Or So We've Been Told

(Reflection)

Oftentimes, I find there is nothing to say. Nothing I want to admit to myself or anyone else. No admittance. No entry point. I become closed. Unreceptive. Tired—tired of letting things in, of sending things out. Fearful. Dull. Not dead—but not exactly alive, either. To notice this, and to find it disagreeable, is, I think, a good thing. A good start.

My education was such that I imbibed the notion that this—this random, “Godless world”—was a sealed box that held us all. Locked inside, we were left to our own devices, our own ignorance and cruelty, with only intermittent flashes of wisdom or kindness.

I have long been conscious of a separation between my body and my essence. In recent years, this has become clearer. The essence—the soul, if you prefer—is not weak; it can’t weaken. But it is subject to the body, which at most times is vastly more powerful, or so I had been sold. Yes, I bought the idea that I cannot overcome the strength of my body’s desires. That I cannot soar or be free from its limitations.

And of course, because I ache with pain, ache with longing—because I hunger and thirst: for food, for water, for love and safety, for belonging and acknowledgment, for vengeance and conquest, and for time—time to shut out the world, to prevent the admittance of anything that disturbs the illusory bliss of a disengagement with life—I often find myself on a path toward what can only be described as a semblance of death.

I can never tell if this same idea has affected you. I do know that if you understand even the littlest bit of what I’ve just written, I will want, very much, to be your friend.

And here, I must briefly discuss the role of friendship, thought by the sages of the Talmud to be so essential that to obtain a friend, one must even pay for such a relationship if there is no other means of acquiring it.

My friends—and thank God, I have quite a few—are people with whom my destiny is entwined. They are those I’ve chosen to be my brothers and sisters—people I care for and pray for, dream with, laugh until my stomach hurts with, cry with, and hold in my arms.

I presume we, both you and I, know our separateness, our isolation and barrenness, perhaps more than we know anything else. We know this as a painful fact. Even in the midst of great joy—even within the exultant sensations of love and togetherness—we know that, like a momentary leap into the air, flight is not our normal condition. Falling back to earth, dragged down by an incessant gravitational pull, is foundational. This is a fact of life. Or so we’ve been told.

This “fact” is a condition I work daily to unlearn.

True, I may never fully assimilate the idea that we are not separate from one another, but truly unified. That we are not ossified from the essence of others—and more than that, from the Essence of…

From the Essec—

Now I come to the edge of my language. And rightly so. Because I am attempting—ever so futilely—to describe not only that which is infinite in the temporal, physical sense, but to describe God’s utter ineffability. A Creative Force, which is not a force at all—and any word I choose will be more incorrect, more inaccurate by limitless degrees than saying 4 + 4 = 17. It will be a category error of endless proportions.

And yet, compelled to make a point, I must use words to describe God, knowing full well they verge on meaningless.

I work daily—most days, many times, and with great effort—to unlearn the idea that the world exists without, and independent of, a Creator. That existential isolation is the normative condition of humanity. That we are adrift in a random universe, without the love of God, who both transcends creation and fills it—recreating all things, at every moment.

My work, among other things, is to speak to this idea: to admit, to allow, to permit, to invite in—the transcendent power of these: blessings, dreams, courage, prayers, and the capacity to love—and to love endlessly—that I once believed were beyond my reach.

I work to encourage myself —and others—not only to believe, but to understand that yes, there is hope for us all. That we will one day—and may that day come soon (why not today?)—see the world anew, as if a heavy blanket had been lifted, and the darkness we had grown inured to will turn to light, and the limitations we’ve placed on ourselves and others—those we once accepted as fixed and ineradicable, will be swept away as easily as dust at our feet.

“Can’t Drag Myself Away” from my most recent recording, At The Emergence Of Stars

The mother offers warmth
The father shines his light
The wind whispers through the clouds
The falcons take to flight

The carpenter builds the home 
The doctor cures the ill
The wolf howls out a love song
The soldier takes the hill

And I Can’t Drag Myself Away from this
Can’t Drag Myself Away
Can’t Drag Myself Away

The penitent seeks forgiveness
The farmer prays for the seed
The teacher awakens memory
The angel blesses those in need

And I Can’t Drag Myself Away from this
Can’t Drag Myself Away
Can’t Drag Myself Away

Not for a moment, not for a moment 
Not for the slightest division of time

The singer stirs the unbeliever
The gravedigger shovels clay
The highway restores the spirit 
The hand brushes tears away

And I Can’t Drag Myself Away from this
Can’t Drag Myself Away
Can’t Drag Myself Away

Not for a moment, not for a moment 
Not for the slightest division of time

The child absorbs universes
The victor offers hymns of praise
The rock conveys its stillness
The dreamer longs for better days

The dead re-live their lives
The hungry walk in despair
God calls all into being
The contented float on air

And I Can’t Drag Myself Away from you
Can’t Drag Myself Away
Can’t Drag Myself Away