Poetry Beit Midrash

Approaching the celebration of Shavuot, the giving of the Torah on Mt. Sinai, it seemed natural to me to consider a poem which reflects on the Sinai experience and the meaning of revelation.  I didn’t have far to look choosing a text – the poem “We All Stood Together,” commonly referred to as “your Sinai poem,” is undoubtedly my best-known poem, included in numerous anthologies and prayer books and in my first book, A Spiritual Life

But the journey to Sinai had its beginnings of course with the going out from Egypt, with Pesach.  So I’d like to open with a text which imaginatively helps us to remember that time of exodus, to remind us literally where we came from and who we were just 7 weeks ago.  The vulnerability of it, the uncertainty of it, indeed, perhaps the terror of it. 

Leaving Egypt

The night is so dark
and I am afraid.
I see nothing, smell nothing,
the only reality—
I am holding my mother’s hand.

And as we walk
I hear the sounds
of a multitude in motion—
in front, behind,
all around,
a multitude in motion. 

I have no thought of tomorrow,
now, in the darkness,
there is only motion
and my mother’s hand.

© Merle Feld Finding Words URJ Press 2011

Beit midrash discussion prompts:

What do you feel experiencing the exodus through a child’s eyes? 

How are your senses engaged in this poem?

The counting of the Omer is a quintessentially liminal time. What is hard for you about liminal moments, transitions? It might be helpful to identify what some of those times have been in your life in the past, and choose one such time to dive in deep: Who/what did you hold onto for support? What was exciting, enlivening about that transitional liminal time? What gifts did that time of life offer?


In this next poem, familiar to many of you perhaps, the speaker feels outside the normative experience – the popular story that was handed down doesn’t represent my story, she says – because I’m a woman.  But there are many ways to feel yourself outside what seems to be “the norm” of revelation, of Jewish experience, and that is something I want to invite you to engage with.

We All Stood Together  

         for Rachel Adler

My brother and I were at Sinai.
He kept a journal
of what he saw,
of what he heard,
of what it all meant to him.

I wish I had such a record
of what happened to me there.

It seems like every time I want to write
I can't –
I'm always holding a baby,
one of my own,
or one for a friend,
always holding a baby,
so my hands are never free
to write things down.

And then
as time passes,
the particulars,
the hard data,
the who what when where why,
slip away from me,
and all I'm left with is
the feeling.

But feelings are just sounds
the vowel barking of a mute.

My brother is so sure of what he heard –
after all he's got a record of it –
consonant after consonant after consonant.

If we remembered it together
we could recreate holy time
sparks flying.

© Merle Feld A Spiritual Life: Exploring the Heart and Jewish Tradition, revised edition SUNY Press 2007

Beit midrash discussion prompts:

What is the dilemma the poet is describing? What is her experience of Sinai? How does her experience differ from that of her “brother”? 

How does the poem speak to your life, your longing, your understanding of revelation?

Shavuot is a good time to ask, Are there ways in which, like the poet, you feel “outside the norm” of Jewish experience?  How do you find yourself in the Sinai story? Have have you foound agency to include yourself, as the poet does in the writing of the poem?

The poem explores a tension between “particulars”/”hard data” and “feelings” – how is your Jewish life and practice informed by each side of that tension?  How do you mediate that tension in your understanding of revelation, of Torah?


Shavuot, revelation.  What comes after?  What came after for the Israelites were many years in the midbar, in the wilderness, wandering.  They had Moshe as their guide, their protector, their teacher as they wandered.  As we wander, we cast about for support, for wisdom.  Perhaps we, like they, find our teacher, our guide.  And then perhaps, like they, we feel disappointment, the guide falls short, we feel abandoned. 


Unfulfilled promise

I guess I thought you’d lead me
to the promised land, but finally
I realize I never had a vision

of what that would look like,
or what it would feel like
to be free and whole at last.
All I had was confidence in you
as scout, trailblazer, trustworthy
and steady guide.  I had faith

you’d take me the whole way
and deliver me safely
to the other side.

And now, we stand together
at the crossroads,
and you tell me,

I’ve come as far as I can with you,
I’ve taught you whatever I know
about how to find water

in a wasteland, how to build
a temporary shelter, how to read
the sky, the stars, the trail and the winds.

I look to the horizon
but all I see ahead of me
is more wasteland.

© Merle Feld Finding Words URJ Press 2011


Beit midrash discussion prompts:

What do you make of the guide in this poem? What did they provide of value?

Who have been the important guides in your life? What did you learn from them?

Did they come to disappoint you?  How did you deal with that?  How is the issue of “less than perfect” (v. “good enough”) relevant in our religious lives?

What do you want from a guide, a leader, a spiritual mentor?

Do you think you need a “vision” of the Promised Land to get there? What is your vision? Do you try to get there? How?

How do you read this poem as one who is “a guide”?


The fourth and final poem in this beit midrash session opens the questions, the pain and longing, of a soul in spiritual midbar, desert. It’s a state of being that may be familiar to many of us - although the fabric of life has held and one should overflow with gratitude, the underlying experience is one of malaise, dis-connection, a barrier to faith, a loss of faith. Perhaps an unfortunate time, perhaps a propitious time, to arrive at Shavuot, at Sinai.

Sinai Again

I'm coming back
to this mountain now
alone.
It's quiet
the barren brush
the stillness
match my mood.

I haven't seen you
in a long time, God –
where have you
been keeping yourself?

Me, I've had two kids
work has its ups and downs
I'm still married
to the same man.

I don't know if you noticed
but I stopped talking to you.
I called to you
I called and called
but you didn't answer.

You pushed me far away
so far that even I,
who has so little pride
after all, even I
couldn't bring myself
to come crawling back.
I don't know if you noticed.

I only returned now
to walk around
kick the brush
across the sand
to walk around
and think about us.

This could be a holy place
again, if you would just
give me a sign –
a thrush or a hare
or a mountain goat
gracefully coming
toward me.

 © Merle Feld A Spiritual Life: Exploring the Heart and Jewish Tradition, revised edition SUNY Press 2007


Beit midrash discussion prompts:

Is the speaker in this poem a seeker? How would you define “a seeker”? What is this person seeking?

What do you imagine is meant by “you pushed me so far away”? Are there times you feel enfolded by God, by a sacred force, a life force, a holy connection? Times when you don’t?

How do you find sacred connection when you feel bereft in the world?


I like to end a poetry beit midrash by asking participants to reflect a bit on the process they’ve just engaged in: What was this experience like – with this text? with each other? Do you have some new awareness of yourself? of your study partner?  What is special about this way of talking together and where might you want to go from here? 

Note: There are materials for a number of beit midrash sessions to be found in the revised edition of A Spiritual Life, exploring many of the poems in that book.