Rumi, continued, and some of mine, too.

The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you Not knowing how blind that was Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere They’re in each other all along

               —Rumi

 The following was written shortly after September 11, 2001. 

I was attending a Kol Nidrei service in a Jewish congregation 

who had borrowed our sanctuary, anticipating the overflow crowd.

Kol Nidrei 2001/5762

For now, O God, Kol Nidrei, Kol Nidrei, all vows are nullified, 

and I  shall be released.

Out of the wreckage and rubble I cry to you, O Lord;

 O Lord, hear my voice; let your ear be attuned to the voice of my plea.

From vows at the altar of wealth, from vows at the altar of power, from vows at the altar of control and correctness,

I  shall be released.

From vows at the altar of force, from vows at the altar of vengeance,

I  shall be released.

From vows at the altar of race, from vows at the altar of religion, from vows I made to myself to be tougher,

I  shall be released.

From vows at the altar of my sex and my need,

 I shall be released.

From vows at the altar of my status and standing,

I shall be released.

From vows I made as Christian, from vows I made as Jew, 

from vows I made as Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Parsi, Sikh or Pagan,

I  shall be released.

I don't mean the vows to serve, or protect, or feed; they are still in force.  

Or to love and to heal; they are still in force.

From the last Yom Kippur until this Yom Kippur, and from this Yom Kippur 

until the next, I shall be released.  Speedily, and in our time, may we be released.  Too many have died.  Too many have died. 

Let me and my people go.  Let me and my people go.

Yiskadal v' yiskadash, Sh'me rabbo,

Amen, and Amen.