Elul

This Rosh Hashanah prayer was written by Alden Solovy in 2020 as a response to COVID-19. Since the reality of pandemic and plague struck our worlds, wildly unimaginable shifts have occurred in the way we live and, perhaps, the way we see life. One lesson of these unimaginable losses and changes is the possibility that there might also be wildly unimaginable blessings. The idea for this prayer came as I signed an email to musician Josh Nelson. I concluded: “For a year of wildly unimaginable blessings. Your friend, Alden.” So the idea for this prayer was born. 
 

Wildly Unimaginable Blessings
Let us dream
Wildly unimaginable blessings…
Blessings so unexpected,
Blessings so beyond our hopes for this world,
Blessings so unbelievable in this era,
That their very existence
Uplifts our vision of creation,
Our relationships to each other,
And our yearning for life itself.

Let us dream
Wildly unimaginable blessings…
A complete healing of mind, body, and spirit,
A complete healing for all,
The end of suffering and strife,
The end of plague and disease,
When kindness flows from the river of love,
When goodness flows from the river of grace,
Awakened in the spirit of all beings,
When G-d’s light,
Radiating holiness,
Is seen by everyone.

Let us pray —
With all our hearts —
For wildly unimaginable blessings,
So that G-d will hear the call
To open the gates of the Garden,
Seeing that we haven’t waited,
That we’ve already begun to repair the world,
In testimony to our faith in life,
Our faith in each other,
And our faith in the Holy One,
Blessed be G-d’s Name.

© 2020 Alden Solovy and tobendlight.com. All rights reserved. 

And G!d says: “You think these are my office hours? That only in these precious days I can hear you? No! I walk with you through the valleys and the fields, gridlocked streets and riot blocks. It is YOU who hears ME in these coming days. It will be you who stops to listen. These gates are open for YOU.”

 

And G!d says: “Can you feel the turning? The sun is lower and the trees are beginning to burn; it is time, again. The time is coming. You will not be ready. Even if you have planned each menu for your vegan, gluten-free, macrobiotic Rosh Hashanah lunches. Even if you are expected to lead your community in prayer. Even if you remembered to buy local, organic honey, there is no readiness for the work to come. Only a willingness to show up and dive in.”

 

And G!d says: “Awake! Awake! This is the time when nothing can hide, when the leaves are still outstretched on their branches, and even the cornhusks are opening to reveal their sweetness. So too, should be the ugliness of the world - if you have not known it before now, then rouse yourself. It is not too late. There is too much to do; you cannot sleep any more.”

 

And G!d says: “You, who are exhausted with the work already. You, with the asphalt-worn boots, with the house full of placards. You, who are always breathing in, preparing to shout, who sees the work everywhere and swallows the impossible sea of it: breathe out, weary ones. Prepare yourselves to go in, and to go in deep. Find the work inside: the work of self-kindness, the work of healing and repair. The work on the street will still be there when you re-enter. The world needs you whole.”

 

From Dane Kuttler's The G!d Wrestlers,  The Social Justice Warrior's Guide to the High Holy Days, Sept. 2015

Holy On My Own by Caroline Rothstein 
 

Self-love is sobbing fetal position on the
brown wooden paneled floor of my bedroom

in Bushwick the night before I move out;

my torso prostrating back in on myself;

my body, the only G-d in sight.

Self-love is waking up at 5:00 a.m.
at my mother's cousins' in New Jersey

on the coldest day of winter and carrying

three duffle bags, 10 boxes, my hula-hoop,

three garment bags, and half a dozen crates

up 8 feet of stairs at Manhattan Mini Storage

by myself, on a weekday, in leather boots.

Self-love is the ocean. Is folding my blue jeans
on a rock. Is leaving my cell phone in a pocket.

Is soaking my bare soles in the sun tucked

sand. Is placing my right foot on the inner flesh

of my left thigh and opening my arms to the sky.

In my underwear. And a tank top. And saying,

holy Hallelujah, look at what I've found.

Self-love is moving to New Jersey. And
back to Manhattan. And to Sarah's couch in

Brooklyn after three landlords in Queens say

no. Because I'm an artist. Because I'm a single

woman. Because I freelance. Because I am

too sturdy to be knocked to the ground.

Self-love is moving everything out of storage
in my black platform wedges and Forever 21

dress mere hours before the first night of Pesach

and here is me, my own Moses, parting the Red Sea.

Self-love is two years later. Is two more dances
around the sun. Is too many more months than

anticipated wandering in the desert. Still in

Canaan. Still waiting for the tablets from Sinai.

Still waiting for the spies to tell me what

I'm too afraid to find within myself.

Self-love is being 32 and single. Is being 32
and single. Is being 32 and single and four

weddings in a row. And signing five ketubahs

And standing up and standing up and standing

up. And getting my period. And getting my

period. And standing up. And dancing the

hora. And signing a ketubah. And dancing

the hora. And signing a ketubah. And dancing

the hora. And standing up. And watching my

News Feed. And watching my News Feed.

And still waking up alone.

Self-love is tucking myself to sleep in
the middle of my queen-sized bed and

still knowing I am strong. Is waking up

in Harlem. Is remembering Brooklyn. Is

prostrating to my torso. Is prostrating to

my womb. Is knowing that possibility may,

in fact, be one hell of a magnificent God, but

oh, how that golden calf creates idols. How

too that burning bush is but a metaphor. How

the only way out of this exodus desert dance

is feeling whole, holy on my own.

 

Caroline Rothstein (https://www.carolinerothstein.com/) is a New York City-based award-winning writer, poet, performer and educator. Her work has appeared in Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, BuzzFeed, NYLON, Narratively, The Forward, Kveller, and elsewhere. She was a member of the 2010 Nuyorican Poets Cafe slam team, which placed second at the 2010 National Poetry Slam, and is a Youth Mentor at Urban Word NYC.

The shofar is our ancient, animalistic alarm clock. Hearing it tells us to wake up and it's a mitzvah, a commandment to hear its call. We say the first blessing before the shofar is sounded, then we say shehecheyanu, the blessing for milestones, to mark the occasion.
 

Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu lishmoa kol shofar.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who has made us holy with commandments, and who has commanded us to hear the voice of the shofar.

Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam shehecheyanu v’kiyimanu v’higiyanu lazman ha-zeh.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, for giving us life, for sustaining us, and for enabling us to reach this season.