Before Shabbat

I have a recurrent dream. I am walking down a hallway seemingly without end. There are identical doors on the right and left. The doors are all closed but not locked. I don’t feel any panic or unease. The infinitude of the hallway is not disconcerting. There are no monsters here. At any point, I know I can open a door without fear. I awaken without anxiety. In fact, I am composed and rested.

I wonder: where was I? Where am I? This dream may reflect any number of possible unconscious thoughts or desires. A growing body of research suggests that dreams might be a product of the brain’s predictive processing mechanisms, continuously generating and testing predictions about the world. This view sees dreams as a way for the brain to refine its predictive models.

This notion of predictive processing doesn’t reflect the dream’s more profound meaning as I have experienced it. What it feels like is a trip into my mind. Behind every door is an imponderable question, a question I may have never thought about.

I have a collection of imponderable questions. Curious about other people’s questions, I googled ‘imponderable questions’. I expected a million lists of perplexing conundrums. Instead, I saw website after website of jokes. “Why do they call it rush hour if nobody’s moving?” “Why are the names Zoe and Zoey pronounced identically but not Joe and Joey?”

There was no sign of a serious list of tough, deep questions. Perhaps it’s all about the unease folks may feel about going deep. It can be disconcerting to start thinking about space, time, matter, and consciousness. It may feel frightening to realize that there are so many imponderable questions. But isn’t that the true thrill in life? To realize how much mystery remains in our world.

I have a list. Why is the speed of light the absolute speed limit of the Universe? The Universe is expanding; expanding into what? Where did the tradition of reading the haftarah originate, and why? What is the origin of consciousness? What if the Universe as a whole is conscious, and our individual consciousnesses are aspects of this cosmic consciousness?

I love to ponder these questions, so basic and yet unknowable. If I were to open random doors in my infinite hallway, which I believe to be my creative unconscious, I might find this one: if all living matter is conscious (called panpsychism), then what does a leaf ‘know’? What might that leaf be thinking today? It may be luxuriating in its yearlong life, from the bud burst days to now, bedecked in outstanding brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows.

If panpsychism is a thing, then perhaps the leaf is aware of temperature change, that it’s cooling off. And does the leaf know what happens next as the temperature chills down? Can it feel the tree stop producing chlorophyll, that as the chlorophyll gets switched off, its color emerges? That its beauty is a sign of its demise?

Yes, I know. This is a flight of fantasy. But I feel it all around me. The leaves are changing. Their beauty is a firm reminder that life keeps moving forward without pause. The gorgeous full canopy of healthy trees will soon give way to multi-colored splendor, which will, in turn, yield dead, brown leaves and branches exposed to the cold. And then it all comes around again.

The Jewish New Year happens, at least for New Englanders, right in the midst of this arboreal transition. It matches our thoughts and experiences as we ponder the big questions about the meaning and direction of our lives. Some things brighten, and others fade.

How will we choose to live our lives? Can we forgive and be forgiven? Can we lean into empathy and thoughtfulness? These are some questions behind the doors in your hallway. Open them up.

On the fifteenth of May, in the jungle of Nool,

In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,

He was splashing…enjoying the jungle’s great joys…

When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

Dr. Seuss wrote “Horton Hears a Who” in 1954, the year of my birth. As my parents read to us, I first encountered Horton very early in my life. While I may not have grasped literary criticism as an infant, I’m certain that the sounds of the words, the cadence, and the beautiful rhythmic flow of each phrase delighted me. Even now, seventy years later, rereading these lines is thrilling.

The rhyming, meter, and evocative images wrap around me like a warm blanket. Seuss’s memorable illustrations, so funny and strange, certainly added to the charm. But even without the artwork, the text endures.

Words have a unique way of capturing our imagination, and poetry can have a particularly strong pull on our heartstrings. Yes, it can sometimes be cheesy and overly sentimental, like a treacly greeting card. But when a poem works, it can open a door we didn’t even know was locked.

Personally, I’m not a fan of rhyming poetry. It too often devolves into a search for matching sounds at the expense of deeper meanings. Unless it’s for a children’s book or a parodied birthday song, it just doesn’t move me. 

I know this might infuriate English majors, but I want to clarify that this is all just a matter of taste. I’m not suggesting that Keats, Whitman, or Dickens aren’t brilliant. They simply don’t resonate with me in the same way.

For me, the poetry of meaning lies in plainspoken text, artfully expressed. Some modern poetry – prime examples being The New Yorker’s weekly poems – is shrouded in such arcane images and twisted sentiments that I find myself reading it over and over, unable to grasp its meaning. In contrast, poems by Billy Collins, Robert Pinsky, Mary Oliver, or Ellen Bass speak the language of the heart. They’re filled with pathos and pain, joy, amazement, and hope. There are no rhymes, just true emotion woven with intellectual curiosity.

This appreciation for clear, emotive language is why I especially value the prayers we recite on the High Holy Days. There’s nothing flowery or obscure about them. The words don’t obfuscate our situation: we are mortal, imperfect creatures who need love, support, and kindness.

Avinu Malkeinu is the perfect example of this directness. While it’s not a poem per se, I read it as such. The melody is instantly evocative, even for the most wayward Jew. But even without the music, the words go straight to our broken, yearning hearts:

Avinu Malkeinu, 

inscribe us in the Book of Pardon and Forgiveness. 

remember us for a good life. 

remember us for redemption and deliverance. 

remember us for maintenance and sustenance. 

remember us for merit. 

cause deliverance to spring forth for us soon. 

fill our hands with Your blessings. 

fill our storehouses with abundance. 

hear our voice, spare us and have compassion upon us. 

accept our prayer with compassion and favor. 

open the gates of heaven to our prayer. 

please do not turn us away empty-handed from You. 

let this hour be an hour of compassion and a time of favor before You. 

have compassion upon us, and upon our children and infants.

The clarity is unambiguous. There’s only so much we can control. The rest, God, is up to you. We try to live a decent life, but the world is filled with flying shrapnel, ill will, and things we can never anticipate. I don’t believe we earn God’s blessings – it doesn’t work that way. There’s no Willy Wonka golden ticket hiding somewhere for us to find. All we can do is live what we define as a good life and hope for God’s grace.

And so we gather to recite these meaningful prayers – poems, really – in one voice, sharing an intimate plea with a sanctuary full of our people, our community. In doing so, we connect with something greater than ourselves, finding comfort and hope in the power of words, whether they come from a favorite children’s author or an ancient prayer.

rebhayim

We’re back! The little ones are filling up our Early Learning Center classrooms. In the air I hear the sounds of kids laughing and playing, and, yes – crying. Lots of crying. So many pre-schoolers wailing, “I want my mommy!” It’s so poignant, that weepy need to find solace in the arms of a mom.

My mom died 15 years ago. And as time has gone on, I’ve managed to do fine. My family has grown and flourished. I have a couple grandkids, a great wife, a terrific temple, some amazing friends. But every once in a while, I see something or I hear a tune and, well, I want my mommy. The new year’s imminent arrival stokes loving memories.

The last month on the Hebrew calendar, Elul, has just begun. For most of us, this fact barely registers. Our lives are primarily governed by the Gregorian calendar, introduced by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 as a reform of the Julian calendar. The Hebrew calendar exists as a faint whisper in the background of our Jewish lives.

This shift means we often miss the nuances of time and meaning that our ancestors attached to the passage of Jewish time. While we might associate certain holidays with seasons – Sukkot in Fall, Hanukkah in Winter – for our ancestors, the daily passage of time connected to Jewish days and months gave their lives and rituals a more organic feel. And for them, Elul was significant – it was, and still is, the run-up to a new year.

Historically, Elul has been the long runway into the new year. Traditions like sounding the shofar after daily minyanim and adding special prayers urge us to contemplate fundamental life issues. Elul invites us to embrace our contradictions, holding space for both achievements and failures, certainties and doubts. It compels us to search for unity in our fragmented lives and craft a coherent narrative from our scattered experiences.

We’re confronted with questions to ask ourselves, but no one hands these out or checks if we’re answering them honestly. No one demands we be held accountable for our behavior, our successes, or our failures. The challenge is self-imposed; we must choose this path of introspection.

What if we heeded Elul’s call and embraced the meaning of teshuvah (repentance) and selicha (forgiveness)? It would require admitting fault and opening our hearts to pardon others – undoubtedly challenging work.

Our ancestors have used this month to consider the past and future. What makes you proud or ashamed? How have you affected others’ happiness or caused pain? Who deserves your attention, and why have you avoided them? How do you want to proceed? This process, called Heshbon Hanefesh (accounting of the soul), involves introspection and self-evaluation – a spiritual audit of one’s thoughts, actions, and behavior over the past year.

I know you’re busy—juggling flaming torches and chain saws—I get it. But if you take even 25 minutes of a day, you can alter your life trajectory. Just stop. Breathe. Consider. And then do the work. Focus on one person you’d like to bless with your honest request for forgiveness.

This Rosh Hashanah, we are riding the rapids of a world filled with divisiveness and strife. We are surrounded by events that overwhelm us and challenge our steadfastness and commitment to justice. We are struggling to express hope. Elul is the time to think about what matters: the people in our lives. Reach out to them. Reach into your own heart. Elul is the prep time before the High Holy Days that can help us individually and collectively as a community to reach for joy.