There was a musician named David Klein. He could play melodies that felt older than his hands. When he played alone, it was a little supernatural. Candles trembled. The cat sat still. But when he stepped onto a stage, even a small one, a strange collapse happened inside him. A curtain dropped between him and the song. Breath scattered. Fingers forgot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know what\u2019s wrong with me,\u201d he told Rabbi Berkal, a practitioner of Kabbalah who also taught niggunim. He listened, then poured tea.
\u201cYou are not broken,\u201d He said. \u201cThere’s a shattering most people forget about, but you remember.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
David looked up and down. \u201cWhat’s that mean, a shattering?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pointed to the tea. \u201cBefore creation, the vessels of divine light broke. Their shards are still scattered in the world. The soul recognizes this. Especially when it\u2019s about to be seen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat sounds nice,\u201d David said. \u201cBut it doesn\u2019t really solve my problem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt does,\u201d said Rabbi Berkal. \u201cYou are mistaking the fear for failure. But it\u2019s your soul recognizing risk. When you play, you\u2019re trying to restore a fragment. And the shards shake, they remember.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
David looked down at his hands, \u201cso?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou bless the fear. And you play through the crack. Do you like to read poetry?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Not really, well maybe sometimes.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Try Howl by Allan Ginsberg.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His next show was in a basement gallery. Twenty people. David stepped onto the stage, heart pounding. He almost turned back. But then remembered the footnote to Ginsberg’s poem, “The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy! Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He whispered the blessing he had made up on the bus ride over. Blessed are You, source of echoes, letting broken sounds return. Then he played. Not perfectly. But something passed through the room like breath after holding. Afterward, a woman came up, \u201cI don\u2019t know why, but I started crying while you played.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
David liked hearing this, \u201cmaybe it was something you remembered.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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