Years, ago, on calm spring days
when I’d have an hour or
two between classes, having
grabbed and consumed a cheap,
quick lunch from the kiosks,
I’d head down to the lawn
sloping below the library,
above the gyms, next to
the famous steps, just off
the major walkway from
the bus-stops to the lecture halls.
And I’d lie down, eyes closed
and
listen.
Young then, I’d never nod off.
But, eyes closed,
inhaling deeply,
the grass prickling my neck,
I’d just
listen.
Class mates chatting.
Rowdies shouting.
Bands marching,
Vehicles humming,
Squirrels chittering.
Birds squealing.
A pianist accompanying
a ballet class in the girl’s gym
heard through an open window.
Les Gymnopédies.
All that music: God’s nature,
Human voices, machines,
Giggles, laughter, bravados.
Sometimes, lying there, quiet,
listening,
not far away, I’d hear
a couple sighing.
That long ago, and it would be
odd, a man my age, now to
lie still and listen on a college
campus.
So I arrive to my synagogue
with some minutes to myself
before the onslaught of words
the encompass, infuse, shape
the morning service.
I sit.
Hand folded
and
listen.
Birds chirping outside the windows
Cars wheeling by.
The occasional siren screaming.
My fellow congregants
shuffling, murmuring, humming,
wrapping the phylacteries,
cloaking in the prayer shawl,
tassels dangling.
I inhale, exhale,
I hear the sighs, the sorrows,
The hopes, the joys,
the human music of
God’s dreams.
As we prepare,
early morning, to
offer praise, give thanks,
beg mercy, seek comfort,
embrace joy.
Maybe, perhaps,
after I have listened
to this world,
I might hear
a faint echo of
those other worlds
from which, I hope,
God willing,
is absent the sighs and sorrows,
and full with
sacred exaltations.
