The birthday of the world

Here we go, into the new (Jewish) year--5775.  Rosh HaShannah at the local synagogue was good--a smaller turn-out than last year when the holiday fell during Labor Day week and we appear to have had a number of "summer" people who stayed over and attended services.  But services were good and I found them meaningful.  On the second day, David and I were invited to lunch at the home of the former treasurer and her husband, whom we've begun to get to know and already like very much.  It was a big crowd, probably 75% of those who attended services on the second day, but hamish and much delicious food.  Now we turn toward Yom Kippur, which this year comes on a Saturday.  Perhaps that will bring out a larger crowd; who knows.  The synagogue will have a Break Fast, but I don't think I'll attend.  I find I need to go home and revive privately.

Two weeks ago the visiting rabbi came for Shabbat and on Friday night suggested we use poetry to dig into the meaning of the holidays.  He invited us to bring favorite poems or our own poems, and I brought a poem I wrote many, many years ago when I lived in New York.  Since I left New York in 1992, the poem must be at least 25 years old, probably more.  It arose from my surprise at finding that although during the year, synagogue Shabbat services would be attended by some number of people - perhaps 75-100, depending on what was going on - for the High Holidays (Rosh HaShannah and Yom Kippur), Jews would seem to come out of the woodwork and we might have 1,500 people attending services.  Here is the poem:

The Year Yom Kippur Came on Wednesday
 
we tumble from our beds our bellies growling
feet tramping through the halls and down
the stairs in canvas shoes so odd a match with

our best suits and bright skirts we dribble out to

sidewalks join in rivulets and merge in streams to

rush and pour into our sanctuaries where we stand

and sit and stand and fast as fast as hours pass in

prayer and penitence we beat our breasts confessing

lists of sins when we're not slipping out and in and

out again to catch the latest word on who's been

born and who passed on this year still finding time

to stir the lost sweet ache to weep to watch the

chazzan throw himself upon the floor become

a waterfall a woman's sobs white shredded clouds

in steeped blue skies each note a shard that

tears our hearts above our bended knees

at last the shofar blast we bow we leave to drink to eat
to laugh to weep to live and die again as
one by one each of us a single sheep passes by Him
unaware of what a miracle the Shepherd sees this Wednesday

October 12th will be the second anniversary of our move to Maine.  Every day I am happy we made that decision, my morning walks with Ella are a gift.  One recent morning:

May each person and every living thing on our world be sealed in the book of life for peace, for health, for prosperity in the year to come.  I have a feeling that would be okay with God--it's just us human beings that are likely to have an issue with it.  Still hope will not let go.  Stubbornly it sinks its frail roots into dry worn-out soil and hangs on, even in the face of the coming winter.  (300,000 people marched in New York City to warn of the perils of climate change.  When is the last time 300,000 people marched in this country for anything?) 

So, Happy Birthday, World.
If not us, who?  If not now, when?
Peace, peace, far and near.