Breathing in and breathing out: a Rosh Hashanah poem for the new year - Bruce Silverman

[Larry Robinson]

 Breathing in and breathing out: a Rosh Hashanah poem for the new year 
 
Last year we grieved the loss of the many who died lonely
deaths, we were too often adrift in harrowing dreams, and
the simple act of living itself was wrapped inside a suffocating
membrane that left us short of breath. 
  
This year, the groundhog prognosticated a more hopeful spring.
Teasing us with signs of new life, maybe even daring adventures. 
This year, we who endured the stark loneliness of the last year 
started to encounter moments where puffy white clouds were
spotted lounging carelessly over communal gatherings and rituals. 
These moments took our breath away! (in a good way).

We gazed into longing eyes of friends who we’ve missed, touched
cheeks we may have never dared to caress, and began singing and
praying in unison, unfettered by Zoom screens. At times, this year, 
the mellifluous bass, the oud, the drum, and the swaying of enlivened
bodies once again nudged us a bit closer to eternity, invited us to
dance and celebrate as we eagerly began to renew our paradoxical
communion with both joy and grief, the omnipresent twins ever
leap frogging across the millennia. 

This new year carries the reminder, in case we’ve forgotten, that
rebirth always follows death, and yes, during this last year, *Hashem
was really rubbin’ it in, but remember, at the end of every pause lies
a breathing out, eagerly inviting the next remarkable    breathing    in.

(But here it is September)

And now the caveat: yes, last year taught us more about fear
and isolation than we ever cared to know, and the great breathing 
of which we speak is now a labored task, fettered by red smoke, 
tired masks, and downtrodden eyes, but clearly, this year brings
humankind the knowledge, inside our bones and sinew, that life on
planet earth always was, now is, and ever will be a perilous daily
dance with a great goddess who we’ve tended to ignore.

Her name is “uncertainty.”

	- Bruce Silverman

Hashem means ‘the vibration’ pointing to the great nameless source







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