Why torture me thus?
Bunsen Burners
Lamenatzeach Ayelet HaShachar, Mizmor leDavid (Ps. 22:6) “For when the face of the east shines and the darkness of night withdraws There is a purveyor (memanne) for the east side And he draws forth a single thread of light from the south side Until the sun comes and emerges and breaks through the windows of heaven And illuminates the world. And that thread of light causes the darkness of night to withdraw.” “Then the doe of dawn (Ayelet HaShachar) comes out And a black light emerges in the darkness to join with the day And the day is illuminated. And the light of day Subsumes and draws that doe into itself” “It was about this doe, when she withdraws from the daylight that subsumed her, that David sang his song. As it is written: ‘Lamenatzeach Ayelet HaShachar’, and what did he say “My God, my God, why have You abandoned me” For the Ayelet HaShachar has withdrawn from the light of day” Zohar to Exodus 1 “So as the natural phenomenon of sunrise is understood to reflect a supernal dynamic within the divine self, the process of the two inner-‐divine lovers, uniting as one light. But as the lovers separate, following the climactic moment of union, they immediately yearn for each other; they lament the sorrow of their parting. The cry over divine absence in Psalm 22:2 is understood to be a response to …the doe returning to her hiding place. The Schechina who has been united in love with Tiferet has now withdrawn from the fully risen sun, and her lover Tiferet, cries out in anguished yearning “My God, my God, why have You abandoned me?” Eitan Fishbane1 1
The Zohar, Masterpiece of Jewish Mysticism in Jewish Mysticism and Kabbalah, ed. Frederick E. Greenspahn, NYU University Press 2001. P62
For the withdrawal of Her Is really absorption within Him (The divine androgyny), He appears and full and integrated, Feminine absorbed within masculine. But He can no longer sees Her as distinct So eros is destroyed, And so is the sense of I-‐thou. And the tension that excites, And in His plentitude He mourns for Her, Despite her absorption within Him. So each dawn, This drama re-‐enacts This cycle of night/day Repeats the torture, Of presence and loss.
Why Torture me Thus? Jan. 26th 2014 From the sundrenched 8th floor room overlooking Manhattan This quiet Sunday morning Three weeks post neurological event, The sagely white bearded patriarch moves his lips in prayer Under the oxygen mask, To a background hissing of humidifier. The sun is gracious Warming the hospital room with its glow as only a frigid winter January morning can do. While he prayed I reflected, While he praised I felt pain, Deep inside the heart As the sun brought clarity after a weekend of darkness. If “she” reflects Shechinah, And if my pain is really Hers (Degel Machane Efraim) Then all my acute wounding needs inner work right? This yearning for connection and intimacy, In the face of her/Her emotional unavailability, Is precisely the wooing required on Erev Shabbat with Shir HaShirim To re-‐unite Tiferet and Malchut For during the week sis in exile… A curse for the wounded boy, Exacerbated by her/Her own Freudian issues and unresolved complexes with the father/Patriarch, Father/Tiferet. she sits by his bedside singing zemirot, her voice halting as it breaks with tears. Does the Schechina woo like this too? Yet the wounded boy only worries about his lonely pain After three weeks of indifference and unavailability, Not a word of emotion, not a word other than relating To the business of the ICU, the devotion only a single daughter Can provide a father. The connection so deep No husband could ever sever the bond
The wounded boy rages with anger and grief The conquest failed after all Wife never severed the umbilical cord of approval From the white haired patriarch Rages with powerlessness Having fallen for the same archetypal personality as mother Who demanded love only conditionally? The boy, whose soul was now forever split, Torn between the mother, virgin, Madonna, goddess, And the whore, Who is subjected now to the rage of the daughter, For bringing apikorsus to read during my nighttime vigils To this hospital ward, this room, this place of sanctity, “How could you?” she yells, “defiling the purity of this saintly holy room By this pornographic image on the cover of a Sacred Prostitute!” (An archetypal monograph into the image of the dark side of Schechina!) Jung is alive and well! In this triangle of father, daughter and me I surely feel only shame and disgrace The sailor who fell from grace from the sea For how could I possibly fill the shoes as a substitute? Condemned from the start, The set up is complete. (Despite years of study and scholarship.) The sun still brings warmth and clarity As I dig deeper into my well of compassion As I realize, now, after a night of resentment, In its glow, That she too, is so wounded. Can I find more space in my heart? I want to… I so need her approval even now But it feels empty today… After a weekend of pain… I struggle with this Degel He has helped me save my spirituality in the past… I try to internalize his message with such effort. Like a mantra: “Your pain is really Her pain, so focus on Her, and you will be fixed” This Sunday I realize I must surrender to it My pain is really Hers She is crying for Her consort
Through me Through my pain She cries for der eibishte! Tiferet, “Why have You forsaken me?” Like I cry in silence to her, Yet I must hold this too. So her wound is Hers Her abuse is Hers And my task is to cry for her/Her Pray for her/Her, despite myself Despite the howling young boy Craving attention, and validation, resist this feeling too. And in writing this I force myself to face the white sheet Like an analyzand, As if the act of writing “Escribe” Etching in ink on this white paper Is therapeutic, This violence to the white virgin page A rape of sorts, Language as the means of seduction Writing as the means of rape Lying on the analyst’s couch Of bonded cloth Alkaline Japanese rice paper The Geisha bows to me as my pen Pierces her robe Screaming my woes On the silent page Receiving my ink, like semen Without protest. I, the little boy Acting out on this page, Wounded, despite years of carrying this I the little boy Triggered, by the indifferent icy snow queen’s criticisms I the little boy Demanding unconditional love, serenity, validation, intimacy And acceptance. I the little boy Still suffering despite all the analysis And intellectual understanding,
Of the psychodynamic drama going on! Now realizing that, at times, she/She is inhabited by her dark side (Allowing pogroms after all!) Despite all the davening and learning She needs this too, Our blood, Our pain, Our being nailed to the cross (Tzlav) Like R. Akiva… And now despite our psychic pain, She requires this too. Unio Coniunctio “Union of opposites” Holding the paradox, No resolution, No obvious solution, No third Hegelian synthesis, No either/or Man/woman Husband/wife God/Goddess Rather … Are you prepared for this? Man/boy Adult / wounded child And the work? My task this sunny Tiferet morning? The inner work? To hold the paradox, Let the pain percolate up Like a chemistry experiment In a Beaker on a Bunsen burner An alchemical production Without the philosopher’s stone Or the gold in sight Only the niger, the inclusion of the dark charcoal The “Dark Night of the Soul’ To hold the wounded boy in tension with the adult To accept the darker side of divinity Her darker side,
Her need for my pain for Her wholeness And accept this, Surrender to this, Even Her cruelty, wounding, smothering, suffocating Presence To accept Her rage …mirrored in wife. Not to run away, Escape into the mirage of substituted purveyors of momentary bliss Other sources of contentment For here, Right now, Right in this pain, Is the very source of healing (Thus sayeth Herr Rabbiner Dr. C. G. Jung!) In this pain, Nailed to the cross of R. Akiva One must wait (thus sayeth Madonna Simone Weil) And wait For Schechina takes Her time, To envelope me. (Tomer Devorah). Facing the boy Holding his hand, Calming his rage, (Despite his oath never again to surrender To the authority To the power that raped him of his innocence) Calming his fear of death by suffocation by the Great Mother His abandonment, His fear of ending his life alone, Facing decline alone, Facing his degeneration alone, Without the ecstasy of intimacy, Of holding the woman all night in his arms, Without touching her, Of drowning in her sweet scent Her stroking his nape, Her whispering sweet nothings Her unconditional acceptance of his flaws Despite everything. And in accepting even this Come to rescue her/Her The moon giving way to the bright warm sun Holding the sense of betrayal of the Psalmist,
“Why have You forsaken me?” This Sunday morning In Manhattan, In this hospital room, With the Patriarch, White haired, Eyes closed Moving his lips in prayer, And his daughter Reverentially by his side. On this Sunday morning In this sun soaked hospital room The Ayelet HaShachar has withdrawn Leaving Tiferet alone, The little boy (Jesus) abandoned Crying “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me” Just as the divine son cries out to the divine father (Matthew 27) Just as Tiferet cries for malchut, Just as I cry for her/Her. I to surrender to the facts on the ground Reality as it is, And hold the paradox Of man/boy Holding for a while the young boy From exploding.