Reflections and Rosh Hashanah

It hits me at odd times. Here, sitting, writing a paper, in a classroom whose windows look over a balcony and onto the entire beautiful city, with the golden light tracing the tops of skyscrapers to the west, dusking the hills to the south, and reflecting in the petals of the red roses on the terrace. My soul is glowing with a different kind of light, the glow of being here, the impossible joy of realization. I am here. I am living in Jerusalem, city of kings and histories, city of faith, city of conflict, city of the Source of peace. I am here in Jerusalem, and Jerusalem is sinking into me. I am beginning to build Jerusalem inside of myself, and it is made up stone by stone of the miraculous mundane.

One stone is the memory of Rosh Hashanah, and me, forehead pressed against the Western Wall, feeling the emotion of the city. Behind me a small crowd of women pray with intensity, eyes covered. Some even weep, with quiet sobs. The men are wrapped in wings of white, symbolic of purity and new beginnings, as their tallit or prayer shawls drape their shoulders. Women too bear some sort of white clothing, a hair scarf, a blouse, a jacket. In Jewish tradition, the Book of Life is written during Rosh Hashanah, and sealed on Yom Kippur. Those days are days to make all right with fellow men and with God, to atone for the past year so that one’s name may be written in the Book of Life before it is sealed.

I was surprised at the solemn mood when we arrived at the Wall, expecting a joyful celebration of the Head of the Year. Feeling the contemplative aura was at first a let-down, until further realization led me to understand a deeper beauty. The timbres of Shofar, Ram’s horns, reverberated in the air, resonating, echoing; humming. Their sound was more subtle than I imagined, as was the entire scene. Drawn close to the wall, actually laying my hand on it for the first time, I felt a kind of awe. The bricks are worn smooth from the touch of so many before me. With so many notes crammed into every hint of a crevice, the wall seemed to emanate language. And so with forehead pressed against the wall, arms supporting me against it, I listened.

Instead of words, I felt the intensity, of millennia of longing, of pilgrimages, and hopes, and sorrows beyond my comprehension. The skin of my forehead was warm as I leaned in more, pressing against the wall. And though my palms also pressed against the stone, I felt rather that the stone was holding me, the smoothness of the stone surprisingly soft, emanating an unexpected kind of warmth.  That place knows its people, and knows how to support those that come there with contemplative hearts. I may not have tucked my prayer of gratitude on a piece of paper into the wall, but I think it is there, with all the other millions-- integral parts of the wall as much as are the stone and mortar and determination that keep it standing.

Another building stone in my city goes to the dang pigeon that dropped a gift on my sleeve as I was thus in contemplation. Blasted bird. No wonder that section of the wall was open. It was right under a pigeon roost! So the wall left something with me too, I guess, but at least it has a good sense of humor!