The holidays’ blueprint
Is a golden tassels tapestry.
Every stitch measured out,
Weaved and laid into place
With total precision.
This is how it should be.
This is how our ancestors
Immersed in holiness,
Vested with wisdom,
Crowned with prophecy,
Marked the transit of the sun,
The landmarks of our history,
The ebb and flow of the seasons.
This is how they grew roots
In this ancient wrinkled land,
Cracking its stones into bringing forth life,
Seasoning its fields with memories,
Weaving the mycelium
That connects us all into one.
When I lift my own tapestry
I see a patchwork quilt.
The sun beams right through it.
It’s threadbare, torn and missing.
It’s so sorely lacking,
When compared to how it should be.
When compared to the tapestry
My ancestors weaved.
I am but a very inadequate child
Of those whose dough was blessed,
Whose wellspring ran pure,
Whose words still guide us.
I am humbled and awed,
I am forever patching,
Patching that quiltwork,
I am healing the scars,
I am holding up my quilt
To compare it to my ancestors’,
Sailing down my murky river
Of uncertainty and guilt,
Rocking my boat with joy,
Wrapped in the stained quilt of my faith.
Patched and threadbare,
It’s kept us warm,
Nursing my babies
In the stony Jerusalem winter.
It’s badly torn,
But it lets the sun’s rays
Right through.
כי נפשי תארוג אליך
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