I spent a few fabulous summers on staff at Camp Young Judaea in Wimberley, Texas. In those days – the ’70s – it was a very rustic place. Basic cabins with basic indoor bathrooms and showers. Bunk beds and plywood cubbies. No air conditioning. In Texas. Just jumbo fans that revved up like turboprop engines. (CYJ is now a true campus: everything air-conditioned, a huge pool with waterslides, a ropes course that looks as if it were built for SEAL Team Six.)
The staff was very young. There were a few years when the oldest person at camp was the Israeli shaliach, a guy in his 30s who helped run programs about Israel. That’s it. The director was in his 20s. Everyone else was a college grad, a college student, or a high school student. You might think this would lead to a Lord of the Flies situation. In fact, we were very chill. The only thing we took seriously was camper health. Otherwise, it was about maximal fun. We enjoyed each other every day.
One highlight of camp life was the campout under the stars. We’d drive a cabin or two of kids and counselors to Pedernales Falls State Park, a huge expanse of forest, waterfront, and trails, set up our campsite, and have the best time. As night fell, though, I remember getting a little nervous. Pedernales had only just opened to the public. The trails weren’t worn in; a lot of the underbrush hadn’t been cleared. And it was dark. So dark.
On the one hand, the expanse of stars was breathtaking. I’ve never been anywhere since that was quite as dark as that night. The only light for miles was our campfire. I wish I’d known something about the stars then. I wonder if I could have seen the Milky Way. Every constellation in the Northern Hemisphere paraded over us in the course of the evening. It was one of those rare times when the word “breathtaking” actually applied.
On the other hand, sitting in the dark in the middle of a giant state park was not entirely pleasant. Around 10 p.m., once the kids had passed out, the crackle of the campfire was joined by the sound of… I didn’t know what. Animals of some sort. But which animals? Cougars? Bobcats? Coyotes? Raccoons? They made strange noises I could not identify. When I shone my flashlight toward the alien sounds, all I could see were eyes, glowing in the underbrush. It may not surprise you that I am not a naturalist. It will not surprise you that I was frightened.
We were so vulnerable out there, in what felt like the middle of nowhere. That sense of being at the mercy of the universe, that fight-or-flight response, is buried deep in the amygdala. Years later, I think about the times I’ve felt that same existential dread with no wild beasts anywhere near: times I’ve felt alone and unable to tell what was going to happen next. Some were collective moments of fear: 11/22/63, 9/11, October 7th. Some were personal: getting up for the first time after open-heart surgery, going back for more surgery last year, and worrying about so many people and their medical and personal crises. (As I write this, I’m making myself anxious.)
My point is not to make you anxious. It’s to name the elephant – or the coyote – in the room: we are so vulnerable. I look at my infant grandchildren learning to hold up their heads on those very elastic necks, and they are utterly helpless. And even after they grow strong and tall, I will worry about them, on their own, in a crazy world. I worry about my adult children, in their 30s and 40s. Because we are not mighty fortresses. We are not impregnable X-Men. We are just humans.
Sukkot pulls us outside into a flimsy shelter with no real roof and no permanent walls. I’ve stood inside a sukkah as it rained and as it snowed. I’ve watched the s’chach – the cornstalks or branches laid across the top – blow away. There is no promise of shelter from the storm in a sukkah. If anything, the sukkah promises disorder and vulnerability. In fact, it celebrates them. For a week, we are commanded to sit out in the dark under the stars and listen to the noises in the underbrush.
Back at CYJ, the caretaker, Mr. Lester Hill – toothpick in his mouth, cowboy hat on his head – taught me two lessons about being vulnerable. First: “Red and yeller kill a feller.” Which is to say, if you see a coral snake (and I did), go the other direction, because it’s very poisonous. Second: “Sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you.” Which, I think, bears no explanation.
Be careful – and be bold. There’s no hiding, no safe spot. It’s all out there, the blessing and the curse. Embrace the unknown, the way Sukkot asks us to. It’s all we’ve got.
