Have you ever found yourself watching a movie, really deeply emotionally involved, when you realize it’s not even the story that’s evoking the feelings you’re feeling? It’s the soundtrack? I hate that! In fact, I usually can’t get back into the movie once I’m irritated that the soundtrack has been manipulating my emotions. Now, I love music. I love how it can be so expressive, so moving, and on its own, a powerful piece of music is a wonderful thing. But I guess it’s just one of my pet peeves. I feel like the music used in movies and tv for dramatic effect should match the action. I can’t pinpoint the fine line between supporting the plot and playing with my emotions, but I can tell you my reaction when I sense it to be wrong. “Don’t tell me what to feel!” This isn’t the only context in which I hate being told what to feel. It comes up for me at other times too, when people, good, well meaning people, are explaining something, giving it context, maybe even trying to share how something makes them feel, but it starts to sound too prescriptive and my mind closes off and my defenses go up screaming silently “Don’t tell me what to feel!” I’m sure I do the same thing sometimes, unintentionally expressing my own feelings as if other peoples’ should match up. I try not to and if I miss it, please tell me because I hate when people tell other people what to feel.
So when we reach sSukkot, a really wonderful holiday which I love, I sometimes get hung up on the alternate name of the holiday, zman simchateinu, the time of our joy. I usually enjoy sukkot. I love waving the lulav and smelling the etrog. I love sitting in my temporary hut surrounded by nature and fresh air, family and friends, and maybe a few mosquitos or bees. I love singing hallel, the songs of praise, hope, and gratitude that are added to the morning service each day of the holiday. So yes, I usually feel joy in many moments of the holiday. And yet, I hate when people tell me what to feel.
So what’s the story with this “time of our joy”? What’s so happy about it? And what if I’m not feeling it? After all there are so many worries in the world, and even the simple pleasures of Sukkot will be different in this pandemic year. Each of the three pilgrimage holidays, Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot, has an agricultural significance, and each has an overlay of another historical significance. Pesach is about leaving Egypt, and gets the nickname zman cheyruteinu, the time of our freedom. Shavuot is about the revelation at Mount Sinai and gets the nickname zman matan torateinu, the time that we received the Torah. Sukkot’s historical significance is less clearly defined. We are told to remember that in the desert God sheltered us in sukkot or huts, and the holiday gets the nickname, zman simchateinu, the time of our joy. So we’re right back where we started, what’s so happy about huts?
If we turnt to the agricultural cycle, we can start to find a clue to the joy. Pesach is right at the beginning of the harvest season. The only thing that’s ready is barley, and the rest of the season lies ahead, in uncertainty. By Shavuot, there is also wheat and the beginnings of other crops. By Sukkot, the harvest season is coming to a close, and the anxiety of wondering if things will turn out is over. Now we’re, mostly, not farmers today, so the inherent joy of this moment is a bit distant, at least for me. I feel some of that same flow in a condensed way, going through the emotional roller coaster of the High Holy Days. After the intense reflection and introspection of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Sukkot, where all there is to do is spend time in a temporary hut and wave some branches and a delicious smelling fruit around, and try to be happy, is a pretty awesome holiday.
I wonder what it was like for the farmers of ancient Israel to reach this season, to finish gathering their crops, to see it all done, all wrapped up for the year and sufficient to their needs. I can imagine a powerful sense of accomplishment, mixed with relief, and yes the joy of being released, at least momentarily from the worries of the growing cycle. This isn’t the experience of our society. When the holiday rolls in, the worries of our society will not be done, or even temporarily wrapped up. We won’t be able to stop the news cycle or the spread of the pandemic, or even the patterns of work and rest, since the holidays fall on weekends this year.
But what if we could? I love the physicality of the mitzvot on this holiday. It is so much harder to dwell on the stresses of life when you’re out in the fresh air. When your lungs, and your nose, and maybe your hands are full of the bounty of the natural world. The mitzvah of sukkah is leshev basukah, to dwell in it. This year when I hear that phrase, I’m hearing not just dwell in it, like eat our meals there and sleep out there if we’re feeling particularly rugged one night. This year I’m hearing dwell in it and dwell on it; just for this one week, to allow my mind, heart and soul to be in the simplicity, and the pleasantness of the sukkah, of the outdoors, of just being, rather than holding the weight of the rest of the world. Interestingly in Hebrew the verb yod-shin-vet, as in leshev basukah, to dwell in the sukkah, can also refer to a person’s internal experience. When the mind or the heart is meyushav, it is settled or in peace.
Looking back at the agricultural cycle of ancient Israel, we know that it doesn’t really just stop at Sukkot. Even during the week of Sukkot, the hoshanah (lit. save us, please!) prayers, remind us that the rainy season is coming and our joy a year from now depends on it being a good one. By the end of the week, we’re full out praying for rain, transitioning into the agricultural anxiety of the new year. A farmer could launch straight from harvest into perseverating on when it will rain. But for that one week, even knowing what comes next, the Torah gives us a break for gratitude, appreciation of the bounty that is in the present, and taking the time to allow for joy. So what’s the historical significance of living in huts in the years of wandering in the desert that makes this a joyful time? In that time our ancestors never worried about sustenance or productivity. They were free to live in the present, to appreciate the simple things they had, nature, community, enough food and water.
So this year, I’ll invite you to join me, if you are moved to, (Don’t let me tell you what to feel. I hate that!) but join me if you will, in seeking out joy by dwelling in sukkot. Not just literal, temporary huts covered in cut foliage. But let’s let go, for the week, of the stress and anxiety that occupies so much of our attention. Come dwell with me in appreciating the present moment and the blessings it has to offer: family, beautiful fall weather, food on our plates, clothes on our bodies, and the means to connect with those we love. While we may not be able to be physically present in sukkot with as many people as in other years, we can be aware of sharing those simple blessings, reaching out to loved ones who would enjoy the renewed connection, and using the resources we can spare to ensure that others, in our communities and throughout the world, have access to those simple pleasures that we are dwelling in and on.
May we all have a sukkot full of simple blessings, and of joy.
Chag Sameach!