The Moon of Cheshvan (October-November)

Feel the earth's changes,
the tide of night rising round you.

And call upon the name of God
HaMakom,
your place, your haven, in this time of transformation.

frank4-cheshcvan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 HaMakom, in this moon of Cheshvan,

Teach me
to learn from the trees.

frank3-cheshvan

They rise in radiant splendor,
their rich reds,
deep clarets, and
brilliant golds,
gleaming on the hillsides.

Showing me the way
to walk in this world.
With quiet dignity, colors aflame,
soul shining in beauty.

 

Gently releasing that which is no longer needed,
so as to stand
more lightly in this world.

Cheshvan arrives,
season of sowing in the Land.

Barley and wheat are tucked into earth's bed
to sleep and rise in the spring.

Now is the time to plant seeds, 
which in order to sprout
require exposure to cool air
and deep rest.

So too do I need travel through my chilled spells,
my times of darkness,
that I might rise in my season,
to gift nourishment to this world.

leonid-cheshvan

In Cheshvan in the Land, storks and cranes on route to the south,
take respite in the fields, blanketing them in white.

So you show me that cycles ever keep turning.
To watch for the gifts which periodically descend,

the storks, harbingers,
of promises yet to come.

 

 

In Cheshvan the farmers gently lay the newly plucked olives 
into their garlicky brine, 
that they might in quiet 
turn to luscious morsels. 

After reviewing my harvest,
cleansing my spirit,
living in the elements, and
dancing in joy,
I too now eagerly enter into the tantalizing invitation
of the velvety stillness.

To absorb, reflect, shift shape,
rest my soles.

frank2-cheshvanFor just as the earth
wraps herself in fallen leaves and composting flowers,
in pine needles and fugitive nuts,
tree's cast off clothing,
lying down to rest,

so too do I need pause, and tuck myself inwards.

Relearning
that my native resources lie within my own soil,

 

which in season needs enriching, replenishing,
and restoration.

HaMakom,
You Who guides me to my place,
You in Whom my place lies,

succor me during this season of frost.
Grant me warm shelter

as I turn to You,
as I return to myself,
HaMakom.

 

Photography Credits

First, second, and last photograph: Frank Dobrushken
Third photograph: Leonid Rozenfeld