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Section 1 of “Shekhinah: The Presence” by Joseph Zitt
This is an unedited scan of the text, courtesy of Josh Ronsen
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HERE at the start of the day
we who can tell
the black thread from the blue
the blue from the white
the black from the white
now (when consensus takes
the place of agreement)
stand and prepare.
We who have entered this sacred room
(although, indeed, any room
can be sanctified
by this purpose)
have paused by the doorpost,
touched the box of memories
that waits there,
silent,
whether for us
or for Elijah
who will pass through all the portals
and join the scrolls
upon the doorposts of all out houses
into one,
have kissed our hands,
as if to kiss,
by indirection,
the welcoming scrolls
posted by the doors
then entered the room,
greeted by the faint rays
of the new mornings sun
that cast fresh, elongated shadows
of the Ark,
of our books of learning,
of our lives.
We turn to the East,
to welcome the sun,
and see the words
(now hard to read
in their contrast with
sharp morning rays)
inscribed here on the Ark:
Know
Before Whom
You Stand.
Each of us,
for the moment,
alone,
reaches for the Talit bag
(for some, velvet,
the deep blue of the
roof of the sky
in the dying of the night
just before the sun
returns to welcome us,
for the adventurous or whimsical,
other fabrics,
other colors,
expressing
other joys or memories)
withdraws the thin shawl
(white,
with its stipes of black or blue
and the fringes at its corners,
each carefully prepared,
each with eight threads,
one twisted seven times
around the other seven
and tied
then eight times
and tied
then eleven times
and tied
and thirteen
all these numbers
merging with the alphabet
in permutation
and computations
so every sum and product
can somehow praise
the Holy Name)
whispers the prayer inscribed on its margins,
wraps it around himself
over his head
(enclosing the wearer; for the moment,
in a womb of wool or silk
in a white filtered shroud of light
like the one seen by the soul,
then forgotten
in the instant before birth
when the angels kissed it
to seal away for a time,
its knowledge of heaven),
then lets it drift down to his shoulders,
his back encased in white,
the fringes
resting like guardians
about his thighs.
And from another bag,
(smaller,
echoing in design the larger,
as a student might deduce a principle
in deriving similarities
from the general
to the particular)
small boxes, leather,
each small box containing smaller skins,
cousins to the watchman scroll
greeted and kissed by the door,
each attached to leather straps.
One at a time,
With care,
With blessings,
we bind them to ourselves,
the first sliding up the left arm
to rest by the heart,
then its straps, winding,
as if echoing outside our bodies
the blood that rushes life
within our hands,
seven turns down the forearm
then thee time around
the middle finger
betrothing us
to the Holy Presence
forever
for righteousness
justice
kindness
mercy
for the faith in
the faithfulness
of the patterns
and around the hand
its patterns forming letters
of yet another version
of another Holy Name,
the second resting between our eyes,
suspended from a loop
that rests upon our heads
like a crown of duty
with twin descendants
draping from behind
over our shoulders
across the shawl,
then draping down our chests
echoing the poise of the fringes
that rest below.
Thus garbed,
thus prepared,
we concentrate out attention,
open our books to the proper pages,
turn to the East
to the Ark
to the sun
to the silent walls of Jerusalem,
and, somewhat together
somewhat alone
each, in his separate intent,
strengthened
by the others gathered there,
we begin
in hushes close to silence
to pray.
