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Section 8 of “Shekhinah: The Presence” by Joseph Zitt
This is an unedited scan of the text, courtesy of Josh Ronsen
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Time
no time
dark in
here
I
now
cant sense
myself
I am wood
solid
my clothing
my lining
velvet panels
shreds of memory
fall away
fade away
leaving
wood
stained by the tears of Rachel
blackened, streaked
by the soot of the Eternal Flame
that burns above its doors
echoing the shards of God
that burn,
buried, hidden
in husks of darkness
in the crevices of our souls.
Here
the many worlds
in which we simultaneously live
are blending, blurring, running,
realities washed away
in a slurry of promises
and minimal fulfillments,
Jerusalem
if I forget --
already the stones of the Wall
have receded from memory
blurring with the dull grey penciled letters
of the wishes pressed between them.
The world to come
(which has come?
which was already here?
Suddenly sequence shatters,
lies in fragments,
caught in cracked obeisance
to the whims of omniscience
of omnipotence
of eternity)
has drawn away,
and its waters
which had flowed with life,
richer than blood,
sweeter, more nourishing,
than earthly milk or honey,
seem no longer to be the mother flow
of rivers that ran
at the heart of Eden,
but are now a barrier,
the rush of the currents
now a distant clash
of hurtling rocks
and suspended fire.
This prayer hall,
this room sanctified
by the sacred Presence
now seems to be --
a room,
and the people here are fading
and their prayers
sound muffled,
hidden,
behind a wall
of wood and velvet
silk and leather.
The scroll,
which had filled our senses
with its love and passion,
its touch,
its writing,
and the sound of its words,
is now
simply
a scroll,
a careful but material assemblage
of skins,
inks,
bindings and coverings,
of tailored cloth
and etched and hammered metals
The doors are closed;
the majesty, the magic
has faded.
The people outside
this cabinet
this casket I have become
cannot see the scroll,
cannot feel it
(in this chill of silent solitude
I cannot even think of it
as "her").
Without the blessings the observers
grant to the observed
it is---
a scroll
inert weight
pressing down on my shoulders,
bending my back,
pushing on my arms.
This temporary flesh
is weaker still
than that of those
who are always mortal.
We who came here,
beckoned by song,
summoned by prayer,
we who guided
the Ark of the Presence
by the waters of the world of dreams --
I want to go back.
I have no portion here.
In the distance,
I can hear the people chant:
"A redeemer will come to Zion,
and to those of Jacob
who turn from willful sin."
will come to Zion,
again summoned to
this world of flesh and stone
but only when ready
when the redeemer is ready
when the people are ready
at the time
the one time
that all times will become.
Further away the people spin
as webs form, fray, fall
from the congregants
to the leader
to the scroll
to me
"Holy, holy, holy..."
(the words dim and echo
as the leader drifts away)
"...is the Lord, Master of Legions..."
and as the murmur of the congregants
grows quiet
their words spread, blur, expand
into larger images,
into stranger tongues:
"Holy in the most exalted heavens,
the abode of his Presence;
Holy on earth,
product of his strength;
Holy forever, to all eternity,
is the Lord, Master of Legions."
The heavens -- abode of his Presence?
She lives here,
was just here,
belongs among us.
The leader, almost gone,
almost disappeared,
speaks again,
in a voice of faded vapor:
"Blessed be the Lord from his place."
Again, the maddening recursiveness,
again, the leader blesses the Blessed,
again I wonder
why the cycle?
the reinforcement?
And again the response of the
barely present congregants,
in voices softer than the silence:
"Blessed be
the honor of the Lord
from the abode of his Presence."
And as dreams feed on dreams,
doubt feeds on doubt
and darkness feeds on darkness
and I am alone
and the Presence hides,
sequestered,
elsewhere
and I look outside myself
and I see only darkness
and I look around myself
and everyone is gone
and I look within myself
within this temporary shell
and farther in,
within my soul.
I know that what I sense
is not darkness,
not an absence of light,
but chaos
emptiness,
the murk that preceded creation,
not silence,
but how sound sounds
before it is sounded,
not vacuum,
but the feeling, the lack of feeling
in the lungs
between breaths
as the animal mind decides
whether the next breath
is to go in or out.
And in this suspension
this time beyond time
this shadow of eternity
that is all times that
time has failed
that is --
no time
I
now
have no framework of continuity
no fabric to lead me
along its weave
no signposts
but the prayer.
If I can tell time
by the liturgy,
tell time
not to stand still...
I call up the pages within my mind,
Turn to the next prayer
I can remember.
We must stand
but I cannot feel my body,
cannot find my feet,
my balance,
my will,
just the writing on the waves
of the current of words
that begins to travel
through my parched soul:
"It is our duty to praise
the Master of all..."
again blessing the Blessed,
who can never be seen,
whose Presence I now cannot sense
"...to give greatness to
the Shaper of Creation..."
again the paradox
as I now begin
to flow with the words
"...for he has not made us
like the nations of the world,
and not planted us
like the families of the earth..."
Not just the earth, no;
there is a bright time, too,
dressed as eternity,
that time which is space
which is the energy
which is all that matters
"...for he has not designed our destiny
to be like theirs
nor our lot
to be like the multitudes..."
and we will find that time
in that future beyond the future
far from the past
within the Presence.
"...We bend our knees
and bow
and acknowledge our thanks..."
I cannot bow
cannot bend my knees
for I am silent
wood.
Still I try
still I try and bow
still I try and
I am falling
falling
down
away from heaven
down toward the earth
Its solid warming
Its cool dark loam
down
and I am of the lowest of creatures
of the creatures that crawl
on the face of the earth.
I have arms but do not reach
I have legs but do not walk
I must crawl
crawl forward
wherever forward leads.
I must continue.
I know that I can crawl
and
speak
but in this darkness
this void
I have no words of my own.
Still I must continue.
And the words of the liturgy
still flow on
proceeding through my mind
my soul
like beckoning candles
leading me forward
if not to a destination
at least to a future time
And my heart reaches forward
upward
outward
and grasps onto the flow of words
and pulls my mind, my soul, my life
onward in their path
and I imagine God
and imagine the Presence
and praise them
who blessed me
who cursed me
who brought me here
who planted me in temporary flesh
then subtracted the world
and whose images
though they may or may not exist
pull me through this mire
of the absence of night
and I speak
in desperation
in pleading
in proclamation
in prayer
to
"...the King who reigns over kings,
the Holy One, who is blessed,
who stretched out the heavens,
and founded the earth,
whose seat of glory is in the heavens above,
and whose powerful Presence
is in the loftiest heights..."
and I crawl onward, forward
and the darkness is no longer
quite so deep
and the silence is no longer
quite so deafening
and the Presence seems no longer
quite so far away
and I continue to bless the Blessed one
that his love may yet reappear
and I pray for the touch of the Presence
and I continue
blessing the Blessed
and I crawl on
crawl under
crawl through
the heart of the paradox
blessing
blessing the Blessed
and I enter the circuit
the path of the process
the oscillations
between Creator and Created
and I pray
as if I am the last person left in this world
who knows how to pray
who cares to pray
as if my prayer is the last strand
binding me to our people
our people to the Presence
the Presence to the Lord,
the Blessed One,
who is Blessed
as words of ancient incantations
spring back up into my soul
"for the sake of the unification
of the Holy One, who is Blessed,
and his Presence,
in fear and love,
to unify the Name
in perfect unity
in the name of all Israel"
and I reach forward,
my arms becoming arms again,
my legs becoming legs,
my heart beginning once again
to beat in human rhythms
to join the pulse, the meter
of the overtones of the heart of God
and I grasp onto the words,
the words that form a healing chain
a never-ending ring of blessing
and they draw me upward
that I might stand
and fulfill my mission
here in this prison
this sudden uniform
this celebrant solidity
this human flesh
and that I may return
to the land where I belong
that I might wait
in that time beyond time.
And in the silence
that is now merely silence
in the darkness
that promises the light
the still voices return
the congregants
infinitely distant
yet still here
the leader
voice transmuted
to tones purer than music
the Presence
still unseen, still unsensed
yet comforting, warming
as if she and I were nestled
in each others hearts
in each others arms
and the silence whispers:
"Do not fear the sudden terror
or the storm that strikes the wicked...
For God is with us.
Through your old age, I will remain the same;
when you turn grey, I will endure.
I created you, and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and save you."
And I stand
I stand
and speak the ancient words of praise
the words of prayer
that brought us to this world
the mystic words
in a near-forgotten language
in the voice of our teachers
in the voice of our leaders
in the voice of our martyrs
in the voice of our mourners
in the voice of those
who may or may not believe
but yet,
if they can speak no other prayer,
have somehow learned
to say these words
blessing the Blessed
who (in the mystery of wisdom
if not the law of logic)
is, indeed, to be blessed.
(return to Shekhinah: the Presence)
