Bemidbar In the Wilderness

Bemidbar — In the Wilderness
A parable of wind, crowns, and returning light
Prologue. A Conversation from the Heart to the Wind

Last summer, my friend Konstantin Rykhlevsky and I walked from Kingsborough College — at the far edge of Manhattan Beach — toward Brighton, along the path that runs by the canal. The air still carried the salty breath of the Atlantic Ocean.
That day, the wind was strong, firm, almost stubborn, blowing straight into our faces. We walked silently, and suddenly, I felt I needed to say something—not to my friend—but to the wind. Not from pride. Not for drama. But simply from the heart. I didn't command it. How could I? The wind is a servant of the Holy One, just like me. But if one speaks sincerely, the soul will hear them, even if it's just a man walking near the water.
I spoke inwardly: — Wind, if you were created, you are alive.
And if you're alive, you could listen.
And if you can listen, then hear what the soul says to you.
I don't expect a miracle. But if you understand, give a sign. Any sign.
And then, something extraordinary happened that I will never forget. The wind, which had just been blowing with such force, stopped completely, instantly. It didn't weaken gradually; it simply disappeared. It was as if someone had told it, 'Let them pass.' This moment was not just a pause in the wind's force, but a profound response to my heartfelt words. I looked at Konstantin.
— Did you see that?
He nodded.
Do you think it was a coincidence?
He shrugged.
— Maybe.
But I knew.
It wasn't a mere coincidence. It was a profound message.
And I understood: even the wind hears if you speak from the heart.
And if the wind hears, the Creator allows it to listen.
Since that day, my perception has been forever altered.
The streets, the silence, the Torah portions where "nothing happens" —
because sometimes, the quietest things speak the loudest.

Chapter. Bemidbar — In the Wilderness

A page in the Heavenly Book is not written with ink but where letters are carved from breath. What deeper meanings can be derived from the sudden stillness of the wind in moments of spiritual dialogue? How can individuals cultivate an awareness of the signs given by nature as responses to their inner thoughts? How can the teachings of the Zohar be applied to everyday experiences and communications with the Divine? Tears and light.
On that page, the title is Bemidbar in the Wilderness. The wilderness is not just a place. It's a state of being without clarity, comfort, or routine. But it's also a place of profound transformation, where true beginnings can be found. That's where the Holy One brings His people.
And He says:
"Build Me a dwelling — and I will dwell among you." Not after the wilderness — but within it.
Not when things get easier, but while the snakes and scorpions still roam. At that moment, Hashem counts every Jew by name because every soul is a letter. And if one letter is missing, the scroll is torn. And if one soul is forgotten, the Torah is incomplete. Then begins the building of the Mishkan. And the first to give are the women. They don't wait to be told. They remove their jewelry, their mirrors, and their comforts. And they bring them. Offer them. Turning matter into a vessel for holiness. The Torah doesn't name them. They weren't queens. They were the women of Israel. But in that Book — the one not written with ink — Their names shine brighter than those of many kings because they built the beginning of the Sanctuary. And every Jewish woman since continues to make light.
Holiness isn't about being above. Holiness is about giving, not on stage, but at home.
Whoever turns the ordinary into the Divine is holy. We are still in the wilderness. Exile. Distance. Spiritual dryness. And still, we hear the question:
"Are you Jewish? Would you like to put on tefillin?" But the time is very near. When will that question vanish? Because it will be visible. On our faces. In our walk. In the light in our eyes. In the invisible but eternal crown. As the Talmud says:
"There are three crowns: the crown of kingship, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of Torah."
The crown of kingship, for those born from the House of David. From there, the Mashiach will come.
The crown of priesthood — for the Kohanim, descendants of Aharon.
But the crown of Torah is not reserved for a select few. It is for everyone. For those who study. Who lives. Those who love the Creator. Who doesn't give up? Those who take even one step toward light. That crown is not made of gold. It is made of light. Of a weary prayer. Of hard-earned faith. Of a connection no one else sees. So spoke Rambam. So, I taught the Maggid of Dubno. So wrote Jabotinsky:
"Every Jew is a prince. Let him wear his crown with dignity."
And when Mashiach rises to his place, He will not be alone in a crown. Before him will stand a people, all crowned. And the Holy One will say: "Here is the nation that crossed the wilderness—the ones who did not turn back.
The ones whose names I inscribed / the ones whose names I inscribed / the ones whose names I inscribed — not in ink, but in my breath. Not for a while — but forever." And it has already begun. Within us. Through us. For us.
To be continued.