Malakhi

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A teacher, a rabbi came to this earth

courtesy of a star, a manger and a virgin birth.

Ages before, despite the temple’s destruction

oil of one day stretched out to eight –

– imagine the miracle!

Hope lights our times, shadows flee in their wake

Hanukkah, Christmas in one time combined.

Faiths diverge but converge all the same

in their wishes for peace and love and brotherhood,

if you can cut through the soundbites and posturing, that is.

I am a mongrel, one foot in the Deep Mid Winter of my past

My heart swelling to Baruch Hu as I whisper Kaddish in memory.

Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya

Bitter sweet at this time of disruption

For all that is gone, for all that has broken

For all that divides in words left unspoken.

Amen.

Shalom.

Salaam.

Shalom Aleichem.

As Salaam Aleikum

Oseh shalom bim’romav hu ya’aseh shalom

Let us welcome the Malakhi, in whatever form he – or she – takes.

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It’s been a while. Longer than I thought. Life, you know?

Last night saw the first night of Hanukkah and Christmas Eve – two miracles for the price of one. It inspired me to take some time during a small oasis of calm to share my thoughts, my feelings, to highlight just a tiny slice of the similarities in the underlying hopes of the three Abrahamix religions, not to mention in some of the words used in greetings and wishes bestowed.

Yes, it’s probably a bit clumsy (I’ve not written for a while) – but it’s all me.

Whatever faith you follow or not, I send my love to you, my brothers and sisters in this messed-up, argumentative worldwide family of ours.

 

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Eyes On – Picture It & Write

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The Girl  lived her whole life as if she were observed.

Whichever way she turned, she felt herself to be under surveillance. It became an obsession. Whoever – whatever – expected perfection. Every time she passed a shop window, she couldn’t help but notice the faint shadow behind her as she adjusted her hair, twitched her skirt, dabbed a speck of dust off her virgin-white blouse.

Mirrors were the worst. Just out of her eye-line, there was always someone – something. Watching. Waiting.

And she never quite measured up.

The Voice told her that there was always someone more pretty, taller, more radiant, neater, more balletic – just more than her. And she heard these utterances so often that they became her new truth.

With each reflection, each criticism, she felt herself disappear. She shrunk from the world, covered the mirrors in her home with newspaper, scratched away at the high-gloss kitchen cupboard doors with the carving knife so that not even her silhouette was visible.

She scratched away at herself.

The Watcher, watched, eyes burning bright. The Voice, spoke, taunting and cutting with words.

And then, then, she was gone.

And only then, did people remember her for her kindness, her generosity of spirit, her caring, comforting ways. And they missed her. They missed The Girl.

And then, only then, did they realise that seeing her for all her true qualities, had come too late.

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I couldn’t resist taking part in this after seeing the image – what a strangely captivating thing it is! Please take a look at Ermilia’s blog and why not take part in Picture It & Write yourself? She posts a new image for inspiration every Sunday. Today, I’m using my lunch break wisely and creatively 🙂

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