I have followed the ways of the sun most of my life — the Gregorian calendar, the linear path — and yet as I’ve grown older, I found I was craving something more feminine, the ways of the moon. And though I was raised with Judaism within an arm’s reach most of my life in my home and schools, it wasn’t until the middle of last year that I really tapped into the wisdom of the Hebrew Calendar and the Jewish new moon holiday of Rosh Chodesh.

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As I began to embrace each month and its deeper meaning, I especially looked forward to Elul. Each month leading up to it, I would read the emails from At The Well and download the coordinating Moon Manual. I was struck by the wisdom within each month, and found it easy to follow along. And so I began to truly connect with Rosh Chodesh and found many of the months to flow effortlessly — until I reached Elul. Until I peeked beneath the surface of this month, I had no idea how much it would require of me as it gently led me to face a harsh truth: I was angry with G-d.

I remember getting an email about At The Well’s offering for the month of Elul, the Season of the Heart. I didn’t need much convincing to sign up for the four-week journey of forgiveness. I knew I needed the help. And I knew that at the root of this anger was the situation I was facing with my son. Clarence, my middle child, was a joyful baby, always smiling, always happy. His first year felt completely normal — delightful, exhausting, the usual — until he had a series of sicknesses. At 11 months he was hit with pneumonia, two ear infections and bronchiolitis despite my greatest efforts to shield him from the coughing and sneezing outside world that my 2-year-old was regularly a part of in daycare. 

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After that fall, he hasn’t been the same, and most of my life since then has been spent trying to support him and help him recover and find his way.

As I worked through each week of the Season of the Heart, I realized that even though I wasn’t angry at any of the people in my life, I was still angry. It was hidden, deep within me, underneath a well of sadness I have been carrying for over five years since his illnesses. The month of Elul brought me the silence, and the structure, to reveal what was really going on within me. 

The reflective practice of Cheshbon HaNefesh, or “accounting of the soul,” was particularly helpful. I made time to be silent each day. In the stillness I became aware of how much hurt and anger I was holding about my son’s challenges and the difficult path I saw ahead of him.

(Editor’s note: The process of the Season of the Heart encourages you to focus on forgiveness in areas of your life where it feels safe to do so. If something feels too raw, refocus on an area that feels like a manageable stretch. The invitation to forgive will return year after year; it doesn’t need to happen all at once.)

As I sat down to journal about conscious endings, and the hope of new beginnings, I noticed my irritation as I journaled through the layers of forgiveness: why forgiveness, why now, what next? I could feel the resistance in my body, and I tried to relax into the possibility of forgiveness.

The deeper question it led me to was this: What would it mean for me to forgive and accept the reality that my son’s life doesn’t look the way I had imagined while I was pregnant.

None of this was, or is, simple. Yet I believe that faith asks us to see purpose in our circumstances. As we are taught in Exodus 4:10-11, “But Moses said to the Eternal, 'Please, O Adonai, I have never been good with words, either in times past or now that You have spoken to Your servant; I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.' And the Eternal said to him, 'Who gives humans speech? Who makes them mute or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Eternal?’” I held onto that verse as a touchstone.

As I reached the final week of Elul, I learned that the name of the month itself held a crucial lesson for me. The letters of the word Elul (אלול) form an acronym for the words in the verse Song of Songs 6:3, “Ani l’dodi v’dodi li” — “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” 

It’s believed that the “beloved” mentioned in this verse refers to the Divine. We can see the Divine as a loving partner, and remember that our relationship is meant to be full of love. This teaching felt so powerful to me because, as a child, I would hear sermons on how Jacob wrestled with G-d and received his blessing. I, too, had been wrestling with G-d for these past five years — and now I decided with intention to relax, stop the wrestling, and instead welcome peace and love into this area of my life. There are countless examples of those who came before us who walked with G-d and yet experienced challenges, struggles, and heartbreaks. What we choose to do amid our trials determines so much of who we become next.

I am thankful for the month of Elul and the sweet practice of forgiveness. I am thankful for my sweet boy who has strengthened my faith in ways no one else has done. And I accept that for now I live in the uncomfortable space of tension, believing for the best while accepting the present. 

I learned during the Season of the Heart to ask the tough questions, like where do I need to change my ways, and what is my connection to the Divine like? Maybe you don’t need to forgive another person, maybe you need to forgive Hashem, or maybe you need to forgive yourself. But I hope that you don’t let this month of Elul pass by without embracing its gift.

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

Hineinu: Jewish Texts on Disability Inclusion, Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism

Mi Shebeirach - Prayer for Healing, Reform Judaism

The Month of Elul, My Jewish Learning

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