It’s about forgiveness
“It’s about forgiveness” the poet said, forgiveness of whom?
“Say a prayer to the G*d of your understanding,” I heard a voice saying, is it the poet, is it an angel? “Say it in whatever form is necessary. Say it in whatever form is helpful,” I heard.
Jazzy the chinchilla died two days before Yom Kippur. It lived in D’s room. She fell apart. “I should have looked at her this morning,” she said wailing, “I didn’t even look at her. If only I would have looked at her, maybe I would have seen she was sick, I could have taken her to the vet earlier. . .”
“D,” I said, “it’s not your fault. You took care of Jazzy like a mother. It’s not your fault.”
“No,” wailing, “I could have done better.”
Her friend Lizzie in the car with her after burying Jazzie turns to her and says, “D, that’s teshuvah. It’s not your fault. You’re forgiven. It’s teshuvah, say a prayer and you’re forgiven. That’s how it works.”
We are taught by the sages and by ten year olds that G*d is forgiving, it’s the heart of G*d to forgive. Am I forgiving? My inner poet is asking: have you forgiven yourself? For all the lost trails, for the journey that calls me back to itself, for the roads that have gone into mourning every time I have been distracted from my way, for the errors of omission for the sins of commission for the sin that I have committed in deed, in thought, in speech, for the sin committed willingly, for the error done unaware, for all these things, I forgive, for the sins done to me by omission or commission, aware, unaware, in thought, deed, speech, I forgive, I forgive them all, I forgive, I forgive them all.
“G*d,” I say, “forgive me for my sins, my errors, my shortcomings what I have done what I didn’t do, forgive me for not forgiving myself, forgive me for the sins against you the sin of not loving you the sin of not loving life the sin of not loving myself created in your image. . .” and from somewhere on the track I hear “you are forgiven, as you have spoken.” Is it a G*d thing or a poetry thing?
Like my ancestor Jacob, the experience is not enough for me, I have to know. “Tell me your name,” I say in an ultimate kind of mind.
“Yah — who is it?” I hear. Is this the holy name of G*d, is it G*d answering the door, is it the poet answering my question with another question, is it G*d calling to me like to Adam?
Are you poet are you angel are you G*d — is this the voice of the secret society of poets, “Yah who is it?” Is it my friend hugging a tree in a field? Of course I want to know. I want to believe this is G*d’s holy name. I want to fall on my face and say blessed is Hashem’s most secret unknowable most holy glorious name forever and ever, but no, it is surely the secret society of poets calling me to respond.
Yah — who is it? Hello?