Learn to Acknowledge Defeatby Rabbi Paul Plotkin  I have been a vegetable and herb gardener for the last 30 years. That means that I have had the pleasure of tasting wonderful tomatoes and carrots, snow peas, peppers and eggplants that had real flavor and something mysterious called freshness. It also means that I have experienced disappointment, failure, heartache and loss at a frequency much greater than success. At times after waiting months for a veggie to mature and reach maximal ripeness, something happens. An animal decides it was invited to the harvest. A pest attacks the plant and stunts its growth. A violent storm arrives and washes out the garden.
How does one psychologically handle so much disappointment? It is really a simple calculation. Nothing in life is guaranteed, but it is absolutely true that 100% of all crops not planted will never be harvested. An important tool in managing life is to acknowledge defeat and move on to try again. Every gardener looks at a crop failure and responds, “next year will be better.” So too we come to shul on Rosh Hashana and quietly affirm, “this year will be better.” Leshana Tova Rabbi Paul Plotkin was ordained by the Jewish Theological Seminary in 1976 and served in pulpits for 40 years. He is the author of “Wisdom Grows in My Garden” 25 life lessons he learned from his garden. He also served for 20 years on the Committee of Jewish Law and Standards of the Rabbinical Assembly and was the founding chairman of the Kashrut Sub-Committee.
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God's eyes on the Land: Why are ancestors chose a land "of hills and valleys"by Rabbi David Seidenberg In Parshat Eikev, Deut 11:10-12, the Torah compares the land of Egypt to the land of Canaan. There are two distinctions made. The first is that Egypt is sustained by a river-fed agriculture, whereas the land of Canaan is "a land of hills and valleys -- she drinks rain from the heavens". The second is that the eyes of God are upon the land of Canaan continually. Each of these distinctions bears close reading; each is needed to explain the significance of the other.
Egypt is described as the place where you would draw water from the river “with your foot" / hishkita b'raglekha "like a green garden" / k'gan hayarok. There is a great difference of opinion on how to interpret this verse. Does it mean, you worked harder in Egypt because you had to bring water to your field "on foot"? Or does it mean the work was easier, because you could bring water to your field whenever you needed by using a simple foot-pedal technology that raised water from the Nile to send it far across the floodplain? The correct p'shat (plain meaning) is that in Egypt things were easier, because you had control over water. But that is exactly why Canaan is better, because not having control means having a closer relationship with God. This interpretation is made certain by what follows, the second paragraph of the Shma. Deut 11:17 explains exactly what it means for God to be watching over the land: if the Israelites don't follow the commands, within in one season, they will be "lost from off the ground which YHVH swore to your ancestors". We know those commands include most prominently not committing idolatry, seeing oneself as strangers rather than owners of the land (this is the Shmita, whose foundation is Shabbat), and doing justice by protecting the stranger and the vulnerable. That is why verse 12, YHVH's eyes are on the land "continually, from the beginning of the year until the end of the year." So, the literal intent of these verses is that Canaan is better because you can suffer famine more easily. But the New JPS (1962) changed verse 10 to read "the grain you sowed had to be watered by your own labors, like a vegetable garden". Perhaps the translators were uncomfortable with the physicality and obscurity of watering "with one's foot", but the new JPS translation made the plain meaning of the verse—that Egypt was easier because you had control over water—inaccessible to anyone who does not know Hebrew. The new JPS is the translation found in Etz Chayyim (Conservative), in the Women's Torah Commentary, and in the Plaut (Reform) Chumash. (The old JPS does not make this mistake, but the Hertz commentary does make the same mistake in its interpretation.) Of course, it's not really fair to just call out JPS. Rashi himself explains that in Egypt, "you would lose sleep to labor, and have to bring water from the low places to water the higher places" but in Canaan, "you could sleep soundly in bed because the Holy One would water the low and high together". But that is the difference between an ecological view of the Torah, which focuses on the bedrock foundation of the Torah coming to life within an ecosystem, and an ideological view of the Torah that learns beautiful lessons but may not always concern itself with how the text arose. The bottom line is that our ancestors had a beautiful vision of a land where they were so close to God that they would know almost immediately if they were doing well or not. Egypt, and other river-fed agricultures, like Mesopotamia, were the opposite, going along blithely until they had a proverbial seven years of famine or ten plagues, or in the case of Sumer in Mesopotamia, a complete collapse of agriculture, because their way of farming made the soil salty over hundreds of years. Our ancestors dreamed of a civilization where agriculture was an act of service to the soil, rather than slavery to the gods (as Mesopotamia understood it), and an ecosystem in which the soil could always be renewed. They imagined a future that was the very opposite of the Anthropocene we live in now, where agriculture became one giant step on the path to the sixth mass extinction. But as our tradition teaches, it's not too late to change this reality. The present disaster does not define the future. What defines the future will be our capacity to make ecological t'shuvah. May we be strengthened to do so! Rabbi David Seidenberg is the creator of neohasid.org and the author of Kabbalah and Ecology: God's Image in the More-Than-Human World. His teaching most often focuses on human rights, animal rights, and ecology. David is also an avid dancer, and a composer of Jewish liturgical music and classical instrumental music. Climate and the Sh'maby Leah F. Cassorla, Ph.D. One of my amazing 7th graders said to me that the second paragraph of the Sh’ma (the V’hayu) says, in his words, “if we follow the commandments, we will have plenty to eat and be safe, but there are people who don’t have enough food.”
He’s right. There are people who don’t have enough food. I explained it’s because we bow down to other gods. The V’hayu is either completely redacted or read silently in most liberal Jewish communities in North America. It feels a bit icky to us. It describes a system of punishment and reward that we in the West can sometimes feel relies on magical thinking and presents a vengeful and petty God. That is unsettling. And it should be. Because it also describes the world in which we find ourselves today, facing sea-level rise, floods, droughts, wildfires, and worse. And yet, we know the answer: T’shuvah. The paragraph itself makes it clear. T’shuvah, in Judaism, requires more than recognition of our bad choices, it requires action. We must feel remorse, and pray, and act. We must return to living in harmony with Earth. It can’t be that simple, you say. It can. But as any recovering 12-stepper will tell you, “Simple and easy are not the same thing.” It’s as simple as no longer “serv[ing] other Gods and bow[ing] down to them.” We serve the gods of money by actively participating in our over-the-top consumption culture. And that’s a hard habit to break. Still, we can take little steps toward bigger change. The first and second paragraphs teach us this lesson using possessive pronouns. In Hebrew, the second person pronoun (you) has different singular and plural forms. The V’ahavta uses singular pronouns to tell us how to act. The V’hayu, on the other hand, lists the rewards and punishments using plural pronouns. This tells us that the actions of each individual accrue to their community. We can buy less by sharing more. We can benefit all of life by taking responsibility for our individual choices. God knows better than to ask us to turn on a dime. We can be reminded of the small steps we want to take daily if we attend to the second part of the Sh’ma. We can pray and act our way back to a healthy relationship with our Source and our Earth. Leah F. Cassorla, Ph.D., MFA, is a Kol-Bo (dual ordination) student at the Academy for Jewish Religion in Yonkers, NY. She works as a Cantor and Education Director for the Melville Jewish Center in Melville, NY. I COME HOMEby Lisa M. Miller  walk my wild rocky woodland— indigo bunting families katydids, a woodpecker, the rushing creek timbre. God. In tones solstice gold moss thick, hardwood sentries and baby saps line my edges way far out. I’m bigger here, resilient, and only a speck. Soaring thank yous with feet. I know myself. I know how to find my way-- home anywhere. Lisa M. Miller is an inclusive, community-building, mind-body health specialist and social justice advocate. Her workshops help women in every life-chapter integrate physical, emotional and spiritual wellness. She serves a wide demographic through support groups and workshops in: SoulCollage®, Mussar, yoga, meditation, Ayurveda, mixed media art, and creative writing. In each context, humor and synchronicity cheer the deep work of healing and thriving. An empty nester living in Kentucky, she feels really lucky to be married to Jonathan, her 1986 summer camp sweetheart.
This poem is part of Lisa’s debut collection in her newly launched book, Woe & Awe, through Accents Publishing: https://accents-publishing.com/woe_and_awe.html Dropping Our LeavesBy Rabbi Robin Damsky©  In his book, This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, Alan Lew, of blessed memory, teaches us that the arc of the High Holy Days begins with the grief of Tisha B’Av, even before we approach Elul. As we mourn the destruction of the Temples, we acknowledge loss, brokenness, a sense of unfathomable exile. We feel this so preciously this year, as it has been perhaps the greatest year of grief and loss to us in the Jewish community since the Holocaust. And the grief remains, persists.
I think of a deciduous tree as August turns to September, October, November. Its leaves turn color, becoming a sight most awesome to behold. We know that the tree is preparing to face a terrible loss. It will shed its oxygen-making leaves, its relationship with the sunshine. It will drop the majesty of its beauty that it has prepared all the winter to produce. And yet the tree knows that it must engage this intense process in order to preserve its life, in order to grow yet more full, more rich, more green, and to offer more fruit in each year of its unfolding. While we may feel a sense of loss as the trees drop their leaves – winter is coming with its cold, short days – we know that spring will again emerge. We may or may not feel that possibility in ourselves and our Jewish world right now as war not only persists, but seems to expand day to day tearing us, our families, our friendships, our relationship with Israel, our safety. What must we shed to nourish our trunk and roots? What tears are there? What pulling in is necessary for us to be able to do our internal healing? It may take longer than the month of Elul, maybe even beyond these upcoming Days of Awe, for us to be ready to sprout leaves once again. See and feel that tree within you and ask your inner wisdom what teshuvah/return it is seeking from you at this time, and how to fulfill it. And know that the depth of your roots and the might of your trunk will support you and see you to a new spring. Rabbi Robin Damsky runs Limitless Judaism, a project of learning, movement, meditation, melody, art, tilling and tending the earth, that draws the lines of connection between our physical bodies, our spiritual expression and Gaia, our earth Mother. Rabbi Robin leads meditations regularly for the Institute of Jewish Spirituality. In addition to teaching meditation, chanting, and earth-based practices, she offers Spiritual Direction and Scholar-in-Residence work. She lives on Eno land in Efland, NC, where she is currently designing a permaculture food forest, and a meditation labyrinth composed of natives and pollinators. Her work is undergoing a facelift at https://www.limitlessjudaism.com, on Instagram or Facebook: @limitlessjudaism. Love Psalm from Elohimby Judith Felsen, Ph.D. Dear Ones, This Elul we greet and meet in fields of anguish, barely chanting salutations trapped in unrequited prayers waiting to be mourned… our hearts engorged with grief and rage beat haltingly, our bodies weary cartons holding our debacle, filled with symptoms screaming for attention and unknown revenge… Dear Ones, Within this dark abyss, quagmire of all unsafe, do not shut down to holiness presiding on the edge of emptiness; be with the speech of Elohim, the wind, the seas, the sparkle of the stars; let Hashem’s nature carry you on wings, walk with you in gardens, gaze with you at skies and moon; let human language go and be refilled with all that wordlessness can bring… In desperation we reach out and in this darkest time, through every blade of grass or tree You call, we hear and listen, once again we are in Eden, space we know and never left… Dear Ones, Do not shut down to nature’s call, return instead to oneness, Eden and before it all began… come Home with Elohim…come home… Baruch Hashem… Judith Felsen, Ph.D. is a 2nd generation Holocaust survivor, Baal teshuvah aspirant, more of a poetess, hiker, walker, mystic, dancer and naturalist than a psychologist. Judith, wife of Jack and dog mother of Moische, a German Shepherd rescue pup, is a resident of Bartlett, New Hampshire and a member of the Bethlehem Hebrew Congregation where she offers the dvar Torah for Kabbalat Shabbat services from October through June. Judith has been blessed to continue to experience rabbi Katy as a muse for several decades. She is currently residing in Long Beach, New York where she is attending to long Covid and related medical issues. She experiences all of life as a part of the journey, abounding with challenges, lessons and blessings daily. Writing is a refuge, practice and prayer for her, for which she is additionally grateful.
Repentant and Grounded: Allship in ElulBy Rabbi Mike Moscowitz One of the reasons that we are called “Earthlings,”1 b’nei adam in Hebrew, is because our ability to return to a pristine state of purity can be achieved through our connection to the Earth. Our rabbis teach “טומאה מקבל אינו לקרקע המחובר - anything that is attached (m’chubar) to the ground can’t become impure.”2 The Earth reminds us of God’s nature as Creator, who formed us from the Earth, and our role as a partner in co-creating goodness. When we separate ourselves from that relationship, the void is filled with ritual impurity. Tradition teaches that the same is true in the way we come together as earthlings, for each other. The Talmud posits “דִּלְכוּלֵּי עָלְמָא טוּמְאָה דְּחוּיָה הִיא בְּצִיבּוּר - everyone agrees that impurity is deferred in a community.” Purity is acquired through uniting society. When we interact with each other, the way that God expects us to, then there is nothing to repent for. The Hebrew word for “ally,” is “חבר - chaver,” and like its Latin analog “alligare,” it is a language of attachment. Seeing people as an image of the Divine obligates us in ensuring the wellbeing of others. In the same manner, acknowledging the Earth as the physical material God used in our formation necessitates careful stewardship of it. Seeing ourselves as one with the world around us frames the reunification of all creation as the ultimate return to the beginning. By allying with the Earth, and all earthlings, we are able to co-create the world as God intended. Rabbi Mike Moskowitz is the Scholar-in-Residence for Trans and Queer Jewish Studies at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah, the world’s largest LGBT synagogue. He is a deeply traditional and radically progressive advocate for trans rights and a vocal ally for LGBTQ inclusivity. Rabbi Moskowitz received three Ultra-Orthodox ordinations while learning in the Mir in Jerusalem and BMG in Lakewood, NJ. He is a Wexner Field Fellow, Senior Rabbinic Fellow at the Hartman Institute, and the author of Textual Activism, Graceful Masculinity, and Seasonal Resistance. His newest book, Covenantal Allyship, will be available this year. Rabbi Moskowitz’s writings can be found at www.rabbimikemoskowitz.com
Why Is Despair So Compelling?by Rabbi Ora Nitkin-Kaner  The Chasidic Rabbi Nachman of Braslav (1772-1810) was a lifelong sufferer of what was likely depression. When, towards the end of his life, he told his followers that “it is forbidden to despair” (Likutei Moharan II 78:7) it was because he understood the siren call of hopelessness. What is so tempting about hopelessness? It’s the sense of certainty that comes with it. When things feel uncertain, it means we’re holding multiple possible futures that could range from terrible to wonderful. Carrying that wide an arc of possibility and the emotional responses that follow it can feel uncomfortable, exhausting, or even just unsettled. In some ways it is simplest to expect the worst. Despair can be strangely comforting, but it takes a toll. When the climate crisis tips us into hopelessness, we abandon the experience of presence—of being in the world as it is—to jump into the future. Rebbe Nachman didn’t want anyone else to slip down the path of despair, but he also didn’t advocate for hope as a forced or facile alternative. Instead, he taught awe as the antidote to despair. For Rebbe Nachman, awe was synonymous with experiencing the world as an “unearned gift” (Likutei Moharan II 78:6). Even when we are struggling, when our hearts are open enough to receive life as it is, teshuvah becomes possible: a return to what is sacred in the world and in ourselves. Rabbi Ora Nitkin-Kaner is a climate change chaplain, educator, and innovative spiritual leader. As founder of Exploring Apocalypse—a trauma-informed climate chaplaincy practice—she helps individuals and communities across faith traditions explore the spiritual disruptions, invitations, and reorientations of climate change.
Ariseby Rabbi Katy Z. Allen  Arise / לָקוּם Enough! Too long have you stood still. Arise! Draw near and walk the verdant woodland trails with Me. אָז רַב לָכֶם שֶׁבֶת לְבַד. עַכְשָׁו לָקוּם. בֹּאוּ לְתוֹךְ חֹרֶשׁ קָסוּם אִיתִי. Inspired by Devarim 1:6
Rabbi Katy Z. Allen is the founder and spiritual leader of Ma'yan Tikvah - A Wellspring of Hope, an outdoor congregation in Metrowest Boston, the co-founder of the Jewish Climate Action Network, the instigator of the Earth Etudes for Elul, and the author of A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text. The Tides of Teshuvahby Rabbi Janet Madden PhD  Midrash Tehilim 65:4:
“Teshuvah is like the sea which is never barred, so that whoever desires to bathe in it can do so whenever they desire.” As the moon draws the tides, so this month pulls our souls to the way of our ancestors, to teshuvah. Return is always possible. But in Elul, resistance dissolves, Desire engulfs us like a swelling wave, and we, made mostly of water, carried on currents of time and memory, sea-change, returning to ourselves. Rabbi Janet Madden, PhD, is a ritualist, poet, herbalist, grief specialist, ordained animal chaplain and lover of texts. Rabbi Janet Madden, PhD, is a ritualist, poet, herbalist, grief specialist, ordained animal chaplain and lover of texts. |
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