For so many of us, struggling with the many levels of mental health, getting out of bed each day can be a challenge. It’s worse during these continued days of violence and terror, so much unknown, gripping us with bad news. Many of us handle complex inner realities, some more troubled than others, some better handled, some hidden. We all put on a brave face.
Where and when do we allow ourselves to be vulnerable? When can we let go, shed tears and name our fears?
There is a curious Jewish tradition, quite old, which is a specifically choreographed form of prayer, practiced twice daily by the more observant and pious among us. It’s called the Tachanun, Supplication or ‘Falling on One’s Face Prayer.” This happens after the silent prayer, the Amidah, and includes verses from today’s chapter, with memorable alliteration and dramatic words that after all these years, though I have not prayed this prayer in decades, I still know by heart.
This supplication prayer includes the bodily gesture that nods at prior times in which the one praying would prostrate fully on the ground, the way Muslims still do today and some Jews do on Yom Kippur. Similar to the yogic ‘child pose’ - connecting the crown to the base in an intimate repose. Today, this pose is not full bodied anymore. Instead, one lays one’s head on one’s left arm, while sitting or standing, and recites the verses of remorse attributed to King David - who had a lot to be sorry for. It’s a silent prayer of humility, remorse and submission - begging for healing, for wholeness, for an end to suffering. I remember that during my teen years, with my own anxieties, while still quite religiously observant, I sometimes found these words to be very personal, as though they were entirely mine. Maybe it was just the fact that these words were proof of fears and private terrors that nobody talked about and i didn’t dare bring up.
וְ֭נַפְשִׁי נִבְהֲלָ֣ה מְאֹ֑ד וְאַתָּ֥ה יְ֝הֹוָ֗ה עַד־מָתָֽי׃
יָגַ֤עְתִּי ׀ בְּֽאַנְחָתִ֗י אַשְׂחֶ֣ה בְכׇל־לַ֭יְלָה מִטָּתִ֑י בְּ֝דִמְעָתִ֗י עַרְשִׂ֥י אַמְסֶֽה׃
My soul is stricken with terror,
And You Eternal One —how long??!
I am weary with groaning;
every night I drench my bed,
I drench my sheets with tears.
Ps. 6:4-7
These words admit the fragility of our existence, peeling, for a moment, the firm peels with which we try and often manage to cover the inner flesh of our fruit - our hurting soul. It is an intimate moment, head on arm, privately in public, safely admitting how much horror surrounds us amid the beauty of every single night and day.
In a note about this prayer, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote:
“Our voices drop; we whisper our deepest thoughts; we express our feelings... of vulnerability. Tachanun is the chamber music rather than the symphony of the soul.”
How long? How much longer? How many more tears can I shed before I smile again? How many people have wept through these words, how many do so on this very day, as personal problems and political upheaval, troubles big and small continue to show up on our doorstep?
Whoever of our ancestors came up with this daily tradition of embodied confession of pain and confusion, knew a thing or two, as the author of this poem did, and as do we about life’s truths: It’s real and messy, sometimes worse, and our tears are sacred, as are gestures and words with which we are encouraged to name what’s wrong, aspire for better, and ask - whomever, however -- for healing and help. We have tools at our disposal, agency with which to lower our heads and then, with help, lift ourselves up, again - with help.
May it be there in our hearts, and as we see, hear and support each other when we lift our heads up and remember to exhale, and seek the help we all deserve and the hope that we all need.
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