Sometimes in September
Sometimes in September
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author Every morning now we count the morning glories-- twenty-three today-- that sprung up while we were sleeping and curl glorious in their one day on the arbor among waning moon-flowers, wisteria too new this year for bloom, and grape vines that persist through all our attempts to tear them out. A rush of birds and squirrels harvests acorns and the kousa dogwood’s dropping fruit. Every year I forget this--how spring’s all petulance, with cold and rain that never end and summer’s short, winter forever, but this brightness will open, lit colors clear as morning glories, with curtains blown inward at an empty window, with papers flying in the air above a desk, with something just about to happen, with something just over.
The Sacrament of Soup
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author This is what you do when the call comes: take the largest pot from the shelf pour in water chop and scrape chop and scrape carrots turnips anything you have any amount add without measuring lentils split peas marrow bone anything you have any amount. Set it over fire. This is what you do: take the largest pot from the shelf let your hands begin the work let the fire begin the work watch the incantation of bubbles rising again and again fire water scrape chop anything you have again and again. This is all you can do.
A Small Prayer of Healing
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from This Next Tenderness (2018) I. Peace may not be granted, may not drop into our open hands, may be withheld by accident of time or place. Weeping may tarry even in the morning and there may be pulsing borders, words like swords. What, then, is given? Our every breath spreads outward: We must do what we can. II. The blessings come into ou lives, pile up around us as they have since the wilderness. Cities wait to be rebuilt. What we are given, what we can give all the same gift: worlds wait to be repaired. III. Like all who went before us we bear the human burden — flesh that crumbles, spirit that bends Comfort us as you comfoted them, be tender with us, wrap us in light: teach us to praise our lives.
Here is the question
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author and the time is getting late-- what is it you want to believe? Who do you want to be? The one who says no? The one who says perhaps, the one who says why not? Yes, it is a burning word, a brick someone could use to build a wall. You must lift it gently, take it from their hands as you might take matches from a child, carefully and without anger or rushing, with only tender heed that they do no damage with something that can burn.
Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author blessed be the minutes blessed the breath and blessed be our small frail humanness myopic hard of hearing grant us peace for words unsaid what we did and left undone we were only who we were
Yom Kippur Morning Torah Reading, Deuteronomy 29:9-14 and Deuteronomy 3-:11-20
Yom Kippur Afternoon Torah Reading, Leviticus 19:1-4, 9-18, 32-37