Kabbalah Kairos

I’m re-reading “My Grandfather’s Blessings” by Rachel Naomi Remen, MD – something I vaguely remember skim-reading years ago, but recently resurfaced as a gift from a friend and so deserved another, more thorough read. Rachel talks openly about mysterious and yet critical things: the holiness of created life, the potential for participating in human wholeness and healing (compassion), and the necessity of growing toward honest authenticity.

A fuzzy half-moon hung in the sky last night, just outside the window facing the lake. I sat with all the lights turned off for a long time just watching it, sitting alone in the inky dark, letting myself be spellbound by the simplicity of heavenly grandeur I too often take for granted. As I sunk into the stillness and utter blackness, I also felt myself magnetically drawn by the halved orb, as if pulled up and away from commotion, pain, uncertainty, misunderstanding, and weariness. This seemed to fit with a quote I’d read earlier from the introduction of Rachel’s book:

“My grandfather was a scholar of the Kabbalah, the mystical teachings of Judiasm….According to the Kabbalah, at some point in the beginning of things, the Holy was broken up into countless sparks, which were scattered throughout the universe. There is a god spark…in everything, a sort of diaspora (Greek for “scattering”) of goodness. God’s immanent presence among us is encountered daily in the most simple, humble, and ordinary ways. The Kabbalah teaches that the Holy may speak to you from its many hidden places at any time. The world may whisper it in your ear, or the spark of God in you may whisper in your heart…”

The moon reassured me. Its friendly face in the sky seemed trustworthy, leading me back to old childhood memories of myself on similarly enchanted nights. When I was around 8 or 10 years old I often sat on the pier by myself at night, a worshipful little girl with a flashlight in hand, watching the spiders spin their creative webs (works of art) in the corners of the cross-bars. In those days I didn’t automatically feel sorrow about living a lonely life. I’d listen to the bull-frogs ga-rumph-ing from the swamp and look for shooting stars. It was heavenly, and I was part of that heavenliness.

As I watched the moon last night, I wanted to cling once again to the simple pleasure, the simple connection. Simple insights of a simple God-Kairos-moment in time were right there, if I cared to notice.

This morning that same sky reveals calmness again: cottony sheets of clouds with little torn spots that reveal wild blue yonder behind. I feel small in comparison, and yet in a significant (if simple) way. At the same time, the tinnitus screams for attention inside my head, always wanting to be first, always wanting to distract and disable me. My finger, which I neglected to splint last night so it could rest, aches. And the Psalmist gives words to my heart:

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
If I settle on the far side of the sea,
Even there your hand will guide me,
Your right had will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,”
Even the darkness will not be dark to you;
The night will shine like the day,
For darkness is as light to you.
For you created my inmost being;
You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.” Psalm 139:7-14