GOD APPEARED TO ME through the leaves and the trees when I was a kid and then not for a long while—that stretch of schooling when rational thinking and material evidence ruled—until I was on my own long enough to start having conversations again with the invisible.
I learned to pray and I learned to convey my requests and I learned to convert faith into a more secular—and socially acceptable—hope. But faith is a much more enduring presence than hope, which often feels fleeting.
I memorized my torah portion at the age of thirteen, commanded to craft an essay on the themes within it. Imagine, at this age, having to say something to a room full of congregants about the deeper meaning of darkness?
But I tried, oh, I tried. God had already told me by that time that I was a poet, a scribe, and I abided. My parents hoped I’d hold ongoing conversations with god but I grew up at a time when loving god and expressing love for god was not cool—it was, at the very least, private—and at most, much too much.
There’s something sweet about believing that god believes in you. I think I held onto that even if I wasn’t talking about it to anyone, not even myself. It’s easy to lose faith in god and still pray to the out-there presence of an infinite beyond and say, “help me,” and “see me,” and “protect me.”
Traveling to places where god’s presence was so obvious, undeniable, and enduring made it easier to start weaving god-presence into my existence. I thank those I met in Zanzibar for reintroducing me to a holy presence in everyday life.
Call to prayer, everywhere. Every time I ate, a prayer on the lips. Every time I entered or exited a doorway, a prayer behind or in front of me. Every time I said hello or goodbye, a prayer for me and the other. Life got rearranged around protection, peace and love, on high.
I learned (or learned again) that all has already been written. I learned (or learned again) that we are puzzle pieces in an immense scattered picture of the universe. I learned how my breath and presence and attempts at consequential kindness held profound meaning.
When I wasn’t talking to god—when I was hiding myself from the gaze of god—when I forgot how to hide myself in god’s face—I was also reeling from the feeling that I didn’t know where I was going or why I’d ended up anywhere.
I thank the Christian mystics for giving me some language for this.
I was raised in a Jewish home—but not the kind that stitched me into a community of believers—ours was more of a collective nod to a history that had hurried away from us. I circled the faith like an American teenager would—with a side-eyed curiosity.
My parents never talked much about their feelings about Judaism or their connection to Jewish life. But my dad always praised yahweh—and that’s the name he used often and always—the most sacred name for god in the holy scriptures.
“Yahweh power’s where it’s at!” he’d chant to us as girls. Can you imagine? I am who I am. I am the one who exists. Daddy! This was the kind of god-love I grew up with—a cheer from the tired jazz man who worked a day job as an English teacher. Daddy, who worshipped music as if it was god himself in a robe of songs!
At fifty, I find it’s easier and most relieving to praise yahweh on walks in the woods, in bird sanctuaries—the magic hedge—the edge of lakes, the fuzzy dunes, all that houses and protects the divine—houses of worship, of course, but also the least expected residences—the nest, the cave, the cloud.
I learned to pray and I learned to convey my requests and I learned to convert faith into a more secular—and socially acceptable—hope. But faith is a much more enduring presence than hope, which often feels fleeting.
I memorized my torah portion at the age of thirteen, commanded to craft an essay on the themes within it. Imagine, at this age, having to say something to a room full of congregants about the deeper meaning of darkness?
But I tried, oh, I tried. God had already told me by that time that I was a poet, a scribe, and I abided. My parents hoped I’d hold ongoing conversations with god but I grew up at a time when loving god and expressing love for god was not cool—it was, at the very least, private—and at most, much too much.
There’s something sweet about believing that god believes in you. I think I held onto that even if I wasn’t talking about it to anyone, not even myself. It’s easy to lose faith in god and still pray to the out-there presence of an infinite beyond and say, “help me,” and “see me,” and “protect me.”
Traveling to places where god’s presence was so obvious, undeniable, and enduring made it easier to start weaving god-presence into my existence. I thank those I met in Zanzibar for reintroducing me to a holy presence in everyday life.
Call to prayer, everywhere. Every time I ate, a prayer on the lips. Every time I entered or exited a doorway, a prayer behind or in front of me. Every time I said hello or goodbye, a prayer for me and the other. Life got rearranged around protection, peace and love, on high.
I learned (or learned again) that all has already been written. I learned (or learned again) that we are puzzle pieces in an immense scattered picture of the universe. I learned how my breath and presence and attempts at consequential kindness held profound meaning.
When I wasn’t talking to god—when I was hiding myself from the gaze of god—when I forgot how to hide myself in god’s face—I was also reeling from the feeling that I didn’t know where I was going or why I’d ended up anywhere.
I thank the Christian mystics for giving me some language for this.
I was raised in a Jewish home—but not the kind that stitched me into a community of believers—ours was more of a collective nod to a history that had hurried away from us. I circled the faith like an American teenager would—with a side-eyed curiosity.
My parents never talked much about their feelings about Judaism or their connection to Jewish life. But my dad always praised yahweh—and that’s the name he used often and always—the most sacred name for god in the holy scriptures.
“Yahweh power’s where it’s at!” he’d chant to us as girls. Can you imagine? I am who I am. I am the one who exists. Daddy! This was the kind of god-love I grew up with—a cheer from the tired jazz man who worked a day job as an English teacher. Daddy, who worshipped music as if it was god himself in a robe of songs!
At fifty, I find it’s easier and most relieving to praise yahweh on walks in the woods, in bird sanctuaries—the magic hedge—the edge of lakes, the fuzzy dunes, all that houses and protects the divine—houses of worship, of course, but also the least expected residences—the nest, the cave, the cloud.
