Chicago disappears under clouds and our
last image of fall leaves, which we never see
in Los Angeles disappears.
We drove the entire way to the airport
without music. A silent meditation on
everything that came before.
I wanted, at least for a couple of hours,
for music to only mean what we shared
in Oconomowoc, where my oldest friends
have been this whole time.
It was my first time in this alternative
universe of song, but I was welcomed
like I was born there. I’m still astonished
about how much sleep I got. About how
at a certain point, throughout camp
there was only quiet. About how
at other points, forty-five voices
sounded like a million.
This sound, Birkat Hamazon in infinite harmonies,
not because it was directed, but because
that’s just how we do it.
This sound, with guitar and fiddle and bass.
With cajon and djembe, with whatever
we could vibrate out of our throats.
This sound reminds me of the very first
time I heard it. When I said, I always need
to hear this sound.
This sound hasn’t stopped, just because
I occasionally fly away from it.
Someone asked me if it was overwhelming.
No, it was perfectly whelming. Exactly
as whelming as I needed it to be.
This day of rest of song.
This Shabbat Shira!