Author: Susan Levine

by Bill Witherspoon We were supposed to name all the animals. Lately we have gotten pretty good at it, While it begins to dawn on us that Even that slender branch of the tree of life (Let alone the one on which crawl the slime molds, Or the branch dotted with archaea microbes that turn salt ponds pink Or the one spread with green life that converts sunlight into food) Is just too prolific for words. Still, 500 animal species named since last Elul (150 of them the beetles of which She is “inordinately fond”) Is kind of impressive for an ape that, according to Earth time Only dropped from the fruit trees day before yesterday. Maybe we can be a blessing on creation, singing hallelujah With the answer machines in our palms. If, in this season of turning to look at ourselves We admit that our archery is wide of the target That it is time to ask directions of the keepers of indigenous knowledge How were we managing to keep it going For thousands of generations? Bill Witherspoon is a geologist-educator and for 20 years a Jew by choice. At Congregation Bet Haverim in Atlanta, he sings in its remarkable chorus and occasionally leads services. He is a native of East Tennessee where he was blessed with many visits to its huge national park throughout his formative years. Bill encourages fellow humans to check out Citizens Climate Lobby.

by Asher Hillel Burstein Of love’s immortal way they said, Cheat the grave her wonted siege. Garlands round your plot of earth, Home the wand’ring lights of I. Who now as all on edge of time, Toll the eager moonlit tide. No nuptial love has such a kind, That hopes for songs he cannot write. Nor knows a heart like his so dimmed, By sweet rejected notes; he aches. To share with one for whom he dies, By day, by night; so long the years. Of tears; his right to humble space, Immortal face, which none can see, For neither son nor song gives birth. To teeming trails of evergreen, But this, his woe, a roaming void. Beyond the hour closing fast, Yonder youth a memory. Shedding drops of Heaven’s dew, A claim to immortality. ____________________ Asher Hillel Burstein is a poet and tunesmith from Long Island. A one-time rabbi and part-time cantor, he teaches in a yeshiva high school in Manhattan. Asher holds an M.A. in Jewish Studies from the Academy for Jewish Religion and an M.F.A. in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. He is a doctoral candidate at Drew University where he also serves as an adjunct professor of Hebrew.

by Rabbi Margaret Frisch Klein I live on the prairie, in the Prairie State of Illinois. Not a “Little House on the Prairie,” a big house, but there are vistas that remind me of that show. In a county that is known for its dairy farming. Borden Milk came from here. The library is the Gail Borden Public Library. That Borden. The house across from the synagogue is known as the “Butterman’s House” because the prices for butter as a commodity were set there. There was even a documentary called “From Dairies to Prairies.” Once, before it was farmland, it was mostly prairie. Now there are only 6 square miles of prairie in all of Kane County. This past year in the Jewish liturgical calendar was a shmita year, a year the land lies fallow. Our congregation tends a community garden which feeds into the soup kettle’s nightly meal, wrestled with what to do. Should we not plant anything? Do we still need to continue to feed the hungry? What could we do for Tu B’shevat, the new year of the trees, where traditionally we start the seeds for the community garden. A compromise was reached. For every household, in the congregation, we sent seed paper in the shape of butterflies, enough seeds to plant a pollinator garden, a small butterfly garden, in the hopes that we could help restore the prairie to its natural state. We thought this would be important in terms of the long term health of the environment. We envisioned increased wildflowers including milkweed, the only host plant for monarchs. Monarchs need milkweed for fuel as they migrate long distances between Mexico and southern Canada. We thought we’d see a return of bees and butterflies. It was a small way to begin to heal the earth. To be partners with G-d in taking care of creation. We didn’t know just how important it might be. Especially this year. This is the year that the International Union for Conservation has put the monarch butterfly on the endangered species list. In Elgin, there are groups that actually raise monarchs and release them. This year has been especially difficult for those groups. Christ the Lord Lutheran Church, who we partner with, sponsors The Monarch Ministry which reported very low survival numbers during the first generation. While milkweed is plentiful, pesticides make it unusable. When the chrysalises are formed and the Monarchs finally emerge, the caregivers rejoice and send them on their way.  One Rosh Hashanah when my daughter was a restless three year old, three generations traveled to Point Pelee National Park, the southernmost tip of Canada to see the migrating monarchs. We camped. We enjoyed apples, challah and honey. We blew shofar at dawn. It may have been my favorite Rosh Hashanah and the last we spent together with my dad, one of the first to use the term ecologist. As I began to write I heard an old poem in my head, “The Last Butterfly” written by Pavel Friedman before his death in Terezin, collected in a book, I never saw another butterfly, and turned into a cantata as well. ”Butterflies don’t grow here in the ghetto.” were his haunting last words. When I returned home from my hike in the Kame Prairie, I spied it. Milkweed that I had planted from the butterfly seed paper. Will it enable a monarch to return? I hope. We owe it to our children and children. We owe it to Pavel. What can you do? Plant more butterfly gardens including milkweed. Use less pesticides and never on or near milkweed. Join others who are raising and releasing monarchs. In this season of teshuvah, return, help us heal the earth and return the prairie to its natural state. The Single Monarch White cotton candy clouds fluttering Deep blue sky Bright yellow native sunflower And there, just about the milkweed I spy it. A monarch Just one Fluttering Floating on air Riding the currents Darting back and forth From one milkweed pod to the next Black and orange Painted patterns Making me smile Carefree Hints of summer days long gone I wonder Are they carefree? How could they be? What have we done? Rabbi Margaret Frisch Klein is the rabbi at Congregation Kneseth Israel in Elgin, IL. She enjoys hiking through our local forest preserves, reveling in the beauty of creation and finding ways to preserve and conserve this earth in an age of climate change. She blogs as the Energizer

by Carol C. Reiman Livestreaming ladder of angelic messengers. Protecting voice of the she-ass, female with the weight of responsibility, birthing words of courage, seer of boundaries This is the place in which we have walked, oblivious or called. Wandering, weeping by waters, reaching beyond and within. Nurturing what was pulled from the reeds, allowing the land and its tenders to rest, leaving food at the edges for those in the margins. Joy in first fruits, dancing in gratitudes, peace in the soul. Carol C. Reiman, making connections with old and new, takes in the world while visiting cats, mulling this and that.

by Dr. Mirele Goldsmith Not long ago, I visited Lake Itasca, the source of the Mississippi River. I was awed by the revelation that the Mississippi watershed extends to 40% of the United States and the river itself is 2,340 miles long.  I was so moved that I spontaneously recited the blessing for fulfilling the commandement to immerse in living waters, the traditional blessing for visiting the mikveh (ritual bath.)  Jewish tradition teaches us to appreciate water.  Water, we are taught in Genesis, existed before the creation of the world – an insight that resonates with the current scientific understanding that the Earth’s water emerged from the Big Bang and it is finite. In the vision of Ezekiel, water flows from the Holy Temple in Jerusalem to all corners of Earth; teaching us that we all connected through the water cycle. Rabbi Ellen Bernstein teaches that from the perspective of Earth, people, animals, and plants are all channels through which water flows in its journey from the atmosphere to the sea.  In contrasting the hydrology of Egypt, which depends on the Nile for water, with that of the Land of Israel, which depends on rain, Dr. Jeremy Benstein points out that the Torah is teaching us that rain expresses the physical connection between heaven and Earth. I was at Lake Itasca, in Northern Minnesota, to join water protectors protesting the construction of Line 3.  This pipeline, unfortunately now completed, brings dirty tar sands oil from Alberta to Wisconsin. When burned, this oil is even more destructive than oil from conventional sources, accelerating climate change and worsening the impacts.  The Anishinaabe who called for people of faith to come to protest with them, also fought against the construction of Line 3 because it violates their treaty rights to collect manoomin (wild rice.)  This right, called a usufructory right, depends on the clean water in which manoomin grows.  Before I went to Minnesota, I thought it was very far away. When I was there, my eyes were opened.  We are all connected, not least through the water cycle.  The molecules of water that flow through my body once traveled the Mississippi River, and soon will again.  The water that nourishes the bodies and spirits of Native Americans on the White Earth Reservation, nourishes me. I pray that the joy of swimming in Lake Itasca will give me strength for the struggles ahead.  In the powerful mantra of the Anishinaabe and water protectors around the world, “water is life.” Dr. Mirele B. Goldsmith is co-chairperson of Jewish Earth Alliance, a national, grassroots network empowering Jewish communities to raise a moral voice for climate action to the US Congress. 

by Rabbi Steven Rubenstein Each year I choose a theme for my High Holy Day thoughts for my community, which they receive in written form. They are a continuation of the div’rei Torah that I write each week. An administrative assistant revealed to me that she enjoyed sitting down at her table on Saturday morning with her cup of coffee in hand to read my comments and to reflect upon them. From this admission I decided to devote this year’s theme to the Spirituality of Coffee. When coffee first became popular in Europe, cafes were visited by intellectuals to discuss the politics of the day. Artisans gathered at night following their performances to unwind before going home to sleep. Today, people gather in coffee stores to meet with friends and family, to have intimate discussions. And students have been known to frequent the same places as though it were a library with fringe benefits, caffeine to keep them awake long enough to finish their papers or their studying. And in my research on coffee, in some cultures coffee breaks at work are a serious endeavor as people gather to eat cake, drink coffee, and converse with colleagues. I have been known to say on occasion that “life begins with my second cup of coffee” at work, at my desk as I plan out my day or plug away at my administrative activities. I recently wrote a d’var Torah for Bereisheet where I joined the voices from midrash as the sages contemplated what kind of tree was in the center of the Garden of Eden that was singled out as the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.  While they debated whether it was a grape vine, or a fig tree, or stalks of wheat, or an etrog (citron) ~ each of which contributed something to knowledge in the world. Another characteristic of the fruit from the tree in the center of the Garden of Eden is related to its aroma. As coffee is roasted, it releases a distinctive fragrance, tantalizing our senses. Is this the bush that God had placed in the middle of the garden to test us, to see if we could handle being “brewed awake”? For many of us who crave that first cup in the morning, it is as if we are expressing our gratitude each day for “waking up” to the opportunities that God places before us, to notice the beauty of the world in which we live with all of its vivid detail, in the same way that the shofar jars our bodies into an awakened condition. The caffeine does more than just open up our minds to clarity. It reminds us that coffee, along with other forms of vegetation, must be treated with the utmost respect for the way in which it is grown as well as the individuals whose job it is to harvest the beans, to dry them, to roast them, and to grind them before its nectar is served to us. Even more so is the time it takes to finish a cup of coffee. In this renewed state of mind, what better time for the soul to sit in company with my thoughts as I contemplate the personal events of my life and what I need to do to make life better ~ for me, my family, my residents, my co-workers… The bitter of the coffee with the sweetness of the milk and the sugar help with the contrasting opinions as they come across my mind with each sip, and a restored sense of awareness. I conclude my Rosh Hashanah Day 1 sermon with this final thought: “May the sound of the shofar no longer be a “brewed awakening,” but more so the means by which I might “espresso myself” in ways that diminish the daily “grind” that plagues us when we are not living out each day as God created each one of us, as our greatest selves.” Rabbi Steven J Rubenstein, BCC, is the Director of Spiritual Care at Jewish Senior Life in Rochester, NY.

by Rabbi Mike Moscowitz The story is told about two people who are disputing ownership over a piece of land, each claiming that it belongs to them. A rabbi is consulted to offer a ruling in Jewish Law to decide the case. After carefully listening to the arguments of both sides he says “Ok, now I need to hear what the land has to say about it.”  With quite a bit of hesitation, both parties finally agree to accompany the Rabbi to the parcel of land in question. The Rabbi kneels down, gently placing his ear to the ground. After a few moments, the Rabbi stands up and relates to the two concerned litigants: “The land says that you are both wrong. In the end you each will belong to it.” We are in relationship with the Earth, and the Torah expects us to ensure that it is a healthy one. King Solomon reminds us, in Ecclesiastes 3:20, “All go to the same place; all originate from dust and all return to dust.” However, each of us must take ownership over our actions, and inactions, for the time in between. Adam, the original person whose name means “Earthling” and now includes all of humanity, is told “It is not good to be alone” and therefore God “made a helper against them” Genesis 2:18. The commentaries explain that this partnership is necessary lest a person make a mistake to think that they are completely self-sufficient and can live independent of the world around them. It is perhaps for this reason that the phrase “ki tov – it was good,” which is used to describe all other creations, is missing from Adam’s formation. Humans alone cannot be good – we must always honor the dynamic with our environment. This principle is reinforced with the odd language at the end of the verse “a helper against them.” It is understood that if we respect our role in relationships they can be supportive and helpful to us in becoming the best versions of ourselves. If however we are not acting appropriately, the natural consequence will be an opposition. Our Rabbis understand that this pushback is also beneficial feedback that is a healthy part of the goodness of coexistence. Constructive responses provide an opportunity to readjust and make informed course corrections, but only if we are ready to receive them.  God spoke this world into existence through soft and gentle speech. Because of the harm we have caused it, the earth is now screaming out in rageful protest. If we continue to act as if we control the Earth, we will soon be reminded that it actually owns us. Rabbi Mike Moskowitz is the Scholar-in-Residence for Trans and Queer Jewish Studies at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah, the world’s largest LGBT synagogue. He is a deeply traditional and radically progressive advocate for trans rights and a vocal ally for LGBTQ inclusivity. Rabbi Moskowitz received three Ultra-Orthodox ordinations while learning in the Mir in Jerusalem and BMG in Lakewood, NJ. He is a David Hartman Center Fellow and the author of Textual Activism and Graceful Masculinity. His newest book “Seasonal Resistance” will be available this Winter. Rabbi Moskowitz’s writings can be found at www.rabbimikemoskowitz.com

by Judith Black Our beautiful planet will survive and rehabilitate itself. We will not. Not the animals, not the insects, not the glaciers, not the poles. Seeing one’s own extinction Standing on that precipice We still have a choice to make Will I sink into the couch Despair invading every pore Weeping for the duration Will I fight like hell Pushing legislators and industry Creating clean, healthy, just alternatives Will I tend my garden Caring and nurturing what remains Sharing my carrots Will I burrow into my soul re-connecting with the spirit of love turn into and radiate G-d’s love Maybe it’s not done. There are still choices How will I continue to act out the divine until I can act no more? Winner of the Oracle: Circle of Excellence, storytelling’s most coveted award, Judith Black has been featured at The Montreal Comedy Festival, The National Storytelling Festival, The Smithsonian Institution, Hebrew University in Jerusalem, the National Art Museum in Cape Town, and NPR. She’s performed at over 10 CAJE conferences and explored B’nai Mitzvah, familial function and dysfunction, parenting, aging and end-of life, and in this past decade has moved her skills educate and activate around our climate crisis. She , most recently, is the winner of the National Storytelling Network 2022, Earth Up Conference slam. For more information about Judith’s work: www.storiesalive.com  

by Rabbi Marisa Elana James Maybe you’ve experienced the moment that I sometimes do, back pressed to the earth, suddenly feeling that I’m getting a taste of the planet’s perspective, that the clouds aren’t moving at all, but instead I’m the one slowly rotating on my axis and spinning in space. The clouds stand still, while I roll backwards into the universe, dizziness setting in as this new orientation disorients me. Some moments that make us feel small and insignificant are terrifying. This is the opposite. To feel not only how tiny I am, but also how tiny the Earth is in the vastness of the universe, can be glorious, soul-expanding, joyful. In these moments, so deeply connected to this sweet little planet, I feel most strongly how much we’re in this together. The earth and I are partners in keeping each other alive and healthy and growing. The earth and I, back to back as we face serious challenges, holding each other as we spin together into the future. Rabbi Marisa Elana James is Director of Social Justice Programming at Congregation Beit Simchat Torah. A graduate of the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, she was previously a college English teacher, competitive ballroom dancer, insurance broker, student pilot, bookstore manager, and professional Torah reader. Marisa and her wife, contrabassoonist and translator Barbara Ann Schmutzler, live in New York City.

by Rabbi Louis Polisson and Gabriella Feingold The link below will play this beautiful song: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1jkbJ2voDRh2VzOOkgBErU8tie1gTCFeU/view Le’ovdah ule’shomrah (x2) [Repeat x3] The storms, they crash, and the fires burn The rivers flood, and you don’t know where to turn Give me your hand And we’ll stand together For a better day Le’ovdah ule’shomrah (x2) We will serve the earth and protect our home Stand for truth, for justice, for hope They may turn away and pretend that they don’t see But still we say “for our children to be free we must change our course, let go of the greed and make a better day” We’ll show them how we can heal our dying roots We’ll work the ground and they’ll see the flowers bloom The-sun comes up again Though we’ve got no time to lose We’re on our way Le’ovdah ule’shomrah (x2) We will serve the earth and protect our home Stand for truth, for justice, for hope [Repeat x2] Le’ovdah ule’shomrah (x2) [Repeat x3] Le’ovdah ule’shomrah (x2) We will serve the earth and protect our home Stand for truth, for justice, for hope Be the truth, the justice, the hope We are truth, and justice, and hope Louis Polisson & Gabriella Feingold are a married duo who compose original Jewish and spiritual folk music. Gabriella feels most spiritually connected in contemplating nature and in considering the needs and emotions that make up the universal human experience. She approaches singing as a practice of embodying and reflecting on those themes. Louis is deeply inspired by traditional modes of Jewish liturgy and uses music to connect to his religious and cultural heritage, bringing the past into meaningful engagement with the present moment through reinterpretation and renewal. Together, they bring you original music, hoping to provide new and wider avenues for Jewish and spiritual experience.

by Rabbinic Pastor De Fischler Herman Leaves yellow, wither, and fall Acorns drop, clacking on the street It is only the middle of August The creek shrinks, stalls, and stagnates Leaves floating, halt, holding in place We wave the flag for Independence Day Air swells, heats, and suspends Strawberries redden, picking time already And it’s not yet June Azaleas bloom and leaves unfurl Long before Mother’s Day Cherry trees blossom, the river retreats And April’s parade is weeks away March winds don’t blow February’s snow pays no visit January’s weather brings forth no complaint Hineni—Here I am In the land of riches Watching Listening Tasting Feeling Breathing Perceiving Humans regard Early as a virtue But Nature begs to differ Early is okay every so often But not as a steady diet Too much Early And Nature, Like Jacob wrestling the angel, Struggles for its very survival Time speeds Earth chokes Land broils Ice caps melt Whales beach Oceans rise Rivers swell Cities flood Creatures thirst And trees weep Mother Earth and Father Time Yearn for TLC from us, Their bipedal offspring It’s Time to wake up, you sleepy heads! Oh, brothers and sisters, Can’t you see? Our parents, and all planetary life, crave Binah—understanding Chesed—lovingkindness Rachamim—compassion And hazanah—nourishment Not only from one another But from us two-legged children Who’ve been playing way too roughly Long past our bedtime We’ve trampled on this Cadillac of playgrounds (This amazing gift from the Holy One of Blessing, Who has entrusted it to our care) We’ve been ignoring our Mother’s call to return home Early So we can have Time to get ready For Shabbos It’s high Time we see that menucha–rest is in order We need to return to the family table With our precious parents and each other, Enjoy the fresh fruits of the local harvest, And repair our wounded senses Only then may we all reconnect with the One Source of Life Creator of the Universe –De Fischler Herman Rabbinic Pastor De Fischler Herman, ordained by the ALEPH Ordination Program (AOP), served as hospice chaplain until retiring in 2019. She serves AOP students as a Director of Study (DOS) and is a climate activist, writer, artist, gardener, avid bicyclist, and food distribution volunteer in her community. De lives in Takoma Park, Maryland with her husband and cat.

by Harvey Michaels There is a tradition that in the month preceding the Jewish New Year in September, we begin our contemplation about our failures, and returning to our true selves – our Teshuvah.  We can consider climate change a failure that we all share; a problem created by us all. And since we haven’t yet healed the Earth’s climate, we have more frequent extreme weather, fires, drought, floods, glacier melts, sea level rise, habitat displacement, infestations, and diseases, and the devastation that these cause in some places. But we all feel environmental loss: we recall wonderful days in beautiful places, especially with those we love, and realize that they were precious.  But when I look at my young grandchild, I worry – will he still have access to them? I remind those of us getting more advanced in years, such as myself, that we have to take more responsibility: we’ve cumulatively created more emissions than those who are younger, and also we didn’t do enough to discourage the world’s addiction to fossil fuels, carbon-emitting agricultural practices, and deforesting, which we’ve known to be necessary.  We could have done more. This has happened, despite many of us being dedicated to improving the Environment; and some pursuing education, careers, and political acts towards that goal.  I was one, inspired as many were by the wonderful Earth Day 1970; an unparalleled gathering of more than 10% of the population. Our collective work that followed did help clean poisons from our air and water, save energy in our homes, and develop new forms of cleaner energy from the sun and wind, and other things; but nowhere near enough.     In a text of ancient maxims, there is a famous quote of a leading 2nd century Rabbi: It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it. [1] So as one at work in his sixth decade since that first Earth Day, I consider this season: I haven’t finished the work, but have I done enough? Although older, I fortunately can still do much, along with many of my older peers: We can reduce the emissions we cause, and teach others how to do so. In so doing we can try to encourage and inspire others to Look Up[2], see what’s coming, and work to prevent it.  We can dedicate ourselves to helping those most impacted by what’s been lost.  And we can raise our voices in support of those ready to lead us towards the possible solutions that do exist.  When is enough?  For me, not yet: I encourage my peers to keep going too. Only when climate change stops, and begins to reverse, have we done enough.  For those we love, as well as all those that follow us, for as long as we can, we must try to finish the work. [1] Rabbi Tarfon, from Chapters of our Fathers (Pirkei Avot) chapter 2. [2] Refers to the climate analogy movie Don’t Look Up, Netflix, Dec 2021; about failing to act in the face of a comet speeding towards the Earth. Harvey Michaels enjoys being an MIT faculty member, teaching and learning about Energy and Climate Innovation, while investigating climate initiatives for cities, the state and federal government. He also engages in environmental justice advocacy, and faith-based environmental initiatives. Before returning to MIT in 2008, Harvey led an energy efficiency company for many years.  

by Andy Oram The Unetanah Tokef prayer we say at High Holidays contains the famous phrase “a tiny silent sound” (translated in many ways) from I Kings 19:12. The phrase always grabs our attention because of the unexpectedness of the image. Let’s look back at the context of the original phrase in Kings to see how it might help us deal with the onslaught of climate disasters. I Kings 19 describes the flight of Elijah after he has pulled off the biggest miracle since the fall of Jericho: an extravaganza that brings fire down from heaven to strike a blaze on an altar drenched with water. Elijah’s spectacular performance, however, did nothing to bring t’shuvah to the royal family, who chased Elijah out of the country under threat of assassination. Elijah flees south in despair and resignation, not stopping in the safe haven of Judah but walking another forty days to reach Mount Horeb. He stops there, the site of God’s foundational revelation to Moses, as if everything that the Israelites had done since then was null and void. God asks Elijah what he is doing there, and Elijah responds with utter cynicism and hopelessness: “The Israelites have left your covenant…and I appear to be alone.” God comes back with one of the Bible’s most striking mystical passages: “And here a great, powerful wind passed…God was not in the wind. And after the wind, a noise; God was not in the noise. And after the noise, fire; God was not in the fire. And after the fire, a tiny silent sound.” A “silent sound”–directly counterposed to the noise that precedes it–is a sound that we cannot hear. Perhaps we are traumatized by the effects that came before, or perhaps we have simply forgotten how to listen to the Earth. When God asks Elijah again to justify his actions, he answers with the same words as before: “…I appear to be alone.” God senses Elijah’s trauma and suggests that he go into retirement, appointing a few other people to replace him (I Kings 15-17). Elijah “gets kicked upstairs.” To me, the tiny silent sound has two meanings. First, it’s a renunciation of grand, awesome gestures: certainly the noise and fire preceding it in the passage, and by extension the wonders wrought earlier by Elijah to no useful effect. Second, the tiny silent sound tries to counteract the noise and trauma generated by droughts, hurricanes, floods, and fires that today dwarf Elijah’s demonstration. As destructive as these man-made natural catastrophes are, we must also look past them to silent but more portentous destructions: melting permafrost, oceans dying from the heat, disappearing species. It is not too late to listen to the world. The tiny silent sound is our new way of returning to God and the Earth. Although destruction has been decreed for us our fate is not yet sealed. As Unetanah Tokef says, addressing the world with righteous acts can help us bypass the worst of the oncoming storm. Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. Andy also writes often on health IT, on policy issues related to the Internet, and on trends affecting technical innovation and its effects on society. Print publications where his work has appeared include The Economist, Communications of the ACM, Copyright World, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, Vanguardia Dossier, and Internet Law and Business. Andy has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for more than 30 years. He self-published a memoir, “Backtraces: Three Decades of Computing, Communities, and Critiques,” and his poems have been published in Ají, Conclave, Genre: Urban Arts, Heron Clan, Main Street, Nine Cloud Journal, Poetry Leaves, Steam Ticket, and Wild Roof Journal.

by Lorin Troderman Spirals of death in a season of drought Av reaches in and grabs a friend, again. Mourners lament in whispers “It’s way too early” I shout We grieve Each in our own way But together On Sunday we will gather by the sea      Temple destruction remembrance day           Our earth, a holy temple assaulted by our ignorance                One less sister to help us reverse the tide Like our ancestors and descendants my tears join the waves slowly streaming down, Water’s ways seeking their source, caressing skin on its descent along familiar nodes etched like rivulets in the desert, From the wellspring of my heart joy and sadness lay tender trails of salt to my tongue this taste will initiate tunes of resiliency active hope will rise up A niggun Triggering Tishrei with its Elul z’man onramp A season to reflect recalibrate recall return Here Now in grief Expressed in community Our hearts are raw and open We share our stories of her Sacred and wise Friend and midrashic mother We are heard We feel her absence The Tide will shift Our tears flow out to sea Back from where they came Once, long ago, we crawled out from the destruction In Av, We remember In Elul, we reflect In Tishrei, we flow Strengthened in our capacity to accept We spiral into life Lorin Troderman is a fourth year Rabbinical Student and member of the Earth Based Judaism cohort at ALEPH who completed his first three years of Rabbinical School at Hebrew College. He moved to Maine in August 2020 where he has served as the Rabbinic Intern at Temple Beth El in Portland, Director for Southern Maine Hillel,  and now serves as the Jewish Chaplain at the Maine Medical Center. Lorin aims to bring his passion for Judaism, a deep pluralistic perspective and a commitment to building healthy sustainable practices into our communities. He lives in beautiful Cape Elizabeth with his partner Sussi and her 15 year old Border Collie/Lab, Jasper. Lorin has two adult sons: his eldest, Dylan, lives in Seattle and younger son Max in Boulder. He loves to walk at sunrise and bask in the miraculous beauty of the Wabanaki Dawnlands.