The Moon of Cheshvan (October-November)
You can feel the earth's changes, the tide of night rising around you.
And so you call upon the name of God
HaMakom
your place, your haven,
in this time of transformation.
HaMakom, in this moon of Cheshvan
You teach me to learn from the trees.
They rise in radiant splendor,
their rich reds, deep clarets, and brilliant golds,
gleaming on the hillsides,
showing me the way to walk in this world,
with quiet dignity, colors aflame,
soul shining in beauty,
gently releasing that which is no longer needed
so as to stand more lightly in this world.
Cheshvan arrives,
season of sowing in the Land.
Barley and wheat are tucked into earth's bed
to sleep and rise in the spring.
You teach me now is the time to plant seeds,
which in order to sprout
requires exposure to cool air
and deep rest.
So too do I need travel
through my chilled spells,
my times of darkness,
that I might rise in my season,
gifting nourishment to this world.
 In Cheshvan in the Land,
storks and cranes on route to the south
take respite in the fields, blanketing them in white.
So you show me that cycles ever keep turning,
to watch for the gifts which periodically descend,
the storks, harbingers,
of promise yet to come.
In Cheshvan the farmers gently lay the newly plucked olives
into their garlicky brine,
that they might in quiet
turn to luscious morsels.
After reviewing my harvest,
cleansing my spirit,
living in the elements and
dancing in joy,
I too now eagerly enter into
the tantalizing invitation of the velvety quiet,
to absorb, reflect, shift shape,
rest my soles.
 For just as the earth
wraps herself in fallen leaves and composting flowers,
in pine needles and fugitive nuts,
tree's cast off clothing,
lying down to rest,
so too do I need pause and tuck myself inwards,
relearning
that my native resources lie within my own soil,
which in season needs enriching, replenishing,
and restoration.
HaMakom,
You Who guides me to my place,
You in Whom my place lies
succor me during this season of frost.
grant me warm shelter
as I turn to You
as I return to myself,
HaMakom.
Photography Credits:
First, second, and last photograph: Frank Dobrushken
Third photograph: Leonid Rozenfeld
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