Splashing in the Infinite

Are there no reasonable expectations 

of limits and boundaries? 

We are made of Divinity 

All our cells and atoms are God-stuff 

Yet somehow each cell has a membrane 

Each organ a unique function. 

We can interact, form relationship, 

Consume and be consumed by other,

Dive into an obsession, or a pool of water, 

Borrow or acquire heat from a body or a fire, 

Still we do not become those other entities. 

We require symbiosis of certain microbes to 

Protect our autonomy and integrity in order to 

Function as individuals, to remain whole and healthy,  

To digest our fuel - which consists of other life forms 

Dismantled and rearranged to become parts of us - 

To build our structures, which allow us to move,

Create, think and communicate effectively.

We are at the mercy of billions of bacteria 

who seem to know what they are doing, 

even when I do not. 

Then, after our bodies and purpose are exhausted, 

More separate, dedicated and designated characters 

Will devour and dismantle us into component parts 

Over time so our atoms and energy can fuel a new cycle. 

We break things down for our use, 

physically and mentally and emotionally, 

We break down, are broken down, the same. 

I've always wanted someone to love, she said, 

Who would love me as an equal, 

Who would love me, and care for me, 

And support my individuality in the same way 

That I love and care for and support them, 

A person who treats me like the goddess I am and 

Who knows their own Divine worth as well, 

Coming together in the understanding that 

We are literally the same stuff,

Respecting that, right now, we function 

Like separate cells, or adjacent interdependent organs - 

Heart, Lungs and Brain - in the same body. 

We are hermit crabs on the same beach 

Seeking our own unique shells, 

Being tossed around and thrown together for this moment 

By an unfathomably powerful ocean, 

Governed by an orbiting skyrock, 

Reflecting the light of a nearby star. 

I do not know why we are currently 

Differentiated like we are, but we are. 

And soon enough we will return to the soup, 

Reunite with the wall of fire at the perceivable horizon, 

The leading edge of the expanding universe. 

But for now, here we are and maybe, let's play.

IMAGE by THOMAS LIPKE

Gevurah

Strength and Stringency, 

Boundaries and Borders, 

Control and Constriction, 

these limits can seem so, well, limiting, 

but then remember what happens 

when the boundary of the skin is breached, 

when we lose control and the brakes fail, 

when the bladder is unable to hold its contents, 

when the doors or windows will not close, 

when the river spills over its bank,

when the valves of the heart forget 

how to open and close in tandem, 

when we feel only raw emotion. 

Then we begin to appreciate 

the necessary restraints, 

the levies on the bank,

a repair to the rift, 

application of pressure to a wound 

a stitch for the gash, 

and the strength it takes to hold on.

Flow

In the Flow of things 

we Begin with Love,
The Source of All 

in my Pantheon 

whatever Love is 

whatever Source,

Flow and Beginning are

Endless abounding Love 

Invites an Edge that 

Can channel the Flow, 

A Boundary to contain it,

Hold it and fill itself up 

To overflowing

We find the Beauty of Balance 

Between the overpouring Love and

The Constraint of the Container 

There is Harmony there 

Elegance in the central place 

Between Love and Boundaries

Soon Persistance and Endurance, 

Find an Eternity to experience the Self 

Beneath the Love waterfall 

Pouring through the Canyon and 

Dripping off the Scales of Symmetry 

How do we engage 

With the Course of Love? 

We can do nothing but lie down 

Open ourselves wide and Accept 

In Humility and Gratitude 

Let the River pour over us

Bathe in it, drink it in, pee it out 

Finally Love soaks into

the permeable Foundation 

Penetrates the soil and 

Nourishes the Planet 

Distributes the nutrients 

To every reach of the Earth

Creates a land where 

The Presence dwells

Grounding

In the "real world" I do not have the luxury of choosing 

whether to stay in my cozy bed, to stand at the back door 

and decide that it's too wet or cold or windy to go out. 

In the "real world" there may be coziness, 

but there is no indoors, outdoors or back door 

there is only "real" and "world" - be it wet or dry, 

cold or warm, windy or still, the weather simply is, 

I exist and function with it regardless of my opinion; 

the "real world" comes with acceptance pre-installed. 

The world that consists of buildings and climate control, 

endless distraction, labor for currency, exchanged for 

sustainance, shelter and the illusion of security, is unreal.

My animal self emerged from a warm watery womb, 

a small salty sea in the only real world I had ever known, 

my enormous spirit tucked into a tiny body grappling 

with the wind entering and exiting my lungs

learning to maneuver the complex control panel 

that makes one crawl, communicate, and create.

This whole arc of existance appears to be 

a circuitous path back to the real world, 

where I do not have to distinguish between 

inside and outside, topside and underneath. 

My body accepts the elements of the earth as 

the earth accepts the elements of my body 

and together we comprise the real world.

Omer Chesed

We are counting on Expansive Love

We are counting our Strength within Self-Compassion

We are counting on a Love that Balances

Between Endurance and Acceptance

We are counting that Connection supports Love

We are counting on the Presence exuding Love

We are counting

Love is counting on us 

We count

Tycho

 

Today I dreamed a crater so vast and empty
hollowness hundreds of miles across, blast zone immense
At first the barrenness seemed lonely and deserted
Then as I looked more carefully, deep into its center
I noticed a small heart-shaped stone at the core

Today the moon is full and I can see the crater 

The one near the bottom that looks like a belly button

In the deep center it casts a shadow in the shape of a heart

It is defined by its distinctive rays with spokes reaching

1500 kilometers long and peaks 1600 meters high

It retains heat like a hotspot, cooling slowly during an eclipse

The crater is called Tycho after the Danish astonomer
It is also called Umbillicus Lunaris: the Moon's Navel
Its other name is Mons Sinai — Mount Sinai: our destination

As we leave the land of our imprisonments toward revelation

Understanding that the expansive heart is far reaching

Today I study Chesed sh'b Chesed: Love within Love
Today I can see that the smallest stone heart
Has an impact that will make an impression large enough
To be seen with the naked eye from Earth
Under the right conditions, focusing in the darkest night

Gestation

Today we reach the sea and

are born after countless attempts:

the first womb, a garden where 

all things grow, fecund and accessible, 

but after false starts, disconnects, mistakes,

the first menstruation: expulsion from Eden; 

next an intentional death born of sibling rivalry 

competing for what appear to be limited resources; 

followed by a malformed growth producing wickedness 

in need of miscarriage and cleansing through water;

and a new womb, an ark floating on the flood, rebirth;

several more unions and delays, affairs, promises,

broken promises, abuse, infertility, barrenness, 

prolific procreation, cruelty and forgiveness, 

karma and sankara, neglect, and domestic violence; 

we have been lodged in the narrows of Mitzrayim

for hundreds of years, enduring a slavery where we 

were commanded to build without adequate resources, 

 eternally "laboring" under harsh conditions;

Moses: metaphor for the sperm 

who became implanted in the egg-palace

while all the other male cells died in the Nile, 

Moses matured and grew like the head of an embryo, 

the growth of the brain, his mind and awakening spirit, 

as each cell became distinct over time;

the organs of the infant are cohesive enough 

to now survive outside this womb

aware that the container cannot hold them, 

the fetus will have to leave or die trying; 

we begin our struggle to exit with 10 stages,

10 centimeters, contractions so strong 

they feel like brimstone, frogs, lice,

boils, vermin, locusts, etc. 

the infant takes all the necessary nutrients 

from the host like stolen booty;

in this vulnerable moment, we paint an amulet 

 of blood on the doorposts - the mother's legs - 

to protect our birth from the destroyer;

it feels like death, fear, darkness and urgency;

but at last we have arrived at the edge of the sea  

bursting through an impossible crossing 

 cervix thins, vagina splits, perineum tears 

the child led by the head that is Moses, 

passes through the Red Sea, pursued by

the thing that kept us alive and tethered, 

the umbilical cord and placenta, 

trying to follow and to bring us back 

but there is no going back and 

the Pharaoh/placenta is stopped in its tracks 

and cut off by some midwife goddess, 

who removes those tissues of thousands of cells 

that die in the wake of sea, blood and fluid. 

We emerge and are met with joy, dancing,

the whole Earth rejoicing in song at our birth;

we turn our face to the mountain like a breast

promising nourishment and comfort at Sinai

Exodus

It's the night before we're about to leave
but we can't know that yet. 

We've seen the omens:

tensions rising, bursts of anger, 

fear of retaliation, retribution. 

We've heard the oaths:

threats of increased burden, less time, 

warnings of a labor strike, 

fewer supplies, withheld rations,

self harm, abandonment, destruction,

greater pressure to perform, 

resources wasted, sabotage,

growing violence toward the innocent.

Through it all we withstand

expectations of continued work

showing up every day as if

nothing is happening, holding on

to the pretense of normality as if

we can't hear the bomb ticking in our sleep. 

Then suddenly I wake to unfamiliar silence. 

The clock has stopped. 

Time is up, it says. 

When did it stop? Was it tonight? Yesterday? 

Have I been too exhausted to notice 

the cessation of the once relentless ticking? 

I wake in my bed to whispers, 

the drowsy whine of my many brothers, 

an insistant hand shaking my shoulder 

the voice of my mother close to my ear: 

"Shh, Grab your pillow. Hold on to me." 

I find myself bundled with a small sack of clothes 

into the back seat with my siblings 

groggy in the night asking,

"Where are we going? Why is it dark?" 

When we stop again, we lie down 

in bedrolls on the basement floor 

at the friend of my mother's and sleep.

My dad wakes to an empty house, no breakfast, 

the silent absence of five children vanished. 

We wake in a strange place  

a warm glow in the kitchen 

where the tyrant isn't. 

The wilderness awaits

And Dream

In dreams I am wise

dispensing sage words
and calm restraint to
the characters who would rage
or fall into deep depression
the other me's who have been
thrust into positions of authority
and broken by tragedy
who forget that everything is temporary
and so heartbreakingly beautiful
Let the anger go, I say
Ask your heart, I say
Listen and follow the love at your core.
As the veil thins between wake and sleep
wise me knows that out here too
everyone I meet is another part of myself
I am trying - and failing - to integrate

4/20/24 (A Palindrome)

Bark Dogwood:

White petal cloud hovers

Outside second floor glass

Memory paints it pink

How are they white suddenly?

But

Suddenly white they are

How pink it paints memory:

Glass floor, second side

Out-hovers cloud, petal white

Would dog bark?

Right. Write.

Oh, right. A poem.

That's the thing I was 

forgetting to remember 

this late night as I prep 

for a public event and 

the major holiday looms 

like a gefilte fish piñata stuffed 

with anxiety and matzo balls,

the conflicted marriage between 

tradition and intention, 

the spirit of freedom wedded 

to chains of obligation and

kissed by current events and fear.

The best way to navigate this is ...

Oh. Write a poem.

An only kid

As the Spring Moon 

waxes toward fullness 

on the 10th of Nissan 

Miriam's birth and death day 

(and also my birthday) 

we choose the kid or lamb

honored as the Pesach sacrifice

What does it mean 

to be the chosen one 

pure and designated whose 

blood marks the doorpost

- the first mezuzah -

red schmear warding off 

the angel of death 

do we touch it when we 

pass through the doorway 

on our way to liberation 

do we kiss our fingertips 

sticky with that wetness 

does the blood of the chosen 

protect us or only remind us 

of the sacrificed innocent 

buying our own freedom

Dream Haiku

Stars in my teacup

Reflecting eternity 

The dark moon is new

The Structure That Burned

Fire is a cleansing force
clearing a path, as pain 

is subsumed beneath 

the hot purity of anger. 

All the platitudes and 

empty dreams and 

"somedays" are incinerated 

leaving behind only charcoal 

used to create smudgy art,

or nourish the depleted soil 

producing tender growth. 

We do not mourn 

the structure that burned, 

we do not even consider it, 

while tending the delicate stalks 

that break through the crust

in the spring, once the ground 

has warmed and softened 

enough to be workable. 

We tuck in the seeds 

and trust in the process. 

Sky sheds farewell tears 

dispatching droplets 

onto thirsty dirt. 

The transmutation complete 

as Fire begets Earth 

and Air begets Water 

and a seed cracks open.

Nadav and Avihu

Waiting in the wings

these sibling priests 

the children of Aaron

they prepare their firepans 

which I imagine like 

cans of Boy Scout sterno

they know what it said 

in the Scout manual 

but wouldn't it be cool 

if we toss in some tree sap

a pine cone and this leaf?!

So they rush forward 

toward the Divine Mother 

saying, "Look! Look!

We made this ourselves! 

We made it just for You!" 

She looks! And opens wide 

Her sacred arms to 

scoop them up into Oneness

leaving superfluous shells 

behind on an earthen stage 

before the stunned playwright

and mortified director

the audience not sure 

whether to applaud or scream

as the Mother and children unite

dancing on air above the altar

Uncle Moshe instructs the 

cousins to remove the husks

in the static of their father's silence

so that the show can go on

Cosmic Job Jar

There are things to do

Things I "need" to do

Thing I "want" to do

Things I feel I "should" do 

Things I "want to want" but don't

Things I "might" do 

Things I believe could "help" me 

Feel more like doing the things

So, I will write a list

Lists are useful for me 

Organizing my thoughts and tasks 

To avoid thinking my thoughts 

Or completing my tasks

Lists empty the contents of my head 

Put them onto the table so that 

Like some cosmic job jar 

Someone might come along 

Pick one at random and say 

Today I will do one thing

Hey Heh Hei

Three lines: thought, speech, action

Three dimensions : height, width, depth 

Heh is the dalet with an extra foot 

A foot in the door : Presence

Heh the fifth Hebrew letter holds within it 

The month of Nisan, the head of all months

New year of Kings, whose Priestess is Maiden, 

Youth dancing her drum to the temple 

Beating the sound of victory over Winter

Ushering in Spring, reawakening

Autonomy, Liberation, Sovereignty

Hineini begins with a heh and

It means "Here I Am" the answer given 

When the Divine asks "Where are you?" 

Ideally we answer, "Present. Ready. 

Available to do the thing, whatever it is." 

We raise our hand to show the five fingers

Heh rules over the Ram of fire-sign Aries

The Ram: an animal in Torah most frequently 

Sacrificed to the One and roasted by fire 

The Ram: the Egyptian deity Khnum 

Whom we slay in the presence of the oppressor 

Whose blood we use to paint our doorposts 

To spare our own lives as the plagues 

Rain down on those around us 

The Ram whose burnt body we eat in haste 

As we run from our bondage

The Ram whose horn becomes our instrument 

Our breath the wind creating sound 

Through its hollowness, voicing

The wail of the heartbroken

Heh governs the Liver in our bodies 

That heaviest organ, honoring gravitas

The one that discerns and filters out toxicity

Even while we are poisoning ourselves with

Strong drink, telling the story of Exodus 

From the narrows, through the sea that split

Retracting as we ran toward the wilderness

The liver is here for us, silently purifying our blood

Heh the foundation of sight where, first, we show up and 

Declare our availability for service and, only then, 

Are we shown - do we see - the way forward. 

The word "light" occurs five times in our creation story

Giving us the illumation with which to perceive

Two of the four letters of the tetragrammaton: 

Yud HEH Vav HEH, the Presence of HEH 

"Here I Am" appears twice in The Name

Implying: 50% of Divinity is just showing up

Kissing in the Shadow

In my dream I am on a first date with the Sovereign
Everywhere we go, They are recognized, which is awkward at best
Some folk are awestruck, others obsequious with fear
Still others are angry at Them or at me or at the idea of us together

Their Majesty tries to defend me when a waitress insults me
But I say: Let it go. She is only holding up a twisted mirror
Raging at the reflection of her own lack of self worth. Then,
We dine and dash: giggling, fingers intertwined racing down the block

We meander from place to place in the rain-drenched streets
My boots are soaking wet from wading ankle deep in the puddles
To my surprise They suddenly spin me into a dark stony cleft 
Welcome lips meeting in a luscious intimacy in the shadows

These corners, They say, are the only place where no one recognizes Me.
I suppose You know where all the nooks and niches are, I say,
Can You show them to me? But the Sovereign says,
No, I don't know them all. Let's go find them together.

~Andrine de la Rocha

[art by Zias]

In the path of totality

Sun interrupted 

Awe-shock dressed in glee-terror 

A gasp then silence 

Theia

The adolescent collision of two bodies

Merging before their cores are set 

Creates another orbiting body 

Locked by the gravity of it all

Below our surface hidden reservoirs in

Large low shear velocity provinces 

Churn molten fever dreams 

Remembering their unique past

The moon is made of that same stuff, 

More parent than child, edging away

Coolly watching from a safer distance 

Tugging at our intuitive elements

The Book of Formation

Ancient mystical text infers

the building blocks of 

all sense and matter,

element and number, 

meaning and sound,

become manifest 

in space and time by

a divine being engraving 

letters into itself

like a performance artist 

carving channels

cascading with life force 

that does not cease 

or perhaps dance/painting 

on an endless drum skin

with ink-drenched sleeves 

that never dry

The letter Tav seals the alef-bet

Stamp and signature of the Divine

Center of the celestial temple

Casting shadows of finality, judgement 

Then clearing the slate towards rebirth

 

How commonplace it is when 

One thing passes behind another

And how extrodinary that one body

Four hundred times larger is also

Four hundred times farther away

So that when their paths allign the two 

As seen from a third vantage point 

Match with such precision that

One entirely eclipses the other 

Sealing the light like a occult stamp

This character Tav rules over the moon 

Listening through a receptive left ear

Exemplifying grace and sovereignty

The final letter of Emet signifying Truth

Its number is Four Hundred

The 4th Bouquet

The 4th bouquet came from 

the sticky hand of a red-headed boy 

who plucked triumphant beamy dandelions 

crushing their hollow stems in his fist while 

explaining that he'd picked two yellow flowers for me

one with a long stem and one with a short stem!

but there were two of them! 

and I should put them in water. 

I beamed back and found the smallest vase.

These priceless blooms closed at sunset 

and reopened at dawn for days 

arriving and departing like him 

until they shed their browning yellow tips 

then opened one final time 

with heads as white and brief as breath in winter.

The Tulips are Dying

They came to me with hugs and coffee

in a hand-wrapped brown paper tied with twine, 

the sheaf of tulips so tight in their green buds 

I could barely distinguish the yellow seams. 

They came with a hand-written card 

chosen for me in particular: 

the year of the dragon, they remembered, 

blowing flame onto a cake. 

I placed them into a crystal vase on my altar 

watched them transform into luscious cups of sunshine, 

quenching my parched heart in the cold spring mornings. 

The tulips that stood strong for such a long run 

have begun their descent in every direction 

bowing slow like a viscount or consort 

regal but with grace and affection. 

The petals, still supple, begin to lose 

their plump lustre, ripple with discolored edges, 

the wide green leaves blend in by bleaching yellow.

They are taking up more space now in their later days, 

noticing the objects on all sides, 

looking for a place to lie down.

A Deity Shattered

Once I took a 10 day silent retreat to learn meditation, 

and it was the hardest thing I had ever done, 

even after 4 years in the army, giving birth to 2 children, 

maintaining 4 simultaneous relationships for over 10 years. 

The following year, I went back to sit again for 10 silent days 

and upon arrival my first thought was, 

"What was I thinking? Why am I here? Have I no sense at all?"

I am made of Divinity. My substance has existed even before time,

having taken this moment to learn myself, pause, breathe, notice, 

find and recombine my fragments into some semblance of wholeness. 

There are days when minor inconvenience cripples me, 

days when I am paralysed by my own imagination, and then days where, 

in the face of improbability, I rally against any sensible odds 

behaving heroically — or foolishly — stronger than I should, 

pushing through a tragedy to some other side.

I have largely forgotton my true nature as a deity shattered, 

my desire to grasp the texture of each spark and shard. 

I am forgetting daily, each momement, even now, 

the dream a flitting moth in the corner of my vision, 

small evidence that there is a god infestation 

devouring the delicious fabric within my cedar hope chest.

Alef

The first element is Air.

Some say Fire, because:

"In the beginning... Let there be light"

but even before that,

the One - who was/is/will become - "Said"

and that metaphor requires an inhalation

of something - presumably air - the element

that best carries a sound in our analogy,

though what organs we attribute to the Infinite

and whose eardrums that sound caressed

I cannot know.

Yet this Wonder replays for me each morning:

the air hums with distant traffic,

unseen transports of land and sky

mimicking a dull ocean

punctuated by the cymbal of brakes,

and sharp territorial yips warning the other off;

Also the sparse but increasingly insistent

trills of the air creatures

arrive long before the

"Light" is "Let Be"

Air: the parent of sound

impregnating lungs

which gestate mere moments

before vibration is born

- borne on the Air itself

toward receptive membranes

of skin, bone, heart

If a God speaks into the void,

and there is no one there to hear it,

does it make "Light"?