Among some friends the other day I heard the old story about a blind man being given some matzah, where he holds it in his hands and says, "Hey, who wrote this nonsense?" Actually, I told it to them.... But that's only because they seemed in such a hurry. Telling that story as a joke brought back such vivid memories for me, and for anyone who has the time and the interest, I'm happy to tell the real story, because that's not at all what actually happened, all those many years ago.

- - -

It was a time and place so far from our own, where the search for the mystery of being was considered a noble profession. In such a place there was a well known rebbe named Achmeyhu. Or rather, everyone in the town called him rebbe, except the more formal rabbis from the nearby towns. You see, he was entirely self educated. But with the people of his village he was deeply respected precisely because of his great self-learning. People often came to him for his special advice on their daily problems, or, just as often, to feel more encouraged about their own studies.

This self-taught rebbe would often laugh as the townspeople praised him for what they always called his 'self-learning.' "I study in order to understand," he would say, "and to understand requires an understanding of the self.... Yet, I have always felt that the self is the locked gate keeping us out of Eden; the self blinds us with its thick, dull concerns. Yes, I study by myself, but only to see through myself. The self is like these glasses I wear on my tired eyes-- the self is like spectacles on the soul, but special glasses which make everything look separate. When I close my eyes and sit in a stillness more quiet than sleep, I know that everything is God, yet when I open my eyes things again seem separate to me, I still seem to care about some things more than others."

Both the men and the women of this village loved to hear him speak this way. They would look both worried and pleased afterward. Worried because everything made them worried, and pleased because after hearing the rebbe laugh they always felt somehow closer to themselves and to their loved ones. On such days their worries were of a different sort than other days. Now they worried as they thought how distant they were from God, since all of them cared much more about some things than others.

The townspeople remembered what the rebbe had said another time, as he was carrying a small sack of potatoes around the village. No one actually saw him reach in the old bag and hand a single one of those old potatoes to any poor neighbors, but nonetheless the bag would get distinctly lighter as he casually strolled along, speaking and laughing with the people of the village. On one such day a young boy asked the rebbe why he was never seen studying with the others, or arguing details of the Law with the rabbis from the nearby villages. The rebbe's smile grew brighter and more wrinkled as he sat on some chopped firewood which leaned against a neighbor's small house. "What the others do is a fine thing to do," he said, and nodded to each of the schoolchildren who had gathered around, as they loved to do when they had some time away from their studies. "But when I read the books, they say different things to me than to the others. To some there are discussions of the Law, and to me there is just one thought written over and over. Over and over I read the same secret, no matter in what way the letters are shaped. Everything is a sign. Everyday, for years and years now, that is what I read. If others see other things, that is no reason for us to argue, is it?"

The children of the village especially loved the rebbe. Many years later, with grandchildren of their own, they would understand why. He was the only one they had ever known whose eyes were not filled with worry.

That day, sitting on the wood pile, which was just the right height, with, hopefully, just enough wood left for a few people to stay a little bit warm until spring, the children asked more questions and listened until the afternoon began to grow dim. It was so different from having to listen to their teachers! The rebbe had no potatoes left in his tattered bag, although, as usual, no one had seen anything. "The books all say the same thing. We don't know God's name, which is as it should be, for how could people like us know the name of what created the whole universe? We cover our heads as a sign of how humble we feel when we think of this. Other people don't do that, because they either don't think about this often, or they have other signs that they like to use. A sign is a sign... certainly to change one sign for another is not of concern to God, don't you agree?" The children were silent, since they were not at all sure that they agreed, or even understood.

The rebbe smiled. "Ahh, have you ever thought about anything and realized that it was not made by God? These logs we sit on, or the horse which draws that cart, or the potatoes here in my burlap sack?" Somehow, the rebbe had another small bag of potatoes, which he had apparently brought out from under his long coat. One of the boys stood up and pointed to the rebbe's coat. "What about that, your coat, which I saw my uncle make for you, after dinner in the evenings before last winter, with pieces he brought home from his tailor's shop! My uncle made it, not God."

The rebbe smiled again. "Yes, your uncle is very hard working and very kind. He made this coat, but really he only sewed it together from what God made, with thread which was made from what God made, and with a needle and thimble made from metal which God made. The food which your family has for dinner is made by God, and, without any doubt, your uncle and all of you were made by God. Everything we see is created by God, that's why we are thankful, even for our troubles. And we don't even know what to call God-- the name is a mystery beyond solving."

One of the children again stood up and asked, "What about pigs? Are we thankful for pigs? Some people even eat them! If God had not made pigs, then nobody would eat them, and nobody would be committing such a disgrace...." The rebbe laughed warmly along with the others. He seemed to glow at this child. "You are very, very smart, very clever. That's a very good idea. Hmmm. But, that's not what God did, is it? Pigs were created, along with everything else, and didn't God see that all was good? We may choose not to eat pigs, but since they were created by the same source as everything else, which we don't even know the name of, they are in their own way a sign from God. And all signs from God are wonderful, don't you think?" Then he leaned closer, indicating like a conspirator for the children to listen without letting anyone else hear. "And I'll tell you a secret, if you promise not to repeat it to anybody! I think that the pigs are as happy as they can be because we don't eat them!" All the children immediately started squealing with what they thought was disgust, but the rebbe knew was delight.

At the sound of that, from each doorway the children were called in. And inside each of those doorways, as the children were climbing out of their coats, each one was surprised to find a potato in one pocket or another. As usual, when the potatoes were passed from those little palms to the larger, wearier ones, there were many mothers whose faces showed pleasure mixed with worry.

One night soon afterward, the rebbe had a long dream, a dream where thoughts were visible, and the things of the world had disappeared. In his dream the rebbe traveled a great distance and arrived in a village which seemed identical to his own. It seemed that the farther he traveled the lighter his legs felt. He floated around the village, he nearly flew until he found the shack which seemed identical to his own, back in the village where he lived. He went inside. There were books all over the room. Yet, as much as seeing the dark cloth or leather of the books' covers, he seemed to see the thoughts written within directly, as colors, as bubbly areas of space, as thought clouds. There were books he recognized, in precisely the same place they were in his own room. And there were also texts he had never seen, never even heard of. He looked as carefully as he could with the vision he had in the dream and discovered that one of the unknown books was written by himself. It was a thick book, with page after page of familiar letters, yet he couldn't make out a single word.

It seemed that the harder he looked at the shapes of the letters in this book, the less he was able to see them. His vision was getting foggy, and somehow his sight seemed to separate from his mind. He closed the thick book with mixed feelings, having understood none of the mysterious letters printed all over its pages. The rebbe looked at the back wall, and noticed for the first time a door. He was surprised, since every other detail was exactly like his own little wooden house, back in the village where he lived. He floated over to it. It was unspeakably heavy, yet it opened smoothly, even though he couldn't have pulled hard on its handle, not with his feet floating in the air.

Before he could see inside the room he heard its sounds. A mumbling kind of speech was going on, many voices at once. He strained to see, and through what seemed a fog he made out a handful of figures, all dressed with the same clothes that he himself always wore. As he looked more closely, with difficulty, he saw that there were five duplicates of himself inside. He was looking at himself in five ways, hearing himself speak in five ways. They looked and listened back at him, making, he supposed, a sixth way, but he knew that they sensed him without seeing. They were all without sight.

The five visions were speaking slowly but all at once. It was clear that they were totally aware of each other while they all spoke, and he felt that they listened completely to him as well. At first he couldn't understand why they seemed to be listening so hard to him, but then he realized that he was also speaking, in the same slow, low, explanatory voice that they seemed to be using. He had no idea what he was saying. It was a six way dialogue that had complete clarity to the 'others' but was deeply obscure to rebbe Achmeyhu as he dreamt it.

Although he understood nothing, the rebbe knew that the words he was hearing contained secrets, great secrets. With his floating dream-arms he found a student's writing book and somehow wrote down the words being spoken, even as he spoke himself. Each moment seemed to have infinite time to it, more than enough for his hand to write, although he had no idea how he could write secret words his ears couldn't even understand.

After an immeasurable amount of time, the six rebbe Achmeyhu's all ceased their slow speech. Silence had been agreed upon. The rebbe looked down to his hands, which seemed almost too far away to be seen, all clouded by fog. In his hands lay a thick volume of text, filled with words he couldn't understand, although he did understand that it was now the book he had earlier tried to read with his own name in it as author.

As he floated in the air, understanding the silence, he had fewer and fewer thoughts, and as all thought disappeared, the deepest part of night passed as if in a moment.

- - -

As the weeks and months went by after the dream, rebbe Achmeyhu carefully reproduced each page of the book. Each day his eyes grew more tired, and eventually he began to tell the villagers what he had long suspected, that his eyesight was failing, was fading into a constant fogginess. He began to write more and more by the feeling of the shapes than by sight.

One day a visitor from the capital brought a special book for the rebbe. All the villagers came to look at it. It was a book that taught how to read special little bumps with the fingers. The rebbe was delighted. Others were afraid of it, even calling it devil's work, but the rebbe studied it day and night. He said that ink shaped like letters and bumps pressed into paper all said the same thing: "Everything is a sign, all things have their significance.... "

Even so, the rebbe seemed distracted. His eyes no longer saw anything, and yet he seemed to be looking harder than any of the villagers had ever seen anyone look. He gazed. He searched. He pondered. He looked upward for hours at a time only to speak slow, quiet words about the devoted house mice who shared his crumbs, most of which would always fall to the floor. He looked toward his empty reading desk endlessly, then would speak in a low, quiet voice to a group of scholars no one else could see, saying that now, with his sight gone, he could see the daytime stars in all seven layers of Heaven. Each day a different family of the village would be allowed to attend the rebbe and take care of his simple needs. And each day the others would wait for word, since they all sensed that the rebbe was on the verge of some great understanding, that his strenuous efforts would soon be rewarded. Even the rabbis from the neighboring villages admitted that they had never seen anyone whose face had such longing for insight written upon it, just as clearly as if it were printed in a sacred book, they all agreed.

Gradually the rebbe spent more and more time alone, opening his door only for a short while each evening, in order to accept the simple food the townspeople were glad to share with him and to allow him a chance to inquire as to their health and their worries. On Saturday, the day of rest, the villagers would devote themselves solemnly to study and prayer, but rebbe Achmeyhu seemed to grant himself a weekly holiday, for once walking arm in arm with one friend or another around the small village, laughing with the children as he told them stories that seemed old but no one had ever heard before.

On another occasion, when the visitor from the city was again passing through the village, and again, as he always did, bringing a few books written in the colorless bumps on blank pages to the blind rebbe, rebbe Achmeyhu asked him to stay a moment after the others left the small wooden house. When he emerged, he had with him an enormous pile of papers, covered with writing which was barely legible and completely incomprehensible. He was to take it with him to the capital and have it bound as a book. Its title was to be Six Signs From The Unknowable Name and six unknown names were to be listed as authors. He did as requested, and several months later returned with twelve beautifully engraved copies, something which must have cost him an unspeakable sum, and indeed, even when pressed, he never spoke of it. He divided the copies with the leaders of the village and with the rabbis from the neighboring towns. The original papers, now bound in leather with a velvet clasp, he returned to rebbe Achmeyhu, who placed it on the reading table, up side down, and paid no attention to it.

In this way, another long winter passed, in a village where it made sense to everyone that to study harder was the best way to stay warm.

Rebbe Achmeyhu had completely abandoned his books, many of which he had long ago memorized, as a young man. It was more than being blind; he now seemed to have abandoned them in his heart. Something about him was strangely different. The villagers would see him emerge from his small house and take several steps into the fresh snow. Hefelt with his feet, he listened to its sound, he smelled the handfuls of it that he would gather, as if snow were sacred words somehow fallen off a heavenly page and resting like a blanket all over the world. His face was indescribable. His expression was that of an old man about to be married as a young bride, an indescribable face. Anyone passing this sight would have to stop in wonder. And as they stopped, he would notice them staring, and rather than scold or turn away, he would repeat his stepping and gathering, but a hint more slowly, in the way which is unmistakable as that of a master teacher sharing a sacred process with a beloved student finally deemed as worthy.

Yet something else was showing on the rebbe's face, something new. The villagers were hesitant to call it worry, but to them, it seemed to be worry. He seemed to be trying, somehow. At first it was a small motion of the head, a very subtle lift and turn, barely noticeable. Gradually his face took on a spectacular expression of yearning, and again the neighboring rabbis agreed that they never imagined that anyone could show such struggle for understanding, such complete willingness for union with what is unknowable.

Soon it was nearing Spring, and time for Pesach, the great remembrance of liberation from bondage. Each year, each of us is a slave in Egypt, and each year, we are freed, so the saying goes. This year, each family invited rebbe Achmeyhu to their home to share the seder. A choice was impossible. He consulted with a few of his old friends, and it was agreed that for the first time, somehow they would all gather together in the schoolhouse and make the seder together, everyone bringing what they could to share with the others. And so the schoolhouse was cleaned for a week, and all the preparations made.

A complete account of that evening would not be possible. I was only eleven at the time, and I'm embarrassed to mention how many years ago that was... it seems like more than a lifetime, with such sorrow and loss between then and now.... Well, that night in the schoolhouse it was very crowded, and full of laughter and good natured squabbling; the way the villagers always seemed to be with each other. We were all disappointed that rebbe Achmeyhu refused to lead the seder, and the reading was done by one village elder after another, except, of course, the famous questions which to my great fortune, I was already far too old to have to ask.

Mostly I remember being squeezed so tightly in the familiar schoolroom that we all had trouble lifting our arms to spill the wine or anything else. Everyone was wearing their fanciest clothes, and it seemed that nobody could move an inch. Everyone seemed annoyed at having agreed to such arrangements, and there was bickering about the food. All at once, though, something changed, a silence began spreading through the room like a trance being spread by the hand of the Unknown One. Intuitively we all looked to rebbe Achmeyhu. He was sitting so oddly, straight and reclining at once, it seemed. In his hand was a piece of matzah, and it was clear that he had just been handed the piece by his old friend, one of my friend's grandfathers, since the older hand was still outstretched, as if its owner was frozen by something he saw. But the rebbe was not frozen. He seemed to be in a kind of ease that no one had ever thought of before. His head still lifted and turned, but with a gentle movement that seemed so light and floating. His face showed an unspeakable attentiveness. His fingers seemed like little animals, with minds of their own, holding the piece of matzah. They moved from here to there on it, lingering at one edge, moving more quickly through another spot. We seemed to realize all at once what was happening. He was reading it, like the bumps in those books... each tiny bubble on the flat bread was taking his full attention, there was no mistaking it, he was having a conversation.

No one moved for a long time. We watched his face, as his sightless eyes opened wide and glowed with a brilliant fire. We all began to feel so calm, so joyful. The older men were crying, the women weeping. The children, who knew the rebbe in such a special way, seemed to be following his expressions on their own faces, moving their heads with his like in a weightless dream.

There in that room, time seemed to have stopped. There was not a sound, other than the active hush of snow falling outside. Finally, the grandfather next to the rebbe asked in a very gentle voice if the rebbe could tell us what was written in the matzah. The rebbe's face now showed signs of an understanding beyond anything anyone had imagined. The yearning was gone, his expression was now of a knowingness beyond boundaries. He smiled hugely at all of us, and began breaking the matzah into pieces. He broke off pieces and more pieces, until everyone in the room was holding their own tiny part of it. The question seemed to be still floating in the air of the room, but the rebbe's face made it clear that for this moment, at least, silence had been agreed upon. He held up a piece, still feeling it with his fingers, fingers like a small child's, and by way of only explanation, began to eat. We all began to eat our pieces, and a new kind of quiet seemed to spread through the overcrowded schoolhouse.

The rebbe seemed to float up from his chair, and we did as he did. We followed him outside, into the night air, and there in front of the schoolhouse, we danced in the silence, in the fresh snow which was a blanket perfectly laid upon the earth, a sign not to be known or unknown.