OPENING

Vision

"The holy lights are secretly spread over all of existing space…"

Hollywood Park — nothing more than a small field of green grass, rows of bushes, and a few token trees. Throw in a few backstops, and presto: your typical suburban patch of sterility. Many afternoons frivolously enjoying childhood — first the crack of a bat against a Little League ball, then the foam of an overflowing Heineken, later the sweet resin of Acapulco Gold and Panama Red. The place was ordinary, almost insultingly so, yet it held the memories of my youth.

"The holy lights travel through concealed passageways and secluded streams,
until finally surfacing at one luminous spot…"

This morning the sun lay mild upon the leaves, the air still cool with spring. I followed the same curve of sidewalk I had traced for years, my footsteps echoing like a quiet mantra. Though the gates…

"The holy lights burst forth at specific points in time and space…"

Suddenly the veil thinned. Time loosened its grip; the park's borders dissolved into a single shimmering expanse. Hollywood Park was no longer a suburban playground — it was Eden — before I even knew what was Eden. The grass breathed; the sky leaned close; the wind sang while the trees danced. Duality dissolved: observer and observed, past and present, self and world — all flowed, one unbroken stream.

I tuned inward, a silent note within the harmony. The veil returned — duality. The vision vanished. Where is it? Where had it gone? It must still be here. I knew. I sensed it beneath the ordinary dimensions, behind the veil.

It was time to set out. To set out on a journey. A journey to Eden.

P R E F A C E

Journey

In the year 1960, my soul emerged from beyond the wheel of time. Seventeen summers later, a gentle yet inexorable touch upon the shoulder shattered the slumber. Like a hammer forged in divine fire striking between the eyes, it shattered the veil asunder, unveiling a realm within this very world: a timeless instant of rapture where all dissolved into One. Yet as I reached to grab it, the vision slipped away like mist in the dawn, dust particles floating in the morning sunbeams.

The seductive sorceress Lucy, let loose from a Swiss lab, sparked a journey to the unknown. The lab called her Lysergic Acid Diethylamide. Five hundred micrograms was more than enough to kindle the pilgrimage. Ah, what wonder — bliss, beyond words, unity profound. What was this light? Whence came this delight? How to find that oneness? Could the peak of ecstatic communion be attained in the midst of my own self-awareness? The hunger awoke: I must seek it, claim it, refuse all lesser distractions. Where to look? Where to start?

Life in suburbia. Classic. The teen years found childhood happiness slipping into depression, anger, and despair. Alcohol was fun — a great escape. Marijuana created a fog of acceptance. My upbringing in the strict folds of conservative Judaism had offered no such flame; long before, I had whispered to myself: "Should religion ever call, I need not look here."

In the unfolding awakening, grace revealed that the substances were neither the goal nor even the truest path — far from ideal, they were simply a catalyst to set me free, to experience what is already there. Yet, for years the journey courted these elixirs as swift keys to the inner gates. From the rhythms of music and words of mystic writings, from the embrace of wild nature and the silence of solitude, the path wound onward.

The magical one-two punch, LSD and the Grateful Dead, brought me happiness. Light and joy, sharing and giving with my new happy friends. Celebrate the moment, celebrate life. Dancing with the Dead — ecstatic circles, soaring cosmic voyages with Captain Trips — all leading to, and culminating in an eternal, unfinished academic quest into the bonds between altered consciousness and the healing rites of indigenous peoples.

Ah, the eternal folly of an anthropologist — I went native, discovering that the scholastic reports on shamanism were mere shadows of the secrets they kept hidden from outsiders. Fortune smiled, I was welcomed in. I sat at the feet of Elders and Native American medicine men and absorbed their wisdom. Adopted by a shaman, I learned the purifying ways of the sweat lodge, the all-night cactus vigils under starlit skies, the secrets of herbs, and even mightier plant allies. After a three-day vision quest amid the desolate beauty of Death Valley, the name was bestowed: "Coyote Dancing With The Wind."

Coyote Dancing graduated the vision quest with a nine-month walk from the golden shores of California to the marbled halls of Washington, D.C. — gleaning truths from Hopi and Navajo medicine men in the deserts of Arizona and the Sioux of South Dakota; from the Colorado Rockies through the Dakota badlands, across the rolling grasslands and through the ancient folds of the Appalachian Mountains.

Onward, forward — like an eternal tracker, tracking the lost treasures of his own soul. Then, borne on wings of steel across the seas to the Holy Land of Israel.

Yet before we press further — let us pause, turn inward, and savor once more the winding journey.

Chapter One

Transitive Nightfall

Psychedelic Deadhead

Leo

The sugar cubes — crystalline altars soaked in Electric Kool-Aid. Secretly stashed in the basement deep-freezer for months. Hidden under a pound of frozen pastrami, the holy relics awaited the exact conjunction of planets, the precise tilt of the suburban cosmos — when the time would be right.

And on this particular Sunday morning, in the great American nowhere, with Mom and Dad off to another mall of endless stores peddling shiny idols — the house yawned empty, the stereo begged for volume, and Leo — our hero, our pilgrim — decided that the cosmic gong had finally struck.

Peeling back the foil with trepidation. Two cubes. Jesse, the grinning trickster brother, had made sure that the first journey would guarantee bulging eyes of "too much," and generously added two drops to each. Leo hesitated, then dropped both into the teacup. Two heartbeats of hesitation, and the tea went down like swallowing destiny. "When the time is right," the note had said. Right or not, the time was now.

The phone — Rrriiingg — the infernal white oracle on the wall — exploded into the silence like a fire alarm in a funeral home. Leo's legs turned to taffy. The hallway stretched into a funhouse corridor. He lunged for the receiver, convinced the FBI, CIA, PTA, and the Archangel Gabriel were all on the line.

"Hello?"

"Leo? Uncle Ernie. Everything okay, kid?"

Uncle Ernie. A genius of a man. How could he not hear the universe unzipping? Leo's reflection in the wall mirror was already doing the liquid-light fantastic, eyes spiraling in Mandelbrot fractals.

"Y-yes. Just… just… napping. Yes. Napping."

The clock on the wall began to breathe. In. Out. Pulsating like a jellyfish on amphetamines. Time itself was expanding, ready to inverse. After a few minutes of politeness, Leo hung up.

Then the mirror lit up, catching Leo's attention.

Oh, no no no! My face is melting! Picasso on a bad day. Panic hit like a freight train full of dynamite.

Leo dialed Dan — Jesse's buddy, the only human left on the planet who might speak fluent Acid.

"Dan? It's Leo. I ate the cubes…. Yes, both of them. I'm… I'm drowning in the wallpaper."

"Just go outside. Walk, man. Just walk. I'll catch up to you in a few minutes."

Leo scrawled a note for the 'rents — "Went out — be back" and stuck it to the fridge.

The front door opened onto a street that had turned into a field of green Jell-O. The sneakers were pogo sticks. Fifty feet to the Jones' mailbox felt like the Oregon Trail. Dan appeared like a sherpa in a tie-dye T-shirt, and together they floated to the park — Eden 2.0, where every blade of grass was in sync with the scent of the flowers, and the air in the breeze. Not necessarily stoned, but… beautiful. Magical.

Hours dissolved. Walking. Walking. An entire day went by, and in a magical moment of new mystery, my house appeared out of nowhere. Miracle of miracles — still in one piece. Maybe.

Leo silently slipped into his bedroom — a haven of undisturbed solitude. The room where hours, that seemed like ages ago — once upon a time — a journey began. He slipped the newest Dead release, Terrapin Station, on the turntable and lifted the arm for continuous repeat. Feigning sleep, under the covers, shielded from discovery — Garcia's guitar wove fractals in and around.

"…and I can't figure out if it's the end or beginning…"

Watching trails of tulips, roses and skulls — Leo drifted off to sleep.

The Bus Came By

Dr Seuss was at the wheel, and we were off to never-ever land. Rainbows spiraled through my mind, as I discovered love, light, joy and friendship. Swirling in the ether, spinning in the cosmos — the Heart of Gold Band live and wild!

We cruised that endless highway down to Virginia in an old Chrysler New Yorker, a chrome beast breathing fire and freedom. Hanging loose all day on the William & Mary campus, slowly sipping tabs of Sunshine Daydream, letting it seep into the soul like morning dew on fallen rose petals. Beautiful people everywhere, strange wanderers with painted faces, smiling, glowing, radiating pure light. Sweet.

Heading into the vortex of the show, Jesse and I perched way up in the back — the first set unfolding like a gentle dream, as the acid blossomed and bloomed inside, waves of color crashing soft. Sitting back in intermission, a grin etched eternal, incapable of anything but beaming into the void.

Lights dimmed and whoosh, I'm fully ozoned, floating in the stratospheres. The band starts tuning for the second set. Strings singing secrets, and this inexplicable force yanks me down down down to the floor.

"I had to move, really had to move"

Pulled by the gravitational love toward the masses, gliding down the aisle like a leaf in the wind, toward that towering stack of amplifiers thundering truth, lost in the rush of volume enveloping everything, grooving in perfect unison with the mob, sweat pouring like sacred rivers, moving dancing in the primal pulse.

"All you really need is good love"

Time to explore. Jerry's voice haunting, drifting through the hall like smoke from a pipe.

"Here he comes and he's gone again"

The banister swaying in my grip like a serpent in a trance, Jerry's guitar notes bending sweet as lovers' whispers, overwhelming aroma of roses flooding the arena, petals unfurling in the air. A huge American flag up in the rafters melting, dripping globs of red blossoming into roses.

I wanna bathe in that shower of crimson petals — how do I reach the floor? Where is the floor? Lost in outer spaceways, bright lights, trippy folks everywhere, doors doors and more doors spiraling open.

"Some folks trust to reason others trust to might,
I don't trust to nothing but I know it comes out right"

Plunging into the dark, music getting spacier, warping time itself, grooving through shadows like a ghost in the jungle — bells, chimes ringing from hidden realms.

Squeezing into the second row, up on the chairs and finally I see — a big bear banging the xylophone with furry paws, an alligator grinning wide smacking a garbage-can lid like a flying-saucer cymbal.

Eyes closed, soaring through the universe on a slow-beat comet trail — where'd this Dr Pepper come from? Nectar from heaven, honey for the thirsty throat.

"Hey dude! Take it easy! Enough Lucy in the can for everyone."

Arm in arm, swaying to the intense rhapsody building —

"No need for you to be worrying about all those people"

Music energy love life exploding to phenomenal crescendos, higher than high, volcanic sound swirling round and round rock 'n' roll eternal. Propped up on the backs of the chairs, held by sheer body density. Looking up — rainbows shooting from Bobby's mouth and Jerry's guitar! Jumping sweating joyously crumbling to the floor. Oh no. It can't be — another wave of peaking. Then I remember that Dr Pepper elixir.

"Looked up in the heaven, L-rd I saw a mighty sign"

Standing in a Shaft of Light

A cosmic spotlight beaming down, a divine laser from heaven, zapping right into the soul of the scene. And what a mad whirl it was.

"Rainbows end down that highway where ocean breezes blow."

The sun — oh, the sun! As we roll up to Ventura Beach, the sun is cracking the horizon like a golden egg over the Pacific. It's my virgin plunge into the California Deadhead delirium, and the beach is a full-tilt freak carnival exploding in Technicolor chaos — seals barking and flip-flopping closer to the shore like they're auditioning for a sideshow, eyeballing the human zoo with their slick, whiskered curiosity. Seals. Actual seals coming to party.

Time for the show. No lines of heads snaking like serpents, no elbow-jabbing mosh-pit madness — just saunter in, unfurl your blanket like a flag of surrender, plop down and claim your patch of sand as home sweet hallucinatory home.

Gulping down those "silly-sybins" — chased with orange juice that tastes like liquid sunshine — and through the PA system, the ethereal notes of Shadowfax drifting like fog over the waves, priming the pump for the big blast-off.

Winds blowing in sync with the ocean waves, pulsing through my veins like electric currents. Hang on tight, folks, here we go, again, vortex bound. Quick recon on the home base: blanket anchored, cooler stocked, shoes providing sanctuary for the sacred car keys — check, check, check.

Plenty of four-dimensional space to whirl and twirl — a psychedelic picnic in Eden's garden. The sun scorching down like a torch from the heavens, but that cool ocean breeze whipping in, cooling the fever, and then — zap! — a collective tingle shoots through the crowd, electric shiver city, as the band struts onto the stage, grins ear to ear everywhere, and the sinsemilla sparks up like fireflies in a jar, clouds of sweet smoke billowing into the blue.

"Look for a while at the China Cat Sunflower…"

Becky snatches my arm — whooosh! — bolting stage ward, me hesitating like a deer in the headlights, having sworn off those frontal-lobotomy crushes since the Radio City days, but Becky insists, and off we zoom into the hot, sweltering mass, the whole throng undulating as one giant organism, throbbing to the beat, the music swaying in sync with the waves themselves.

"…March winds will blow all your troubles away…"

Hot and cold flashing like strobe lights inside me — gotta escape the crush. Backing out, dodging swirling elbows, gasping for air. The song winds down, but the energy is skyrocketing, boiling over; the sun hammering my half-naked body, sweat pouring out rivers, shakes rattling my frame. I must bolt from the horde.

Dashing out — well, a slow-motion dashing — and aaagggghhhh: awesome energy building, white light exploding everywhere, blinding, surrounding.

I can't see anything. Nothingness. Engulfed in this pure, pulsating white light.

Connection severed — poof. Body crumbling to the sand like a marionette whose strings got cut. Absorbed into a total whiteout, convulsions wracking my frame, swimming in a sea of infinite white.

Floating. Drifting. Reality?

Vanished. Gone.

"Are you okay, brother?"

"Fine, fine… water? Yes, sounds great… Thanks… No, really, I'm fine."

Wobbling, floating, staggering — making it to the john. Closing the door, surrounded by white walls, white floor, white paper, and white porcelain gleaming like a sterile spaceship.

Seeking sanity in the Sano-san. Not your garden-variety high, not like any trip before — this is total severance. All ties to reality slashed clean through. Insanity absolute.

What now? No way I want to jelly-brain through life. Maybe bail the show, hightail to the nearest department store, snag some straight-arrow threads — play normalcy like a chameleon in a suit.

No. Can't abandon my quest, the holy search — impossible.

Nothing possible. Who am I? Where am I? Lost in the void.

Wait. Nothing possible… Anything is possible.

Eureka! So what if insanity's my new address? Never dug any existing reality option anyway. Time to forge my own universe — doors of perception blasted wide open and vaporized. Free. Free to sculpt whatever reality I crave. Shed the chains of middle-class monotony — Don Juan! Mescalito! They beckon from the void. Magic mushrooms flinging open the portal, magic as real as a heartbeat. Consciousness vaulting to infinite dimensions, boundless, electric!

Grand scheme, great — but there are still ten thousand raving Deadheads out there. Can't hog the porcelain throne all day.

Easy does it, slow-motion exit. Reassemble the façade, aim for normal — slow strides back to the fray. Music soaring, bodies twirling, spinning in waves of ecstasy. Smile plastered on, secret locked tight — no one clocks the inner supernova.

Sun too hot. Not crowd-ready — veer to the shade under the bleachers. Don't forget: smile, smile, smile. Made it. Misty air chilling like a fridge blast — bizarre down here. Dapples of sunlight piercing through bleacher slats like laser swords, igniting the cascading marijuana roaches tumbling like confetti. Some cat rattling off a Shakespearean soliloquy, a couple slinking into shadows. An underbelly freakshow funhouse.

Gotta get out of here. Gotta find the blanket. Slithering through the swarm, syncing to the beat. Is it song or indecipherable mystic code? Hit the blanket as the set crashes to a halt — cold orange juice sluicing down.

The music reignites, transfixing slow, pulling me up, back and forth, eyes clamped shut as it pierces the soul.

"…once in a while you get shown the light
in the strangest of places if you look at it right…"

Grooving, soul rocketing through the cosmos — phew. Normality snaps back. The next twenty-four hours: endless music, beach-bum heaven, sun-soaked carnival whirl. Aimless post-show stroll, the second set echoing in the air.

"Get your shirts here. Clean white shirts so you can go home to Momma shiny white. She'll never know."

Bursting into silly-sybin laughter — this vendor hoisting pristine Fruit-of-the-Loom whites like sacred relics. Hilarious ploy. But home? No going back, no way back. No home — but direction known.

Just a Little Bit Further

Hanging outside the Frost Amphitheater, the electric hum of anticipation buzzing like a field of fireflies in the Palo Alto haze. Before the show kicks into high-stepping gear, some dude — some wild-eyed hippie — just saunters up, reaches out his hand, and hands me a beautiful quartz crystal: a gleaming shard capturing the universe itself. My first medicine object, slipping right into my palm like a transistor from heaven.

I wasn't searching, wasn't looking. The timing was impeccable, synchronized with the spinning galaxies above. Taking it in my hand, staring into its fractal depths — facets flashing like a living prism — feeling its power surge, pulse, throb through my veins. I danced. Danced with its power, with an agility and grace I had never known before. Leaping, bounding, pirouetting.

Dancing with the sunrays as they darted in and out of the swaying trees — zip! zap! biddity zoom! Spinning and twirling with the universe, creation wrapping me up in its arms.

"…the wheel is turning and you can't slow down, can't let go,
and you can't hold on, can't go back, and you can't stand still…"

Seeing the energy of the universe — raw, radiant, roaring — shining through the crystal, blasting like laser beams, the energy flowing through me, flooding, cascading, turning me into a superconductor of the sublime. Becoming a vessel to channel — a holy conduit, channeling the energy, letting the light in, flow through, pour out.

Visualize the light off the fingertips — beams of light shooting from the heart, exploding outward like fireworks on the Fourth of July amplified to infinity… give, give, give, and it's pouring back in faster than before, a feedback loop of pure ecstasy… give more, light flowing from every pore, love exuding in great gushing waves… and more is flowing in, a tidal surge of bliss…

The light is pouring in faster than I can give away the love. Love is pouring out, filling the air, saturating the scene — everyone is smiling, grinning like Cheshire cats, drowning in this downpour of love, a monsoon of mutual adoration. This place is starting to shine, shine, shine — and I'm loving everybody so, so much. Hearts beating in a chain reaction of cosmic affection.

"…small wheel turned by the firing rod, big wheel turned by the grace of G-d,
and every time that wheel turns round, bound to cover just a little more ground…"

As the music ends — sweet sweat oozing from every pore, glistening. Pools of love from a cosmic overflow, drenching the ground like the aftermath of a love-in. I'm the vessel — pulsing, throbbing, alive with the All. I am love. All is One.

All He Lost He Shall Regain

My roommates, after years of my monthly vanishings into the ozone of Deadhead euphoria, are unprepared for the full-scale invasion when the Dead play locally.

The telephone — brrring! brrring! brrring! — never stops its manic jangling while final plans are hammered out in frantic cross-country conference calls. Friends jetting in from Los Angeles and Santa Cruz, from New York and Colorado, all of them buzzing with the hot dispatches from the recent East Coast shows: the band, incredibly, miraculously, resurrecting that long-buried, half-mythical, divine Saint Stephen — Saint Stephen! — and blowing the lids off every head in the house.

Everybody is absolutely electric, wired. The Dead are doing two nights in their own hometown, inside the plush, velvet-draped jewel box of the theatre — intimate, civilized — and the second night is Halloween itself, so the fever is already boiling over long before the first note ever sounds.

Sunday night: arriving early, ushered — yes, ushered — by a tuxedoed gentleman with white gloves to third-row center seats. High-class VIP treatment. Acres of room to dance right between the rows, no need to migrate to the aisles like some refugee from the hockey arenas. The show is hot, yet you can feel the band holding something in reserve, banking the fires, saving the real detonation for tomorrow. Even Garcia keeps glancing off with that sly little smile, as though he and Halloween have a private encounter.

Monday — Halloween. The entire tribe is scrambling with needles and thread, paint and glitter, putting together costumes. Tonight we cross the line. I go as a full-blown disciple of Bhagwan Shree Garcia — head-to-toe crimson robes, the mandatory mala beads around my neck, but with Jerry's sainted visage substituted for the guru's on the pendant. Blasphemy and reverence all in one.

Back at the theatre the energy is already pegged at eleven on a ten-scale meter. This isn't a concert anymore — it's a private Halloween masquerade and the Grateful Dead are the house band. We're in the second row now, dead center in front of Garcia — close enough to count the silver hairs in his beard. Jose and her college friend have taken our seats from last night, one row back.

The mushrooms are taking control! Roller coaster. Amusement park. Delightful. The air is thick with the skunky perfume of prime sinsemilla; costumes everywhere — witches, skeletons, nuns in fishnet stockings — the Mad Hatter's tea party on acid. Two enormous jack-o'-lanterns glow on stage, candlelit from within, throwing demonic orange flickers across the band's gear. Perfect.

The band hits with an old blues classic, and we launch. Eyes wide open, I watch the telepathic dance between the musicians — the way Garcia cocks an eyebrow and Weir instantly answers, the way Lesh's bass seems to nudge the others into the next dimension. Garcia is on fire tonight, absolutely in command, notes leaping off his guitar like butterflies in heat. The band is cooking at levels that should be illegal, and it's only the first set. Song after song — sweet and soaring.

Set break. Everybody else is milling and hugging and comparing costumes; I'm welded to my plush velvet throne, too blasted to move.

The house lights dim, and the guy in front of me — Lesh's old pal — passes me a joint the size of a Havana cigar. I take a heroic lungful, thinking: Please, boys, give us the Saint tonight. Instead the smoke punches me straight through the stratosphere — DMT! — and reality folds like wet origami, lifetimes flashing by in milliseconds, I'm losing my grip, tumbling, yelling inside my skull — Help! Help! — and at that exact moment the band detonates the second set with:

"… help on the way…"

Thank you, gentlemen. Perfect timing, as always. Nothing to do now but let go completely and surrender to whatever cosmic prescription Captain Trips writes tonight.

We are on a spaceship named Cosmic Ecstasy, streaking past galaxies while Garcia steers with his guitar. Boundaries dissolve; we discover life together.

"…Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings…"

The band finally leaves the drummers alone on stage. Airto, the Brazilian wizard, joins Billy and Mickey for a primal ménage à trois of rhythm. Sitting on stools center stage, chanting, drumming — they drag us all the way back to the source, deep within, inside out, to the original animal self. Lights bore into the brain like lasers.

Slowly the band returns. Feedback howls like coyotes; All Hallows' Eve spirits pour into the hall. Down to the jungle, up the mountain, out into deep space and back again. Shamanistic voltage crackles — spinning the energy out from my heart in glowing spirals, spinning the web — lightning bolts, rainbows, pyramids exploding outward, a white halo through the heart. Send it, send the healing. Dance it, live it.

Music surges, then drops into tomb-silence, teases with those unmistakable Saint Stephen chords — there! — then snatches them away… then finally the first note rings out huge and clear and two thousand people levitate as one, mouths open, brains detonated, singing every single word in perfect unison:

"…in and out of the garden he goes…"

One huge family blasting off together.

"…all he lost, he shall regain!"

The message is louder than a wall of sound. Every wildest dream is going to come true.

"…what will be the answer to the answer man?"

The rest of the show is a translucent, diamond-pure dream.

"…dizzy with the possibilities…"

Lights come up. People float toward the exits on clouds of bliss. I collapse back into my chair — physically wrecked, higher than the Hubble telescope, utterly content. All is well. All is One. With this kind of vision there are no decisions left to make; every path is illuminated. There really are no choices at all.

The voice in my head is not a voice. It is absolute certainty. The vision is clear.

Children of the Garden

New Year's Eve — and here we are, night after night at the Civic Auditorium. Pure dance — old friends, new friends, total strangers suddenly brothers and sisters, all of us spinning, twirling, dissolving straight into the great throbbing electric heart of the music — and me, your humble shaman of the week, passing out a full pound of psilocybin mushrooms like party favors. Free, gratis, take all you want, children — the fungi is on the house.

Now it's New Year's night itself and — hello — Mescalito has slipped through the door, top hat, cane, diamond eyes, grinning like the oldest trickster in the hemisphere — and the dancing has left the realm of the physical behind. Acrobatic, bodies twirling, soaring, cartwheeling through the strobing light. Up the down escalator. Down the up.

Every night the same game, the same glorious game: we throw "love light energy balls" across the floor — invisible, of course, but you can feel the impact. People lurch, spin around, eyes wide, mouths open, looking for whoever just sent crazy volts of cosmic affection into the nape of their necks.

Faster… faster… faster — spinning, centrifugal force peeling the ego in long luminous strips. Light shining off my fingertips, sweat flying from my hair. The more I send it out, the more it floods back in — rivers of light pouring through this one small trembling vessel.

Give? Get? Just be. Let it flow through you.

Faster. Stillness. No music. No movement. Serenity. Light. Nothing everything one.

Faster than before, faster than physics, faster than the mind can cling.

A pure vessel

spinning, faster and faster and faster, throwing off love and light, faster and faster and the light is pouring in, light is flying off, the more I give the more I get one with the universe

a vessel

Chapter Two

Ixtlan

Prankster Warrior

Journey Within

Stepping across the threshold — the room was crowded with strangers, none of them belonged to the world I had just left outside the door. They sat in a circle on the hardwood floor, knees touching, eyes bright with hunger.

In the center sat the man the others called Lucas. His hair was drawn back in a greying tail, face burnished like old copper, and when he began to drum and sing the sound did not come from his throat alone — it came from the ground beneath us, from the bones of ancestors who had never heard of California real estate. Beside him, Rosa — small, fierce, eyes black as obsidian chips — moved with a large abalone shell full of burning sage. The smoke rose in slow white serpents, sweet and fierce, until the room itself seemed to breathe through its gills. The drumming and the smoke braided together and pulled something loose inside my chest.

They spoke of returning. Not as metaphor, but as one returns to a lover who has waited a thousand years without reproach. The Earth, they said, is not a resource; she is our very body walking around outside of us. We have been cutting our own flesh and calling it progress. The old prophecies — Hopi, Lakota, Sioux — it hardly matters; they all say the same thing in different dialects: the clock has almost struck. Either we remember how to live as guests instead of as parasites, or the Messiah comes wearing fire for skin and leaves the world to the ants.

I drank it all up. The teaching of allies, of power animals, of the three worlds layered one upon the other. They spoke of journeying the way don Juan once spoke to Carlos — of entering the crack between the worlds while the body remains seated in a circle of ordinary humans who believe they are only attending a workshop.

Afternoon. More drumming. Rosa passed the eagle feather through the sage smoke and brushed each of us clean. I felt the feather sweep through me the way wind moves through tall grass; something invisible and heavy fell away from my shoulders. Lucas's voice dropped to the register that opens doors.

"Everyone should try and envision a familiar hole — any hole: a spring, lake, rabbit hole, or tunnel. Whatever comes to mind, just relax as soon as you feel comfortable with some hole. Relaxing with your environment, slowly start to descend down through the hole. If you encounter a tunnel, this is very good. Descend through the tunnel. Take your time, relax. When you arrive at the end, slowly step out. Just look around — don't try to do anything else. When you hear the drumming get faster and louder, turn back and retrace your steps."

I went down. Below, everything glowed with that light that has no source. I stepped out into the Lower World and stood in total awe. When the drum called me back, something travelled upward with me — small, watchful, amused.

The warrior affirms the world rather than insisting on closing its accounts. The shaman is willing to act in the play of life, not engage in a sit-down strike until removed from the stage. I had found the path of knowledge again. The Medicine Way, glittering like obsidian in moonlight.

Mountain Sweat Lodge

I had come to Mount St. Helena because something in me was stirring. The road twisted upward like a sleeping serpent, each curve pulling me deeper into the silence. At the summit the asphalt gave way to dirt that slipped between pines until it reached the old camp Kilowana — small cabins crouched around a meadow, a creek singing along the edge of the trees.

He was already there, waiting. Randy stepped out of the shadows of the lodge. Middle-aged, balding, beard thick as sagebrush, hair tied back in a greying tail — he moved with the unhurried certainty of a man who has been told secrets by stones. When he embraced me, I felt the fire burning in his chest.

Twelve years, he said, he had spent drinking from the cups of Hopi grandfathers, Paiute curanderos, Huichol marakames. Now the cup was being passed to him, and he could not refuse. "These are critical times," he said, eyes shining like obsidian in moonlight, "and we really can't wait any longer."

Night fell soft and complete. We gathered inside a low room lit only by three candles that refused to die. Randy spoke of power objects, of the sweat lodge as the womb, of songs that are older than words. Then he handed out drums and rattles. "It's not what you sing," he told us, "but that it comes from the heart. Open your heart and sing your song. Let the group support you while you share your feelings."

I, who cannot carry a tune across a room, felt terror rise like cold water in the throat. To bare my soul before strangers? To let my voice crack open and spill whatever raw thing lived inside? I hid behind the others, murmuring, letting my voice dissolve into the chorus. Yet even there, something loosened. The drums spoke in a language my body remembered.

Later, when the fire outside had become a mound of glowing eyes, Randy spoke of the Grand Canyon, of trails that are more pilgrimage than path. I told him of the Boucher — how I had gone down that forgotten scar in the earth solo, how the silence there was so complete I could hear the stone breathing.

He laughed a low desert laugh. "Leo, guess what? I've hiked the Boucher several times. It's one of my favorite places, a real power spot. You might not have much technical shamanistic experience, but anyone who hikes the Boucher alone can surely manage the apprenticeship."

The next evening he beat the drum for the first journey. The moment the rhythm began I was no longer in the room. I fell — or was pulled — through darkness into the roar of water. Ein Gedi — the waterfall, the hidden lake — but this time the drum was the water and the water was the drum. I floated down a spiral staircase, descending like a lucid dream. Steep path. Switchbacks.

Light at the end of the darkness. Inspiration. My path quickens. Faster to the light. A gateway to another world. Simply amazing — green grass, lush, pristine, primal beauty. Paradise. Waterfall. Birds whistling, wind singing, trees dancing. The Gan Eden of my Hollywood Park vision. The vision that launched my journey.

Stepping forward. Moving closer. Then — the horror, the realization. A man standing by the river. He's dressed in black. A Chassidic man. It is I. No. No. No. Wrong vision, wrong world, wrong turn, wrong tunnel. Stopping the trance, stopping the vision — the drum pulls me back. Back on the floor. Secure. My Garden of Eden poisoned by the man in black. Randy only nodded, as if he had seen it too.

Sunday we rose before the sun. The fire was built in the sacred pattern, offerings laid for the grandfathers, the grandmothers, the four directions, the above, the below. Rocks were piled upon the flames until they glowed with their own furious life. We draped the old willow frame by the river with blankets until it became a dark shape rising from the earth like a womb.

I walked into the woods alone, fasting, lightheaded. Kneeling among ferns I spoke aloud to whatever listened.

"Help me, heal me, purify me. Open me up and wash away all my impurities. Let me feel the spirits. Let me feel. Bring me closer to you. Teach me how to serve you. Let me be whole again."

When the rocks were ready we stripped and crawled on all fours into the womb of the lodge. Five sizzling red boulders were carried in on the wooden pitchfork, their crevices cracked open into red mouths that whispered in languages older than tongue. The door was closed. Darkness swallowed everything.

Sage flared, sweet and sharp. Then the water hit the stones. Steam exploded upward — a wave of heat and breath. The temperature became a beast that pressed against the skin, entered the lungs, scoured the depths. Sweat poured from me as though a dam had broken somewhere deep. Beside me a man began to moan from the root of his being; the sound travelled around the circle until we were all moaning, all praying without words.

Randy passed the gourd. One by one we spoke into the dark. When my turn came the mind went empty. Then, from a place deeper than memory, the ancient words tore themselves loose:

Silence. Absolute. Even the stones seemed to listen. Then the door was flung open and the first light of morning poured in like a sweet sunrise, and the naked man crawling out of the earth had begun his purification.

Destiny

The warrior has no business with yesterday. Yesterday is a net woven by the mind to strangle the spirit. Only this instant — this razor-thin edge between the inhale and the exhale — is real. Today the caterpillar sealed itself inside the cocoon I have been weaving for lifetimes. The threads are my own blood, my own tears, my own silent promises made to the darkness. The cocoon is finished now. It is dark, absolute, and humming. If I can remain impeccable inside, the butterfly that emerges will remember who he truly is.

Tonight the full magnitude struck me like lightning. This is not a circle of dreamers playing in the forest. We are the ones the ancient ones spoke of — we, here, and the others scattered across the Mother, are the remembering. We are the ones who will awaken the nagual sleeping in every human heart so that Gaia herself can stretch, yawn, and rise into her beautiful totality.

I can no longer pretend. The path with heart has seized me. I came to San Francisco because a school called me, but that was only the Great Spirit's trickery. The real reason has been humming in my chest since the first moment I smelled the eucalyptus and the ocean: I am here to apprentice myself to the spirit of the land, to the plants, to the wind that moves through the redwoods carrying messages older than words. The school is merely the mask I wear in the marketplace of ordinary men — it will give me the degrees and the language to speak to those still asleep, while the real teaching happens in silence, in sweat, in the fire of direct seeing.

I did not choose this path. The path chose me, hunted me, cornered me. I could lie. I could fill myself with possessions and titles until the emptiness howls so loud I go mad, as so many do. But a warrior cannot lie to his body or his spirit for long. The lie becomes cancer. I refuse the slow suicide.

Time? Time has dissolved. These past days, weeks, moons — I have been swallowed by the eternal now. When you give yourself completely to what you are doing, when you become the drum and the drumming, become the prayer itself, then time opens its jaws and eternity slides down inside of you like warm honey. The moment stretches until it contains all moments. You experience eternity inside every single breath, provided you do not lean forward into tomorrow or backward into regret. The mind screams from the intensity. The heart bathes in liquid fire. The body becomes a column of light.

There is too much mind in the Bay Area — brilliant, sparkling, lost in its own constellations. Spirituality trapped in concepts, orbiting endlessly in outer space. The true knowledge lies beyond the mind — not in rejecting it, for that is merely the mind rejecting itself, but in letting it go the way a falcon lets go of the falconer's glove, trusting the wind completely.

Do not use the mind. Do not ‘not-use’ the mind. Simply release it. Surrender. Trust without object. Believe until belief burns away and only knowing remains.

I have been borrowing power from the Native context of this land where I was born. It has served me well; it has opened me. But deeper still sleeps the ancient power of my own blood — the Jewish mystics who spoke to G-d in the desert, who pulled down fire with words, who wrestled angels until dawn. When I finally turn and face that lineage without arrogance, without the half-knowledge of books, but empty and ready — then the power will meet power, and the assemblage point will shift so drastically, I can only pray to survive the beauty of it.

A rebirth into my roots.

In the moment of true seeing, past and future collapse into the same flame. It scorches the brain. The mind burns like dry grass. On the other side of that fire lies the gift — direct perception of the energetic fields. Everything is alive. Everything is power if you have eyes to see it. Healing flows when that power is allowed to pass through an open heart — then you feel the heat, the literal fire moving through your palms, your chest, your words.

How many will manage to let go before the greater burning comes? Before the physical fire, the nuclear purification that waits if we remain stubborn children clutching our toys? It does not have to be that way. We can shift the assemblage point of humaity through impeccability, through love, through sheer intent — if enough of us act now, together, without hesitation.

Life is the ultimate fieldwork. The only degree worth earning is mastery of intent. The only salvation worth seeking is the salvation of the planet.

When the branches of the trees reach down and grasp their own roots, the circle of infinity is complete.

Through my new tribe, my new family, I will have the support needed to follow the inner guide wherever it leads — into the crack between worlds, into the heart of the fire, into mystical illumination and unbreakable responsibility. And I, in turn, will lend my power to others who reach out. Together, we will make this wounded world remember it is a garden. Together, we will become the miracle.

Mountains of the Moon

Another weekend had ended. A circle was drawn. The path opened. I had just finished the four prayer arrows for the Huichol altar when the knife slipped and took its payment: a long red slice opened across my left index finger. Blood welled up thick and bright. I did not curse. I only watched it come, feeling the mountain already claiming what was hers. I bound the wound with a strip of deer hide, tight enough that the pulse hammered against the leather. It should have been stitched, but stitches belong to the city. Here, blood runs, blood flows.

We gathered to make the medicine bundle that would bind us. Each person laid something precious into the deer skin: an eagle feather, a piece of obsidian, a bead worn smooth by years of prayer. I placed the first crystal I ever found — the one that came to me on the day the veil tore in Palo Alto. When the bundle was tied, and the sun dropped behind the western ridge – it was time to go.

John and I — the two youngest, the two Deadheads still smelling of patchouli — climbed together. We carried matches, a tarp, my drum, his rattle. At the parting place we embraced hard, heart to heart. "See you on the other side, brother". I felt his heart beating against mine, then he was gone, swallowed by manzanita and shadow.

I found my spot just as the last light bled out of the sky. The sunset was crimson and gold. A banner calling out: “Remember who created, who runs this”. I built a small fire. The flames were modest, almost shy, yet they gave off heat like a larger fire. I unwrapped the blood-crusted leather from my finger and held it into the flame.

"Accept my blood, oh Spirit of the Fire — guide me and protect me through the night"

The leather blackened, curled, vanished. Something in me loosened. Then the singing began — my own voice, raw and strange, bouncing off stone and pine. I stood. I danced. Bare feet on cold rock, I climbed higher. The mountain spirits rose to meet me. They did not speak, they simply matched my steps until we were one motion spiraling upward. Past the last twisted juniper, the full moon cleared the ridge and struck me full in the face. I lie backward onto a slab of granite and lay there while the moon poured mystery into my eyes.

Time dissolved. The universe and I lay side by side like lovers who have just discovered they are the same person. Somewhere in that silver silence I remembered Hesse: "Wisdom is preparation of the soul, a capacity, a secret art of thinking thoughts of unity at every moment."

Later, when the cold began to bite, I fed the fire again and built a six-pointed star of stones around it. Loneliness arrived with it, wearing my own face. I pulled the tarp over my shoulders and semi dozed, the cut finger throbbing like a second heart. Each time I woke I spoke to the fire. "Guide me, teach me, heal me."

Toward dawn I danced again, slower now, talking to the morning star that hung low and brilliant as a diamond. When the sun finally rose, I greeted it the old way — palms open, tears dripping down my cheeks. The fire had burned down to a nest of ruby coals. I was light-headed from no food, no sleep, and thin air, yet I felt clean, as if the night had scrubbed me through. Fresh. New.

We came down the mountain straight into the sweat lodge — the rocks glowed scarlet. Sasha looked at me and said simply: "You drum." Inside the womb-dark I lost myself. The drum beat me, not the other way around. Heat rose until it passed through pain and became something else entirely — laughter and sobbing braided together, tears hissing on the rocks. Sasha's songs were ancient melodies dancing through my soul. When it ended, I crawled out reborn, skin sizzling, and collapsed into the creek. The water flowed over me. Rebirth.

I stood up streaming light. My hands glowed. I saw it! White light shining from my palms. I went from person to person embracing them. Each embrace was a sun exploding. Love moved through me the way water flows over a cliff. Later, when the circle reformed and we sat in silence, I looked down at my left hand. The cut was gone. Not scarred. Gone. As if it had never been. The mountain had kept her payment and given me back whole.

Voodoo Prophecy

The weekends no longer arrive silently. They implode. Friday night. Ron, tall, barefoot, eyes like polished emeralds, opened the circle with a prayer. It was ancestor work, yes, but laced with something older than ancestors, something that walks on the wind before men ever gave it a name.

First he laid down the map of the mind: six deities, fierce and radiant, each a gate, each a blade, all of them turning in the palm of the One who has no image and no intermediary. He spoke it cleanly, like a scholar. Then he built the altar: clay vessels, feathers, cowries, rum, cigars, a white plate for one deity, a red one for another, blue for a third, until the six directions stood breathing in the room.

We were instructed to bring an offering to one of the six, or to a particular ancestor whose name we carried in our heart. I felt the pull toward the centre, toward the Head Honcho Himself, the Unnamable who sits above the six thrones. I wanted to place my offering directly there – not with some go-between.

Ron smiled, gentle but firm. "Not possible, brother. We do not approach the Holy One naked. The path is through the lower deities. That is the rule." I said nothing. Inside, something fierce and quiet growled: I will not accept limits where none exist. I will not settle for less. The big boss man Himself – that is my destination.

The drums began. Not loud. Deep. Like the heartbeat of a sleeping jaguar. Ron stiffened, rolled his shoulders once, and when he spoke again the voice was no longer his. It came from the root of the throat, gravel and smoke — the voice of White Eagle, the spirit that guides him.

One by one people asked their questions — love, money, health. I waited until the room itself seemed to lean in, listening. Then I spoke into the firelight. "White Eagle, can you see my future?"

Silence. The candles leaned. The voice returned, vast, slow, inevitable. "I see a trip to Israel, Chassidim, The Wailing Wall, much oral tradition and folk tales that you will gather. People want to hear these revealing tales!" The words struck me like a hammer. I had never spoken of Israel to anyone in that circle. Never spoken of the Wall, or the black hats. "How could it be? We've never met."

The room spun. Not from rum, not from smoke. The world itself tilted, the separate reality opened its eye, and I saw the eagle's wing pass over me — vast, white, silent. I lay back on the floor, the drums still thumping inside my bones, and felt myself falling upward into the sky.

Dancing With the Wind

For six months I had been preparing — diet, exercise, meditation, ceremonies — preparation for the vision quest. Nights without number I spent in the sweat lodge. Then the moment arrived. Off to Death Valley.

I chose a ridge where the wind moves clean. There I sat. The world, my life — on hold for three days. Food became a memory. Lizards crossed my shadow. At night the coyotes sang, and I answered them with a song that had no words, only the moon and the wind.

Time loosened its grip. Day slowly slid into night. I slept with my eyes open, woke with them closed. The sun hammered me into the ground at noon; I crawled beneath overhangs and became the cool darkness that lives under rocks. When the moon rose full, I stood on the ridge and danced with the wind until we were one motion, one howl, one emptiness moving.

Inside my skull, the endless talking finally stopped. The marketplace of thoughts closed its doors. There was only the vast listening. I waited for a vision, for an ally. Nothing came. And in that merciless nothing I understood: even the hunger for vision is hunger. I released it too. The desert did not need my desire — it only needed my presence. I gave it everything. I became the silence between heartbeats.

Silence. Sweet silence. My last night. Drifting into a dream haze. Then, I felt the warmth — the coyote crawling up on my back, engulfing me. The breath, the warmth. I felt dread. Horror, panic. Like a bolt of lightning — transformation, rebirth. No fear. I grabbed the coyote by the scruff. He screamed. He howled. We spun. And spun. An endless spiral of spinning, howling, screeching. And we landed in the hallway of my childhood home — that same hallway that was once a madhouse on Sunshine Daydream. The chase. Up and down the stairs. Out the door. The same route. Then all at once — I stopped. “I will not run”. There is no fear. Turning, I grabbed him. He screeched. We spun. He was mine.

Something changed. Altered. What was - was. What will be - we shall see.

Morning. The coyote tracks and droppings around my nighttime rock formation were quite a reminder. The dead coyote corpse next to my makeshift campsite certainly shook me up. It was to rejoin the others, and head off to sweat. Down dusty back roads across Death Valley to the Piute medicine man known as Eagle Man. Eagle Man was a legendary healer and teacher of many other medicine healers — living a simple life in the middle of the desert, always available to whoever needed him.

Entering the sweat lodge, Eagle Man personally arranged the seating. Men on one side, women on the other. Shifting everyone over, he was not satisfied until I sat facing across from the door. Round and round we sweated. The traditional four rounds had long passed. Eagle Man was improvising as the Great Spirit directed him. Hotter and hotter, layers of impurity were peeled back. Centered and clear, I prayed for a complete healing so I could then help heal others.

Drifting in and out, I felt Eagle Man standing above me. His voice compassionate but strong.

"You want to be healed? You want to heal? You want to be a healer? What's it worth to you? Are you willing to give it all up to be a healer?"

"Yes. I will give anything and everything. Heal me so I can help heal others."

"Are you willing to die?"

"I want to be a healer!"

The knife came from out of nowhere.

There was no chance to react. He sliced open my chest, his hands digging within and ripping out my heart. Watching in horror as the knife sliced my heart in quarters. "My dear brother. See your heart before you. Know that your life is not your own. See the illusion. You are now dead. Yet you live. The choice is yours. To walk out of here now, you must give your life over to the Great Spirit."

Trail House Rock

The Sundance was entering the third day. The power was rising, pressing against the edges of ordinary reality. Reuben came to me and said that Vernal Cross — a man who walks with Coyote — was going to hold a ‘giving-thanks’ ceremony. When I heard the name Coyote spoken that way, something inside me leaned forward. Curiosity.

Vernal's place lay ten miles out — two hundred and eighty acres of raw earth, two sweat lodges breathing in the dark, a tall teepee, and a boarded-up trailer that had seen more visions than most holy places. Here he puts ‘people on the hill’, alone with the stars and whatever comes to teach them. He greeted us without ceremony, arms open, eyes seeing straight through color. He was another of the rare ones, like Eagle Man, who have traded their personal history for healing powers.

The man beside me whispered that years ago a stroke had taken Vernal's sight completely. Four days and nights sealed inside that trailer with the spirits, and on the fifth morning he opened his eyes and saw the sun again as though it were new.

We waited in the cold for the others to arrive. Word came that Wallace Black Elk himself had asked for this ceremony — to give thanks for the vision that had come to him on this hill. Wallace, a medicine man whose name alone makes eagles circle lower, had come here as a seeker, and it was Vernal who had stood behind him while the spirits tore him open and put him back together.

Forty of us entered the small boarded trailer. The floor was deep in sage; the smell rose up like green fire. We were told to remove everything that belongs to the world of metal and glass — rings, watches, eyeglasses. "If you see spirits," Vernal said quietly, "do not touch them. To do so is to invite the lightning into your veins." Six tobacco ties on sticks stood at the altar, along with other objects that shimmered at the edge of seeing.

Wallace spoke his thanks first. Then, one by one, we prayed, keeping the words short so the spirits would not grow impatient. Vernal sat before the altar. A drummer sat beside him. Wallace sat in the centre with his own drum. The lights were extinguished.

The drumming began — low, relentless, a heartbeat older than the earth itself. Songs rose in Lakota, words that have power because they have never been written down. The trailer began to rock, slowly at first, then harder, as though something immense were walking around it, testing the walls. My breath grew thin; the air thickened.

Something small struck my chest and remained in my lap. I tried to gather my thoughts for prayer. I gave thanks to my ally, the coyote spirit who has walked with me since the desert taught me its name. The rocking stopped. A large coyote — brown and beige as the desert itself — appeared in the darkness before me, eyes burning like slow coals. I understood in the place where understanding has no words: I had called my helper, and Vernal's coyote had come to look him over, to measure him, to see if he was worthy to walk this ground. The two regarded each other until the visiting coyote turned and dissolved into the greater dark. Nothing was said — everything was settled.

Wallace finished. The rest of us prayed. After each prayer the interpreter spoke the spirits' reply. I asked for the strength to live the vision I received in Death Valley — the vision that demands I travel to Mount Sinai, the mountain of the burning bush. I asked for the strength to walk the path. The interpreter answered: "Your wishes will be answered. All of them."

Then he added: "Those who received prayer bundles must keep them close." I felt in my lap and found one of the six tobacco ties resting there — the one that had struck my chest when the trailer danced with the spirits. It had chosen me, or been sent; with these matters there is no difference. Three pipes were passed around, sweet with tobacco, cedar and prayer.

When the ceremony ended and we stepped blinking into the starlit cold, Vernal drew me aside. "One day," he said, "you will place that bundle on your hill."

I knew then it was the blue one — the color of Father Sky — and that the hill was Sinai. The bundle had flown to me across the darkness to remind me, to strengthen me, to carry me there when the time is right.

Chapter Three

Passage

Bridge to Israel

Jet to the Promised Land

Two days in Jerusalem and I was already off toward Petra, that psychedelic prank of geology. If there was ever a place G-d cooked up while in an inspired moment, this was it: a full-blown chromatic splash, reds bleeding into pinks, pinks into purples, stone walls vibrating like they'd decided to stand still for a few thousand years. I slept in actual tombs for a couple of nights. No, it wasn't chill. Yes, there were visitors. Then I hitched my way down to Aqaba, and climbed onto a boat bound around the Sinai toward Egypt.

Bad move. Absolute nightmare. Wedged in with Egyptians heading home from construction jobs in Syria, every last one of them determined — mission-driven — to force me to listen to their brand new disco blasters. Thump-thump-thump, metallic funk, at sea, at night, while my stomach staged a full-scale rebellion. All I wanted was to throw up, but the bathrooms were vile. Jumping overboard was beginning to seem a viable option. Finally I washed up in some Egyptian dirt town and hid out for a few days, shell-shocked, before circling back toward Sinai.

Sinai was the real deal. Vast, clean, beautiful, silent. The climb was easier than expected, and I found myself a nice isolated crevice to crash in, like a prophet with a sleeping bag. Before sunrise I woke up, wandered around, and found the right spot to pray. There was a small hole in the ground leading down to a well. I took out the eagle feather Eagle Man had given me in Nevada and the blue tobacco tie from Vernal's in South Dakota and made an offering to the Creator. Dropped the feather into the well. Poured my heart out. Laid it on the line: Is there anything for me in Torah? In Judaism? Anything? I'd shown up. I'd done my part. No burning bush. Simple silence.

Back in Jerusalem I let myself get dragged off to two yeshivot. I found the first one stale. The rabbi was so straight he might as well have been laminated. The second place wasn't any better. Dead air. Then they sent a rabbi to "show me the light." All with the best intentions. We talked for two full afternoons, and by the end of it he looked frazzled and frustrated. It was getting kind of hilarious. He told me the Torah was like a plane ticket to get where I wanted to go. I told him I preferred walking — and that I'd just spent nine months walking across America. He was flabbergasted. He tried again: “we don't need to learn everything through experience. Does a child really need to stick his hand in a fire to know it burns, or should he just listen to his father?”

He went completely blank when I told him it had taken me twenty years to unlearn my father's advice — and to discover that not only could I stick my hand in the fire without burning it, I could pick up the coals with my bare hands.

Finally, right before I left Jerusalem, the rabbi took me to see a Kabbalist. When we arrived, at night, there were a bunch of old men sitting in a circle around a table — very somber, very serious. The head Kabbalist told us to come back after midnight. An hour later I was seated next to him. He asked what my questions were. Honestly, it wasn't my idea to come, and I didn't have any. Then one came to me: Is the Torah the only way for me to reach G-d? He said yes — but something strange happened. I heard another voice, clear as day, inside my head: “No. But it's the only way you'll make it and live”.

Then I asked him about the dreams — the ones that would come true. He said a person could dream the future, but only after completely eliminating the ego. That was that. No follow-up. No ceremony. I went back to the hostel to catch my last night's sleep before the airport.

The strangest part? After visiting the Kabbalist, I had to take off my medicine pouch — the one with the coyote teeth from my Death Valley vision quest — because it was burning my skin. Actually burning. Make of that what you will.

Burning Shore

So here I was — living the hippie dream. A cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains, redwoods, a creek running out back, outdoor job, van, dog. It was awesome. Every morning I'd wander down through the redwoods behind the cabin, slip toward the river, sit, breathe, meditate, then take a cold dip. Such tranquility. So chill.

And then, every morning — “Nu?” Not a voice. Yes, a voice. Not loud, not mystical, not dramatic. Just a perfectly timed, unmistakably clear interruption. Nu? I had no idea what it was — this sound intruding into my nirvana. Only years later would I learn it was my grandmother. Then, it was just that one syllable, day after day. Nu? Only in the morning. Only by the river. I tried to ignore it. I really did. But the nu never went away.

When it came time to make future plans, I dug in my heels. Peru. Extended journey. Serious medicine. I mapped it all out, I was committed. But first, I wanted to finish my medicine work in America — so I headed up to Mount Shasta with the old circle. The plan was classic: one night solo on the mountain, then an all-night peyote ceremony the next. Shasta's no joke — it vibrates and hums.

I figured this was the moment of truth. Could I reach the same place without the peyote? So I faked taking it. Crazy. I still reached the same places. Exquisite. So real I even threw up. In the middle of the night, while everyone else was fading, drooping, wilting into the dirt, I was on fire. Roaring. Singing. When I broke into the rainbow song I'd learned from the Hopi, things got strange. I started seeing a mountain in front of me — clear as day. No peyote. I tried not to focus, just surrendered to the drum and opened my heart.

Then new words came out of my mouth. Not planned. Not borrowed. Perfectly in time:

"There's another way, it's my heart way, it's an ancient way, for you and me."

All the while, the vision of ‘my mountain’ just sat there in front of me. Solid. Certain. And I knew, right then, with no drama at all — that I was finished with my North American Indian apprenticeship. Done. Graduated. Or expelled.

Peru was still on. I wanted to graduate to the big leagues of medicine. As for the vision at Shasta, and Grandma's Nu? — I shelved them. Firmly. To make sure they stayed out of the possibilities, I decided to accelerate the Peru plan.

Off to Santa Cruz. Tickets. Immunizations. Destiny. I showed up at the travel agent with cash in hand. The computer's down. You've got to be joking me. No problem — I drove across town and let someone inject me with diphtheria, cholera, some mystery fever, and G-d knows what else. Back to the travel agent to seal the deal. What do you mean, the computer’s still down? "Come back after the weekend."

With nothing else to do, I headed back up the mountain, hitting the cabin just as the immunizations kicked in — full-blown allergic reaction, no warm-up. I crawled into bed, lights out, groaning, moaning. That was the day I almost died. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. Fever. Shaking. Nausea. Misery. The real thing. I wanted to die just to make it stop. And in between waves of agony, one question kept pounding through my skull: Why was I going to Peru? Six months or six years — it didn't matter. The ending was going to be the same. I would still have to go back to Israel. I still didn't know what it meant to be Jewish. There I was, heading toward Machu Picchu, and with my luck I'd meet some heavy-duty medicine man who'd ask: "So, what do your people say about these crucial times?" And what would I say? "Uh… I don't know. But maybe you could teach me what your people say?" It didn't sit right. Not at all.

Twenty-four hours later, I crawled out of bed with one admission: Cancel Peru. Destination: Israel.

Jerusalem

I was gifted a house in Jerusalem. Just like that - live in it for a month, free, just keep an eye on the place. I so wanted to experience Jerusalem's magic. Instead, darkness descended. I went underground. Under the covers, clamped the headphones on, and played Bob Marley's last show on repeat. Over and over. That final acoustic Redemption Song. "How long shall they kill our prophets, while we stand aside and look… you got to fulfill the book." Day after day. That was my refuge.

There was a Kabbalah book in the house — thick, serious, not New Age fluff — and I read it cover to cover. The terrifying thing was: it made sense. Complete sense. It spoke of other worlds, spiritual beings, light, vessels — not as hallucination or metaphor, but as a functioning system. Creation itself, it said, was born from the Creator's desire to pour out unlimited love and light. Everything fit: light and vessel, infinite birthing finite, perfection generating imperfection. Paradox stacked on paradox, yet airtight. My mind was convinced. My heart wasn't.

Happy? Excited? Forget it. I slid deeper into depression. One afternoon, reading, I suddenly felt my body temperature spike. Sweating, shaking — I bolted for the shower and turned it ice cold. Nothing. My body temperature kept rising. Afraid I'd faint, I rushed back to the bed, and just collapsed. And then it came. Wailing. Not crying — wailing. From somewhere ancient and raw. Rivers of tears, uncontrollable.

And right there, stripped bare, I admitted: I had spent my life chasing truth, but every time I got close — really close — I ran. As fast as possible. Maybe because I sensed the consequences. Maybe I'd been fooling myself all along. I was just scared. This wasn't another system, another path, another experience I could add to my collection. This was the big leagues, the real deal. This was something that I wouldn't be able to fit into my life. It would demand my life fit into it.

There was no lightning bolt. No instant transformation. No Broadway lights. No showtime.

My mother fell ill — some freak medical incident — and I had to return to America quickly. Knowing I was about to leave allowed my defenses to drop.

With my walls down, the light began to seep in. That last Shabbas was dream like. Friday night we went to the Western Wall. I'd been there plenty of times before and never felt a thing — not a flicker. This time was different. As the sun set, an endless river of people flowed toward the Wall, singing, dancing. Someone grabbed my hand. Suddenly I was in a circle — singing, dancing, happy. The stones of the Wall turned pink in the fading light, glowing, alive.

When the dancing stopped, everyone turned to pray. I placed my hands on the Wall — and it was as if the Wall placed its hands on me. Time froze. Something ancient surged through me, deep and electric. My body felt translucent. It felt like I was being filled with an infusion of life itself.

At our host's house, everything glowed. The rooms. The table. Especially the children's faces. I felt so high I couldn't imagine eating. But when I lifted the silver cup for Kiddush, it hit me: the wine wasn't just wine. The prayer wasn't just words. It was an interface — lifting the food, the meal, the moment into something higher. The songs floated through the room. Tranquility settled in. Complete satiation.

Rosh Hashana

After a year in America, back in Tzfas. My fur-hatted, ex-hippie Chassidic friend threw open his door and took us in like this was the most natural thing in the world. Rosh Hashana was coming, which meant sleep became optional. In the dark of the night we'd stumble out and make our way to an underground well hidden in a cave — stone walls radiating cold made the water even colder. Ice baths for spiritual purity. Our prayers were calibrated to sunrise, timed like a cosmic clock. While not connecting to the words of the service, it felt like we were waking up the day.

After about a week of this, he hauled me up to Mount Meron for Rosh Hashana itself. Glorious chaos. A full-blown Chassidic madhouse. Thousands of men in black — moving, shouting, sweating, alive. This was the first time I'd heard Jewish prayer that hit with real voltage. Every time the word king came up — “King!” — ten thousand people exploded into thunderous clapping.

Then it hit me. This was the mountain. The mountain in my Shasta vision. No ambiguity. No metaphor. Same mountain. Same presence. Unmistakable. That evening, sitting down to eat in a sea of black coats and black hats, still trying to keep my head on straight, I noticed the fellow sitting across from me — the only other person not dressed in black. Unreal. He was a close friend of Randy — the same Randy who had led the ceremony at Shasta, the night I had the vision of this very mountain.

Synchronicity. The Creator winking at me — gottcha.

And then — because apparently subtlety was no longer on the menu — I found out that my birthday is the same day as the yahrzeit of the Holy Rabbi who wrote the Zohar, the foundational book of Jewish mysticism. And where is this Holy Rabbi buried? Right there. On this mountain. Mount Meron. The mountain in my Shasta vision. Negotiation? Free choice? Let's stop pretending.

The Rebbe

Instant rainbows and bliss? Forget it, dear brother. This was a new country and a new way of life. No money, no real home, and — after everything it took to get here — I was coming apart at the seams. The irony was brutal: just as the pieces were finally starting to line up, I was on the verge of breaking down. Steps away from a mental collapse.

So I did the only thing left. I walked out to the forest, alone, and I prayed. I emptied myself.

"Master of the Universe, I need help. Send me a guide. Someone to help me. The time has come. I need help. I need a teacher."

That prayer — I kept it secret. Every ounce of strength I had went into it. That was it. Last call.

The very next day I was at a friend's house when the phone rang. Jerusalem. The Grand Rabbi had arrived in Israel and wanted to see my friend immediately. The secretary set an appointment for the next morning — but my friend couldn't go. Would I like to take his place? Would I like a private meeting with a holy, righteous man who spoke fluent English? Contemplation? Choice? Who am I fooling?

The first meeting started so quaint, so normal. Almost disappointingly so. I had a thousand questions burning inside me, but I decided not to ask the two most crucial ones. I didn't know this rabbi. A stranger — who was I to unload? We talked. Casually. And then, mid-conversation, the Grand Rabbi paused. The Rebbe looked at me. And in a single sentence, answered both of the questions I had deliberately kept locked inside — the ones I wanted to ask, but had decided not to. It shocked the wind out of me.

A few days later, the Grand Rabbi invited me for Shabbos. Back to Jerusalem I went. The Shabbos itself was beautiful, but I felt uncomfortable — surrounded by Chassidim, a sea of black, friendly black, but so bizarre for me. Almost no one spoke English, everything heebi-jeebi. Our host was the Rebbe's secretary, and after the meal we walked to the shul.

Walking in felt like entering a spaceship. Hundreds of Chassidim in steep bleachers encircling a long table where elderly men with snow-white beards waited. Then — the King arrived. No announcement needed. You felt it. The singing surged immediately, thick and physical. And then something completely bizarre happened: plates of food were placed before the Rebbe, and the Rebbe sat there eating while everyone watched. Not awkwardly. Reverently. Afterward, he passed out small pieces of the food.

The idea was simple and cosmic at the same time: when a holy man eats, he elevates the fallen holy sparks trapped in the food. That food is then elevated, so when eaten it can elevate the person eating it. It was considered an honor to be chosen to receive the holy food.

As Shabbos drew to a close, everyone once again gathered around the King. Suddenly the lights went out. And the singing took off — no words, just sound. Pure soul-sound. It felt like we were generating some massive energy field, and the Rebbe was guiding it, steering it, holding it together. I closed my eyes — and off I soared — up through the universe. I reached places beyond where Captain Trips had taken me. Tears poured down my face, not from sadness — from joy. Total, overwhelming joy. I knew it then. I was home.

At that moment, I looked up toward where the women would be sitting. And there she was. My grandmother. The woman behind the “nu”. Smiling. I could hear her sigh — deep and peaceful: "Time for me to go rest. My grandson has made it home."

The lights came back on, and the Rebbe called me over to give me some of the holy food.

Shall We Go

Who is wise? The one who learns from every one. Messengers are sent quietly, almost unnoticed, to set the inner wheels turning. When I open myself to give, I receive more than I could ever imagine. I learned from my teachers, more from my friends, and most of all from my students. Everywhere I encountered mirrors — hidden teachers reflecting fragments of a palace once known, now forgotten. Faces passed like a kaleidoscope, each refracting a different hue of the same light.

A simple question, asked again and again: "What of your past? Was any of it true? What have you kept?" Usually I answered without hesitation. This time, silence. What did I learn? Why did this question suddenly strike so deeply, freezing the polished words that required no thought? These were not words meant to challenge me, but a quiet yearning, a heart innocently searching for truth. Words spoken from the heart open the heart in return.

So what did I learn? Nothing rose to share. I could not remember. For once, the one who had the answers had no answer. The door remained closed. I had learned a way of living, of seeing, of relating — but where had it gone?

Flickering flames, ancient ears. Silence returned, scented faintly with sage. The flute notes circled in the cave; nearby the righteous of old slept. The door began to open — not for my sake, but for something higher. I prayed for my family, for the world, for life itself. Yet the questions arose: Where is the joy? Where is the magic? Where is the dance? The song?

They are still there — buried in some cavern of my heart, buried by impurity, confusion and fatigue. The joy has not vanished; it's there, lost. It bubbles, ready to burst. How to connect? How to release it? How to recapture it?

The answer came in a surprise moment. The time came to once again listen to my old music — the music once celebrated in the passion of life. The Righteous One opened the door to pave the way. The Holy Rabbi commanded: "Listen! Yiddle, Go listen to your old music." So, in the quiet of night, in the darkness, while the children slept, the headphones slipped on, and the Dead came alive. An old show jolting me out of my slumber, memories rushing in. I was there. Awake. Alive. I relived it — moment to moment. I danced through time, swirled through the cosmos, celebrating. Joy vibrating through the air. It was magical — for those few hours.

That was then, and now I knew — I need to serve the Holy One with that same ecstatic joy. I need to feel the excitement, whether for the approach of the Holy Shabbas bride, or doing mitzvos, or learning Torah. My joy, my enthusiasm must surpass the level I once felt when the lights went out and the band took the stage. Until then — I haven’t yet begun the path of return.

Walking out towards nowhere, searching for something long forgotten. Through the woods, jackals cried beneath the full moon. My heart grew heavy. Emotions rising. How long? It's been so long since You hid Your face — we no longer know You are hiding. The hidings of hidings when all is lost. We have forgotten that we are lost, but we will never give up. You can hide yourself, send bundles of misery, there's no limit to how You can test us — but You can never take away our love for You. That is ours. Enough is enough. Send the Redeemer.

Turning back through the woods, down and out. Where's the love? Ego smothers all there is. Pride clogs the vessels, blocking the flow. Clear it out, and let it flow. Oh, Mighty One, we need Your help. Beyond the tears, what else do You want. You have our lives, take our love, reveal Yourself.

Help us move beyond ourselves. Kindness — good deeds — not thought. Good deeds that banish the ego. Going beyond ourselves clears the channel, we feel the love. Do the deeds — feel the love. Move beyond. Beyond wounds, beyond darkness, time to move on.

From silence, singing emerged. Lights shimmered faintly in the distance. The moon rose — slow, inevitable. Its light spread. Once it was borrowed. Ancient Indian rites, vision questing, Mt Calistoga, singing to the moon. Now is the gift, an opportunity, a chance to rectify, a chance to elevate. Sing to G-d. The moon is merely a symbol. The heart is open. Feel the love. A cycle is completed. Seven years since Mt Shasta. Now is the time to bring it all together. Let it shine. Get up and dance. Feel the joy to be one with the Creator. To give joy to the Creator. Where's the joy? Look within. Find the block. Feel the love. Feel the flow.

Drifting back in time, to the summer of death, where birth began. Wading out to the Ventura seashore, swirling to China Cat sunflowers. Losing all touch with reality — a total break. Realizing the power of the gift, to start back within the primal reality, separate from all cultural and family structuring and brainwashing. Tapping into the primal hologram, and reclaiming the world of Oneness. I have no reality now, so I can create any reality I choose. My choice is a reality of magic and love, where there is unity, and our dreams come true. That literally became my reality. Shamans and magic, mysticism and love. Plugging into cosmic unity. Flying and riding a high-crested wave.

And then, crashing into the tsunami of Torah, splattered on the seashore. Now, picking up the pieces after years gone by. The magic was surrendered, or did it just slip away, buried under the new quest to discover and reclaim. The questions surfaced. Who am I? What is a Jew? Why am I here? What does return truly mean? Wanting only to do good, stumbling around, guided by the misguided. Losing all in the mirror of return.

Fortunate was I, for the Holy One sent a righteous guide, the Holy Grand Rabbi — like a drop of honey in the morning dew. An angelic stone-cutter sent to polish the diamonds of my encrusted soul. Slowly rediscovering - crumbs of the magic. Flashback? Holiness? Imagination? Good and bad. Pure and impure — the righteous one guides, the Grand Rabbi separates. Reclaim what is yours. Unravel the wellsprings of awareness.

Letting go to reclaim. Afraid of getting lost — but no preconditions. We must sort out and discard the impure. I regret not seeing the Holy One. How could I have been so blind. The joyous love and magical unity — these are commanded to us. They are our inheritance. They are within the boundary of the law. The law is merely a set of guidelines which define and give freedom to fully experience. Experience the Divine in this world, revealing to us the Perfect One, everywhere, at all times. We are free to live life to its fullest while giving joy to the Creator.

The foundation of return is to reveal the fruits of what was. Elevating the holy sparks back to their source, the impure husks fall away. Seeing the simplicity necessitates trusting — everything is in the hands of the Creator, just as was planned. The final unfolding was the original thought. Dedicating our lives to reveal the Infinite, knowing the All Powerful will provide.

Confronting our fears and letting go. Spinning the axis from fear to love. Surrendering ourselves to be a living vessel, we return the sanctuary to its proper place. Opening ourselves to shine the love of G-d with every step, we become the Holy Temple in a world where there is only unity. Singing the praises of the One Above with every step, we complete the song of Creation.

We must confront our fears, and find that point, that source of love. We must open our hearts and approach the world with love, modest holy love. We are the Creator's children. He has created the world, and given it to us as a gift to shine His love. He continues to shower us with His love, always, every moment of every second. We must open to accept this love, giving it away to become holy vessels — Divine Sanctuaries, partners in Creation. The more we give, the more that we can receive, unlimited transmitters of endless love. G-d bestows a constant outpouring of love. Yet, full vessels cannot receive. We control our vessel. Our desire to receive is the vessel itself. We must continuously pour out all our love. Now we can receive G-d's unlimited benevolence, now we can give Him joy, give Him nachas.

Redemption IS here! We are the ones who get in the way. We have the choice to block the Awesome One's love. G-d's ultimate gift of loving-kindness was moving His Infinite Self to the side to make room for finite Creation. How beautiful and holy, when we emulate the Holy One. Let us move ourselves aside and make room for G-d. Then all is one! The hiding is over. All is revealed! Dwelling within us, revealed around us!

Surrendering ourselves, we learn to trust. Moving aside starts the journey of life. Surrendering your will, you find yourself. Opening to the love, the world comes alive. There is only unity.

One cannot feel the unity while caught in fear. Fear in life, in Torah or in the Path of Return. True fear is the awareness that not surrendering and not stepping aside will stop the light at its source. You have the power to deny G-d His pleasure of bestowing His love. To realize this — that is true fear. Paralyzed with awe, you lose your free choice.

The gate of return is love. Open the gate and let the light in. Find the Palace of Contentment, where all is one and vibrantly alive. Happiness is automatic, wherever we are, whatever we have. Perfection is revealed. Call it G-d, call it love, call it life — it's beyond our description!

G-d created to bestow His loving-kindness. His will is for us to receive. Arouse your desire to receive His love. Take pleasure in fulfilling the Will of the Holy One. Nullify your will to the will of the Creator. Dance in the magical song of Divine Unity.

It is a vision. A dream, a promise, our inheritance. It is the world even perfect can't describe!

Chapter Four

Sunshine Daydream

Inspiration

Let There Be Songs to Fill the Air

The chainsaw was smoking, spitting blue-white clouds. Branches — thick, wild, defiant — came raining down from the overgrown trees and were hurled into the pickup truck. This year the usual fifteen or twenty branches? Forget it. Amateur hour. We were going big. The truck rode low, groaning under the weight of a miniature forest as we lumbered back to our house in the hills outside Tzfas.

Back home, the Sukkah stood waiting — walls up. No one would be sitting outside this year. It was huge — bigger than our living room — and required serious architectural muscle just to keep it from collapsing under its own holy ambition.

Rosh Hashana? Done. Yom Kippur? Sealed, stamped, delivered. Now — now! — it was time to party in the Sukkah. What a week. Think New Year's Eve with the Dead — only purified and sanctified, the real deal, no pretending. Wine flowing, music beating, endless food, Torah morning, noon, and night. We lived in the holy Sukkah.

Every night a VIP guest: the holy forefathers themselves, Abraham! Isaac! Jacob! Joseph! Moshe! Aharon! King David! Family and friends poured in — new faces, old faces, faces you're sure you've seen in dreams — some staying five minutes, some staying five days. Morning was always a surprise. As the sun heated the Sukkah roof, you'd look down and think: Who is that sleeping on the floor? When did they get here?

Then the music. Guitars, flutes, drums, and a parade of improvised instruments. Jam sessions merging into meals, meals dissolving into prayer services, prayer services launching straight into Torah teachings that bent the mind.

Our neighbors — certain we were the local religious fanatics — stood baffled. One night: six electric guitars, all cranked, all at once. Barely in tune, gloriously defiant. The sound ricocheted off the mountains like thunder. Raunchy? Absolutely. After midnight, switch to acoustic and there it was. That sweet, floating, transcendental place where time ceases.

Six days of glorious zaniness later, we were still half-expecting Hunter S. Thompson to wander in with a shotgun and his notebook. Now the tone shifted. The lights dimmed. The air deepened. Hoshana Rabbah had arrived. The gates of Yom Kippur creaked open again. Judgment hovered, delicate and immense.

All night long, ancient texts studied. Dedication. Devotion. King David — the mystical guest of honor — presiding. We were lost in the mysteries when a rustle at the door nearly slipped by unnoticed. A glance up — too late. The shadow of royalty was already fading into the night.

Before dawn, before the world has awoken, before the sun has risen — we're trekking down to the ancient underground well. This isn't a stroll. This is a mission. A pre-dawn immersion for purity, cold water snapping you awake like a cosmic slap, and then we head for the sunrise service.

Long. Solemn. Charged. Prayers of redemption hurled into the thinning night, words floating up, divine yearnings. We circle and circle, willow branches clenched in hand, eyes fixed on the sky, waiting for the moment. Then — BAM! — the willows crash against the floor, leaves flying, stems splintering, husks of impurity shattered.

One last festive meal in the Sukkah and then it's time. Break out the dancing shoes. Simchas Torah has arrived.

Celebration! Dancing with the Holy Scrolls of Torah. Night, morning. And then again the following night. This ain't no disco — it's an all-out, full-body declaration of appreciation and love. Receiving a gift from the King? That's nice. Realizing the King chose to give His gift to me? That's something else entirely. The greatest gift, from the holiest source.

Ecstatic joy. The kind that won't sit still. Jumping up and down, grabbing hands, spinning until the room blurs. The place is getting hot, everybody got the same gift. Everybody is jumping with joy.

What a grand old party. Get down and boogie. This party stretches longer than the three-set Dead marathons at Radio City Music Hall. Sweat pouring, legs screaming, smiles glued in place. Dancing from love. Dancing for the Holy One.

Song of Songs

Spring fills the air, and it's time. Not your garden-variety spring cleaning with a mop and a sigh, but the full-tilt, no-prisoners ritual cleansing for Passover. This is housecleaning with metaphysical consequences. Every shelf, every drawer, every suspicious corner is put on notice. The physical house is scrubbed, and at the same time the spiritual body is getting purified.

All leaven must go. Every crumb. Every rogue cookie. When leaven rises, so too the ego. Puffing up, taking space, pretending it's something it's not. Passover is the one moment in the spiritual calendar when we're handed a jailbreak key. Freedom from ego and selfish desire. Walls dissolve. Gravity loosens. The soul stretches its wings and clings back toward its source. On Seder night? No limit. Infinite.

The night before Passover — the final encounter. Armed like ritual detectives with candle, feather, and spoon, we sweep the house inch by inch. Flickering light, shadows dancing on the walls. Any crumbs that somehow survived a month of relentless searching are hunted down, coaxed together, captured at last.

Morning arrives — and with it, one final ceremonial bite of bread. A farewell. Then, the bonfire roars to life. Flames leap. All remaining leavened products are hurled in. And not just bread. In the fire go the forces of evil themselves, a divine burning of the husks of impurity.

Now the clock is ticking. Preparations move into hyper speed. Everyone moving fast, synchronized, precise. This is choreography. Wine, bitter herbs, eggs, parsley, salt water, haroset — each placed exactly where it belongs. Festive clothes appear for the baking of the matzah: black kaftans swirling and fur hats bobbing. One rhythm. One heartbeat. Psalms of praise rise into the air. Dough in — matzah out! Thin, crackling, radiant. The treasured matzas. Mitzvah matzas.

Evening prayers lift off. Joy levels spike as Hallel stretches upward. Back home and the shine is blinding. Sunglasses wouldn't help. The house glows. The children vibrate with anticipation. The first cup of wine is poured. Freedom begins.

As the night rolls on — questions asked, answers elaborating — more wine is poured and the mysteries begin to loosen their grip, one by one, secrets revealed. Then the moment arrives.

The matzah. Above reason. Beyond comprehension. Eyes closed. Mouth full. Chewing. Chewing. Chewing. Suddenly — sweetness. Not imagined, not symbolic — real. It fills the mouth. A flash of clarity cuts through everything. Time stalls. Stillness. You let go. Surrendering to the One. Everything is revealed.

Long after midnight, the festive meal finally winds down. The third cup of wine is done. I fill the oversized goblet for the Prophet Eliyahu and lift the flickering candelabra, wax dripping, flame dancing, and head for the front door. I reach for the handle —

Knock, knock, knock.

I freeze. The door opens. "My name is Eliyahu," the stranger says. "I'm supposed to meet one of your guests and walk him home. May I come in?" And just like that — Eliyahu walks in. He settles into the rocking chair, rocks once or twice, and falls asleep.

We finish the fourth cup of wine. Everyone rises. The room erupts in dance. "Next year in the rebuilt Jerusalem!" The words rise up and suddenly Eliyahu is up too, dancing right along with us. Then, just as quickly, the door opens again. He's gone.

The children drift off to sleep, heads heavy with wonder. The rest of us remain and begin reading King Shlomo's long, intimate love song — Shir HaShirim. The Song of Songs slides into the thinning night, escorting us gently toward the first hint of dawn.

We Can Share the Wine

Purim has arrived. The most transcendental, upside-down, inside-out holy day of the year. Yom HaKippur? Please. It literally means "a day like Purim." Think about that.

Preparations begin with a day-long fast, ending with the first reading of the Megillah, the holy scroll of Esther. The story unfolds — hidden miracles between the lines. A simple meal follows. Then costumes. Tomorrow is going to be wild.

Middle of the night. Up we go. Off to the mikvah for a pre-dawn purification. Cold water shocking straight to the soul. Cleansed, aligned, Uri and I move quietly through the sleeping streets toward the Western Wall for sunrise prayers and the second Megillah reading. The words conclude and the gate to the Hasmonean tunnel opens. We slip inside, fast and silent, heading to the spot. Directly opposite the Holy of Holies. The exact place where the Ark of the Covenant once stood.

The tunnel is almost empty. The morning air is frozen in place. Prayers rush out, urgent, undeniable. Uri's heart is wide open now — "Oh Holy One, let me meet my soul mate." No doubt. Certain to be answered.

The back of the Old City wall looks straight onto our nine-hundred-year-old stone house on Mount Zion. Arab village next door. Beneath us — the tomb of King David himself. The city is just waking up, but we're already locked in. Time to fulfil the mitzvah of the day: drink "until you don't know." L'chaim. Another. And another. Uri vanishes.

He comes back with an amplifier and an electric guitar. Disappears again, and returns with two government officials and three horse-mounted policemen. At least they left the horses outside. In honor of our distinguished guests, I head for the vintage wine. Yanki has joined the party. Recently arrested twice, he is now pouring drinks for the policemen — including the very constable who arrested him.

Ahhh yes. Purim has arrived. We slow the pace and move into the living room. High domed ceiling. View straight across to the Mount of Olives. The room is solid, ancient, miraculously intact — rebuilt fifteen years ago by the drummer of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Naturally. Three cases of wine stand ready. No one is going thirsty. Guests drift in. Every newcomer gets their own bottle. Personal freedom, bottled.

Hours in, I hit the stereo switch. Jewish wedding music gives way — just for a second — to the Allman Brothers, Fillmore East. Then I quickly switch back to the shmaltzier Purim music. But it's too late. A rumble starts. A chant. "Allman Brothers! Allman Brothers!"

What can I do? Back to the Fillmore East. Duane hits a note and I'm up. We are all up. Dancing. On the table. One by one, everyone who can fit. The beautiful wood table is now bowing under the weight of nearly a dozen very inebriated men stomping in rhythm. Champagne bottles appear. Pop goes the shower.

The music cuts off mid-note. A voice erupts from somewhere deep and eternal: "Who do you love?" The reply thunders down through the stone, all the way to King David's tomb:

Shabbos is racing toward us. The local mikvah is already closed. The Grand Rabbi — who had warned us against the ancient outdoor mikvah at the bottom of the Arab village — is on the phone. Permission granted. Blessing given. Uri, some new friend dressed as a Rastafarian straight out of Jamaica, and myself are off. I lead — weaving through alleys I know too well. Turn left. Move fast. Down the steps. I reach the mikvah. Alone. They're gone.

Did he miss the left? Did he turn right? Into the heart of the village — no man's land? Should I backtrack? No. Best to immerse and pray. The Holy One is running the show. I descend the final steps into the cave. The water icy cold. This is the same mikvah used by the High Priest on Yom Kippur. I plunge in and pray for Uri and the Rasta.

Meanwhile, in the center of the Arab village, Uri is standing like a preacher: "Does anybody know how to get to the mikvah? We're on our way to the mikvah. You see, we're all cousins. Same great-grandfather. Abraham. Cousins! Love one another. Peace!" Uri. Downtown Silwan. Stone-cold drunk. Delivering the greatest sermon on peace in recorded history. Two teenagers escort them safely to the mikvah just as I'm getting dressed.

We make it back to the Western Wall just in time for Friday night prayers. During the Shema, Uri breaks down — sobbing, pleading, beseeching. Three days later, he meets his soul mate. Her name is Esther.

Dancing in the Streets

The Kosov synagogue of Tzfas — once upon a time the roaring heart of the city. The Chassidic dynasty of Kosov had been one of the giants of Europe, until the Holocaust erased it with terrifying efficiency. Afterward, the synagogue flickered on briefly, then slipped into silence. Doors closed. Dust settled. A storage facility at best.

Then under the quiet, unmistakable guidance of the Holy Rebbe, the place was brought back to life. An unlikely crew showed up: newcomers to Israel, seekers, strays, souls with accents and questions. They scrubbed. They hauled. They cleaned until the stones themselves seemed to breathe again. The first services were held. Slowly, organically, it blossomed into the Kosov Centre for Torah and Prayer — a living, pulsing spiritual home for English speakers. A resurrection.

Friday night was a weekly celebration. Word spread fast — a legend is born. Known around the world: no visitor to Tzfas dares miss welcoming the Shabbos Queen at Kosov — assuming you can squeeze in. This is the very spot where, five hundred years ago, the great kabbalists danced out into the fields to greet Shabbos. And tonight? The singing, the stamping, the sheer ferocity of joy — unmatched anywhere in Israel.

But tonight was different. Not Shabbas — but electric. One of the holy Torah scrolls was about to be restored. The Rebbe filled in the final letter — slow, deliberate, breath held. Then the Rebbe lifted the Sefer Torah into his arms and stepped outside, under the wedding canopy. The ancient cobblestone street ignited — children lined both sides, torches blazing. Music burst forth. The Rebbe began to dance.

Within seconds the street was alive. Singing, clapping, dancing down the cobblestones toward the synagogue. A wedding procession, ancient and brand new all at once. The One Above. The Holy Scroll. And all of us children below — merged into a single march of joy. Back inside, the intensity spiked again. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. The building rocked. Sweat, laughter, tears — a full-bodied celebration of renewed life until the Torah was finally returned, safely, lovingly, to the ark.

Later, back at our house in the hills, the festive meal was kept quiet — strategic secrecy to keep the numbers manageable. It didn't work. Dozens arrived anyway. Chassidim. Newly observant seekers. Hippie freaks. And — the Grand Rabbi. A combination that made no sense and perfect sense at the same time. The Rebbe sat at the head of the table, handing out sacred food between words of wisdom. Everyone together. All as one.

Before the blessings after the meal, minhag (custom) calls for a specific Psalm. Tonight's version — unique. First the drummers. Then guitar and flute lock in. The words sing out to the tune of Bob Marley's "Buffalo Soldier." The room locks into rhythm. Some dancing. King David's Psalm rides a reggae beat. Magnificent.

Someone leans over and firmly enlightens me — “this is a desecration! Especially in front of the Grand Rabbi”. I lean over and quietly ask the Holy Rebbe. "Absolutely not," the Rebbe says, smiling. "The opposite is true. You are elevating your music through the Psalms."

As he leaves, the Holy Rebbe turns to me: "Yiddle, I'm sorry I have to go now. But you — don't stop the joy. Yiddle, keep on partying!"

Chapter Five

Portholes

Peeking Through the Veil

Life Begins

No yesterday

No tomorrow

No before

No after

Just plain, simple — now

Step by step

Slowly

Divine Unity

Standing in the airport

My plane just cancelled

Standing by the train

My suitcase just stolen

Standing in the snow

My marriage just ended

— my life begins —

A life which is not mine

but to The One Above

The Holy One

So amazing to be alive

So amazing to breathe

So amazing to be a child of G-d

So amazing to just be

Coming Around

Another beautiful day.

Pre-dawn mikvah.

Learning. Praying.

Breakfast, and work.

The routine day.

Blessed.

Back outside.

Free.

The beauty. The gift. The awe.

Every day, all new.

Stunned again.

The wonders of Creation.

Everywhere. All around.

My backyard. My playground.

Through the woods.

Towards the river.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Step by step, tuning in.

Worlds unfold.

Birds are singing. Wind is whistling.

The river flows.

Harmony. Tranquility. Unity.

The moment opens. Time ceases.

Duality dissolves.

A Chassidic man stands by the river.

In Gan Eden

It is I

In Eden.

My Friends

For many years I walked, searching.

I searched with sincerity, with passion, with a heart that desired.

I thought I was searching for G-d.

For unity. For closeness.

G-d, in His kindness, taught me something very simple:

He was never hidden.

It was I who was standing in front of Him, blocking Him.

A man thinks he must go far.

But the Baal Shem Tov taught:

"Where a person's thought is, there is where he is."

And G-d is always here, everywhere.

I did not need to find G-d.

I needed to find myself — then step aside.

I did not need to find G-d.

I needed to stop pushing Him away.

When a person says "I want"

Even when he wants holiness,

Even when he wants righteousness

That "I" creates two.

And G-d is One.

The world looks divided.

Heaven and earth. Body and soul. You and I.

But this is only the outer garment.

Inside — there is only Ein Od Milvado.

G-d created the world unfinished.

Not because something is lacking above,

but because He desired a dwelling place below.

And He gave that work to man.

He gave it to man as a gift

To be a partner in Creation.

But hear well:

The world is not fixed by changing the world.

The world is fixed by changing the one who looks at it.

The world is changed by fixing yourself.

As long as I see myself as separate,

I see the world as separate.

As long as I see you and I as separate,

I have created duality.

As long as I am full of myself,

There is no room for G-d.

The Baal Shem Tov said:

G-d fills all worlds and surrounds all worlds — Yet He cannot dwell where a person makes himself into a "something." He cannot dwell where man's ego resides.

When I desire, I become duality.

Myself, and that which I want.

When I surrender, I become a vessel.

I channel the light.

I become the light.

The physical world itself is not a concealment from G-d.

It is G-d, dressed in garments.

Only my ego makes it appear solid and distant.

G-d handed creation to me.

Here. Now.

To finish it according to His blueprint.

My mission: to become aware of Him. To thank Him. To give Him nachas.

Not for reward. Not to escape punishment.

But like a child who wants to bring joy to his father.

Halacha is not a burden placed on life.

Halacha is the shape of life.

Halacha creates reality.

It is how G-d's infinite light becomes a table, a cup, a moment.

It is the way in which we journey forward.

When I align myself with Torah and mitzvot,

I align myself with reality.

Not rules. Alignment. Advice.

And from that alignment comes joy.

Not loudness. Not excitement.

A quiet joy that settles the heart.

A quiet joy that arouses the heart.

Serenity. Tranquility.

A person runs, chases, worries

And all the while Gan Eden is here, now.

Desire pulls him into tomorrow,

And tomorrow is exile.

Deveikus can only happen now.

Not when I finish. Not when I arrive.

Only when I let go.

Bitachon means I do my part,

but I leave the rest to G-d.

The more I cling to outcome,

The less I trust.

G-d made space for the world by withdrawing Himself.

My task is to withdraw myself,

So that He may be revealed.

Either I fill the space —

Or G-d does.

When I quiet myself,

I hear a melody.

Not a new melody.

The song of creation itself.

G-d leads the dance.

I only need to let go — to follow.

I fall. I get up. I continue — with joy.

I am not here to succeed.

I am here to serve.

So I try to give. To smile. To lift another.

To do mitzvos simply, joyously.

To unite above and below.

To join heaven and earth.

To reveal what was never hidden.

And then I see:

I was never missing anything.

No need to search.

G-d was here the whole time.

All that was needed

Was to move aside.

And that —

That is the great wonder.

Right here. Right now.

The Journey

He had wandered for many days through the hills, surrounded by ancient olive trees whose gnarled trunks twisted like sages caught midway through prayer. Tiring — as the journey felt like years, like he was going in circles. His name was Yiddle, though he rarely spoke it. Once upon a time they called him Leo; now Yiddle. Names, he had come to sense, were garments the soul wore for a short while beneath the sun, and he had grown weary of garments. He sought something else — something he could not name, something beyond his senses. Much deeper, like a wisp rising from a valley he had not yet reached.

The paths were quiet. Spring had begun its slow ascent up the hills, pushing wildflowers through the stones. But Yiddle's heart was silent, barren as a winter branch. He walked with a restlessness, a knot of longing that no study, no argument, no travel had ever loosened.

One evening, after a long ascent, he reached a small plateau where a single fig tree stood — half-wild, half-cultivated. Beneath its branches sat an old man, wrapped in a simple worn cloak, sharpening a wooden staff with a small knife. His presence was unassuming, almost invisible, and yet something in the air around him felt unexpectedly clear, as though the sky had been washed moments before.

"Shalom aleichem," the old man smiled.

"And upon you, peace," Yiddle replied, hesitant. "May I rest here for a moment?"

"You already are," the old man replied.

Yiddle sat leaning on a rock. They sat without speaking. The wind moved softly through the fig leaves, making small shadows dance over the man's hands.

After a while the old man said, "You've been carrying a heavy stone in your chest."

Yiddle startled. "What makes you say that?"

The man shrugged lightly. "You walk as if the earth under you might break."

Yiddle looked away. "For years I ran, and I stumbled. Now I search. Or so I believe I search. I feel lacking, so I seek — something. A window, a door, an opening, truth. Yet every time I come close, I start to tremble, and run from my own shadow."

"Ah." The man nodded. "You seek."

"I seek to fill my inner void." Yiddle whispered. "Is it G-d I seek?"

The old man chuckled. "G-d is everywhere."

They fell silent again. Then the man leaned over, plucked a fig from the tree, split it open with his thumbs, and after inspecting it, handed half to Yiddle.

"Tell me," Yiddle said, gathering the courage that had been forming for days. "If G-d is everywhere, why don't I see Him?"

The old man studied the fig in his hand as though it were a small universe. "Most people," he said at last, "stand like walls blocking the very light they long for. They knock and knock on Heaven's door, never noticing they are the door."

Yiddle frowned. "I do not understand."

"It is because your 'I' is standing in the doorway," the old man replied simply. "And it is a very noisy fellow."

A faint smile tugged at Yiddle's mouth despite himself. "So what am I to do?"

"Be still," the man said. "As quiet as this hill. As humble as this tree. Then the light will shine on you, will pass through you."

Yiddle stared at the staff in the old man's hands. "Who are you?" he asked.

The man shrugged. "A traveler, like you." But Yiddle sensed something deeper — something ancient and hidden, like an underground spring whose presence you feel only through the coolness of the earth.

They ate the figs in silence. After a while, Yiddle asked: "Why does anger still burn in me? Why does envy rise? Why is my heart tight?"

The old man leaned back against the fig tree. "Because you still believe the world owes you something. Because you think your life is your own. But it is not. It is on loan. Every breath you've ever drawn was a gift from on high. When you remember this — remember deep within — anger dissolves like snow in the desert."

Yiddle felt the words settle into him slowly, seeds slipping into soft soil. "And bitterness?" he asked.

The man closed his eyes. "Bitterness is only light that forgot its source. Sit with it gently, and it will remember."

The sun dipped lower. A hush fell across the hills. "But how," Yiddle pressed, "does one truly change? How does one become a vessel?"

The old man opened his eyes. They were gentle but bright, like coals glowing under ash. "When the ego grows thin," he said, "the fear vanishes, and the heart becomes wide. When the heart widens, compassion flows. When compassion flows, joy awakens. When joy awakens, the soul becomes transparent. And when the soul becomes transparent, the Infinite seeps through." He spoke these words not like a teacher reciting doctrine, but like someone pointing toward a distant mountain he had climbed many times.

Yiddle felt something loosen inside — something small, but undeniable.

They sat until the final light of day stretched long and golden across the horizon. When Yiddle stood to leave, he bowed his head awkwardly. "You have given me more than I can carry."

The man smiled. "Then do not carry it. Become it."

Yiddle hesitated. "Will I find you again?"

The old man chuckled softly. "You will find me anywhere you leave room for me."

Yiddle turned to descend the hill, but halfway down he looked back. The fig tree stood alone in the last glow of dusk. The old man was gone — as though he had been carved only from wind and fading sunlight. And in the quiet space he left behind, Yiddle felt — perhaps for the first time — the beginning of light rising within him.

Chapter Six

Welcome

Taste the Wonder

Emunah

Quiet, unshakable — no word in English can capture its essence. Emunah does not descend from distant heavens or arise from the doctrines of sages. It wells up from the hidden springs within the soul itself, like a river that has always flowed beneath the surface of one's being, waiting only to be heard.

In the depths of the self — where thought grows still and the clamour of the world fades to a murmur — a person encounters the Divine. Not as a stranger met upon the road, not as an image carved in stone or word, but as the very ground of one's own existence. When the soul turns inward and discovers Him there in one’s silent core, there one finds G-d.

I know that I exist. This knowing needs no proof, no argument, no witness. It stands unshaken, like a mountain rooted in the earth's heart. In the pure instant of self-awareness — when the mind falls away and only the naked fact remains: I am. And in that same timeless moment, another certainty awakens alongside it, clear as dawn breaking over still water: G-d Is.

I am not Existence itself. I dwell within it, a fleeting ripple upon a boundless sea. And that sea — that all-encompassing Reality in which I live and move and have my being — that is G-d.

Now one's eyes open wide to behold Him everywhere: in the falling leaf, in the slow turning of the stars, in the laughter of a child and the sigh of the wind through ancient pines. The world becomes a single, luminous garment, woven through with the same eternal presence.

Yet if the seeker fails to find G-d within the quiet chambers of the heart, no pilgrimage, no temple, no vast horizon will reveal Him without. Outside, He is not to be grasped as a separate entity. The search turns up empty, the soul wanders lost. G-d is not "out there." He is inside — He is the space in which all things appear, the silence between breaths, the beingness that allows the "I" to say "I."

I am not the flame; I am touched by it, warmed by it, seen by its light. Yet as surely as I know my own existence — without doubt, without effort — so do I know His. He is Existence. He is the All-That-Is. He is the unbroken wholeness.

Grasp this as you grasp the reality of your own self: as immediately, as intimately, as without mediation. "From my flesh I behold G-d" — not through veils or interpretations, but in the raw pulse of being alive. The one who walks in true Emunah — the ma'amin — understands the Divine in the same direct, wordless way he understands his own aliveness: not as concept, but as the air he breathes, the ground beneath his feet. The one who walks in true Emunah walks with G-d — all day, every day.

I am! — and in that utterance, trembling with wonder, resounds the greater I AM. G-d is Reality. G-d is Existence. And in the depths, these two are not two, but one — joined in an eternal embrace.

It cannot be otherwise. To know my own fragile, flickering existence is already to rest upon the vast, unchanging Existence that sustains it. From that primal Source I was hewn, like a figure emerging from the rock; in it I am held, surrounded, permeated. I exist within G-d as the wave exists within the ocean — never apart, never alone.

When the soul arrives at this shore — when the restless seeking quiets and the inner eye opens — then life itself becomes a quiet, continuous conversation with the Eternal One. One walks with G-d, lives with G-d, not as servant before master, nor as stranger beside stranger, but as one who has returned home: bathed in the same light, breathing the same breath, living the one Life that flows through all things.

Yichud

In the boundless wisdom of the Holy One, blessed be He, there is a will — simple, hidden, and infinite — to bestow good. For G-d is absolute good, and the nature of true good is to give. But not to give in a way that leaves the receiver diminished, dependent, or ashamed. G-d desired to give in a way that would make the receiver whole, dignified, and unified with Him.

Therefore, He did not create a world of revealed perfection. For had goodness been imposed from above, the soul would remain separate, tasting nahama d'kisufa — the bread of shame — feeling oneself a receiver, separate from the Giver. G-d's essence is unity. Thus, man was created incomplete — not lacking, but unfinished — so that through effort, choice, and service, he would become a partner in both Creation and revelation. Through Torah, mitzvos, and struggle, the soul acquires goodness as its own. What is earned becomes internal; what is internal becomes unified.

Yet here lies the deeper truth that Chassidus reveals. Even this earning — this acquisition of reward — is not the ultimate goal. For as long as a person serves G-d in order to receive — even spiritual delight — there remains a subtle separation. The "I" is still present. The self still seeks fulfillment. And therefore, Chassidus teaches that the deepest purpose of creation is not reward at all, but bitul — self-nullification.

Bitul does not mean self-negation in the sense of despair, depression, or hopelessness. Rather, it is the nullification of the ego — the quieting of that sense of independent selfhood that believes in the strength and power of one's own wisdom or accomplishment; the falsehood that one's actions alone cause results. It requires self-examination until a person desires nothing for himself, but only that G-d's will be fulfilled.

This is the highest avodah: to serve G-d not to gain, not to ascend, not to receive pleasure — even spiritual pleasure — but solely to give G-d nachas ruach, the sweet essence of joy. For when a servant serves for reward, he is still standing as "someone." But when he serves only because this is G-d's will, he disappears into the will itself. And this is true unity.

This is why G-d created a world of concealment. For in a revealed world, bitul would be impossible. When light overwhelms, the self dissolves automatically — but that is not bitul earned through choice. True bitul exists only where ego could have ruled, but chose not to. Conscious choice.

This is the meaning of Olam HaZeh — This World — a world where the self feels real, where the ego asserts itself, where one could live entirely for oneself. And precisely here, one consciously chooses to nullify. Not by denying existence, but by redirecting one's interface with it. A person still eats, works, speaks, and lives — but all of it becomes a vessel to give G-d pleasure. Not because one will be rewarded. Not because one fears punishment. Simply because G-d desires it.

This is bitul ha-yesh — the self-nullification of the ego. And this bitul is the key to yichud — Divine Unification, Divine Oneness. For ego is the root of separation: "I" and "He"; "my will" and "His will." The moment the self steps aside, only G-d remains.

The holy Baal Shem Tov taught that the highest cleaving is not ecstasy, but simplicity — to do a mitzvah plainly, simply as an act of fulfilling the Divine Will. To make my Father happy.

Perhaps this is the teaching that "a baal teshuvah — the master of return — reaches a place that a complete tzaddik cannot." For while the tzaddik serves G-d in light, the baal teshuvah serves from the darkness — having tasted ego, desires, delights, and self — and then consciously choosing to walk away, to turn to G-d. In doing so, he not only nullifies all of it; he elevates it. The place of darkness becomes light. He takes the very place of separation and transforms it into unity; the very darkness and reveals its hidden light. He reveals G-d not by ascending, but by surrendering.

The klipah — the external husks of darkness — are destroyed at the root. For the klipah is ego: yesh, the illusion of independent existence. When one nullifies oneself to the Divine spark within all things, the klipah dissolves. Darkness has no substance once the self is no longer defending it.

This is the inner meaning of Yetzias Mitzrayim — the going out of Egypt. Mitzrayim is constriction: not only external exile, but the imprisonment of the self within itself. And G-d did not merely redeem bodies — He redeemed souls. Ani v'lo malach. G-d Himself. He revealed that even the deepest ego, the hardest shell, the darkest places, evil itself — all draw their life force only from Him.

Passover is the time when bitul is revealed — the ego exits, the self steps aside, and the inner spark emerges. This is why chametz is forbidden. For chametz rises, swells, asserts. Matzah is simplicity, humility, self-nullification. It is bread with no ego. And this bitul reveals the deepest yichud.

For when a person serves G-d not for reward, not for elevation, not even for closeness — but simply because G-d desires it, because it is the Will of G-d — then it becomes clear that there is only one ratzon. His will. All other wills dissolve. This is Yichud.

Even the sitra achra — the Dark Side — even concealment, even opposition, exist only so that bitul may be chosen. And in the end, it will be revealed that everything and everyone that appeared separated from, and against, His will — were all serving His will.

This is the secret of beginning, middle, and end. In the beginning, G-d's perfection existed. In the middle, G-d hides — allowing ego, concealment, struggle, and apparent evil to appear. In the end, all returns to good, all returns to unity. A higher unity. The bridge between them is bitul. And this bitul is the desired cause of this world — of Olam HaZeh. This is the work incumbent on man. His mission. His purpose.

When the lower nullifies itself to the upper, when base desire yields to Divine desire, when the self yields to the Will — then beginning and end unite. Darkness returns to light. And then it is known — not as knowledge, but as reality itself:

There never was anything else. There never is anything else.

G-d. Simple. Everywhere. Everything. Always. Nothing else.

Neshama and body. Infinite and Finite. United. One. Nachas Ruach.

This is the service of a Jew.

To live in the world, to act within concealment, to choose beyond self, serving without self —

when all creation reveals Ein od milvado.

Ratzon

Our sages teach: "Everything is in the hands of Heaven except the fear of Heaven." Is fear of Heaven truly in our hands? What does fear mean in such a context? Is Heavenly help not required to grow in holiness? Did our sages not teach that without the Holy One's assistance, a person cannot overcome even his own inclination? Let us try to explore the inner meaning, and to understand ratzon.

Ratzon is one of those concepts that cannot be translated into English. No English word can capture the depth of the meaning. The closest expression we might find is focused will, desire, yearning. But we will use the word ratzon throughout. Man possesses only one thing that is truly his — his ratzon, his will, his longing, the desire of his heart. Everything else — strength, understanding, wisdom, opportunity, success, even the ability to act — comes only with the help of G-d Above. Man can want, man can choose, man can make effort.

"The Creator placed in our hands the choice to serve Him or rebel against Him… but He did not place in our hands the completion of the deed. The completion of the act depends on multiple causes beyond us." (Chovos HaLevavos) The will alone is ours.

The Holy Chasam Sofer taught the same: "What is not in the hands of Heaven is not the accomplishment, but the choice of the heart — that a person should want to be a servant of G-d, should yearn for closeness, and should pray for it. That inner turning, that stirring of the will — this alone is given over to man."

And therefore, the foundation of all service of G-d is not action, not attainment, not even understanding — but true ratzon. A Jew's entire life work is thus: to want truth, to want G-d, to want to serve G-d.

This is especially true regarding Emunah, which is the root of the entire Torah. Emunah cannot be forced upon a person from Heaven. If belief were simply planted in the heart without effort, where would the mitzvah be? Where would the avodah be? Where would the soul's participation lie? Therefore, the commandment of Emunah was fashioned in this way: first, the Jew must want, one must choose, one must commit oneself to know one's Creator. Only afterward does the Holy One slowly, slowly reveal Himself. This is why we say in the blessing Al HaTzaddikim: "Upon the righteous, and upon the converts, and upon us." Because every Jew's Emunah comes only through inner choice — like a convert who leaves his life behind, and chooses truth. Each day, a Jew must become a "righteous convert" again, choosing G-d anew through his will. (Mevaser Tov)

The Zohar says: "The Holy One desires the heart and the will of man." Not brilliance. Not perfection. Not achievement. The heart's desire. The Sfas Emes teaches that in every mitzvah, the essence is the beginning — the ratzon. Afterward, G-d completes what man cannot, as it says: "The G-d Who completes for me."

This will must be honest, must be truth. Not empty wishing. Not complacency. True ratzon gives birth to effort, to doing — to prayer, to Torah, to mitzvos — each person according to his level. But the root is always the ratzon, the will. Emunah itself is acquired only in this way. When a person truly desires to know G-d, to accept the yoke of Heaven sincerely, to be willing of, to be desirous of — becoming a servant of the L-rd — then his inner eyes open. The degree of Emunah one attains is precisely according to the depth of this preparation — according to how strong one's ratzon is, how strong one's desire and yearning are.

In truth, even the first arousal often comes from Heaven. A thought of return, a stirring of longing, a moment of clarity. The Baal Shem Tov taught that the bas kol (Heavenly voice) spoken of by our sages — "Return my children, return" — does not sound in the ears, but in the inner world of the person, of their thoughts, of their knowing. The wise one recognises it and responds. He grabs onto the bas kol and acts upon it. The arousal may come from Above, but man is left to choose what he does with that arousal. One can choose to ignore, or one can choose to pursue.

This was the path of Avraham Avinu. First, he searched, yearned, and longed with all his heart. Only afterward did the Master of the Universe reveal Himself — "the Owner of the palace looked out upon him." And this is the path for every Jew. First comes the will. Then comes the light.

The Sfas Emes teaches that G-d reveals a moment of illumination to the one who has dedicated themselves to finding truth. This momentary illumination reveals to the one searching — that there exists "something" beyond one's understanding. Realizing this, one must set aside everything else, to dedicate one's life to coming to know that which G-d revealed for that one moment.

Why is ratzon different from thought, speech, and action? Because if ratzon itself were given from Heaven, man would have no share at all in Emunah — essentially no free choice. There would be no mitzvah, no relationship, no covenant. Therefore, G-d left this one point entirely in man's hands. It is man's free choice. And this is the greatest virtue granted to man. This is what a man is. It is all a man is.

True ratzon means that a person's entire life is oriented toward truth. It is known that whatever a person dedicates themselves to, immerses in — that is what they will perceive all around. It becomes their set of lenses through which they see the world. Just as a skilled tailor instantly notices what others overlook in people's clothing, or a carpenter in the woodwork around him — so too, one who truly yearns for G-d will begin to see Him everywhere, all the time.

Even if one does not yet possess such a will, but only possesses the desire to one day "want to want" — that itself is virtuous. One must pray for the desire itself. The Yid HaKodesh taught that "one who wants to want, even twenty times removed — can already be called a servant of G-d."

If a person truly wants to see G-d in one's life — he will see G-d in his life. If he truly wants to live with "I place G-d before me always" — he will be granted that awareness. Everything depends on one's ratzon. In a generation filled with confusion and denial, we always maintain the complete freedom and opportunity to choose how we want to live our lives. We can choose: a simple, honest will — Emunah in the Creator. To serve the Creator. That choice is always available. That choice always remains not only an option — it is the ultimate fulfilment of our free choice. It is our purpose for being here in this world.

For in truth, man owns nothing. Not his strength. Not his understanding. Not his accomplishments. All is given from G-d Above. But one thing the Holy One placed into man's hands and said:

This is yours. Your ratzon.

And when a Jew gives his will back to G-d — the rectification is complete.

All is One. Seen by everyone.