Divine Being and Mythical Creatures

Part 1

I once read a short story about a content fisherman. One day, he saw a mermaid and she disappeared. He became obsessed with finding her again and deteriorated in the process--his longing for her destroying him. Then I wrote a short story. This story is also about a seeker, much like one searching for a mermaid or the mythical city Atlantis. But this story is of one who lives far from the sea...

Our seeker began in the desert village where she had grown up. It was a dry and barren land where people drank whiskey while dancing in the light of campfires to the music of stringed instruments and goatskin drums. Smoke could often be seen rising up along with a word or two of spoken wisdom.

She heard a legend of a utopian place hidden far inland. This place was often talked about among her older friends, and exists in the cloud covered climax of an unknown mountain. There, legend tells, a waterfall pours into a pristine lake guarded by two trees and is surrounded by a grassy field.

“The map is written on the body,” her friend alluded as she gave the map which had passed this way by friend to friend as long as anyone could remember.

She brought a book for reading and the map to be her guide. It would be too hot to start in the middle of the day. She began at dusk. Just as she came to the fence, the meeting place, she looked out across the desert in the direction her map would take her. Past the prickly pairs and the saguaro cacti, she saw a starling image on the horizon. A black stallion. Its galloping silhouette dark against the expanse of the setting sun.

In front of her, there at the fence, stood a young donkey tied with a rope. She introduced herself by showing her hands. Its nose was soft. It was alert to her every move, but seemed trusting. From her hyper-religious background, she remembered a biblical moment when He came into Jerusalem on a young donkey and all the people shouted “Hosanna.” What a different story she had to tell.

She secured her burden on it’s back. They began their journey.

They moved through the desert under the stars for a long time that first night. She eventually found a place to sleep. She had always day-dreamed of riding a horse through the open desert, wind in her hair, barebacked, and galloping at full speed. She thought it would feel like flying. That night, she dreamt fitfully.

The first day, the map brought her to the long flowing grasses of the nearest plains. The grass moved in the wind looking like waves in the ocean.

Eventually, she came to the place of two crystal clear ponds, side by side. They reflected a dark gray sky above surrounded by brighter, white clouds. She rested there for a while. She prayed. It was as if she could dive into the very soul of humanity as she gazed into these strange ponds. They mirrored back a certain truth from her downcast eyes. She felt strangely alive in them.

They continued on their journey over a small hill where the wind blew like the breath of God and smelled of recent rain and creosote bush.

The ground lifted and gave way into a canyon surrounded by rocky terrain. The white rocks bleached from the sun were piled almost on top of each other. There was a reddish brown swamp at the bottom of the canyon. It was hard to see how deep it went. The wind seemed to sing or whistle as it rushed through the depths of the hollows.

On they journeyed, down a long, narrow ravine and the vastness of the landscape began to change and shift.

In the distance, two sloping mountains, smooth and round, rose up. From the peak, she could see a herd of horses galloping through the grassy flatlands. She searched them hopefully as the herd flowed and danced together in a seemingly choreographed chase.

The smooth stretch of land ahead had been grazed over, perhaps by the horses, or sheep that had also come this way. She and the donkey travelled along. During the day she used her map and looked for landmarks. They walked through the night with the stars to guide them. She often found herself scanning the horizon for another glimpse of that compelling creature, ready at a moment’s notice to throw the map aside and run with the mares.

Eventually, she came to a small signpost in the middle of the flat plains. It was a human touch in the untouched wilderness. The post looked like a cross stuck into the ground, but there was a flat wooden circle nailed to the top of the criss-crossed wood. It made her think of the circle of life, or the cycles of life, or the cyclical nature of time. She realized this was the trailhead marker. She could see it on her map, and here it was in person. When she came close to it, she wiped away the dust on the circular sign and realized it was covered with aluminum. She could see her reflection, and in that reflection, she could see her mother, her grandmother, and on and on into the ancient past of all the mothers who lived in her, before her, and of all the generations yet to come through her. 

Just beyond the sign, in the low grasses, she could make out the trail—and it was a straight and narrow path.

She followed the trail in the darkest part of the night, which is just before dawn. She came up over a slope and looking down she could see two tall trees as looming shadows in the distance. The trail disappeared between them.

Part 2

Just before she entered the woods, she glanced back along the horizon. Bright orange and red hues were growing increasingly vibrant in the night sky. With great surprise, she saw the stallion again galloping in the distance. Other horses, mares perhaps, could be made out chasing him as he flew past. She thought she saw a glint of light reflected near his forehead before he disappeared again. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the stallion’s graceful movements.

The ball of a fiery sun came up slowly like a chariot with red and orange splashes of color racing out in front of it. The purple, gray and midnight blues of the dome above her were being transformed into morning. She looked at the map to orient herself. The map, like the donkey, was reliable and steady. Her heart beat wild and reckless, like the stomping thunder of racing horses.

The donkey continued confidently on its feet marching through the morning dew. Surefooted. Humble. Trustworthy. It carried all that was ever needed--the tent, a sleeping bag, and clothes for modesty and warmth. It also carried water, bread and fruit, bittersweet chocolate, lilac wine and stringed instruments to make a mournful song when she felt lonely or sad. She decided not to look back. Carrying her burden, the donkey moved with her into the woods and she used her hand to guide it along the trail. She glanced at the length of the wood as she passed by the two cedars standing tall like two long legs of a sentinel.

The sun continued to rise, but she could not see what was ahead through the thickness of the trees. Her heart began to beat faster as she moved through the thicket. The trail seemed to be rising up, growing steeper as she climbed. She climbed. And climbed. Suddenly, the thick trees and overgrown bushes gave way to a vast open area. The sun shone brightly and the birds were singing like a chorus of angels.

The colors were vibrant. Birds of Paradise and other enormous flowers surrounded the lake. Within the flowers, she could see the yellow pollen dusting the tips of the stamens which gracefully arched down into the center of the flower where all parts connected together as one. And from the center of the flowers, she could see the stems and the stigma surrounded by colorful petals and all of it reaching toward the sky. Water poured out of a crevice in the rock high above, crashing down in a crescendo as she moved in closer. The waterfall poured into the lake creating foamy white bubbles in the deep and still waters. Ripples formed along the water’s surface spreading out in concentric circles. She waded in. There was a remarkable peacefulness in this place. Hope. Completeness. Love.

The donkey’s eyes were round dark pools, and surrounded by thick lashes. It’s nose was soft and reassuring. She took her burden off it’s back. She laid the items on the grass next to the gentle waters.

“We’ll stay,” she said decisively.

Then, and she thought it was only in her imagination, beyond the soothing sounds of the falling water, the chirping crickets and songbirds, beyond the wind moving through the trees, she thought she heard a faint and distant neigh of the stallion. For some reason, in this mystical place, she felt convinced she had seen a unicorn. She shook her head. Unicorns are mythical creatures. But, remarkably, the map proved true and this place was real.

Overcome with gratitude, she put the map in her book for safe keeping. When she returned at last, she would discover it’s metaphor. She kept it hidden within the pages, with the hope that one day a friend might learn of this utopian place. They’d need a map to get there.

A Caterpillar's Bible

“Is this depression?” Eva wondered as her body inched forward. She had to drag every ounce across the wooden walkway that felt rough under her feet and seemed to go on forever. Dark shadows above her seemed to swoop and sway menacingly. She wanted to disappear, but she was also starving. Hunger was the only thing that willed her to go on. This hunger guided her like an invisible sign pointing the way or a silent urging call. She turned slowly down a more narrow path, still on scratchy wood, still rough on her feet.

She saw something thin and flat waving in the wind, like paper. It was green. When she strained her neck, she could see hundreds of these pages floating around and above her. The words of life seemed to be written on them and she could see the words reflecting and glittering in the sun. She took a slow and careful bite. She chewed for a long time, trying to make sense of it, trying to digest it. Her body began to feel heavier than ever before, but her mind felt different. For the first time, she experienced a glimmer of hope. So accustomed to downward spiraling thoughts that seemed to form a rope around her body, she suddenly knew that her useless hands and stubborn, slow, heavy body could never stop her from eating these green pages with the words of life glittering on them. Almost unable, she kept moving ahead.

She ate. She ate the words. She ate more and more and more. Her body grew bigger and slower, but her mind felt lighter and almost free. She consumed these pages without a thought anymore to the swooping shadows and darkness that threatened above her. It was as if the pages provided shelter — from enemies and from the storm. She chewed and swallowed. Again. And again. She grew, bigger, slower, and heavier.

One morning, when she woke up, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t go another inch. The leafy pages around her and above her still danced in the wind. She wanted more, but her body had finally won. She couldn’t move. She began to cry. Her tears poured out like the rain that pitter-pattered on the leafy papers, now a thousand umbrellas to shelter her. She cried hard, pouring out all of her depression and all of her newly awakened mind. She cried all the weight of her heavy body into those tears. Written in those tears were the words of life. She lay her life down, and it felt like death. She closed her eyes and still the tears poured out of her like silken words and she began to weave them around herself. She spun the weight of her helplessness. She spun the heaviness of her depression. She spun all the thickness of her body and being around and around her — like a cocoon.

It was dark and silent. She could see nothing anymore, as if the words of life were wrapped tightly around her very soul. Somehow, she knew that to the world (and those dancing green pages, and those swooping shadows), she no longer existed. And yet, she began to think that all the colors of light were somehow wrapped inside the great absence of color that surrounded her. Although her eyes were closed and her body paralyzed, she started to feel all the color of the rainbow write itself into her skin.

A day passed. Maybe a week. Could have been years. She was suddenly filled with an insatiable thirst. This thirst, like an invisible sign or a silent urging call, willed her to go on. “Be brave,” her thirst seemed to say. “Don’t be afraid,” it said. And then, “The burden I give you is light.” Remembering, she took a slow and careful bite. She chewed for a long time trying to make sense of it, trying to digest it. But, there was nothing in this bite. The words of life that had wrapped around her were no longer outside her in this empty, dry casing, but rather had found their way somewhere else. So, she broke the casing. She pushed and pulled her way through. She felt vulnerable but brave. Hopeful and unafraid.

She opened her eyes, but all was dark in the world. No clouds, or moon, or stars. She stretched her arms and prepared as if to dance. For the first time her body did not feel so heavy. Her depression did not feel so eternal. She could feel the rough scratchy wood under her feet again. She took a deep breath and she felt joy surge in her heart. Now, she could feel the wind. Wind in her hair. Wind under her feet.

Purple and pink began to spread out before her. Then, orange and red. Then a fiery burning, unquenchable light broke through the darkness. The light was with her and the light of the words of life could be seen by all the universe, written on her humble and eternal wings.

Be Still and Know That I Am (That I Am)

Stillness sounds like birds chirping. 

Stillness feels like easy breathing,

And warm feet covered in soft blankets. 

Stillness looks like a blank page that asks nothing, 

Except for me to be to me. 

In the stillness, have I drifted in and out of sleep? In this stillness, I’ve allowed my mind to wander as thoughts come up. I remember seeing small children dancing with dust on their bare feet while the church band played. My feet feel clammy and cold, but they are covered in warm, soft blankets. The birds are chirping, but the small child next door is crying. I can hear her through my open windows.

When my mind wanders like this, my breathing is easy until I think of the children separated from their parents. I’ve heard those babies crying, too. I made sense of those separations and abandonments within a system called, Child Welfare. But, there are also abandonments that I can’t make sense of, thinking of the pre-teen wearing hijab, speaking to the world from a dark room with no windows, saying, “Only God alone has not abandoned us!” Her cries ring in my ears: “Where are you, world?” My breathing becomes difficult. My stomach, lungs and chest feel as if they are all in my throat at once.

Let me drift away from these troubling thoughts; the sky is fading from blue to grey to black. The night divides the day: the separation of the rich & the poor, the mother & the child, and the body & the soul...

Stillness sounds like deaf ears

Stillness feels like no breath in the lungs,

And warm earth tossed over cold feet.

Stillness looks like a blank life that asks nothing

Except for you to be...no more.

 

From this stillness, may We rise with breath deep in our lungs and blood pounding in our chests. Come! Rise up with open eyes, with open hands, and with open hearts. In the stillness, may we listen with ears to hear both the chirping of the birds and the cries coming from our neighbor’s open windows. May we feel the rhythm of human breath in our lungs--which, from dust to dust, is never ever still.

Hurricane Donald

It was bedtime for the children, and we were listening to the radio. There was a great hurricane coming, they said. A raging, devastating, and powerful storm.

The storm moved slowly and deliberately toward the shore of our country. No one really believed it would land. All the technology and measurements had predicted that it would pass by and die out at sea.

The storm landed. The storm moved inland. The storm raged. 

The city politicians had given fair warning and an easy exit for the upper-middle class and wealthy voters to leave quickly. Most of these people found a place for themselves -- in their comfortable summer homes, in well furnished guest bedrooms of family or friends, and in fancy hotels. Each had a safe place to watch the storm unfold on their screens. 

The poor and the homeless were hit first. They were hit hard. The disabled and those living on the margins of cities were abandoned. In the high winds, children were ripped from the arms of their parents. 

Here in the midwest, a safe distance away, there were two news stations covering the events, and one radio station which broadcast the impact of the storm in 20-second sound bites. These news sources had an unearthly power to numb hearts and minds into an impenetrable indifference. People were hypnotized by news of the storm as they stared at their screens with eyes that could not see. They listened with ears that could not hear. They sat in front of these glowing screens, in comfortable armchairs, like theater chairs with cup holders. They were strangely paralyzed by the real-time images and could not move. 

The first of the two news stations had access to the devastation from just outside of the hurricane. Looking from the outside in, one could see images of looming, dark rain clouds and an ominous spiral of wind and water. Debris as big as cars and boats floated up like autumn leaves in a violent swirl of wind. The news anchors interviewed those who had just narrowly escaped from the storm. As their hair whipped wildly, one could see desperation and pleading. They cried out helplessly to the world. Help the ones left behind. Help the ones we love. The news anchors nodded at these words with pity stretched across their faces.

The second of the two news stations recorded the events from within the eye of the hurricane. There, in the eye of the storm, were blue skies and calm air--eerily calm air. These news anchors shared their perspectives of the raging storm around them, articulating only one message clearly: the law of nature reigns supreme. Blame, defensiveness, and hoarding were only side effects of this immutable law. In this eerily calm center of such a powerful storm, one could virtually watch them gather as much wealth and resources from the debris as they could. They did not fear the storm, but tried to move along with it, according to the laws of nature. They had only one great fear, that “those people out there” might bring their devastation from the outside in. 

It seemed so safe and prosperous in the eye of the storm. We wondered why there was no compassion there. We wondered why there was no generosity. Yet, we started to realize, in a strange inversion of place---that a great storm raged within the very hearts of those standing under the calm blue skies and eerie air. On the screen, you could barely see it. But, if you looked closely enough, you could see under perfectly placed hair and pearly white teeth, there existed a dark and self-serving rage. 

Likewise, through this strange inversion of time and place, in the hearts of those being battered by the storm, there was a light. It was a powerful light flickering like a candle in the dark. This flickering light existed in the very souls of those who had lost and were losing everything. They alone knew what it meant to love someone other than themselves. In their battered hearts came a new thing on earth. It was the most ancient of things. It was the beginning and the end of all things. It was love. 

Meanwhile, the radio waves brought their voices--all the voices--to the farthest corners of the earth. These radio waves did not bring hypnotizing images on screens, but rather just words and stories. 

It’s bedtime. We shouldn’t go to sleep. But, only the children know how to discern the good from the evil, and only we can protect them from the storm. The storm is raging out there; the storm is raging in here. Let’s tell them a bedtime story, and hope the children sleep.

Care for the Vulnerable is Knowledge of God

I worked in the foster care case management system for 4 years. It's important work. It's vital spiritual work (using biblical language) to care for the widows and orphans. The prophet Jeremiah writes: "This is what the LORD says: Administer justice and righteousness. Rescue the victim of robbery from the hand of the oppressor. Do no wrong or violence to the foreigner, the orphan, or the widow. Do not shed innocent blood in this place." (22:3)

Today, we "rescue" victims of intergenerational and systemic robbery by giving out treatment plans and telling people to find a job. We do violence to the foreigner by criminalizing their very presence. We "take care" of widows by making their children orphans. Innocent blood runs thick in our soil. Pay attention to what our administration administers--and stay awake to how your communities care for the vulnerable. We have a long history of child-snatching.

Images from my work in the foster care system cannot be erased from my memory:

An 8 year old boy, falling to his knees, hands clasped and arms raised up in prayer, refusing to rise for the CPS worker. His mother crying out. The police standing by.

Gazing through a sparse but well-worn family photo album, sitting side by side with a mother who had lost 2 children to the system already. I listened to her voice, pregnant with longing and emotion for each of her sons. I looked in her eyes. I heard my voice saying that I would be recommending termination of her parental rights over her medically fragile infant at our next court hearing. She wouldn't (or couldn't) look at me as I sat in front of the judge that day.

The foster parent's face, who had cared for a 6 year old girl for over a year, torn with grief and concern as the girl was placed back in her mother's arms. 

It's hard to reconcile faith with this reality of experience. But, "Care for the vulnerable is knowledge of God," Walter Brueggemann writes. This does not mean that the one leads to the other or vice versa. "Rather they are synonyms!" he exclaims.

Christian nation, your God has spoken, but your ears are closed. Hear this: "You shall not abuse any widow or orphan. If you do abuse them, when they cry out to me, I will surely heed their cry; my wrath will burn, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children orphans" (22:23-24, emphasis mine). Why is this so comforting for me even when I know I am implicated? Perhaps, because to my ears, it sounds like the administration of justice. 

Modesty

Last night, I sat in the children’s dark and quiet room. I could hear their gentle breathing and occasionally, a shift of their covers. The sounds of rest. But, the thoughts in my mind were fitful. I felt afraid, exposed. I have thrown my pearls away…Who will value my precious words when I expose them for free?

I would flaunt my body as if at a public swimming pool where people who should not see may freely gaze and stare (for example, married men, self-critical women, and young children learning gender-binaries through careful observation). But, this is more than than a day at the pool. This is my hidden self, my private thoughts made public. But, Oh! to be able to fully reveal my inner self--I would cover my body and pull back my hair; I would reveal the light within the darkness of my soul. Modesty is such an important value.

“Our hands and our faces, especially our eyes, are revealed,” an Orthodox woman wrote. “Pay attention, not to what we cover up, but to what we reveal. Our eyes are the windows into the soul.”

With my words, I reveal the inner looking of my heart and mind. I reveal parts of my soul with a pen in my hands. There is a still, small voice that dwells in deep darkness. But, I am a Western woman. I have been taught to cover my mouth, to turn a blind eye, and hold back carefully manicured hands from the poor. We are taught it young: reveal your body, not your mind. Low cut dresses and short skirts. Hair blown dry, so smooth and straight. Eyeliner and lip gloss. A certain kind of smile (seductive at times, receptive to the male gaze, and friendly but guarded to the lonely stranger). But, Oh! what would it be to cover my body and reveal my soul? To cover my long legs and my critiqueable chest, but reveal my hands to a stranger in need.

In my fitful thinking, I wonder: Have I been too vulnerable with my words?

“You should wear your hair down more often,” people say to me (often). I want to be seen, but don’t they know, I’m putting down my words instead. They are long, thick and unruly. They are not dried straight or bleached blonde. They are my natural color. Pay attention, not to what I cover up, but to what I reveal. I reveal my eyes with my soul behind them and a pen in my calloused and careworn hands. 

The Western Wall

I, who am often lost and disoriented, orient myself in prayer. When I pray, I pray east in the direction of the Western Wall. Christians called it the Wailing Wall because their conquest and exclusionary powers could only be met with wailing by the righteous. I pray towards the Western Wall, and just beyond in the direction of the Temple Mount, praying with the hope of the Holy of Holies.

After I put my children down to sleep, I read about agents of power tearing children from the arms of their parents along the the Southwestern Border where Trump wants to build a wall. Our president has become a terror on this earth because Americans gave him political power for an end to be obtained regardless of the means. I pray in the direction of the Wailing Wall.

Our administration would put a gag law on federal funding for doctors who need to talk to their patients about options when their patients find themselves with pregnancy. This gag law will only affect certain people. Ruth Bader Ginsburg said, “There will never be a woman of means without choice anymore...So we have a policy that affects only poor women, and it can never be otherwise, and I don’t know why this hasn’t been said more often." She said, “That we have one law for women of means and another for poor women is not a satisfactory situation.” I pray in the direction of the Wailing Wall.

Our political officials would insult and threaten North Korea in the midst of diplomatic negotiations. Trump breaks up with Kim Jong-un before he has the chance to break up with him. Ego and power moves (and almost certain failure no matter how you cut it) hang on a pinhead or maybe the button of a nuclear weapon. Meanwhile, people are starving. People are suffering. People are living lives that are unlivable. “Dear Honorable Chairman, our weapons are so much greater and more powerful than yours.” Let us pray.

“Our weapons are so much greater and more powerful than yours,” said Roman conquerors in Palestine, said the Christians who enslaved generations (stealing children, controlling reproduction), and says the American President in a tweet. And in the Holy City, this corrupt man poses for a picture by the U.S. embassy. He poses with a smile on his face—eternally captured in time with ears that cannot hear and eyes that cannot see. I pray towards the Wailing Wall, knowing that problematic term is wrought with a political power that must come to an end. I pray to the living God alive in the hearts and minds of those who weep—the One who sees and hears.

"Prayer is a waste of time," says my agnostic lover. So, I will also pray with my feet. Let us pray with our feet: Let us walk a mile to the Border. Let us walk a mile to receive reproductive healthcare. Let us walk a mile with the people whose only weapons are plowshares, and only powers are pruning hooks. Let us pray with our feet as we go out weeping, sowing our fields with tears, oriented in the direction of the Western Wall.

My Sister's Craft

My sister and I approach our craft so differently. I rest where the tide meets the sand and let the waves wash over my feet. The waves are words washing over my mind. I try to remember the poetry they speak when I find the time to write. My younger sister runs along ever new beaches with persistence and curiosity, using her hands to mold the sand into castles, organizing colorful shells, and listening to the hollow space within them that sings of the ocean waves. She makes time to carefully record the songs she hears from the seashells - each a slightly different melody - and leaves behind her a trail of achievements. Warm beach winds dance around us, sisters, blowing long hair wildly around sun-kissed faces.

To Have What is Not

(A dear friend sent me a quote from Toni Morrison, I reply:)

...But the priest desires. The philosopher desires. 

And not to have is the beginning of desire.
To have what is not is its ancient cycle
It is desire at the end of winter, when 

It observes the effortless weather turning blue... 

It knows that what it has is what is not
And throws it away like a thing of another time,
As morning throws off stale moonlight and shabby sleep. 

- Wallace Stevens, “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”

As I read this poem, my mind links differing concepts and ideas into a linguistic wholeness. Desire knows that what desire has is what is not. We throw our hearts desire away as a thing of another time when life brings us the dawn of a new age. Yet, sometimes we desire again and again--for not to have is the beginning of desire and to have what is not is it’s ancient cycle.

What is my remedy? "Take delight in the LORD, and He will give you the desires of your heart." (Psalm 37:4) We came into this world with nothing and will certainly leave this world with nothing. So, let us be content with food and clothing. For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. The desire for money is the imposition of not-to-have on others, rooted in the bottomless pit of the fear that what you have is not. Love of money is rooted in the never-ending winter, a fire that will not be quenched, and a sleep that does not wake--for there will always be one more thing. 

And just so that pernicious evil of white folks is the imposition of not-to-have on the many. A taking of even the possession of food and clothes, along with everything else. Not to have is the beginning of desire: the desire to be whole, when you are rendered incomplete. The desire to prove that you have language, when your language is silenced in your mouth. The desire to show that you have art and kingdoms, when art and kingdoms are stolen from you in the process of their creation.

Toni Morrison writes:

The function, the very serious function of racism is distraction. It keeps you from doing your work. It keeps you explaining, over and over again, your reason for being. Somebody says you have no language and you spend twenty years proving that you do. Somebody says your head isn’t shaped properly so you have scientists working on the fact that it is. Somebody says you have no art, so you dredge that up. Somebody says you have no kingdoms, so you dredge that up. None of this is necessary. There will always be one more thing.

In the dawn of the new era, throw this distraction away like a thing of another time. Your reason for being does not need to be explained. Live the age to come in this very moment. You are a priest. And, yes, the priest desires. Not to have is the beginning of desire. To have what is not is its ancient cycle. But, take delight in the Lord (not this harmful world) and the desires of your heart will be like the end of winter as you observe the effortless weather turning blue. In this way, you truly have what has not-yet-come, free from the imposition of One. More. Thing.

For I Am Love-Sick (Song of Songs 2:5)

I open the bathroom cupboard, as I do every night. I twist off the child-safe bottle cap and shake a light blue bill onto my palm. I drink it with a glass of water. After my routine is finished, I walk to the bedroom and pull the warm covers aside and climb in. I take a deep breath in the quiet of the night. Peaceful and steady, I turn my side table lamp on to read and study before I go to sleep.

I’ve heard the rabbi’s say that when we pray, we speak to God, but when we study Torah, God speaks to us. Today, I study words from the Torah and a midrash. Behold, a voice speaks. I sit with these words that I’ve just read. I hear an answer to a troubling question that has plagued me for many years.

Then Matt, who was reading next to me, mumbled something about the impracticality and the “just-for-fun” nature of all my reading, studying and writing.

I told him, “Hey! This book speaks to that! Look here…” and he leaned across the bed as I opened the pages to where I had underlined and starred the different sections. “It says Abraham was called ‘madman.’”

I showed him another section, and said, “Granted in some ways, he lived in the structured, real world--within the paradigm as a wealthy, well-connected elite. But, look! He also lived outside the paradigm. It says here, he lived as “a distraction, irrelevant, and even crazed” (85).

“And here!” I exclaimed pointing to another sentence underlined with dark blue ink. Matt leaned across the bed with his elbow pressing into the mattress. “They would say, ‘Look at that old man traveling about the country like a madman!’ Ultimately, that is the finest compliment that is paid to Abraham’”(88).

He looked at me with his eyebrows raised. I know “distracted,” “irrelevant,” and even “crazed” is how some people view me. Over these years, I have been seen as my book describes: shoteh (fool), for abandoning safe structures and faring on unmapped roads. Perhaps this is my madness. But, I have also, perhaps in a way like wealthy Abraham, been covered by safe structures: as a wife, a mother, a social worker, and a youth pastor. We may frame my journey in respectable ways. But, anyone who knows me intimately knows that I have been in tiltul (exile; lit. “off the point”) wandering through religious community, religious texts and religious wild imaginings as one in the travails of faith--going forth to a land that my God shall show me.

In this book by Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg The Beginning of Desire: Reflections on Genesis, she reflects in chapter 3 "Lekh Lekha: the travails of faith" on Abraham's journey. In Hebrew, Lekh Lekha means “Go Forth.” It is descriptive of Abraham’s journey into the wilderness and into the unknown. I also experienced the imperative to go forth. And I travailed to make sense of it. Today, perhaps, I received part of a long awaited answer, a revelation to my own travails of faith.

I showed Matt the most important part from this chapter, the cream, the meat and potatoes (starred and underlined boldly). Zornberg cites Rambam from the Mishneh Torah.

“Listen to this, honey! It makes so much sense. It’s the answer to my eternal question!”

What is this condition of right love? It is, that one should love God with an excessive, powerful love, till one’s soul is totally involved in love of God, and one is constantly obsessed [shogeh] by it, as though ill with love sickness, when there is no place in one’s mind free of the love of that woman with whom one is obsessed--neither when one sits nor stands, eats nor drinks. More than this, should be the love of God in the heart of those who love Him and are obsessed by Him. This is the meaning of the command, “You shall love your God with all your heart and with all your soul…” And also of King Solomon’s allegory, “for I am love-sick” [Song of Songs 2:5]: indeed, the whole of Song of Songs is an allegory for this. (Mishneh Torah, Hilkot Teshuva 10:3)

And Zornberg’s next words: “To love is total obsession: the [Hebrew] word used is shogeh, which is clearly related to shaga, madness” (88).

We stared at the page together for a moment. I turned to my partner, my love, “Can you see what this is saying? Does it make sense?”

I read this almost pleading, hoping for him to see that my obsession with study and prayer is my love (shogeh) of God. That, yes, I have been diagnosed with Bipolar disorder. I accept this and take my meds. But, there is also something in the condition of right love that keeps me sane. There is something in the condition of right love that could prevent me from the rending of my mind. This love weaves back together all the torn parts. Zornberg describes it as teruf ha-da’at (lit. rending of the mind). It’s an insanity in which the center will not hold, a dislocation.

Matt considers me torn, teruf ha-da’at, because of Bipolar Disorder.

Yet, Zornberg writes that this torn-ness is woven into the text about love and reward, implying that we can live it as a life-sustaining gift:

The danger of teruf ha-da’at, literally, the rending of the mind, an experience of sharp dislocation and discontinuity, is thus woven into the text about love and reward...The gift of rending, teruf, of discontinuity, madness, God gives to those who fear Him (Psalm 111:5)...But how live a teruf, a torn-ness, that is a gift and not a destruction? (90-91)

I wonder how can I live this madness, this obsession, this condition of right love as a daily sustenance and not a destruction? I am love-sick and I believe that this could, in fact, sustain me--like the daily bread which is broken. Perhaps right love can sew together my mind that has been torn.

“Look! This is a thing,” I told him. “My experience is connected to a tradition, to a reality, to an explanation about the condition of right love.”

Matt said frankly, “No. It’s Bipolar Disorder.”

Then, he gave me that look of suspicion-concern-fear, the have you been taking your meds? look.

I said, “Honey, this is my ultimate question. I began asking it so many years ago--is there a link in my madness to God who I experienced so palpably?”

I don’t want to be love-sick for any man, but I have known that feeling; I don’t want to be obsessed in madness, but I know that experience. Yet, it is written that, “More than this, should be the love of God in the heart of those who love Him and are obsessed by Him.” I have no other ground to stand on while I am wandering through this wilderness in exile, tiltul, “off the point,” trying to make sense of my madness.  

I feel that this midrash is an answer and I want to share it with Matt. I have recovered my ability to live in the real-world paradigm. Meds help. Therapy helps. Perhaps, my madness has been replaced with a condition of right love. But, after so many years of struggling with this question, I’m relieved to see that even this ancient text proves that there may be a relation. In my great love of God (my shogeh--love related to shaga--madness), I have listened intently. I have sought for God. I have knocked at the door. And afterwards, revelation. She writes,

When one strains for intimations of relationship, one demonstrates hiba...[God] did not reveal to him the land right away, so as to endear it to him, and give him reward for each word spoken. (Gen. 12:2).”...[There is] an intense listening--and ‘afterwards’ akar kakh--revelation. (89-91)

The meaning of my experience has not been revealed all at once, and so I demonstrate hiba. I am endeared and rewarded for each word spoken as I study and read. This is all I want in the world--to love our God and to love my neighbor as myself. I may have had an experience of being mad (shaga), but I also have the experience of love (shogeh). I must be love-sick, I realize.

“Hey” I say smiling at my life-partner, my love, nudging him to loosen up. My outbursts of enthusiasm like this come only every so often, and he's learning to trust that I'm staying well. He gives me a goodnight kiss, and for a moment we look in each others eyes. There is affection, then perhaps a twinkle of humor, then we can't hold each other's gaze any longer. We laugh together. Because we both know I’m taking my meds, and all this enthusiasm about words is just-for-fun.