10.4.14

I saw some people celebrating Rosh Hashanah on Friday, the Jewish new year. I thought I would share something from local poet Dana Kuttler since it was timely. 



The Shofar Breaks your Heart

When you give a girl a shofar – 
no, not a proper instrument of G-d,
but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece
her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem,
don’t make it easy.

Put it up on the shelf in the living room
where its curled promise of a shout
will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.

Tell her no one has ever found its voice,
that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter
like the animal it came from.

Then give her a few years.

Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood
Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing
so she can practice until
tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.

She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds,
can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing,
fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.

Let her brag about this.  Remember that children
are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard
is their great triumph.  Let her be heard.

Bring her to Hebrew school.
Teach her the story of the rabbi
who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts;
that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke.
Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes
for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness 
find their way inside,

play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything,
that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light,
ask her where she thinks the cracks come from,
give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and
quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges,
give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu, 

watch her break 
her heart
with her fist.

Give her the shofar.  
Let the horn steal her breath,
let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal,
but a living prayer.

Teach her: after every blast
you can hear the echo
of the still small voice.

If you listen for it,
you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are;
salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah;
and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call,
imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.

When it’s over,
Close your eyes.

Be. Broken. Here.  Before G-d and your people. Be. Cracked.

feel the light
and the words
come
in.