From the Legend of the Thirty Six
Rav said, all the ends have passed, and the matter depends only on transformation and good deeds. But Shmuel said, it’s enough for the mourner to stand in mourning.
— Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 97b
I knew that my heart had opened to all suffering with these pictures, these stories, these dreams, these possible and impossible ideas that had emerged over the course of this study. I had felt the exchange of cliché for deeper notions, like the argument in the Talmud, through the willingness to stand in our grief, to weep the world well, we had moved into a place that released us from the failure of our own wisdom to sustain. I felt the release of inadequate ideas to justify suffering, it was not because of this or because of that that we grieve, we have only to be with our sadness, to sit with our suffering, to weep the world well, in order to survive.
What we do is to stand here, because we are lured to the light by the fancy that we wait for this, we wait for that, we do not give up, and we are sustained by all that is unseen. We yearn for it.
Rabbi R told me that it was said that Bar Yochai’s right eye used to smile and his left eye was sad. He also quoted a passage in the Zohar, one half of my heart is happy and the other half is crying.
I met with H to show her the pictures. “I like the stories,” she said, “especially the last one.” The last one was about the nature of the righteous person, the tzaddik: a person who is the agent for revealing the hidden. Something happens around the tzaddik, whether the tzaddik is conscious of that or not, it doesn’t matter. It only matters that the tzaddik makes something happen.
“The tzaddik is the one who is able to connect with the world the way it is, and to raise something up that is beyond the world,” I said.
Then H looked at the photographs. Afterwards, we sat down at a small table in the gallery space as if we were having coffee in Vienna, and she told me this story:
In 1980, I went back to Europe. I visited the place where my parents were held. It was a small place on the eastern border of France. I was walking just across the road from the camp. They were buried along that road. There were 1200 graves along that road, and I visited them all. I thought: no one else might ever come here.
Just before I left, I looked down and I saw a rock, I felt as if it were calling to me, so I picked it up. I started picking up a rock from every site we visited. I took them all home and I often took them out when I spoke about the trip.
One day I was showing the rock, the first one I picked up, and a girl said, “look – do you see what it is?”
No, I hadn’t noticed. I turned it over and it formed a perfect star of David, etched on the underside, filled with calcium deposits.
I took it to a geologist to see if someone had carved it or whether it was – you know – nature. The geologist told me it was nature. It had been buried deep and a great upheavel had pushed it up, maybe it settled in water, but it’s natural.
It was Shabbat Naso, the three-fold blessing from Bemidbar, culminating in “may God’s face be lifted up to you and give you peace.” The Sefas Emes brings that shalom/peace is shleimut/wholeness; the inner point of truth. A tiny point or a single moment contains the infinite fullness and joy of Godliness. The micro version of Everything, the attention paid to the detail of the individual, the lone tzaddik, the moment, the singular act, the story, through which the whole world passes. It was Bar Yochai believing, after opposing the Romans, after hiding in a cave for thirteen years, after all that he came to believe that if he could only celebrate two Sabbaths properly, the world would be redeemed. Or that he and his son were the two who received the presence of God. Maybe the only two.