The Power of Desire*

I look at an image of your face. 

You have eyes that cannot see (me) 

And ears that cannot hear (me). 

I have worshiped idols. 

But…your verboten voice, to me, 

Was like the morning dew, 

A sign of blessing to the world. 

Awakening inner vitality, only to disappear. 

The tenor of your voice, like a hint, 

Suggestive of love and beauty, 

Having done that work, 

Vanished from recognition. 

Say the Rabbis: 

“‘Yours is the dew of your youth’: 

Your youthful sins acted like dew-- 

They roused you to search for God.” 1

Your voice (& eyes & ears) awakened in me 

The power of desire. 

Through promise and frustration, 

They roused me to search for God. 

“I will be as dew to Israel,” says the Lord 2 

A hint, like perfume;

A word or two is enough; 

A whiff of perfume that lingers. 

I ask in mourning, dew on my cheeks: 

“Would you say I bear guilt all these years 

For having worshipped idols?” 3

God reassured Abraham: 

“Yours is the dew of your youth” (Ps. 110:3). 

Even as dew evaporates, 

So our sins may evaporate, 

As was for Abraham and his many sons, 

(O daughters!) 

Do not rejoice over me. 

Do not rejoice, my enemy! 4

Though I’ve fallen in darkness, 

I will rise again. 

Say the Rabbis: “If I had not fallen 

I should not have risen up; 

If I had not sat in darkness, 

God would not be my light.” 5

______________________________

1. 165, The Murmuring Deep
2. Hosea 14:6
3. Bereshit Rabbah 39:9
4. Micah 7:8
5. Yalkut Tehillim 628


* Title: The Power of Desire "The only thing to be done with sinful behavior is to stop it, to repent for it, and never to return to it. As for the power of desire that leads to the sin, it has significantly more positive possibilities" (Chabad.org).

Bull in a China Shop

photo by matthais jordache on unsplash

"Delicious"

I can’t cook a meal without messing it up.

I burn.
I overpour.
I leave out something essential.

I don’t always cook for myself. Sometimes, I create meals for others. My ambition for perfection and over-correcting for mistakes inevitably leaves me asking for forgiveness before we even sit down to eat. But, I can’t leave it at one apology. After each bite, I look for signs and feedback. Anxiously, I interpret every response:

Slow chewing.
A napkin to the lips.
A cough.

Would I overdo it if I asked what they really think? It’s a disaster!...Did I say that out loud? No, no, it’s fine, they say. Really, it’s delicious.

I can’t cook a meal without messing it up. But, we have to eat. And, sometimes, I create meals for others for the soul purpose...excuse me, I mean, the sole purpose of hearing that precious word, “Delicious.”

***

photo from richard gatley on upsplash

"Beautiful"

Sometimes, when there is a very special or important event, I wear makeup. Wearing makeup is like painting the image in your mind onto a canvas. It’s an art form. To perfectly apply the various powders, pencils, and paints should result in an effortless looking beauty. You don’t want people to notice the makeup, but, rather, you want them to see the elegant you more clearly. You want your natural beauty to shine through. It is an art form of tenderness and care.

When I have a very important event I get nervous and I’m usually running late. First, I scrub my face clean. I sit down in front of the mirror. I tell myself, looking straight in the eye, perfection is the goal.

Inevitably, I overdo the powder. So, I put lotion over it and my face looks shiny, almost oily. I add more powder and it creates a thick skin-colored layered goo on my face. I wipe it hard. My skin becomes blotchy and raw. Next, the blush, intended to give me a youthful glow and ruddy cheeked vibrance, sticks to the caked powder and ends up as a dark smear of rose too high on my cheekbones. Often, my eyeshadow turns into a bruised look, and the eyeliner, so flawlessly drawn on one eye, is smeared and uneven on the other. I don’t even try the lipliner. I assume you can’t go wrong with lipgloss. You can.

I’m usually running late, so I give up and go. Would it be socially awkward to ask people to forgive the state of your face at a special event? I make up for my failures in the art form of beauty application by being as kind and agreeable as I can. I’m always hoping people will look past my failures with cover-up and concealer. I try to hide, afraid they will see my nakedness. At these special events, I find myself listening, straining my ears in hopes of hearing someone, anyone, say, “Beautiful.”

***

photo by stephane yaich on unsplash

Broken Glass Everywhere

I broke my friend’s mother’s inherited vase. It was a beautiful blue porcelain painted with yellow flowers. Daffodils, my favorite. At the time, I was a little out of my mind. Yes, I had had a few glasses of wine. But, I was also feeling restless, needy, and wanting so badly to create a good impression.

We were dancing in the living room. It was late. His mother was out of town. He asked if he could kiss me. This startled me because we were good friends. I stumbled backwards and crashed into his mother’s curio cabinet. A precious vase, given to her by his late grandmother, suddenly crashed to the floor.

Frantically, I knelt down to clean it up. I used my hands and cut myself. The blood stained the cream colored carpet. I grabbed the first thing I could find to wash the stain and ended up rubbing the blood with beer. He told me that he would take care of it.

"You should go home," he said.

I left in a daze. I couldn’t get the vase out of my mind. Surely, there was some way I could fix it. Years went by. He never called. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t stop thinking about that broken vase and those shattered pieces of porcelain--yellow narcissus flowers painted over a wash of baby blue.

One day, I drove past his mother’s house again. I remembered his bedroom window. I thought maybe if I used these small pebbles I could throw them at his window to get his attention. If he would only turn back those heavy curtains and open his window, I could tell him I was sorry.

I stood there in the middle of the day, with the sun shining down. I wondered what he would think if he knew I was here, at his mother’s house again,

...and I just broke the second story bedroom window.