Time in a bottle: Rosh Hashanah 5784 day 2
Two years before his death in 1973, Jim Croce wrote the haunting and so very real Time in a Bottle– a love song to his newborn son Adrian.
If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day ‘til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you.
If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I’d save every day like a treasure, and then,
Again, I would spend them with you.
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do once you find them
If I had a box just for wishes and dreams
That had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory of how they were answered by you
I’ve looked around enough to know
That you’re the one I want to go through time with.
This song has the magical power to propel me backwards and forwards. The words somehow send me back in time, back down into the cavern of my grief after losing my mom; make me feel all the usual feelings and ask all of those irrationally human questions we ask after a loss: what if we had more time? What if I had been better able to appreciate our relationship, and how deep her love for my brother and me really ran? If I had been kinder, more patient, more connected– would my grief feel different? Somehow easier, more manageable?
But I know that these impossible questions usually get us nowhere. At best, they make us wish things had been different. At worst, these questions have the potential to draw us down into a very dark and unforgiving place. But then I remember, that my mom knew the answers to all of these questions– because she knew, and so desperately felt that our relationship was ok, it was where it needed to be at that particular moment. That’s what I tell myself. And beneath all of the distance and illness, beneath the anger and worry and fear, she knew that there was love, really deep love, and wonder, and magic.
And this song draws me into my current life, our current life. Time in a Bottle captures so much of what I feel watching Elisheva grow. It makes me feel held by those suspended-in-time moments– of sleepless night, uncertainty, the fear that comes with that frightening realization that we really have no idea what we’re doing, that we’re learning it all as we go; that in so many ways, we’re making it up on the spot. And amid all the challenges and blessings of parenthood, what has grounded me and helped me grow through this new and so very wild chapter of our lives, is the wonder, the joy, the pure magic of watching Elisheva encounter and experience everything in our ready-made and familiar world for the first time.
I remember the first time she seemed to really notice me. Her newborn eyes a little more open than the day before. Lying on my chest looking up at me, as if to say, “you’re my person.” the first time she pointed to me and said, “mama,” or called Joseph “dada.” the first time she looked up at a tree, or seemed totally captivated by our beautiful windows here at OZS. The first time she discovered the magical possibilities of clanging on all the pots and pans, or taking things out of the pantry and rejoicing in her ability to return things to their place just so.
Everything is so new for her. So unspoiled and rich. And watching her move through the world with this unbelievably open and excited posture has changed me, on an elemental level. She has taught me how to slow down, how to catch time in a bottle. How to revel in the beauty of the world. How to pause for just a moment before getting in the car in the morning to touch and talk about the green and brown leaves on the tree in our driveway. To wave goodbye to those very same leaves before dashing off to school.
I think Elisheva has managed to teach me something about my own mother, that I didn’t appreciate or realize until now– that our children give us these sublime, fleeting, and immeasurable gifts. They teach us how to embody a kind of living that often feels absurd and impossible in the modern world. They teach us how to observe, how to see, and how to notice the many acts of creation and becoming that are unfolding around us all the time. My mom knew this, and I have to believe that it brought her immense comfort, even when we were struggling.
Elisheva has drawn me out of a rut that I think I’d been stuck in for far too long than I care to admit– the rut of deadlines and commuter rail schedules. The rut of ambition and competition. The loneliness that is the result of everything happening way too fast. The pain of never slowing down.
But now, we wave goodbye to leaves, and to the water spinning down the drain at the end of a bath. We make piles with toys and tupperware lids, read books a million different ways– forwards, backwards, sometimes even upside down. In watching this little person discover the universe, those rut-making things have fallen away, and have made room for spaciousness, magic, and awe.
To be clear, this is not our constant state of being. For all its sweetness and power, we still have to remind ourselves to live by the Elisheva principle. We constantly have to draw ourselves out of the routine and monotony– dozens of times a day. Several times a day, we press this metaphorical reset button, and even if just for a few minutes, we’re able to be present to the world and the beautiful chaos of our lives.
Rosh Hashanah goes by many names. Yom Hadin, the Day of Judgment; Yom Hazikaron, the Day of Remembrance; Yom Teruah, the day on which we blow the Shofar. Rosh Hashanah is also called Yom Harat Olam, the Day the World was Conceived into Being.
During the Musaf service on Rosh Hashanah, we blow the Shofar three separate times- each unit consisting of nine blasts, with one grand Tekiah Gedolah to round them all out. After each set of blasts, we read:
הַיּוֹם הֲרַת עוֹלָם. הַיּוֹם יַעֲמִיד בַּמִּשְׁפָּט כָּל יְצוּרֵי עוֹלָמִים. אִם כְּבָנִים. אִם כַּעֲבָדִים. אִם כְּבָנִים רַחֲמֵֽנוּ כְּרַחֵם אָב עַל בָּנִים. וְאִם כַּעֲבָדִים עֵינֵֽינוּ לְךָ תְלוּיוֹת. עַד שֶׁתְּחָנֵּֽנוּ וְתוֹצִיא כָאוֹר מִשְׁפָּטֵֽנוּ אָיּוֹם קָדוֹשׁ
Today, the world stands as at birth. Today, all creation is called to judgment, whether as your children or as your servants. If as your children, be compassionate with us as a parent is compassionate with children. If as your servants, we look to you expectantly, waiting for you to be gracious to us, and as day emerges from night, to bring forth a favorable judgment on our behalf, awe-inspiring and holy one.
On this day, the world stands as at birth. The blasts of the shofar call us to attention, call us to embody this essential High Holiday stance. Today, everything is brand new.
Our machzor includes the following teaching on Hayom Harat Olam:
The ancient rabbis debated whether Rosh Hashanah marks either the first day of the creation of the world, or the sixth day, when humanity was formed. The liturgical emphasis on the word ‘today’ suggests that this is no mere anniversary celebration; rather, all humanity– and all creation– are recreated anew today.
And later, at the very end of Musaf, we read:
Strengthen us– today!
Bless us– today!
Exalt us– today!
Seek our well-being– today!
Inscribe us for a good life– today!
Lovingly accept our prayers– today!
Hear our plea– today!
Sustain us with the power of your righteousness– today! On a day like this, bring us joyfully to the fullness of redemption.
Once again, our Rosh Hashanah liturgy reminds us of the centrality of today. This day is unique, charged with possibility, wide-open and vast before us.
I find this singular focus particularly interesting, because during the month of Elul, in the lead up to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and even more so on these days, we are called to reckon with ourselves past, present, and future. We take on the enormously difficult task of mining the deepest, most cavernous parts of our soul; we pick apart our personalities and our flaws; think carefully about who we are, how we’re missing the mark, and who we want to be. And we know that this is constant work– maybe magnified at this time of year– but endlessly necessary, always.
And so, when our Rosh Hashanah liturgy declares that today is the day! Today is a day uniquely infused with meaning and magic, it seems to run somewhat counter to what we maybe thought this time of year was all about.-- maybe even undermines all the work we’ve done to reach this point.
But what if Hayom, what if today, is a reset? Not necessarily the culmination of a journey, but a chance to get back on track if we’ve fallen off mid-course. Because as difficult as it is to imagine, especially for those of us who are still trying to understand how to make it all work– even spiritual work, even teshuvah can become rote, stale, difficult, and dull because it is never-ending and all the same.
The idea of Hayom, of today, appears elsewhere in the biblical and rabbinic imagination. The Midrash Sifrei on Deuteronomy teaches:
Take to heart these words that I charge you today, Hayom. Today. These words are not to be in your sight like some old ordinance, to which no one is paying attention any longer, but they are to be in your sight like a new ordinance, toward which everyone is running.
And in a similar text from Deuteronomy, Rabbi Alan Lew points us to an important insight from Rashi:
When we read in the book of Deuteronomy, “I have put before you this day life and death, a blessing and a curse, therefore choose life,” the verse is talking about spiritual life and spiritual death. The blessing is refreshment– the renewal of the soul. The curse is boredom, staleness, frustration, failure.
And philosopher Martin Buber gives a different voice to the same concept:
When we do not believe that G-d renews the work of creation everyday, then our religious practice becomes old and routine and boring. As it says in the Psalms, “Do not cast me off when I am old.” That is, do not let my world become old.
And Roger Daltrey, who, while decidedly not a member of the rabbinic academy, ancient or modern, expresses a similar sentiment in the Who’s 1965 classic, My Generation, in which he proclaims, “I hope I die before I get old.” Meaning, I think, that if my world ceases to amaze me, ceases to be such an obvious miracle to me; if I lose my ability to notice and appreciate the beauty of the world and the blessing of living in it, then I’d rather not live. I cannot bear to live in a world where living itself becomes dull, boring, painfully monotonous day in and day out.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel expands on this warning:
As civilization advances, the sense of wonder declines. Such decline is an alarming symptom of our state of mind. Mankind will not perish for want of information, but only for want of appreciation. The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living. What we lack is not a will to believe, but a will to wonder.
What will we do if we lose our sense of wonder? If we throw away that most precious gift that tethers us to the whole circle of humanity? And to the Divine?
Living in wonderment is a form of prayer. Making a note of something beautiful or wonderful that you observed is prayer. Wonder offers us one of the most sacred paths for connecting with G-d, because it’s through wonder, that we fully come to appreciate the beauty and the miracle of the created universe. Wonder is prayer, and wonder is gratitude.
Jewish tradition teaches that we must recite a special prayer upon waking:
מוֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ מֶלֶךְ חַי וְקַיָּם שֶׁהֶחֱזַרְתָּ בִּי נִשְׁמָתִי בְּחֶמְלָה, רַבָּה אֱמוּנָתֶךָ
I give thanks to You living and everlasting King for You have restored my soul with mercy. Great is Your faithfulness.
The Modeh or Modah Ani prayer is about cultivating gratitude for our life. It is about learning to wake up with an orientation toward the world that invites curiosity, welcomes surprise, astonishment, and awe. It’s a prayer that asks us to acknowledge just how vast the universe is, that we are but mere visitors, and we have so much to learn.
And the Modeh Ani prayer has become part of our morning ritual at home. As we parade into Elisheva’s room to get ready for the day, we sing this tefillah, this prayer. And as soon as we begin, she dances. I love watching her wake up because it’s always incredibly exciting for her. She’s not yet at the stage where she grumpily rolls over or throws a pillow at me. She is so excited to wake up to the world, so excited to be in it. So grateful for the day.
In his essential work on the High Holidays, This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, Rabbi Alan Lew writes:
The present moment is the only place where we experience ourselves as being alive, the only place we experience our lives at all. If you want your life to come alive again- if you want it to bristle with wonder and intensity– then you have to inhabit it, that dead meaningless life that troubles you so. So inhabit your life. Be present in it, and watch the gray concrete turn a brilliant emerald green.
So on Rosh Hashanah, when the whole world stands as at birth, I think that includes us, too. It has to. Today, we find our way back to that childlike quality– to that place of our past that is buried deep within us, that place to which we spend our whole lives trying to return. On Rosh Hashanah we are called back to the truest parts of ourselves, and we are able to encounter the world with more questions, more openness, more awe.
On Rosh Hashanah, Hayom, the world is renewed, and so are we. On Rosh Hashanah, we can see the world– we can see the leaves, the windows, the tupperware, the cyclone tumbling down the bathtub drain– for what it really is, a blessing none of us can fathom, but that we are so unmistakably lucky to receive.
Shanah Tovah!
