“Yes: I am a dreamer,” writes Oscar Wilde. “For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” Perhaps this parasha’s protagonist, Joseph, would have benefited from the caution in the famous playwright’s words.
Parasha Mikeitz opens with a fearful Pharaoh begging Joseph to interpret a disturbing dream, which points to a future of both extreme fortune and famine. Joseph, known for his ability to discern dreams and visions with clarity, is instantly appointed overseer of the entire land of Egypt after interpreting Pharaoh’s dream. He becomes responsible for the immense and evolving needs of the people, including his own family of origin, and resource distribution becomes complex.
One can certainly argue that Joseph’s ability to illuminate and discern another’s dream is a gift that elevates his status and spares him from the struggle that his fellow Israelites experience –if only temporarily. By shedding light on Pharaoh’s blind spot, he catapults quickly (and precariously) into a role that earns him more responsibility than he bargained for.
As striking as swift illumination may be, with the winter solstice and the darkest nights of the year ahead of us this week, I’m appreciating the wisdom of waiting in the dark, and the creative potential inherent in “not knowing” and “not seeing” until greater clarity is revealed naturally. I am no stranger to wishing to rush through these dark months and experience a miraculous return to spring or summer, when activity is buoyed by hours of daylight and energy. I also relate to Pharoah’s yearning to know more of the future than one human typically can, especially in times of heightened anxiety. The cycle of the seasons, however, is a very different kind of miracle, one whose blessings can only be discovered with patience and presence.
What might we learn from this season of extended darkness, mystery, and dormancy if we don’t rush to flood it with light? Rabbi Adina Allen suggests, “Darkness pre-exists all. It is from the chaos and void, the darkness and depths, that humans and hummingbirds, rainwater and red-tailed hawks, pine trees and the Pyrenees, eventually arise. The darkness, depths and waters of the world recall the darkness, depths and water of the womb from which each of us came. Without darkness, there would be no light, no life. Darkness allows for creativity and generativity. Rather than a lack of something, darkness is that which contains and gestates the seed of everything and the spark of the light.”
I wonder if we might take a different Jewish approach to our dreams and yearnings this winter, offered by Rav Hisda, that “an uninterpreted dream is like an unopened letter” (Talmud Bavli, Brachot 55A): something we sit with and use to stoke our imagination about what could be. What might be generated by our not (yet) knowing, and holding open yet unseen possibilities?