Ain melim

Ain melim. No words. How can humanity be so inhumane and so cruel to one another? Is there not enough suffering to just make our way through this life with all its uncertainty? I haven’t been able to write until now, and this will be brief, but when I filled my coffee cup this morning, I suddenly felt a need to sit at my desk and share thoughts.

Battling cancer isn’t an effective metaphor for hatred and violence. Antisemitism and racism, etc isn’t a disease, it’s a machine, and it’s one all of us need to work to disassemble and slow it’s production. That said, I have been feeling like a part of me aches because “the body” of Israel is in deep pain, and the soul of humanity cries across lands and seas, with the wailing of mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, cousins and neighbors, lovers and friends.

When I first faced the fact there was a disease in my body that could kill me, I had moments of huddling on the floor, bringing my knees to my chest and wondering how life could be so frightening in such a personal way. The ripple of shock traveled within and around me.

I don’t know what the future holds, but to communicate and share, to listen and cry, to grasp some semblance of routine, to feel the circles of loving, compassionate support–all this and more can created a foundation to hold grief and fear. This is a time to turn to each other with sensitivity, to offer our hearts and hands, even if it can’t always be a concrete building block or salve. We can light the way each impossibly painful step at a time.

These words from poet Leah Goldberg:

All the stars were hidden away
The moon is wrapped in black
From the North to Yemen in the South
There is no ray of light

The morning is a faithful widower
On its hips it wears a grey bag
From the North to Yemen in the South
There is no ray of light

Please light a white candle in my heart’s black tent
From the North to Yemen in the South
The light will shine