It's Elul and the King is in the Field

The King is in the field, and I'm in Nebraska. There are, of course, plenty of fields here and on the derech (way) to and from Colorado. This monthly trip has become old hat for us, with our Shabbats spent in Omaha becoming a normal part of our lives. There is so much going on, so many emotions floating about. 

The Ba'al Shem Tov said that from Rosh Chodesh Elul (the first of the month) through Rosh HaShanah, "the King is in the field," prepared to listen, accept, and hear our prayers completely and wholly. 

Jews the world over are called upon to recite Tehillim (Psalm) 27 during this month as a segulah (something that changes your path or luck). Although the true source is unknown, the theory behind this custom is that it can reverse even the most set-in-stone heavenly decrees. 

Within Tehillim 27 is a refrain that has been a potent part of my life since I started this blog, as it was once in the header of this blog years and years ago. 

Hear (listen to) my voice, HaShem, when I call; 

be gracious to me, and answer me (7). 

It's easy to feel like our prayers are disappearing into an ether of unanswerable silence. Whether for a simple night of rest after so many sleepless sleeps with a baby at my side or for guidance, patience, and peace after experiencing the threat of forces trying to destroy my life, my spirit, my marriage —  the month of Elul is a time for all prayers. It is a time for impassioned pleas and tearful attempts at vocalizing the pain that this world brings to the soul. The King is in the field, waiting, just waiting to hear voices of repentance. 

When I light Shabbat candles every week, I have a regiment of things I say. I thank HaShem for so many things and then begin my pleas. Requests for guidance, patience, parnassah, work, and a path to be a good Jew. 

Teach me your way, HaShem (11). 

That's also part of the same Psalm. Every year I suddenly remember that this Psalm is my weekly prayer said by the light of the Shabbat candles. The important thing that I frequently forget, however, is also found here:

HaShem is the stronghold of my life, 

from who should I be afraid (1). 

And this, perhaps, is the most important lesson in the entirety of Psalm 27. I can ask, ask, ask and pray, pray, pray and repent all I want, but if I don't believe and trust that HaShem will protect me and provide me strength and never give me something I can't handle, then all is lost. And it's the first line in the Psalm! But my greatest fault and downfall in life is to forget that I'm not in control, that there is so much bigger and more powerful than I am. That I cannot control everything. That sometimes, I have to relent, repent, and remember that any fear I have is because I've forgotten who is responsible for everything. 

I just need to hear the shofar. Just once, and I hope my soul will remember. Traveling is hard when it comes to this time of year. Perhaps we should have brought our own shofar ... 

How do you remember — even in the hardest, most trying moments — that HaShem is your rock and strength? How do you personalize such an ethereal concept? 

When I Call, Will You Answer?

Every day (or almost) I log on to my blog, sit down and write something. I pour my soul out onto the pages of this blog, and for the past three-and-a-half years, and for every day of these past several years I've seen the words written there, below the title of my blog: Sh'ma HaShem, qoli eqra v'chaneni v'aneni. It's funny because I was thinking about it tonight, sitting here, trying to make myself go to sleep, and I realized I'd forgotten what the phrase meant or why I put it there. Let's deconstruct.

Sh'ma HaShem: Hear, G-d

Qoli eqra: My voice cries,

V'chaneni:  Be gracious to me,

V'aneni: Answer me.

Source? Psalms 27:7. We read from this Psalm every day during the month of Elul. I can't believe I'd gotten so lost in the constant of seeing it there that I forgot what it was, where it was from, how important the phrasing and words are.

Now, I went back in the annals of this blog and found a really fascinating post (am I tooting my own horn here?) that I'd written in late August 2006. I was four months out of a Reform conversion, and almost three years into studying Judaism seriously. Even then, at that point, I knew that I wasn't content with a religion of do-do-do without feel-feel-feel. I'm not saying that Reform Judaism was that, but what I was seeing and experiencing was that. I was never that kind of Jew.

A morsel of that post:

I read an article in Tikkun about a guy who was at a bookstore in Tennessee when he ran into a college-age kid who was browsing the small Judaica section in a Border's books. He observed that the kid would pick up a book, flip through it and put it back as if he wasn't really looking. The guy walked over to the collegian and they got to talking about what this kid was looking for -- G-d. The collegian said that G-d was missing from so many books. That G-d is almost devoid of meaning in modern Judaism -- in nearly all followings therein. It got me thinking. The one thing I always detested about "religion" was that it lacked rhyme or reason. Things were done because "that's just what we do." You go to church on Sunday because that's what a good Christian does. You daven three times a day, because that's what a good Jew does. You go to confession, becuase, well, that's what a good Catholic does. The WHY gets lost in translation. That's also what drew me so much to Judaism ... the idea of rabbis across centuries arguing things down to the accidental ink blot on a specific Talmudic trachtate. It is, enlightening and brilliant the amount of discussion and argument that goes into Jewish thought. But it feels like we're missing something. G-d?

When rabbinic and Talmudic Judaism was born, G-d almost disappeared from the Jewish map. It makes you wonder of Adonai is sitting idly by, waiting for Jews everywhere to realize that when they left for Summer Vacation, they left good ole' Adonai sitting on the front porch stoop. Many, many years later, there Adonai sits. Waiting. And what are we doing? Well, I'm not sure.

I know what I'm doing. I'm making a concerted effort to "rekindle the flame" as a popular phrase within the Jewish literary circles quips. I carry G-d with me more than I ever did when I was wrestling with organized religion or my fear of life after death. It's almost an unconcious hum in my head, always keeping me at ease. It's the moments when I'm ill at ease that I seem to cry out, truly and deeply, for strength, reciting the words in the Siddur (page 75) that my rabbi and I discussed so often (cannot rebuild a bridge, but can mend a broken heart). I don't want to be a Jew-by-habit, I'm a Jew-by-Choice, who chooses to create a holy bubble where G-d is more than just four letters in the holy books.

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So each morning when I rise, I'll rebuild the figure near the bimah and the shofar, the sound it makes calling us to repentence, to focus on heshbon ha'nefesh -- taking stock of oneself, the soul, reflecting and asking for Divine forgiveness. I'll recite the Psalm, calling Adonai to hear my cries, and I will think of Moshe, ascending the mount for the third time on this day in 2448. I will find my kavannah, and I will keep my beloved close, as my beloved keeps me close.

I think I knew where I was going back then. I knew what I needed, and that hasn't changed. Finding that place, that "holy bubble" that I mention is a constant pursuit of mine. Especially this time of year, when I think about calling out to G-d, asking G-d to hear my voice, to really, truly hear me. To be gracious to me.

And most importantly? To answer.

Light Up the Path Already, Will You?

Every night, I say the shema before going to bed.

And every night, I silently pray that my path, my strength to go in one direction over another, will be granted to me in my dreams by the hand or voice of G-d.

I have had recurring dreams of Hasidism, men in black hats and coats with white shirts speaking to me and teaching me, recently Hasidic people I know have appeared -- wisping by me while I stand, perplexed.

And then last night I awoke in horror in the middle of the night, checking my right leg, on the lower part, the entire space below my knee, wrapping around my leg, for the tattoo. The tattoo that appeared in my dream was huge, in an obscure shape of blacks and reds and it was hideous, but I got it anyway in the dream, not even thinking about it. And so when I woke up, I checked my leg, because the dream had been so vivid, and I was frustrated, but relieved nothing was there. And I went back to sleep, hoping for something.

People keep telling me that in our dreams we're spoken to. And I blogged about my claimed Psalm 16 before.

So every night, I silently pray that these things revealed to me in obscurity in my slumber will somehow be clear. I want to know what they mean, and every morning I wake up without feeling clarity I grow more and more weary.

Revisiting the Ultimate Goal.

Okay, I take it back. Maybe I did figure it out. Roughly a year ago, around Rosh Hashanah/Yom Kippur I wrote a very simple post, "The Ultimate Goal ." What was it?

"I have set G-d before me at all times." (Psalms 16:8)

Now, the thing about this is that it's a consistent goal. A perpetual necessity for me. For those keeping score at home, the rest of Psalm 16:8 reads: "... surely He is at my right hand, I shall never be shaken."

So then on another note, just last night I had a dream about Hasidic rabbis teaching me (Hasidim being a recurring theme in my dreams over the past several months), though when I awoke I couldn't remember what I had been taught. After sharing this dream on Twitter, a friend kindly replied to me simply with a reference to Psalm: 16:7. What does this verse say?

I bless the Lord who has guided me; my conscience admonishes me at night.

Now, I've been homing in on a lot of coincidences lately. My friend's Rosh Hashanah miracle story truly touched me in a way I cannot describe, and just now, well, let me explain. The note from my friend about Psalms 16:7 this morning I found particularly interesting, but hadn't thought much about it other than that it was a fascinating approach to my recurring dreams. But then, while thinking about Yom Kippur and pulling up old blog posts, and happening upon this one with Psalm 16:8 from almost precisely a year ago (one day off), I was struck.

So perhaps Psalm 16 is my song.

Protect me, O G-d, for I seek refuge in You.
I say to the Lord,
"You are my Lord, my benefactor;
there is none above You."
As to the holy and mighty ones that are in the land,
my whole desire concerning them is that
those who espouse another [god]
may h ave many sorrows!
I will have no part of their bloody libations;
their names will not pass my lips.
The Lord is my allotted share and portion;
You control my fate.
Delightful country has fallen to my lot;
lovely indeed my estate.
I bless the Lord who has guided me;
my conscience (literally kidney) admonishes me at night.
I am ever mindful of the Lord's presence;
He is at my right hand; I shall never be shaken.
So my heart rejoices,
my whole being exults,
and my body rests secure.
For You will not abandon me to Sheol,
or let Your faithful one see the Pit.
You will teach me the path of life.
In Your presence is perfect joy;
delights are ever in Your right hand.

For those wondering, the kidney is supposedly the seat of the conscience. But really, this Psalm is how my heart beckons -- G-d will not abandon me, He will teach me the path of life. And it is with this that 5769 will be a year of rejoicing, security, delight, and joy.

I bid all an easy fast, and may we all be inscribed in the book of life. Gemar chatimah tovah, and good yontiff!

The Ultimate Goal.

"I have set God before me at all times" (Psalms 16:8)