Sleeping Snakes

Here I am in my home town after years of being away. Ironically, I have come back to the place I fled at 17—St.Louis— for a rabbinic conference, of all things. And I am just blocks away from where I was raised. Flying in over the icy snake of the Mississippi, I can almost smell the earth; the naked trees and prim houses call to me. My chest aches, tugging me like an undertow to attend to my feelings. But I don’t, of course. I bundle up, breathe deep and catch the shuttle. Entering into the hotel lobby, I wince at the 18 foot crystal chandelier overhead, still putting off the call, and hurry off to the ballroom where I am scheduled to lead evening prayers.

Fortunately, I have a wonderful backup team of musicians and the zikhr movements and harmonies come easily. I ask the group to descend, to hush, to tune in to the Missouri earth, and the wise heartbeat of this place. The prayers flow.

Hours later, I find myself sobbing in the bathtub of my hotel room. The sleeping snake of memory has awakened and slithered its way to consciousness, beckoning me. There is no choice but to follow her to my interior. And who do I find in there? A multitude of mini-me’s gurgle out, each with her own painful memory…

—A five year old shrimp with bangs so short they pop out like uncooked spaghetti, nagging her siblings for attention.

—The fifth-grader dressed in a pink oxford shirt, terrified her newly sprouting breast buds are cancer;

—The kohl-eyed teenager who takes refuge from her parents’ fighting in sex, cigarettes and sunbathing naked on the roof.

Each one lonely, so lonely, and without comfort. Longing to be seen. Longing to be special to someone, anyone. O how we, creatures of God, are all so vulnerable. And the child within us never leaves, lingers forever in our cells, waiting for our visit, our curative touch.

On the plane back to Denver, the teenage boy sitting directly in front of me (who had so sweetly asked if I would be alright if he reclined his seat) takes ill . No one else sees him puking but me, furtively, copiously into the green airsick bag he found just in time in the seat pocket. Have mercy on us, holy Shekhinah, I prayed as I sent forth invisible snake arms to caress and soothe him.

***

Who is the tender child waiting for you at the door to your interior self? Make the journey and reacquaint yourself. Apply some tenderness where it is due. No love is greater.