Today is Rosh Hodesh Elul,
the beginning of the month that brings us to the doorstep of the most sacred days
in the Jewish calendar, outside of the regular and profound holiness of Shabbat. Yamim Nora’im, or
Days of Awe, begin with Rosh Hashanah, the
Jewish New Year, and end at the conclusion of Yom Kippur, ten days later.
Today also happens to be my eleventh wedding anniversary. Eleven
years ago, August 19th fell on the Rosh Hodesh Elul, as well.*
Aleph,
lamed,
vav,
lamed. These are the Hebrew letters that spell the name of the month
Elul.
Which, in turn, forms an acrostic for “
Ani
ledodi vedodi li.” I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: words from
Tanakh, the Bible, Song of Songs. A
passionate poem of love, manifestly describing the relationship of two human
lovers, it was read by the sages of our tradition as an allegory, describing
the relationship between God and God’s beloved Israel. Passages from
Song of Songs are also
traditionally sung at a wedding.
Return, the literal translation of
teshuvah, repentance, is
the central theme of the season that begins today. It being my anniversary, my
thoughts naturally return to that day in August 2001 when I became my beloved’s
and he became mine, in holiness, in faith, in the presence of God and our
community. I remember the joy of that day, and also the innocence of it. Not
only my own, though that was notable, for although Alec and I had known each
other over five years by the time we married, had been in a serious
relationship with each other for much of that time, and had already helped each
other navigate several difficult life passages together, I had no idea of the
depth of challenges yet to come that would test us and our love for one
another.
But that was still several years off. As we stood under our
huppa, and rejoiced with so many of our dearest friends and family, and flew
off to our honeymoon in the
Canadian Maritimes (without anyone asking us to
take off our shoes or remove liquids from our luggage) a terrible and
tremendous loss of innocence loomed for our country, indeed for much of the
world. Three weeks later,
the world changed, dramatically.
It still amazes me to consider how much has changed since
Rosh Hodesh
Elul 5761, that August
day in 2001. We all have lost so much—individually, as a society, both
materially and spiritually—and yet, ineluctably, we have gained. Babies have
been born, degrees earned, milestones achieved. Some battles for justice have
been won, and new ones taken up. Technology and human knowledge advance at an
incredible pace, and yet, at the same time, poverty increases, and freedom by
some measures diminishes. Tens of thousands of people still die in hospitals every
year
because someone neglected to use soap and water between patients; others die
because they have no access to medical care in the first place. We gain insight,
and yet we continue to have the same arguments with our loved ones, over and
over again, about matters large and small. Nation still lifts up sword against
nation; every time, humanity and the universe sustain wounds that may never
heal, and a path to peace grows ever more elusive. We have gained, and we have
lost, greatly.
So here we are, again, at the beginning of this season of
repentance, and we are asked, commanded, even, to “return.” Return to our true
selves. Return to some sort of original purity. “Renew our days as of old,” we
pray.
Is return possible? What would that even look like?
We do not wish to give up some of the ways in which we have
changed over time, our increased discernment, even wisdom, hard-won by
experience. We cannot erase our scars or others’, though we might wish to. There
are things we can never take back, or give back.
When I think of “return” in the context of teshuvah, in the
context of Rosh Hodesh Elul, I think, perhaps inevitably, of the words “Ani ledodi vedodi li,” I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.
There are so many ways in which we cannot recapture our lost innocence. But
today I think there is at least one way in which we can. It is the way of love.
Of rekindled passion, and compassion. Of renewed hopes.
Just as a long-married couple can,
through love and generosity, remorse and forgiveness, feel again the joy and
gratitude and excitement they felt on their wedding day at the sheer
wonder and blessing of the connection they share, so can we return to the wonder we experienced "of old," with God, however we understand God. Our relationship with God,
after all, mirrors our relationship with the rest of
creation: the earth and its inhabitants, humanity, the universe. We can
return, in love, in compassion, in our commitment to tikkun olam—to making the
world a better place. We can return, through forgiveness and love, to a version
of ourselves and our relationships that we may have thought lost.
Jewish tradition encourages us to do this every day, every
moment: live each day as if it may be your last—because it may be! But as this
becomes difficult and exhausting, as we are imperfect and forgetful, our
tradition gives us a big wake-up call each year. With the blast of the shofar,
with the new moon, with Rosh Hodesh Elul.
we are called to return. We are called to return to our beloved: family and friends, God, our self.
Here is the task, and the
promise, of our season of repentance. How will you return? We have 40 days to figure it out.
*Alec and I were married on the 30th of Av, which fell yesterday on this year's secular calendar, but it was, nevertheless, Rosh Hodesh Elul, which is always a two-day celebration.
The
Jewish month of Elul, which precedes the High Holy Days, is traditionally a
time of renewal and reflection. It offers a chance for spiritual preparation
for the Days of Awe. It is traditional to begin one’s preparation for the High
Holy Days during this month with the Selichot, the prayers of forgiveness. We
look to begin the year with a clean slate, starting anew, refreshed.
Visit The Ima or follow her on Twitter to see others' contributions, and please return (!) here, where I plan to share one or two thoughts before the month is through.
