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Earth Etudes for Elul

The flow of the seasons is a delightful way to mark the passage of time. I see the flowers bloom and wither, dropping their seeds, according to the month. I watch birds make their nests, hatch their offspring, and fly away. I feel the heat of summer building eventually dwindling for the cooler autumn days. We mark this time as individuals witnessing the land, and we mark this time through communal gatherings. In the Jewish tradition, our holidays are stakes to call our attention away from labor and trivial details back to the source of life.

Join us in 5786/2026 to honor Elul, a month for transition, reflection, and return to self, preparing for the High Holy Days in Tishrei/September. You can subscribe here; etudes will arrive in your inbox daily for one month, take them as an opportunity to sink into the season. If you’d like to share the etudes on your organization’s website or social media, email earthetudes@gmail.com.

In blessing,

Arielle Sabot
Outdoor Judaism Director & Educator, Congregation Beth El of the Sudbury River Valley

elul etudes 5786
September 4, 2026Backyard tree in November, Canton MA In autumn, leaves come to the end of their functional lives. They can no longer produce glucose to support growth of the tree. Between the time they lose function and their actual demise, they burst into colors so deep and gorgeous we are mesmerized by their beauty. We do not mourn the loss of function; instead we marvel at the magnificent display of hues to our eyes so beautiful we can’t get enough. Autumn comes to women too. Between the time we are no longer fertile and our actual demise, aspects of our selves ripen and burst forth in magnificent colors, beautiful and deep. Let your eyes see these colors. Let them bring us close and nourish us. Be drawn to us and don’t look away. Lois is retired from a career in academia (Chemistry) in California. She also taught Hebrew School and tutored B’nai Mitzvah for a decade. She is a member of Temple Beth Israel in Waltham. Lois is also a member of the MA State Poetry Society / local CREW Poets branch and lives on the oceanfront in Winthrop. She is proud to be a new member of the ever-growing group of indomitable octogenarians. [...] Read more...
September 3, 2026“Walk in the Footsteps of Thoreau” – gathering of climate activists by Cooler Concord at Walden Pond, April 2026 So I’m having breakfast with Meryl Streep. I’m eating eggs over easy with rye toast, she and her 2 kids are eating blueberry pancakes. Well, we’re all in the same restaurant, Izzy’s on 15th Street in Santa Monica. Well, she’s at the table next to mine. Everyone in the restaurant is pretending she’s not there but we all know. Meryl Streep is eating blueberry pancakes as if it’s an ordinary event and we’re spinning wildly, pressed into our booths unable to breathe in a heightened moment, the kind when you know nothing will ever be the same again. This breakfast happened 36 years ago and I can still remember every detail, the brown-haired waitress trying to stay professional, how the sun reflected off the morning counters and the only sound heard was the click clack of dishes. It’s like remembering where you were when JFK was assassinated, or remembering the smell of the Pacific Ocean as the air flashed green in the setting sun. They say a heightened moment can be a teacher, that we’re changed if we’re willing to listen to the lesson. We are living in a heightened moment, swaddled in layers of deep fakes and AI bots, our reality ripped out from under our footing. The earth is 2½ degrees warmer and we’re watching the Charles River rise as our forests fill with suckering insects. Leo Tolstoy said that everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing themselves. Except maybe for Thoreau. I don’t know what his heightened moment was, but he changed and he moved to Walden Pond and didn’t pay taxes. Tolstoy refused to serve in the army. Gandhi took up nonviolence. Did I change from having breakfast with Meryl Streep? I was in awe of her presence yet I was a cardboard prop in her world. But maybe there was an energy exchange between us of expansive proportions. Maybe she based her next character on how cool I was. Or maybe that’s the moment she decided to start her climate change activism. Or maybe it was when I started mine, because what could possibly be better than having breakfast with a movie star than annihilating the climate crisis? In the 19th century, Elizabeth Cady Stanton said women needed to believe they deserved the right to vote. But Susan B. Anthony said “Give them the right” and their doubt would melt like the morning dew. So in 2022, when the United Nations declared a healthy environment to be a right, what did it mean to you? Do I believe we deserve that right? Yes. Am I willing to protest for that right? Yes. Go to a rally for it? Yes. Risk my life for it? I don’t know. But as long as we don’t fight for a right, we won’t get it or keep it. And to fight for it, we have to believe we deserve it. So let’s start by maybe eating blueberry pancakes. Made locally. Together. While listening to the curiosity of woodchucks and the raw aching of red oaks. So that we can build community, make connections and strengthen our resolve. “Climate Conversations: Visual Notes on a Changing Planet” photos by Lisa Link at the West Roxbury Branch of the Boston Public Library. Author Thea Iberall standing in front of the photo Lisa Link took at Walden Pond, June 2026 Thea Iberall, Ph.D., is on the leadership team of the Jewish Climate Action Network–MA. SheIberall is the author of The Swallow and the Nightingale, a visionary fiction novel about a 4,000-year-old secret brought through time by the birds. In this fable, she addresses the real moral issue of today: not whom you love, but what we are doing to the planet. Iberall is also the playwright of We Did It For You! Women’s Journey Through History — a musical about how women got their rights in America, told by the women who were there. Along with her family, she was inducted into the International Educators Hall of Fame for creative teaching methods. In her work, she bridges between heart and mind and teaches through performance, the written word, poetry, sermons, workshops, and storytelling. www.theaiberall.com. [...] Read more...
September 2, 2026I am six Waves are lapping at my feet I am enthralled by the peace The steady rhythm of the river Unchanging in its presence and promise. I am fourteen Plunging into the lake from the rocky outcrop above Swallowing fear borne of horrifying memories Trusting that I am safe Surrounded by those who love me As serene blue hugs my triumphant, shaking body. I am eighteen Soaked by the pounding foam As I brave the slippery shelf behind tumbling falls On another adventure with my dearest father figure Not knowing it is the last we will have Before the poison in his leg returns for his lungs and takes him. I am twenty-one Demanding to spend my entire spring break sitting in the sand Watching and listening as the ocean drags over itself endlessly And colors change as the surface reflects the clouds The blue sky The airplanes and paragliders. I am twenty-five Alone and lonely in a new city A new state The only familiar company is The Mississippi, framing everything I sit by its side and let the comfort wash over me Reminding that no matter what changes The river runs. I am thirty Living in a sea of hot sand for the first time Bereft and disconnected Feeling so very wrong Withering not just from heat Not just from the isolation that a pandemic brings But from the unfulfilled need for my basest connection to earth. I am thirty-two Leaving everything I know Again This time surrounded by flowing, rippling, raging currents And all of a sudden The insurmountable seems insignificant. I am thirty-six Finding my way in this world at last Wondering what comes next At the edge of the shore Waves lapping and tumbling at my feet Finding my safety and peace in the water once more. Micah Noe is a writer based in New York City. Their work explores themes of return, identity, and connection. This poem on teshuvah reflects their ongoing engagement with questions of self and connection through the lens of the most basic human experiences in nature. [...] Read more...
September 1, 2026I’ve spent a lot more time with kittens than with human children. I realized this when I held my infant niece and found myself slow-blinking at her like a cat would. She’s two now, still as playful as a kitten, and I still sometimes have to remind myself that she can understand language and I can simply tell her things. But there are similarities. Kittens and babies both struggle to move at first, wiggling on the floor and crying for their mamas. Humans are born with their eyes open, but with so much to see and take in, they may as well have their eyes sealed shut like a kitten’s for all they can make out. Kittens learn to walk faster, but babies have hands and can open doors and containers. Both are liable to put things that aren’t food in their mouths. And both are coming across a brand new world that’s so big and so fresh and holds so much mystery. Both show such wonder at every new discovery, and I come to appreciate it all the more through their eyes. This is where spending time with my niece has continued to awe me. Whether she’s splashing around and watching the water as she learns fluid dynamics, discovering the delights of measuring volume with a shovel, a bucket, and some sand, or learning physics the hard way when she runs, trips, and discovers gravity, everything is so new. We made playdough together (I did the cooking–thermodynamics is best studied with supervision!) and I watched her delight as the mixture turned pink from the food coloring and then solidified into a squishy mass. She already had playdough from the store, but there’s something so satisfying about playdough you make yourself–and not just that we could make it in her favorite color. A few days ago I spent time with week-old kittens. At that age, they haven’t discovered much. But reflected in those wrinkled faces and slivers of eyes just starting to open, I can see the whole world, and before long, they’ll be running and jumping and learning as enthusiastically as my niece. Shana Hausman is the Administrative Assistant and Communications Associate for Beth El. Shana is a writer and lover of stories, and they’re rarely found without a book and a knitting project close at hand. They love comic books, role-playing games, queer Jewish fiction, and their cats, Mira & Solstice. [...] Read more...
August 31, 2026Matzah and the little breads litter Back in April 2024, I emailed Cantor Vera Broekhuysen asking for a copy of a resource she’d created listing all the names of God in Congregation Beth El’s siddur. My cat got in the way while writing the email, so I included a little joke at the end: “My cat, by the way, stepped on the backspace bar. I need to convince her that “Coco” is not a name for God. Somehow.” I am rather fond of making cat-God jokes. We talk about worshipping our cats in this household. We feed them, change their litter boxes, give in to every demand for petting… in return they come when they want, purr when they want, and look so darn cute. Cantor Vera replied to my email, including my joke. “And… why couldn’t Coco be a name for God? If God is everything, everyone, everywhere…..” And I can’t stop thinking about that. I don’t believe in God, as a general rule. It drives my partner, who believes in God but did not grow up with ritual, a bit crazy that ritual and the rules around ritual mean so much to me when I don’t actually believe in God. Sometimes I find myself believing a little around the High Holy Days, and I half-jokingly blame that on the book imagery, seeing as I’m a librarian. But God in my cats, in the cats I foster, in all cats, because God is everywhere? That hits me in my heart in ways I can’t totally explain. I can see it, somehow. I have to work to see God in people because people do so many horrible things, but God in cats? In the perfectly designed predators who just have to look at me to melt my heart? That is something I can understand. Dev Singer is a librarian at Brandeis University and a member of Congregation Beth El and the Shir Hadash Reconstructionist havurah in Newton. In her spare time, she fosters felines for Stray Pets in Need. [...] Read more...
August 30, 2026Photograph by Arielle Sabot The rain in July — in Tammuz, in Av — comes like a crescendo ahead of Elul and all that follows. Rain reminds me of teshuvah for some reason. Perhaps as a metaphor or stand-in for teshuvah itself — rain reminds me of repenting, for the full English alliteration — or (and?) — of returning. The cleaning/purifying effect even evokes the mikveh, as rain leaves what it graces a kind of palimpsest of its past, as time’s grime and dust wash off, sometimes in rivulets of pollen. But repent implies a conscious degree of regret, whereas to return refers to the softer losing one’s way, without deliberateness presumed. Rain doesn’t seem to come because of an intentional decision, either for or against (and then, the natural question: for or against what? Drought? Monsoon? Drizzle? Dry days? Sunshine? Sleet? Snow? Hail? A finite list of infinite permutations) with the pendulum reckoning for equilibrium. Rather, systems get out of balance, ways get lost, entropy arises and sometimes abounds; the winds that blow themselves off course blow themselves back on, though how quickly or slowly depends on many factors, including whether the winds bring rain in tow. Rain, in a sense, could be the Earth’s mikveh: flowing natural waters submerging our Earth, which cannot itself immerse, simultaneously replenishing its own living waters (giving humans our mikvot), so planet and people can enter into another year purified again, with the inherent capacity to bear ourselves on all levels through another year of one of the Divine’s most sacred and important gifts: life. While watching the rain, especially once Tammuz starts, I contemplate the intentionality with which I want to live out my coming year, to align it better with the Earth and the rest of all HaShem’s creations, so as to live better within the world given to us. I hope that every time it rains this upcoming 5787, I take a moment to remember, reflect, and return if I’m losing my way or have lost it — part of a practice of living throughout the year. Ander “Andy” Jones Berasaluce (he/him) is a Boston-based writer and linguist. Drawn to textual nuance, intersectionality, and human and natural ecology, his work often explores the crossings of language, history, nature, culture, and time – both sacred and mundane. [...] Read more...
August 28, 2026When I stand still and open up my eyes, I see the sounds of life that fill the trees. I see each blade of grass that softly sighs. And suddenly, I dance with grace, with ease. I race the breeze. I chase away the clouds. The world itself spins round inside of me. I’m not alone, nor am I lost in crowds. I’m home at last. This music sets me free! I hear a song in every stone I see. The rain, a drum. The sun, a tambourine. September sings a haunting melody. And spring, a harmony of blue and green. It’s more than any chorus can contain. With every breath, a bright and new refrain. Now retired from a career teaching special needs children, Alan Sugar works as a part-time writing tutor at Perimeter College of Georgia State University. Alan’s professional background has influenced the sense of wonder that he invests in crafting his poems. His work appears in the Atlanta Review, Jewish Literary Journal, Lyric, Ekphrastic Review, Awakenings Review, and RFD. [...] Read more...
August 27, 2026Trees with milky way galaxy. Photo by Thomas Ciszewski on Unsplash Teshuvah is returning to our original holiness, said a rabbi I once knew, when we have missed the mark. The journey back from extreme states, those sometimes called mental illness, is one of relearning how to live on this particular earth, in this particular universe: the names and electron configurations of the elements; the depths of soil horizons in the city; how to use the train and bus lines; the phone numbers of friends; and the need for thanks or amends. Humans are communal creatures; at Yom Kippur and at evening we take responsibility for collective wrongs and acknowledge collective sufferings. Teshuvah, the journey back from collective extreme states, such as the devastations of war or industrialism, is also one of relearning how to live on this particular earth, in this particular universe: shelter; solar panels; swords into ploughshares; cleaning water; mourning or amends. We are not so impudent, says the Keriat Shema, daily prayer at bedtime, as to declare before You that we are righteous and have not sinned or carried wounds. Feeding the soil microbes compost tea is healing and atonement. Sunflowers patiently abate lead, including that left by bullets. Soil is sanity, as are stars. Teshuvah is to return to You, my Beloved, says the Song of Songs, when the voice of the turtle dove and all the other sounds of the earth and environs — here in Boston this summer the calls of chickadees and cardinals, the drops of desperately needed rain, and the thunder of an estimated three-foot-wide meteor breaking up over Massachusetts Bay — are heard in the land. Lisa Greber is a peer, writer, activist, budding permaculturist, and space aficionado currently living in Boston, Massachusetts. She has worked in various aspects of the environmental field for decades. She comes from an interfaith (patrilineally Jewish) family. She was at the inaugural Rosh Hashanah event for the launch of Rabbi Katy Allen’s Jewish community Ma’yan Tikvah in the fall of 2007 and served for a time as a nature chaplain intern for that organization. [...] Read more...
August 26, 2026It is so hot outside I keep trying to peel off layers of my skin Anything to get cool Anything to escape. Even the Hudson River looks refreshing In heat as tantalizing as this one. Tattooed on the hand Of the guy on the bus It says: “Don’t become a Victim of your own Compassion.” At times writing feels like pulling weeds From a garden wilting in my mind The ache of the retrieval The burrowing, the searching. It’s Elul now And that’s supposed to mean something Sitting on unwashed sheets I try to imagine The chill of rebirth But instead, I breathe, And I think I smell smoke. And I think I smell growth. I water gardens of dandelions, You can tell me all you want, That they are meant to be killed I know a flower when I see one. When I am written In the book of life I hope G-d remembers My compassion. But if she doesn’t, The dandelions will. Rebecca/Becca (she/her) has been spending a lot of time wondering if she would be able to write more if it were not so hot out. This poem reflects on times when it is hard to find meaning in Elul and to remember that the year concludes whether we are prepared for it or not. She is not prepared. Becca does casework at an older adult center and is working on her Master’s in mental health counseling. She is published in New Voices Magazine, the New Orleans Public Library Summer Fun Adult Writing Contest, and Rutgers Writing House. In her free time, she enjoys making wishes on dandelions even though it makes her sneeze. She lives on the Lower East Side of New York City. [...] Read more...
August 25, 2026Summer faded slowly that year, like a sunflower bowing its heavy head. I reminded myself to enjoy the meandering of mind, the swooning of soul. I waited for you, I whispered to Summer. At times, the chilled air of waiting stung my cheeks pink and cocooned me in my bed. But I knew, when you arrived, Summer, that you would be worth a thousand winds. I was not wrong, for Summer wisped in on a warm breeze, dancing, leaving footprints of freckles on my shoulders. It was easy to fall fast for her, for Summer flaunts her beauty with the whir of hummingbirds, and bursting blooms of color. Her love always returns, a little different each time, but I always recognize her. That year she was fast by day and slow by night. Why hasn’t Summer’s death split me open, sent me to my bed wrapped in sheets of sorrow? She didn’t want that for me. It was not her way. The Summer I knew strewed her gifts like wildflower seeds on the wind. Her sun’s rays sliced the darkness. Perhaps that is why she grew tired, weary; her light slowly dimming. Rest now, on the horizon. I want to beg her to stay longer, to escort in the first cool breath of autumn. Is it wrong to wish that Summer would die slowly? Not with pain or suffering, not in sickness but in the same way the fog rolls in, gently, slowly. For it is easier to lose something so beautiful a little at a time. Leanne is a licensed school and educational psychologist, writer, gardener, and creator living south of Boston. She is happiest working in her yard, spending time with friends and family, and finding ways to create beauty amid the noise and negativity of the world. These outlets quiet her soul when life feels too loud. She finds inspiration and gratitude in nature, particularly in the woods. [...] Read more...
August 24, 2026As I sat with words of prayer, a chipmunk raced toward me along the pathway, stopped a foot in front of me, looked all around, then in the blink of an eye swiveled and raced off the way it had come. Had you suddenly realized you had forgotten something, little chipmunk? Had you sensed danger? Had you seen or felt my presence? Just what was it that made you stop and look and return the way you had come? What made you realize you were going in the wrong direction? Tell me a little chipmunk, that I may understand. Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world, poet, retired rabbi of Ma’yan Tikvah outdoor congregation, former healthcare chaplain, co-founder of the Jewish Climate Action Network, eco-chaplain, and the founder of the Earth Etudes for Elul in 2011/5771. The recipient of the 2025 Prose Poetry Competition Honorable Mention, her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in such places as Amethyst Review, The Bluebird Word, Cosmic Daffodil, and Art on the Trails: Number 9. Her poetic book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text and Earth Etudes for Elul: Spiritual Reflections for the Season were published by Strong Voices Publishing. Her work can be found online at www.katyzallen.com. [...] Read more...
August 23, 2026אהבת עולם הרב לואיס פוליסון מוצאי ט׳׳ו בְּאָב תשפ״ו נורת’המפטון, מסצ’וסטס אדמות ילידיות של שבטי הניפמאק, הפוקומטאק, והנאָונוטוק באַגַּן הַסַּהַר אחרי הגשם והשמש שרנו שירי אהבה אהבת חסד אהבת האדמה אהבת העולם תשובת היהודי תשובת כל אדם הוא לחזור לשורשים כי עָפָר מִן־הָאֲדָמָה אנחנו עם נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים נשמת השכינה הופכים, שבים לְנֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה חַסְדֵי הויה כִּי לֹא תָמְנוּ, כִּי לֹא כָלוּ רַחֲמֶיהָ כי יכולה להיות אגודה אחת ונהיה קהילה קדושה על האדמה בשירה ובזמרה מצאנו ונִמָּצֵא באהבת עולם Motza’ei Tu Be-Av 5786 / July 29, 2026 Northampton, Massachusetts — Native lands of the Nipmuc, Pocumtuc, and Nonotuck tribes In the fullness of the moon After the rain and the sun We sang songs of love Love of kindness Love of the earth Love of the world The repentance of the Jew The repentance of every human Is to return to our roots For dust from the soil of the humus are we With the breath of life The soul-breath of the Divine Presence Transforming into, returning as a living being The kindnesses of the ETERNAL BEING have not ended, for Her merciful compassion is never finished For it is possible to be one unified community And we can become a holy congregation On the earth In song and in chant We have found And we will be found In eternal love Postscript: This poem was composed after the annual Tu Be-Av Concert at Congregation B’nai Israel in Northampton, MA, on July 29th, 2026. The ensemble featured Molly Bajgot (vocals and music direction), Gabriella Feingold (vocals), Nat Ross (piano/keyboard, acoustic guitar, and bass guitar), Rabbi Louis Polisson (bass guitar, acoustic and electric guitars), and Jesse Chevan (drums and percussion). The concert was a beautiful and powerful meditation on love, both between human beings and other humans, and between humans and the more-than-human-world on Earth. Louis Polisson (he/him) currently serves as the Senior Rabbi at Congregation B’nai Israel in Northampton, MA. From July 2023 through June 2026, he worked as the Associate Rabbi and Music Director at Congregation Beth Sholom in Teaneck, New Jersey. He previously served for five years as the Rabbi of Congregation Or Atid in Wayland, Massachusetts. He earned his BA in Classical Studies from Brandeis University and received rabbinic ordination and an MA in Kabbalah & Ḥasidut from the Jewish Theological Seminary. A poet, musician, and composer, Rabbi Polisson was awarded an alumni grant from the Hadar Institute to write and record As Full of Song as the Sea, an album of original Jewish and earth-based spiritual songs with his spouse, Gabriella Feingold (she/her). He and Gabriella are the proud parents of 6-year-old Asher (he/him). [...] Read more...
August 21, 2026Turning Twice each day the sea — the scarred lungs of our planet — advances breathing out to erase the sins visited on the shore Twice each day the sea recedes breathing in to offer forgiveness a chance to begin anew Twice each day the sea upholds the Promise that the waters will never again overtake the land Twice each day the sea reveals how small we are and how great the consequences of our actions Twice each day the sea reminds us renewal is always possible redemption is as close as breath repair is but one step away Alex Carter (she/her) lives and writes in Hyattsville, MD. Her work re/imagines LGBTQ+ folk into Jewish myth and lore, and explores identity, belonging, and connection. She has been published in Ritualwell and several anthologies, and was featured in the 2026 DC Pride Poems project. She believes you can never have too many notebooks. [...] Read more...
August 20, 2026EUTIERRIA (Home Sweet Home) An augury whispered at dawn, “You’ll see what your ancestors mean.” I nigh shrugged it off as unbidden, And heeded with cur’osity. In the yard, morning sun graced my back Yet a half-smile soon fell at the sides — For something awry lent a fright, Gave me pause, made me tense, pilfe’d my light. Not yonder enough, ‘cross the fence, Adults leered, and children alike. Righteously taunting and jeering, They smeared with the strangest delight. So I went to the park to get distance, Denigration met me, askew. Then I found a new trail — let’s try there! The disease started spreading there, too?! So I went to the hill with creatives! I drove hundreds of miles away; Yet they looked at me there like I’m evil, Accusations: confessions unscathed. So I told the trees just what they did, (I learned that from some ol’ folk tale) And I still don’t know quite what it means, But here’s what the quand’ry unveiled: Not redress, retribution, nor change, Instead, symbiosis for all. Provide oxygen while we’re living, Consume nitrogen once we fall. And I watched as the trees dance with sunbeams: Shadows interplay o’er the ground. Phylliform dioramas flit playfully, Masterpieces of beauty abound. And I realized this isn’t about me, Though I started to harden in pain. (Hurt people hurt people: afflicted) Arboresque, I remain grounded: refrain. And I learned that I need to be patient, Though the root of patience is pain. Like branches: beneficent, supple; Imagine, together, our gain? Then the solstice falls upon all of us — The ruckus relents, post-rain musk. I return to the yard, perpending, And my ancestors whispered at dusk: When you went to the hill did you notice The luna moth perched for three days? On your hikes, winter wrens, they sang shyly Just once, since they knew they were safe. In the park, wide eye’d fawn ambled ‘fore you In the yard, crows left gifts at the gate Built a nest, hatched their eggs in the chestnut On a branch o’er right where you lay. So you’ve found peace among all this chaos, But that doesn’t mean pain goes away — Just remember: the Corvidae trust you. (And hatred can’t take that away.) Some people say, “history repeats” and others say, “history rhymes” — We’ve power to edit our future; I believe that we may still have time. Anna grew up in New England in an interfaith family. While sorting through childhood keepsakes, she rediscovered a note written by her five-year-old self: “My name is Anna, and I write books.” After years of encouragement from mentors, she took it as a catalyst to share her writing. With a background in Fine Arts and STEM, she enjoys exploring the intersection of art and science. [...] Read more...
August 19, 2026Opening our eyes to the water crisis Climate change affects Israel most urgently in water shortages. The Arava Institute is perhaps the leading organization in the Middle East searching for technical and social solutions to climate mitigation, water conservation, sustainable agriculture, and related programs. Celebrating their 30th anniversary this year, the Arava Institute is notable for bringing together people from Israel, Jordan, and the Palestinian Authority in joint projects. People of the ancient Middle East, just as those today, suffered regularly from a lack of water. Just using the Bible as a source, we see in Genesis chapter 16 that Isaac had to move several times after disputes over water. In II Kings chapter 2, Elisha purifies a town’s unpotable water. And Abraham himself gets into a spat with a mysterious leader named Abimelech about who owns a well, in Genesis chapter 21. Earlier in this chapter, in a passage traditionally read on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, Ishmael’s mother Hagar faces a personal water crisis. Twice Hagar has been driven from Abraham’s home by Sarah. And both times, Hagar heads off into the desert, presumably seeking to return to her homeland in Egypt. The first time, an angel finds her by a spring and tells her to return to Sarah. The second time, water eludes Hagar and she despairs. God then shows up to boost Hagar’s spirits by promising her that her son Ishmael will not only survive, but will be the progenitor of a great nation. Sensing her newly elevated role in history, she finds a source of water she had not noticed before. We don’t know whether Hagar ever manages to return to her homeland, but she performs a more important t’shuvah: connecting with God directly and fulfilling her mission to raise Ishmael, who is the legendary ancestor of the Arabs in both the Jewish and Muslim traditions. Today, following the model of organizations such as the Arava Institute, we need creative solutions to find water where we did not know it existed. Of course, water conservation on its own is not a long-term solution. The region will swelter in drought and unlivable heat if we continue to load the atmosphere with carbon. But another aspect of the Hagar story must guide us. The reason Sarah drove her away was to deprive Ishmael of any part of Abraham’s inheritance. Similarly, in Israel and around the Middle East today, people expend their resources in trying to drive other people from their land and hoard the resources needed by all. We have to look past these disputes and adopt the broad agenda of the Arava Institute, which treats all residents as equal participants in saving the land.   Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. His editorial projects have ranged from a legal guide covering intellectual property to a graphic novel about teenage hackers. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for 50 years. His poems have appeared in more than 70 journals and anthologies. [...] Read more...
August 18, 2026Abide         after Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, Dukka  Love lives   in the crows   turning and tossing   crushed Cedar branches   shredded cones   severed by whirring blades Love lives   in the carrying of the fallen    to the outstretched arms of Maple   in weaving memory    to cradle new life Love lives   in the comfort    of snow    softening the steps    of the raccoon family   to the tree-top bed   revealing their story of   confusion and loss Love lives    in the tiny bulbs   yellow yellow yellow   rising   amidst the rubble Love lives   in the profusion of leaves   buoyant in full sun   in the bright sea of petals   undulating   in the warming wind Love lives    in the astonishment    the discovery of hidden rubies   luscious and abundant   ripening a daily offering    and blessing Sheryl Shapiro’s poetry appears online at Ritualwell (2021, 2022, 2023), JewishWriters’ Circle Anthology (forthcoming, 2026); Salish Magazine (2022), and ElulEtudes (2024, 2025) Stafford Challenge Anthology (2025/6); in print in “Peregrine”(2024), “Like a Tree by Water: Poems, Prayers and Rituals” (2023), “We’Moon Datebook” (2020, 2022), “Dirt? Scientists, Artists, and Poets Reflect on Soil and Our Environment” exhibit and catalogue, University of Puget Sound (2015), and “Poetry on the Buses” (2014).She lives on Duwamish/Coast Salish land (aka Seattle, Wash.) and wasborn and raised on Lenape land (aka Brooklyn, N.Y.). [...] Read more...
August 17, 2026for the days when return feels like the only prayer i have left i am a scorpio, which means i already belonged to water before i ever stood in itthat eighth house of endings, the sting that would rather turn on itself than stay trapped in a jar but the sea taught me a better trade off: you do not have to hurt yourself to leave. you can just be carried. ——————————————————————————————————————————————————————- this month we are supposed to return. teshuvah, we call itnot “sorry” so much as turning around,But walking back toward the self we misplaced somewhere along the coastlineand picking up what was taken by the wind.so i drove to the water, because that’s what scorpios dowhen there’s nowhere else to scream into but the depths the ocean doesn’t perform its griefit just keeps doing the only thing it knows: pulling back and coming homepulling back and coming home the moon doesn’t ask the wave to be done with its sadness before it returns we are not expected to achieve perfection dad, i wanted to cast this grief off like a sin, the way we’re taught to stand at the shore and let the current take our breadcrumbs or pocket lint but of course i cannot. you are the salt in the oceanyou are why i cry into the same water that raised us generations backbefore we had names for grief, or for god so instead i threw in the smallness i’ve been holding,the fear that loving this hard will kill me too, the anger that the world keeps spinning while a whole man stopped the water didn’t return those, no matter how hard i prayed it just held them, the way it holds every degree of warming we keep asking it to swallow teshuvah isn’t about becoming new, per se. maybe it’s just going back to what already knows how to hold you, and letting it again and again and again Emilia Diamant (she/her) serves as Avodah’s Chief Program Officer. Emilia is an educator, social worker, facilitator who has taught on power and justice, whiteness, pop culture, feminism, and the arts for 15 years. Most recently, Emilia has worked with Dimensions Educational Consulting as the co-facilitator of the Jews of Color & Allies cohort, focusing on helping white women lead on racial equity and build meaningful cross-racial relationships that center Black women. She was a JOIN for Justice Organizing Fellow in 2012-2013 and is also a proud first generation member of Tzedek Lab, a national multiracial network of political education trainers, organizers, spiritual leaders, cultural workers, and allies established to build liberation practice. Emilia earned a degree in Informal Urban Education from New York University and a Master’s in Social Work from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Outside of work, she prides herself on being a Beyhive member, a Bostonian, and a dog lover. [...] Read more...
August 16, 2026BUGS Bugs. Cabbage moths on the collards. Decimated them. Harlequin bugs, another lover of crucifers, have taken the horseradish and turnip leaves. Squash bugs are laying eggs on the hubbard and red kuri squash, and squash borers have been eating through the stems. Some kind of beetle that I haven’t yet seen is making lace out of the leaves on my new, fragile grape vine leaves.  It has been a prolific year. My first in our newest, budding food forest. And it’s as if the New York Times put a front page ad out to all the predatory insects: “Get your food here, free!” I’ve harvested garlic, and collards early in the season. What a crop of parsley for Pesach! The cucumbers are prolific, and our yellow baby watermelons are just yum. It’s not all lost. But I wonder about the intensity of the insects this year. Certainly, I am growing in this North Carolina Piedmont for the first time, but that can’t be the only answer. It’s not my first food forest. What does this have to do with teshuvah?  Perhaps at its simplest, we can ask about what our earth is needing to return it to balance as it deals with the stresses of climate change. I am so happy to see the bees pollinating the herbs and fruits we’re growing. What a blessing. And yet, I am startled at this overwhelming invasion of insects. Reading about the Japanese beetles overtaking the wine grapes in Italy, I realize that while, of course, there are years where insects do overtake plants, I deeply wonder about how to restore equilibrium so insects and plants are not overtaking – either one or the other.  Yes, I use permaculture techniques. Yes, I do companion planting. Yes, I use organic soil and supplements. I compost. I seek to enrich and feed the soil so there is a budding ecosystem of healthy plants. Perhaps these organically grown plants are more attractive to the insects than the ones planted by neighboring farmers who use glyphosate and pesticides. Perhaps the bugs are just going for the yummiest, healthiest plants.  Okay. I’ll hold it like that. At least for the moment. Because I want those bugs to be here on the planet. They are important. They are part of the web of life; expressions of our Divine Creator. So I’ll reframe. Maybe they are like the internal angst I live with. Sometimes it seems like it’s taking over – I am overrun with pain or fear that is restrictive or destructive. Other times that angst is the food for my growth; my letting go, my pathway to discover deeper wholeness within. What are your bugs? Where have they taken control? What paths do you have available to you to bring them back into balance? And perhaps most importantly, what might they teach you so you can radiate the beautiful essence that you are, shining your leaves and light more fully?   Rabbi Robin Damsky (she, her) of Limitless Judaism (@limitlessjudaism) centers her work on the intersection of Body-Spirit-Gaia: embodied and earth-centered spiritual exploration focusing on care of self, others, spirit and the planet. Check out her Elul course, Touching the Beloved Within, to prepare for the High Holidays through these sacred relationships. [...] Read more...
August 14, 2026Turning The journey of teshuvah begins like a seed dropped into welcoming earth,the soul yearning to return to its root-source. In this season of spiraling growth, aspiration shoots up like a strong stalk.Heart-leaves unroll. Desire buds, swells and unclenching, opens:the soul a disc-flower cradling its blossoms,bright ray-petals its joyous beacons. Nature’s sequential pattern appears in teshuvah, too:like the heliocentric earth, the heliotropic sunflower,the soul turns again, and again, orientating in the Sourcereconnecting to its truest self.   Rabbi Janet Madden, Ph.D.,  is a writer, spiritual director, ritualist and teacher of Torah. An herbalist, hand-quilter and ordained animal chaplain, she lives in gratitude with her spouse, dog, cat and flock of backyard chickens. [...] Read more...
August 5, 2026For many years the wider Jewish community has come together to honor the annual process of teshuvah during Elul while reflecting on the Earth. This collection, Earth Etudes for Elul, returns again on August 14 / 1 Elul. Sign up below to receive daily emails with a poem or short reflection on where we are in the season. Interested in contributing? There are still a few spots left. Email earthetudes@gmail.com with your submission (500 words max.) including a brief bio and an image. Earth Etudes for Elul Sign up to receive daily musings on teshuvah and the living Earth in your inbox. Email (required) * Select list(s) to subscribe to Earth Etudes Yes, I would like to receive emails from Congregation Beth El about Elul Etudes. (You can unsubscribe anytime) Constant Contact Use. Please leave this field blank. By submitting this form, you are consenting to receive marketing emails from: . You can revoke your consent to receive emails at any time by using the SafeUnsubscribe® link, found at the bottom of every email. Emails are serviced by Constant Contact [...] Read more...

Read last year’s Etudes

elul etudes 5785
October 1, 2025Thank you for reading this year’s Earth Etudes for Elul. We hope these musings on teshuvah and the Earth supported your journey into the High Holy Days of 5786. This is the final musing, a reflection for Yom Kippur, the Day of Mourning. It has been an honor to share the knowledge of so many, Arielle Sabot Two years ago on Rosh Hashanah my sixteen year old cat Lucyfur wandered into the woods and never came back. She was an older lady with some health problems, and she decided it was time to say goodbye. We had recently moved to Vermont, and it was there she made her final resting place.  At first I was in denial. Why would she wander off? Would she come back, or was she injured? Eventually, it became clear Lucyfur knew what she was doing. She had always been intuitive, talkative, and clear about what she wanted. This was no exception. She had done her reflection and teshuvah for the last time. Lucyfur first came into my life when I was a lonely college student living in New York City. She was afraid of humans, hesitant to trust, and recovering from her time in the city shelter; I was stressed with school, overwhelmed by the weight of climate change, and finding my way in the world. Six years after our meeting, we had both healed in unthinkable ways. We had returned to our true selves. Since that High Holy Day season, I’ve come into deeper, and hopefully more right, relationship with the living Earth. I have come to understand what Lucyfur already knew, the land heals itself and others as it has since creation. I learned this through farming the land, meditating with the trees, and conversing with plants during outdoor adventures. The land as our most ancient ancestor knows more than we ever can. I’d like to return to this, to the innate wisdom of our beginnings. I’d like to watch the trees sway in the breeze and know that they are communicating; I’d like to listen to water rush down the river reminding me that movement will never cease; and I’d like to maintain hope in humanity that even at our lowest lows – when we allow our communal and ancestral trauma to dictate our actions, violently, irreversibly – redemption and teshuvah are possible. I’m reminded of these possibilities when I see plants growing despite a drought or when the fallen dead wood nourishes the soil of the forest floor. I hear about the possibilities for the future when elders in my community tell me stories about the fights they lost and won to get to where we are. I see the commitment of those around me to bring justice and liberation in spite of a crumbling empire for the sake of humanity and the more-than-human world. At this midway point in the High Holy Days, on the Day of Mourning, we ask God to write our names in the Book of Life for another year. With the hard work of teshuvah done, we might think we can call it a wrap and move on. But the work never ceases. Let’s continue to investigate and be curious about the ways we walk through the world, the causes to which we commit, and the people and beings we invite to go with us. Shana tova u’metuka, may you be written in the Book of Life! Arielle Sabot (they/them) is an outdoor educator, farmer, artist, and community builder based in Boston. They direct Congregation Beth El’s BE OutSpirEd program in Sudbury, MA. Arielle holds a master’s degree in Jewish Gender and Women’s Studies from the Jewish Theological Seminary and is certified as a Mindful Outdoor Guide from Kripalu’s School of Mindful Outdoor Leadership. Arielle organized this year’s Earth Etudes for Elul with guidance from the project’s founder, Rabbi Katy Allen. Many of the photographs featured throughout the month were created by Arielle. [...] Read more...
September 24, 2025Shana Tova! May your year be filled with unexpected blessings. May you remember that we all belong.                   May you notice the subtleties.                 May you be transported by wonder.                       May you remember to look closely.                 May you find windows of opportunity.             May you be caught by a friend when you fall.                 May your losses be transformed to beauty.                           May you feel your covenant renewed.               May you tap into your creativity.             May you catch glimpses of nourishment amongst the chaos.               May you recognize your limits.                 May you experience stillness and quiet.                     May your new year be blessed amidst the storm and the wind. Shana tova, may you have a good year. Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world, retired rabbi of Ma’yan Tikvah, an outdoor congregation, co-founder of the Jewish Climate Action Network, eco-chaplain, and poet. Her poetry has appeared in New Verse News, The Jewish Poets Collective Journal, the 2025 Art on the Trails: Number 9poetry and art book, and is forthcoming at Bluebird Word. Her poetic book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text was published by Strong Voices Publishing. Thank you, Rabbi Katy for founding the Earth Etudes for Elul project, returning us to our oldest ancestor – Mother Earth – and advocating for a Jewish life lived outdoors. Your work continues to inspire. [...] Read more...
September 23, 2025I speak fluent Cat.  For most of my life, I’ve lived with these furry companions, learning to read the complex signals in the turn of an ear, the flick of a whisker, the brush of a tail.  From our cats, I learned that true listening can be done with eyes as well as ears, and also with the heart. Over the years, I’ve learned that listening fully, both to humans and to cats, requires me to set my own words and expectations aside.  When I practice inner stillness, allowing what I’m hearing to enter my being, I become a far better companion.  This kind of awareness is especially important as Rosh Hashanah draws close. We’re entering the season of teshuvah, our time to “return” to our best selves by making amends for past missteps.  Whether I’ve slighted a friend or failed to heed the Earth’s urgent messages about climate instability, repair begins with the same practice: setting aside my assumptions and truly absorbing what’s being communicated. A Hasidic story of the Yehudi (Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak) makes a similar point.  Once, as he and his disciple Peretz crossed a meadow, they heard cows lowing and geese rising in flight, honking with a clap of wings. “If only we could understand what they’re saying!” Peretz cried. “When you can understand what you yourself are saying,” his teacher answered, “you will understand the language of all creatures” (adapted from Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim). The Yehudi knew what my cats have taught me: deep listening needs both external attention and internal awareness of my own biases and shortcomings.  Without both, we miss important details and deny ourselves the opportunity to bring our best selves forward. This kind of mindfulness lies at the heart of real teshuvah.  When relationships need repair, I must listen carefully to understand the impact of my actions so that I can decide on the most authentic and helpful reply.  Our relationship with the Earth deserves a similar focus.  Climate change speaks through the language of extreme weather and ecosystem disruption.  Meaningful response – environmental teshuvah – requires us to examine our own patterns of consumption and commit ourselves to improving our relationship with the natural world in healthful ways. As we enter Rosh Hashanah, the threshold of the New Year, we’re called to practice this art of deep listening with renewed intention.  May we open our whole being to our loved ones (of however many feet) and to our planet so that we can respond with loving intent, bringing healing and renewal to the year ahead. Rabbi Josh Breindel joined Beth El on July 1, 2018. Previously, he served nine years as rabbi of Temple Anshe Amunim (TAA) in Pittsfield, Mass. He earned a B.A. in philosophy with a minor in classics and a concentration in legal studies from Brandeis University. Settling in the Boston area, he served as education consultant at Kerem Shalom in Concord, core instructor for 11th-grade students at Prozdor of Hebrew College in Newton, and assistant director of education at Temple Shir Tikvah in Winchester. After completing master’s degrees in Jewish studies and Jewish education, he was ordained at Hebrew College in 2009. Rabbi Breindel has particular interests in Jewish storytelling, theater and folklore, and he’s passionate about Jewish science fiction and fantasy — he leads the online Jewish Fantasy and Sci-Fi Book Club that’s open to all. You can follow him on Facebook at RabbiJoshB. [...] Read more...
September 22, 2025On the head of the year We stand and blow The curved horn That once stood proud On the head of the ram Each blast, each sound, each alarm, each calling Awakens our souls To act, to protest, to rally So that it may be a year Of goodness. Of Peace. Of abundance for all.    כָּל שָׁנָה שֶׁאֵין מַתְרִיעִין עָלֶיהָ בָרִאשׁוֹנָה  סוֹף שֶׁמַּתְרִיעִין עָלֶיהָ בְסוּפָהּ.  Any year for which no shofar was blown at the start,  one will have to blow at the end.  —Jerusalem Talmud Taanit 2:1   כׇּל שָׁנָה שֶׁאֵין תּוֹקְעִין לָהּ בִּתְחִלָּתָהּ —  מְרִיעִין לָהּ בְּסוֹפָהּ. Any year during which the shofar was not sounded at its beginning  will suffer evil at its end.  —Babylonian Talmud Rosh Hashanah 16b   כל שנה … מריעין לה בסופה  if people neglect to sound the Shofar in the beginning of the year (on New Year’s Day), they will sound the truʿah for it at its end (on public fast days on account of calamities) —Jastrow’s Dictionary   Kohenet Shamirah aka Sarah Chandler is a Brooklyn-based Jewish educator, artist, activist, healer, and poet. An advanced student of Kabbalistic dream work at The School of Images, she is the CEO of Shamir Collective, as a coach and consultant to high profile musicians, artists, and authors to launch new works. She is a co-author of the recently published zine “Expanding the Field: A DIY Rosh Hashanah Companion” from Ayin Press. [...] Read more...
September 21, 2025Eight weeks postpartum with my first child—an unlikely miracle, given that I’m 42—I watch my daughter wake in the dawn light. She arches her back extravagantly and raises her arms high above her head. Later, she slumps heavy on my chest, napping. Later still, she brushes her fingers back and forth across a nubbly blanket. Throughout the day she drinks hungrily, burps loudly after crying, passes gas as she looks in my eyes and smiles. She doesn’t know how to shrink. She inhabits her body to its limits and there meets the world unfolding. “Make your body your home however you please.” Eight weeks postpartum, this message appears on my screen. Despite the physical marathon of early parenthood, I still live largely inside my head, its walls made of my worries and doubts. My daughter helps me see the meagerness of this. She helps me recall how the world unscrolls—slowly, dramatically, astonishingly—when I step out from under the shelter of my fear. “Make your body your home however you please.” Eight weeks postpartum, I look up and it’s Elul. The Hebrew month calls for teshuvah, return, and carries us into Rosh HaShanah, the birth day of the world. Suspended between birth and rebirth, I hear a new kind of call:  Come back, the call says. Come back, be at ease, be at home. This is your birthright, the call says. To be, unshrinking. To be, in yourself and in the world. Rabbi Ora Nitkin-Kaner is a climate change chaplain, educator, and innovative spiritual leader. The founder of Exploring Apocalypse, she helps individuals and communities across faith traditions explore the spiritual disruptions, invitations, and reorientations of living in a time of change. [...] Read more...
September 20, 2025The rain comes down.  I turn away. I do not bless the end of day. And when the light comes back to me, I do not thank the world I see. These are the gifts that I forget. Without remorse.  Without regret. The leaves now fall, and all is still. Will these forgive? Oh yes, they will. Despite my pain and my despair, they will return.  They will be there. Through day and night, in sun and showers, the earth sustains.  And it is ours. Flowers wait beneath the snow. And in the dark, the stars still glow. The day begins and goes away, for those who sin and those who pray. For thieves and schemers who steal and lie. For fools and dreamers such as I. The rain that falls– from this I drink. At end of day, I nod and blink. And when I wake– afraid, alone, the world I see becomes my own. The leaves now fall.  I call to each. The trees are bare.  But, oh, they reach. I see it all, both small and great. And all that fades, I recreate. Bring me the sun, so I may sing– far from my tears that blind and sting. A breeze that sighs.  A soft caress. A hand to hold.  A soul to bless. Now retired from a career in Special Education, Alan works as a writing tutor at Perimeter College of Georgia State University. Alan finds much comfort in writing his poems. They allow him to express a need for balance, wholeness, and self. [...] Read more...
September 19, 2025Light candles now, In your home For the homeless.  For the displaced With no place They can afford; For the first peoples Whose lands and cultures Were stolen or degraded; For the animals Invading your backyards. How dare they walk where they once lived; For those on islands Swamped by the rising water, Ocean where there once was land; For those who survived a shooting, There is no more safety, It is lost forever; For the addicted whose illness Destroys their true selves While the greedy make money; For the warred upon and bombed out, Starving and hopeless, Not even a tent to sleep in; For the houses and habitats Burnt up in climate change’s fires, And everything gone; For the immigrants, Losing the old lands to violence and poverty And so violently unwelcome in the new. Where will they light their candles now? This is our covenant: Take care of the earth And it will take care of you.  So it is upon us! Build housing; Make reparations; Preserve wilderness; End fossil fuels; Restrict guns; Treat addiction; Cease fire; Live sustainably; Welcome immigrants.  Create new homes And save the old ones. Light candles, Now.  Amen Trisha Arlin is a liturgist and teacher of prayer writing in Brooklyn, NY. She is published in various anthologies and siddurim, in her book, Place Yourself (Dimus Parrhesia Pess) and online at Ritualwell, OpenSiddur and her site, Trisha Arlin: Words of Prayer and Intention. She writes with the Bayit Liturgical Artists and was Liturgist In Residence at the National Havurah Conference. [...] Read more...
September 18, 2025We all understand that our individual efforts to improve ourselves (t’shuvah) will fall short of solving the climate crisis. Our society, after many decades of avoiding disruptive, transformative change, must act drastically to ratchet back the worsening environmental devastation. It is tempting, in our culture, to associate an eschatological “end of days” scenario with disaster as well as with salvation. We should not overdramatize our situation and call down God’s rage; that will not help us move society toward the necessary action. But it’s interesting to see the various uses made in the Jewish Bible of the “end of days” concept, expressed in Hebrew as “b’aḥarit hayamim.” The word “b’aḥarit” is a subtle one. Its root, “aḥar,” means both “other” and “after.” It’s the opposite of “b’reishit,” the word that begins Genesis and is traditionally translated as “in the beginning.” I like to translate “b’aḥarit” as “afterness” and see “b’aḥarit hayamim” as a radical disconnection from the past. The word “hayamim,” which means “the days,” indicates a period of time. Thus, the entire phrase suggests both something that’s very different from our current society and a new phase of society that leaves the current one behind. Physicists say that before the Big Bang, there was not only no universe but no time. Eschatologists suggest that “b’aḥarit hayamim” will be another Big Bang that brings time to an end. The peace of Shabbat will always rein. What does time have to do with our environmental problems? To fix them, we have to stop prioritizing efficiency and maximizing our use of time. We can’t try to extract every bit of resources from the Earth, faster and faster, as we’re doing now. The phrase “b’aḥarit hayamim” appears about a dozen times in the Bible, usually heralding a Golden Age of peace and justice (Isaiah 2:2, Ezekiel 38:16, Hosea 3:5, Micah 4:1, Daniel 2:28, Daniel 10:14). Christians built on this hope, but the Jewish aftertime does not entail the destruction of our world—rather its unification under ideal conditions. Incidentally, the Jews are not the only ones who can look forward to “b’aḥarit hayamim”: It can refer to the restoration of other peoples, such as Moab (Jeremiah 48:47) or Elam (Jeremiah 49:39). Furthermore, “b’aḥarit hayamim” intersects with t’shuvah. In one part of Deuteronomy (verse 4:30), the phrase indicates when the children of Israel will reconnect with God, an early concept of t’shuvah. T’shuvah reappears in Hosea 3:5, where the children of Israel ask for God in days to come–”b’aḥarit hayamim.” When we are ready to give up our frenetic pace of living; when we are ready for development to serve the Earth and its people rather than the reverse; when we are ready to enter into a different relationship with time—then we will do the t’shuvah we need to save the planet. And we will all prosper under this anotherness of days. September 17, 2023 Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. He also writes often on health IT, on policy issues related to the Internet, and on trends affecting technical innovation and its effects on society. Print publications where his work has appeared include The Economist, Communications of the ACM, Copyright World, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, Vanguardia Dossier, and Internet Law and Business. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for more than 30 years and is a member of Temple Shir Tikvah, Winchester, Mass. [...] Read more...
September 17, 2025Elul A thin slice of moon It transforms and gleams As my soul prepares My anticipation Of a new year The cycle Recurring like tides With the Earth The clouds spinning eastwards Turning together The moon and the month Waxing and waning and waxing again The moon and the month Turning together The clouds spinning eastwards With the Earth Recurring like tides The cycle Of a new year My anticipation As my soul prepares It transforms and gleams A thin slice of moon Elul Rabbi Marisa Elana James (she/her/hers) is a graduate of the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College and the Director of Social Justice Programming at CBST (Congregation Beit Simchat Torah) in New York. Marisa and her wife, contrabassoonist and translator Barbara Ann Schmutzler, live in New York City. [...] Read more...
September 16, 2025Thanksgiving is always a big deal in my family, but the Thanksgiving I learned the truth was even bigger. I was writing a dystopian novel: bad chemicals in the ground, strange substances in the air. Birds were dying and frogs were heating up. I started telling my older sister about it and I’ll never forget what she said. “You don’t have to make it up.” She plopped me down in front of her computer and showed me a graph. It was like a hockey stick: the shaft of the stick along the x axis representing the world I had grown up in. On the right side, growing out of the stick and heading upwards were heat, carbon dioxide, and methane. Temperature and greenhouse gases growing out of control. “That’s real?” I asked.  “Hockey stick graph” Global temperature reconstruction of the last two millennia with instrumental temperature from 1880 to 2020 The computer screen was sitting on a black desk built into the walls. I could hear my cousins’ voices from the dining room and the clinking of silverware. I remembered times in my life when I had felt the beauty of the world. How I sat outside my tent one night at Death Valley at four in the morning. The air was so clear it twinkled. Vermillion mariposa lilies were in bloom, their petals smiling in the coolness. A coyote ran by. I could feel a slight mist on my skin as my pores breathed in the dew. I had never liked the desert until that moment. I could feel life pulsing. It was far from dead. No one had ever told me that deserts are alive.  My sister smiling in a desert with wildflowers And then there was the time I stood at the top of Glacier National Park looking back over the five miles I had just hiked. Three pristine pools of glacial waters were below me like sparkling steps, one feeding into the other—paternoster lakes of blue-green water contrasting against the white quartzite and dark green Jefferson pines. It was magical. Glacial lakes My sister nodded yes. Staring at that graph, I began thinking of future generations, my grandchildren and their grandchildren, how they will never know the subtleties of a benign nature. How deserts will die as harsher windstorms carry off the sand and microbes. How flower seeds will get too hot to sprout. How glaciers will dry up and breath-taking turquoise lakes will disappear. How we can be filled by the brilliance of life around us and take it for granted. It has been so easy to forget that we – that I –contribute to the destruction of our world on a daily basis. That I am destroying the deserts and the glaciers. As are the fossil fuel giants through their massive disinformation campaigns. The Jewish word “teshuvah” reminds me to acknowledge wrongdoing and to change. After that Thanksgiving, I began working on reducing my carbon footprint. I joined protests and advocacy campaigns. And I went home and started rewriting my novel. There was a lot to say. Thea Iberall, PhD, is on the leadership team of the Jewish Climate Action Network-MA. Iberall is the author of “The Swallow and the Nightingale,” a visionary fiction novel about a 4,000-year-old secret brought through time by the birds. In this fable, she addresses the real moral issue of today: not whom you love, but what we are doing to the planet. Iberall is also the playwright of “We Did It For You!” – a musical about how women got their rights in America, told by the women who were there. Along with her family, she was inducted into the International Educators Hall of Fame for creative teaching methods. In her work, she bridges between heart and mind and teaches through performance, the written word, poetry, sermons, workshops, and storytelling.  www.theaiberall.com. [...] Read more...
September 15, 2025Humanity, indoors, Blasts The AirCon; The global thermostat Rises in return. Masked, Black-uniformed, Armed, Liberty—turned inward— Demands, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses!” The FEMA team, Turns to the crowd, Water at their knees, Hands out plastic bottles, Plastic tents, Plastic food. We keep dying of consumption. You put your mask on first, But you and I can’t breathe, Cannot turn to help each other. The self-made-man, Stood on the backs of Those he rendered invisible, Turns away, And proclaims himself God. Where will he stand when They have perished, Returned to dust and ash? What will he say to God When he meets Her? And what will She say In return? Leah F. Cassorla, Ph.D., MFA, is studying for a Kol-Bo (dual ordination) at Academy for Jewish Religion. She believes our climate and political crises are deeply intertwined and driven by unfettered capitalism. [...] Read more...
September 14, 2025When you go out And the waves are crashing Over the breakwater Over the tops of the walls At the edge of the land When the rain is finely misting And the wind howls Around the circle at The end of the road You can breathe deep The salt, the gasp, The sudden question Of what sea level Actually is, can it be one Fixed point, and you think About how far you climb From this absolute, how Holiness climbs every step With you, from this unsure recess The whole way up. Cheryl Carmi is a Vermont-based  writer, cohousing neighbor, and PhD student who has been engaged in a year-long project of poetic response to weekly parshiot (Torah portions), which are often about being in the natural world, and also frequently turn into transmedia improvisations with my ridiculously talented musician husband. [...] Read more...
September 13, 2025Rashi expresses surprise when the spies come back from the land of Israel in just forty days. After all, he points out at Number 13:25, the land is 400 by 400 parsa’ot, and it should have taken many times longer to make their way through all the land from sea to river and north to south. Rather, God enabled the spies to jump the path – to be led along miraculous shortcuts that would “shorten the way”. Shortening the path is normally something that happens to rebbes and Chasidim in Chasidic stories, so that they can arrive someplace special to perform righteous acts that will redeem the world. Since the spies, except Caleb and Joshua, are seen as wicked, talking badly about the land, planting bitterness in everyone, why would they merit having their path shortened? If anything, they deserved to have obstacles block their path. The reason, Rashi explains, is that God knew they would destroy the will of the people and ruin the chance to enter the land. And God knew that God would have to decree that the Israelites wander in the desert one year for each day that the spies wandered in the land. God shortened their path so that the desert exile could also be shorter. In a time when the wicked seem to prosper, fomenting wars and destruction, killing the innocent, tearing down democracy, undoing laws that protect the earth and her species, torturing immigrants in prisons and concentration camps that violate human rights, may this teaching be a lesson about what is happening. Perhaps the journey of the wicked is being sped up so that they can be ushered off the world stage sooner, before it is too late to undo their damage. As the psalm for Shabbat (92:8) says, Bif’roach r’sha’im k’mo eisev, yatsitsu kol po’alei aven, l’hishamdam adei ad – “When the wicked bloom like grass, the workers of iniquity blossom, is it to destroy them forever.” So may it be. Rabbi David Seidenberg is the author of Kabbalah and Ecology and creator of neohasid.org. David’s writing focuses on Jewish thought in relation to animal rights, human rights, and ecology. He was ordained by JTS and by Reb Zalman Shachter-Shalomi. David is also known for his liturgy and translations, and for activism on climate and human rights issues. David is also an avid dancer and a composer of classical and Jewish music. [...] Read more...
September 12, 2025Ecological grief, or climate grief, refers to the sense of loss that arises from experiencing or learning about climate change. In this time of ecological devastation, this loss is ongoing. The work of tending to our grief is therefore continuous. This ritual is intended to be revisited, revised and performed in community or with a chevruta, a learning partner. The Jewish ritual of tevillah, immersion, in a mikvah, a ritual bath, containing mayim hayim, fresh, running water, is an ancient and sacred practice. Water is life; our estuaries and watersheds shape our landscape and support our essential functions. Mayim hayim constitute a portal, facilitating the easeful transformation between different states of being, sanctifying transitions. This Wild Mikvah will honor our climate grief and facilitate our transition into meaningful collective action. Ritual: Choose your mikvah Choose your natural body of water. Bring a chevruta, or a collective of beloveds, to immerse with you. You will guide each other through the ritual. Prepare your body for tevillah Jewish wisdom teaches that there must be no barrier between the body and the mayim hayim. Ecological destruction is in part caused by the false separation between self and the environment. Part of our collective healing must be the reintegration of self and environment. Enter the water Have your chevruta read this kavanah: Akiva was a shepherd of 40 years old. One day, while standing by the mouth of a well in Lydda, he inquired, “Who hollowed out this stone?” and was told, “Akiva, haven’t you read that ‘water wears away stone’ (Job 14:19)? – it was water falling upon it constantly, day after day.” So, Akiva asked himself: “Is my mind harder than this stone? I will go and study at least one section of Torah.” We know this man as the legendary Rabbi Akiva. The softness of water has the power to carve and shape the hardness of stone, through steadiness and persistence. Repeat: May the softness of the water flow over me; may it soften my grief and carve a space for hope in my heart. May the softness of the water welcome my grief and hold it for me. Bless this mitzvah It is Sephardic Jewish custom to bless the mitzvah of immersion before immersing in the mikvah. Bless: Barukh ata Adonai, Elohenu melekh ha’olam, asher kideshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al ha’tevillah. Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Eternal Sovereign, who has sanctified us with Your commandments and commanded us to immerse. בּרוּךְ אַתָּה י’ אֱלהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם אֲשֶׁר קִדְשָׁנוּ בּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ עַל הַטְבִילָה Immerse Immerse yourself fully each time. Your chevruta will read a kavannah (guiding intention) before each dunk based on Joanna Macy’s “Work that Reconnects.” First immersion: Coming From Gratitude Kavannah: Modeh ani l’fanecha, ruach hai v’kayam. I am grateful to you, Living and Enduring Spirit, and I am grateful to the waters for supporting my lifeforce. Second immersion: Honoring Our Pain for the World Kavannah: I am grieving the loss of (name your grief). I give my grief to the water, knowing that it is big and generous enough to hold it for me. Third immersion: Seeing with New/Ancient Eyes Kavannah: My wellbeing is intertwined with the wellbeing of all creatures and our shared environments. As my skin meets the mayim hayim, I enter into sacred communion with the wilds, and assume my humble place in connection with all Life. Fourth immersion: Going Forth Kavannah: With this final immersion, I commit myself to the belief that a better world is possible because we can build it. I will take bold climate action with my beloved community to help ensure a livable future for all. Closing Havdalah, or separation, is our ritual for marking the transition out of sacred time, Shabbat, and into the mundanity of the week. The preliminary verses of the havdalah liturgy include “Ush’avtem mayim b’sasson mima’aynei hayeshua”: You will draw water in joy from the wells of Salvation. (Isaiah 12:3)  Climate action, in essence, is a practice of faith. These times require the courage to imagine that another world is possible, that we must build it. Together, sing Isaiah’s prophetic vision, the words that accompany us every Saturday night as we make havdalah: Mimainei by Avra Shapiro מִמַּעַיְנֵ֖י הַיְשׁוּעָֽה שְׁאַבְתֶּם מַ֖יִם בְּשָׂשׂ֑וֹן Mimainei hayeshua Shavtem mayim b’sason We will draw water in celebration From the wellsprings of liberation Mayim Chayim מים חיים As we move forward from the sacred intensity of this ritual, we take with us our grief, and our commitment to collective climate action. Erin Viola is a gardener, community weaver, and rabbinical student based in Philadelphia, PA. [...] Read more...
September 11, 2025Despair is not an option  There is no food down that hole, And I like to eat. I have children. I have grandchildren. So I have learned to weep, Expelling grief on a regular basis. Then I get back to work, Fighting for our living world. Judith Black is an internationally known storyteller and climate activist. For more information about her work: www.storiesalive.com [...] Read more...
September 10, 2025We cannot become whole until we heal the damage that we have inflicted on God’s creation which includes both the Earth and the creatures that are an integral part of the natural world. And we will not experience the healing benefits of the natural world until we have made this tikkun. The sanctity of animals is exemplified by the story of Judah HaNasi: For thirteen years, Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, the redactor of the Mishnah, suffered from terrible pain. The Talmud (Baba Metziah 85a) traces his suffering to the following incident: A calf was once led to slaughter. Sensing what was about to take place, the animal fled to Rabbi Yehudah. It hung its head on the corner of his garment and wept. The rabbi told the calf, “Go! You were created for this purpose.” It was decreed in Heaven: Since Rabbi Yehudah failed to show compassion to the calf, the rabbi should suffer from afflictions. Rabbi Yehudah was only healed many years later, when he convinced his maidservant not to harm small rodents she discovered in the house. Why was Judah HaNasi made to suffer in this way for his dismissal of the calf? Rav Abraham Kook, the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of British Mandatory Palestine states: “It demonstrates an overall moral deficiency in our humanity when we are unable to maintain the proper and lofty emotion — to taking the life of a living creature for our needs and pleasures.” Animals were not created to be slaughtered or to serve our appetite. So many animals have been, and continue to be, harmed by factory farming, neglect, and abuse. We are currently involved in a project in Israel whereby trauma is treated with Animal Assisted Psychotherapy (AAP). Animals are not “used” to help humans. The people we are working with practice the reciprocal approach whereby humans and animals help each other to heal from trauma. We call it “Healing Together.”  We were inspired by Steve’s experience with his cousin Larry who was born blind, facing immense physical and emotional challenges. By his late 50s, he had lost his motivation to get out of bed. Nothing seemed to help—until his cousin Steve brought his dog, Emma. The change was immediate. Over the next two years, Larry went from feeling hopeless to celebrating his adult Bar Mitzvah just before his 60th birthday. His deep bond with Emma played a key role in his emotional and physical recovery, showing firsthand the incredible healing power of animals. This experience opened Steve’s eyes to the profound impact animal companionship can have on human well-being, inspiring a mission to bring this healing to others. A link to the short documentary about Larry can be found here: https://vimeo.com/214075528 As we enter the month of Elul, let us endeavor to recognize the sanctity of the Earth as well as of the animals that inhabit it with us. Rabbi Suzanne Singer Co-Executive Director, Rayor Center/Breeyah Rabbi Suzanne Singer lives in California. As the daughter of a Holocaust survivor, she is keenly aware of the need to make our world a better place. In her capacity as a rabbi, she has served several congregations and has been engaged for over 20 years in social justice work. She has also served on a variety of non-profit boards and has led advocacy efforts through local interfaith organizations. Before becoming a rabbi, she was a television producer and programming executive in news and public affairs as well as children’s programming. In that capacity, she won two national Emmy awards. Cantor Steven Puzarne Executive Director, Rayor Center/Breeyah Cantor Steven Puzarne is the Founder of Breeyah, a not-for-profit organization whose mission is to respond creatively to the changing needs of the Jewish community, including providing holistic, spiritually based care to special needs children and adults and their families. After the October 7th attack, Cantor Puzarne established Breeyah’s Israeli branch, The Rayor Family Center for Loving Kindness of which Healing Together is the first major project. In addition, through the Rayor Center, Cantor Puzarne manages the “smitten with kitten” initiative, striving to significantly reduce the number and the suffering of stray cats within Israel/Palestine. [...] Read more...
September 9, 2025HEAT (a prose tanka)   We modern humans, we Homo sapiens, evolved from our primitive ancestors during the Ice Age.  With our increasing brain power we created clothing, built shelters, and learned to control fire, all to stay warm in a cold climate. Our bodies evolved to larger stockier shapes that minimize heat loss. Metabolic changes that conserve heat developed. Despite our archaic origins in the warm climates of Africa, we are better adapted to extreme cold. We are not adapted to extreme heat.                                                           Heat is upon us                                                          lungs reject the hot moist air                                                          legs can barely move                                                                                                                   we are exiled from Eden                                                          and there will be no return Hear this shofar call heat storms floods overwhelm us despair will not help    we know what needs to be done now we must turn to the task Lois Rosenthal is retired from a career in academia (Chemistry) in California. She also taught Hebrew School and tutored B’nai Mitzvah for a decade. She is a member of Temple Beth Israel in Waltham. Lois is also a member of the MA State Poetry Society / local CREW Poets branch and lives in Winthrop, where temperatures have been running 5o above Boston’s, and legendary sea breezes are nowhere to be found. [...] Read more...
September 8, 2025אֱמֶת מֵאֶרֶץ תִּצְמָח וְצֶ֗דֶק מִשָּׁמַיִם נִשְׁקָף When Truth sprouts from the earth then Justice looks down from the heavens (Psalm 85:12) truth sprouts from the earth be quiet and still listen for her preparing to poke through the soil wait for her keep listening do not pretend that you already know her how can you know that which you have not yet seen?   Photo: An artist’s prayer on the Palestinian side of the separation barrier, Bethlehem Rabbi Malkah Binah Klein is founder of Merkava: Transformation and Healing through Creative Ritual. She is a member of Sisters Waging Peace, a Philadelphia chapter of the Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom. Her website is thrivingspirit.org. [...] Read more...
September 7, 2025This summer, I haven’t been able to spend as much time as I’m used to spending at my family’s lake house on Cape Cod. After weeks away at conferences, I could feel the siren song of the lake drawing me for miles ahead of my arrival.  When I arrived, though, I found my beloved place had changed, and it was a bit disorienting. We are drawn to return, to head back to the familiar. Especially at this time of the year, we Jews are tasked with doing teshuvah, repenting or returning. I learned recently about the lifecycle of salmon. They hatch upstream, swim downstream and out to the ocean, where they live most of their lives.  Then, when they have matured — when they’ve grown old and look craggy and hook-nosed — they swim back upstream to their birthplaces to spawn. Shortly after spawning, they die, their bodies dissolving into nourishment for the environment. For salmon returning from the ocean, this business of swimming upstream is no small feat; they are swimming up waterfalls, battling the pull of gravity and defying the odds of becoming dinner for bears, eagles and other wildlife.  A friend from the Pacific Northwest described with a smile her family’s tradition:  they love to stand by waterfalls, cheering on the salmon as they make their valiant upward leaps, rising again and again. And the fish are returning right during Elul! I marvel that these fish are compelled to complete their cycle of returning to the very place where they hatched, there to spawn the next generation. My friend described another interesting Pacific Northwest phenomenon.  For some time after Mount Saint Helens erupted in 1980, the surrounding landscape was barren and gray; in pictures it looks like the surface of the moon.  After a while, vegetation began to regrow and the rivers began to flow again— but now, the rivers were flowing along completely different courses. I’m thinking of those fish, searching for the places where they had hatched, desperate to get back home to repeat their lifecycle, to be fertile and multiply. Against all odds, they were rising again, determined in their returning.   We human beings also want to return. We yearn for old familiar places and old and better parts of ourselves— but like those salmon, we may find that the places we are returning to no longer look familiar.  Like the salmon, we too may have changed, sometimes beyond recognition. We all know the old saw, “change is the one constant.”  One of the tasks of being human is meeting change and trying to accept it.  We acknowledge a new normal, ever-new in each moment, and we respond with as much grace as we can, despite the disorienting newness we encounter.  It is in figuring out how to move forward, how to respond and find equilibrium despite the changes, that we determine the quality of our lives.  Like the salmon, may we rise again. Rabbi Judy Kummer is a board certified chaplain in private practice, offering in-person and remote skilled spiritual care visits, eldercare programing and lifecycle events. She has served as Executive Director of the Jewish Chaplaincy Council of MA and other nonprofits, and has served congregations in DC, NY and NJ. She is happiest outdoors hiking in the woods, swimming in a lake at sunset or tending to her Boston organic garden. [...] Read more...
September 6, 2025Deep down, the return, where the Mississippi flows so close to the sea. A great, miraculous journey. A turning. A deep cleansing breath in the water, here where there is an abandoned oil rig. Where journals were kept, money was made and the earth was extracted from. Where humans lived their lives. What do we turn to when only the river and the metal structures are left? Return to the earth on the floor of the water. A tree project. Regenerate. Growth. Renewal. Land will catch here. We rode with gasoline to swim. There is no perfection in humanity, yet Elul begs us to consider. What is your ground beneath the river? Rabbinic Student Shosh Madick lives in Bulbancha, colonized name New Orleans, in a meaningful Jewish community and with great admiration for the Mississippi river. [...] Read more...
September 5, 2025A Rabbit. A Rat. A Guinea Pig. Crushed. Drowned. Botched Surgery. Each gathered. Buried. Welcomed by Cedar and Locust. Brilliant green drapes the sky Aerial silk for acrobatic Crow. Stellar Jay. Sturdy trapeze for leaping Squirrels. Curvaceous limbs extend a wide berth for Raccoon Mama. Kits. Child. Seed cones dangle generously Banquet for Black-capped Chickadee. Nuthatch. Bushtit. Sparrow. Robin. Flicker. Golden Crowned Kinglet. Songs of feasting, delight and gratitude. Downy woodpecker descending ascending furrowed ladder to the heavens. Long creamy white earrings sway in the breeze whispering invitation to Hummingbird. Full hearted-presence. Rest now. Here. Mere human. Watching. Witnessing. Humming love to my Friends. The hard line is drawn. Death is imminent. Questioning. Fighting. Raging.  Weeping.                Weeping.                                Weeping. Sheryl J. Shapiro seeks to deepen her presence as a companion on healing journeys, explore and share the depths of her Judaic roots, whispers from nature, and the complex beauty of Community. Sheryl loves integrating spiritual, creative and embodied expression. This journey has included facilitator training programs in Sacred Hebrew Chant with Rabbi Shefa Gold, the Educator’s Leadership and Prayer Project Intensives with the Institute for Jewish Spirituality and in experiential environmental education. Sheryl practices 5 Rhythms Dance/Open Floor movement, chanting, meditation, yoga and qigong. Her poetry appears online at Ritualwell (2021, 2022, 2023) and Salish Magazine (2022), in print in Peregrine (2024), Like a Tree by Water: Poems, Prayers and Rituals, an Anthology by Advot members (2023), We’Moon Datebook (2020, 2022), Dirt? Exhibit and Catalogue, University of Puget Sound (2015) and Poetry on the Buses, Writing Home Collection, King County Metro (2014). Sheryl lives on Duwamish/Coast Salish land (aka Seattle, WA) and was born and raised on Lenape land (aka Brooklyn, New York). [...] Read more...
September 4, 2025Sand is rock that is ground more finely than gravel, found on beaches and in deserts. A dune is a sand hill or sand ridge formed by the wind, usually in desert regions or near lakes and oceans. A dune can be completely void of “life” that we can see… or can be home to quite visible plants and critters. Am I the sand or the dune? Did I begin as a rock (with apologies to Simon and Garfunkel)? How was I ground down to leave my singularity and join with others? How were we blown together to form a place of community? How supportive will our community be? Will we be void of life… or welcome and protect those who venture to join us? Enid C. Lader is Rabbi Emerita at Beth Israel – The West Temple in Cleveland, Ohio, and is the visiting rabbi at Kendal at Oberlin.  Enid and her husband, Harry, enjoy the blessings of their grown children and grandchildren – and traveling. [...] Read more...
September 3, 2025The Earth is crying fretful as a newborn, she wails of hunger, of soiled limbs, and I hear her as I toss and turn at night. She demands my attention by day, each one hotter than the last, skin of dirt and lips both cracking with what we’ve cooked up, we careless caregivers. I blink and it’s yontif and the year’s turning too as in humble gratitude, in unworthy shamefaced plea, I fall to my knees and fall on my face and my body returns to the earth, so that cradled by dirt in the new year’s birth, I too may rise with life on my lips. Cantor Vera Broekhuysen has served Congregation Beth El of the Sudbury River Valley as its cantor since 2023. She experiences the outdoors as a formative source and nurturer of her Jewish spirituality (having had her first adult conversation with God looking at Wild Goose Island in East Glacier, Montana). Cantor Vera was ordained from Hebrew College in 2016. You can learn more about Cantor Vera, including her original writings and music, at verabroekhuysen.com [...] Read more...
September 2, 2025trees are rare and precious, none seen elsewhere in the known universe our predecessors slinked out of the water to make new life on land I shed 10 sextillion atoms with every breath then they become you we are all fish, after all the boundaries between living things, a mirage how could we forget we were formed from dirt? how could we forget to steward the land as if she is not an extension of our bodies as if harm to other life does not poison us all? think so small you see we are all made of the same stuff think so big you see we are smaller than dust until all we can do is be in our bodies, feel the earth beneath our tired feet, care for her as she does us until our rivers run clear and the air smells sweet Return to the knowledge that we are all One Lauren Fine (she/her) lives in Durham, North Carolina and works remotely as the Alumni Manager at Avodah. In her free time, she can be found building radical Jewish community, staring at trees, baking, collaging, and thinking about the universe. [...] Read more...
September 1, 2025We are almost born into the idea that we “own” things.  As infants or toddlers, beware of competing for possession of our blankies or stuffed animals! Growing older comes with more extensive possessions, clothing, electronics, collectibles. Adulthood enables us to add to what we “own,” cars, homes, property, businesses, and investments. Living seems at times coextensive with accumulation. Written large, countries act with the same attitude, carving out inviolable lands and even claiming dominion over adjacent bodies of water. We live in a culture which legitimizes possessions. Regrettably, we can trash what we feel we own. Owning is not forbidden by our tradition. Abraham painstakingly purchases a plot in Canaan to bury Sarah. Our people are promised a land of our own. Yet a powerful idea challenges the right to ownership, and sacred practice relentlessly reminds us of our limits.   Rosh Hashanah celebrates the creation of this world. The Creator is God. One of the less familiar Names of God is “Koneh”, the “Possessor.” God is praised in the first blessing of every Shmoneh Esray as “Koneh hakol,” “Possessor of all.” As Creator, God owns this Earth and its inhabitants and never relinquishes possession.  Shabbat is the gem of sacred days, and at its center is the command that we let go of every gesture of ownership on that day. Anyone who serves us and any working animal must rest. The prohibition of work proscribes every act indicative of ownership.  Every seven days, we simply are at peace with the world around us, without the power to change anything for better or for worse. Temporarily we surrender the mantle of ownership before God. The Torah does not stop there. The concept of the Sabbatical Year and Jubilee, respectively every seven or every fifty years, goes farther. For an entire year, the farmer gives up one’s power over one’s own land by not cultivating. In antiquity, slaves were freed and debts cancelled, more signs of ownership or mastery. In the Jubilee year, parcels of land bought and sold were returned to the original distribution among the tribes of Israel. Every sign of ownership was suspended. These practices are notable especially because they applied to the promised land. The Torah is not shy about explaining these demanding commandments: וְהָאָ֗רֶץ לֹ֤א תִמָּכֵר֙ לִצְמִתֻ֔ת כִּי־לִ֖י הָאָ֑רֶץ כִּֽי־גֵרִ֧ים וְתוֹשָׁבִ֛ים אַתֶּ֖ם עִמָּדִֽי׃  The land must not be sold beyond reclaim, for the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me. (Leviticus 25:23) We do not act as owners because, in the deepest sense, the land belongs to God. Even in our own land, we are considered גֵרִ֧ים וְתוֹשָׁבִ֛ים, resident strangers. If we are not owners, what are we then?  Perhaps we are at our best when we see ourselves as stewards entrusted with the well-being of this Earth. Ancient legislation could not be more relevant than at this moment when this Earth is so imperiled. Teshuvah this year calls us to embrace stewardship. Shelly Lewis is rabbi emeritus of Congregation Kol Emeth in Palo Alto, CA. He is the author of How Precious the Ground on Which We Stand: Jewish Values that Could Save the Earth and Torah of Reconciliation. [...] Read more...
August 31, 2025Pollution is Colonialism by Max Liboiron confines its scope to plastic pollution, but much of what it says is applicable to other forms of pollution. It is also informative about how to approach teshuva. Liboiron (Red River Metis) runs the Civic Laboratory for Environmental Action Research (CLEAR) at Memorial University in Newfoundland. The lab is described as “a feminist, anti-colonial laboratory, which means methods foreground values of humility, equity, and good land relations.” The subject of what they study is marine plastic pollution, specifically that which affects local, indigenous foodways. While Liboiron explains aspects of pollution science, they would probably agree that the book leans more into colonialism than pollution—but since pollution as we know it would not be possible without colonialism, so much the better. The concept of Land relations—and yes, with a capital L—should be grasped by anyone who studied grade school science and learned about ecosystems and the web of life. What we do where we live affects the other entities in that space as well as the space itself, and we are affected by the actions of other beings as well. Presumption of superiority is arrogance, and Liboiron is clear that it’s the position of a colonizer, though not one with a specific origin point. It divides Land into human beings, animals, a geographic area with borders, specific trees, waterways, and other geographic features, foodways, customs, etc. This opens the door for land to degrade into first a source of resources, then finally a sink for pollution. Importantly, the modern model of pollution validates geographic features as a pollution sink—contamination is tolerable until it reaches a certain threshold. It also implicitly validates the industrial activity that causes pollution. Teshuva, as I understand it, allows us to repent for our sins, but it also demands that we are honest about the nature of those sins. In the case of our relationship to our environment/ecosystem/land/Land, we need to acknowledge that our sin is our arrogance. It includes our habits and presumptions—Liboiron outlines the choices and compromises CLEAR makes to achieve their mission of doing anti-colonial science; discovery isn’t enough of a reason to contaminate anyone’s Land with poisonous chemicals—but leaning into personal purity, or as Liboiron calls it, settler innocence, is another form of arrogance that will do nothing to repair our relationship with our Land (and everything that constitutes it). As they put it, when the scale of pollution is such that we find microplastics in organs, including placentas and brains, the scale we need to approach the issue is the same as the one that created it—industrial, and by extension, regulatory. We are in a large system—one that encompasses many different Lands—and in order to make change we need to act at scale. Thanks for ditching the straw, driving an EV, and installing a heat pump—now go do something that matters, and make yourself known to your legislators. Deb Nam-Krane is a writer, parent, spouse, climate organizer, and human rights enthusiast. You can find her in Boston proper, usually wandering around green spaces. [...] Read more...
August 30, 2025At AJR’s fall retreat, I attended sessions with Rabbi Bronwen Mullin, and she shared the concept of “grounding,” which means having contact with the earth–dirt and grass–against our bare skin. It makes sense. Thirty-five years ago, as a nursing mother, I was told to hold my son against my breast with his skin touching mine to help with bonding and a sense of security. We humans came from the ground; it’s no accident that the Hebrew word for human is adam, and the Hebrew word for earth or ground is adamah. Bereshit 2:7 reads: וַיִּ֩יצֶר֩ יְהֹוָ֨ה אֱלֹהִ֜ים אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֗ם עָפָר֙ מִן־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה וַיִּפַּ֥ח בְּאַפָּ֖יו נִשְׁמַ֣ת חַיִּ֑ים וַיְהִ֥י הָֽאָדָ֖ם לְנֶ֥פֶשׁ חַיָּֽה׃ “Adonai our God formed the Human from the loose dirt of the earth, blowing into his nostrils the breath of life: the Human became a living being.” Remember being a kid and running around the grass barefoot, especially in the summer? If you grew up in a city full of concrete, you may not have had that opportunity. Somewhere along the line, in our Western world, grass and dirt became synonymous with germs and schmootz, things we definitely didn’t want to be ingesting, at least on purpose. As conscientious parents, we sterilized everything we gave our babies and toddlers, and then turned around to watch them eat a bug or the mud pie they just created. And they lived to tell the story. We know there’s something healing about connecting with the earth. Every year I look forward to spring and warm weather to get out in my modest garden and play in the dirt. I don’t always remember to put gardening gloves on, and that’s ok. Just the idea of digging, of putting a seed in the soil to watch it (hopefully) grow, wondering if I’m growing expensive bunny and squirrel food, and what I’ll get to actually eat from my garden.  And the garden has its own ideas. Groundcherries and tomatoes reseed themselves every year, and next to the compost bin are as-yet-unidentified squash plants and a slew of tomato seedlings. It’s a testament to what happens when we let nature take its course. I decided to spend a few minutes a day on the grass with bare feet, and it feels wonderful. Rebbe Nachman of Breslov was a great believer in spending time in nature, and his prayer begins, “Grant me the ability to be alone; may it be my custom to go outdoors each day among the trees and grass – among all growing things and there may I be alone, and enter into prayer, to talk with the One to whom I belong.” (AJWS on Sefaria.org) May we be blessed to stay connected to the ground, and to be physically grounded while our souls soar. — Rabbi Susan Elkodsi received rabbinic ordination from the Academy for Jewish Religion (AJR) in May of 2015 and has been spiritual leader of the Malverne Jewish Center since August of 2015. Additionally, she provides pastoral and rabbinic services to local rehab and assisted living facilities. Her writing has appeared on JewishSacredAging.com, and she has presented workshops for Limmud, NY, for AJR and in the community, on ethical wills and spiritual legacies.  In 2019 Rabbi Elkodsi received a Rabbinic Certificate in Gerontology and Palliative Care from the Wurzweiler School of Social work at Yeshiva University, and takes advantage of their continuing education programs relating to aging and end-of-life issues.  She is passionate about helping Baby Boomers and older adults to find meaning and purpose in their lives within the context of Jewish tradition and teachings, and as part of a Jewish community, however they see themselves.  A knitter and weaver who loves to spin her own yarn, her essay about “Spinning, Knitting and Judaism” was published in The Knit Vibe by Vickie Howell in 2019. She and her husband David have two adult children. [...] Read more...
August 29, 2025אבני קדש מאת הרב לואיס פוליסון נכתב לאחר ביקור במרכז ריטריטים ע׳׳ש איזבלה פרידמן, קונטיקט, ארצות ילידיים של שבטי סקאטיקוק ומוהיקן י״ט–כ״א בְּאָב תשפ״ה תִּשְׁתַּפֵּכְנָה אַבְנֵי־קֹדֶשׁ בראש כל לב אבני קודש הם גם יכולים להיות יסודות מתקנים וממתיקים את שבירת הכלים שברית הלב אין משהו יותר שלם סימנים מגלים את הואר הגנוז לצדיקים כי עד צדק אַרְצִי–אֱלֹהִי ישוב משפט אנושי בת־עמי לאכזר כי עיניהם מקנאות במדבר הארץ מתי יהיה זמן לאדמה לבני האדם עת לטעת עת לרפוא עת לבנות עת לעבוד עת לשמור עת לאהב עת שלום עת כּנוס אבני קדש אֵיכָה אַיֶּכָּה   The Stones of the Sacred Written after a visit to the Isabella Freedman Retreat Center, Falls Village, Connecticut, native lands of the Schaghticoke and Mohican tribes August 13-14, 2025 The stones of the Sacred are spilled At the head of every heart Sacred stones Can also be foundations Repairing and sweetening The shattering of the vessels The breaking of the heart Nothing more whole Signs Revealing the light hidden For the righteous For human judgment will return to earthly-divine righteousness But my poor people have turned cruel For their eyes are jealous In the wilderness of the land When will there be time For the earth For the children of the earthling A time for planting A time for healing A time for building A time for serving A time for guarding A time for loving A time for peace A time for gathering Sacred stones How Where are you Louis Polisson is a musician and rabbi, ordained by the Jewish Theological Seminary in 2018, where he also earned an MA in Jewish Thought focusing on Kabbalah and Ḥasidut. He currently serves as the Associate Rabbi and Music Director at Congregation Beth Sholom in Teaneck, New Jersey. He previously served for five years as the Rabbi of Congregation Or Atid in Wayland, Massachusetts. Louis and his wife Gabriella Feingold released an album of original Jewish and nature-based spiritual folk music in November 2018 – listen at https://louisandgabriella.bandcamp.com/music. [...] Read more...
August 28, 2025I have loved writing these etudes over the years. I just looked back and saw my first one was in 2013. That makes this my b’mitzvah year. So I’m going back to that first post, reviewing and renewing. At that time, I was growing a food forest in the Chicago suburbs; now, I am creating one in North Carolina. Then, there were grapevines, artichokes (yes! In Chicagoland), multiple beds of veggies, herbs, berries, and fruit trees, including a peach tree. Now we have deer fences – sad but necessary – and three huge cedar raised beds just built – cardboarded and mulched – awaiting soil. We have our first fruit trees: nectarine, fig and pomegranate. The one lovely connection to the old house is the peach tree; a volunteer I potted and brought with me from the Chicago suburbs when I moved here in 2018, which we finally put into Mama earth’s loving hands last fall. She is so happy to be in the ground, and even gave peaches this year. The earth turns. As we do, in teshuvah. Much stays the same, yet much changes. I am saddened and horrified this year at events in Israel and Gaza, saddened and horrified at events here in our country. And yet when I go to the earth, I know that renewal is possible. How much will it take for us to return to Mother Earth’s teachings? To remember that giving is receiving, that nourishment is in the soil – it literally feeds us – that harmony is everywhere, that we are interconnected beings, one with another, and one with the planet? This is my teshuvah – reminding myself that all wholeness is right here, right now. And anytime I need a reminder, all I need to do is step outside and smell the leaves, the grasses, the wood. And then I dip my hands in the soil. I know that I am one. I know from whence I came, and with what I am completely intertwined. Rabbi Robin Damsky (she/her) runs Limitless Judaism, a project of Body-Spirit-Gaia, exploring the interconnectedness of personal well-being, spiritual practice and planetary well-being. Her work includes publications, spiritual direction, in person and online courses in meditation, song, art, movement, spiritual exploration, and planting and tending our planet. Sign up for her Elul course, Touching the Beloved Within. Inst & FB: @limitlessjudaism [...] Read more...
August 27, 2025I live on the prairie. Not a desert. And yet I have spent the summer thinking about water. I live on a lake.  Ok, it’s a retaining pond. It’s beautiful. We watch all kinds of birds: herons, egrets, sandhill cranes, ducks, and too many geese. Our little lake has shrunk. Part of it is so dry that it looks like pictures of the Dust Bowl. The bottom of the lake is completely dry and cracked. There’s a rock beach where there should be water. While there are seasonal fluctuations, this isn’t normal and is the result of climate change. Yes, I dare say it. We can pray. I’m reminded of the story of Honi, the Circle Drawer. In the Talmud, there was a time of drought. Honi was asked to pray. Honi drew a circle in the dust, stood inside it and told G-d that he wouldn’t move until it rained. A drizzle fell. The people demanded he pray again. This time, Honi’s prayer was answered by overflowing cisterns and ditches and caves. Too much rain. Honi prayed again within his circle. This time he was rewarded with a calm, gentle rain, relieving the drought. (Ta’anit 19a and Ta’anit 23a) It’s the original Goldilocks story, too little, too much, then finally just right. Psalm 93 says, “The rivers may rise and rage, the waters may pound and pulsate, the floods may swirl and storm, yet above the crash of the sea and its mighty breakers is Adonai our G-d supreme.” We pause to remember those threatened by natural disasters. For me, another thought emerges. Is G-d really above all, supreme? The second paragraph of the V’ahavta, taken from Deuteronomy 11:13-21, says that if we follow G-d’s commandments/mitzvot, G-d will give us rain in its proper season. Really? Didn’t G-d promise to never destroy the world again with water after The Flood, you know, the one with Noah? Don’t we have some responsibility here as denizens of earth, as partners with G-d? After watching the devastation in North Carolina last summer, the fires in California and Canada, and the heartbreak in Texas this summer, I can’t put that on G-d. Why would some be killed and others spared? I demand prayers. Praying is what I do. But I demand action, too. I want early warning systems. I want people to use less water. I want water jugs left for people struggling in the desert, whether they are hiking for pleasure or crossing our southern border. I want people to plant native gardens. Then I remembered a quote I often use during the High Holy Days: “Like water, teshuvah is both destructive and creative. It dissolves the person you were but simultaneously provides the moisture you need to grow anew. It erodes the hard edges of your willfulness but also refreshens your spirit. It can turn the tallest barriers of moral blindness into rubble while it also gently nourishes the hidden seeds of hope buried deep in your soul. Teshuvah, like water, has the power both to wash away past sin and to shower you with the blessing of a new future, if only you trust it and allow yourself to be carried along in its current.” Dr. Louis Newman Let’s go into this High Holy Day season helping to find the right balance between rain and sun. Then maybe, just maybe a rainbow will appear. Rabbi Margaret Frisch Klein is the rabbi of Congregation Kneseth Israel. She comes from a family of ecologists and has been taking care of the earth since at least fourth grade. She would hike with her ecologist father in northern Michigan and now with her husband in some 37 states. She blogs as the Energizer Rabbi and is the author of 3 books. The most recent is Trip Notes: Love for the Journey. Rabbi Margaret Frisch Klein Congregation Kneseth Israel [...] Read more...

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