blessing

Here is a great blessing: a desert landscape in raucous, radiant bloom. Cactus needles glowing in the new day sun like a halo around succulent limbs.

And another: leaning, wholly held, into the wind.

And: being in the one heart, the love that encompasses, the love that is everything -- the sky, the great boulders silently witnessing, the smell of the moist and many-hued soil beneath the juniper tree. Crow, snake, and spider. Humans enfolding one another in tenderness and sacred song.



In the Jewish tradition, every time we bless any thing or any action, we start with the same six words: baruch atah adonai, elohainu melech ha'olam -- blessed are you God, ruler of the universe. Then the blessing goes on to become more specific about a particular holy occurence. Sunrise, bodily health, a morsel of food. There is something so powerful in blessing practice, in the sanctification of what could otherwise be overlooked as mundane, routine, or even burdensome.

I read a quote from Nobel Prize-winning physicist Max Planck today. This man, considered to be the founder of quantum theory, said after a lifetime of intellectual exploration that "there is no matter as such! All matter originates and exists only by virtue of a force which brings the particles of an atom to vibration and holds this most minute solar system of the atom together . . . We must assume behind this force the existence of a conscious and intelligent Mind."

Call it Mind, call it Spirit, call it Adonai or Jesus or Allah or Buddah or the Universe. To bless something is to peer into that infinite and unimaginable force which animates all of life. To bless is to pull back the curtain and say yes, I see you, divinity. I know you, I recognize you. To bless is to give God a sly wink -- here we are on this jewel of a planet, so often lost in our machinations and struggles, and yet we can still take time to witness and to sanctify the red wine of the sabbath, or the smooth green skin of the apple, or the steaming pink flesh of the salmon. Because it is all me, and I am all of it, and my heart, unbounded, is as vast as the universe.




And so we 45 or so city slickers, we who spent 9 hours in the car on Friday and another 9 on Sunday to travel into the unknown quiet, we found our way together into the one great heart as we travelled this landscape of blessing.

Our time together was most auspicious, as it was the coincidence of two holidays: Passover, when the Jews celebrate exodus from Egypt, and Shabbat, which, although it comes each week, is considered the holiest of holidays in the tradition because it is a time of deep renewal and connection. In some ways, the sabbath is at the center of the tradition; each week it brings an opportunity to restore the peace within ourselves and in our families and communities that allows us to know we are flowing in a divine river.

Stop for a moment, and listen: can you hear it? We are a part of an ineffable love. A harmony so complete that it returns to silence.



So we said prayers on Saturday, Shabbat morning. We said the traditional prayers, and we also turned out to the landscape and received the blessing of the rocks and plants that flowed towards us. We said the shechecheyanu, the prayer that is said any time something new arises; we give thanks to God for bringing us to this holy moment. This holy moment, one pearl on an endless strand.

On Saturday evening, we created together a seder, the traditional Passover ceremony, which retells the story of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt and into the promised land. Each group of four or five people brought forth one of the elements of the seder in unexpected and moving ways; using earth elements and simple rituals, the seder came alive for me as a story of the human journey towards freedom in a way that it has never been before.

And of course, we blessed our food. As you can imagine, it was simple fare -- plenty of matzah (despite the bizarre Bay Area matzah shortage), plenty of hard-boiled eggs, fruit, nut butters, cabbage, bell peppers, quinoa. Hearty, hardy food that offered up bursting flavor and robust nourishment despite the desert heat. And there were some surprises, too; charoset made of dates and blueberries, goat cheese and roasted red peppers, spinach salad. Each meal was prepared communally, and, though simple, each was was suffused with a sense of unrestrained abundance. Miles away from restaurants and refrigeration, the colors and flavors of the food vibrated in our bodies like the deep, sweet tones of a bell.



For three days we filled a small, blooming piece of land -- only two hours by car from Las Vegas -- with our song and yearning and laughter. With our roots plunging into the earth and our arms reaching out to gather in the beloveds, new and old. The canyon wren sang out its slow trill, perhaps even joyful at our rejoicing.

And now we are gone from there, with the blessings of that place inside of us, becoming a part of the structure of our being, just like the food we ate and the intention with which we ate it formed our being. The place, I assure you, has returned to quiet without so many two-legged creatures and their stuff, their bustlings and fumblings. And yet the holy songs still resonate on the land. With our witnessing, with our most intimate love we blessed and sanctified the place, and so it is a part of us and we are a part of it, connected inextricably inside the great, hilarious yes that is what moves everything.

The book of Deuteronomy instructs us: v'achlat, v'shabbat, v'brachat. You shall eat, you shall be satisfied, and you shall bless God.

Or even just: nourishment, awareness, love.



Simple.