“Cheshvan, the planting season, is also the rainy season. Some Jewish myths imagine the rain and the waters under the earth as lovers who long for one another… This season of air within earth reminds us to bring together sky and earth within ourselves… we too remember our longing to be one in body and spirit. Cheshvan, month of rain, helps us to achieve this union.”

— Rabbi Jill Hammer, The Jewish Book of Days

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Cheshvan, the month which follows our intense High Holiday journey, has only one holiday of its own. Until the Ethiopian Jewish festival of Sigd on the 29th of Cheshvan, it is a quiet time of gathering dark, of buried seeds and quickening rain. During the High Holidays, especially during Yom Kippur, we faced our deepest fears and regrets, and we set our intentions for a year of new beginnings. Throughout Sukkot week, we gloried in our autumn harvest of good deeds and strong relationships and we celebrated together.

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In Cheshvan, we allow our High Holiday intentions and our Sukkot harvest to manifest in the small doings of daily life. These are the seeds of new habits that we will nurture into vibrancy. After two months of intense spiritual activity, we return to the prosaic, the ordinary, and find holiness there. This is when our teshuvah, our re-turning, is made real. In daily acts of courtesy and consideration with neighbors and strangers. In spontaneous expressions of gratitude, and hard, necessary work undertaken with resolve. In the public square, bringing the world of justice into being, and with our loved ones, celebrating birthdays and remembering favorite foods. This is our earthy, concrete doing; what a sage called “duties of the limbs.”

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Similarly, we learn about the “duties of the heart” in Ta’anit 2a, where it is noted: “This is the work of the heart — it is prayer” (2a:11). As creatures of flesh and spirit, we pray for both physical and spiritual nourishment. We do pray, gratefully, for the gift of Torah, of meaning and revelation and the instruction to figure out how to apply it for ourselves. We imagine our Torah as life-giving water. 

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The context of this teaching is a discussion of the prayers for rain which we begin after Sukkot. We learn further that, “The day when rain falls is as great as the day when the Torah was given, as it is said, ‘May my teaching come down as the rain,’ and by ‘teaching’ surely, Torah is meant as it is said, ‘For I give you good teaching, do not forsake my Torah’” (Ta’anit 7a:3).

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That’s because the rain we also pray for is not metaphorical — we need actual water to live. What’s more, our Torah only comes to life through the work of human hands and minds. That is why Rabbi Judah teaches that the ordinary autumn day when the first rain falls is as great as the awesome day of revelation.

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In my home city, Los Angeles, our prayer for rain has special poignancy. We have cause, especially during Rosh Hashanah, our celebration of creation, to reflect deeply on how we have or have not cared for the Earth. We have seen, in rising temperatures, drought, and virulent wildfires, the results of having fallen short; of how urgently we need to change our institutions and ourselves.

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Those of us in the second half of our lives feel the call of this season in special ways. We watch leaves turn, giving the world a last gift of spectacular beauty before falling to nourish the soil. As we move closer to becoming elders — or claim that status now — we cherish and tend every seed we plant: every mitzvah accomplished, every lesson shared with the world. We snuggle into the sweet rest of long nights, conserving our energy for those daily tasks which we imbue with mindfulness and purpose.

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This Cheshvan, we unite our inner sky and earth, our hearts and our limbs, the nourishing rain of Torah and the physical water our bodies need. Safe in the dark, we dream. And we set our bodies and minds to work, making our dreams into reality.

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You are invited to read the following meditation to welcome in the restful energy of Cheshvan:

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Please settle your body into a comfortable place, sitting or lying down. Allow your eyes to close. Bring your attention to your breath. Let it flow in and out.

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Slowly deepen your breath, filling your belly (holding) then your lungs (holding) with life-giving air, then slowly release. Do this until all your attention is in your breath here and now.

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From the base of your spine, send roots down — past the furniture, the floor, the concrete, the soil, the underground water, the rock, all the way to the center of the earth. Gently draw the fire energy through your roots into your body: your limbs, your belly and heart, your throat up through the crown of your head. They make contact with other roots growing downward from a great celestial Tree.

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You are a tree. Your limbs are full of brilliant leaves. Loving their beauty, you let them drop and you feel each of them kiss the earth and feed it. You release seeds. You are a seed, a little ball of energy burrowing into the dark moist earth. You are safe in the dark. You feel, stirring within you, tendrils of new life which you will release when the time comes. What are those new shoots inside you; what are you creating?

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You are a seed, safe in the dark, you are an old tree, bare of limb, you are the energy filling you with warmth.

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Slowly, you release the roots with gratitude and return to your body, to your breath. When you are ready, open your eyes.

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At The Well uplifts many approaches to Jewish practice. Our community draws on ancient Jewish wisdom, sometimes adapting longstanding practices to more deeply support the well-being of women and nonbinary people. See this article’s sources below. We believe Torah (sacred teachings) are always unfolding to help answer the needs of the present moment.

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Sources

The Jewish Book of Days, Jill Hammer

The Prayer for Rain, My Jewish Learning

Rain as a Blessing, My Jewish Learning

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