Packing Up The Sacred

We too are tasked

as was the tribe of Levi,

with dismantling the mishkan, our sanctuary

for the sake of protection, restoration,

covering the unseeable with

layers of worn cloth,

careful to not damage mystery

by thinking we can see it all.

 

We the children of tzimtum,

fragments of the cracked vessels

carry our sanctuaries on our backs

in our bodies

through plague and quarantine.

 

Opening our small boxes,

we see one another’s voices,

invisible conduits of light

transmit our prayers and those

of our ancestors, nigunim

of grief and wonder circling the globe  -

the whole world our mishkan.

 

Still we need careful instruction

on how to pack up our arks, protect

our stories, each other.

We find new ground, reopen

when it appears safe,

until there is another call

to depart for we

 

are a people of the doorway,

of letting in and letting go,

people of the desert, moving

away and towards on

winding paths,

at a fork in the road.

 

Before we pass

we bless one another,

beloved teachers,

Rabbi, our friends and family

who inhabit our hearts

and then take another direction:

we lean into their presence,

we who are  a people of memory,

weaving crimson, blue and golden

thread into the parokhet, like a tallit

we spread over the mishkan

and each other’s shoulders,

And so we wander, we arrive

and together once again

we rise

for the morning

blessings.