The Blank Page
I begin with a blank page.
Every summer, I sit with a yellow legal pad and start crafting my sermons for these high holy days. Over time ideas develop into words—words to phrases, phrases to sentences. Some ideas do not make it into sermons; often these are filed away to revisit in the future. Some sentences do not make it into sermons; I hang onto them–just in case I find that I need them later.
I am never quite sure where I will end up, but I know how to start—with a pencil and a piece of paper. And for that, I have to thank my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Newton.
Mrs. Newton was a legend at Lower Southampton Elementary School. She was loud and imposing—scary and beloved. There was the math lesson where she would run into the classroom with pompoms shouting, “In addition, and subtraction, we line up the decimal points…yeah decimals.” Here we are, close to 30 years later, and I can still hear her when a balance my check book. And the grammar lesson where she sang the forms of the verb “to be.” “Do do do, do be have have have.” Grammar may be a dying art—but I will always be able to list the conjugations of the verb.
During my year in fifth grade we had something called “sustained silent writing.” Exactly as it sounds, this was a writing exercise with little direction—we just had to write. Sustained Silent Writing helps to build writing skills and stamina. Writing experts call this fluency. Setting aside a dedicated time to write helps to build writing muscle, which in the long run will make writing easier, particularly under moments of pressure. Writing is also thinking. Therefore, dedicating a sustained silent time to write both exercises and clears the mind, making room for new ideas and learning.
As Mrs. Newton monitored the room, she would notice individuals whose pencils weren’t moving. When questioned, the student inevitably would say, “but I can’t think of anything to write.” And Mrs. Newton would respond, “then write, ‘I can’t think of anything to write.’”
I might not have appreciated this strategy in fifth grade, but it is one that I employ now. If you were to look through my legal pads, you would find, “I can’t think of anything to say,” written multiple times in several places—always at the top of the page.
I begin with a blank page. It can be overwhelming, taunting me with its purity and possibility. Will good ideas, provocative thoughts and meaningful research begin to fill the lines? Or will it quickly become littered with unformed concepts and notions surrounded by exes and doodles?
When I write, “I can’t think of anything to write,” at the top of a pristine sheet of paper, it reminds me that this barrier can be broken. The words I am writing do not, at that moment, matter. The fact that I am writing is what is important. The blank page will only fill with ideas and inspiration if I begin to mark it up. There will be errors–misremembered quotes, paths pursued only to be abandoned.
A story is told of the Baal Shem Tov, the great Chasidic teacher, which highlights ways to begin communicating even when we cannot find the words.
The Baal Shem Tov was leading a prayer service. In the congregation was a simple shepherd boy, who could barely read and didn’t know any of the prayers. But as the Baal Shem Tov led the congregation, the boy was so moved that he wanted to pray. Instead of the words of the prayers, he began to recite the letters of the alef-bet. He said, “Oh God, I don’t know the words of the prayers, I only know all these letters. Please, God, take these letters and arrange them into the right order to make the right words.” The Baal Shem Tov heard the boy’s words and stopped all the prayers. “Because of the simple words of this boy,” he said, “all of our prayers will be heard in the highest reaches of Heaven.”
Like the shepherd boy, we struggle to find the words, to give voice to the magnitude of this awesome, new beginning. And so we begin not with words, rather with melody. A wordless recitation of the tune designated for these days. Sing With this, we have begun.
We have turned the page and started to write our next chapter…our new year. We begin with kavannah, with intention—even if we have not yet fully formed our goals and desires for the path ahead—even if we have not found a path at all. We possess intention.
Tonight, we began with a blank page.
Yet, just as the skill of writing must be practiced, so too must the skill of living. We cannot live on a blank page. Rather, we must embrace its endless possibilities. So we sing together, we pray together, we listen to one another and to ourselves. And we begin to write—to find the words…
We conclude, or begin, with the words Merle Feld writes in her poem B’reishit:
Each year we sit expectantly waiting to hear how it all began. We strain and stretch ourselves, not to imagine darkness, chaos—darkness and chaos are states with which we are well acquainted. No, we begin by trying to conjure first light, form and order and sense emerging…as we struggle to see how it was, for light has limitless possibilities to consider…