Dave Karpel wonders how is it that talking to his dogs is easier than talking to God?
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I believed God was real from a very young age. I expressed this belief by talking to God.
I didn’t know how to pray from a siddur, a prayer book, as I was not a religious Jew. This belief was not taught to me. Judaism for me was both the identity of the eternal victim, the runner, and the bronzed hero, the Israeli soldier; Judaism was the Holocaust and Israel, it was history and an Uzi toting Yonatan Netanyahu. G-d had almost nothing to do with it.
Hebrew school and synagogue for holidays and bar mitzvahs were social gatherings and fashion shows, places to misbehave, to hear Hebrew prayers said by grandparents, to meet girls, and to dance to “What I Like About You” and “Rock Lobster.”
Alone, in my bedroom, throat raw after a screaming match, I would whisper to God. I’d ask Him why He opted to make me their son. I’d wonder aloud about His intelligence, kindness, mercy, ability to reason. I’d beg Him for a hint, for a clue, for a message, for a wormhole to escape to another dimension.
When at 17 I put the knife to my wrist sitting on the seawall, I asked God why not.
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I never spoke to Him about good times, about friends, about girls, about fishing or football or about any mischievous adventures. I spoke my troubles and I spoke my wishes and the very act itself temporarily calmed me, brought me peace.
When at 17 I put the knife to my wrist sitting on the seawall, I asked God why not. The answer wasn’t one I needed someone else to supply. I put the knife away and told God to go away.
It’s not that I stopped believing. I just stopped talking. Even in the midst of self-destruction, I believed. Waking up after a drunken binge on a strange lawn somewhere in Miami Beach, my first words might be, “Oh, God, where am I?” with real intention for Him to hear the question, perhaps show me an answer. But that calling card came out only in times of sad desperation.
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These days, my first conscious breaths as I awake are spoken: Modeh anee lefanecha melech chai vekayam, she-he-chezarta bee nishmatee b’chemla, raba emunatecha (I offer thanks to You, living and eternal King, for You have mercifully restored my soul within me; Your faithfulness is great). Wash my hands according to proscribed ritual. Dress, right leg first, right arm first.
I put my shoes on according to halacha (Jewish law). Right, left; tie left, tie right.
Ritual and law now connect me to God in every aspect of my waking hours. Three times a day I pray from a siddur. When I find the time and mind (this should be done at scheduled times, something I constantly struggle with), I try to connect through the wisdom of sages or through reading and learning from the Torah itself.
According to tradition, Jews should pray and learn by speaking the words, speech being the very way by which creation came about.
I mean the kind of prayer I said as a child: words spoken aloud from the heart.
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As much as I’ve taken on in the last 10 or so years as an observant Jew, as much as I’ve strengthened my faith and connection to God, the personal heartfelt words I spoke as a child of simple faith still escape me.
Traditionally, speaking personal words of prayer has been a part of Judaism from the beginning. I don’t mean meditating, something else that is part of tradition, or simply thinking words of personal prayer. I mean the kind of prayer I said as a child: words spoken aloud from the heart.
I’ve read books, particularly by the popular Breslover Rabbi Arush, that give advice on how to go about praying to God in this way, outside of the siddur. These are helpful, but there’s this dilemma of being a self-conscious, quite easily embarrassed adult.
And, yet, I feel no shame when I speak to my dogs.
Walking Emi and Bella, I say, “Let’s go girls.”
I say, “Make peepee.”
I say, “Stop dawdling and do your business.”
I say, “No, we’re not hunting cats this morning.”
I say, “Is this a beautiful day, or what?”
They wag their tails and go their merry ways to the end of their leashes.
I say, “Who’s walking who?”
Talking to them causes no one to stare with shock; no one smirks at the crazy bearded man talking to his dogs. And if no one is around, I could still do it without being afraid of being caught, of being overheard by a neighbor. They’re my dogs, after all, and they need my voice.
Sure, God knows my thoughts. But prayer is creation. By speaking, we create.
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Here’s the thing: I want to pray my own personal prayer to God. I know the purpose of the daily prayers and psalms from the books. I have nothing against them. Just the opposite: I find solace in the words of praise, in the idea of my own humility before the Almighty. At the same time, there are specific, personal thoughts I have that I know as a child I would have had no qualms about voicing.
Thinking these thoughts is not enough. Sure, God knows my thoughts. But prayer is creation. By speaking, we create.
I once read that the poet Charles Simic was once told by a poet friend that “every poem… is addressed to God.” I have often felt that way about my own writing in my personal journals. Even this essay can be read as such. But my voice comes from deep within, from a source not even my written words can approach, a place of inimitable origin where the physical and the spiritual combine to affect change.
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This morning’s rituals were enhanced by these thoughts and the touch of breezes coming through the open windows.
“C’mon, girls, it’s a beautiful morning!”
We walk in the grass today, under sun dappled trees, my left arm still lined with the shadow of the leather straps of the tefillin I wore during morning prayers.
I stop in a circle of sunshine. “Hi, God, it’s David.”
I feel awkward. I look around.
“I hope You’re having an awesome day. Thank You for today.”
Walking back into the house, I caught a vision of myself in the mirror by the door: smiling like a fool.
A simple, happy, fool.
Photo: Flickr/brianac37
David, wonderful and touching article. The paths are God are many and the simplest ones are often the most effective. As someone from a Christian background, followed by a move towards Buddhism and latterly yogic tradition, I was wrapped up in ritual. For me it was only when those rituals began to fall away that I found the greatest sense of peace and connection. In this context everything became a prayer and an act of grattitude. This is now way descries your ritual or tradition as plurality is was keeps us diverse and wonderful as a species. Thank you for… Read more »
Thank you, Neil. And I agree, there are many paths.