I do not remember being taught the words, perhaps my mother and father instructed me in the phrases to say and perhaps I learned it from listening to my brother give voice to the evening ritual, but however I learned the words, they certainly were internalized at a very early age.
Shema Israel Adonai Eloheynu Adonai Echad Here O'Israel, The Lord is our God, The Lord is one, Bless Mommy and Daddy, Mark and Marsha, Bobi and Papa, Papa Fellman, all of my aunts and uncles and cousins, Anna, Scissors and all of our cats, Keep them all well. Amen.
I do not remember the feelings that those words brought to me, but I assume that they were comforting and allowed me to believe that I had some sort of influence in the world and that there was something greater than me that watched over everyone who I cared about.
I do not remember when the child's bedtime prayer faded from the nightly ritual. I wonder if even after I stopped saying the words aloud I would whisper them to myself - a big boy who was not so big on the inside as he was on the outside.
Like so many other rituals of life, the evening prayer, even the eternal one, eventually faded away without reason, without thought, without a feeling of loss.
But like music that is buried deep within us in a manner that allows us to remember the words and tunes from 30 and more years ago, even as we cannot remember the book we read last year (or even last week), the words of the little boy's evening prayer remain within me.
And so, I find that recently, the child's prayer has reappeared in a new form based on current beliefs, but perhaps serving at least part of the same purpose. The oneness of the child's god has been replaced by a belief in the oneness of all that has been, all that is and all that will be. And so, the adult's evening prayer is one without words, but is simply the nightly attempt to envision the moment of the big bang when out of seeming nothingness (can there be such a thing), to find in the total blackness the sudden burst of a single point of light, rapidly growing until all that there is is light. But, try as I might, I cannot create that vision, neither the blackness of nothing, nor the single point of light. Yet, perhaps it is not the creation of the vision as much as the attempt to create the vision that is important, for it serves as a reminder that we all come from that moment in time.
And, now, in recent days, I have added a morning ritual to remind myself of the glorious opportunity of the day that awaits me. It is not a standard liturgy, but it does create an awareness, The ritual . . . singing Zippity Do Da followed by Let the Sun Shine In and ending with Wonderful World.
So, within me remains the child and perhaps that is one of the miracles of life.
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
My, oh my, what a wonderful day
Plenty of sunshine headin' my way
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
Mister Bluebird's on my shoulder
It's the truth, it's actual
Ev'rything is satisfactual
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
Wonderful feeling, wonderful day.
So let the sun shine in
Face it with a grin
Smilers never lose
And frowners never win
So let the sun shine in
Face it with a grin
Open up your heart and let the sun shine in
I see trees of green........ red roses too
I see em bloom..... for me and for you
And I think to myself.... what a wonderful world.
I see skies of blue..... clouds of white
Bright blessed days....dark sacred nights
And I think to myself .....what a wonderful world.
The colors of a rainbow.....so pretty ..in the sky
Are also on the faces.....of people ..going by
I see friends shaking hands.....sayin.. how do you do
Theyre really sayin......i love you.
I hear babies cry...... I watch them grow
Theyll learn much more.....than Ill never know
And I think to myself .....what a wonderful world
Monday, October 19, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Stepping Back Into The Water
October 3, 2009
After a four month plus period of not posting entries, it is time to return. For anyone who is interested, I will explain in a later entry why I believe the rest was required, but for now, to get any new readers started and to get me revitalized, I simply will re-post a few of my favorites (and, in reviewing my posts, I found that there were many that I do not like as much now as when they were written). Since during the last four months I have spent a significant amount of time reading books on religion and spirituality, I will re-post some posts that are, at some level related to those subjects. Thanks for reading this journal and feel free to look through the archive to find a piece that you like. Also, feel free to post a comment (or not) as you desire.
The following first was posted on April 19, 2009:
In 1867, Emma Lazarus (of “Give Me your Tired” fame) wrote “In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport” which was in response to Henry Wadsworth’s Longfellow’s poem, The Jewish Cemetery at Newport”. Those poems inspired the following entry (Emma Lazarus' is below) – no other comparison or connection is intended.
In the sanctuary, the noises of the outside world
Have been left at the entry threshold
In preparation for uninterrupted reflection
Illuminated by the glow of the past, present and future.
The living and those whose living breath is no more surround
Sounds of prayer fill the space from without and within
Dappled pages with foreign symbols are a harbinger of the journey
All beckons to an encounter with the miraculous spiritual world.
An expedition of perpetual exploration and self-discovery
Where the individual is elevated to a place within the human spirit
Never losing relevance even while being bound with and within the generations
From humankind’s birth through all that was, all that is and all that will be.
Gazing into the layered depths of time and understanding
We are the departing slaves, the bedraggled victims, the huddled masses of immigrants
The sages who ascended to a godly view of all creation
The sculptors and painters of life in every age.
Absorbed in and by all of the elements
Wrapped in the warmth of time, place and life’s vitality
Taking a nostalgic climb through internal seasons
With a personal lens to search for the paradise within.
I am transported to the days of beginning and youth
In another sanctuary thousands of days and miles away
Connected by invisible cords braided like a Sabbath challah
Illuminated by a warm glow like that from the Shabbat candles.
Playing endlessly with the macramé tzitzit of my father's tallis
Four with eight with five forming heart strings which unite all
Watching my mother’s face as she gazes into an unseen world
With a Moses like glow on her face and a tear in her eye.
Rising and falling with other congregants like ocean waves
Learning melodies and words lasting through sometimes lost relevance
Growing year by year toward understanding and conformity, distinction and separation
Watching the changing of the guard as the youth stand on the shoulders of the elders.
And then the internal scroll of life’s story is rolled and dressed
Stored lovingly until the next never-ending return to the sanctuary within
Where defining moments are recorded in mystical ways
The abstract leading to clarity, myth transforming into philosophy.
And still, the physical world awaits just outside the sanctuary
Yet re-entry will be by one who has been further bonded to the oneness of all
Whose way of being in the world has been modified though ever so slightly
Whose path has been varied by another journey of self and generational discovery.
In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
Here, where the noises of the busy town,
The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,
We stand and gaze around with fearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers,
Inscribed around are in a language dead,
The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent
That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up,
Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth,
By these lone exiles of a thousand years,
From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!
Now as we gaze, in this new world of light,
Upon this relic of the days of old,
The present vanishes, and tropic bloom
And Eastern towns and temples we behold.
Again we see the patriarch with his flocks,
The purple seas, the hot sky o'erhead,
The slaves of Egypt--omens, mysteries--
Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.
A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount,
A man who reads Jehovah's written law,
'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare,
Unto a people prone with reverent awe.
The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp,
In the rich court of royal
Solomon-- Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains
The exiles by the streams of Babylon.
Our softened voices send us back again
But mournful echoes through the empty hall;
Our footsteps have a strange, unnatural sound,
And with unwonted gentleness they fall.
The weary ones, the sad, the suffering,
All found their comfort in the holy place,
And children's gladness, and men's gratitude
Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.
The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
We know not which is sadder to recall;
For youth and happiness have followed age,
And green grass lieth gently over all.
And still the shrine is holy yet,
With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.
Take off your shoes as by the burning bush,
Before the mystery of death and God.
After a four month plus period of not posting entries, it is time to return. For anyone who is interested, I will explain in a later entry why I believe the rest was required, but for now, to get any new readers started and to get me revitalized, I simply will re-post a few of my favorites (and, in reviewing my posts, I found that there were many that I do not like as much now as when they were written). Since during the last four months I have spent a significant amount of time reading books on religion and spirituality, I will re-post some posts that are, at some level related to those subjects. Thanks for reading this journal and feel free to look through the archive to find a piece that you like. Also, feel free to post a comment (or not) as you desire.
The following first was posted on April 19, 2009:
In 1867, Emma Lazarus (of “Give Me your Tired” fame) wrote “In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport” which was in response to Henry Wadsworth’s Longfellow’s poem, The Jewish Cemetery at Newport”. Those poems inspired the following entry (Emma Lazarus' is below) – no other comparison or connection is intended.
In the sanctuary, the noises of the outside world
Have been left at the entry threshold
In preparation for uninterrupted reflection
Illuminated by the glow of the past, present and future.
The living and those whose living breath is no more surround
Sounds of prayer fill the space from without and within
Dappled pages with foreign symbols are a harbinger of the journey
All beckons to an encounter with the miraculous spiritual world.
An expedition of perpetual exploration and self-discovery
Where the individual is elevated to a place within the human spirit
Never losing relevance even while being bound with and within the generations
From humankind’s birth through all that was, all that is and all that will be.
Gazing into the layered depths of time and understanding
We are the departing slaves, the bedraggled victims, the huddled masses of immigrants
The sages who ascended to a godly view of all creation
The sculptors and painters of life in every age.
Absorbed in and by all of the elements
Wrapped in the warmth of time, place and life’s vitality
Taking a nostalgic climb through internal seasons
With a personal lens to search for the paradise within.
I am transported to the days of beginning and youth
In another sanctuary thousands of days and miles away
Connected by invisible cords braided like a Sabbath challah
Illuminated by a warm glow like that from the Shabbat candles.
Playing endlessly with the macramé tzitzit of my father's tallis
Four with eight with five forming heart strings which unite all
Watching my mother’s face as she gazes into an unseen world
With a Moses like glow on her face and a tear in her eye.
Rising and falling with other congregants like ocean waves
Learning melodies and words lasting through sometimes lost relevance
Growing year by year toward understanding and conformity, distinction and separation
Watching the changing of the guard as the youth stand on the shoulders of the elders.
And then the internal scroll of life’s story is rolled and dressed
Stored lovingly until the next never-ending return to the sanctuary within
Where defining moments are recorded in mystical ways
The abstract leading to clarity, myth transforming into philosophy.
And still, the physical world awaits just outside the sanctuary
Yet re-entry will be by one who has been further bonded to the oneness of all
Whose way of being in the world has been modified though ever so slightly
Whose path has been varied by another journey of self and generational discovery.
In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
Here, where the noises of the busy town,
The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,
We stand and gaze around with fearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers,
Inscribed around are in a language dead,
The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent
That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up,
Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth,
By these lone exiles of a thousand years,
From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!
Now as we gaze, in this new world of light,
Upon this relic of the days of old,
The present vanishes, and tropic bloom
And Eastern towns and temples we behold.
Again we see the patriarch with his flocks,
The purple seas, the hot sky o'erhead,
The slaves of Egypt--omens, mysteries--
Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.
A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount,
A man who reads Jehovah's written law,
'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare,
Unto a people prone with reverent awe.
The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp,
In the rich court of royal
Solomon-- Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains
The exiles by the streams of Babylon.
Our softened voices send us back again
But mournful echoes through the empty hall;
Our footsteps have a strange, unnatural sound,
And with unwonted gentleness they fall.
The weary ones, the sad, the suffering,
All found their comfort in the holy place,
And children's gladness, and men's gratitude
Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.
The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
We know not which is sadder to recall;
For youth and happiness have followed age,
And green grass lieth gently over all.
And still the shrine is holy yet,
With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.
Take off your shoes as by the burning bush,
Before the mystery of death and God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)