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Life is But a Dream
llana Kurshan
When Joseph, as a kid, had lots of dreams.
His brothers, herding sheep, would roll their eyes.
For Joseph never worked. He just spun tales,
What wasn’t fair congealed into despise.
Some say it was the cloak. It isn’t true,
It was the dreams he shared, that little twerp.
Eleven stars and sheaves all bowing down
As if he, weak and spindly, could usurp.
Once in the pit, he had all day to dream.
Enveloped in pitch darkness, but so what?
He saw himself a prince, a lord, a god—
The scorpions and snakes would watch him strut.
Another pit. A jail cell. They relayed
Their latest dreams. Each prisoner took his turn.
Said Joseph: Shall I tell you what they mean?
They nodded, but not all were pleased to learn.
Still, word got out: That prisoner gets it right.
He knows the world need not be what it seems.
Weeks later, it was he in the all the land
Interpreting the Pharaoh’s doubled dreams.
For Joseph, life was are not about what is;
But all about the way we understand.
His destiny was his to seize and meld
According to his dreams. A self-made man.
So Egypt rose, and Jacob rose. His brothers,
Like sheaves and stars all bowed ‘til he broke down.
“I’m Joseph,” he cried. “Life’s not what it seems,
You thought I’m gone, but look, I’ve come around.”
His brothers panicked. “Does he want us dead?”
But Joseph laughed, and in his eye, a gleam.
“It isn’t about me,” he said, “It’s clear,
For don’t you see we’re all just in God’s dream?”
We dream. Our cloaks are torn. We seek to mend,
As best we can, before God shapes our end.
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The Talmud teaches that the Torah was given in black fire on white fire (Y. Shekalim 6:1). The black fire is the letters of the Torah scroll, and the white fire is the parchment background. In this column, consisting of a poem on each parashah, I will try to illuminate the white fire of Torah – the midrashim, stories, and interpretations that carve out the negative space of the letters and give them shape.
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