I'm getting ready to return to Israel. My first trip (back in the 70s) lasted more than three years. I've been back twice since then. This will be my fourth trip. To prepare for the trip, I've been reading Yehuda Amichai. My new piece for Good Letters shares a little of my love of Amichai's work. Enjoy.
My latest short essay, "On the Path to Freedom," is now available on Good Letters. You can find it here. The piece is inspired by a story told by a guest at the seder my wife and I hosted on the first night of Passover this year. Running through the piece is the acknowledgment that one may experience the desire to turn back when one is on the path to freedom. If you've ever felt like like turning back, this piece might be of some interest to you. If you've never felt like turning back, this piece may offer you some insights into those of us who have felt that way. Enjoy!
Here's a poem, inspired by a friend's request, for this year's seder.
To Be Read at the First Seder, 5778
Tonight, again, we are leaving.
We are leaving without carrying straw,
though we breathe straw dust and see
through a veil of straw dust as we follow
the one who, before us or within us, draws
us toward her, toward him. After frogs, after
cattle sickness, after blood, we are left
with only a drop of will. We neither trust
nor challenge our leader. We are dragged
along, pulled by a mystery
without a name, and we know not
where we are going, to the edge
of a continent or to the end of the universe
as we know it. Blood has been slashed
on doorposts, the names of black angels
have been scrawled in blood on streets
of our cities. The blood of every suffering
shunts through our hearts as we crawl
through the darkness of history. Pharaoh
claims every star, ever pebble of time, every
grain of eternity as his own. Can we still believe
that the rain falls for us, for our crops, can we
believe that each new moon calls our women
to worship, or are these just lies we tell
ourselves to keep our lungs filling and emptying
with what can’t be seen but sustains us?
Tonight we are leaving. The stories of women
expose the small hands of rulers. Refugees
move through us, and we cannot tell
if we are dreaming. We have abandoned belief
in the ordered world, and the orders
that have been handed down to us
and that are enforced by overlords.
We have so little to call our own now
we are nothing more than open borders
that refugees without papers, without names
in this world, cross without hope or fear.
Let us hope that the border that keeps hate in
and love out will open tonight. Let us hope
that hate will dissolve when it is met
with love rushing across when the border patrol
is disbanded, the passport control agents
step out of their uniforms, freeing their bodies
to be bodies among bodies, each wondrously
strange and as familiar as all of God’s creations.
But now we are just leaving. Leaving the sweet
cucumbers and onions we have known. Leaving
the roles that had been assigned to us
for so many centuries that we have forgotten
whether we were made slaves by God or man.
For now, we are simple creatures leaving
the only room we’ve ever known as home.
I had the opportunity to moderate a panel at AWP 18 on the challenges and opportunities of talking about and exploring matters of faith in the literary community as well as in our own work. The four of us who presented are now working on an essay in four voices. We'll see how (and if!) this turns out! For now, I want to share with you a small sample of observations offered by my wonderful co-presenters.
"I am always preoccupied by questions of faith and doubt, tradition and innovation, and above all, how we engage with the mystery of human existence," Amy Gottlieb, author of The Beautiful Possible.
Amy also shared this rich insight from the late Israeli novelist Aharon Appelfeld:
"In his memoir, Israeli novelist Aharon Appelfeld writes: 'Literature, if it is genuine, is the religious melody that has been lost to us. Literature gathers within it all the elements of faith: the seriousness, the internality, the melody, and the connection with the hidden aspects of the soul.'”
"As a writer whose sensibility is tethered to Muslim heritage— visual art, architecture, garden-design, calligraphy, poetry and music-- I recognize beauty to be the lever, the primary language of devotional love in Islamic arts," Shadab Hashmi, author, most recently, of Ghazal Cosmopolitan: The Culture and Craft of the Ghazal.
Shadab went on to share the following,
"As Rumi says:
I can't stop pointing
to the beauty.
Every moment and place says,
'Put this design in your carpet'
Beauty as a language for contemplating the divine comes directly from the Qura’an."
"I would prefer that faith perspective be considered something more like a location than an identity, said Amy Frykolm, author of Rapture Culture, Julian of Norwich, and See Me Naked and associate editor of The Christian Century. "As an identity, it seems potentially static and perhaps too confining for the open process that, as writers, we are engaged in. As a location, it seems that it is something that we are invited to explore. From a location, within a location, there is the potential for movement."
Finally, from my remarks:
In Man's Quest for God, Abraham Joshua Heschel writes, “The self gains when absorbed in the contemplation of the non-self, in the contemplation of God, for example. Our supreme goal is self-attachment to what is greater than the self rather than self-expression.” Is it possible that some of us also hope that through our process of writing we will move from an attachment to a small sense of self to something greater than self-expression? And that we hope the reader, too, will be moved, by our work, both more deeply into her self and toward something greater than and beyond that self?
We had a rich and wide-ranging conversation. I look forward to continuing the conversation in writing and in person.
I have been fortunate to have been invited to a number of universities this year to lead contemplative practice workshops for faculty, staff, and students. In Oct. 2017 I was hosted by my dear friend, colleague, and teacher LeeRay Costa at Hollins University. We did some meaningful work during my visit which culminated in a lively conversation, in the final hours of the visit, among Hollins faculty and staff about ways they already are incorporating contemplative practices in their work--in the classroom, in the library, elsewhere--and ways they could expand their use of contemplative practices. If my visit offered the Hollins faculty and staff nothing other than an opportunity to get together, do a few exercises, and then have a lively, passionate conversation with each other, then, I think, it was worth it. Create conditions for folks to connect meaningfully and deeply, then get out of the way. That's how I like to work.
Next week, I'll be at the University of Tampa to lead workshops for faculty, staff, and honors students. I'll also be doing a reading while I'm there. The faculty workshop will focus on practices of setting intentions, directing attention, and reflecting on our experiences. With the honors students, I'll be leading a session called "How the Light Gets In: Making Room for Bodies, Hearts, Minds, and Spirits in the Honors Classroom and Beyond." And with the staff, we'll work on experiences of scattering and gathering. Thanks to my dear friend and teacher Don Morrill for inviting me back, yet again, to the University of Tampa. Don's new book, Beaut, a novel, recently won the Lee Smith Novel Prize sponsored by Carolina Wren Press. Don and his wife, Lisa Birnbaum, author of the fabulous novel Worthy, will be in Asheville to read from their work on April 3, 2018.
Since beginning my career as an educator, I've always been interested in creating transformative experiences for my students and myself in the classroom. That, at least, has been my intention. Sometimes it has happened. Sometimes it hasn't. Sometimes I've been aware that it's happened. Sometimes it's happened without my being aware that it had. The approaches I took in the classroom were never informed by a methodical study of pedagogy. I worked intuitively. I still work intuitively. But now I have more to draw on in developing approaches to teaching. For one, I can draw on my own experiences with 10 years of formal meditation practice. For another, I can draw on the inspiration of colleagues around the country who have invited their experiences and knowledge of contemplative practices to point them toward ways of teaching that can create conditions in which deep learning can happen.
I'm grateful for opportunities to work with colleagues and students in ways that I hope will help open minds and hearts, lead to new insights, to greater compassion, and to action, doing the outer work that our world so badly needs at this time.
Jews without Jerusalem? You can't forget Jerusalem. It's in the news, it goes away, it's back in the news. It's in the prayers, and it's in some of my favorite poems, especially the poems of one of my favorite poets, Yehuda Amichai. In my latest piece for "Good Letters," I imagine what it's like to be a Jew without Jerusalem. What's posted on Good Letters today, it turns out, may be just the beginning of a more extended exploration of the various ways Jerusalem has moved into and lives in me, even when I'm living far away from it.