They ask, how did anything come from… nothing?
One fascinating source for this exploration is the Kalach Pitchei Chokhmah, a profound work of Kabbalah. It attempts to describe the very first moments of creation, that transition from utter nothingness to… well, everything.
The text breaks down the initial act of creation into three core ideas. First, there was an "emanated light." Think of it as the first spark, the initial burst of divine energy. But here's the twist: this light, in its original form, didn't stick around. According to the Kalach Pitchei Chokhmah, what remained was just a trace, a shadow… a reshimu (רשימו). Reshimu literally means "residue" or "impression." Imagine the faintest echo of a sound, or the lingering scent of a flower long gone. That's the reshimu. This emanated light, the text tells us, was only a trace of that original light which disappeared.
So, what's the big deal about this "residue"? This is where the second part comes in. This reshimu, this tiny remnant, has incredible power. It creates the possibility for everything that exists. It provides a place, a container, for all of creation to unfold. This seemingly insignificant leftover becomes the foundation for the entire universe.
But what kind of place is it? That’s the third part. The Kalach Pitchei Chokhmah describes this space as "empty." Not empty in the way your bank account might be empty, but something far more profound. This "emptiness" isn't a void, but a potential. It’s the blank canvas on which the divine artist can paint creation.
Now, let's dig a little deeper into this idea of the reshimu. The text is very specific: this emanated light was called a reshimu. It's all about perspective, about the stage of development. As things evolve, as the universe expands and diversifies, this reshimu will take on new names, new forms. The Kalach Pitchei Chokhmah hints that this "residue" will later be called "worlds," "buildings," "structures," and many other names. Different functions, different descriptions. But before we get ahead of ourselves, the text wants us to focus on its origin, on that initial state of being a reshimu.
It's a bit like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly. At one point, it's a crawling thing, focused on eating leaves. Later, it's a soaring creature of beauty. But it's still, in essence, the same being, just in a different stage of development. Before we trace those later developments, it’s important to understand this original state, the reshimu.
Isn't it fascinating to think that the entire universe, with all its complexity and grandeur, could have sprung from such a humble beginning? From a mere trace, a residue? It makes you wonder what seemingly insignificant things in our own lives might hold the potential for something extraordinary. What "residues" are we carrying within us, waiting to be transformed into something beautiful and new?