Mediations and Reflection on Elul

24 Elul 5785 | Rabbi Elianna Yolkut

Rachel Naomi Ramen describes a visit she once made to a particular congregation on Yom Kippur to hear the rabbi deliver his Yom Kippur sermon. She and others in the congregation that day were awaiting the rabbi's words with considerable anticipation. It was surprising therefore that just prior to the start of his address he came down off the bima and proceeded into the Beit K'nesset. Once there, he took his infant daughter from his wife and returned to the reader's table.

The rabbi held his daughter, an adorable child, for a period of time. After a while, however, she took her father's tie and put it into her mouth. She grabbed his nose and wrapped her arms forcefully around her father's neck. The congregation chuckled.

Just then, the rabbi, wisely, parted from his prepared remarks. This is how Rachel Naomi Remen remembers what he said next: "Think about it. Is there anything she can do that you could not forgive her for?" Remen continues: throughout the room people began to nod in recognition, thinking perhaps of their own children and grandchildren. Just then, she reached up and tore his eyeglasses off - (how many bespectacled parents have experienced that?) Everyone laughed.

Retrieving his eyeglasses and settling them on his nose, the rabbi laughed as well. Still smiling, he waited for silence. When it came he asked, "And when does that stop? When does is get hard to forgive? At three? At seven? At fourteen? At thirty five? How old does someone have to be before you forget that everyone is a child?"

During these days leading up to the Days of Awe we are meant recognize the divinity in each person and come to understand that at the end of the day, just about everybody is trying to make his or her way through life the best way possible. Often we make mistakes. Imperfection is the order of the day for most of us. Great or small, our mistakes and personal shortcomings are what make us human. And from imperfection, comes new growth.

22 Elul 5785 | Rabbi Sarah Krinsky

In a novel I was recently reading by Ada Calhoun, the narrator and protagonist muses: “if redemption is being presented with an identical situation and making a different choice, that was what I’d done.” My first thought, when encountering this reflection was “doesn’t she mean teshuva?” My second thought was “wait, is Ada Calhoun Jewish??” (she’s not).

This literary articulation was so resonant and so familiar because of how closely it (intentionally, or not; coincidentally, or not) echoes the famous teaching of the Rambam:

אאֵי זוֹ הִיא תְּשׁוּבָה גְמוּרָה? - זֶה שֶׁבָּא לְיָדוֹ דָּבָר שֶׁעָבַר בּוֹ, וְאֶפְשָׁר בְּיָדוֹ לַעֲשׂוֹתוֹ, וּפֵרַשׁ וְלֹא עָשָׂה

What constitutes complete teshuva? A person who comes to the same situation in which the sin occurred, and there is the potential to sin again, but nonetheless the person abstains

(Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuva, 2:1)

What is it about this specific situation that is so representative, revealing, reflective and even redemptive? Why this particular set-up as the ultimate assessment of teshuva’s success? Why is this moment envisioned as our Elul final exam?

I think it is because of the way in which the Rambam’s (and Calhoun’s) hypothetical collapses the past and the future.

It can be tempting for teshuva to be exclusively past-oriented. I can list a litany of my previous failings without much spiritual work - “I was harsh. Impatient. Unkind. I did not give the benefit of the doubt.” That is important, but it is an exercise in memory, not in change.

On the other hand, simply committing to future behavior without a reckoning of harm I have caused or missteps I have taken can be similarly hollow. I can imagine an exemplary future self without much true accounting - “I will listen more. I will jump to conclusions less. I will be present, attentive, brave and kind.” That is important, but it is an exercise in confidence, not in improvement.

The Rambam refuses to let us off the hook in either direction. Each element on its own is necessary - and, each element on its own is insufficient. It is when our reckoning with our past confronts our aspirations for our future that teshuva in its most expansive and most complete form can be exercised and revealed. “I know I messed up before. Which means I have the capacity to mess up again. And yet, I promise and believe, I can do - I can be better.”

And perhaps, when done right, this encounter - this intermingling of regret for past sin and promise of future change, this responsibility for and thus release of past wrongdoing coupled with a commitment to and manifestation of a different and better self - has the potential to be, as Ada Calhoun observes, not just teshuva, not just a corrective or a homecoming, but in fact its own version of redemption.

19 Elul 5785 | Zoe Becker Grandview

The trek up to Grandview Park in San Francisco is exhausting. It’s especially exhausting if you’ve already walked ~15,000 steps that day around the Golden Gate Bridge and across town to the Japanese Tea Gardens which was the case for me when I visited in August.

To actually reach the park you’ll have to climb through the winding row house lined streets of San Francisco’s West Side before reaching a staircase built into the side of a hulking boulder. You’ll climb the stairs, out of breath by the time you reach the top and look up to see … another set of stairs built into another boulder. That’ll happen three or so more times and by the time you reach the last exorcist-style staircase you’ll be wondering whether the view is even worth it.

Once you actually reach the entrance to the park (which is just patches of grass cross-hatched with the rocky terrain) you’ll have to pull on the sweatshirt that you took off while climbing the stairs. The air will feel thinner and you’ll notice the wind picking up. Towards the horizon, perched on a rocky ledge though, you’ll notice a bench angled straight at the setting sun. You will smile, perhaps and be glad you did the climb.

You will watch as a hazy pink settles over the city. You will marvel at how magical it is that here you can be freezing cold with wind whipping through your hair on a summer day. Maybe you will be holding someone’s hand and you’ll chuckle at how freezing cold it also is. You’ll squint your eyes so you can see the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance and try to find the ever thinning line between the sky and the sea.

Only after letting a giddy smile escape at every landmark you see–the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz, the Ferry Building–will it occur to you the incredible vastness of what you can see. It’s almost the entire city. Hundreds of houses, dozens of offices, thousands of people. You’ll wonder in which houses people are baking apple pies and where they’re watching a movie for the first time that will one day be their favorite and where they’re fighting with their mothers on the phone. You will feel very small and you’ll think about the things that you were pissed about that morning–your brother didn’t answer your text, you forgot your good jeans at home, you had to reschedule that dentist appointment–and let a laugh escape. It’s not that those things don’t matter, they all matter plenty, but it will be much easier, comically easier, to think about dealing with them all now that you are seeing thousands of people's lives before you.

I learned the power of perspective at Grandview Park. This shouldn’t be surprising, I guess. I mean the name doesn’t exactly conceal what the park is supposed to give you: a grand view of things. Still, in moments when I have been overwhelmed lately whether by a headline, an email or a mundane chore, Grandview Park is something of a saving grace. When I remember how warm it is to feel so small, how peaceful it is for everything to look so insignificant, I feel equipped to take a deep breath and step forward.

Though we may not have the San Francisco breeze here in DC, I hope that this year I can treat Rosh Hashanah as something of a Grandview Park–a point from which to look at out all that is ahead and not assign it any sort of value judgement but just recognize it’s enormity and occasional beauty. Shana Tova.

18 Elul 5785 | Rabbi Elianna Yolkut

A teaching I return to often during this season (and the rest of the year):

"Prayer has the ability to change the life of a person. It is not magic. It doesn’t “force” God into a corner. Prayer is about longing and belonging. To "belong” is to ‘be-in-longing’. When a person can identify where they belong, to whom they belong, to who they are in longing, then their life has been transformed. Praying is being able to stand in the presence of the Master-of-the-World and say, “Ribbono Shel Olam, Master-of-the-World, I belong to you, and I am in-longed for you. I believe that You long for me, and are in-longing for me.” Prayer may not change the details of a given event, but it can change how we stand in what we are experiencing. This means that prayer can change our lives. “–R’Mimi Feigelson

Prayer is one of the most difficult of our spiritual disciplines. It feels as if it requires so many different aspects of each of us -creating the time, space to actually pray. Trying to understand ancient words in the modern world. To feel heard. To feel changed by something that’s changed isn’t obvious from the outside. So what would it mean to look at prayer as R’ Dr. Mimi Feigelson suggests? That when we pray we are expressing two things at once- a sense of longing and belonging. The nature of prayer is meant to remind us that we are both imperfect and undone and complete and whole - we long and belong at the same time for the Divine, for the best version of ourselves, for community, for hope. As we approach the 3 days a year we spend the most time in prayer consider the following:

What would Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur look like for you if your prayer was rooted in this notion of longing for something more and belonging to all the points of connection you need?

17 Elul 5785 | Janelle McCarthy

Over the past year, I’ve become a huge fan fiction person. Something that has surprised me is the sheer number of ways to tell a story. Is it a one shot? A ficlet? A muli-chapter fic? One of the formats that has really captured my interest of late is that of a ‘drabble.’ A drabble is a really short story. Some within the fandom that I write in have been challenging themselves to write “one hundred word worlds”—they limit themselves to one hundred words to paint the whole picture. I am in awe when I read them. They do an amazing job of crafting complex and descriptive stories that can be emotionally rich and stick with the reader long after the last word. Though they are small, they matter mightily.

When I think of Elul, one of the first places my brain goes to is the nightly reading of psalm 27. When we read it, we plant ourselves in David’s heart—in the many twists and turns of his relationship with God during his version of a dumpster fire of a year. What starts as unshakable confidence on David’s part (“Adonai is my light and my help. Whom shall I fear?”) morphs into pleas for connection (“Adonai, hear my voice as I cryout…do not hide Your face from me…” and concludes with a weathered but present hope (“Be strong and take courage and place your hope in Adonai.”)

The part that so speaks to me are the lines that precede the most significant doubts: “One thing I ask of Adonai—this is what I seek: to dwell in the House of God all the days of my life, to behold God’s peacefulness and to pray in God’s sanctuary. In a time of calamity, You would hide me in Your sukkah, enfold me in the secret recesses of Your tent…”

At first, this sounds like when the going gets rough, David is trusting God to protect him from harm—to shield him in God’s sukkah. But, as the commentators in the Shabbat Lev Shalem siddur point out when reflecting on Hashkieveiunu, the sukkat shlomekha—by design—is a flimsy structure. The point of a sukkah isn’t impenetrable protection, it's about an openness and vulnerability that invites closeness and brings peace.

When facing enemies on all sides, David’s top ask of God is that they go through it together—that God help him know God’s presence amidst life’s storms.

I love that imagery. It’s not about controlling what we can’t control (e.g. the action of our enemies), it’s not about being hyperfocused on triumph at any cost—it’s about making sure we don’t go through the hardest parts of life alone or without knowing goodness. It’s about moments of connection during the awfulness—moments that end up creating opportunities for life as it should be.

If I’m being frank, writing 1000 words is hard. It’s much easier for me to develop characters and plot when I have endless pages to work with. Something my fellow writers have taught me, though, is that it’s possible. And that’s the message my heart has needed this year.

5785 has held a lot; for many people it has been a dumpster fire of a year. I’m a helper by temperament and by training and it hurts deeply to see people suffer. And people near and far are suffering immensely. Sometimes what I can do—offering moments of connection, lending an ear, sharing some joy, speaking a hard truth—feels laughably small in the face of the giant evils we’re up against. Sometimes it feels like nothing I can do will ever be enough. Sometimes it feels like peace is out of reach. But Torah teaches that each soul is a world. Each of us—with the 100 words we get in this life—is invited to be intentional and make every word count.

So as we enter Elul in a world that sometimes feels paralyzingly scary, may you be blessed with sukkahs and drabbles. In the toughest moments, may you be blessed with the gift of being held close, may you be blessed with moments of respite and peace, and may you be blessed with the chance to offer the same to whoever is reading your story.

15 Elul 5785 | "A Pregnant Pause" by Zach Brown and Genesha Michelle

The High Holy days exist as a void, a time after we stop our weekly Torah readings and before we start over. The cycle of Torah readings is not fully connected. It fractures. Then, begins anew with the story of creation. Pregnancy for us feels a lot like this. A period of reflection, a deep breath before a new beginning. This facturing of time was especially apparent for us on Mother’s and Father’s Day as we awkwardly received happy wishes from family and strangers alike. We don’t feel we quite fit those titles. We are not yet parents. We are not not parents, either. We are a mysterious third thing in between.

While we feel we haven’t fully ushered in this new era, we are intentionally nurturing the seeds. We treat each week as a milestone, feel awe as life and excitement swell in our inner and outer worlds. We reflect on our own relationships with our parents, introspect on our own flaws we work dearly to release, or at least not pass on to our child, and prepare for our own journey of creation.

In Judaism, the preferred way to acknowledge pregnancy is not to immediately congratulate. We reserve that for after the baby is born. Rather, we say “B’Sha’ah Tovah” meaning “in a good hour” . It’s the essence of Elul, applied. To recognize the void, to emphasize hope and prayer and to acknowledge the possibility of renewal.

In this final phase of pregnancy, we are consumed with emotion and anticipation. Sort of how you might feel as Yom Kippur approaches. Questions of adequacy swarm and you do all that you can to feel ready. You run through the checklists and assemble nursery furniture and work on breathing techniques and try to face your fears and ask for forgiveness in advance for the things you’ll say in labor, miming a sense of control until you exhaust yourself to the epiphany that now you must trust. This period of reflection and preparation will end. Then there is only acceptance of what comes, and hopefully a chance to make another effort. We hope that, like us, you can see this time as a cherished opportunity to pick up the fractured pieces of our worlds and prepare ourselves to welcome the blessings of a new beginning.

*Addendum: Genesha and Zach Brown welcomed a healthy daughter on August 10th, 2025 Zahara Channah (Zora Josephine). Mom and baby are doing well.

12 Elul 5785 | Cantor Arianne Brown
Click Here To Watch The Video

“Ani l’dodi v’dodi li — I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine." As we enter Elul, Cantor Arianne Brown shares how this timeless phrase guides us toward love, reflection, and renewal.

11 Elul 5785 | Rabbi Andy Weissfeld

Rabbi Abbahu teaches in the Talmud (Berakhot 34b): “In the place where penitents (ba’alei teshuvah) stand, even the perfectly righteous cannot stand.” Drawing from Isaiah 57:19, he reminds us that God first greets “the one who is far” before “the one who is near.” In other words, God does not prize those who never struggle. Instead, God cherishes the person who is willing to return, try again, and continue growing. Teshuvah is not a one-time act, but an ongoing and lifelong process.

As Elul invites us to prepare for the new year, it can feel overwhelming to know where to begin our teshuvah process. Should we focus on our relationships, our spiritual practice, our own self-care, or something else? Rabbi Abbahu’s teaching reminds us that perfection should not be the enemy of good. This Elul, may we find strength and inspiration in walking this imperfect journey together.

10 Elul 5785 | "You are deserving of Teshuva" by Rabbi Anina Dassa

How does one prepare for the high holidays while experiencing mental illness? I have been there, and statistically, so have many of you, or someone you love or care about. For many people struggling with mental health challenges, the themes of Elul and the High Holidays can be overwhelming– it is perhaps when we are most vulnerable. Elul is a time where we engage in cheshbon hanefesh– an accounting of the soul. For many people, this accounting is about scrutinizing over mistakes, reliving the negative actions we have partaken in. It is a time of intense self judgement. But as many of us know, indulging in self judgment can become unconstructive for people experiencing mental health challenges. Some of these negative thoughts can become paralyzing, repetitive, stuck, excruciatingly painful. Self criticism can get out of control, and opening up that language of “sin” and "repentance" can do damage. For those of you who are struggling or know someone who is, I want to offer that chesbon hanefesh is not about seeing the worst in ourselves, but it is in fact giving us a structure to heal– not about setting off on a path toward perfection, but rather on a path toward wholeness.

This idea of perfectionism vs. wholeness during this holy time was explored by our rabbis from a story in the Talmud (Bavli Shabbat 88b) that describes the day that Moses received torah- or as the rabbis say, the 10th of Tishrei– Yom Kippur.

The story below is paraphrased:

When Moses ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, the angels were confused and upset. They asked God, what is a human doing up here?

God responded, he has come to receive the Torah.

But the angels protested, saying, A hidden treasure that was concealed by You for generations before the creation of the world, and You seek to give it to a human? The Torah should remain in heaven!

But Moses, defending humanity, responded by pointing out that the commandments in the Torah are designed for beings who live in the real world—imperfect, flawed beings who live in the messiness of human life.

After hearing Moses’ arguments, God silenced the angels and affirmed that the Torah was indeed meant for humanity.

God gave the Torah to humans, not angels, because God believes in our ability to heal. God wanted to provide us with the gift of teshuva–the opportunity to return to our best, most whole selves. Teshuva does not mean repentance. Its closer meaning is the word “return” or “turning”. What we are doing this Elul–this action of healing– is meant for everyone, even for those (and perhaps especially for those) struggling with mental illness. This story reminds us that every single person is deserving. You are deserving of teshuva, of healing. You are deserving of Torah, of love, of compassion, of life.

Cheshbon Hanefesh through Teshuva means returning to the self that has always been there underneath the layers of pain, guilt, or self-doubt. For some, teshuva might look like repairing relationships. For others, it might look like getting out of bed, going to therapy, or showing up—for yourself or your community—even when it’s hard.

So however you show up this Elul, know that all of this was meant for you. You are deserving of healing. You are deserving of Teshuva.

9 Elul 5785 | Rabbi Lauren Holtzblatt

We have collectively been living in such a difficult time as a people. We have experienced the rise of antisemitism in America and incidents of violence in our city. We have been experiencing the horrific war in Israel and Gaza for nearly 24 months- holding the plight of the hostages, Palestinian civilians suffering in Gaza and the pain of a war that seems to have no end. In our city, Washington DC, we have experienced heartache and worry with the presence and intense actions of the National Guard. All of this while we are asked to live our lives, go to work, parent, go to school, and carry on. This has led so many of us to feel constantly on edge.

The month of Elul does not bring with it an answer to all of these incredible hardships we are experiencing but it does come with a question: how will we meet this moment? It is the way of the human being to respond to tension, fear, and the unknown with a hard heart. It is enormously difficult to respond to a harsh world with tenderness, but that is the work of Elul. Even when we know the world is likely going to take a very long time to repair, how do we face our relationships, our internal struggles, and our community with presence? How do we create more space to listen, learn, repair, while the world is so harsh?

Viktor Frankl wrote in his famed Man’s Search for Meaning “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.” Elul invites us to take a pause from how we normally respond to the world. Elul invites us into more silence, more attunement to the inner noise in our souls and a noticing of how we are responding in our relationships with all of the stress of the world we are currently experiencing. Elul asks us to step outside of the rebooting of the news constantly, outside of the hopelessness that many of us are feeling, and to make space. Space for connection, space for tender conversations, space for vulnerability, and maybe within that, space for healing and hope.

5 Elul 5785 | Rabbi Sarah Krinsky

There are some universally awkward moments in which it is hard to know what to do or how to behave. When people sing happy birthday to you. When the community is singing you mazel tov (and you’re done shielding yourself from flying candy). When someone is introducing you by reading aloud from your formal bio. Each of these moments bump up against the uncomfortable realization that for many of us, being givers of celebration, joy, praise or appreciation comes naturally, whereas being recipients of these same interpersonal offerings can be a challenge.

The same can be true with repentance.

Much of our focus during the month of Elul and the subsequent Days of Awe is the work of asking for forgiveness. This process is multistep and multifaceted - we must excavate our memories and habits, our relationships and encounters; we must discern who it is we have wronged and how; and we must summon the courage and vulnerability to take responsibility and pledge to do better. It’s a lot. And - it is, on its own, not enough.

Part of what the Yamim Nora’im remind us is that none of us exist in a vacuum. We are enmeshed in webs of connection and community, which means that the number of times as we each individually and collectively ask for forgiveness thus create the same number of corresponding opportunities to grant forgiveness. Asking is only half of the process.

The Rambam acknowledges this in his laws on teshuva. After reflecting on how it is we are to atone for our own wrongdoings, he then shifts perspectives:

אָסוּר לָאָדָם לִהְיוֹת אַכְזָרִי וְלֹא יִתְפַּיֵּס אֶלָּא יְהֵא נוֹחַ לִרְצוֹת וְקָשֶׁה לִכְעֹס וּבְשָׁעָה שֶׁמְּבַקֵּשׁ מִמֶּנּוּ הַחוֹטֵא לִמְחל מוֹחֵל בְּלֵב שָׁלֵם וּבְנֶפֶשׁ חֲפֵצָה.

It is forbidden for a person to be cruel and refuse to be appeased. Rather, one should be easily pacified, but hard to anger. When the person who wronged asks for forgiveness, one should forgive with a complete heart and a willing spirit.

(Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuva 2:10)

Admitting to having caused harm requires self reflection and taking responsibility. And that is scary. But granting someone who has caused you harm a clean slate, and in so doing potentially also the opportunity to cause said harm again - that might be even scarier.

This Elul, may we engage in the work of not just acknowledging where we ourselves have failed and seeking proper forgiveness, but also in cultivating the strength and the faith to encounter those who have caused us hurt and to do the holy work of granting forgiveness.

3 Elul 5785/August 27th, 2025 RAA

For some who read what follows, I expect it will make perfect sense. I also imagine that for others, it will be absolutely incomprehensible. It’s not a great way to begin a written piece, I know, but it’s Elul. No straight lines. 

Willie Nelson once wrote: “I believe that all roads lead to the same place - and that is wherever all roads lead to.”  This is a story about that. 

About 25 years ago I brought a sefer (holy book) back from Jerusalem that I frankly happened upon. It’s a collection of common Jewish practices (minhagim) and some theories as to how those practices originated. It functions kind of like an encyclopedia. Anyways, I recently wondered when the term for upcoming holidays, Yamim Nora’im/Days of Awe emerged, and checked my old book for an answer. The first citation for some reason poinated me to a passage in the 16th century Jewish Law code, the Shulhan Arukh, written by Rabbi Yosef Karo. I was surprised to be pointed in this direction as I know that the passage is one that is primarily concerned with the laws of minyan. I considered moving on, but somehow couldn’t. So I pulled the volume from my shelf and opened it up. 

Here’s what the passage says: “A city/town that doesn't have more than 10 [Jewish adults] in it, and one of them wants to leave on the Yamim Nora’im: they may compel this person to remain. Or [if that’s not in their best interest], to pay another to take their place. And if there are 11 and two want to leave, the two of them jointly pay for one in their place, and the two of them split it equally. 

And if one is poor and one rich, they split [the total cost]: half according to [how much] money [each one is able to pay] and half [divided] according to [the number of] individuals. And the Hazzan’s [Yamim Nora’im] salary is on those who leave just as on those who remain.”

So, it is kind of a text about the Yamim Nora’im, at least tangentially. And it certainly helps prove that these coming Holy Days are referred to as the Yamim Nora’im in classical Jewish texts dating pretty far back. Did it answer my original question? Not at all. 

But here’s what it did do. I was so fascinated by the second clause–how the money paid is to be split–that I abandoned my first question and seriously rabbit-holed into another. I pulled multiple books off the shelves, spread them around my office, pulled up pictures of manuscripts on the computer, phoned a friend, and experienced the unparalleled pleasure of getting wonderfully lost in the minutia of Jewish text. 

So that’s Elul. 
Start with a real question about life. 
See where it takes us. 
Expect detours to present themselves. 
Take the ones which seem to be meaningful in either process or content. 
Learn something new. 
Find something old. 
Be surprised by ourselves. 
Ask for help when we need it. 

Then repeat. 

1 Elul 5785/August 25th, 2025 - REY and Sarah Brooks

“Ambition left to itself, always becomes tedious, its only object the creation of larger and larger empires of control; but a true vocation calls us out beyond ourselves; breaks our heart in the process and then humbles, simplifies and enlightens us about the hidden, core nature of the work that enticed us in the first place. We find that all along, we had what we needed from the beginning and that in the end we have returned to its essence, an essence we could not understand until we had undertaken the journey.”

― David Whyte, Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words

The Hassidic Masters talk about this idea too. A return to our essence, our essential selves during this season of introspection and renewal. We might feel lost without a map or GPS. The last few years, who are we kidding, the last 5 years have forced us to re-orient ourselves in a world we do not recognize and cannot quite understand. In turn the very journey to find ourselves, our souls and hearts is confusing and murky. Our kivvun, the very compass we used to use, does not work any more. Herein lies a tool we hope will help - kavnnot (notice the linguistic link) intentions to help us re-orient, re-direct and re-focus as we begin this season of reflection, 30 days leading up to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Find yourself closer to the Holy One, to your essential self and to the fellow community members on the journey. May the path be widened and your spiritual travels lead you to a heart of many rooms. 

Abundance by Sarah Brooks

Several years ago, as the days began to shorten, I was moved by the realization that Autumn is the season of abundance; not Spring. Farmers Markets full of tomatoes, melons, cucumbers; and the promise of the squash/gourd season around the corner.

It might have also been the first Elul that I had no kids at home. Each off in various stages of making their own way in the world. It irked me that Elul always fell at one of the busiest times of year for mothers. Vacations to wash and pack for, which was nothing compared to the preparations for the new school year. My days back then were consumed with clothing and book purchases, planning driving routes, and dreading the question: have you done your homework yet? Amidst all this whirlwind (which I will be the first to admit, I miss terribly), when was I supposed to do my Elul work?. When was I supposed to take stock of my life, instead of taking stock of lunch making supplies? The only time I was truly alone was at 2 am when I made my mid-night bathroom break.

Now that I have the time, for me it starts with Tisha b’av. The dark room and minor key of the liturgy brings me to the place of starting to take stock. I begin to think about the losses of the previous year and, if I’m honest, the opportunities for change those losses present. Yes, the destruction of the Temple was terrifying for those who held the Temple as the center of their

spiritual universe; but it also afforded the Jewish people to nurture the nascent Rabbinic Judaism that would become the Judaism I know, love, and struggle with. The gift of Elul, like the Autumn Farmers Markets, is a gift of abundance. The chance to do Cheshbon haNefesh and various Mussar practices might make it possible for me to live a better life next year. Both the abundance of the Farmers Markets and the chance for a fresh start each Rosh HaShannah and Yom Kippur come from God; a sign of the partnership between God and Jewish people to improve ourselves the world around us.