Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8
Sixth Haftarah of Consolation, Isaiah 60:1-22
Dear TBE Community,
For this newsletter I am sharing a poem that I wrote in November 2016, for an open mic contest that I ended up winning. The working title of the poem was “American Poem” but then I later changed it to Daylight Saving Time. To me, in its confessional prose-poetry style, it had and has a very American feel to it. It echoes Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen songs, as well as some east coast Americana references, and it was a new way of writing for me. While my poetry tends to me more lyrical, I do have a few prose poems that sometimes just empty themselves out on the page as a stream-of-consciousness, like this one.
Why am I sharing this as the newsletter message for Parashat Ki Tavo?
Come to services tonight in person or tune in on Zoom to learn more about why I recalled this poem as I was preparing to speak about this week’s parasha: What is worse, a dream unlived or unfulfilled?
Daylight Saving Time
On the last evening of Daylight Saving Time, the sky stands still in pink and orange, the clouds are dunes, ruffled by a desert wind. Silent shimmer fills the avenue and for an instant, your life makes sense, until the universe slips away again. Seven years you’ve been in this country, and you haven’t planted anything, not one of one million trees, no herbs in a community garden. You can’t afford to buy a studio in the Bronx, you barely make rent, you haven’t given birth to a first generation American. Not that you haven’t tried. Seven years, and your roots remain above ground. Every year come November, you wait for someone to pity the poor immigrant and have you over for Thanksgiving. No, you don’t hate your life. Yes, sometimes you wish you would’ve stayed home, wherever that was—but what is worse, a dream unlived or unfulfilled? You don’t know if it’s a lie if it don’t come true. You know that nobody has taken you to any river in many years. Since when do memories make you feel lost, not safe? Since when can’t you get rid of those extra pounds? Since when do you cry on the subway, held, delayed? You have no patience for people who tell you in this let’s-get-to-work-and-heal-this-country manner that you grow from your challenges, that life is about learning, that the journey is more important than the destination. You have grown and learned and journeyed, you can fill books with your accumulated growth and strength and yet, after seven years in this city, you still don’t know a conman when you see one. Is it foolish or arrogant to believe that not everyone is looking for the bigger, better deal? Do you underestimate or overestimate the men you fall in love with? Is unrequited love actually love or some surrogate experience? What is the sense of amassing memories that end up aborted, miscarried, stillborn, that you can’t share with anyone because those you shared them with are no longer in your life? People say, leave the past behind, but how can you leave it behind when the past defines your present and your future, when every street corner, every movie theater, every subway line, every prayer reminds you of dreams lived but unfulfilled? You search your purse for the keys and think of your bikini in the beach bag, the empty sunscreen flask, the Luna card, napkins from Nathan’s and for a moment you tell yourself that there is space between despair and bitterness, between net worth and worthless, between indifference and obsession, between knowing and not knowing, between forgetting and remembering. You just saw it in the sky.
See you at Temple Beth El – Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Julia Knobloch