In Those days

“The Beauty is in Imperfection”

Translation: Dr.  Shani Zidgon 

“ Simone Weil (1909–1943), A French philosopher, mystic, and political activist, Weil was deeply preoccupied with suffering, identity, and the human condition. Her writings explored themes of displacement, spiritual transcendence, and the tension between the material and metaphysical worlds.“

Some things defy definition.
Enough - enough of this world and its cruelties.
A warm heart, gentle, steadfast,
when life turns traitor -
that was all she ever lacked.
How maddening it was!

Perhaps it was in her gaze,

perhaps her spirit needed reshaping.
Yes, perhaps.
But the task was arduous, unwieldy, relentless.
How ruthless, the labor of unmaking habit,
how brutal, the call to forget agony,
to silence the echoes of affliction.

The past clung to her,
lodged deep within sinew and soul.
She had not summoned it,
yet it took root,
and she yielded.

Now, she toiled,
seeking Archimedes’ fulcrum -
"Give me a place to stand," he had declared,
"and I shall move the world."

She knew life was brief, a mere flicker -
a series of happenstances,
scattered, unmoored.
She never forgot: she, too, was destined for dust.
Memento mori.

Shakespeare’s specter loomed,
Hamlet’s laments seared into her mind:
"Life is but a walking shadow."

Macbeth floated too:
"To be or not to be, that is the question."

Then Calvin whispered:
"Here today, gone tomorrow."

And yet -
She fought to reclaim herself.
Driven by an ache to unearth
the true dwelling place of her soul,
she sought, relentless,
a passage out of the cave’s abyss.

But all in vain.
Still - she persevered.
She pressed forward, whispering:
"Something must come from nothing."

She had awaited this moment,
brimming with expectation.
And then - she saw.

No age could define her,
no garment, no weight or stature,
not the hue of her skin,
nor titles, nor possessions.
But rather -
The books she had devoured,
the burdens borne,
the words spoken,
the kindness given,
the thoughts nurtured,
the values safeguarded.
The quiet quarrels with herself,
the tenderness she held for others.

And she said,
"If you do not speak the truth of yourself,
you cannot speak it of another."

And in that hour,
she confessed.

She had feared everything -
things that loomed large,
yet, in essence, were naught.
She feared life itself.
She feared what might follow
if she dared to feel again.

Then, suddenly,
understanding stole upon her.
She was unafraid of staying.
But - if she vanished?
What, then, would she forsake?

She feared that she would forget -
forget the fleeting moments.

She knew:
She need not scale the summit
to stand above the world.

Even the most forsaken places
harbor beauty,
if only one lingers long enough to see.
And if none is found,
one must become it -
for within humanity lies boundless grace.
There is no failing to lose one’s way,
so long as one knows the path home.

At last,
her countenance softened,
luminous with quiet joy.
Even in the darkest hours,
light persists.

And at light’s edge - more light.

All is within.
"One who looks outward, dreams,
but one who looks inward, awakens."

She gave thanks.
For being
as she was; unburdened, unbowed.
For the hardships that tempered her,
for the questions unanswered,
for the unforeseen revelations.