בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
הַמּֽוֹצִיא לֶֽחֶם מִן הָאָֽרֶץ
Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam, hamotzi lekhem min ha-aretz.
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, Who brings forth bread from the earth.
And G!d says: “After you are all wrung out from that amends making and accountability-having, go out into your backyard and build yourself a fort. And be sure to invite all your friends to join you in your backyard fort for food and merriment because that is how you make the community continue after all that hard work."
And G!d says: “And make your fort enclosed enough to feel cozy, but keep one side open, so that all who pass by know that they are welcome. Even the roof must be thin enough to invite the evening sky to dine with you, the openings in the branches that cover you wide enough for stars to fall through. There are too many among us who are made unwelcome - not just in the inhospitable corners of the world, but in our own towns, our own neighborhoods, on our own blocks. You may even know their names. Invite them.”
Ritual for Sukkot
Find one person with whom you made repairs over the ten days. Invite them to your fort, if you made one - to your house, if you didn’t. Prepare a meal for them, with your own hands, in whatever form that takes - digging the potatoes yourself, or opening the box. Serve your guest. Offer them the best you have. Say: welcome. Say: thank you. Say: this is only the beginning. Celebrate the work of connection and repair.
And G!d says: But nothing holds forever. The branches over your head will wither; grass under your feet will die of thirst and cold; you will unbolt these frames and fold the canvas walls. Even the bedrock beneath you holds molten memories of liquidity. Bottle the warmth of these cooling nights, of friends around the table, of candlelight, of wine, woodsmoke and holy tunes. You will need to drink from it soon enough.
From Dane Kuttler's The G!d Wrestlers, The Social Justice Warrior's Guide to the High Holy Days, Sept. 2015
Each year, the first time we eat a fruit that only grows at a certain time of year, or when we do something for the first time in a while, we say a special blessing, the shehecheyanu, on this new experience.
בָּרוּך אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶך הָעוֹלָם שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וקְִיְמָּנוּ והְִגִיּעָנוּ לַזְמַן הַזֶה
Barukh ata adonai elohenu melekh ha-olam, she-hechiyanu, v’kiy'manu, v’higi'anu la-z’man ha-zeh
Blessed are You, the One who has kept us alive and sustained us so that we could reach this moment.
Erev Sukkot by Julia Knobloch
The moon stood high over Yaffa Road.
Why take a photo, my companion asked,
behold the moment and enjoy the night.
Shabbat was over.
An old chazzan greeted us from the doorway
of a small shul near the shuk. For a while,
he joined our walk into the quiet new week,
singing of gold, copper, myrrh and roses.
Dates and jasmine filled the air
after bare and sour pilgrimage.
My olive harvest was destroyed.
I didn’t know if I had the strength to plough
new fields and seek uncertain gain.
On Erev Sukkot in Nachla’ot there was time
for one more pomegranate juice,
for salvation, a few hours.
At dawn I drove down silent hills,
I beheld the parting moon leading me into the morning—
Stranger in exile, she said, I will come back and so will you.
From the collection Do Not Return, published in 2019 by Broadstone Books
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
הַמּֽוֹצִיא לֶֽחֶם מִן הָאָֽרֶץ
Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam, hamotzi lekhem min ha-aretz.
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, Who brings forth bread from the earth.
And G!d says: “After you are all wrung out from that amends making and accountability-having, go out into your backyard and build yourself a fort. And be sure to invite all your friends to join you in your backyard fort for food and merriment because that is how you make the community continue after all that hard work."
And G!d says: “And make your fort enclosed enough to feel cozy, but keep one side open, so that all who pass by know that they are welcome. Even the roof must be thin enough to invite the evening sky to dine with you, the openings in the branches that cover you wide enough for stars to fall through. There are too many among us who are made unwelcome - not just in the inhospitable corners of the world, but in our own towns, our own neighborhoods, on our own blocks. You may even know their names. Invite them.”
Ritual for Sukkot
Find one person with whom you made repairs over the ten days. Invite them to your fort, if you made one - to your house, if you didn’t. Prepare a meal for them, with your own hands, in whatever form that takes - digging the potatoes yourself, or opening the box. Serve your guest. Offer them the best you have. Say: welcome. Say: thank you. Say: this is only the beginning. Celebrate the work of connection and repair.
And G!d says: But nothing holds forever. The branches over your head will wither; grass under your feet will die of thirst and cold; you will unbolt these frames and fold the canvas walls. Even the bedrock beneath you holds molten memories of liquidity. Bottle the warmth of these cooling nights, of friends around the table, of candlelight, of wine, woodsmoke and holy tunes. You will need to drink from it soon enough.
From Dane Kuttler's The G!d Wrestlers, The Social Justice Warrior's Guide to the High Holy Days, Sept. 2015
Each year, the first time we eat a fruit that only grows at a certain time of year, or when we do something for the first time in a while, we say a special blessing, the shehecheyanu, on this new experience.
בָּרוּך אַתָּה יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶך הָעוֹלָם שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וקְִיְמָּנוּ והְִגִיּעָנוּ לַזְמַן הַזֶה
Barukh ata adonai elohenu melekh ha-olam, she-hechiyanu, v’kiy'manu, v’higi'anu la-z’man ha-zeh
Blessed are You, the One who has kept us alive and sustained us so that we could reach this moment.
Erev Sukkot by Julia Knobloch
The moon stood high over Yaffa Road.
Why take a photo, my companion asked,
behold the moment and enjoy the night.
Shabbat was over.
An old chazzan greeted us from the doorway
of a small shul near the shuk. For a while,
he joined our walk into the quiet new week,
singing of gold, copper, myrrh and roses.
Dates and jasmine filled the air
after bare and sour pilgrimage.
My olive harvest was destroyed.
I didn’t know if I had the strength to plough
new fields and seek uncertain gain.
On Erev Sukkot in Nachla’ot there was time
for one more pomegranate juice,
for salvation, a few hours.
At dawn I drove down silent hills,
I beheld the parting moon leading me into the morning—
Stranger in exile, she said, I will come back and so will you.
From the collection Do Not Return, published in 2019 by Broadstone Books
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