I know you're all waiting. 

I'm supposed to have things to say right now. I'm leaving in a week. Everyone is waiting for updates.

There will be updates.

But right now words are hard.

I'm focusing on goodbye words.
Fortifying myself to leave this place where I am surrounded by friends and family and familiarity.
Bracing for absence; for impact. 

I'm excited. I'm ready.
I know big things are coming my way.
I know good and meaningful work is ahead.
I know there is a community ready to embrace me and help me build a new home.
I am not afraid.

But I'm absent words for the moment. 

I am on the precipice. About to jump.
Words are lost in the winds of fate that are rushing all around me
Lost in the intake of breath before I leap.

Be patient with me.
I will land. I will catch my breath.
There will be words.

There’s a hole
            in the world today
where once a mensch stood
             a scholar
             a teacher
             a leader
             a rabbi
             a father
             a husband
             a friend
There is a hole in our lives
            our school
            our institution
            our movement
            in our world, today
where once a great sage stood
 
It is shaped like a Lamed and a Vav
It is shaped like the space between two chachams as they study
It is shaped like the space between Moses’ hands and Joshua’s head
It is shaped like a broken heart
 
Like a void
into which a group of brand new rabbis and cantors
surge forth 
            forged in fire
spilling into it unwillingly as they weep
standing where he should have stood, 
            with them
Birthed, spiritually, right into his too-big-to-fill
shoes
            they will have to fill them together
            somehow
a legacy they did not ask for but must carry with them
They and us and every life he ever touched
            So many of us in the void
            together
            that he left
Carrying his teaching
His wisdom
His words
His memory
His legacy
His love
            There is a hole
            Where he was
Jagged and raw and we must fill it 
with what he left us
            We owe him that much
at least
 
- EKG’18

February's trip to Cape Town produced lots of writing that I've been waiting to share! Now that it's official, I can finally put these poems out into the world. The mountains here are incredible and inspiring and surely you will all tire of me writing about them soon enough! In the meantime...

COME TO THE MOUNTAIN (FOR YITRO) (I)

God says 
     Go 
     Find Yourself
     Go to the Land
     Come to the Mountain

And we go
And we come
And we find ourselves
     trembling

Revelation comes with terrifying
     force
We do not choose the moment 
and when we find ourselves there
we can only accept 
whatever comes

In that moment we are
     so small;
a speck on an ocean,
tossed about
     And
in that moment we are
The Universe

We stand on the mountain
at God's very feet -
on the Saphire Brick Road -
and we don't know where it leads
but we follow it

We do before we know
We come before we go

God says
     Come to the Mountain
     Hear the Words
     Accept your Fate

And so. We go.

- EKG'18

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE MOUNTAIN AHEAD (II)
​
Hope is a thing we feel
at the foot of this mountain.
The rain has come down and
the corrupt one has come down
and 
the mountain is ever-present 
no matter where you turn or
why. And 
I understand, now,
every comparison between a mountain
such as this
and a god.
I understand
how it could be a thing to be
worshiped.
It feels sentient;
ancient.
But Mandela had it right.
It is God's Gift,
not God.
Yet, at the bottom
I get it,
why one might lift one's eyes
to the mountain
when seeking God's help.
And at the top
I can see all the other wonders
     the sea
     the people
and I know that even this
phenomenal mountain
is only one small part of a whole.
Just as I am
upon it.

- EKG'18

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE MOUNTAIN BEHIND (III)

I do not like having this mountain
in my rear-view mirror.
I much prefer to have it
before me
How do you say goodbye to a place like this?
I am spent and 
I am full and
I don't know what comes next
but I know I am changed.

"Make for me a place,
that I might dwell among them."
This is the covenant between us.
I came to the mountain.
I went where you sent me.
I found the place.
And in this place, the gift.
Even if it's only the gift of change.

Dare I hope for more?

My heart does not believe
I have seen the last of this mountain.
My eyes cannot look away.

It is behind me and perhaps
also ahead.

But always,
always, 
my spirit is in Your Hands.
My trust is with You.

Whether it be this mountain
or the next.

-EKG'18

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Over here young lady!" the Uber driver calls out.

I am dressed in a hot pink East-Asian dress and a high-pony tail a la 1997.
It's Purim and I opted not to change back into real clothes before heading home.

"You were at a party?" he asks me. Uber drivers love to chat.
They are the next best thing to Israeli cab drivers. Sometimes better.

"Yes. A party." I say.
I'm not going to get into the whole Jewish holiday conversation. I'm tired. And a little tipsy.

It's quiet for a few minutes. Then he says, unexpectedly, "You're Jewish?"

"Yes!" I say, surprised. 

"It's a holiday, yes?" he asks. 

"Yes," I reply. 

"It's short, yes? Just one day?"

I'm intregued by his knowledge of this minor Jewish holiday. I surmise he might be Muslim.
Muslims often know more about Judaism than others.
I wish I was as confident in general Jewish knowledge of Islam. But I digress.

"Yes" I say. "That's right."
Then, "Where are you from Aram?"
(He has a thick accent so I hope I'm not being offensive by assuming he's not Canadian by birth). 

As it turns out, Aram is Kurdish. From Bhagdad. He is a Muslim. He came to Canada two years ago. Completely by himself. He doesn't love Canada yet but it's better than Iraq. He finds it overwhelming so far. There is so much to learn and figure out. He doesn't miss Iraq but he misses his family. He has no family here. He has made a few friends. He didn't know a word of English when he arrived, but he loves to learn languages and he's proud of how his English is coming along (it's pretty good from where I'm sitting. I don't struggle to understand him). He speaks Kurdish, Persian, Arabic and a little bit of Turkish (and now English). He was an accountant in Bhagdad and also has taken computer courses. He's trying to get certified here in Canada. Hopes he will be done with school in two years. He's 23. He loves to travel but it's very different to be an immigrant, he tells me. 

I am blown away by his story. I know how hard it is to move to a new place but I can't imagine how impossibly difficult it would be to do so in a completely new part of the world, with no family or community or familiarity with the language. Somehow, in two year's he's learned to speak, found a place to live, hired a lawyer to help him with immigration, become an Uber driver. I'm beyond impressed. He's so brave. I tell him so.

I think about how his story is probably not so unusual. Especially in this country. And yet I find myself moved because it is his story and he's telling it to me as he drives me home - cheerfully - from my privileged job to my privileged apartment.

"Did you know any Jews before you came to Canada?" I ask, curious.

"Oh yes," he says, and explains about Kurdish Jews who left during the Hussain regime (mostly to Israel) and then returned afterward to visit and check on their abandoned property, etc. He tells me his dad had many Jewish friends "before". I think about how they say that in Cape Town too, "Before". "Before the bad times." "The dark times."  How many parts of the world have people who speak like that?
​This world.

Aram's lawyer is also Jewish. His immigration lawyer. I don't get into how I feel about immigration lawyers but I'm glad his Jewish lawyer is helping him. He says he loves his lawyer. He sounds like he means it. I am glad his Jewish lawyer has obviously done more for him than just paperwork. One Muslim-Jewish story at a time. This is how we heal the world.

When he talked about the Kurdish Jews in Israel I asked if he had ever been there. "No, but I want to go some day," he says. And we talk about how beautiful it is there. And how crazy. And how people are people and everyone is human and just wants to live in peace.

We get to my door. "Assalamu Alaykum" I say as I gather my belongings. He laughs. "Good evening, lady" he says.

"Good luck, Aram." I respond.

We are just humans. Muslim. Jewish. Trying to live our lives in peace. He is an immigrant Uber driver. I am a rabbi in a hot pink dress. It all seems so easy. Like peace could be this easy.

If only we could just speak to each other. Hear each other's stories. Listen. Relate. Respond. Care.
​Wish each other well. 

If only the whole world was an Uber.
We might just make it home.

“We are breathed in-to”
     she says,
and tears spring
to my softly closed eyelids
 
We are breathed in-to.
 
God
breathes into me
Enters me
And I breathe back
     Out
Into God
 
We are One
We are breathed in-to
 
I am safe and
I am loved and
I can be whole
 
Sitting with two
beloved
dear ones
     Friends
Where once there was
 
     Too much space
 
Now there is peace
 
And I think about
the angry place I had
inside
that now is empty and
light
 
And the ink on my skin
proclaiming
This Too Shall Pass.
And I breathe in
as I am breathed in-to
And I breathe out, knowing
 
    Time Heals.
 
We are breathed in-to
We are One
 
I am safe.
I am loved.
I can be whole.
 
-EKG’18
 

I am not slow of speech
My tongue is
     sharp
and quick
Too quick
I need to learn to hold it but
rarely manage

It lashes out
when I am
    anxious
or hurt
     with words
that should be used for
     healing
     praying
     teaching
     loving
but sometimes I weave a shrewish shield
 
Or
else
my heart is overfull and the words
     spill over
saying too much
or too soon
or too much too soon
Trying to hold on
But words are much too fragile for that

 
Moses see things
while he’s waiting for his words to come
He hears things
 
     I miss things
Rushing with my words
Always trying to find the right word,
the pleasing
     word
I am not slow of speech
 
But sometimes I think
I should be
 
     Quiet
 
Does Moses hear the crackle of The Bush
in the echo of his soft stutter?
 
What miracles am I missing,
lost in these words
of mine?
 
Hush now.
Pen be still.
Mind be still.
 
Mouth closed
Heart open
 
Waiting to hear
where God will send me next.
 
-EKG’18

The Torah speaks
of brothers reconciling
But can I be reconciled unto myself?
What is the secret?

Jacob
                                                hides
everything that is dear to him
across a river
before confronting his demons.
He protects them
but is himself injured,
and his fraternal reconciliation is
brief;
       incomplete

But Joseph gets it right.
He reveals himself
to his brothers
He weeps openly
He keeps nothing hidden
    at the end.

And
he extends a compassion
we might not think they deserve
(we who are not always compassionate towards brothers)

He says:
You did not send me here.

He lays the blame
    (the credit?)
at God’s majestic feet

So the lesson
then
if I am to be reconciled unto myself
is to begin with revelation
To see myself
To keep nothing hidden
To risk what feels vulnerable
To weep openly
even in the face of those who once
    mocked me

And
to find compassion
    within myself
    for myself

To rise above
    Indignation

I did not land myself here
It was God who sent me

out into this life;
this sometimes harsh and unfair world
to struggle and survive
To pull myself
from the lowest of places, up
up to the highest
    (if I can)
To be a leader
To guide my brothers
    and sisters

whether they are going down to Egypt
or coming out again

I am the one who forges ahead
    sometimes slogging, back bent
    sometimes head held high
but forging nonetheless
ahead, so that I can shine the light back

That is what it means
to be Chosen
One has to choose

to accept that princehood comes
    with a price
That redemption comes
hand in hand with
revelation

I can choose to see myself
I can choose to embrace
    what has hurt me
and name it as a blessing
and demand blessings of it in return

That is the secret
of which Torah speaks

- EKG'17

Much has changed
since those sisters
     vied
to be the most fertile
to be the first wife
to be an acknowledged wife
 
Birthing babies onto each others knees
Taunting the one who couldn’t conceive
 
Love and rivalry interwoven
 
And how much didn’t get recorded
     by the men who recorded what they thought mattered
     most?
How many babies lost?
How many daughters unrecorded?
 
 
In today’s world I have no sisters
and no babies
and no husband
 
but being a woman
     being a friend of other women
     still means
holding them
as they birth out live babies
and bleed out dead babies
 
it still means celebrating good husbands
and lamenting bad husbands
 
it still means holding children to free up tired arms
 
Much has changed but not that
We women witness
Still
 
-EKG’17

 And suddenly I am a sister
 
    I wasn’t chosen
    wasn’t prized
 
A sister is a burden if she doesn’t
have a husband
 
She must be kept
Looked after
Provided for
                                          
She is a liability
 
Not like a prized wife,
precious above rubies. A sister is
                                                        Disposable
 
She can be handed over
She can be raped or
married off
Discarded and
     dismissed
 
She might be the apple of her father’s eye
She might be her mother’s trusted child
But to a brother she is
     Troublesome
 
So send me off then, “Brother”.
Save yourself.
I see you for who you are.
I know what you’ve been to me.
 
I remember, though you’ve forgotten.
 
And I will be here
when you return to me.
 
- EKG’17