I know, somewhere, somewhen, that they connect.  I can feel that, feel them all jostling for position, taking up residence in some little known and cobwebbed corner of my head, leaving a faint pattern in the dust and clutter.

Except, when I poke around, to find which of the eleventy-seven stories running around loose in my head is whispering "start here..." I get lost.  That internal torch gutters, sending bizarre fun-house shadows to distort my visions, and then they all go skittering about, playing hide-and-seek with the shadows and light.

And, since I can't find the beginning of this thread, can't seem to be able to tease and coax the end out from the tangled ball of string it has become, I thought about starting at the end. I could, but I don't know what that is yet either. So, I will pick one bright and shiny things to start with, and see where that leads. It may be a beginning, though more likely, it will be a middle. There are many more middles than beginnings. I will pick one thing, and see what happens.  I'm pretty sure I'll at least recognize the end, whenever we get to that.

So. First - redemption.  It's all about redemption.  My redemption, to be exact, and my quest for it.  And my fear that I will never find it. Or receive it. And it's about God. It's all about God, too. Always. And my quest for God. And my fear that I will never find God or forgiveness. And that I will never be able to forgive God. The pain of this fear is almost unbearable.

I spent a couple of decades denying God and redemption both. That pain was unimaginable. I am reminded of the midrash of King David and the origins of the Adonai S'fatai, which is the prayer we say at the beginning of the Amidah. David, the rabbis tell us, had sent a man to his certain death for the sake of satisfying his own selfish need. The man, Uriah, was a man of honor. He would not be  dissuaded when David had a sudden change of heart. He was killed in battle, along with most of his troops. David got word of Uriah's death just before eveing prayers.

What was he to do? He knew that he would have to talk to God, to ask forgiveness. But-- and here's the hard part-- David's fear: what if God said no? What if God refused?David ran into the fields, running from himself, from his fear, from God, until he could run no farther. How could he ask God for forgiveness, when he couldn't forgive himself? He stopped, just as the setting sun hit the horizon, staining the sky with crimson and gold and purple, and he cried out, in his fear and longing "Adonai s'fatai tiftach ufid yagid t'hilatecha..."

God, open my lips, that I may declare your praise...

And with that prayer-- filled to its very edges with pain and humility and hope and despair, David was forgiven.

Well sure, the voices in my head whisper, God can forgive David. Let's face it: he's, well, David. His very name means "beloved..." And you're not. You're... you. All bet's are off.

It is my greatest longing, my unrequited quest-- to be redeemed. To be forgiven. To dance in the palm of God's hand. To believe, if even for an instant, that though I may not be David, though I may not be Beloved, I may find a small piece of it, and that that may be enough.

Today is Rosh Hashanah. A new year, and already such a busy, joyous one! The Book of Life and Death is opened and the Gates of Justice swing wide. It's the birthday of the world. Today, we stand with awe and trepidation as we undertake the breathtaking majesty of diving inwards, a deep and long and solitary dive, into murky waters that make us gasp and shiver with cold. But eventually, the water warms and the silt and grit settle and we learn to see, to shine a light on the inside, all the beauty, all the pain, all the hope and need.

It is all about redemption.

Today is redemption and majesty and reflection and God. It is joy and celebration and hope and...

Whatever today is, whatever the ritual and tradition that surrounds this day may be, what today is, what today will ever and always be, is my brother's yahrzeit. For all the pomp and circumstance of Rosh HaShanah, for all my desperate yearning for redemption and God, drowning out the music and prayer and the triumphant sounding of the shofar that opened the Book and flung wide the Gate - all I can hear is the steady cadence of "This is the anniversary of his death."

This is one of those days that I am less forgiving of God.  This is the second thing.

I know - absolutely know - that God is not at fault in this. God didn't set the butterfly's wings to flapping that ended in the hurricane of my brother's death. There was no Divine Plan here. Randy smoked four packs of cigarettes a day, existed on caffeine and nicotine. He was diagnosed with stage four metastatic lung cancer when he was 45, and died when he was 47. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him, though I don't think of him every day like I did. Stretches of time go by-- a handful of days, a week, some small length of time, and I will suddenly stop, feeling the ache of his loss like a stitch in my side, sharp and hot, receding into a dull throb until it is more memory than real. My breath doesn't  catch in my throat when I think of him. Mostly. I say kaddish at every yizcor service, and I do not weep.  Mostly.

He died because he smoked. He died because he got cancer. But he died today, seven years ago. On Rosh HaShanah, the day of pomp and circumstance and joy and celebration. I was with him in the hospital when he died, literally as the shofar sounded down the hall from his room, And so the Book was laid open and the Gates swung wide and my brother died, all in the space of tekiyah. And so today has suddenly become hard. And I am suddenly less forgiving of God.

And for all of that, when I stood in prayer and my knees began to buckle from the weight of my sorrow, when I was filled with an ocean of pain and loss, when I wanted to curse God-- when I did curse God-- there were hands that reached out to hold me steady, and strong arms to carry me through to firm ground. When I demanded of God, to God-- where the hell are You?  I was answered: here.  No farther than the nearest heartbeat, in the still small voices of all those around me, who showed me, again and again, that I was not alone. Even in my pain, even in my doubt and despair, I was not alone.

And so, the third thing: Redemption.

I started there, I know. Perhaps my ball of string, with its jumble of tangled threads and hopeless mess, was less eleventy-seven different things and more a giant mobius strip of one. Perhaps it is all reflections and variations on a single strand. Perhaps, at least for me, it is all about redemption.  And God.  Ever and always.

I have spent a lifetime yearning for redemption. I have spent an eternity of lifetimes searching for God. I have declared my disbelief in God even as I feared that God didn't believe in me. I have shouted my rage and demanded answers and whispered my praise. And the thing I come back to, again and again, like a gift of impossible and breathless wonder--

It is not what I pray that matters.  It is that I pray.

For all my yearning, for all my longing, what I don't ever realize is that I am redeemed.  I have not been abandoned by God. Neither have I been forgotten. David had it right in his psalms: we cry out to God and we are healed. He didn't tell us "God only hears the pretty words. Speak only of love and praise, only then will you be heard." No, it's pretty clear: we find healing and redemption because we cry out in our anger and our fear.

I do not believe in a Santa Claus god, who bestows presents on the deserving: God does not provide parking spaces or jobs, nor do we win wars or sporting events as the result of our faith and prayers. Good people will die, evil people will prosper, the sun will continue to blaze in the noonday sky. world without end, amen amen.

In my faith, in my prayer, what I find, again and again - what I am given, again and again, is grace. What I get is strength and courage to face what life has placed in front of me in that moment - even if that thing is the death of my beloved brother. My faith is not a guarantee that I will never know fear, or that only good and happy things will happen. My faith, my prayer, allows me to put one foot in front of the other and know that I will be carried through. And in that exact moment,  the moment I take that step, I am enough and I am redeemed. And in that moment, I dance in the palm of God's hand.

For my brother, Randy (z"l)

May we all dance in the palm of God's hand

L'shana tova u'metukah

May you have a good and sweet year

01 Tishrei 5774: Happy New Year

I got used to writing and posting every day during Elul. I resented it, and felt under the gun and annoyed, in a free-floating annoyance kind of way, since no one was pushing me to do it except for me. I had made the commitment to myself, thinking it would be a gentle walk in the park. I was (honesty being called for, i suppose, especially today) wrong. Frankly, it would have been much more satisfying to take out my annoyance on You. As it was, I grumbled and had many manic thoughts of chucking the project, more than a handful of times, especially near the end.

I finished, despite my resentment. And now, not a day later, I kinda miss it.

"Hey," I feel like saying, "we made it-- it's a new day, a new year. Wow. We are on the other side. Ta da." And then i toss the glitter and confetti high into the air. Ta da indeed.

So I was thinking-- and you don't have to play if you don't feel like it-- I was thinking that Elul was an astounding thing, the act of preparation, with prompts and a guide (thank you to my friend, Rabbi Phyllis Sommer). Why not continue, through the Yamim Nora'im-- the Days of Awe, these ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?

What better time than now, to reflect and prepare, than when the Gates are flung wide and the Book of Life and Death is unsealed? I know, I know-- "now" is always the right time, but spiritual f wonkiness aside, this now seems quite apropos.

And forgive me, but I don't have a premade list that someone has so kindly bequeathed me (or the world). So I will have to make it up, right now. I hope you don't mind. I'll try it, see how it goes. Like Scheherazade's King in the Thousand and One Nights, I can always change my mind tomorrow.

Happy new year, my friends, whether you play or not. May the year to come be filled with blessings and light, sweetness, healing and peace. 

Here's my list. Let me know if you like it, and certainly if you think of any other principles that might be good to reflect upon as we gather at the Gates.

01 Tishrei   Celebrate

02 Tishrei   Wonder

03 Tishrei   Yearn

04 Tishrei   Wholeness

05 Tishrei   Peace

06 Tishrei   Ready

07 Tishrei   Fear

08 Tishrei   Mercy

09 Tishrei   Justice

10 Tishrei   Awe

13 Elul 5773: Forgive

I have been writing a series of essays that I call The Enough Essays. I started the project several months ago, as the result of a chance meeting, an act of supreme bravery, and a sudden realization that, in fact, I am-- in and of myself-- enough. You can read the original, Enough, and then some here. 

That first piece is mostly about the generalities of my enoughness. Funny thing, though: as I was polishing it and putting on the finishing touches, I had a small epiphany: I realized that I am enough in a whole bunch of ways. This is not to say that I'm perfect in any of them-- not be a long shot! But I'm also not woefully deficient, either. So adding to the general enoughness, I wrote about them as well: faith, hope, grace, world-saving and mom-hood. They're scattered throughout my blog, in no particular order, though most have the word "enough" in the title. 

There are more-- some posted on my blog, many more still swirling about in my head, waiting to be written. There are always more, because one of the gifts of diving deep and discovering who I am and how I fit, is finding all those pieces of enoughness.

But here's the thing, the secret thing, the I'd-really-like-to-keep-this-under-a-rock thing: there are some dark places in there. Places I'd prefer not to disturb. Places I'd have to use a ladder to get to far-from-being-enough. I won't bore you with the gory details. If that means the hidden spots stay hidden a little while longer, so be it. They've managed to thrive as they lurk and slither through the muck.

This is Elul, though, and I am called to dive a little deeper, shine the light a little brighter. As scary as those dark and twisty places are, there are a few questions that I can't quite keep quiet. Not now, not while I've committed to walking this particular path. So.

When am I forgiven enough-- for my humanity, my brokenness? When do I say I've had enough pain? When do I demand "Enough" and then have the courage to lay all those broken bits of me, the hidden places and twisted secrets-- when do I have courage enough to lay them down? How can I be redeemed when I still cling to all of this, more intimately than a lover's embrace?

How can I ask your forgiveness, ask forgiveness of God, when I cannot forgive myself?

And perhaps because this is Elul, because I have committed to illuminating all of me-- the good, the bad, warts and all-- I am reminded (when I get quiet enough, am still enough): when I leap, I am caught. Without fail. I know how to forgive, how to show up with compassion and kindness. For you. Perhaps I need to dive a little deeper, and find the compassion of forgiveness for myself. 

And those leaps? They don't have to be made with seven mile boots. A stumble, a step at a time is enough. Who knows-- maybe this is the year I will find forgiveness enough to return.

Elul Day Ten: See

Close your eyes.

No, really: close them-- but not so tightly that you see those stunning bursts of colored light-- sharp spots of bright jewel tones that are so easy to follow with your mind's eye, and thus so easy to miss the sensation of sinking into dark. Let your eyes flutter, then still. Keep them closed as your body slips into silence. Can you feel it? Everything in you follows your breath as you exhale, that downward shift of release, a gentle leaving, and a slow falling away, down and down and down through your body. Can you feel that>

Close your eyes, and your world, your body, your breath changes.

Keep them closed, there in your altered universe, and look inside. See, really see... everything. Dive, with your breath, with the slipping away of light, and see you-- your grace, and the glory that shines through and limns everything with silver and gold.  See the shadow paths leading to your secret places, all dark and twisty and bent. See every one of the infinite subtle shades of grey that dance in you and through you. Now. Today. This is the time to see. This is the time to dive deep and see. 

Believe me: there is no Knight of Mirrors, no harsh reflections of broken glass intended to shock you into sensibility. This is falling up, gentle as breath, soft as summer. Today, now: see the wonder, your goodness and strength. See the brokenness that lives in you as well: the thoughtless indulgence and unthinking, breathtaking compassion. See your joy, your grief, your sorrow. See your weariness, your willingness, your want.

They are all you. They are what you bring, what you take away. How can you choose differently, if you do not see what it is you have to offer, here at the edges of the year? Today. This is the time. If not now, when?

Just close your eyes. Close your eyes and see.

Elul Day Nine: Hear

There's a cacophony of noise going on in my head. There are a thousand conversations happening, all at the same time, about everything. Or about nothing. A thousand? Sometimes it's ten thousand. Sometimes it's infinity. The sound swells and recedes like the ceaselessness of the ocean. I can't remember the last time my head wasn't filled with sound.

I would really like for the noise to stop.

That's a wish pulled from the depths of my earliest memories (and I have a memory bordering on the ancient, trust me): please, just make the noise-- that dull, droning, sub-vocalized, just-at-the-edge-of-hearing noise that sets your teeth on edge and your skin buzzing-- make that noise stop. Please. That may be my wish, perhaps my prayer. Thing is, I've never been quite patient enough to wait. I've never been trusting enough to believe that my prayer would be answered (at least, not answered with a "Certainly, Stacey, coming right up!"), or my wish granted. I've always felt the need to help it along.

And help it I did. At least, that was the plan. I threw everything I could at the problem, mostly none of it healthy. Addiction is an insidious creature, whispering of a redemption bought with self-destruction. One more seductive voice (in a myriad of voices) added to the chaos in my head, and I chased that siren song with desperation-tinged despair that I could have sworn was hope.

But that was long ago and far away. Right? Right? 

Still a wish. Still a prayer: please make the noise in my head stop. And I still step right up, to fix it, all on my own. And every time I shoulder the burden of my own prayer, all I manage to do is turn the amps up. To eleven. 

God, but it's noisy in here. It's an ocean of sound and I am drowning in it. Writing helps, some. Singing, too. And prayer. I still have a few dark and twisty places inside, so that my manic attempts aren't always quite so healthy as that. They all tamp it down, make it less whinging and relentless, bring some melody to the disparate notes I hear. That I always hear.

How ironic, then, that the prompt for today, day nine of this holy month of Elul is Hear. Hear? You have got to be kidding me. All I do is hear, ceaselessly, endlessly without respite. All I want is quiet, a moment of silence, a chance to breathe, to think, to be. Just be. 

But this is Elul, and I am called to use a different lens through which to pass my all this: to bend ideas just a little, so that the light reflects and shines differently than before. So that I can see-- or hear-- a new song. And when I do, when I bend all those voices through the prism of Elul, something new:

I am terrified of silence. 

I am afraid to get that quiet, quiet enough so that I can really hear. Really hear the sound of my heart, the song of my soul, the music of God. To be still, to be quiet, to hear-- myself. To hear my hope, my despair, my prayer. And then to wait, in quiet stillness, to hear God's answers. To let the fear go, in my quiet, that there will be nothing there, a cavernous, echoing silence, to realize, in fact, that I am alone.

I surround myself with noise-- a great cacophony, a glorious, messy din, so that I can avoid hearing my fear. I avoid the breathtaking beauty of silence. And for all of that, I miss out on the brilliant sound between the notes-- and it is there that God's voice lives. 

So, on this ninth day of Elul, I am given (I offer?) a new prayer: please-- let me learn quiet enough to listen, let me find courage enough to be still so that I can hear, finally, the music between the notes. 

And into that glorious stillness, I will say "amen."

Elul, Day Five: Know

I know a lot of stuff. I know so much stuff that even I can't tell you how I know it. Esoteric, bordering on the arcane stuff. Popular infotainment stuff. Technical jargon, minutiae, common every-day, run-of-the-mill stuff. Equations, measurements, rules of grammar and fourtheenth century common law. Large or small, important, vital, or deathly dull. I know stuff

The stuff fills my head, and swirls around in there, waiting for just the exactly right moment to make its way to the forefront of my brain and pop out of my mouth at the exactly right moment-- to answer questions, solve problems, fill a vacuum of silence (no matter how brief), and announce to all the world (if by "world" you mean all those within hearing distance) of my supreme knowingness.

I know so much that, more often than I care to admit these days, there is a distinct possibility that all the facts and knowledge and stuff that fills my head skitters away like dry leaves outpacing the wind. These days, I open my mouth, knowing the answer-- it's on the tip of my tongue, it teases my senses, it's right there dammit-- and I just can't seem to access it. From fact to dry leaf to will-o'-the-wisp, in the space of a moment.

Add frustration to the growing list of what I know.

But this is Elul. I'm guessing - I know - we're talking about a different kind of knowing.

So here's the stuff I know, the Elul stuff, and the sacred task of preparing:

I know that words have power, to heal, to hurt, to destroy and create. 

I know that my words have wounded people I love.

I know that kindness is a gift. So is faith, and forgiveness.

I know that I still have some twisty, dark places inside. 

I know that I have some places of surprising beauty and grace as well.

I know that I never have to pick up a drink again.

I know that when I pray, I am changed.

I know that sometimes life really sucks, and bad things happen, no matter how good you are, no matter how much you pray, no matter how much you want to rail against God and fate.

I know that my faith does not guard against the bad stuff, the really, really craptastic stuff. 

I know that my faith allows me the grace to put one foot in front of the other (no matter how small the step) and face what is right in front of me.

I know that that has made all the difference in my life. 

I know that the longest journey I've ever had to make is the one from my head to my heart. I know that while I walk that tortuous path  alone (because we all do the walking on our own)-- there are people who can shine a light, even in the darkest places. I know that there are hands to hold, even when I feel most alone.

This is what I know - the lesson of Elul - that I am blessed beyond belief, that faith and forgiveness and kindness and love can conquer the dark and guide me home.

Elul, Day Two

It feels as if I have rushed and tumbled to get here, to this spot, this starting line of-- what? Change? Forgiveness? Dare I say it-- redemption?

I have rushed and tumbled, and I have brought EVERYTHING with me-- all the expectations and sins and solace and doubt and joy-- it's all here with me, at this spot, threatening to push me over that line.  And yet, I am fighting to stay rooted. Here. In this spot. Off balance, arms windmilling, I cannot seem to move forward. I stare over the rims of my sunglasses, stuck.

Wait. Just wait.

I'm not sure if I say that to me, to you or to the eleventy-seven things I brought with me: bright feathers and colored glass (with jagged edges and mirrored surfaces), the sound of wind and the feel of light, all my love and my tender indifference: Wait. Just wait. I'm not ready.

But the month is here, whether I want it or not. It is just my fear, after all. It is the last bit, the final few steps. I have come to the jumping-off place for that exact reason: to jump. To leap or stumble or walk-- but to do it mindfully, and maybe find some joy in it.

The trick, though, is to do it. I cling to my eleventy-seven pieces as if they are what is keeping me upright. Here, at this place, this jumping-off place, I am reminded (at last) that the only way to be filled with the awe and holiness and the sweetness of the new year is to let go of my feathers and my jagged-edged glass, to lay down my doubt, to put one foot in front of the other and  do the thing I fear the most.

Jump.

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.