Beyond the plot points of collective memory and a seemingly dark, perpetual mourning,
Lie wide open spaces beckoning us to enter.
Spaces beyond constrictions,
Jerusalem’s crumbling walls.
What exists there is unknown and yet, what is known is there are places to be born.
Un-made places in and beyond each of us.
Waiting to be given purpose.
Waiting to be given life.
Perhaps our destruction is all we have been waiting for.
And creation? What is made possible when we redeem our ruins.
מָה רַבּוּ מַעֲשֶׂיךָ | יְהֹוָה כֻּלָּם בְּחָכְמָה עָשִׂיתָ מָלְאָה הָאָרֶץ קִנְיָנֶךָ
How many are the things You have made, O Lord.
You have made them all with wisdom
The earth is full of your creations (Psalms 104:24).
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