Shana Tova
a reflection and look forward for the Jewish new year.
I’ve always resonated with the timing of the Jewish holidays. On the east coast of the United States where I’ve lived most of my life, Rosh Hashanah, or the Jewish new year, coincides with the harvest season and the new moon. A time of abundance, hope, new beginnings. Autumn always urges deep reflection out of my bones. A time to tidy up and take inventory. Watching the leaves graduate to their culminating show of vivid colors, and the animals who scurry around, gathering their food sources for the winter, I too am inspired to move in my own ritualistic way, letting nature lead while spiraling closer toward hibernation. This time of year feels full—a ripe belly nourished by the satisfaction that the preceding seasons have fed it. Last weekend, Dan’s mother began canning the abundance of tomatoes that are still producing in her garden, and I already know how much I will savor the taste of those preserved tomatoes when we open a jar in the dead of winter. The high holidays are a time of recalling the delights of the passing year and preparing for the newness that lies ahead.
Last year, I spent the high holidays in Israel with my family. It was magical, and filled my soul in ways that I knew I deeply craved. We arrived in Israel right after the new year, and we spent Yom Kippur and the beginning of Sukkot all together. The opportunity for my family to celebrate the holidays together is quite rare. Growing up with my extended family deposited all over the world relegated our holidays to mostly be spent around other family’s tables. And although special in their own way, I always cherish the times when I do get to spend them with my own family.
We finished dinner before the sun set, and as the late night arrived on Yom Kippur, we laced up our sneakers and walked for several miles to the next town. My aunt pointed out the apartment they used to live in—the one that my sister and I spent the summer in when I was 14 and she was 12, watching FRIENDS with our cousin Yarden and attending a summer camp learning small bits of what it meant to be Israeli. That was the summer we both decided that we wanted to live there someday.
“There’s really nothing like this day in the whole world”, my aunt said as we walked. We were surrounded by families doing the same thing as us, strolling for miles and taking in the warm night air. For days leading up to Yom Kippur, bicycles with glittery tassels floating from their handlebars lined the streets. Virtually every kid rides a bike on the night of Yom Kippur. There are no cars on the road, and the streets flood with people. Many are dressed in all white, congregating at synagogue for nighttime services, and while the children ride around, some parents gather with their friends and families in the emptied streets. We crossed a highway overpass, and I leaned over the railing. The roads had become a playground—two teens were sitting on the shoulder, a deck of cards between them. We eventually returned home, collapsing into bed freshly showered and well exercised. I love experiencing nights like this one.
We broke the fast the following evening at sunset with sweets—including an otherworldly babka I had bought in the shuk in Jerusalem, and my safta’s delicate rose petal jam. A few nights later, as the full moon rose into the sky, we stood on my cousin’s balcony to enjoy the first night of Sukkot. We were nearing the end of our trip and I was sad, but also grateful because I had received an abundance of wisdom on that trip. I was let into so much clarity around questions that had lingered, clouding my subconscious for years. Perhaps it was being back home in Israel after several years away, or perhaps it was the fact that the Jewish High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah, followed by the reflection and cleansing of Yom Kippur always brings about this sense of sharp intuition for me—cutting through the smog like a knife through soft butter and presenting what really matters on a clean plate.
Two days before the end of our trip, I went to get my first tattoo. The ping to get one came to me in late August. And though I knew very little about the hoopoe bird, I knew that this was the symbol I wanted for my tattoo. As I prepared to receive my artwork, I researched a bit and learned that the Hoopoe is a divine messenger. It is known in many religions as the link between the old and new, the past and future, and the messenger from the spiritual world to the animal realm. I met with Simag, my tattoo artist, in a new, cool part of Tel Aviv. It was a section of the city that was practically non-existent when I was living there just about a decade ago. The city of Tel Aviv grows so rapidly that each time I visit I feel like I’m learning a whole new place. The late afternoon sunlight streamed into Simag’s studio and warmed my cheekbones as I sipped a glass of water, deciding on the final design. Placement chosen, I laid on the bed and Simag made her first marks on my skin. I took a deep breath in and out, feeling more centered and grounded in the experience than I ever thought was possible. As each new mark was made, I fell into a deep meditative state. A while later, Simag wiped the finished tattoo of the hoopoe bird, its wings spread wide and its crown erect on my arm.
She sat me up and looked me in the eyes. “You are meant to be making art—taking photos, telling stories,” she said, “you need to be here more often.” I nodded. This message felt divine—as if it were a mirror being held up to my truest self. There had been so many of these messages delivered to me on this trip, so many times that my eyes welled with tears acknowledging deep alignment and remembrance for who I truly am.
The next day we walked across the park to my safta’s house—a visit I dread each time I land in Israel because it signals that my trip is coming to an end, and this will be the last time I see my grandmother for a while. She and I are very similar—we are deeply emotional beings—and although I will always fight back tears, we both eventually give into their lure, crying and hugging while we say goodbye. After we finished off lunch with a vodka shot, we walked back across the park to my aunt’s house to pack up our suitcases. We neared the turn for her street, and I noticed a flutter of black and white out of the corner of my eye. A bird landed into a dusty patch of grass. It flared its crown as it hopped and glided around us. I stood in awe. I’d never seen a hoopoe bird in real life, and here it was in front of me. A group of children gathered near us. “Duchifat! duchifat!” they exclaimed excitedly. I took a few photos of it on my film camera, and it lingered, allowing us to enjoy its beauty. It felt as though the bird had appeared to confirm my tattoo choice—my new totem.
When we got to the house, I told my aunt about the bird sighting. She widened her eyes in excitement. Though it is the bird of Israel, it is not often seen. Even she had only encountered one a handful of times in her life.
I am sitting here in a marked new chapter of my life, and reflecting on what has happened in this past year. After I had returned home from that trip, I spent time cataloging all of the pings that I had received during that visit. Allowing these symbols and nudges to guide me, I tuned into what I really wanted for myself. Now I am here. Being in Honesdale for this year's high holidays will be very different than last year’s celebrations, but it is also allowing me the stillness to drop in, yet again, and listen.
As we arrive at Rosh Hashanah tomorrow, I open fresh pages in my notebook, the cool air cleansing my energy field. I slowly unfurl, ready to dance with a new year.
May this new year bring with it a revived spirit, dripping in lots of sweetness and joy.
שנה טובה ומתוקה, Shana Tova u’metuka, Happy sweet new year, friends <3.
What a beautiful story. I've never been to Israel but you made it live in my mind!