When I was a child, prayer was not a staircase I had to struggle to climb, but a natural expression that slid through my lips.
When I was a child, I saw G-d through a stained-glass window in the drum of our little Reform temple, round like the edges of a snow-globe that has not yet shattered.
When I was a child, they taught me the words of the Kedushah and I swore I could hear the angels catapulting into creation right there before me.
My feet rose to reach them, and my heart fell silent to listen for the Almighty’s thin, still sound.
Every strum of the guitar dragged another angel into materialization.
Sitting in a bubbled room with the light filtering around the charcoal of my drawing board, I found G-d. Watching the flames of my father’s Yahrtzeit candle devour the wax, gazing at its steady burn dispersing darkness, I found G-d.
Looking up at the twisting tree branches and down at my veins branching across my wrist, my joints sewn together like dolls’, I found G-d.
Now I look, and only sometimes do I find.
Now I shield my eyes, and only sometimes do I wish to see.