I have always had ambivalent feelings about the P.T. Barnum quote, “there is a sucker born every minute.” On the one hand, watching people stand in line to get an $18 donut or shell out $85 for a t-shirt, does seem to indicate an abundance of foolishness in the world. On the other hand, it isn’t nice to call people suckers.

Tonight we return to the shofar, to its song and to the teaching of the Shlah Hakadosh, R’ Isaiah Horowitz. Last week we began with the full sound of tekiah and reflected on moments from this past year where we felt the “rush of the world.” Yet our journey through the sounds of the shofar continues on, and, considering the three-part sound of shevarim, we quickly recognize the cracks in our facade. 

More than forty years ago, R’ Adin Steinsaltz, of blessed memory, wrote a slim volume called Teshuvah (sometimes you’ve gotta keep it simple). The book focuses less on the paths of repentance and repair and more on the challenges of taking on religious observance. The writing is thoughtful and approachable, with a surprising amount of warmth from an esteemed scholar of his generation.

I am not a brain scientist. So, when I tell you that there is a growing body of research that demonstrates the pedagogical power of writing things out by hand, you will know that this is based on hearing an NPR story a couple years ago and just recently skimming a short article on the National Institute of Health’s website.

I have a particular affinity for the Chasidic stories about the brothers, R’ Zusha of Anapol and R’ Elimelech of Lizensk. There is a buddy comedy feel to many of these tales, which are often full of misadventure and rabbinic shenanigans. This year, I was delighted to re-encounter a story about the two that I hadn’t read in years.

For an avid garage sale junkie, like me, the world of online marketplaces is a dangerous place. I am targeted by posts about pottery wheels, hand-cranked coffee grinders, native plants, old siddurim and taxidermied armadillos. It can be a lot to cull through.

I recently encountered a poem by the wonderful Ellen Bass and wanted to share it here.

I like the drama of our seasons. I love that the first little sprouts of fresh greens in the spring are gently plucked from the soil and placed on our seder plates; that we dip them in water that tastes like tears, mixing the hope of renewal with the pain of a world still unredeemed.

I am sneaking into your inbox one day early, on this 30th day of the month of Av to offer a reminder of why we are here. 

What is it exactly that we hope to gain by spending a month together in a state of introspection and self-assessment? Who do we hope to be when we come out the other side?