In 2003, the year that I started Velveteen Rabbi, I also started the practice of sending a poem to family and friends during Elul as the Days of Awe approach. On this page you'll find those poems, sent to friends and family during Elul from 2003 until now. (They're ordered in reverse chronological order, with the newest one at the top.)
(Speaking of Elul poems: if you like these, you might also enjoy my collection of Elul poems which arose out of #blogElul a few years ago, now available in print and e-book form as See Me: Elul poems.)
Feel free to use these in your own preparation for the Days of Awe, in liturgy and sermons, etc. Thanks for ensuring 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. Blessings to all for a meaningful turn of the year...
2024 / 5785: I can't
How can we approach a new year
when time stopped on Shemini Atzeret
-- "the pause of the 8th day," when
God beseeches, "linger with Me
a little longer," and we relish
the sukkah's peaceful fragility
for just one more day before
jubilant circle dances with Torah
in our arms like a toddler --
last year we woke on that awful day
to the news of Hamas attacks
and now it's Elul again, when
"The King is in the Field," but
this year God walks with us
in endless mourning, paying
shiva call after shiva call, and
there are still hostages, though
six fewer living ones than last week
not to mention whole neighborhoods
razed to rubble, resurgence of polio,
forty thousand Palestinian souls
dead, an endless abyss of grief?
I can't write an Elul poem this year
when my heart stopped beating properly
on Shemini Atzeret and may never
feel entirely unbroken again.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2024
*
2021 / 5782: Anew
Here’s the thing: the year begins anew
even in the worst of times. The leaves
will turn and fall and then they’ll grow again.
And sometimes we’re afraid, and we can’t know
what choice to make to keep anyone safe.
Uncertainty’s a bear. All we can do
is seek out sweetness everywhere we may
and work to fix what brokenness we find.
The good news is we’re not in this alone.
We’ll help each other hope when light seems dim
and lift the sparks that darker days reveal.
We’ll love each other fiercely: in the end
there is no greater work that we can do.
We who survive will help each other heal.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2021
*
2020 / 5781: Shelter
Most years in Elul we say
"the King is in the Field" --
God walks with us in the tall grass
to hear our yearnings.
This year, Shechinah
shelters-in-place with us.
With her, we don't need to mask
our fears or our despair.
When we stay up too late
reading the news again
or binge-watch The Good Place
desperate for redemption
she does too. As we practice
social distancing, we're not alone:
she summons angels to encourage
the scallions we re-grow
just as they cheer on the maples
releasing their helicopter seeds,
compressed packages of hope
for the eventual coming of spring.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2020
*
2019 / 5780: Now
Suddenly the two stately trees
outside my window are shot through
with sprays of gold. My heart rails
against the turning season
like a child resisting bedtime, but
the trees hear the shofar's call.
Come alive, flare up, be
who you are: let your light shine!
The katydids and crickets sing
the time is now, the time is now.
The last time I visited my mother
I told her "it's okay if you're ready
to go." My heart railed against
her dying, but after one last burst
of color she was ready to rest.
This year the trees' razzle-dazzle
speaks to me in her voice: be here
while you can. Drink every drop
of daylight. And when night falls,
it's full of stars: don't be afraid.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2019
*
2018 / 5779: As days are waning
The new year starts as days are waning.
I'm never ready when the first leaves turn.
Every Jewish day begins with evening:
darkness before light, since the beginning.
I'm never ready when the first leaves turn.
Roll the scroll toward the end of our story:
darkness before light since the beginning.
Am I ready to turn and face what's coming?
Roll the scroll toward the end of our story --
can I open my hands and let go of the summer?
Am I ready to turn and face what's coming?
You know what they say about endings.
I open my hands and let go of the summer,
paint every cracked and broken place with gold.
You know what they say about endings:
turn the page, start a chapter, begin again.
Paint every cracked and broken place with gold!
Every Jewish day begins with evening:
turn the page, start a chapter, begin again.
The new year starts as days are waning.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2018
*
2017 / 5778: Transplanted
God says: face facts. The old year
is ending. You’ve outgrown it.
The flowerpot that used to be home
isn’t big enough anymore. Once
it was spacious. Now your roots
push uncomfortably against the walls.
It's time to stop contorting yourself
to fit inside a story that's too small
for who you can become. God whacks
the bottom of your pot, sends you flying.
Once you're pried from the old year
your roots will ache, shocked
by open air. You'll wonder whether
you could have stopped growing.
But one morning you'll wake, realize
you've stretched in ways you never knew
you hadn't done before. The sun
will feel like a benediction, like
grace. You can't help turning
and re-turning toward the light,
toward becoming. And wait 'til you see
what dazzling flowers you'll discover
springing from your fingertips:
your life renewed, beginning again.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2017
*
2016 / Elul 5776 / entering 5777:
It's September, Elul: time to begin
discerning who we want to be. Again
late summer cricketsong returns
to the airwaves, reminding me anew
the season is turning. I steep in hope
that grows stronger like tea. The old year
has come due, the new year
waits in the wings for her scenes to begin.
All I can do is to cultivate hope,
remind myself no one's perfect, again:
doesn't matter if I "make it new,"
only whether I'm trying to return
to the best of who I've been, re-turn
in the right direction this year.
A marriage, ended: okay, this is new.
I admit, it's strange learning how to begin
a new chapter, being a beginner again
after all these years. Dare I hope
for lightness of heart, hope
this stripped-down life helps me return
to the Holy One of Blessing again?
So much has changed since last year
I scarcely know where to begin
when friends blithely ask "what's new?"
But every day the world is made anew.
Psalm 27 invites me to hope
in the One, to trust that if I begin
to try God will help me return.
The Hebrew word we translate as year
is almost the word "change." Again
we bring ourselves (here we are again)
to the cusp of defining ourselves anew.
Harvest the wisdom of the old year
to carry us, coat pockets full of hope,
through the season that's coming. Re/turn
again. Are you ready? Then begin
again, let your heart expand with hope.
Everything can be new. Return
to your truest self as the year begins.'
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2016
*
2015 / Elul 5775 / entering 5776
When the list of school supplies arrives
my heart skips a beat. I'm not ready.
How can I be surprised? I've known all along
how one month follows the next, but
kindergarten looms. (Not, though,
for the five year old. Time renews itself
every time he opens his eyes.) When the days
of awe appear again on the horizon
my heart skips a beat. I'm not ready.
How can I be surprised? I've known all along
how the spiral of the year recycles end
into beginning again. Another summer
yields with less or more grace to fall
and I do too. Sometimes my gears grind,
I wish tomorrow would come sooner
or yesterday would return. I blink
and a month disappears. Where was I?
How can I be surprised? I've known all along
without my attention next new moon won't be
the world's birthday, just a night with less light.
And this impossibly precious moment
when I could be cupping my hand
to the side of your face with tenderness --
gone like the numbers on a digital clock.
But if I stop to see what's in front of me
and choose the blessing in it, if I
sanctify the threshold between now
and what comes after now, and after now,
then every moment gleams, infinite
as the love which links your heart and mine.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2015
*
2014 / entering 5775: DEAR GOD
Spiritual life unfolds
in staccato bursts of prayer:
@God thanks, help, please.
Do You miss the measured curves
of pen and ink on cardstock,
our prescribed correspondence
each morning, picture postcard
every afternoon, night's letter
brief but complete? I do too.
But I trust Your mailbox opens
to these ad hoc forms,
praise You for gifts tucked
in the folds of my days:
the cat's rusty purr, scent
of candy-colored Play-Doh,
boy leggy as a flamingo
bouncing on our bed at dawn.
Teach me to listen like You
with endless love. Grant me
another year to practice.
Unfurl my heart's armor.
Comfort, please, the sick;
console those who mourn
open the faucet of blessings.
In return I'll turn
toward You like a sunflower.
Ever grateful for Your ear,
bent to hear
what I need to say.
Here's to the year.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2014
*
2013 / entering 5774: CARVING GROOVES
At three and a half, your glee
at stomping on a sand castle
is as vast as your desolation
when another kid won't share.
At thirty-eight, I seek
good novels and vinho verde
instead of chocolate-chip cookies
and Dora cartoons --
though when an email angers me
I seethe just like you do.
But if I've carved grooves
of gratitude on the soft sand
of my heart, my tempests drain.
I can calm my own sea.
The sages of the Talmud say
if we teach you Torah
and how to make a living
and how to swim
then our work here is done.
I want to give you the Torah
of curiosity and kindness,
of noticing beauty everywhere.
The life's work of saying thanks
even for what shakes you.
The skill to navigate
your own turbulent waters,
to take deep breaths, to wake
into new reasons for gratitude.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2013
*
2012 / Elul 5772 / entering 5773 ROLE MODEL
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.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2012
*
2011 / Elul 5771 / entering 5772: HERE'S THE THING
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.
poem by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, 2011
*
2010 / Elul 5770 / entering 5771: 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.)
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2010
*
2009 / Elul 5769 / entering 5770: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2009
*
2008 / Elul 5768 / entering 5769: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2008
*
2007 / Elul 5767 / entering 5768: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2007
*
2006 / Elul 5766 / entering 5777: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2006
*
2005 / Elul 5765 / entering 5766: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2005
*
2004 / Elul 5764 / entering 5765: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2004
*
2003 / Elul 5763 / entering 5764: 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.
poem by Rachel Barenblat, 2003