A Blessing for Zoom Spaces
Blessed are you Shekhina, who dwells everywhere and in no one place, for teaching us the gift of imminence. We gather in time but not space and like mycelium our essence is connection.
This tent we enter is made from the songs of lightening storms and stars, whose frequencies move at the speed of light, a billion tiny waves reaching our shores each second. If there is a holy of holies in each of us, then this act of gathering, the synchronicity of breath, weaves a temple around them, a spiderweb of spiderwebs, a galaxy of galaxies, an enclosing chrysalis of transformation whose silk is spun from intention and love. We have no need of stone.
Like the finespun threads that spiders pull from their own bodies these filaments are supple as air and strong as steel. The nets we weave are filled with sustenance. They carry all our longing for each other, all the fiery blossoming of our prayers, all the weight of these times and the kinship to which we hold fast.
Though we have crafted fine buildings, warm and lovely rooms, and been blessed by the touch of each other’s hands, we are not bound by roof beams and paving stones, not even by the minyan of our bodies.
Blessed are you, Shekhina, the ever-moving breath of life unbounded by geography, through whom we move past place to offer each other the indestructible sanctuaries of our hearts, the shared and inextinguishable light of our minds. How beautiful are the tents of our people. Come triumphs and troubles, across time and space, in quarantine and in the regathering time beyond we will dwell in your house forever.
This tent we enter is made from the songs of lightening storms and stars, whose frequencies move at the speed of light, a billion tiny waves reaching our shores each second. If there is a holy of holies in each of us, then this act of gathering, the synchronicity of breath, weaves a temple around them, a spiderweb of spiderwebs, a galaxy of galaxies, an enclosing chrysalis of transformation whose silk is spun from intention and love. We have no need of stone.
Like the finespun threads that spiders pull from their own bodies these filaments are supple as air and strong as steel. The nets we weave are filled with sustenance. They carry all our longing for each other, all the fiery blossoming of our prayers, all the weight of these times and the kinship to which we hold fast.
Though we have crafted fine buildings, warm and lovely rooms, and been blessed by the touch of each other’s hands, we are not bound by roof beams and paving stones, not even by the minyan of our bodies.
Blessed are you, Shekhina, the ever-moving breath of life unbounded by geography, through whom we move past place to offer each other the indestructible sanctuaries of our hearts, the shared and inextinguishable light of our minds. How beautiful are the tents of our people. Come triumphs and troubles, across time and space, in quarantine and in the regathering time beyond we will dwell in your house forever.
