Let us sleep hand in hand

I had the honor this past December of being part of the stewardship team for the second Taproot Gathering at Commonweal in Bolinas, California. Now in its second year, Taproot is a coming together of artists, activists, and changemakers who wish to enter into deeper connection with Jewish tradition and practice and with one another. In the mornings I and my rabbinic colleagues offered a variety of approaches to Torah text, including close reading and conversation, movement, and engagement with nature. In the afternoons, Taproot participants were invited to lead impromptu sessions in which they could share their interests and concerns with one another. I was fortunate to be able to spend some time in a writing khevruta, responding to poetic prompts chosen by my partner. This poem is one result of that dedicated, creative time.


“Let us sleep hand in hand…”
 
…the way I sometimes
reach out for your hand
in the middle of the night
or very early in the morning
not wanting to wake you,
to disturb the fragile
hard-won sleep of
your fractured nights,
yet knowing that
we are deeply
and inexorably held,
and so, in the most
essential space
everything is whole
no brokenness, no unmet
longing
and so, I reach for your
hand, and it is always
smooth and dry,
warm to the touch,
soothing to the buzz in
my 4 a.m. brain and
you, in your sleep,
clasp it and draw it
close to you and
we are touching in
the night, one asleep
one wakeful, and
this is poetry, this is
the poem, already
written, carved in
the lines of your palm,
calligraphed by a hand more ancient
and vast than any
one might imagine--
and yet also right here,
and right here, the
poetry of the rightness
of our curled togetherness
and our longing
and our astonished
delight at having
found one another
at such a late hour
in such an early
morning, in the dark,
the unquiet yet nevertheless
dark. Oh oh oh
so we are the poem
and we are the work
of God and God is our
work, our play,
our bread and
our soup, our
simplicity and
our confusion, our fear and our love.
And we move on
together, sailing
in our dreams for awhile
until you turn over
in a semi-conscious
harrumph, like a lion
or a bear
stirring in its winter cave--
or until the long
sciatic ache spindles
down my leg and
causes me to shift
and turn and
rearrange—and
then we lie, back to back
the unfinished poem
lying between us
like a cranky baby,
hungry, whimpering,
waiting until waking
fully happens and we
become lost in our day.
            
 © Rabbi Diane Elliot 2019