What Comes Before

Meditation for Thursday, August 11: Find a doorway into silence and give thanks.

The rabbinic sages interpreting the Torah, or Hebrew Bible, asked a silly question: Why does the first book of the Torah, Bereishit (this is the Hebrew word for Genesis and is pronounced, bray-SHEET) start with the letter bet, the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet? They asked, shouldn't the book that is about the creation of the universe start with the first letter, alef?

The rabbis assumed that the language of the Torah, Hebrew, is the holiest language, and even the letters themselves are imbued with sacred light, written with black fire on white fire. They prized both literal and figurative readings of the text and looked actively for hidden meanings.

Figuring that God could not make a mistake, they decided that Bereishit must start with a B for a reason. From a silly question, they came to a profound conclusion: The beginning of things as we know them is not the true beginning. There is always something we won't know or understand about the Original nature of the universe. God gives us the story starting from page 2, and about the rest, He keeps silent.

What comes before the first book of Creation, then, is the Mystery of Creation -- the Silent "A". Perhaps a Buddhist might call it non-existence, the true nature of all things.

In our relationships and daily interactions with others, there is an element of mystery, as we cannot know everything about another person and what they are going though. We may find that respecting this mystery helps us to become more connected and compassionate people.

We might also consider that we ourselves are a mystery, as we do not know fully where we were before we were born, what makes us pulse with life, and what will happen when we die. In exploring these essential questions, we find deep silence.

I am trying lately to get back in touch with silence. In my running, this means becoming aware of the silent, non-existence at the heart of my being that rests between the beats of the pulse and the inhales and exhales of the breath. In my work, this means to be aware that being a teacher does not mean that I am supposed to talk about all that I know, or think I know.

In getting ready to start the new school year, teaching is very much in the forefront of my mind. I think about it whether I am running, lying down, or getting up. It weaves into my praying.

I like the ending of Mary Oliver's poem, "Praying," because it sums up how I am coming to feel about teaching:

this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

I hope that both my teaching and my running practice this year will be doorways into thanks and silence. This is my prayer.