I learned of the following poem from my mentor and colleague, Rabbi David Stern, and I am forever grateful for the gift of these words:

Special Orders by Edward Hirsch

Give me back my father walking the halls of Wertheimer Box and Paper Company with sawdust clinging to his shoes.

Give me back his tape measure and his keys, his drafting pencil and his order forms; give me his daydreams on lined paper.

I don’t understand the uncontainable grief. Whatever you had that never fit, whatever else you needed, believe me,

my father, who wanted your business, would squat down at your side and sketch you a container for it. 

I shared this treasure at a memorial service yesterday and could barely begin to say the words as it felt so true as I come to accept that my father’s physical presence is searingly absent. In these days of sermon drafts and soul accounting and vast wonder that we are here at all, I feel his absence intensely. But I also feel the opportunity— to learn and to evolve with this tender, broken heart and to live with an even greater sense of presence and purpose.

And how do we approach the collective sense of trembling we feel as 5786 begins only a week away? Perhaps, Hirsch’s words can guide us beyond the personal, reminding us of the immeasurable presence of Avinu Malkeinu, (Our Father, our King) of Imeinu Malkatanu (Our Mother, our Queen). For me, the majestic language for God is a partial picture of my faith. This year, may the King/Queen/Judge, rise from the throne or bench, and squat down beside me, us, helping lift our drafting pencil to imagine and create healing and wholeness for ourselves, our loved ones, our people, our world.

Shanah Tovah, dear ones.

We have almost arrived at Sinai as the counting continues (day 46).

I climbed the mountain believed to be Sinai years ago and remember meeting quite a few characters along the way to a breathtaking summit—a desert expanse that stretched to eternity. As I reflect back, and prepare for our return home after this month of travel, I have been thinking quite a bit about the mountain ascent. Sinai is both a physical meeting point between us and God, and a portable experience of revelation that can occur anywhere.

As the great naturalist John Muir once said: “Going to the mountains is going home.” It’s been so true for me, but not only in the literal sense. Yes, the jagged peaks of the Sierra Nevada range, the countless memories of Olympic National Park hikes, bring a unique spark of joy to my soul but there are other climbs that leave an indelible imprint on who we’ve been and who we are becoming. Some of the climbs, like the journey to motherhood and welcoming our two miracles are transformative in the amount of joy that fills our hearts—others begin from a place of trembling fear as we enter through dark forests of peril, seeking the light of healing and hope. Grit and a sense of purpose can help strengthen each step.

The close of this time in England has been a sacred gift for us. We are staying in the countryside with one of my dearest friends from childhood and her lovely family. In addition to the local fairs and the fields, the vibrant flowers, the menagerie of animals and fresh air, we’ve had heartfelt conversations about faith, service, history, family and more. At the core of so much of what we’ve discussed is the question: “Where is home?” In a time when we are experiencing such change and uncertainty in places we call home, in systems and conflicts that feel so deeply broken and painful, home can still be felt when we dedicate ourselves to cultivating some good — to remain open to others and courageously carry on with what we can do to make this world just a bit more compassionate. Perhaps all of life is a process of coming home, never quite there, but in the building and growing and believing we can still find blessings.

“As I put roots into the ground, every step I take brings more roots up to accept and welcome me in—into my heritage and into the woman I am slowly becoming, even in this very moment. These roots are embedded in the soil of who God is and who God has always been…we feel the mud pulse with memory. We feel the trees tell us stories…” (Kaitlin Curtice).

I had in my mind’s eye a sense of what this time of traveling together abroad for the first time as a family (until now, we’ve traveled all over the States with our 11 year olds) might be like—and it’s been a gift that I couldn’t have fully imagined. We’ve been fortunate to have gracious hosts and spectacular weather, and, despite some frayed nerves, have been a pretty amazing traveling team! We’ve had full days and leisurely days, planned itineraries and spontaneous discoveries. As the last week of this European trip spans before us, I have been thinking back on the insights I’ve gained through the eyes of our children and for myself. Here are a few, and I will continue to share more as we count up the days to Shavuot—happy 39th day of the Omer!-to our return to Dallas.

1. We are so interconnected and in the deep roots of humanity, we can find such a sense of the Divine. This hasn’t come only through delicious, sweet, sunny moments of indulgence or pleasure (although we’ve had quite a bit of culinary focus in each day!) — it’s been in seeing our children try to absorb the darkness of the past, the complexity of today, and the uncertainty of the future. We’ve had intense learning moments and discussions about the fate of Jewish children in Nazi Europe, the shifts in America and the world toward greater extremism, the struggle for peace and stability, the suffering of Israelis and Palestinians and all innocents who are trapped in cycles of violence. Navigating the intensity of raising children and keeping a moral compass steady is something we can’t do alone, and we are grateful for the people and places along the way that have deepened our efforts, while challenging us to continue to reflect and act wherever we are.
2. Each one of us can cultivate gardens. One doesn’t need to be an expert—start at the beginning with soil, water, and seeds of hope. We’ve mostly been traveling through urban landscapes, but just outside the city or throughout the pavement pathways, the historic sites and modern buildings, we’ve found such magnificent gardens. It’s been a powerful reminder that the scent of earth can be so calming and restorative to the weary soul, while the children run around in an open, grassy space, or we sit and read on a park bench, or stroll through gardens with bursting color. And certainly gardens come in so many forms, including art and poetry, kneading bread and song. Sometimes the beauty is in the asymmetry, sometimes in the simplicity, sometime just in the soulful effort.
3. And finally, for today, the pulse of memory is in every place and every corner of our earth. Often, we become so accustomed to the rhythms of our lives that the pulse becomes faint or seemingly irrelevant. During a pause—whether an extended sabbatical, or weekly Shabbat observance, or moments in any day—we have the opportunity to hear and feel and know with a greater attunement.

Parisians pour through the subway and bustle about like New Yorkers, and we’ve spoken to more than a few who work several jobs to make ends meet.

But even in this urban drumbeat, there’s a general ethos of “savoring”—stopping in a nearby park on a warm afternoon, letting your feet dangle over the Seine, pursuing the many bookstores with coffee cups clanking in the adjoining cafe, beginning dinner as the summer light wanes over golden cathedral spires. Or writing this post from a velvet covered chair in an upstairs room at Shakespeare and Company in the early evening.

A spark of Shabbat and mindful savoring amidst a world that can sometimes feel as if it’s spinning faster than light.

May we remember to pause and savor wherever we are…

A favorite passage I came across recently:

We sing because we must. We sing because it fills our lungs with nourishing air, and lets out hearts soar with the notes we let out. We sing because it allows us to speak of love and loss, delight and desire, all encoded in lyrics that let us pretend that those feelings are not quite ours. In song, we have permission to rehearse all our heartbreaks, all our lusts…best of all, we can sing together, whole families knowing the same songs and giving them the same meaning. When I sing with my mother, I am struck every time that our voices are the same. There’s a moment of deep, genetic resonance in hitting the exact same note in the exact same way. When I sing with my husband, our voices clash, but we sing the songs that mean something only to us, most often the yearning tones of “Wichita Lineman.” When I sing with my son, I am teaching him something: not just words and lyrics, but how to survive. Like the robin, we sometimes sing to show how strong we are, and we sometimes sing in hope of better times. We sing either way. (Wintering by Katherine May, p.228)

For now the winter is past, the rains are over and gone (Song of Songs 2:11).

We took the train toward Rouen, along with a steady flow of other Monet enthusiasts, and spilled out into the center of Vernon, an adjacent town. We hopped on a local bus that wound its way along the country road as bikers peddled behind, and soon we arrived to the start of Giverny. Since it was almost lunch, we paused at a cafe with a small garden in front, just a taste of the bursts of color we would soon find.

When we finally found Monet’s home and the water lily pond, the path beckoned us into the cool shade. People were quietly reading, painting, capturing the magic (as if that’s possible) and reveling in the boundless beauty. This is the garden of Song of Songs. This is the healing haven of flower and water and paintbrush and pen. Simple and yet bursting with spring. Thank you, Claude, for inspiring multitudes to gather in the sanctuary of nature—may it be so for generations to come.

Sleepy and a bit restless, we arrived at the train station, knowing the urban bustle would greet us at the end of the line. As we waited, a family of four sat at a high boy table playing cards and invited us to join. Although we lived oceans away, it felt like we knew them and I realized later why. I immediately noticed the mother’s short stubble of shorn hair and the lowering of their gaze when Jojo asked more about missing school for their family month long excursion through Europe. Carpe Diem, my heart said, yes…take this time together, savor this as the winter will come as it does for all, some in the spring of their days. Still light from the beauty of the garden, I felt the simultaneous intermingling of sadness caught in my throat. And this is the garden of Song of Songs too—all fleeting—and still we sing in trembling wonder.