Tzimtzum

(WISE photo from NASA)

Nights are very thick at the juncture of lunar months. Without the reflected rays of the sun, the moon gets swallowed up by the vastness of space, and the darkness that sweeps down upon earth threatens to engulf us too.


It is a frightening time.

And it would be an almost insupportable time, except there is a gift that comes with it: only when the moon is dark do the rest of the heavens shine their brightest.

It is only then that we can see stars otherwise blotted out by the moon's reflected light, finally given their moment to shine. It is then that we can see familiar stars shine with an unfamiliar brilliance. It is then that the shy, the weak, the tired-of-competing can, with only a little effort, present themselves in their fullest.

How true that is for us as well. We all know loving couples where, as if by pact, one member dominates the airwaves, rendering the other all but mute. But when the more loquacious one takes momentary leave, to get the salad dressing or answer the phone, this other's wit and wisdom and charm has the space to shine through.

So too with children. It is often only when a more dominant older child leaves for camp, a sleepover or college, that a younger child can hold forth in the family, now having the space and time to strut their stuff.

We know the quiet ones at a meeting are not necessarily the ones who have nothing to say. They just don't vie for the rare oxygen in the room. They often only air their thoughts when the more talkative ones pause to catch their breath.

Too many of the good things in life are over-looked, out-shone, and otherwise left undiscovered by an over-abundance of light or noise or stuff. Sometimes, paradoxically, the greatest act of creation is the generous act of contraction. Tzimtzum. Such a pulling back and leaving space for the other was, the kabbalists say, modeled for us at the start of it all by God.

You might have heard the story: when God chose to create the universe, there was just one problem: God filled the universe. And even in the kabbalists' world of fanciful physics two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

So God did what was otherwise inconceivable: retracted, withdrew, condensed the infinite so that the finite world could be born.

No doubt one of the lessons we are to learn from this is that if God can choose to rein in the divine self so that others might come into being and flourish, shouldn't we? Indeed, isn't that the way we all began, pushing aside the organs of our mother so that we may claim the room that was once all occupied by her? Don't we need to move over in our homes and offices, clear out spaces in our gardens, share the seat on the train so that others might have room?

We may feel blinded on the darkest of nights looking down at the ground, stumbling along to find our way. But if we gaze up at the stars when the moon disappears, we can see forever. And indeed, while that is not the best time to hunt for truffles, it is the time that is made for dreams.