For my first year of cantorial school in 2011-2012, I lived an entire calendar year in Israel. It was nothing short of magical—hearing and speaking Hebrew every day, watching snow fall on the Jerusalem stone, tasting each delicious pastry, smelling every spice, and—quite poignantly—experiencing the sacred rhythm of each Jewish holiday in the Holy Land. I observed the streets growing quiet and white on Yom Kippur, gazed at the sparkling lights illuminating the city in December, and looked forward to the feelings of peace and holiness that accompanied Shabbat singing and meals with my new (now-forever) friends every single week.
The year sped by too quickly. I remember celebrating Hanukkah, and then—in the blink of an eye—it was time for Purim, then Passover, and then I was packing up my belongings to return stateside. My classmates and I actually referred to springtime as Purim, Pesach, and Packing—that buzzing season after winter that marches in packed with holidays, school events, and pre-summer celebrations. Now, every year at Wise, we also mark so many special springtime events—holidays on top of holidays, open houses to graduations, celebrations and special Shabbatot helping us mark time as spring unfolds quickly and beautifully before us.
I love this poem by Israeli poet, Yermiyahu Aharon Taub, who captures the essence of that exciting forthcoming spring shift. I hope that together as a community, and in our own individual and often fast-paced lives, we will take time to notice the extra sweetness of this upcoming season.
— Cantor Emma Lutz
“Jewish Spring” by Yermiyahu Aharon Taub (2011)
Winter birds brush our faces in farewell.
Our step quickens as thaw gains force and marches into inevitability.
Flowers, bold in their delicacy,
viewed since time’s beginning,
are seen anew, interpreted afresh.
Everyone sees flowers in a different way, Rinah once said.
Trees spread cover thickly
between the chemical groves below and above,
insisting on their leafy say.
Hands pool the earth, laying the foundation for renewal.
Already we envision stalks bent with bounty.
We breathe these many fragrances, humbled, awed.
But like the gazelle on the savannah,
our eyes are always shielded toward the horizon.
We peruse the headlines and the top stories;
we assess the pitch of the chatter.
Who knows how long this generosity,
how deep this permissibility.
Dogwood blossoms etch our prayer in grace.