In 2003, the same year that I started Velveteen Rabbi, I also started the practice of sending a poem to family and friends during the High Holiday season -- my own variation on the practice of sending High Holiday cards. On this page you'll find my High Holiday poems (actually I think of them as Elul poems, since I typically write and send them during that month of spiritual preparation for the holidays!) ordered chronologically, from 2003 onward.
Feel free to use these in your own preparation for the Days of Awe, in liturgy and sermons, etc. But please do ensure that my name and my web address remain attached to them, so that if people find meaning in them, they know where to find more of my work. (And drop me a comment or an email; I always enjoy knowing when my poems have found an audience.) Thanks!
2003:
IMMERSION
If you offer Fortune a beer
she giggles, demurs, because she's
"born again." I'm not exactly sure
what that means in Ghanaian parlance
though I imagine a lake baptism
like the one I saw in Galilee,
robes billowing against dark water.
Rebirth is always metaphor.
Forty days to refocus, like a lens,
then Yom Kippur's labor, singing
and praying, hoping against hope
this year the old words
and hunger’s familiar pangs
will bear new meaning.
The closest I've come
was that week on retreat, sitting
until pins crept up my calves, then
walking the fireweed fields rapt
in my prayer shawl. Friday afternoon
we shucked modesty, plunged
in the swimming pool, laughing
and blessing, then a hot tub dunk
to welcome the Sabbath bride.
We could dip each week in those waters.
We could sanctify every morsel.
We could open our eyes and be thankful,
could dwell in that house all the days
of our lives. And we don’t. And that's
okay. The goldenrod always blooms
five weeks before first frost
and these forty days are for pausing
relearning the Name in every breath
preparing to be open to awe
again, to be ready
to make ourselves born.
2004:
TESHUVAH
God and I collaborate
on revising the poem of Rachel.
I decide what needs polishing,
what to preserve and what to lose;
God reads my draft with pursed lips.
If I really mean it, God
sings a new song, one strong
as stone and serene as silk.
I want this year’s poem
to be joyful. I want this year’s poem
to be measured like flour,
to burn like sweet dry maple.
I want every reader
to come away more certain
that transformation is possible.
I’d like holiness
to fill my words
and my empty spaces.
On Rosh Hashanah it is written
and on Yom Kippur it is sealed:
who will be a haiku and who
a sonnet, who needs meter
and who free verse, who an epic
and who a single syllable.
If I only get one sound
may it be yes, may I be One.
2005:
RETURN
How to make it new:
each year the same missing
of the same marks,
the same petitions
and apologies.
We were impatient, unkind.
We let ego rule the day
and forgot to be thankful.
We allowed our fears
to distance us.
But every year
the ascent through Elul
does its magic,
shakes old bitterness
from our hands and hearts.
We sit awake, itemizing
ways we want to change.
We try not to mind
that this year’s list
looks just like last.
The conversation gets
easier as we limber up.
Soon we can stretch farther
than we ever imagined.
We breathe deeper.
By the time we reach the top
we’ve forgotten
how nervous we were
that repeating the climb
wasn’t worth the work.
Creation gleams before us.
The view from here matters
not because it’s different
from last year
but because we are
and the way to reach God
is one breath at a time,
one step, one word,
every second a chance
to reorient, repeat, return.
2006:
CLEAN
I’m cleaning the cupboard
beside the stove, low to the floor,
where pots and pans hide
haphazardly.
Our kitchen is well-used,
baker’s rack gleaming
with neat jars of peaches,
string beans, preserves
but one swipe of paper towel
across this hidden surface
and I flinch at the grime
I never noticed before.
This is teshuvah: opening
every closed-up space. I’m
a window smeared with dust,
a cabinet in need of scouring.
It’s simple work, but
part of me resists, preferring
distraction to clarity.
When I make the leap
I suddenly can’t believe
I ever ignored the dirt.
Hot water blesses my hands
into action. God, help me
put my house in order,
begin the year in readiness
for the wonders I know
are coming, are always here.
2007:
ASPIRATION
What matters isn't
who I am on retreat,
singing the day into being,
but who I am
when I've come home
to the cat and the bills,
to-do list as long
as the yoga mat
I too rarely unfurl.
The real work
is living my intentions
at my desk, the laptop open;
in a slow-moving line
at the grocery store
past screaming tabloids;
when someone I love
loses a job or a partner
or a body that works.
Elul, this moon
cycling its phases
before the days of awe,
is a string on my finger
tefillin on my arm
a winding reminder
that I don't need
the addictions of ego
or self-importance.
Every instant
is a new year, a new chance
to bear again in mind
that every sunrise
is the light of creation
in sweet reprise
and every moment
is a prayer I'm blessed
to be able to recite.
2008:
ACCOUNTING
Cheshbon, “accounting”
(the Hebrew word
that signals the waiter
a request for the check)
also denotes
taking stock of the soul.
Scanning the bill
at the end of this year
I think I ordered wisely,
though I admit
sometimes the internet
was more alluring
than my studies.
Prayer, writing, exercise:
on-again, off-again.
On the bright side,
this year I loved a lot.
Sometimes I took
the hard way through
and found blessings.
The feast of the year
is ending. We’ve said
our prayers of gratitude
and now
I owe the half-shekel
of my heart, the one
that becomes whole
when I reach down deep
and give it freely,
opening my hands.
2009:
BIRTH
In Hebrew, "compassion"
shares a root with "womb"
and God is the One in Whose womb
creation is nurtured.
On Rosh Hashanah we say
today the world is born.
Or: this moment right now
is pregnant with eternity.
In each human life
as in the cosmos writ large
infinite possibility waits
to burst forth.
What mystery do you carry?
What stirs in you, faintest flutter
growing into the insistent kick
of change, ready or not?
Elul: the leaves turn
and we turn
toward our Source, toward
who we haven't yet become.
Don't be afraid.
There are blessings here
even if you can't see them.
Open and let them come.
2010:
ROCKING CHAIR
The exalted throne on high
is a gliding rocker.
God watches us with kind eyes
rejoicing when we figure out
how to fit two pieces together
and create something new
looking on us with compassion
when we struggle for balance
and thirst for what we can't name.
On the birthday of creation
God remembers
every moment of our lives.
The sages of the Talmud knew
more than the wobbly calf wants to suck
the mother yearns to give milk
God is the same way
overflowing with blessings, and yet
we turn our faces away and wail.
When will we learn?
God's lap is always open
all we have to do is return.
(You can also read this poem translated into Hebrew by Rabbi Simcha Daniel Burstyn, here.)
2011:
Here's the thing my son doesn't know:
I may be mom, but some days I too
want to fling myself on the ground
and rage against whatever doesn't unfold
as I imagined. Inside my ribcage
angry bees pound to be released.
All I want is for You to notice me wailing
and tell me everything's going to be okay.
Every day I choose again to trust
in Your mercy and compassion.
When I'm clumsy and frustrated
by every mistake, You don't mind.
Cradle me, God. Let me pour my hopes
into Your listening ear.
Help me turn my tantrums into dancing,
my anxieties into boundless joy.
2012:
Our son
begins every day
bouncing with glee.
Over years
I've trained myself
to wake with gratitude
but for him it's natural,
nothing he's had
to inculcate.
His emotions
are as readable
as a board book.
Sometimes he dabbles
in anger, flopping
on the grass to sulk, but
a quick time-out
restores his spirits
to their morning shine.
Let me learn from him
how to release
all my grudges
how to treasure
trucks and puddles
as miracles
how to return
to forgiveness
in every embrace.
