She tried to capture the sky
A royal riot of red and blue.
It was not hers to capture
The colors slipped too quickly
Into a subtlety of gray.
She tried to tether a song
With a thousand parts of harmony.
It was not hers to bind
The sound burst and rose
And she could only rise with it.
Heart unbound.
Soul set free.
Amen v'amein.
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Days of Awe, Days of Sadness
As I write, Rosh Hashanah is less than a week away. Full disclosure: mu parents were mostly gastronomical Jews – holidays were more about meals and family gatherings, and less about religious obligation, God or ritual. The High Holy Days were the (mostly) exception to this rule.
Don't get me wrong – we still had the huge meal, inhaled in mere seconds, or so it seemed. Every year we promised that while the next year may not be in Jerusalem (and we were mostly sure that we were referencing the wrong holiday, but we said it anyway, because it was Jewish and . Me us seem mostly knowledgeable) we would at least create more space between the courses, eat more slowly, and maybe – just maybe – cut a course or two. That never happened, Still, once a year, we all gathered – the immediate family, extended family of grandparents, aunts uncles, cousins from both sides, along with anystray friends with nowhere to go.
More, on these days – two for Rosh Hashanah and one for Yom Kippur, we all went to synagogue. There were no kid services, no family services. There were new dresses and shoes, and mom hauled out the brimmed hats and good jewlery. Dad did the suit and tie and my brothers were forced into their ouw suits, with ties the sixe of Texas and colors that ran the spectrum. Hey, it was the 60s and 70s; what would you expect?
So, you'll understand my love for these days, these Days of Awe – they are about gathering and connecting and loving and jostling about and food and family. And these days, as I have chosen to dive more fully into my own Judaism, they are also about obligation and ritual and God. And, oh! how I love that my Judaism holds sacred space for both expressions!
I accept that, by training, the High Holy Days are reserved for family (whether you like 'em or not, and on these days, whatever the feuds may be, they are set aside for these gatherings as much as possible, even though flare ups were bound to happen, and provided some amount of theater to the long and sometimes boring dinners), just as I accept that I have been commanded by God to be present for ancient prayer, sacred music, the afflcting of my soul. On that first day of Rosh Hashanah, I know that then the shofar sounds, I have both satisfied the commandment that I hear the shofar and that the service is just about over. I am a Jew with feet in both worlds.
Unfortunately, I also know – have known for the past eight years – that my brother literally took his last breath as the shofar sounded on that first day of Rosh Hashanah. We were all gathered, not around my brother's crowded dining room table, but his haspital room. He was not conscious, not on those last handful of days, but we were there, to talk to him, talk to one anohter, let kim know (please God, let him know!) that he was, ever and always, surrounded by love.
We played his sacred music on that last day, the first day of the new year – music from the Broadway stage. He, my other brother and I had grown up on this music, had spent our summers on the stage, performing our hearts out to the music of Gershwin and Berlin, Rogers and Hammerstein and Hart. The last show we played for him was Once Upon a Mattress, the first show he was eer in. It was during “Yesterday I Loved You” that he suddenly opened his eyes for just a flash, took a shallow breath and died. The shofar sounded at that exact moment in a room down the hallway.
Rosh Hashanah: what a busy and joyous jumble of a day! The Book of Life and Death is opened and the Gates of Justice swing wide. 1It's the birthday of the world. 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.
This day is redemption and majesty and reflection and God. It is joy and celebration and hope and...
Whatever this day is, whatever the ritual and tradition that surrounds this day may be, what it is, what Rosh Hashanah and all the Days of Awe will ever and always be, is my brother's yahrzeit. And year after year, for all the pomp and circumstance of Rosh Hashanah, for all my 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 could hear was the steady cadence of "This is the anniversary of my brother's death."
So yo'll understand, I hope, this is one of those days that I am less forgiving of God.
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, existing on equal parts caffeine and nicotine. He was diagnosed with Stage Four metastatic, inoperable and incurable 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 as I once did. Stretches of time go by-- a handful of days, a week maybe, 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 quite catch in my throat when I think of him. Mostly.
He died because he smoked. He died because he got cancer. But he died on that day, eight years ago. On Rosh Hashanah, the day of pomp and circumstance and joy and celebration. On that day, there in the hospital, the Book was laid open and the Gates swung wide and my brother died, all in the space of tekiyah. And so these Days have 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.
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
Don't get me wrong – we still had the huge meal, inhaled in mere seconds, or so it seemed. Every year we promised that while the next year may not be in Jerusalem (and we were mostly sure that we were referencing the wrong holiday, but we said it anyway, because it was Jewish and . Me us seem mostly knowledgeable) we would at least create more space between the courses, eat more slowly, and maybe – just maybe – cut a course or two. That never happened, Still, once a year, we all gathered – the immediate family, extended family of grandparents, aunts uncles, cousins from both sides, along with anystray friends with nowhere to go.
More, on these days – two for Rosh Hashanah and one for Yom Kippur, we all went to synagogue. There were no kid services, no family services. There were new dresses and shoes, and mom hauled out the brimmed hats and good jewlery. Dad did the suit and tie and my brothers were forced into their ouw suits, with ties the sixe of Texas and colors that ran the spectrum. Hey, it was the 60s and 70s; what would you expect?
So, you'll understand my love for these days, these Days of Awe – they are about gathering and connecting and loving and jostling about and food and family. And these days, as I have chosen to dive more fully into my own Judaism, they are also about obligation and ritual and God. And, oh! how I love that my Judaism holds sacred space for both expressions!
I accept that, by training, the High Holy Days are reserved for family (whether you like 'em or not, and on these days, whatever the feuds may be, they are set aside for these gatherings as much as possible, even though flare ups were bound to happen, and provided some amount of theater to the long and sometimes boring dinners), just as I accept that I have been commanded by God to be present for ancient prayer, sacred music, the afflcting of my soul. On that first day of Rosh Hashanah, I know that then the shofar sounds, I have both satisfied the commandment that I hear the shofar and that the service is just about over. I am a Jew with feet in both worlds.
Unfortunately, I also know – have known for the past eight years – that my brother literally took his last breath as the shofar sounded on that first day of Rosh Hashanah. We were all gathered, not around my brother's crowded dining room table, but his haspital room. He was not conscious, not on those last handful of days, but we were there, to talk to him, talk to one anohter, let kim know (please God, let him know!) that he was, ever and always, surrounded by love.
We played his sacred music on that last day, the first day of the new year – music from the Broadway stage. He, my other brother and I had grown up on this music, had spent our summers on the stage, performing our hearts out to the music of Gershwin and Berlin, Rogers and Hammerstein and Hart. The last show we played for him was Once Upon a Mattress, the first show he was eer in. It was during “Yesterday I Loved You” that he suddenly opened his eyes for just a flash, took a shallow breath and died. The shofar sounded at that exact moment in a room down the hallway.
Rosh Hashanah: what a busy and joyous jumble of a day! The Book of Life and Death is opened and the Gates of Justice swing wide. 1It's the birthday of the world. 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.
This day is redemption and majesty and reflection and God. It is joy and celebration and hope and...
Whatever this day is, whatever the ritual and tradition that surrounds this day may be, what it is, what Rosh Hashanah and all the Days of Awe will ever and always be, is my brother's yahrzeit. And year after year, for all the pomp and circumstance of Rosh Hashanah, for all my 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 could hear was the steady cadence of "This is the anniversary of my brother's death."
So yo'll understand, I hope, this is one of those days that I am less forgiving of God.
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, existing on equal parts caffeine and nicotine. He was diagnosed with Stage Four metastatic, inoperable and incurable 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 as I once did. Stretches of time go by-- a handful of days, a week maybe, 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 quite catch in my throat when I think of him. Mostly.
He died because he smoked. He died because he got cancer. But he died on that day, eight years ago. On Rosh Hashanah, the day of pomp and circumstance and joy and celebration. On that day, there in the hospital, the Book was laid open and the Gates swung wide and my brother died, all in the space of tekiyah. And so these Days have 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.
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
Monday, May 22, 2017
Omer. Day 41 (give or take)
This is my favorite question: what do you carry with you, and what do you leave behind? Sometimes I change up the verbs, just a little, to bringing and taking away, respectively. A subtle shift, to be sure, but all part of the grand scheme just who the hell am I, and just who the hell to I want to become?
I am the sum of all my baggage - carried, dragged, dropped. left behind and taken back.
Sometimes the weight of it all is crushing. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, and the scent of green is in the air, and I am feeling brave and grateful daring and fierce and bold (or any combination thereof; you get the point), there's no weight at all. I freely offer much of my baggage, all the weighted measures of stuff and ideas and hurts and pains; lost loves and lost jobs, missed opportunities and failed connections - all of the stuff that binds me, tethers me to a present I can only see through the funhouse mirror of my past (so not really a present at all) - and I let it all go, leaving it lie in a muddled heap.
This is my altar. I'm pretty sure, when I drop it all in that heap, and I set it on fire, it makes a pleasing odor to God. I'm just as sure, when it's time to move on, every single thing that went up in smoke, that released me from the bondage of my self, and my past, it's all there, ready for me to pick up again, just as bright and shiny and unscathed as it was before my metaphorical sacrifice.
It's mine, to carry it all again until the next holy bonfire.
Of course, there's a whole bunch of other stuff I can choose to pick up and carry away - things like faith, or courage, or joy. And yes, there are infinite variations of despair and anger and sundry slings and arrows of cruel misfortune that can be distracting and enticing. And yes, I have gone that route more often than I care to admit. There are times I swear I didn't do the picking, that these nasty little packages leaped up and stuck themselves to me of their own accord, really they did.
If I'm honest - and now's a good time to cop to honesty - I did the picking and the plucking and the sticking, all by myself. Ugh.
Still, there are times I go against type, and I choose the weightlessness of joy!
Things is - this carrying and leaving and taking away - this is a thing I can do every single day. It knows no season. It is unbounded by time. In every moment, I can choose, again and again and again. These days, the counting-of-the-omer days, it is a mindful trudge, a careful inspection and collection of the junk I lug around with me. I am grateful for the mindfulness. Messy as I am, I like frames, and this is a particularly good one.
So. What is it that I carry with me? What will I leave behind? What will I carry with me as I walk to the next altar, the next mountain? Today - just for this moment, this breath, I will sit for a moment, my treasures laid out before me, a sky of pewter and pearl above me, casting dull shadows on the lot. I will sit, and rest, and hope - hope that when I move on from here, I remember to let slip the boxes of pain and fear, so that I have room for a bit of joy, a bit of beauty, a bit of grace.
PS - I've written a couple of poems in the past, that relate to this post. You may want to check them out here:
What I Brought: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2013/05/what-i-brought_13.html
And Fly:L https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2015/04/and-fly.html
To This Moment: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2015/03/to-this-moment.html
Hineini: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2014/04/hineini.html
I am the sum of all my baggage - carried, dragged, dropped. left behind and taken back.
Sometimes the weight of it all is crushing. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, and the scent of green is in the air, and I am feeling brave and grateful daring and fierce and bold (or any combination thereof; you get the point), there's no weight at all. I freely offer much of my baggage, all the weighted measures of stuff and ideas and hurts and pains; lost loves and lost jobs, missed opportunities and failed connections - all of the stuff that binds me, tethers me to a present I can only see through the funhouse mirror of my past (so not really a present at all) - and I let it all go, leaving it lie in a muddled heap.
This is my altar. I'm pretty sure, when I drop it all in that heap, and I set it on fire, it makes a pleasing odor to God. I'm just as sure, when it's time to move on, every single thing that went up in smoke, that released me from the bondage of my self, and my past, it's all there, ready for me to pick up again, just as bright and shiny and unscathed as it was before my metaphorical sacrifice.
It's mine, to carry it all again until the next holy bonfire.
Of course, there's a whole bunch of other stuff I can choose to pick up and carry away - things like faith, or courage, or joy. And yes, there are infinite variations of despair and anger and sundry slings and arrows of cruel misfortune that can be distracting and enticing. And yes, I have gone that route more often than I care to admit. There are times I swear I didn't do the picking, that these nasty little packages leaped up and stuck themselves to me of their own accord, really they did.
If I'm honest - and now's a good time to cop to honesty - I did the picking and the plucking and the sticking, all by myself. Ugh.
Still, there are times I go against type, and I choose the weightlessness of joy!
Things is - this carrying and leaving and taking away - this is a thing I can do every single day. It knows no season. It is unbounded by time. In every moment, I can choose, again and again and again. These days, the counting-of-the-omer days, it is a mindful trudge, a careful inspection and collection of the junk I lug around with me. I am grateful for the mindfulness. Messy as I am, I like frames, and this is a particularly good one.
So. What is it that I carry with me? What will I leave behind? What will I carry with me as I walk to the next altar, the next mountain? Today - just for this moment, this breath, I will sit for a moment, my treasures laid out before me, a sky of pewter and pearl above me, casting dull shadows on the lot. I will sit, and rest, and hope - hope that when I move on from here, I remember to let slip the boxes of pain and fear, so that I have room for a bit of joy, a bit of beauty, a bit of grace.
PS - I've written a couple of poems in the past, that relate to this post. You may want to check them out here:
What I Brought: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2013/05/what-i-brought_13.html
And Fly:L https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2015/04/and-fly.html
To This Moment: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2015/03/to-this-moment.html
Hineini: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2014/04/hineini.html
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
To This Moment
Joy lingers,
It gets into folds of cloth
and time. It scatters,
dancing with dust motes
that drift according to some
ancient and hidden meter.
that only God
and the dust know.
it is as fine as cobwebs
and sticky -
it shocks and shivers in
unannounced wonder
on well-trodden paths,
and those not taken.
It settles like a
kiss upon your skin,
and you carry its
dancing
shocking
sticky memory with
every step
and whisper.
joy lingers in the last note -
a song
a psalm
a sigh
that stretches into forever;
that you would follow forever;
that starts with your breath -
for how could it not begin there,
with breath, and soul,
and the very name
of God?
Joy echoes,
and lingers,
and washes over you,
and is in you,
and carries you
from season to season,
to this moment,
this very moment of
Joy.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
A Startlement of Song
There is a song
Somewhere in me
Buried.
Or maybe just
unnoticed,
while I chase
the louder notes -
all brass and
brash,
a startlement of
little songs
and tinny
grandeur.
But there is a song
that plays
Deep
and Slow,
an exultation.
And I rise to it,
and move in it,
and I am drawn near to it,
nearer than breath
or Time.
And I rise
to its siren call,
and I am filled
past the borders
of my fear
and the edges
of my joy,
and I sing.
And I sing.
Somewhere in me
Buried.
Or maybe just
unnoticed,
while I chase
the louder notes -
all brass and
brash,
a startlement of
little songs
and tinny
grandeur.
But there is a song
that plays
Deep
and Slow,
an exultation.
And I rise to it,
and move in it,
and I am drawn near to it,
nearer than breath
or Time.
And I rise
to its siren call,
and I am filled
past the borders
of my fear
and the edges
of my joy,
and I sing.
And I sing.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Chasing fireflies
I have been accused, you may be surprised to hear, of being (shall we say) intense. When the observer is being kind. When said observer is being less kind, intensity turns to scary Too focused, too needy, too there. As a dear friend (one of the kind ones) once said, "Stacey, you never even give people a chance to miss you."
So, I had a revelation the other day. No; angels did not dance on the head of a pin, and the earth did not move, but I think I figured something out. It has to do with that intensity thing (I was going to say character defect, but I have decided to be a bit kinder to myself) (while I've been typing, because I'm nothing if not compulsive and easily distracted by bright shiny objects)(my thoughts being mostly shiny today and always bright) (and speaking parenthetically is a great illustration of my distraction). As I was about to say, before I was distracted: on to my rambling revelation - on to INTENSITY.
Here's the deal. For what felt like a thousand years, but turns out to be merely a couple of decades, I lived in a very tiny tiny universe of one. Nothing got in. Nothing got out. I had decided, somewhere around the time I started drinking, that I could not afford to be hurt again. Life was way too painful. My heart was already quite fragile, and so I wrapped my fear and my anger and my hurt around me like a shield. And I lived that way (ok, "lived" is only an approximation; I was much more like Gollum eventually became--- stretched) for a long time. It was… safe.
At least, that's what I told myself. I ignored the leaks, of course. I ignored the seepage of hurt, the numbness of anger, the whispers of pain that managed to find every chink and crack in my carefully crafted armor. They were all brief, flashes of something felt more in retrospect, when I was tired or hungry. It was a lonely and stretched thinner-than-air existence, Of course, the more I drank, the more I took refuge in alcohol asShield, the lonelier and more tired I would get.
And then, miracle of miracles--- I got sober! And after a little bit of time (Days? Weeks? A year or two? Who the hell knew? Who the hell cared?!)--- after a while, I noticed the walls of my tiny little universe of one had crumbled. The trumpet had blared under the light of a new sun, and I stood before God and everyone else, defenseless and open.
And it was good.
Ok, mostly it was good. I still have my moments, even twenty years and more later, still want to cling to the dark and comforting fog of that particular prison. But God, I was out! I was free. And I could run, and you know what? It feels like I am twirling in a starlit field, twirling and dizzy - not drunk, but alive and dizzy - and chasing fireflies. And I think, really and truly, when I stop to think at all, that this is the feeling that everyone has, all the time. This is the thing I missed for so long! This abandon and exuberance and energy. This is my shout: Hineini! Here I am, free at last, in the light of a new day. Let's play! And I really believe that everyone wants to play, to feel that dizzy, twirly, joyous thing.
Nothing is filtered anymore. All I ever did in my old half life, was filter: edit, erase, delete, change, hide, scorn, disdain. Take your pick. Everything went through layer after layer of subterfuge until it (whatever "it" was) lay dead at the feet of my metaphor. But not anymore. There are no filters. And that is the source of this intensity. I just want to play. I don't ever want to lose sight of that joy, that connection, that sense that once I was alone and now I am not. I was so alone, for so very long. I have no real frames of reference on how to be not alone. What I get is connection, this electric feeling of not alone.
I know, I know: I have to learn how to put the filters back on. Not in the way they were. Never that. But in a new way, a way that let's the light in still, but that doesn't frighten anyone either. Not an easy task. Certainly not for me, because I like the dizzy, twisty, firefly-catching dance. But I have to learn to temper it. I have to grow up a bit and learn to walk a bit and I can't keep dancing. Can I?
And so there's my revelation. It may seem trite or naive, so forgive me. It's just that there are so many fireflies to catch, and I don't want to miss a one. I want to play in that light, the dizzying, twirly light and feel connected. In the end, I am convinced it is the connections that matter--- deep and rich and life-affirming. Forgive me as I stumble through my intensity, looking for the filters that mute the intensity to bearable levels.
In the meantime, thanks for letting me dance.
In the meantime, thanks for letting me dance.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
29 Elul 5773: Return
So, here's the part where I get a little wonky, a little out there. A little (if I may be so bold) vulnerable. Here's the part where I say:
We are always at the Gate.
We are always at Sinai.
We are always redeemed.
We all-- every one of us-- walk a path with God. We may not recognize it or acknowledge it, but we do. There is beauty and pain and hope and despair in every one of those paths. Percentages may change. How long I choose to walk in despair may change and shift. It is the same for sorrow and wonder and joy. They are all there. It's what we carry and what we take away. It is our breath. Our souls. Our hope and sorrow. It is the Gate. It is Sinai.
It is, ever and always, our redemption.
The beauty of Elul is the realization that I am there-- right there-- poised at the edge of everything-- always. I have dived and reflected, shined lights and prepared, to stand here-- right here-- with my heart open , eyes wide, filled with blessings and forgiveness, filled with my humanity and acceptance of yours. Ready, so very ready, to step through. To fit, to be, to become.
Ready.
And the thing I take away from this holy and sacred undertaking (entered into on a lark, carried out reluctantly, resentful of the discipline and formality, and doing it anyway) (and learning and growing and becoming as a result) -- another of those profound, transformative, life-altering truths that I find unlooked for and in odd places-- what I find is this: either every day is holy or no day is. Today, I choose to live in a world where every day is holy. The gate is always open. I am always there. God is always there, ready to catch me, grab my hand and dance.
Tonight. Tomorrow. Yom Kippur. A week from next Thursday. Either every day is holy or no day is. The gates of repentance are always open. I am returned. I am redeemed. All I have to do is step through.
Thank you for being a part of my journey. Thank you for shining your lights in my darkness, for celebrating my joy and triumph, for teaching me the glory of silence the holiness of community. You brought your songs, your souls your lives and given me welcome/ I have been blessed beyond imagining.
Shana tova umetukah-- may you have a sweet year, filled with wonder and joy, light and love, healing and wholeness.
Just in case you didn't see this the first time around-- I wrote this as I entered into Elul. It is no less true having walked through these days.
The Edge of Everything
Just in case you didn't see this the first time around-- I wrote this as I entered into Elul. It is no less true having walked through these days.
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.
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
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.
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.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
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.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Elul. Day Three: Blessing
After all this time, I still need to be reminded that I swim in a sea of infinite blessing.
Much of the time, I wear the world like tight, ill-fitting clothing: uncomfortable, making me fidget and focus on all the wrong things. It is so much easier to focus on the discomfort and discontent. It is, ironically, my comfort zone.
I know brokenness. I know pain. I am no stranger to loneliness or doubt or despair. I lived with them for what seems like forever.
But an odd thing happened one day, when I chose to trade despair for hope. And at first, that trade left me raw and stripped bare and vulnerable. I was still blind to the hope, still blind to the sea of blessings.
But I kept at it. I'm still not quite sure why. One day to the next, and the next after that, a long string of unbroken next days that moved me, with inexorable grace, to the unabashed certainty that I am blessed. Beyond belief, I am blessed.
There is light, and joy, and hope immeasurable. There is pain still, but that too is a blessing, because I can feel it, feel the brokenness and fractured rhythms of my life still, but I am no longer consumed by it. I am sober, and I can hope and I am blessed.
I'm grateful, during this month of Elul, for the discipline of mindfulness. That, too, is a blessing, that obligation. Of course, the way I see it now-- it's all blessing, all of it, all the noisy, clamoring, transcendent holy mess of life. And today, of all days, on this third day of Elul, I am reminded, and I am infinitely grateful for this sea of infinite blessing.
Much of the time, I wear the world like tight, ill-fitting clothing: uncomfortable, making me fidget and focus on all the wrong things. It is so much easier to focus on the discomfort and discontent. It is, ironically, my comfort zone.
I know brokenness. I know pain. I am no stranger to loneliness or doubt or despair. I lived with them for what seems like forever.
But an odd thing happened one day, when I chose to trade despair for hope. And at first, that trade left me raw and stripped bare and vulnerable. I was still blind to the hope, still blind to the sea of blessings.
But I kept at it. I'm still not quite sure why. One day to the next, and the next after that, a long string of unbroken next days that moved me, with inexorable grace, to the unabashed certainty that I am blessed. Beyond belief, I am blessed.
There is light, and joy, and hope immeasurable. There is pain still, but that too is a blessing, because I can feel it, feel the brokenness and fractured rhythms of my life still, but I am no longer consumed by it. I am sober, and I can hope and I am blessed.
I'm grateful, during this month of Elul, for the discipline of mindfulness. That, too, is a blessing, that obligation. Of course, the way I see it now-- it's all blessing, all of it, all the noisy, clamoring, transcendent holy mess of life. And today, of all days, on this third day of Elul, I am reminded, and I am infinitely grateful for this sea of infinite blessing.
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