Return: a poem for the ending of Elul

Return.
Again.
I have returned again
to this place of fullness,
this place of everythingness;
and I feel empty.
Hollow.
Again.

I fling my sins,
all bright copper
and colored feathers,
out into the heavens -
Which is separate from the earth,
Which is separate from the waters,
and they fly like birds,
and dance and dazzle.

They are beautiful,
these sins of mine,
as they catch the light.
I am caught in their beauty,
racing after them.
They drift and fall
like so many crooked arrows,
and I collect them,
to turn them back to me
before moving on
to the next gate.

A Thousand Shades of Black

There was no thought of
symmetry or rhythm
at the edge of the sea,
as it rolled and pitched
there on the edge of night.
No thought at all,
just a thousand shades
of black, like the negative of
Jacob's peacock coat
flung wide.

Was this the sound of heaven,
this cacophony of waves,
and a counterpoint of
cricket and wind?
A host of angels, each one
of that vast multitude beginning
a psalm of morning
at a time of their own choosing -
a great babble of benediction and praise,
one by one by one,
each different in their turn,
each the same.

As above,
so below.

And so we walked
to the edge of the sea,
to the edge of night,
Returned.

The Stumbling Gait of Want

I do not sit
with comfort
in my own skin.
I do not rest
or breathe with ease,
without thinking
If or
When or
How I might
take the next one.
I prefer to fight,
except when I prefer
to flee.
And there is
familiarity in the
absolute stasis
of white-knuckled
holding on.

But the soul You
have given me
is pure.
It is whole
and it rests within
this body that
does not know
comfort or
rest.

What if I deny
it, that Gift
of grace and
completion -
my soul, that
You guard
and guide and
take and return?
What if I let it hunger?
What if I take no pleasure in touch,
and do not anoint my body
with oils and scent,
and leave my face bare
and my feet unshod,
so that i can feel the
bones of the earth
and the sharp chill of the air?

Will my soul rise then?
Will my breath rise with it,
and my spirit with my breath?
Will hunger and thirst
and the unease of my
body lift me -
and my soul,
naked now,
and pure
and whole
and lifted
and lifting -
will it all be enough?

Into the silence of my want.
and the stumbling gait
of my fear,
let there be that
instant, like a spark
of light
and hope
and give,
that my soul,
that is pure,
and my body
that is weary
of discomfort
and flight,
let me rise and
stand before your
Gate, ready
to Return.
Ready to
begin.
Ready.

Elul Day 29 - Return

Return.
Again.
I have returned again
to this place of
Fullness,
this place of everythingness;
and I feel empty.
Hollow.
Again.
I fling my sins,
all bright copper
and colored feathers,
out into the heavens -
Which is separate from the earth,
Which is separate from the waters,
and they fly
like birds,
and dance
and dazzle.
They are beautiful,
these sins of mine,
as they catch the light.
I am caught in their beauty,
racing after them.
They drift and fall
like so many crooked arrows,
and I collect them,
to turn them
back to me
before I move on
to the next

Gate.

Speak

Speak of ritual and rules,
of purity and piety
Speak of celebration and time
that drifts and flows
in a spiral of
light and dark
and bounty and decay.
Speak, in each season
of coming and going and rising
like smoke, like breath,
effortless as thought
and rising, ever rising
kadosh, kadosh, kadosh.
Speak of light and dark
and oil that is holy
and bread that sustains
a bounty, a banquet, laid
before you in My presence.
Speak of betrayal and death,
of oaths and lies.

Speak of life and all that is -
Life, filled and whole
and pushed to the
edges of everything.
A life that is filled with weakness
and strength
and holy and profane.
With sacrifice and binding.
This shall be for all time
in every season under every sky
empty and filled,
broken, whole.
Speak of the whole
of life.

#BlogElul 29 (#Tishrei 9-10) - Return

I like the symmetry of return.

I like the idea that, no matter how linear we think we are, or time is, or God is, we tend to find a way back. As I've written before, even God recognizes this: why else create t'shuvah before ever creating the Heavens and the Earth?

Those rabbis, diving into text that is written in and between all the magnificent letters of the Torah! At least, that's how I see midrash. Today. Tomorrow? Perhaps they are just stories, made up to fill in the holes, or the blanks that God left. Or maybe Moshe left blank spots - too weary having to carve a second set after that little incident with the Golden Calf, carving in one night what God had taken 40 days to do the first time around. Or just maybe, it's all Torah.

Torah. Even that isn't linear - we begin at the beginning, but there is no end. Again and again, just when we think it's over - the story is played out, the cast has all gone home - we begin again. I love when we unroll the whole thing - we see the whole of the story, from end to end to end: parchment and ink. All the words. All the mitzvot. All the awe and fear and trembling and demands that we be holy, that we care for one another, that we love, in between the anger and pettiness and war.

Unrolled, we wrap it, this sacred, holy, ancient, living thing - we wrap it around our children, we hold it up, to study, to read, to chant, to learn and teach.

We return, again and again to this, the beginning, the middle, the end. It encircles us all, draws us in, holds us dearly.

I stand here today, returned to this place, and offer this poem, that I wrote last year, to begin the journey to return. As I said, I like symmetry. I offer this, as my prayer, that we make this journey together, and that we return, again and again, to find wonder and love and God and each other.

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.

May your new year be sweet, and may you be sealed in the Book of Life for a year of joy.

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

09 Tishrei 5774: Justice

Sometimes, Justice is a sword, slicing cleanly through anything that stands before it. I have walked into its cutting blade, and I have not been unscathed.

Sometimes, Justice is a mighty river, rushing through in a grand sweep, cold and pure washing us clean and bringing about change. I have swum in its quickening current, slaked my thirst in its icy depths, been carried and cleansed and renewed.

We pursue it, always: Justice, justice shall you pursue. So central to our beliefs, it was named twice. We are called to it, commanded to practice it. It is the foundation of who we are as a people. A few months ago, during our tikun leyl Shavuot (our study session to usher in Shavuot), I had one of those Aha! moments that change us, even just a little. One of my greatest joys in Judaism is my continued struggle with it. I wrestle with God and Torah and my doubt. I have severe issues with our ancestors (the original Family Dysfunction, writ large). Don't get me started on God, so often (as I see it) capricious and cruel and uncaring.

And yet, I have this thing with God. I have met the God of Infinite Compassion. I have danced in the palm of God's hand, and found shelter there. I have wept and cursed and prayed to God, and have found healing there. 

But this is not the God of the Torah. Sorry. I just don't see it. So what keeps me coming back to this well, this gate, again and again? How do I navigate this disconnect?

On Shavuot, we had a discussion on our relationship with God and Torah. And it came to me, in a rush, and filled me-- the beauty of Torah (and yes, I believe it, we, all of life is Torah) is that we have been given all of it-- all the holes, all the inconsistencies, all the brokenness. But we also get those moments of shining transcendence, those take-your-breath-away pieces that show you not what is, but what could be, what should be. We are commanded to create a world that should be. This is a holy thing. 

This is the God of Justice, and we are b'tzelem elohim-- we are made in the image of God. This is what we could be. This is the God I seek. This is the God to whom I return, again and again. This is the God who redeems and renews. 

God may be the One who changes me. I am the one who is given the holy task of changing the world. My Aha! moment. The reason I have sought to reflect and prepare, make the long and bumpy journey from my narrow places to the center, to this gate, to this day. Why I seek God and forgiveness. To return, to be redeemed, so I can step through the hates of Justice and change the world.

One more story, because I love it. A short midrash for Yom Kippur:

An old man, stooped with age, made his way to his synagogue on erev Yom Jippur. One of his greatest joys was to hear the simple yearning, the exquisite longing in Kol Nidre, the prayer that begins it all. He couldn't remember a time that he did not weep when he heard it, not once, but three times, every year. He walked slowly, enjoying the just-beginning-to-cool, almost-fall air. One hand held his cane that tapped and scraped against the sidewalk. The other hand cradled two heavy notebooks.

He entered the synagogue, that smelled of lemon oil and anticipation. He paused to offer a prayer as he put on his white tallit. He stopped at the memorial wall and remembered friends and family who had died. Each year, there were more, and he let his grief and sorrow flow through him, letting it go with love and sorrow. 

It was early still; he was alone in the sanctuary. There was still time.

He continued his slow and stately walk down the aisle, making his way to the bima, draped in heavy white cloth in honor of the day. He paused in front of the Ark, nodding his respect, and carefully placed his notebooks on the dais side by side. One book was tattered and dog-eared, obviously well-used. It was thick, at least and inch or so of thin paper, no longer blank. The other was also tattered and worn, and perhaps double the size of the first-- two inches at least of thin paper, small, cramped handwriting filling both sides.

The man placed one hand on the first book, lifted his face, and said clearly: "Ok, God. Here are my sins for this year. I confess them, and am sorry for them, and have asked forgiveness for them. I'm here, to make tshuvah, and ask Your forgiveness for the sins I have committed against You." He was silent for a moment, obviously having a private conversation with God.

When he was done, he placed his hand on the second, thicker book. In a clear voice, he spoke again: "And here, God, are your sins. Let's talk..."

Justice, justice shall we all pursue. <3 p="">

Shana tova

Gmar chatima tova. 

07 Tishrei 5774: Fear

Fear is a liar.

Fear keeps me rooted in place, unmoving and sheathed in ice. When I listen to its sibilant whispers, I stop. I hide. I avoid. I stay safe.

It is so easy. looking at it from this vantage point-- of a spiritually fit place, where I feel as if I fit comfortably in my own skin and have no need to look over my shoulder to judge the distance between me and the eleventy-seven thousand demons who are hot on my trail and ready to pounce-- it is so easy to say "Fear is a liar. Why should I listen to whispers in the dark?"

Trouble is, I don't always feel comfortable in my own skin. I am not always spiritually fit, confident and breathing easy. Ha! There are times I need to be reminded to breathe at all. And fear-- those lies can be so seductive. When I am feeling prickly and outside and less-than, those lies can flow though me and around me like warm honey. 

Remember Lucy, asking Charlie Brown to kick the football while she holds it steady? Time and again, he winds up flat on his back, caught once again in the web of Lucy's broken promises. My fear is like that. Against my better judgement, regardless of all prior experience, I get sucked in, laid low by my fear.

This is not God-fear. This is not the fear and trembling of standing under Sinai or waiting at the cold and dark waters of an unparted Sea. This is not the fear and awe of standing at the gates, of return and redemption.  This is the fear that robs you of hope, breaks your spirit and keeps you rooted: stuck, unmoving, trapped.

I have heard that fear is the opposite of faith, that is I have faith enough, I will never be afraid. I don't agree. Faith and fear can coexist. Here's the thing of it: my faith will not stop my fears, will not stop the whispered lies-- but enough faith will keep me moving. I don't know that faith can move mountains; I know for a fact that faith can move my feet, allow me to put one foot in front of the other, walk through the fear, so that I can get to the other side, face whatever is in front of me. Every time.

As I prepare to stand before God in a few days (that formal stand-before-God, because I believe, absolutely, that I stand with God, always, just as  God stands with me, always), as I prepare to stand without artifice or design, ready to walk through the gates that are opened for us all, I have to be willing to leave the things that hold me back, hold me in place behind. I have to be willing to leave the fear that feels so safe and comfortable, because it is so familiar, because it is so powerful and all-encompassing, I have to leave the fear behind.

I have to let it go, along with my brokenness, my cynicism, my impatience. I have to be willing to walk away from Lucy and her football and not play the game.

I have to put one foot in front of the other. And later, and again, when fear grips me, when I feel broken and lost and utterly alone, when fear whispers its lies to me in the dark-- I will put my faith in my feet and keep walking.

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.

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.