A quilted patchwork of stone, pristine and immutable to centuries of wind and rain and sun, breaks at the rim to blue. Jews and seekers and the penitent congregate at the base of the cascade of ivory, a bulwark before the devoted and curious. Tatters of parchment, icing the cracks and crevices with the glue of hope and heart, silently petition in their presence and poise. The human condition, an impetus to our collective Muses as we face the blocks and links and layers, welcome of some ethereal ascent. Motives of chant come in and out of audible, prayers bolstered in voice and vowel, or behind sealed eyes of the reverently motionless. In the density of those searching and attentive and opening and silencing and sweating, you breathe “the breath inside the breath.” Indian mystic, Kabir, understood the unspoken fraternity that comes alive in whom and to we’ve always been native.
The sanctity of the Wailing Wall, or maybe it’s a constructed sanctity rising in the air around it, regardless, is still alluring and enticing of a reality commonly lived outside of.
I miss it.