Finding meaning

There are moments when, after what seems like an eternity of being stuck, you begin to feel the flow. Pay attention to the earthquake, wind and fire, but don't be taken in by them. Remember to cover your face and step to the cave's entrance when you hear the "qol dmamah daqah" or the "still, small voice".

Today, the still, small voice came to me after lunch, when I brought up a box of books to catalogue, and to my great joy, discovered the Judaica jackpot, starting with the Artscroll Tanach series. I flipped open the third book I pulled out (Shir Hashirim, or the "Song of Songs") and my eyes fell on these words:

"This, then, is the deepest, truest meaning of the Torah's concept of 'Song'. There is a profound harmony in creation. Every part of God's handiwork plays its role in His design. Only one ingredient impedes it completion - man's lack of insight. When man fails to see the truth, the interaction, the harmony, then the song of creation remains unheard; because it is man's function to give it voice, it remains mute.
...
This song is constantly in man's soul. But there are only instants where he hears its notes - and then only when he brings belief in God to his everyday life on earth. If he can attain the height where faith is never-ending and he is always guided by its light, he will always hear the song in his heart.
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This is the prerequisite of song: man's perception is that everything plays its role and so he must give expression to the song of creation through his own deeds and the song that flows from his soul." --(Shir Hashirim: an allegorical translation based upon Rashi with a commentary anthologized from Talmudic, Rabbinic and Midrashic sources, Brooklyn: Mesorah, 1979, pp. xli-xlii.)

Amen. After weeks of silence, I could hear and feel the music again.

Excuse me whilst I cover my face and go to the entrance of the cave.

To speak or not to speak, that is the question...

There has been a lot of discussion on various blogs about this well-intentioned move for a day of silence across the blogosphere on 30 April for the victims of the Va Tech massacre, and, by extension, for victims of violence around the world. Many people will be participating and are spreading the word.

A significant minority (at a quick glance) will make their voices heard on Monday, saying "no" to silence. Their reasons are equally well-intentioned: many people will go along with it as a fad, to feel part of history, to follow the crowd. Instead of falling silent, they argue, we need to speak out in rage: for gun control, against injustice, for the death penalty, against the system. At least one person has said that it will be "business as usual" at their blog. Good reasons, all of them. After all, talking (or typing) is what we do best.

But there are compelling reasons to remain silent, one of which is to acknowledge and bear witness to unbearable anger, grief and pain in a world that considers speaking of "healing" the day after a tragedy like this appropriate. We live in a world that runs away from its Shadow by repressing it or trying to reach a "higher level of consciousness" without going through the darkness. True healing only comes by being *with* our darkness and our pain, letting it crack open the walls around our heart, and allowing it to pass through us, feeling it fully.

Most of my readers know how much I love Judaism. I feel very strongly that Jewish customs acknowledge every minute of our lives here, light and dark, as holy - and sitting shiva is one of the most powerful, giving us room and ritual which allows us to fully live our grief and paving the way to healing.

From the keriah, or rending of the garments prior to the funeral service, deeply symbolic on levels ranging from anger at our loss to the halachic requirement to 'expose the heart', to the covering of mirrors and sitting on the floor, shiva gives us permission to leave the outside world behind and completely enter the inner world of our grief for seven days. The process is allowed to begin, unhindered by the demands of others, aided by their love and support.

Shiva is also salutary for those who visit the mourners. When they come to the shiva house, they are to sit down and take their lead from the mourner. If the mourner is silent, then they remain silent - no platitudes such as "He was in so much pain, it was a blessing," or "She's in a better place," the comments so often overheard after a funeral or interment. We believe them to be for the mourners, but they're really for us, because we are uncomfortable staying with someone else's pain and grief. Shiva makes us focus on their needs, not ours. It forces us to be still and listen, and doesn't allow communication to become a barrier to communion.

The time comes when we must all rise from our grief and enter the world again, renewing our commitment to life and allowing our hearts to heal once more. Life is a cycle, and the key to fulfilling our vocation of living it authentically and in love is to trust in the cycle and enter each part of it completely and willingly: joy and sorrow; happiness and anger; light and Shadow.

And so, even though the time will come to analyse how the tragedy at Va Tech could have been avoided and to speak out against our culture of violence and gun laws, that time is not now. Let us be with those families and friends who have lost those they love to unimaginable violence.

It is not yet time to speak.

It is time to pay a shiva call.

Purim Sameach

Tonight, the night of the 13th of Adar, the day that Haman chose for the extermination of the Jews, the night they were saved by G-d through Queen Esther, begins the joyous holiday of Purim. This year, with a total lunar eclipse of the full moon on its way, there is just that extra touch of magic.

On this night, when Queen Esther dared to appeal directly to the king himself for the saving of her people, Jews are commanded to drink until they cannot tell the difference between "Blessed be Mordechai (Esther's cousin)" and "Cursed be Haman." To see a world turned on its head, you need to be off yours.

This past Thursday, I was looking forward to reading from the Book of Esther during mass. It is one of my favourite chapters of the year, Esther 14 - and not least because my secret pleasure is that it always falls on the Thursday nearest Purim:

Then Queen Esther, seized with deadly anxiety, fled to the Lord. ²She took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body; every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. ³She prayed to the Lord God of Israel, and said: ‘O my Lord, you only are our king; help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, ⁴for my danger is in my hand. ⁵Ever since I was born I have heard in the tribe of my family that you, O Lord, took Israel out of all the nations, and our ancestors from among all their forebears, for an everlasting inheritance, and that you did for them all that you promised. ⁶And now we have sinned before you, and you have handed us over to our enemies ¹²Remember, O Lord; make yourself known in this time of our affliction, and give me courage, O King of the gods and Master of all dominion! ¹³Put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn his heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him. ¹⁴But save us by your hand, and help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, O Lord.

Unfortunately, this lovely, amazing, courageous woman got bumped by that peevish travel agent for guilt trips, St Paul, because it was the feast of St David (I'm sure the Welsh would have preferred to hear Esther). And of course, the disappointment was all the sharper because it meant that I didn't even have the smallest share in Purim this year.

I love the wild abandon and sheer joy of Adar. When I taught at the Hebrew Academy, Adar was the month teachers remembered to lock our doors, otherwise you were likely to find all your desks shoved together in the centre of the room. The laughter that rang through the hallways from good-natured practical jokes made us all grin during the bleakest of Februaries. There's an unrestrained passion and fearlessness to it that I miss in Catholicism, which feels so sanitised - an acceptance that G-d is as much in the letting go as He is in the rigid self-control. More so, perhaps.

Purim's topsy-turviness draws me in like a magnet - nothing is quite as it seems. What seems assured can disappear; what was hopeless materialises; what is hidden is revealed. It's like stepping into the chaotic realm of the trickster. Stay awake and stay alert - but step into it knowing that with G-d, anything is possible.

It is a day that has given me, a Catholic, unexpected gifts since sundown. A moment of profound sharing with someone I often see, but rarely speak to. A vision where I sat in my childhood bedroom with myself at seven and told her how proud I was of her and thanked her for allowing me to become who I am. A bus ride seated behind someone most people might avoid, probably homeless and with an unusual view of reality - but he made me laugh and dropped two comments that made me wonder how 'mad' he really was:

I commented that I was only "visiting planet Earth." He responded, "As long as you're visiting, Earth will entertain you. When your body dies and your spirit leaves Earth, you take the good you've done with you to another world."

Just before I got off, he put his hand out for me to shake, and I took it. He held onto it, looked at me and said, "Don't fall in love until your lover deserves you."

Welcome to Purim and a full moon. I wonder what the second half will bring, so I will step out courageously into Loki's land: awake, alert, fearless and hopeful.

I wish the same for you. Purim sameach, everyone.