Eitz hayyim hi It is a Tree of Life
We who sit
Root the scrolls
Born aloft.
Like mycorrhizal fungi, lacey fingers
Feeding that root system
We sweeten the chorus
La makh-ha-zikkim-bah For those who hold fast to it
For those who hold with gnarled hands and frail limbs;
For those who cannot be present to hold because their brains are convulsed in an electrical storm;
those who struggle to be present as they swing from emotional high to low;
those who dance as they hold as they dance through all life;
those who reach up from a wheelchair; out from a walker; or wobbling, out from a cane.
We who are absent, who sit, who wish we could sit, or who dance,
add to the Eitz Hayyim, the Tree of Life, our fruit:
of gentleness, of quietude, of desperate wishing, of hope—and despair, of pain.
Ha-shi-vei-nu HaShem Ei-le-ha v’na-shu-va.
HaShem, gather all of us, your children, together.
Hadeish ya-mei-nu ke-ke-dem.
Make all of us new again.
Paint your creation anew with the same vibrant, shimmering brush.
