אֲנִי יְשֵׁנָה וְלִבִּי עֵר
I was asleep, but my heart was wakeful (Song of Songs 5:2)
Song of Songs (שִׁיר הַשִּׁירִים), one of the last scrolls of the Tanach, is a long, winding, beautiful poem about love — two lovers praise each other, yearn for each other, and envelop each other in this deeply affectionate letter, echoed in the chorus of the women of Jerusalem. Reading through it is a deep excavation of the heart. We enter a dreamworld where possibilities are endless, where love is limitless, where we are all powerful, and where we suddenly heal all wounds — past, present, and future. We are invited to revisit our loves — fulfilling and unrequited — and to hear that deep yearning within us for a feeling of wholeness, unity, and that intoxicating melting into a deep embra — -
MOMMY!!! MOMMY!! MOMMY!!!
There it is — that groggy turn to look at the time, the reminder that some nights stretch endless into the darkness as we sit by their beds, monitoring their breathing. The minutes tick by, that sensation of deep unity melts away from our consciousness as the reality before us sets in. The baby is crying — maybe fussy, maybe ill — maybe just lonely. The mother sits by — maybe holding, maybe rocking, maybe just staring. Her back aches, her eyes yearn for sleep, and her heart is searching for that moment she just had — what was it? — that love so enveloping that all doubt crept from her mind.
There are many reasons to be awake at night these days. They range from the global: plagues, politics, hostage situations, volcanic eruptions; to the personal: illness, lack of childcare, financial worry; to the mundane: watching videos, commenting on photos, wordle. Our fingers have become scrolling experts while our hearts tighten and our eyes narrow at headline after headline which crushes the hope we might have been building about tomorrow — yes, tomorrow will be better. It is a time where noise is abound, even in the quiet moments of night. It is a time where the crying of a baby becomes layered with so many questions that drag behind us as chains on our body.
Is it illness? Is it fear? Is it loneliness? Is it his mind?
At the end of this week’s Torah portion, Israel receives the Torah from G-d in s boisterous show of power and majesty that terrifies them. They beg Moses, their emissary, to go back to G-d and ask him to deliver the Sacred text in a quiet, unassuming way. “It is too much for us!” they cry out — please speak to G-d on our behalf so that we do not die!” (Ex 20:16) They beg Moses — please spare us the thunder, the lightning, the booming voice from the heavens. The voice of the divine is too much for mere humans, and so we stepped back, and we let our emissary receive the message.
We are in a time where even the air is loud. The echoes of our fear of receiving the Torah G-d in all of G-d’s power reverberate to today, when we fear the opening of our eyes into a new day, and yet we cannot close them at night. We lay awake as time steals from us the precious moments of memory creation, of rejuvenation, and of cleansing. We sleep in the dust that gathers beneath the masks that we wear daily — both on our faces and of our faces.
How many times a day do we say that we are fine, good, okay when we are far form it? Perhaps the cracks in our voices give us away, or the furrows that from in our eyebrows — now a permanent fixture in so many of us as we think through the possibilities and pitfalls of the next day, hour, minute. When we received The Torah, we were afraid — we stood apart and observed the miracle happening for us. Now, after two years of plague — we are afraid, and we stand apart as we observe each other.
We are waiting for one of us to discover the miracle, to bring it forward, to share it with us in a gentle way so that we may again sleep at night, so our hearts can dream.
Almost every conversation now is tinged with anticipation — will you have the miracle for me? Will you give me the permission that I need to release, exhale, let go?
The mother is awake at night with her child, and she feels desperately alone as she clings to his form. He is sleeping, but she is holding him, and silent tears stain her cheeks. Her loneliness envelops the room she is in, stretches upwards and outwards into the universe, and its energy converges with the loneliness of millions of mothers, awake with their children, begging for the miracle to come.
We are together in our aloneness. We are together in our waiting for the miracle. We are together in our gathering, our hope for an answer to be handed to us by a loud, booming voice — well maybe someone can pick it up and tell us about it. We are together in our yearning, as we may sleep, but our hearts lay wakeful. We are together in how we wish there was quiet in our homes, and when it comes, we await the noise that fills our minutes.
We don’t know what end will come, or when, or what it will look like. We might dream of normal, and yet we have forgotten what that is. There are children who will never have known another normal. We remember when — and then we stop — because we don’t want to crumble. We want to control our emotions so they don’t control us — or whatever we just read on Instagram.
It bubbles up. It pushes and nudges within us, and then emerges in ways we can’t understand — but actually we know them so deeply, so primitively. We are raw with the emotions that we name, but don’t feel.
Feel.
The mother holds her baby tight, caressing his hair, as his breathing becomes even, and hers follows. She sighs, and all the mothers sigh with her. The shockwave lessens. For a moment, she is less afraid of receiving her sacredness.
There is a lot that keeps us up at night these days — a lot that can weigh our hearts, dampen our spirits, and pull at our skin. There is also so much within us that keeps us going. We are strong, we are loving, we are kind, we are wise — we are here.
As we wait for our miracle together, huddled up, fearing the noises that come from the mountain — let us be restful together, but let our hearts be wakeful, and yearn for what we can rebuild. Cooperation. Connection. Communication. Love.
Let the child sleep, let the mother exhale.
Let’s be — together.
