By Rabbi David Evan Markus
August once brought the sure end of summer. In Simon & Garfunkel's "April Come She Will" (1962), August was the month that "Die she must / The autumn winds blow, chilly and cold." For area families with school-aged children and grandchildren, August still brings vacations winding down, returns from camp and "back to school" sales.
But in our climate-change world, August is still full-throttle summer. And this year, most of August 2023 comes before the Serious Matters of the High Holy Days for most of us. Jewishly speaking, it's high summer.
Yet, my friends, slow change is in the air.
August once brought the sure end of summer. In Simon & Garfunkel's "April Come She Will" (1962), August was the month that "Die she must / The autumn winds blow, chilly and cold." For area families with school-aged children and grandchildren, August still brings vacations winding down, returns from camp and "back to school" sales.
But in our climate-change world, August is still full-throttle summer. And this year, most of August 2023 comes before the Serious Matters of the High Holy Days for most of us. Jewishly speaking, it's high summer.
Yet, my friends, slow change is in the air.
Rabbinic time flows just a bit ahead of schedule, so August typically is when I turn intently to High Holy Day preparation – themes, music, layers of meaning, the feel of it all. In my past years in already familiar community, there was an equally familiar pace to my mid-summer shift from denial to resistance to unreadiness to lurching full-throttle.
This year, as I begin my second month in Shir Ami's diverse community that I'm just now getting to know, my High Holy Day runway feels a bit shorter, though all the more exciting for all I don't yet know – and all that's possible together.
And some of you already are joining me in the holy care of a community joining together to bring the High Holy Days alive. For everyone at Shir Ami who'll be offering heart, effort, time turning, coordination, techno-sleuthery, sheer schlepping and so much more to uplift the High Holy Day season for our sacred community, thank you so very much.
This year, as I begin my second month in Shir Ami's diverse community that I'm just now getting to know, my High Holy Day runway feels a bit shorter, though all the more exciting for all I don't yet know – and all that's possible together.
And some of you already are joining me in the holy care of a community joining together to bring the High Holy Days alive. For everyone at Shir Ami who'll be offering heart, effort, time turning, coordination, techno-sleuthery, sheer schlepping and so much more to uplift the High Holy Day season for our sacred community, thank you so very much.
On the Jewish spiritual calendar aligned with celestial cycles, August 2023 divides roughly in half. August's first half is the slow ascent from the "low point" of Tisha b'Av. These weeks can seem static, but of course they're not. Days are shortening, but slowly. Tree sap peaks and begins to flow downward, if invisibly for now. Long Island Sound will reach its annual temperature peak and begin to cool, though imperceptibly at first.
The second half of August, however, will bring an inflection point when many of us will start to feel the turn. With the New Moon of August 16-17 comes Rosh Hodesh Elul, the start of Judaism's season of teshuvah (return, repair, repentance). By then, we'll notice that days are shortening. Rosh Hashanah cards will appear in pharmacies. Soon a few trees will begin to betray autumn's approach.
The second half of August, however, will bring an inflection point when many of us will start to feel the turn. With the New Moon of August 16-17 comes Rosh Hodesh Elul, the start of Judaism's season of teshuvah (return, repair, repentance). By then, we'll notice that days are shortening. Rosh Hashanah cards will appear in pharmacies. Soon a few trees will begin to betray autumn's approach.
At Shir Ami's Garden Shabbat on August 18 (register here), we'll hear this year's first shofar blast, riveting our attention and beckoning us to return to our core. During Elul, I'll be blowing shofar every day in my home as an act of mindfulness, contemplation and inner opening.
Spiritually, Elul is the month when, tradition holds, it all becomes so close. Metaphorically, the veils between worlds begin to thin. Bit by bit, we are wrested into awareness about our lives and each other's lives, the missed marks and shortcomings, the true meaning of our lives, the essential call of our spirits. If we listen carefully, we'll hear it blowing in the wind.
Elul (אלול) is an anagram for אני לדודי ודודי לי / Ani l'dodi v'dodi li – "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine" (Song of Songs 6:3). As we begin leaning into this season, we're called into renewed awareness and proximity – or, at least, we're called to live that way. We're called to live as (or as if) the Beloved we call God (spirit, meaning, holiness) is right here. (How would you live differently if you felt it all so near, and why?)
Shneuer Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812) taught the metaphor that during Elul, המלך בשדה / "the Sovereign (=God) is in the field," radically present rather than holed up in some faraway castle surrounded by protective moats. Shneuer Zalman didn't actually believe that God ever is truly distant or shielded, but rather that we are. Over the course of the year, hearts that we opened and unfreighted tend to close and clog. We forget what we remembered. We remember that we didn't follow through. We repeat what we promised not to do. And amidst it all, we're prone to project our stuff (defenses, doubts, fears, hurts) onto our sense of God, religion and spirituality, which then take the shapes we give them.
Then Elul comes. The shofar sounds. We become aware of the first stirring. Slowly at first, maybe even despite ourselves, we begin to turn.
Here's to our next turning – step by step, together.
Spiritually, Elul is the month when, tradition holds, it all becomes so close. Metaphorically, the veils between worlds begin to thin. Bit by bit, we are wrested into awareness about our lives and each other's lives, the missed marks and shortcomings, the true meaning of our lives, the essential call of our spirits. If we listen carefully, we'll hear it blowing in the wind.
Elul (אלול) is an anagram for אני לדודי ודודי לי / Ani l'dodi v'dodi li – "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine" (Song of Songs 6:3). As we begin leaning into this season, we're called into renewed awareness and proximity – or, at least, we're called to live that way. We're called to live as (or as if) the Beloved we call God (spirit, meaning, holiness) is right here. (How would you live differently if you felt it all so near, and why?)
Shneuer Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812) taught the metaphor that during Elul, המלך בשדה / "the Sovereign (=God) is in the field," radically present rather than holed up in some faraway castle surrounded by protective moats. Shneuer Zalman didn't actually believe that God ever is truly distant or shielded, but rather that we are. Over the course of the year, hearts that we opened and unfreighted tend to close and clog. We forget what we remembered. We remember that we didn't follow through. We repeat what we promised not to do. And amidst it all, we're prone to project our stuff (defenses, doubts, fears, hurts) onto our sense of God, religion and spirituality, which then take the shapes we give them.
Then Elul comes. The shofar sounds. We become aware of the first stirring. Slowly at first, maybe even despite ourselves, we begin to turn.
Here's to our next turning – step by step, together.
RSS Feed