The Menorah and The Hanukiah

The Menorah and the Hanukiah

They sat side by side, almost twins. But their emotions were as dissimilar as their shape was similar.

“I am so excited!” chortled the Hanukiah. “It is almost that time of year. Soon the house will be filled with the smell of Latkes and the warmth of my favorite holiday.”

“I wonder what that could be!?!?” grumbled the Menorah, standing tarnished and forlorn by her younger sacred symbol.

“Why are you upset, you sound jealous?” replied the Hanukiah with a hurt tone of voice.

“What if I am,” the Menorah responded angrily.

“Why are you jealous? Hanukah comes but once a year. Ok, so I get lit for 8 days in a row!” (He positively shivered with delight). “But you are the most important symbol of the Jewish people. For one night every single week, you are brought out and lit! Songs are sung and prayers are said wonderful food is eaten. I envy you!!!!”

“But that is just it, I am not brought out once a week, or once a month or even once a year. I am forgotten, a meaningless relic, a useless ornament in the breakfront.”

The Hanukiah felt bad. “I…I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“Well I am not putting up with this neglect, this abuse. I am leaving!!!” And with that the Menorah pushed with one of her 7 branches against the glass of the breakfront.

Don’t do that,” cried the Hanukiah, “the glass will...” and with that there was a crash and a thud as the Menorah broke the glass and fell to the floor. “I told you,” called the Hanukiah.

“Well, I don’t care, I am leaving!” cried the Menorah, tears running down her branches, as she brushed herself off and began to make her way through the living room towards the front door.

“Where are you going?” Cried the Hanukiah.

“Home!” Shouted the Menorah and then again, more quietly, “Home!”

“And where is home?” called out the Hanukiah.

For a moment, there was no response, then the faint sound of brass against brass as the Menorah strived and succeeded with a grunt to open the door. Then as the door swung wide, the Hanukiah heard the answer. “I am headed to Israel. That is where all of this started and that is where I intend to find out where I come from and why I have been so forgotten.

For years The Menorah struggled in its travel. It found its way onto buses and trains, into the trunks of cars until finally it found its way into the suitcase of an Orthodox Jew on his way to Israel. When the Menorah arrived, it climbed out of the suitcase and waddled its way onto a bus heading for the Negev, the desert of wandering. It felt as if it was drawn by an irresistible force to the ancient desert dwelling of our ancestors. Somewhere near Ein Gedi, that ancient oasis in the desert, it threw itself from the bus and struggled through the passes and wadis until, exhausted, it collapsed against a strange looking plant a sweet smelling plant, a sage plant.

As it rested, dully gleaming in the sun, the plant called to it. “Welcome home my child.”

The menorah was shocked. “How can a plant speak it wondered aloud.”

“In the same way that a Menorah can waddle,” the plant laughed, “Ask the author. Clearly, you are here for a reason. You have returned to your source.”

“Yes, I have come to Eretz Yisrael, my source, where it all began. Maybe I will learn why I am so forgotten, so useless?”

“Yes yes, Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, but more importantly, you have returned to me. For I am your source, you were patterned after me. Thousands of years ago, when the people called, Ivrim, Bnai Yisrael, Yehudim, created your ancestor, the Menorah in the Holy Temple, they designed it, and therefore you, to look like me. I am the plant Moriah. Do you know what my name means?”

“No, I don’t.” exclaimed the Menorah in wonder, beginning to examine this strange plant more closely.

“It means the teaching of G. You were meant to remind all Jews of their relationship to G, the source of all, the source of life, the source of holiness. You were meant to be a pointer to the great lessons of life. Shabbat, which you also represent is a time to reflect on life, and love and oneness, indeed all the great gifts that humans take for granted.”

The Menorah laughed bitterly. “Yet I am forgotten. The Hanukiah is shined and used and the children sing songs and play games around it and I am left in the cupboard, forgotten and alone.”

“But don’t you know that the Hanukiah is your spiritual child. It was created to look like you, to remind, as you remind.”

“But that is just it, the Hanukiah reminds the children and their parents of the glory and the power and the spirit that was long ago. But I do nothing, I am nothing, I am only a relic.” And the Menorah wept, droplets of oil rolling down its branches, as it was held by the Moriah in the wilderness of loss.

Meanwhile, there was one in the Menorah’s former home who did notice that the Menorah was missing. Her name was Rinah Tal. She was the youngest daughter of the family who had purchased and then ignored the Menorah for so long. She was 12 and there was excitement in the house as everyone was preparing for their trip to Israel. This was to be her Bat Mitzvah present. Her family was going to travel to Israel and celebrate her Bat Mitzvah at the Dead Sea, near an ancient oasis called the well of the goats, Ein Gedi.

Rinah had always liked the Menorah, been somehow drawn to it, touched by it. She enjoyed looking at it in the breakfront and wondered why it was never used. She had read the stories of the Temple of long ago and the Menorah, the Ner Tamid, that seven branched candelabra that had been lit daily there.

The day finally came, the family had traveled by taxi and bus and plane and private car to the beautiful resort at the Dead Sea. She had done her Bat Mitzvah by the waters of Ein Gedi and everyone had been proud of her and awed by the stark beauty of the place. She had been showered with praise and gifts, yet for her, something was missing. The day after her Bat Mitzvah, she snuck out of the hotel early and caught a bus, by herself up to Ein Gedi, the sight of “her day”. She wandered in and out of the groves that grew along the water. She felt elated and yet…

Then she saw it. Tangled in a sweet smelling plant hidden from view was… a menorah. No, not a menorah, THE MENORAH it was the one she had loved, the one she had longed for, the one she had missed. She tried to pull it free and as she did some of the plant came away with it. She was ecstatic. She was so happy she wanted to sing and dance. But then she felt a powerful sadness, loneliness. She felt, almost heard the feeling coming from the plant wrapped Menorah, the need to be used, to be lit, to be a symbol once again of the ancient ways that were as new as the new day dawning. She said out loud, not at all embarrassed to be addressing the plant encrusted Menorah:

“My beloved Menorah, you are my Bat Mitzvah gift, my heritage gift, my sacred connection. I will light you every Shabbat as a reminder that I am Bat Mitzvah; I am part of the sacred history and spirit of my people. You are a symbol of my connection to G and to my people and to my soul,” She shouted in joy.

She ran back to the bus and took it to the hotel where her parents were up and worried about her. When she showed them the Menorah they were in shock. They tried to explain away its presence, not willing to accept that this was a place of signs and wonders. But Rinah Tal would have none of it. She insisted that this was her Menorah from back home. She insisted that from that time on it would be lit every Shabbat, SHE WOULD LIGHT IT EVERY SHABBAT. She quietly muttered; “This is my Bat Mitzvah present, this is the meaning of my trip to Israel, this is who I am.” And her soul was filled with the light of an inner Menorah, a Ner Tamid that would never be extinguished. And she insisted that the sprigs of the plant that had attached itself to the Menorah NOT be removed, ever.

Standing in the breakfront, next to the Hanukiah, the Menorah smiled with a dull shine of pride and awareness. Candle droppings covered it as a Talit of Rainbow colors. It was home and it was fulfilled.

The Menorah and the Hanukiah

The Menorah and the Hanukiah

They sat side by side, almost twins. But their emotions were as dissimilar as their shape was similar.
“I am so excited!” chortled the Hanukiah. “It is almost that time of year. Soon the house will be filled with the smell of Latkes and the warmth of my favorite holiday.”
“I wonder what that could be!?!?” grumbled the Menorah, standing tarnished and forlorn by her younger sacred symbol.
“Why are you upset, you sound jealous?” replied the Hanukiah with a hurt tone of voice.
“What if I am,” the Menorah responded angrily.
“Why are you jealous? Hanukah comes but once a year. Ok, so I get lit for 8 days in a row!” (He positively shivered with delight). “But you are the most important symbol of the Jewish people. For one night every single week, you are brought out and lit! Songs are sung and prayers are said wonderful food is eaten. I envy you!!!!”
“But that is just it, I am not brought out once a week, or once a month or even once a year. I am forgotten, a meaningless relic, a useless ornament in the breakfront.”
The Hanukiah felt bad. “I…I didn’t know,” he said quietly.
“Well I am not putting up with this neglect, this abuse. I am leaving!!!” And with that the Menorah pushed with one of her 7 branches against the glass of the breakfront.
Don’t do that,” cried the Hanukiah, “the glass will...” and with that there was a crash and a thud as the Menorah broke the glass and fell to the floor. “I told you,” called the Hanukiah.
“Well, I don’t care, I am leaving!” cried the Menorah, tears running down her branches, as she brushed herself off and began to make her way through the living room towards the front door.
“Where are you going?” Cried the Hanukiah.
“Home!” Shouted the Menorah and then again, more quietly, “Home!”
“And where is home?” called out the Hanukiah.
For a moment, there was no response, then the faint sound of brass against brass as the Menorah strived and succeeded with a grunt to open the door. Then as the door swung wide, the Hanukiah heard the answer. “I am headed to Israel. That is where all of this started and that is where I intend to find out where I come from and why I have been so forgotten.
For years The Menorah struggled in its travel. It found its way onto buses and trains, into the trunks of cars until finally it found its way into the suitcase of an Orthodox Jew on his way to Israel. When the Menorah arrived, it climbed out of the suitcase and waddled its way onto a bus heading for the Negev, the desert of wandering. It felt as if it was drawn by an irresistible force to the ancient desert dwelling of our ancestors. Somewhere near Ein Gedi, that ancient oasis in the desert, it threw itself from the bus and struggled through the passes and wadis until, exhausted, it collapsed against a strange looking plant, a sweet smelling plant, a sage plant.
As it rested, dully gleaming in the sun, the plant called to it. “Welcome home my child.”
The menorah was shocked. “How can a plant speak it wondered aloud.”
“In the same way that a Menorah can waddle,” the plant laughed, “Ask the author. Clearly, you are here for a reason. You have returned to your source.”
“Yes, I have come to Eretz Yisrael, my source, where it all began. Maybe I will learn why I am so forgotten, so useless?”
“Yes yes, Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, but more importantly, you have returned to me. For I am your source, you were patterned after me. Thousands of years ago, when the people called, Ivrim, Bnai Yisrael, Yehudim, created your ancestor, the Menorah in the Holy Temple, they designed it, and therefore you, to look like me. I am the plant Moriah. Do you know what my name means?”
“No, I don’t.” exclaimed the Menorah in wonder, beginning to examine this strange plant more closely.
“It means the teaching of G. You were meant to remind all Jews of their relationship to G, the source of all, the source of life, the source of holiness, the source of wholeness. You were meant to be a pointer to the great lessons of life. Shabbat, which you also represent, is a time to reflect on life, and love and oneness, indeed all the great gifts that humans take for granted. You were created remind them to seek the light in their life.”
The Menorah laughed bitterly. “Yet I am forgotten. The Hanukiah is shined and used and the children sing songs and play games around it and I am left in the cupboard, forgotten and alone.”
“But don’t you know that the Hanukiah is your spiritual child. It was created to look like you, to remind, as you remind.”
“But that is just it, the Hanukiah reminds the children and their parents of the glory and the power and the spirit that was long ago. But I do nothing, I am nothing, I am only a relic.” And the Menorah wept, droplets of oil rolling down its branches, as it was held by the Moriah in the wilderness of loss.
Meanwhile, there was one in the Menorah’s former home who did notice that the Menorah was missing. Her name was Rinah Tal. She was the youngest daughter of the family who had purchased and then ignored the Menorah for so long. She was 12 and there was excitement in the house as everyone was preparing for their trip to Israel. This was to be her Bat Mitzvah present. Her family was going to travel to Israel and celebrate her Bat Mitzvah at the Dead Sea, near an ancient oasis called the well of the goats, Ein Gedi.
Rinah had always liked the Menorah, been somehow drawn to it, touched by it. She enjoyed looking at it in the breakfront and wondered why it was never used. She had read the stories of the Temple of long ago and the Menorah, the Ner Tamid, that seven branched candelabra that had been lit daily there.
The day finally came, the family had traveled by taxi and bus and plane and private car to the beautiful resort at the Dead Sea. She had done her Bat Mitzvah by the waters of Ein Gedi and everyone had been proud of her and awed by the stark beauty of the place. She had been showered with praise and gifts, yet for her, something was missing. The day after her Bat Mitzvah, she snuck out of the hotel early and caught a bus, by herself up to Ein Gedi, the sight of “her day”. She wandered in and out of the groves that grew along the water. She felt elated and yet…
Then she saw it. Tangled in a sweet smelling plant hidden from view was… a menorah. No, not a menorah, THE MENORAH, it was the one she had loved, the one she had longed for, the one she had missed. She tried to pull it free and as she did some of the plant came away with it. She was ecstatic. She was so happy she wanted to sing and dance. But then she felt a powerful sadness, loneliness. She felt, almost heard the feeling coming from the plant wrapped Menorah, the need to be used, to be lit, to be a symbol once again of the ancient ways that were as new as the new day dawning. She said out loud, not at all embarrassed to be addressing the plant encrusted Menorah:
“My beloved Menorah, you are my Bat Mitzvah gift, my heritage gift, my sacred connection. I will light you every Shabbat as a reminder that I am Bat Mitzvah; I am part of the sacred history and spirit of my people. You are a symbol of my connection to G and to my people and to my soul,” She shouted in joy.
She ran back to the bus and took it to the hotel where her parents were up and worried about her. When she showed them the Menorah they were in shock. They tried to explain away its presence, not willing to accept that this was a place of signs and wonders. But Rinah Tal would have none of it. She insisted that this was her Menorah from back home. She insisted that from that time on it would be lit every Shabbat, SHE WOULD LIGHT IT EVERY SHABBAT. She quietly muttered; “This is my Bat Mitzvah present, this is the meaning of my trip to Israel, this is who I am.” And her soul glowed, filled with the light of an inner Menorah, a Ner Tamid that would never be extinguished. And she insisted that the sprigs of the plant that had attached itself to the Menorah NOT be removed, ever.
Standing in the breakfront, next to the Hanukiah, the Menorah shined with an inner gleam of pride and awareness. Candle droppings covered it as a Talit of Rainbow colors. It was home and it was fulfilled.

The Great Hanukiah and Christmas Tree debate

A strange and wondrous debate was about to begin. The room was filling quickly. The Om of the Hindu faith, the Khanda of the Sikhs, the wheel of the Buddha, Bahai’s nine pointed star, Yin&Yangs of various styles, all vying for good seats. The room was lit by colorful, kwanza candles and Crescent moons hugging stars. The Mateh, that first staff, carved from the Tree of Life itself was to be the moderator.

A hush came over the crowd of symbols as they prepared for this great and unusual debate. It was unusual because of those watching, the symbols of all the different religions. It was unusual because of the participants, the Hanukiah, symbol of the Jewish holiday of Hanukah/dedication and the Tree that had become the symbol of holy birth that was Christmas. The debate was unusual because there was not to be a winner or loser, hardly a debate at all. It was more of a coming out, a sharing of differences; a symposium would be a better word, maybe a colloquium. There was some tension in the room, after all these symbols were of divergent beliefs, beliefs that the two-leggeds sometimes used to create destruction, death and darkness rather than the love, light and life.

The ground rules were based on the old ways of wisdom called PaRDeS, the Orchard. The word was an acronym for Pshat, Remez, Drash and Sod. Pshat is the simple meaning that is never so simple. It is the transparent meaning, the context of things. Remez reveals the pointer hints, the key/clues to deeper understanding. Drash enlightens, reflecting that deeper, more personal understanding. And the Sod, well the Sod peers into the mystery of it all.

In came the two symbols as a hush hovered over the hall. The Tree came in jangling all of her beauteous ornaments carrying the aroma of evergreen. The Hanukiah glided in illuminating each movement with the radiance of her blue and white candles topped with dazzling light.

The two symbols faced each other with good humor complimenting the beauty of their forms. The Mateh sailed to the center of the room in a sinuous manner reminding everyone that this Mateh had once transformed itself into a snake to persuade a recalcitrant Pharaoh of the power of freedom.

And so the symposium began. The Tree was the first to enter the debate in the realm of Pshat. It spoke of its beauty, not with conceit but rather with a deep understanding of the two-leggeds who looked to it for comfort and joy. “The ritual of my existence is touching if a little contradictory,” it chuckled. “I am cut young from the forest of my birth and transported inside a home. And though my life is short it is filled with warmth and meaning. Under my branches lie gift-wrapped dreams. Within my branches are nestled the ornaments of memory, memories of Christmas past. Families decorate me, coming together in joy and laughter and love. By my side is a table laden with cookies and milk for sainted reverie.” The Tree seemed to grow a little straighter, a little taller as it finished its musings.

The Hanukiah complimented the Tree on its erudition and aroma. Then it sang a little song.
“On this night let us light
One little Hanukah candle
It says fight for the right,
One little Hanukah candle.”

It smiled. “Every year as the days grow short and the nights long, I am brought out of the breakfront where I rest for a whole year. With anticipation, I am cleaned and polished. Music fills the air as children watch and choose and count the candles that will fill my cups. Then on the first night of Hanukah, blessings are brought to bear, songs are sung and I am lit. Each night my lights grow brighter. Finally on the eighth night, my cups runneth over and wax flows freely down my stem. The Shamash, lights up my life as my light warms the hearts of the children and parents. Due to our close relationship,” the Hanukiah bows stiffly (how else would a Hanukiah bow) to the Tree, “gifts are piled high around me. Children play games sing songs, and open their gifts in the glow of my light.”

The Mateh now turned the colloquium to the next level within the Orchard, Remez. This time the Hanukiah began. “Hear the hints of my meaning. Blessings are said around me. The first is the blessing of commitment and connection. Families intone a blessing of connection to the light of dedication. It is quickly followed by the message of miracles. It is a blessing of memory. ‘…for what happened at this time in those days!’ Do the hints not cry out the call of commitment? Indeed what is the Mitzvah?” The Hanukiah translated for the audience. “Mitzvah is sacred connection and often refers to acts and paths of the two leggeds who find meaning and motives in motifs such as me. The Mitzvah of Hanukah is to light me up and to put me in a place where I can be seen by all to give joy to all who gaze upon me.” The Hanukiah twinkled. “Yes, Remez abound around my light.”

The Mateh turned to the Christmas Tree. “You have shared the beautiful light of your Remez,’ exclaimed the tree. “Though no verbal blessings surround me, there are blessings inherent in the acts of love and meaning around my status in the home. I am large and my aroma fills the home. There are symbols that hang on my every branch. They epitomize the hope that I represent. Angels that adorn my limbs create castles in the sky, dreams of a better place that dance in the imagination of all who gaze upon me. The songs that are sung are songs of faith and charity. The mood that I enhance is that of beauty and peace. Families join in joy and memory and hope around my trunk. Remez abound in my branches filled with meaning.”

There was poignant silence as the symbols viewed and felt the gentleness of the two totems testifying to the faith of the two-leggeds who sought meaning through them.

The Mateh now moved the discourse to the realm of Drash. The Christmas Tree began by showing the tinsel that hung gaily from its branches. “Just as the two leggeds dangle these strings from my limbs, I am the string around their fingers, memory made manifest of the reason for the season,” it chuckled. “When they look upon me they see the birthday that I represent, the birthday of hope. For those who follow the path of the Cross, I point to that prelude to the path, the humble birth of saving grace. I represent the savior summoned into this sphere of existence. My beauty is an allusion to the spiritual beauty and betterment for all. Those who would follow the path of the Cross are committed to rectifying this realm, repairing wrongs, halting hate and bringing love before they pass to a higher realm.” The emblems, symbols and signs were touched by this tender transport of hope. Each drifted into its own reverie for a moment, until the Mateh brought them back with a rap on the floor.

“And now I will ask the Hanukiah to share its light on the season.” Moved by its spirit sister, the tree, the Mateh, oil weeping gently from its cups, came forward.

“That was quite eloquent; I am moved by your words, as beautiful as your ornaments. By comparison, I am small and plain. For when my candles are not lit I am almost unnoticeable. My power lies in light. My meaning lies in light, for I am light, the lamp of dedication. There is nothing fancy and flamboyant about dedication. And yet when dedication is lit in the lives of the two leggeds miracles may come to pass. When people roll up their sleeves and stand together, dedicated to shedding light on a world darkened with hate and bigotry, my light shines brightly.

The story of a war of liberation is an old one that we each can tell,” the Hanukiah seemed to be directing its light on all the symbols as they nodded or revolved or floated in agreement. But the story of the miracle of a lasting dedication is a marvel. I am the child of the Menorah the ancient eternal light of hope. The holiday that I enlighten and that enlightens me is the holiday of dedication. Those who follow the path of the Menorah, those tribal two-leggeds called the Jews are dedicated to the light. How many times do they talk of freedom for all people, with the refrain; ‘for you were slaves…’ Not only were they slaves in Egypt, but in Babylonia and Persia and Greece and Rome each slavery different and yet oppressive in its darkness.

And I stand for the dedication to fight against slavery and injustice, against intolerance and antipathy, ignorance and apathy. And yet my story does not climax with a victory of arms. It climaxes in brooms and brushes in cleaning and cleansing. My story climaxes in the miracle of a small lasting light. So my sister tree, I too speak of hope and faith, not in a savior come, but in salvation culled. When the tribal two-leggeds of the Menorah speak of Mashiah, they do not speak of the summoned one, nor the saving one, but the anointed one. Mashiah is the one anointed with the same oil that fills my cups that lights my wicks. The Mashiah will be the one who lights the fire of rededication to the values of life and love, of faith and fellowship, of caring and compassion, of justice and freedom. These are the old ways, dimly dreamt but of meaningful memory. That is the meaning found in the Menorah and of which my candles are but small symbols.”

“Not small,” whispered the Tree sap-filled tears forming, “not small at all, sister symbol knight exemplar.” The two symbols, emblems of two faiths stood together in the silence of the room as the Mateh made ready for the final level of discourse, the Sod, the very mystery of meaning. It looked at the two holiday tokens and they seemed to smile as did all the tokens and emblems and representations and signs and symbols that filled the hall. For they all knew that the Sod mystery is not to be investigated it is to be felt and realized. The two symbols in symposium stood in poignant pause, radiating the power of silence. And as the signs and symbols of differing faiths made their way out of the hall to return to their respective resting places they all made contact, touching each other as the discourse had touched them. Not the words alone touched these badges of different faiths, but that they could join and share differences in love and good fellowship. For this day was not about tolerance and acceptance. It was more powerful than that. It was about sharing differences, growing and learning in divergent oneness. As they moved out of the hall in silence, the Mateh wondered; “is this not the Sod of symbols. Is this not the lesson to be learned by the two-leggeds? For the two-leggeds to survive and thrive they will have to learn from us. The Sod, the mystery is so simple. Differences are not to be tolerated they are to be congratulated. They are to be exalted as teachers. For each symbol has a lesson worth learning. Each difference has wisdom to divulge. And the world awaits the Sod, the great mystery of liberty for all the two-leggeds and for peace on all the earth.

Waking, Awakening

Waking, Awakening

I open my eyes and stretch feeling the warm comfort of my bed and body. Then I slide deeper as I say: "I am thankful to be before you my life council, that my Neshamah my Soul Connection to you G, has returned with compassion renewed, in your abundance and faith." I look around at the limited and limitless world of my bedroom. The greater feelings that I pray will govern my day flow out of my mouth. "The first ness that is wisdom begins with the Awe of G. Good smarts to all doers. G's praise stands on. May I be immersed in the name of weighty honor through G's eternal good council." I rise and let my night soil evacuate my body and am thankful that my body process, the orifices and organs work in daily mundane miracles. Then I wash my body reminding myself, with the blessing words, of the sacred connection that elevates these mundane morning moments.

I pull out the garments of the day, and cover my body as my body covers and carries my souls. My garments remind me that my body too is a garment, dressing and teaching my soul, the ways of life and limits. My reminder garment, my tzitzit is checked and donned with blessing and reminder of my sacred connection to the Wholly One of Being. I notice that the action of donning tzitzit puts me in touch with all sacred connections, which we call Mitzvot.

I grab my Tallit, the wings of Shechinah and before I wrap myself in it/them I repeat my need/desire. "I do this act to bring Heaven to earth and earth to Heaven unifying in my heart and life the Kadosh Barchu, the Wholly One of Blessing and the Shechinah, my recognition of G in my daily life." I know deep behind my mind's soul, my Neshamah B'Ohr, that if we could all work together for that unification, Mashiah would be here. Then I hold those wings of my Tallit looking at the fringes, those strings around my finger reminding me of the 613 sacred connections that are the joining of body and soul, called the 248 organs and the 365 sinews of which the great teachers taught. I see the enlightened light of which Tzitzit are spiritual memory pegs. Just as I wrap myself physically here and now, may I also wrap myself in the 7 Mitzvot, sacred connections taught by the great teachers as I reach for the world to come, the beauty and peace of the Spiritual Womb, the Garden of Eden. I find liberation for my 3 fold soul, the body soul, the wind soul and the breath soul from the forces external to my soul camp. My hungry 3 fold soul is carried high under the spreading wings of my Tallit to my soul rest, as an eagle, alighting lightly in his nest full of hungry eaglets. May the importance to You Oh Wholly One of Being, of this sacred connection, fill me with the power of all of your sacred connections in all their personal and delicate intentions.

I wrap myself with blessing in my Tallit feeling those sacred wings and I call out in joy: "How precious is compassion, that we earthlings seek refuge in the shadow of the wings of Your compassion. May we find the satisfaction of coming home. May our thirsts be quenched from the waters of delight. Oh Source of life, from your light, we see the light."

And then I turn to my Tfilin, the praying device made of, leather straps and leather boxes containing the spirit words of oneness and commitment. Again I put out the sacred desire that this Sacred Connection, this Mitzvah will unify the upper and lower worlds.

I recognize that by wrapping Tfilin I continue the connecting in sanctity with my Source of Being from which all Sacred Connections stem as it is written in my Sacred Guide (Torah): "Make the connection on your arm as a sacred symbol, and may they be the jewels between your eyes." Four times it is mentioned the Sacred Guide (Torah) reminding us to focus, and listen deeply, to find holiness and wonder in order to leave the narrow minded places. From these four passages a unity bubbles to the surface, an awareness of our oneness with the Wholly One of Being in this world. The Tfilin is a reminder of wonder and miracles, of leaving the place of narrowness. This is the power of G's sacred parables taken from on high Heaven, and from below, here on earth, to teach us the desire for righteousness.

G's Sacred Connection to rest Tfilin on the arm is a reminder of the outstretched arm. It is near the heart that we may sight our hearts on sacred service. I put the Tfilin on my head in front of my mind, connecting my Soul Mind that will focus all my senses in the potential of sacred service, and so immerse myself in the Sacred Name which is Eternality.

May the Shefa, the sacred emanation from G flow through me and may these Tfilin, praying devices sensitize me to the awareness of that sacred flow. May it lengthen my life, and may that which flows from me contain holiness, holy thoughts, without the interference of mis-steps and mis-takes or hurtful errors. May this wrapping remind me not to be seduced into using my creative will for evil. May I find comfort in this heartful, sacred service.

I pray that the action of wrapping Tfilin put me in the powerful place of connecting every jot and tittle of all of Your sacred connections, which we call Mitzvot.

I recite my blessings as I wrap and adjust the heart sight Tfilin and my headlamp Tfilin. Then, before I begin my davenin, I offer this meditation. "From your Sefirah of Wisdom (Hochamah) on high, let me feel your emanations. From your Sefirah of Understanding (Binah) help me understand. From your Sefirah of unconditional love and kindness (Hesed) increase my capacity for love. From your Sefirah of Power (Gevurah) cut down my enemies and rebels (whether they are on the outside or within me). Pour Your good oil emanations onto the arms of Your Menorah, the lower 7 Sefirot. Cause Your goodness to flow for all of Your creation. Open your arms and let satisfaction flow to every living thing.

Now with Tallit and Tfilin, my wings, guiding light and sights set, I am ready to begin my davenin day.

The Midrash of the Mateh

This is the ongoing saga of the Mateh,the staff taken from the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden and passed down, generation to generation.

The shock of war was something the Mateh could never shake. Again the people had to fight; the horror and the brutality filled the Mateh with dismay. Was there ever a time when such terror would end?

This people who was to become "Ohr LaGoyim," 'a light unto the nations,' was shedding only darkness now. For every action, the Mateh knew, there was a 'Karma debt'. What would be the consequences of these actions? Would this people become numb to the brutalization of war and slaughter? Would others learn from the evil that is butchery?

The Mateh, which, as we have seen, was not locked in by time and space, flowed through the centuries.

It saw examples throughout the generations of how the world would, in some ways refuse to outgrow the insanity of war. Thirty centuries after the horror of this Jewish Jihad, others would be continuing the malevolent legacy of these ancient ways.

The difficulty of being in the position of "Light to the Nations" was that lessons learned from the ways of their ancestors are both good and evil.

When the Israelites continued the practices of the peoples around them, they became part of the infection that is violence within the world. Yes, the Mateh noted, this evil, this particular evil would pass from the path of the two-leggeds who were to be called Jews. But it did not pass from the world. There would be those who read the words but did not learn the lessons of Torah. There would be Jihad through the centuries. As the Mateh looked around at the bloodshed and death, it knew that victims become perpetrators and perpetrators become victims in the cycle of violence.

And it took a moment in prayer for a time when everyone could sit under a vine and fig tree with none to make them afraid.

The Menorah and the Hanukiah: a children's tale for adults

The Menorah and the Hanukiah

They sat side by side, almost twins. But their emotions were as dissimilar as their shape was similar.

“I am so excited!” chortled the Hanukiah. “It is almost that time of year. Soon the house will be filled with the smell of Latkes and the warmth of my favorite holiday.”

“I wonder what that could be!?!?” grumbled the Menorah, standing tarnished and forlorn by her younger sacred symbol.

“Why are you upset, you sound jealous?” replied the Hanukiah with a hurt tone of voice.

“What if I am,” the Menorah responded angrily.

“Why are you jealous? Hanukah comes but once a year. Ok, so I get lit for 8 days in a row!” (He positively shivered with delight). “But you are the most important symbol of the Jewish people. For one night every single week, you are brought out and lit! Songs are sung and prayers are said wonderful food is eaten. I envy you!!!!”

“But that is just it, I am not brought out once a week, or once a month or even once a year. I am forgotten, a meaningless relic, a useless ornament in the breakfront.”

The Hanukiah felt bad. “I…I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

“Well I am not putting up with this neglect, this abuse. I am leaving!!!” And with that the Menorah pushed with one of her 7 branches against the glass of the breakfront.

Don’t do that,” cried the Hanukiah, “the glass will...” and with that there was a crash and a thud as the Menorah broke the glass and fell to the floor. “I told you,” called the Hanukiah.

“Well, I don’t care, I am leaving!” cried the Menorah, tears running down her branches, as she brushed herself off and began to make her way through the living room towards the front door.

“Where are you going?” Cried the Hanukiah.

“Home!” Shouted the Menorah and then again, more quietly, “Home!”

“And where is home?” called out the Hanukiah.

For a moment, there was no response, then the faint sound of brass against brass as the Menorah strived and succeeded with a grunt to open the door. Then as the door swung wide, the Hanukiah heard the answer. “I am headed to Israel. That is where all of this started and that is where I intend to find out where I come from and why I have been so forgotten.

For years The Menorah struggled in its travel. It found its way onto buses and trains, into the trunks of cars until finally it found its way into the suitcase of an Orthodox Jew on his way to Israel. When the Menorah arrived, it climbed out of the suitcase and waddled its way onto a bus heading for the Negev, the desert of wandering. It felt as if it was drawn by an irresistible force to the ancient desert dwelling of our ancestors. Somewhere near Ein Gedi, that ancient oasis in the desert, it threw itself from the bus and struggled through the passes and wadis until, exhausted, it collapsed against a strange looking plant a sweet smelling plant, a sage plant.

As it rested, dully gleaming in the sun, the plant called to it. “Welcome home my child.”

The menorah was shocked. “How can a plant speak it wondered aloud.”

“In the same way that a Menorah can waddle,” the plant laughed, “Ask the author. Clearly, you are here for a reason. You have returned to your source.”

“Yes, I have come to Eretz Yisrael, my source, where it all began. Maybe I will learn why I am so forgotten, so useless?”

“Yes yes, Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, but more importantly, you have returned to me. For I am your source, you were patterned after me. Thousands of years ago, when the people called, Ivrim, Bnai Yisrael, Yehudim, created your ancestor, the Menorah in the Holy Temple, they designed it, and therefore you, to look like me. I am the plant Moriah. Do you know what my name means?”

“No, I don’t.” exclaimed the Menorah in wonder, beginning to examine this strange plant more closely.

“It means the teaching of G. You were meant to remind all Jews of their relationship to G, the source of all, the source of life, the source of holiness. You were meant to be a pointer to the great lessons of life. Shabbat, which you also represent is a time to reflect on life, and love and oneness, indeed all the great gifts that humans take for granted.”

The Menorah laughed bitterly. “Yet I am forgotten. The Hanukiah is shined and used and the children sing songs and play games around it and I am left in the cupboard, forgotten and alone.”
“But don’t you know that the Hanukiah is your spiritual child. It was created to look like you, to remind, as you remind.”

“But that is just it, the Hanukiah reminds the children and their parents of the glory and the power and the spirit that was long ago. But I do nothing, I am nothing, I am only a relic.” And the Menorah wept, droplets of oil rolling down its branches, as it was held by the Moriah in the wilderness of loss.

Meanwhile, there was one in the Menorah’s former home who did notice that the Menorah was missing. Her name was Rinah Tal. She was the youngest daughter of the family who had purchased and then ignored the Menorah for so long. She was 12 and there was excitement in the house as everyone was preparing for their trip to Israel. This was to be her Bat Mitzvah present. Her family was going to travel to Israel and celebrate her Bat Mitzvah at the Dead Sea, near an ancient oasis called the well of the goats, Ein Gedi.

Rinah had always liked the Menorah, been somehow drawn to it, touched by it. She enjoyed looking at it in the breakfront and wondered why it was never used. She had read the stories of the Temple of long ago and the Menorah, the Ner Tamid, that seven branched candelabra that had been lit daily there.

The day finally came, the family had traveled by taxi and bus and plane and private car to the beautiful resort at the Dead Sea. She had done her Bat Mitzvah by the waters of Ein Gedi and everyone had been proud of her and awed by the stark beauty of the place. She had been showered with praise and gifts, yet for her, something was missing. The day after her Bat Mitzvah, she snuck out of the hotel early and caught a bus, by herself up to Ein Gedi, the sight of “her day”. She wandered in and out of the groves that grew along the water. She felt elated and yet…

Then she saw it. Tangled in a sweet smelling plant hidden from view was… a menorah. No, not a menorah, THE MENORAH it was the one she had loved, the one she had longed for, the one she had missed. She tried to pull it free and as she did some of the plant came away with it. She was ecstatic. She was so happy she wanted to sing and dance. But then she felt a powerful sadness, loneliness. She felt, almost heard the feeling coming from the plant wrapped Menorah, the need to be used, to be lit, to be a symbol once again of the ancient ways that were as new as the new day dawning. She said out loud, not at all embarrassed to be addressing the plant encrusted Menorah:
“My beloved Menorah, you are my Bat Mitzvah gift, my heritage gift, my sacred connection. I will light you every Shabbat as a reminder that I am Bat Mitzvah; I am part of the sacred history and spirit of my people. You are a symbol of my connection to G and to my people and to my soul,” She shouted in joy.

She ran back to the bus and took it to the hotel where her parents were up and worried about her. When she showed them the Menorah they were in shock. They tried to explain away its presence, not willing to accept that this was a place of signs and wonders. But Rinah Tal would have none of it. She insisted that this was her Menorah from back home. She insisted that from that time on it would be lit every Shabbat, SHE WOULD LIGHT IT EVERY SHABBAT. She quietly muttered; “This is my Bat Mitzvah present, this is the meaning of my trip to Israel, this is who I am.” And her soul was filled with the light of an inner Menorah, a Ner Tamid that would never be extinguished. And she insisted that the sprigs of the plant that had attached itself to the Menorah NOT be removed, ever.

Standing in the breakfront, next to the Hanukiah, the Menorah smiled with a dull shine of pride and awareness. Candle droppings covered it as a Talit of Rainbow colors. It was home and it was fulfilled.