Her & Shlomo

I am in the city again. My favorite place. The West Village. Cobblestone roads. Quaint colorful shops. No parking. And a boardwalk to soak up the sun on this beautiful Spring day.

I resign myself to the fact I'll get a ticket while on this job this morning, as my phone buzzes with a message that reads, "sorry I'm running 20 minutes late." Perfect.

Lost in thought, a conversation I had last week with a friend pops into my head: The origins of Shir Hashirim. Its author is Shlomo Hameilech. A love song poem filled with yearning, deep ache, and beautiful erotica.

Sholomo had 300 wives, they say. Seems like he had a lot of love to give. Chazel say that it isn't meant to be taken literally. Definitely the Shir Hashirim. I'm not sure about the 300 wives, though.

And it bothers me.

The 2 different camps. The thoughts on either side of this.

Stripping down the entire song to "oh it's deeper than the physical" or "it's not what it seems." "This is so holy it's beyond our understanding."

And so does the wistful "woa, Shlomo must have been a wildly lustful individual," and oh so graphic too! He must have run the club scene for the better part of his entire life.

To me it seems that ache, that yearning, the depth of his soul, was him looking for something he knew was true. The void was something he remembered that didn't always exist. Completely overtaken, as he searched with no rest, and came to realize denying this would destroy him.

He was expressing a desire for Oneness. He hated separation and remembered the days when hate had no place. He strove for completion as he once was. And that drove him mad. It drove him fanatical.

Explaining himself only made it worse, hence the 2 camps, as a frustrated man in anguish watching his message either entirely forsaken or so loud, no one could hear him.

Words had no place to express his passion. Any point of reference refused to hold together. The best he found was a woman's love. Man and woman two halves as one, but still "two" (halves?).

Yet the more he wrote, the more he saw the injustice. The clearer he became, the dirtier he seemed. The ever growing gap revealed even further.

His love and passion for the feminine was anger, fire, and truth combined in raw power. He was entranced by her. Captivated by her life. Trying yet again to fully immerse. But it only took him so far. He'd have to make peace with knowing exactly what he's after, with no way of getting it.

Sitting here in the West Village, waiting on my client, a random Tuesday—concrete and fire trying to exist as one. Dealing with delays, drawings, and different designs, with the fire and yearning of my heart for the Oneness I crave.

My lines are totally blurred—is it God or the Woman that I so covet? The scent I recall, the touch I can hear over my entire body, all bubbling up as I attempt to get to my meeting.

To me, that's where Shir Hashirim lives. The so called mundane and the so called holy, finding its way to coexist. Both in the West Village and in the Temple of the Holy of Holies.

Shir Hashirim Asher L'ish