Today is October 7th. It is also the middle of Aseret Y'mai Teshuva, the days of repentance.
There are volumes to write, but words don't come easily to describe the past year for our brothers and sisters in Israel, nor do they come easily for us who live in The Diaspora.
I have struggled to know what to write, but I think that these meager words that follow are meant to show that hope never fades.
The second day of Rosh Hashannah is the day that my father died ten years ago. As a Holocaust survivor he had many reasons to lose hope in the future, but when he began his second life following the war, he lived his days to the fullest. I recently found a ticket that he used for High Holiday services in 1950, a short while after he came to this country. I wondered how those days of awe resonated with him and those like him. Did they pray with different intensity then than we do now as hostages still remain and war rages around us?
Did they lose hope? I want to believe that my father never lost hope even when things were so dark in the forests and his sisters parents and larger communities were slaughtered by the Nazis in Poland.
I want to believe that now during this time of war and darkness. I want to believe that there will be an ending to this and that there will be peace. Am I dreamer? Was my father a dreamer? I don't know, but I do know that with time everything changes. The apple tree knows this. Maybe we can learn from her.
If you are reading this, I wish you safety, peace and good health in this new year. As we enter into the cold and dark days of winter, we pray that spring will come once again.
Leann
Tishrei
Her roots lie deep within the land,
her branches pregnant with fruit.
Apples sway gently from stems,
their skins rosy red and summer green
Some apples appear perfect on the outside but have been consumed by worms
from within.
Some apples appear round and perfect, but most are beautifully uneven;
rounder on one side, or with galls marring their skins,
marks of the season that has past.
Apples spanning the distance between perfect and imperfect.
Each individual apple waits for the changes to come,
as does Mother Tree.
Cheshvan
The autumn winds blow through the tree,
and apple’s connections to the mother tree weaken.
One by one the apples drop and bounce gently on the soft weedy ground.
Some of the apples
the roundest, the reddest
are picked and eaten right in the orchard.
Some are carted away for others
and some are consumed greedily by animals and insects of the land.
Many become part of the earth underneath them,
adding their decaying sweetness to the soil.
Such is the fate of the apples,
both large and small,
perfect and imperfect.
Late Cheshvan.
The winds howl.
while a scent of apples hangs sweet in the air,
although Mother Tree is now naked and alone,
the scent stays with her.
Kislev, Tevet
The ground is cold
The days short
Darkness and mud reign on the slope.
Mother Tree is rained on and her roots are muddied.
Her companions, the bees and the birds are gone
Alone she stands,
but despite being alone,
rained on, blown in the wind,
Mother Tree does not sleep,
She waits, biding her time.
Shevat, Adar, Nisan
Time passes.
The weather warms,
and the days lengthen
and first flowers appear on Mother Tree
and they shyly open,
delicate and as soft as a pink breeze.
The hillside is awash with their scent.
The birds return to sit on her branches.
The bees return to drink from her flowers.
The cycle of the apples begins again,
with all the sweetness and tartness that apples bring.
Mother Tree is blossoming again.
Yes, there will be highs and lows,
perfections and imperfections.
She makes the space for both.
The spring always follows the long winter months
Mother Tree knows that spring always returns.
The ticket for High Holidays in 1950
My father, may his memory be a blessing.
Other posts on my father's story:
Last year's post soon after 10/7
I don't know who to credit for this photo shared on the internet for the memory of 10/7.
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