After the High Holidays 2022

So already, the Jewish High Holidays are now in the rear view mirror, and the road forward is into ordinary time--hopefully, infused with the energy, purpose, peace, and joy derived from observing the holidays.

In previous years, I've written about my efforts at teshuva, at preparing myself to take advantage of the opportunities for renewal, reconnection to G-d* and others, and refocused personal action and commitment particularly offered by Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. 

 

In contrast, I've written much less about the holidays following Yom Kippur. Somehow the unfettered joy and celebration associated with these later holidays, the singing-and-dancing revelry, have always eluded me, even if a positive sense of a new beginning has not.

Because this year I went back to using Simon Jacobson's 60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays,** I was guided not only to prepare for the high holidays, but to pay attention to them while they were happening--and to continue to reflect on their effects during the week following them. 

So how did it go this time around? At the end of the sixty days, I can report that even though not once was I seen singing and dancing in the streets in these last weeks, I did feel some joy--best defined for me as feeling of lightness, freedom, optimism, and agency that knows what to do with itself. The following three "new" experiences attest to this.

The Sukkah at My Mother's Senior Living Community

Before I describe my first "new" experience, you should know that my birthday on the Jewish calendar is Tishrei 15, the first day of the post-Yom Kippur holiday of Sukkot. During the seven days of Sukkot, Jews allegedly spend as much as time as possible in the sukkot (plural of "sukkah") we build according to Torah-given specifications. Constructing and residing in these temporary habitations reminds us of the impermanence of human-made things and of life itself--and the permanence and eternity of G-d.

As an apartment dweller for my whole adult life, I've never built a sukkah in my yard. But being born on Sukkot always has always felt like a spiritual opportunity that I didn't know how to turn into a blessing.

Meanwhile, this year, though my sister, cousins, and I talked about getting together during the holidays, we never managed to do so. This lack of shared holiday festivity initially made me very sad: it seemed that the very different ways we live our lives as very secular Jewish people made gathering difficult. But my sadness dissipated when I read about the lulav (made of willow, cypress, and myrtle branches bound together in very specific way) and the etrog (citron) in 60 Days.** 

These objects symbolize four different kinds of people, all of whom are essential to the community, and none of whom--even those who study, pray, and do good deeds with real love in their hearts--matter more than others. The custom of Sukkot, both in and out of synagogue, is to shake the lulav and etrog*** together in six world directions--north, east, south, west, and toward the heavens and toward the ground. As Jacobson explains, "These movements manifest the unity of the 'four kinds'--and the Divine unity--in all the parameters of space in the entire universe, which it is our responsibility to elevate" (122).

Suddenly, I saw our family diversity as a microcosm of this world of diverse human types that can't always be knitted together well without real effort. I decided right then that I would host a family gathering on the first night of Hanukkah. To up the chances that everyone would be able to come, I sent "save-the-date" emails two days later.

On that same day--I'm finally getting to the experience that I've actually been preparing you to read about--as I was walking to my car after having visited my mother, I decided to walk into the sukkah that had been erected in the courtyard adjacent to where I had parked. No one else was there, but on a card table were a lulav, an etrog, and two laminated sets of instructions for how to shake them together. So I shook them. And in that moment, I felt joy--real connection to G-d; other people, past and present; and the natural world.

My second "new" experience happened about a week later when I was suddenly awakened very early one morning****  by an unfamiliar voice that said, "There's a good chance that G-d will strike you dead this year." Needless to say, I didn't feel joy.

At first, afraid, disturbed, taken aback, I wanted the facts. Who said it, I wondered. G-d speaking of himself in the third person? Some unknown person of much authority?  I myself, or a chorus of my inner demons? Given how much death has been in the foreground of my life in the last couple of years, it made sense that I might be wondering about the when and how of my own.

Quickly I went from fearful to coolly responsible. "Be careful," I told myself. "Be sure that Scott knows where all the financial stuff is and that he has the latest passwords. And do my sisters know where to find my mother's financial and medical stuff? I better remind them."

Untitled Recent Painting by Scott Ketcham

Next, my thoughts became more rational-theological. I reminded myself that I didn't believe that G-d would strike me dead--because I don't believe G-d strikes people dead. He wouldn't single me out and hurl a thunderbolt at me, force me off the road, make a tree branch fall on me, inject me with poison. But I also believed that he might let me die, that he probably would not intervene to protect me from a particular death at a certain time. I thought of a friend slightly younger than myself--someone loved and respected by many--who had died just days earlier of a protracted illness that everyone knew would be fatal. Dying happens all the time. So why not me this year?

Finally, with that possibility in mind, I thought of the holiday season's constant messages about the inevitability of death, the blessing of life, and the loving and eternal omnipresence of G-d. So five minutes after I heard this sobering pronouncement--which, thankfully, didn't decree that I would die this year--I was reminding myself to cherish my life and to live it fully and deliberately every day. 

Had I not been far into the process of doing the 60 Days book, I may not have gotten to this life-focused point at all, let alone quickly.

I am glad to be able to tell you that my third and final "new" experience was not in the least disturbing, though it too involved hearing words that felt more like they were coming through me than from me.

Last Tuesday, the middle of three warm, fog-blanketed days along the Massachusetts coast, I decided to walk near the salt marsh and the beach not far from my home. A primarily descriptive poem came to me as I got to the edge of the marsh on Quincy Shore Drive opposite Wollaston Beach:

I was in a fog  

walking by the 

     marsh.

 

The green grass 

going gold 

was mist-muted, 

and the water, 

flowing seaward

with the ebbing 

     tide, 

was pale gray-

     green. 

Was the air 

     warmer 

than the water-- 

or the water 

warmer than the air? 

Just briefly

I wondered,  

warmed as I was 

by the spirits 

of the shrouded trees 

hovering above  

the damp rocks, 

the traffic lights  

barely visible, 

and all forgiven

I was surprised by "and all forgiven"--and then I knew I believed all was forgiven. That thought made me really happy.

By the end of the sixty days, I felt more peaceful--more centered, more purposeful, less frantic, less confused, and more certain that I was part of something vast and good if not apt to respond to my individual whims, moods, and wishes--than I had at the beginning of them. And equipped with this array of feelings, I felt distinctly ready for ordinary time.

So what made experience with 60 Days different this time around? I think the answer is that I engaged with the book faithfully. I don't mean that I did it with perfect faith in and connection to G-d; that's always a struggle for me. I do mean that I was faithful to process, that I stayed the 60-day course with optimism, hope, and openness to the possibility. 

 

So here's to optimism, hope, and openness to possibility. May each of us, regardless of our spiritual and religious leanings, be able to muster those three things whenever we are next presented with the chance to do something challenging that we instinctively feel will help us live better lives in a better world. And may we especially be able to muster them if that challenging thing makes us feel uncomfortable, fearful, vulnerable, or even silly. Finally, may we all have new years marked by growth, peace, and, yes, joy.

*Since the Simon Jacobson, the author of the book that has been my High Holiday season companion, writes "G-d," I am writing "G-d" in this blog. But I've written "God" in other posts. The article linked here explains why some people write "G-d" while others write "God." I feel either spelling is fine.   

** Jacobson, S. (2008). 60 days: A spiritual guide to the high holidays. New York: Kiyum Press.  

*** Drawing accompanying Chabad.org staff. (2017). The lulav and the etrog: The four kinds. Chabad.org. Retrieved on October 28, 2022. https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/609564/jewish/The-Lulav-and-Etrog-The-Four-Kinds.htm

**** Photo on Twitter with hashtag #kitchenviews: https://mobile.twitter.com/hashtag/kitchenviews?src=hash