אֶשָּׂא עֵינַי, אֶל-הֶהָרִים– מֵאַיִן, יָבֹא עֶזְרִי
I shall lift up mine eyes unto the mountains: from whence shall come my help?
You raise your eyes to the mountains, peering ever upwards, climbing, searching. You can’t see a thing.
You draw close to the summit. The sky is dazzling bright, and you are blinded by the glare. All is white. You see nothing.
Dear H’, is this the Awesome Nothingness? Is this the Infinite Aleph from which all things flow?
Wait, faint forms are emerging, shapes that grow sharper, first of clouds, then of craggy peaks and sculpted valleys. Then below you see it all, everything: the silver birches and the yellowed oaks and dark pine forests and a sinuously winding river and busy towns and all the industrious people with their loves and hates and hopes and fears, and yes, your own broken heart beats on there too. The scroll of heaven and earth is unrolled before your eyes.
Later that evening, back at your work-bench, grinding the pigments or pounding the clay, you look down at these things, you smell them and touch them, then you wipe clean your hands and bless the One that made them all.