The Weight of Words (working title)

A little bit of background before we begin tonight...

My father was raised Jewish, but then converted to Christianity before I was born. My mom has been Christian all her life, so I was never really exposed to my Jewish heritage. Yeah, we had a menorah for Hanukkah, but we didn't read the prayers or celebrated with any other Jewish families. For a time, mostly in elementary school, I became more aware of my Jewish roots and took special pride in them. But it didn't culminate into anything serious until I was in my early teens. Before I was "saved" at the age of 14, I had an interest in becoming a full fledged Jew. The opportunity never fully presented itself though. I never even met a rabbi, and I've still never been inside an actual synagogue. So now, even though I am a confirmed and enthusiastic Episcopalian, I've taken an interest in my Jewish roots once more. I've attended two Shabbat services at Mission Minyan, a lay led group of Jewish folks who meet every Friday and Saturday in the Mission. All of it is in Hebrew (which I don't speak, let alone know how to read), but I've taken quite a liking to the services and the written Hebrew language itself. I've liked it so much in fact, that I bought a book on how to teach yourself to read Hebrew (and no, it's not Hebrew for Dummies, though I'm sure they have that book around somewhere), as well as the New Union Prayer Book. I originally bought the latter because I thought that it would include the transliteration (now that's the real Hebrew for Dummies!), but it didn't. Luckily it comes with an English translation, as well as added prayers and poems only written in English. And I guess that's why I'm here writing this now...

I came upon a few passages that resonated with me, and I just felt like sharing them. I have no plan to write any kind of analysis or reflection, but we'll see where the mood takes me. For now, I'm satisfied to let the passages speak for themselves.

From page 658:

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God!
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.


From page 659:

Lord, where can I find You?
Your glory fills the world.

Behold, I find You
Where the ploughman breaks the hard soil,
Where the quarrier explodes stone out of the hillside,
Where the miner digs metals out of the reluctant earth,
Where men and women earn their bread by the sweat of their brow,
Among the lonely and poor, the lowly and lost.
In blazing heat and shattering storm, You are with them.

Behold, I find You
In the mind free to sail by its own star,
In words that spring from the depth of truth,
Where endeavor reaches undespairing for perfection,
Where the scientist toils to unravel the secrets of Your world,
Where the poet makes beauty out of words,
Wherever people struggle for freedom,
Wherever noble deeds are done.

Behold, I find You
In the shouts of children merry at their play,
In the mother's lullaby, as she rocks her baby in the cradle,
In the sleep falling on his infant eyelids,
And in the smile that dances on his sleeping lips.

Behold, I find You
When dawn comes up bearing golden gifts,
And in the fall of evening peace and rest from the Western sea.
In the current of life flowing day and night through all things,
Throbbing in my sinews and in the dust of the earth,
In every leaf and flower.

Behold, I find You
In the wealth of joys that quickly fade,
In the life that from eternity dances in my blood,
In birth, which renews the generations continually,
And in death knocking on the doors of life.

O my God,
Give me strength never to disown the poor,
Never before insolent might to bow the head.
Give me strength to raise my spirit high above daily trifles,
Lightly to bear my joys and sorrows,
And in love to surrender all my strength to Your will.

For great are Your gifts to me:
The sky and the light. This is my flesh.
Life and the soul--
Treasures beyond prices, treasures of life and of love.


From page 670:

I have been acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in the rain--and back in the rain.
I have out walked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say goodbye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.


From page 671:

. . .how strange we grow when we're alone,
And how unlike the selves that meet and talk,
And blow the candles out and say good night,
Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known.
It is the stillness where our spirits walk
And all but inmost faith is overthrown.

For some weird reason, this last passage reminds me of a scene from Angels in America. The scene is both in the film and in the play (I read the latter, and saw the former), and it consists of Harper talking to the female Mormon mannequin at the Mormon visitor's center. (I know this sounds really ridiculous, but just bear with me.) Harper has just separated from her husband who has come out of the closet, and she is grieving over the loss. She begins to talk to the mannequin who is at first inanimate and then springs to life. (Whether this is another one of Harper's hallucinations or if it's actually happening is anyone's guess. The movie/play is known for having strange things happen throughout that are surreal and questionable as to their actually happening.) Their conversation continues, and then Harper asks, "In your experience of the world, how do people change?" The woman answers.

"Well, it has something to do with God so it isn't very nice. God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in. He grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp, but he squeezes hard, he insists. He pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out. And the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back: dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching."

"And then get up," Harper finishes. "And walk around."

"Just mangled guts pretending," the woman replies.

This scene (which, by the way, can be found here) may not be exactly what the previous passage said, but somehow it's related. The "Alone" passage is about growth and the painful process of it. In Harper's case, it's about change and the pain of it. Pretty much one and same, actually, now that I think about it. "Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known." Life tears us apart and then asks us to keep on walking despite our "bloody tubes" being "dirty, tangled and torn" and falling out of us every which way. We are constantly becoming undone and stitching ourselves back up, even though we know we'll get ripped apart all over again. Sure, we all have our coping mechanisms and even ways to prevent our undoing again. But all that saves us from is becoming more human, more whole. Ironic, right? Yeah.

Just Felt Like Writing

I don't know why I just felt like writing something.  It's a Wednesday night, I didn't go to yoga, and I'm listening to Ray Lamontagne's "Lesson Learned."  So I guess something's stirring inside that needs to be thrown down here.  I think it's been brewing for a while, just never knew how to put it into words.  Maybe I still don't.  But trying never hurt anyone. . .

I can't seem to understand this whole missing someone thing.  The best way to get over someone is to be distracted, meet new people, develop new connections, pick up a new hobby, get involved with life.  I've been trying and been somewhat successful.  But then that empty feeling seems to come along anyway, almost like hunger before each meal.  Except with this, I'm really not sure how to feed it. 

I have met new people.  Some good, and some not so good.  When it comes to the not so good, it doesn't help the missing part.  It just seems to make it worse, like vinegar on a wound.  But even when I've met someone who has all the qualities that I want, it turns out they're just the qualities that were in the first person to begin with.  It's like falling in love with the original painting, but finding out that only a print of it can be owned, never the original.  (As a somewhat related tangent, tonight I fell in love with a picture by Salvador Dali called "Figure at Window".  It's perfect in every way.  Simple, fresh, deep, beautiful.  It's not like his other paintings, and that's one of the reasons I love it so much.  It's not something you would expect from Dali.  But I can't find a single website that sells a print of it in the size I need.  I could buy a larger size and have it cropped, but then the border would be all wrong and it would look all tacky and blah blah blah.  See what I mean?  Not the same as when you find that perfect fit.)

No one is pefect, I know this.  Even finding someone who is "perfect" for you is really a lie.  We're going to have those uneven edges in ourselves that have to be worked with if you want the relationship to work.  Compromise is a must, and it's a balance to know how much to give and how much to ask to take away.  It's never easy, but there are those it's easier to do it with.  That's what makes it perfect.  It isn't the person in and of themselves necessarily, it's how you and that person work together to try to make it all fit. 

And yet, when you find that person where everything just clicks, where you feel like there's still more to know about them, but that you "get" them and they "get" you regardless of the specifics, known or unknown, how can you help but feel that there was something perfect about this person?  They're not without imperfection, but the imperfections make them who they are and that's what's perfect.  You feel like you don't have to be anything but yourself when you're around them.  And it's scary.  It's scary to know that there could possibly be someone who is really like that.  They may not be the only one, but shit!  If they are at least one of the ones, then what's to lose?  Everything.  You lose the fantasy of what life would be like being with them, and you have to actually be with them.  You lose that sense of security that seems inherent in the search itself.  The search: it's like seeking the Grail.  You spend so much time looking for it, there may be a sense of loss once you find it.  So you tell yourself this couldn't possibly be it, and so you can go out looking again.  And there's loss in that, too.  How can you go back if you've already told yourself that wasn't it?

Let it be known, I was the one who left, but not to be the seeker.  It was because I realized I was no longer sought after.  I had no desire to lie to myself and think that the one I sought had found me when it was obvious they hadn't. . .or at least that they had forgotten.  I left with every intention of eventually moving on and seeking that imperfect perfection again, this time in someone else.  But now I know the truth of it, and I am caught between two lies.  Which one is worse?

I don't know how long I'll have this post up.  It might even be deleted by the morning.  It's not like anyone really reads this thing anyway.  I might as well be talking to walls.  But when you have roommates in a house where sound travels easily, it seems that writing it all down is the better way to go.