High Holiday Wisdom @hhdwisdomposts-blog - Tumblr Blog

Posts

Each year, my family uses a string of colored zip ties to hang a cardstock oval in our sukkah, messily splashed with yellow paint, meant to approximate an etrog, the citron which stars as a member of the four species taken in hand over the holiday of sukkot. I made this garish decorative piece as a preschooler, upon which it was promptly laminated and presented to my family as a means to adorn the tarp-covered poles within which we would spend a week eating and celebrating. Laminated, of course, because of the rain: about every other sukkot for as long as I can remember has been complicated by some amount of precipitation, making this yearly encounter near nature more of a dance between the drips. Other years, the holiday is unbearably hot, and we cover our sukkah with a layer of mosquito netting to ward off the late-summer pests. Of course there all also the years when it has already started to snow, and we eat our chicken soup wearing gloves and scarves. Apparently, nobody considered the extreme yearly variations in Midwest weather when this commemoration of Ancient Israelite harvest festivals was transplanted into my family’s Chicago backyard. I think that what I’m supposed to glean from all of this, probably, is that this holiday forces us to reckon with the unknowable forces of nature, to follow up the High Holidays with real proof that our life and our lives and livelihoods are not in our control. That, as pretty much every U.S. publication I’ve found that tries to explain this holiday, all the way back to this article 1894 New York Tribune, that sukkot is the “most picturesque and poetic of all the Jewish festivals,” in which us Jews commune with our God through the beauty of nature. But that can’t be the message. Nature isn’t that beautiful, not all the time, and not always on sukkot. Here’s what I like. I like hesitancy of it, the last-minute jimmying of another board into that gaping spot in the sukkah wall to keep out the elements, the constant discussions--will we go out, won’t we, what are the limits? Should we wait?--that happen in my living room pretty much every year, and that I’ve heard throughout Hillel ever since I’ve got here. That decision--yes, we’re going to do it, or no, not this time--seems, to me at least, part of what it's all about. Every year, we take fate into our own hands and choose to react. Each year, we fill those same hands with the four species and shout into the void, be it filled with rain, snow, or mosquitos, that we are here, even when it is not picturesque. We’ve made it to now, and we are here.

Torah learning is at the center of my connection to Judaism, and penetrates my thoughts on a moment by moment basis. I constantly utilize the methodologies and texts that I’ve learned throughout my Jewish education to understand the world around me. However, for the yamim noraim, and Yom Kippur in specific, I haven’t found much benefit when confronting texts or sermons - it just doesn’t give me “that tshuva feeling down in my heart” (sung to the tune of “Shabbat feeling”). What has been more reflective through these times, for me, has been the understanding that G-d provides signs to his creations in times of need, or at least that we’re more apt to perceive things as such around this time of year. I’ve found meaning in establishing a practice of re-reading Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, a touching novel about a young boy who doesn’t lose sight of his “Personal Legend” despite withstanding trials and tribulations, whenever embarking on a new journey of my own. I felt college to be an exceptional qualifier for the re-reading so I pulled it out and got to work. My reading was interrupted by my own inability to understand why three seemingly insignificant words were perfectly underlined in royal purple. After squinting my eyes to a close I turned the page over, and found the actual intended annotation - three much more significant words. The ink had bled through the thin fine page to tarnish what should have been a clean page. The book, which defines its own terms for the reading of omens, gave me a sign that’s been a noteworthy metaphor for how I can rethink my understanding of teshuva - return to self. We so often consider the process of repentance to be one of full redemption, a clean slate. This is echoed in our liturgy, but more specifically brought to mind the ritual practice of casting the sheep to azazel (the depths) with half a strip of crimson wool attached to it’s horn so as to alert the Israelites of their redemption via the other half which would miraculously turn white when their sins were atoned for (Mishna Yoma 4:2, 6:6, 6:8). However, I feel the ink bleeding through to be a much more relatable reflection for our perception of how to view the redemptive process. Going into the new year, after doing so much reflection on the steps we’ve taken, back and forth, to underline those things that mattered to us, we are posed with many a question. How will I chose to see these actions after turning to the next page? When I find myself in the same place on that page - the same situation I encountered in the past what will I do? Will I be so confused by the similarity of what preceded that I’m reminded of how I marked that sinful or gracious deed? Will I recognize where I toed that oh so faint line between taking action and standing idly by, for better or for worse, and continue reading on? These questions must be answered by each individual as they find themselves in the ongoing process of redemption and personal salvation. The sight of a pure white cloth is enticing, but all too elusive a picture to remember as the year drags. In order to truly continue the process of teshuva, we must direct our gaze to the lines we have marked for ourselves in the past. We must squint, focusing on the relation of self to that fading line as we move away from it. Return is close so long as we do not shut our eyes completely, for if we do, we have submitted ourselves to the darkness that blinds us from reading any further.

השם אליך ונשובה השיבנו

חדש ימינו כקדם

Every year in college, I’ve struggled with the idea of returning as a central theme of the High Holidays. College is a time of relentless change and forward motion. Return to what? To tradition? At the holidays, I yearn to lean on tradition, on familiarity, but I’m far away from home, singing different melodies and eating different foods than the ones I remember from my childhood. Return to the best, most true version of myself? I have grown and changed so much each year that I barely recognize myself when Rosh Hashanah rolls around again. There is no going back.

Return us to you, God, and we will return.

Renew our days as of old.

I’m taking an astronomy class this semester. We’ve spent the first few weeks studying the motions of the planets and the stars as observed from earth. We’ve learned that the stars move across the sky in an ancient dance whose cycle takes tens of thousands of years to complete. These days, Polaris is close enough to the celestial north pole to serve as a guiding light; five thousand years ago, there was no useful north star. Ancient navigators had to use other signposts. By the end of my lifetime, the stars will be in a different place than they are now.

As we fly through the void of an ever-expanding universe, we are never in the same absolute location twice. But that’s okay. We look to the stars to orient us. We find ourselves aligning with the same other moving bodies every now and then, and that’s enough to reassure us that we’re still on the right track. As we move forward in a dance whose steps take 26,000 years to complete, we are patient, and we do not get lost.

God who is unbounded by space and time, You know how hard it is to return.

I can’t find my way back to who I was last year, or where I was, or what I was. There is only ever forward motion. But each year, I can reorient myself. I can take stock of my position relative to my own guiding lights, and I can alter my course ever so slightly as I keep moving forward.

It’s not a precise science. The people and environments I measure myself against are not as predictable as the stars—they are always growing and changing, too. Friends and mentors move away; new relationships become central to my life. And I still wrestle with the questions of who I am and how I am meant to fit into the world.

But I can return to those questions, and others, every year: am I acting in such a way that certain people in my life would be proud of me? Am I continually opening my heart to new experiences, new challenges and joys? Am I making time for the things I feel good about doing and letting go of the things I don’t? How does the sky look from here?

Reorient us, God, show us how to measure our position against yours. We are but poor astronomers, navigators who are always lost. Return us forward—help us find the path again, even though we are farther along it than we have ever been, and we do not recognize the landscape on either side. Bring us new days as sweet as the old ones. Guide us with a light more constant than the stars, and even if we do not know where we are, help us find our way.

Claire Spaulding is a senior in Columbia College studying Sociology. They currently serve as the president of Kesher, the Reform community at Columbia/Barnard Hillel.

When I was young, the High Holidays were a race between me and my brother to be adults. We both starting fasting on Yom Kippur when we were under the age of ten because it was exciting and different and a (very strange) way to prove ourselves.

In middle school, the High Holidays were a jumping off point to asserting my “different” identity and railing on Christian normativity in public school. More broadly, I embraced explaining Judaism to the southern Christian world around me.

In coming to Barnard and experiencing Jewishness as almost normative, I felt like my Jewish identity had been taken from me. The main role Jewishness had played in my life was simply not needed. For the first time it didn’t matter that I was Jewish, it mattered how I engaged with Judaism. By the end of freshman year, I began to grasp the benefits of my reality; Columbia University’s large Jewish population and northeastern location afforded me the immense privilege of not having to explain myself. All the time I was accustomed to using for thinking through how to explain Judaism to my peers was freed to be used for rearticulating Judaism for myself.

This is my third High Holidays at Columbia and I haven’t spent any time “explaining Judaism” to people around me. Instead, I get to dive right in. This week, I had a three hour conversation about how observance of religious laws and traditions can be understood alongside our society’s desire to change as fast as possible. So what do the High Holidays mean to me now? I’m not quite sure. Unlearning my tendency to see Judaism through the lens of Christianity is a hard and slow process. But I’ve finally figured out how to give myself permission to engage with the nuance and complexity of Jewish practice. Rather than trying to win the race or to prove how I am “different”, I think it’s about finding the time and space to wrestle with Judaism on my own.

Corinne Greenblatt is a junior at Barnard studying Math & Statistics and is the president of Columbia’s J Street U chapter, among other things.

Shana Tova!

In recent months, my favorite soundtrack has been The Band’s Visit. It’s a new musical about an Egyptian band that gets lost and ends up in a small Israeli town, and it tells the story of the connections they form.

The final song of the show is called Answer Me, and it is sung by a character simply known as the Telephone Guy. He spends the entire show off to the side of the stage, waiting by a pay phone, hoping to receive for a call from his girlfriend. At the end of the show, he takes center stage to sing Answer Me, a plea for human connection in a world that can often feel sorely lacking in it.

In the past month, as I’ve tried to prepare myself for the High Holidays, the lyrics of Answer Me seem to take on a double meaning. They appear equally applicable to a person seeking out God as they do to a person seeking out human connection. The Telephone guy sings, “Here I am. Here I am, and the light is dying. Where are you? Where are you? Can you answer me?” These lyrics capture the sentiment of a person trying to connect with God. They convey a feeling of searching and yearning for connection that is central to the human condition.

The High Holidays are a time when we try and renew our connection to God and the same words that are part of the song Answer Me come up again and again. The prayer הִנֵּֽנִי, translated as “Here I Am” is added to the Musaf service and describes our hope to connect with God in the coming year. On the second Day of Rosh Hashanah, we read the story of the Akedah; the sacrifice of Isaac which begins with God looking for Abraham and he replies הִנֵּֽנִי.

Through proclaiming הִנֵּֽנִי we declare ourselves to be here, ready to receive God. We are here and if God will join us, we are ready to listen and ready to change. We are not so much actively seeking God as we are declaring ourselves ready to meet God in the place where we stand.

Near the end of Answer Me, just as the Telephone Guy almost gives up hope and walks away from the pay phone, the telephone rings and he speaks with his beloved. Perhaps this year, we will be fortunate enough to hear the telephone ring and connect to things that have been missing in our own lives, whether that is friends, family, or a deeper connection with God. Maybe this year, we don’t need to keep seeking. We can just say “Here I Am” and God will come.

Jonathan Kapilian is a junior at Columbia Engineering studying Biomedical Engineering and Music. He has never used a pay phone.

Many of you know that Latin has been central to my studies at Barnard and Columbia throughout the past few years. Many of you have also asked—understandably—why that is.

My usual answer consists of a description of the intricacies of language and the exciting nuances of grammar that, though fascinating to me, most find boring. But here’s what I don’t always say: my encounters with Latin often remind me of my own Jewish heritage, beliefs, and rituals.

The period of time leading up to and in between the high holidays is one of contemplation and introspection. We are meant to be at our most vulnerable, as we think back to all of our actions since last Rosh Hashanah, evaluate and criticize ourselves, and then seek atonement. The idea is not for us to recognize and praise our recent accomplishments, but rather to identify and admit to our flaws and then vow to better ourselves. Contemplation, introspection, redemption.

Once again, I am reminded of my Latin. Cicero writes in his meditation on old age (De Senectute) of the distinct value of this contemplation: Non viribus aut velocitate aut celeritate corporum res magnae geruntur, sed consilio, auctoritate, sententia, or “It is not by strength, speed, or haste of action that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgment.”

In my time both on and off campus in the past year, I have come to realize that what makes me proudest of our Jewish community is our ability to reflect on our collective and individual goals, as well as on our methods for achieving them. Where are the gaps in our community? How can we address them? What do we need to do better? I am consistently impressed by our students’ understanding of and compassion for each other’s needs and contributions. It is these skills that make our community strong, welcoming, and inspiring.

And of course, there is always room to better ourselves. Shana tova, and looking forward to a meaningful and productive year of communal introspection and growth.

Noa Shapiro is a senior at Barnard studying Classics. She currently serves as the President on the Executive Board of Columbia/Barnard Hillel.

I want to start by telling a story, a Jewish story. No, not that kind of Jewish story, where I tell you how I didn’t really identify with Judaism until I visited the Western Wall, or learned about the Holocaust for the first time, or something like that. My personal story of finding my Jewishness is a tale that would take up far more space than this response allows, and it is a story that is, to this point, unfinished. I’m going to tell a different story, one that isn’t really my story at all. I hope, though, that it will, in some way, also tell you something about the winding road that is my own Jewish journey.

Our tale begins in Poland in the middle of the 18th century. Through the Middle Ages, Poland developed large Jewish communities with flourishing commerce and intellectual life. By the mid-18th century, Poland was the gravitational center of European Jewry. At this same time, in a small town in Eastern Poland (what is now Ukraine) called Berdychiv, Rabbi Levi Yitzchok led a congregation as one of the early leaders of the Hasidic movement. Why am I writing about an obscure Polish (or was he Ukrainian?) rabbi born close to 300 years ago? Because like other early Hasidic leaders, countless legends involve Rabbi Levi Yitzchok of Berditchev. One of these legends is my main interest today.

The legend goes like this: one Yom Kippur, a simple tailor, a poor man, entered the synagogue where the Rabbi was praying. He approached the Rabbi, and told him that he had come to ask for forgiveness for being disrespectful to God on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish year. The Rabbi of Berditchev was confused. “Disrespectful?” he asked, “what did you say?” The poor tailor replied, “I told God you wish for me to repent of my sins, but I have committed only a few minor offenses. But you O Lord have committed far more grievous sins. You have taken babies from their mothers, and mothers from their babies. Let’s call it even -- if you forgive me, I’ll forgive you”. The Rabbi looked at him, amazed. After a moment of silence, he asked the man a simple question: “why did you let God off so easily?”

I, too, feel conflicted about God, which is why I love this this story. Without question, I am Jewish culturally and historically. But I also question how a God could exist -- one who is all-powerful and worthy of praise -- when such injustice and suffering exists in the world. Was God in the New World when Columbus and Cortes arrived? Was He there in the Belgian Congo? Was He in Hiroshima, or Nagasaki? Was God in Auschwitz, in Bosnia, in Rwanda? I feel resistent to believe in a God who is so often silent.

And yet, I still take Yom Kippur seriously. On this day, all Jews are forced to take ownership of our transgressions. We have to reckon with what we’ve done, and promise to construct a different path forward in our lives than the one on which we’ve walked. For many Jews, that promise is made to God directly. But for me, Yom Kippur is not about God. When I fast, I do so for me, and me alone. For all of my ambivalence about God, there is a feeling of hope in this holiday that I find quite beautiful. Yom Kippur is about the relentless search for truth and meaning. It’s a chance to reaffirm my commitment to the issues I care about, a promise to be a better person in the year to come. Only I can make that promise, and above all, only I can see it to fruition.

To answer the Rabbi’s question, I don’t let God off easily for history. But, I also don’t think about Him a whole lot: I’m far too busy working to keep my promises.

Zachary Kimmel is a freshman in Columbia College from Brooklyn, New York. At Columbia, he is a member of SHARP Acappella, and plans on being involved with Columbia HeForShe, Peer Health Exchange, and the Roosevelt Institute. He intends to be a history major.

This year, I won't be making any resolutions for personal transformation or reinvention. Not because I don't believe in taking stock of our flaws and making room for improvement, but rather because I now recognize that in these formative years, change is uncontrollable and inevitable. The last three years of my life have been full of shake-ups, reinvention, and existential crisis. From my senior year of high school, where I finally found outlets to explore my passions just as I had to leave them behind, to my gap year in Jerusalem and to my first year at Barnard, I have grown tremendously in completely different and often polar opposite environments. 5778 will be the first year, in the past three years, in which I plan to physically and hopefully, mentally stay put. As I settle into my sophomore year, I'm fighting the natural urge to try and artificially craft a completely different experience for myself even as I return to the same campus environment.

Many times, we are told around the high holidays that self-improvement means complete self-reinvention. We often take on new rituals, commitments and hefty resolutions in an effort to change the course of our current routine, to make ourselves "good enough". After three years of positive and intense self-reinvention, my goal is to learn how to begin to live my life just as I am, and to build on myself without feeling pressure to radically reinvent.

The most prominent theme of the High Holidays is that of Teshuva, which usually is translated as repentance, but literally means "to return". Sometimes, it is harder to comfortably return to a place without looking for the next best thing, especially when there are so many opportunities presented to us. How can we learn to be more comfortable with where we are in this very moment in order to take advantage of the ways in which we've already grown?

Aliza Lifshitz is a sophomore at Barnard College majoring in Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies and Jewish Studies. She is co-chair of the Jewish Activist Collective at Hillel and a writing fellow at Barnard.

I’ve been unconsciously avoiding engaging with Yom Kippur for a few years now. I think it was easy to do in the beginning of college, when I could shrug helplessly and answer “I just don’t have time.” Now, as a senior, I know I can make time for the things that are important to me, and that otherwise homework always expands to fill empty time—but I’m still resistant to Yom Kippur. I’m inclined to spend another year mechanically beating my chest and repeating Hebrew phrases I refuse to understand—to let the day and the hunger wash over me without thinking about it at all. I’m afraid to open the Pandora’s box of my soul because of the monsters that might escape to wreak havoc.

They say you’re not supposed to mourn on Yom Kippur, that the day is about connecting to God—but still, Yom Kippur contains all of the self-destructive actions: starving yourself, making yourself uncomfortable, depriving yourself of sleep. At my family’s synagogue it felt as though even leaving services for fifteen minutes to talk to a friend was a sin. In a way, those actions seem intentionally self- destructive: we reject our bodies to resemble angels and connect with God.

I’m especially aware of these issues because I’ve been avoiding them since my first year here. How are you supposed to engage with prayers that detail God’s punishments when a voice in your head welcomes death? How to take stock of your sins and promise to improve, when simply living for another year is an unquestionable victory? In two weeks we will continue the holidays with Simchat Torah, the festival that celebrates the completion of the annual Torah reading with exuberant dancing that on campus reaches all the way to Low Steps. Last year I got through Yom Kippur fine, but still on Simchat Torah I wasn’t able to feel happy—and I hated myself even more for leaving the community and sitting while they danced. A year later, I want to say I’ve escaped that place—why then risk falling back into a hole during Yom Kippur?

The one thing I feel sure about is that naming where I am will always be better than running away from it. I learned this from the therapeutic process: I have to face the things I’m repressing if I want to overcome them. Those hang-ups are my own, and by facing them—going to a counselor, talking to friends, devoting time to self-care—I can learn to own them and control them, instead of letting them control me.

It’s easy to fall into self-hatred on Yom Kippur, to want to give up on oneself. But I wouldn’t be personally obligated to observe the holiday if my actions didn’t matter—if I didn’t matter. To my knowledge, no Jewish ritual involves banishing oneself from the community indefinitely in order to connect to something Greater. We connect to God through a community, through the people around us; the community is left less whole when I absent myself. The prayers direct us to recite a multiplicity of sins in the Hebrew plural. So in trying to heal ourselves and remain whole, maybe we can also try to talk to each other about our falls, our struggles. If Yom Kippur is about committing to improving, maybe we can talk to each other about how to continue caring for ourselves during these holidays. During the fast we can support each other’s health and think together about taking a break to lay down, check in with friends, or eat. Regardless of how I feel about God on a given day, those conversations always remind me that I’m never alone in my missteps and stumbles.

If you’re on campus for Yom Kippur or after, please come up to me to talk. I and the rest of Nefesh are always there for you—I know you’d be there for me too.

Gabi Hoberman is a Barnard senior from Hong Kong and Atlanta, and the vice president of Nefesh, Hillel’s mental health awareness club. She loves talking about novels, art, mental health, and sloths.

When I heard the sound of the shofar on Rosh Hashana, I was reminded of a blog post I recently read written by Shera Dubitsky, a clinical supervisor at Sharsheret, the national organization that supports Jewish women and their families who have been affected by breast cancer:

“Beginning in the Hebrew month of Elul until Yom Kippur, we hear the piercing notes of the Shofar and listen intently to its sounds. The reverberations of the Shofar can be heard in times of battle. I liken the sound to a heart beat. Most of the time, our hearts beat with a steady rhythm. We go about our regular routines, taking care of our families, meeting deadlines at work, volunteering in the community, spending time with friends. Tekiah. There are times when we are challenged, perhaps with a knowledge that one is a carrier of the BRCA mutation, or that one has been diagnosed with cancer or a recurrence. The rhythm of our hearts change reflecting our anxiety, our fears. Shevarim. Deep within the battle, our heart beat quickens as our anxiety heightens, and our fears overwhelm us. Teruah.”

Sharsheret is an organization that is prepared to support those who are impacted by breast or ovarian cancer at every stage. When I was in fifth grade, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. The impact of her diagnosis turned my family’s life upside down. Throughout our journey, I was able to witness firsthand the help Sharsheret provides. Whether it was sending care packages, offering advice to my mother on how to approach her doctors or empowering me to ask my own doctor questions, I was able to really appreciate Sharsheret’s mission. It is this mission that has inspired my fellow classmates and I to bring Sharsheret to campus. Listening to the shofar sound is a wake-up call, a reminder to first introspect and then to take action. By creating Sharsheret at Columbia/Barnard, we are taking the first steps to encourage students to learn about their health and their family history.

Rivkie Zeidman is a senior at Barnard, majoring in psychology and hoping to pursue a career as a pediatrician.

Photo: Rivkie Zeidman (right), Barnard 2018, Lawrence, NY, with her mother Esther Zeidman (left).

As I pack my bags to return home for the last Yom Kippur I will spend as a college student, I am reminded of a touching tradition at my synagogue that I had the privilege of experiencing exactly three years ago, when I took my first trip home from college after just dipping my toes into freshman year. Between the Musaf service and Mincha, the congregants at my shul stepped outside the sanctuary to engage in a moment of learning. As we each took our seats beneath the canopy of trees just beginning to hint at fall, the quiet murmur of chatter fell to silence as a member of the congregation stood to share his story. I can only really describe it as the Temple Beth Elohim (TBE) version of The Moth - "stories told live and without notes," and more specifically stories that really push one to reflect, reconsider, and maybe even do something in response. In this case, it was the stories of the people in my own community - but the stories you don’t usually get to hear. The first man spoke of a very intimate engagement he had with a form of cancer at a surprisingly young age, which in its own way encouraged him to open a book that somehow guided his decision to become a doctor and a writer. The space was so silent and focused you could hear each leaf rustle. But it wasn’t so much the general narrative that had everyone’s attention as it was the details - the small but immeasurably significant moments at each step that contributed just one more building block each to the construction of character, empathy, insight, and wisdom.

It was a different time for me as I began an entirely new phase of life, and the Yamim Noraim were weighing especially heavily as I considered the year ahead. During a time when we reflect upon everything we have done in the past year and look forward to all we will do in the next, I couldn’t stop thinking about what my college story would be. What had I done in my last years of high school that I wanted to change? How could I ensure I would be able to make some positive impact in my new world? And what would each of those small yet integral moments look like - the ones that would continue to shape my vision of the world and myself in it? At that moment, I was very much concerned with the next steps in my story - and I wanted to make every right decision to craft the perfect four years that would follow. In retrospect, the last three years have laid down building blocks I never could have anticipated no matter how many stories I listened to nor however hard I tried.

This year, as I board the bus home and prepare for the long meals, the even longer conversations, and the even longer hours in shul, I especially look forward to The (TBE) Moth 2k17, where I will again hear the stories of the people in my community. This time, though, I’m not going to be sitting there, vigorously making mental notes to ensure I’ve got on lock all the right and wrong things I need to do as soon as I graduate to head down the right path - because the truth is, the stories aren’t simple success stories, the ones where you’re supposed to take notes and follow the lead - they’re real stories. And that’s what I’ve come to love about the Moth, and about Yom Kippur at my synagogue every year. It’s not just a place and time to learn what you did wrong and decide what you’re going to do right. It’s a place and time where you can learn and know that you’re not alone - in your struggles, your questions, your mistakes, and your goals for taking the next step. It’s a place and time where you can feel comfortable knowing that the ten year old congregant and the 82-year old are both still making mistakes, encountering surprises, and changing their own lives day to day. It’s a place and time where you can reflect and reconsider, and do it together as one.

Nathan Rosin is a senior in Columbia College studying Economics and MESAAS, but spends most of his time doing student council.

A friend once told me, “Sleep is holy.” That sums it up. How well you sleep, how deeply you dream, and how awake you are during the day are all indicators of your well-being. More than that, sleep is a source of well-being itself, the foundation on which all mental health is built.

Early last fall, I thought I was doing pretty well for myself. My classes and extracurricular activities took up most of my time, but I was happy. I had solid friends, great grades, and I felt that I was finally finding footing at Columbia. Then one night in late September, I stopped being able to fall asleep. I would get into bed, close my eyes, and be unable to turn off my brain. Some nights I could fall asleep but only into shallow dreams, waking every few minutes before diving into a restless, repetitive state of rest.

A week went by, and on the morning of Yom Kippur, I rose from a night of sleeplessness and decided that the only way to true renewal was sleep. I had to make sleep the absolute priority in my life. As I sought advice from my friends, my Jewish life mentors, and my psychologist, I learned that my entire day-to-day framework had to change. To sleep, my schedule needed structure: wake up at the same time every day. Eat at the same time each day. Work at the same time each day. Fall asleep at the same time each day. While at first afraid of the boringness of a regular schedule, I soon realized that structure is the key not only to sleep, but also to a purposeful life. With structure, we tackle what writer David Foster Wallace called “the banality of every day life,” acknowledging life’s repetitiveness with glee by ordering it with deliberation. We acknowledge that life is hard and strange and boring, and with this acceptance, we come closer to life’s truths.

Right now, my schedule isn’t perfect—I still sometimes am up later than my schedule tells me to, including right now as I write this in Butler way past my bed time. But as I structure my life more securely, I have sounder sleep, wilder dreams, more productive work sessions, and a brighter sense that what I’m doing is correct. This Yom Kippur, as we seek truth through atonement with our community, please also seek sleep.

Julien Reiman is a CC senior majoring in American History.

When I think about the High Holidays, the first word that comes to my mind is "Tradition". Every year, my family goes to my aunt's house for the first night of Rosh Hashana. Every year, I sit next to my cousins at synagogue. Every year, my family goes to the Jersey Shore on the second day of Rosh Hashana to do tashlich. Every year, after Yom Kippur services, we go to my grandparent's apartment to break the fast.

This semester, I will not be partaking in any of those traditions as I am studying abroad in Copenhagen. A high holiday without dinner at my aunt's house, synagogue without my family, and tashlich not at the Jersey Shore is very different. However, just as we brace ourselves for the change which inevitably comes with a new year, I have braced myself for a different high holiday experience. I spent the first part of Rosh Hashana at the Great Synagogue of Copenhagen and with the Chabad. I also had the opportunity to spend Shabbat in Berlin, a place where less than 80 years ago, it would be life-threatening to openly practice Judaism. Some of the new customs and traditions I have experienced in these cities are ones I can bring back home to my family for next year.

As I reflect on 5777 and think forward to 5778, I realize that life is unpredictable and full of surprises which challenge us to adapt to new places and environments. Rosh Hashana challenges me to think about how I can be a better person. As we ask for forgiveness, it is important to reflect on how each of us can play a part in creating a better and more accepting society, especially in these challenging political times. Simultaneously, it is important to remember despite the societal expectation for perfection, we are humans and it is okay to make mistakes. Traveling and studying abroad has taught me that living life to the fullest every single day, exploring other people’s cultures and inviting them to experience yours, and smiling are simple steps which can lead to a beautiful and sweet new year. Shana Tova U'metuka!

Emma Barnett is a junior at Barnard studying Political Science and Psychology.

We open Neilah (the final service of Yom Kippur) singing a piyyut reminding ourselves that it is שעת הנעילה - “the closing hour”. It is the final hour before our fates are sealed, the book is closed, and the gates are locked. This is my favorite part of Yom Kippur. Not only because it is a reminder of the food and water that I get to ingest in an hour but more so the piyyut becomes an important reminder of what the last 24 hours and 10 days has been about. It is the final time for us as individuals to recalibrate. It’s the time we reflect on the resolutions we’ve made. It’s the final time where we confront what we’ve done wrong. What injustices have we have been witnesses to? What have we seen but ignored? What have we cared about but not followed through with? What have we become complacent about?

All throughout the High Holiday liturgy we are told that it is through Teshuva (Repentance), Tefillah (Prayer), and Tzedka (the act of giving charity ~ from the root meaning righteousness), that we can push off the evil decree. So we’ve accomplished a lot of praying in the past 10 days and we’ve said sorry to our friends. We’ve asked forgiveness of our relatives against whom we may have lashed out one too many times or apologized to the grandparents we don’t call enough. But what about our actions that need to be changed for the future? How can we reflect on the acts of righteousness, tzedek, that we need to do as a community? How can we make a game plan to act?

It is exactly at this point in the Days of Awe, at the Neilah service, when I am tasked to think about action. It is at this point that I move away from my seat in the pews and into the real world. This year, I challenge you to take this closing hour to think of concrete steps you can take to act on your resolutions. What will you do? It is not enough to feel remorseful, to ask for forgiveness or to pray over these ten days. What actions will you take to make this world a more righteous place? It is really in this final hour when you devise your game plan.

Shachar Cohen-Hodos is a junior at GS/JTS majoring in Bible and Human Rights. She's interested in exploring the intersection of Judaism and Social Justice and always has time to grab coffee to talk about it (and help people find ways to get involved through Hillel)!

Doctor Ludwig Guttman is a true embodiment of a modern-day Jewish hero and Kiddush HaShem. By 1933, he was considered one of the top neurosurgeons in all of Germany, and when Hitler came to power, he left to Britain where he became well-known for his skills and breakthroughs in treating paraplegics. Before committing to this cause and ultimately changing the reality of so many, there was an 80% mortality rate of paraplegics - society viewed them as hopeless cases, as cripples who should be sedated, bedridden, and left to live out their final days in a hospital bed. The life expectancy was a mere three months. Despite protests from other doctors in his field in Britain at the time, Dr. Guttmann believed in the humanity and right of those paraplegics to live, thrive, and flourish like the rest of society. His endeavours wrote those paraplegics in the book of life - he reduced their pain medications, sat the patients up and eventually got them involved in sport through the means of a wheelchair. This journey spearheaded the paralympics which today holds 4,200 athletes, all thanks to a man who believed that these patients are the best of men who deserve to rediscover their love of life.

We learn from Guttmann that one person, with G-d’s help, can change the course of history and better our future; in fact, as a Jewish student in 1920 Germany, he realized the threat of anti-semitism and started a group of Jews to learn the skills of self defense so that nobody in his community would ever feel ashamed or fearful of being a proud, devoted Jew. He embodied what Moshe commanded us, “U’vecharta B’chayim” - choose life, not death. As Jews, we shouldn’t stand in the shadows, waiting for the storm to pass or for other people to better our world. Let us be the ones to shed light upon the nations and honor Dr. Guttmann’s legacy by bettering the world not only for the Jewish narrative, but also for the world at large.

During this time of Slichot, Rosh Hashana, and Yom Kippur, we must try to look beyond the physical and attempt to look at the soul and the injuries and blemishes that we do have. Everyone in this world is guilty of sin - there is no such thing as the perfect, holy man. It is therefore our job to face that reality head on, unafraid of the spiritual challenges that lie ahead. Facing that truth may hurt, and the task ahead may seem daunting - as all know, the challenges that require the most from us are the accomplishments we feel most proud of. Dr. Guttmann never gave up on his patients and their physical hindrances, so too, G-d does not and will never give up on us and those spiritual blemishes we may have. G-d believes in us and further implores us to follow the laws of Judaism not out of fear, rather out of love because striving to become a more observant and connected Jew will benefit us all. G-d tells us not to be stagnant and content with the way things are, rather we need to go out into the world and improve it, each in his own unique way. Strive to live more deeply and discover every day what it means to help the world around you. Take on a goal- big or small- and don’t stop until you accomplish that mission, and when you’ve championed that, face another undertaking.

Let us realize this Rosh Hashana the incredible opportunity and responsibility we have to not only focus on becoming better spiritual beings as individuals, but to also use our unique strengths to better the world around us like Dr. Guttmann did. Amidst such a diverse and sometimes demanding campus like Columbia and Barnard, we must not become sedated by our surroundings and instead, stand tall as proud Jews and continue to inspire those around us by always striving for greatness and making this world a better and holier place.

May we all have a happy, healthy New Year!

Hannah Katz is a first-year at Barnard originally from Florida. She lived in Israel for the last few years and served in the army there.

To me, the High Holidays are a time that can be divided into two categories. One being a time to think about what one wants and hopes for in the year to come and the other as a time to think about how one will change and do better in the year to come. I have always found it easy to think about what I want. I try to think about that regularly and come Rosh Hashana, my goals and dreams haven’t changed much from every day prior. In all previous years I have focused much more on the requests side of the High Holidays. This year, as I was reading a passage during the Rosh Hashana services I stopped and thought about how I can and will do better in the coming year. The passage that made me pause translates to “A man’s origin is from dust and his destiny is back to dust, at risk of his life he earns his bread; he is likened to a broken shard, withering grass, a fading flower, a passing shade, a dissipating cloud, a blowing wind, flying dust and a fleeting dream”. I was reminded not to only focus on what I am praying for but the reflection and self-improvement side of the holiday.

That prayer in the Rosh Hashana service reminded me of a story about Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, a key figure in Hassidic Judaisim in Poland in the early 1800’s. He was known to carry two pieces of paper in his pocket. One that said “For me the world was created,” and the other that said “I am but dust and ashes.” These two papers would act to balance out his thoughts so that he would never think he is too great and never feel that he is to small.

I liken the two parts of the High Holidays to each of the pieces of paper. When we are asking for requests and telling God what we want for the year, we think the world was created for us and when we stop to consider our wrongs and what we can fix we are realizing we are nothing but the dust of the earth.

Categorizing the High Holidays and realizing my shortcomings in one of the categories, encouraged me to think what I might be focusing on this year. I want to be more mindful and ensure that my personal thoughts are more positive. I would like to not only work towards kind and meaningful words but for my thoughts to be more favorable, less judgmental, overall understanding of other people. After some reflection on this plan, it is quite difficult to monitor. No one can be accountable for this except for me and I can’t prove to anyone how well I am keeping with the standard. Part of this is what I will be thinking about for the rest of the ‘Aseret Yimei Teshuva’- the ‘Ten Days of Repentance’. I might not have a whole concrete plan written out with action items but I would like to think that the fact I am actively thinking about how I will be a better person counts for something.

Natalia Jacobowitz is senior at Columbia Engineering and studying Computer Engineering. She likes to spend all her free time away from her computer.

The timing of these holidays is always something that strikes me. Falling at the start of the school year, Rosh Hashanah is ripe with symbolism of new beginnings and fresh starts. However, I want to take a moment and meditate on Rosh Hashanah’s role as the marker of a New Year.

In popular culture, New Year’s resolutions have become something that we hold onto for the first three weeks of the new calendar and then toss into the trash once we lose sight of their purpose. This system is something that all of us are complicit in; even the membership gyms hike up their prices for the first month of the year because they know that we want to improve ourselves, but sometimes forget how.

Instead of a time to create resolutions out of thin air, I prefer to think of Rosh Hashanah as a time for us to create meaningful resolutions that will keep us grounded as we journey into 5778. It is easy to say “I want to improve myself,” and then wait for Rosh Hashanah 5779 to roll around to say it again. It is much harder to say “I want to improve myself, and here’s how I’m going to do it.”

Too often, we bog ourselves down in meaningless activities that do not bring us joy, but only bring us stress, angst, and anxiety. This Rosh Hashanah, I implore you to examine how you are spending your hours outside of class, those precious moments that slip by faster than the walk from John Jay to JJ’s. And, if you find that those spare minutes are not bringing happiness to your life, take a step back and deliberate on a tangible and reachable goal that can guide you closer to happiness. Hopefully, by next High Holiday season, we will all be able to point to a meaningful goal that we have achieved in 5778. Shanah tova.

Gabe Pont is a sophomore in the Joint Program between JTS and GS. He’s trying to think of a tangible and reachable goal for the coming year, but he’s having trouble coming up with anything that doesn’t involve Netflix.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

High Holiday Wisdom