Fear Nothing — On the Glorious Adaptability of Elul
by Kochav Yehudis
Author’s Note:
This piece briefly mentions sexual violence. Proceed with care.
All of my favorite Jewish rituals involve a count. The beautifully endless weeks of the Omer. The eight precious nights of Channukah. And now we come to the one of these that feels, somehow, the most tender and intimate; the reciting of Psalm 27 for Elul.
The importance, to me, of these counting observances is that there is more than one opportunity in them. I have plenty of space to try again if disability gets in the way of observance. Shabbos is great for this too, but of course goes on for a lifetime. The Omer, Channukah, and Elul, are contained to once a year, and so they feel, to me, like practice. For a finite time, I can build a spiritual muscle I need strength in; taking each day as it comes, each observance in whatever way is most accessible. Moving through the world as an autistic person, I never know what each day will bring, what I will have the spirit, verve, ability for, especially when it comes to ritual observance. This only feels more true this year, as I stare down the tunnel of a likely chronic illness diagnosis. I feel myself needing accessibility more than ever.
Here is an non-exhaustive list of possible Elul observances I researched during my first observance:
Listen to a recorded (or in person if possible) shofar blast every morning to wake my soul to what I needed for the year to come.
Think of some song or sound or other resource that wasn't necessarily auditory but that none the less would achieve this soul awakening.
Engage in a meaningful way with Psalm 27.
Nowadays, I have a couple favorite translations of Psalm 27 bookmarked at all times, ready to go on day one of Elul so that the pressure is taken off of my weak short-term memory to find them in the lead up to the final month. I also love to hear the psalm sung.
There was a well-meaning friend who recommended a melodic Psalm 27 that I found too sweet somehow. As I'll get into shortly, Psalm 27 is raw to me. There is talk of devouring flesh, being abandoned, begging to see the face of G-d. All of that seems discordant with a smiling woman strumming an acoustic guitar on a beach. Eventually, I found an artist that spoke more to what I heard in Psalm 27 - Aly Halpert. Her almost whispered reverence, building to a held out note that is close to a scream, reached much deeper for me. Awakened something, as one hopes for Elul.
Psalm 27 has many been many things to me. Each Elul I find a new line that speaks to who I am at the time, or says something I didn't know I needed to hear. I still hold close to my heart the words that were most important my very first Elul observance:
"When evil men assail me
to devour my flesh -"
The line is metaphor. It's words literally translate to something about backbiting or slander. That first Elul, though, I was coming to terms with long-past sexual violence, and it was the visceral nature of the phrase that struck me, held me, in trauma recovery. There is a loss of body in that kind of trauma, a sense of being gobbled up. I can still remember taking deep breaths with tears streaming down my face, caught in the seemingly simple yet sacred moment of finding myself in a few words, and feeling less alone.
When I feel the need for something other than the translation of Psalm 27 as it appears in my Jewish Study Bible, I turn instead to a more free interpretation by Nan C. Merrill in her book Psalms for Praying: An Invitation to to Wholeness. Merrill casts G-d as "Love."
"...I shall hide in Love's heart
in the day of trouble,
As in a tent in the desert..."
Sacred partnership with my earthly beloved is one of the places I most feel G-d, and one of my favorite names for the Divine, Shekhinah, is said to exist "wherever two or more meet." Often, loving relationships are a refuge, and so Merrill's Psalm 27 reminds me for the whole month of Elul.
Now, some might say that bringing my fangirl tendencies into sacred ritual cheapens it. But remember, what is so wonderful about an Elul practice is the ways in which, with its length and simplicity, Elul makes space for the whole of a person. That said, I'm a HUGE Star Wars fan. One of the things that most excites me about the various films, television shows, and literary storytelling in a galaxy far far away is the way that concepts of the Divine show up. Most famous of these is the Force - completely invisible, binding all of existence together yet also made up of all living beings. A solid definition for Divinity in my book, and one that fits nicely into Merrill's interpretation:
"The Force is my light and
my salvation.
whom shall I fear?
The Force is the strength of
my life,
Of whom shall I be afraid?"
When I build these connections between beloved media and prayer on purpose, I create tiny opportunities for a reminder that the Sacred is always present, always with me, and accessible in any way my imagination can hold. Sometimes that presence is felt when I'm crying over one line in a psalm, others it might be a loud shofar blast that calls my attention to Hashem. My dearest Elul memories are playing Aly Halpert's song almost too quietly to hear so I didn't wake my family in the early morning while making breakfast for my wife. Food is sacred magic, for me, and even more so when made for someone I love. My schedule is different now, and while I like sleeping in sometimes I grieve the quiet beauty of this particular ritual.
I can't say yet what the recitation of Psalm 27 will bring me this year or what exactly I will bring to it. I am looking forward to Aly Halpert's scream note. I'll be taking it one day/night/recitation at a time. Whatever tools you use to feel the end of the year and the coming of whatever is next, I encourage you to do the same. I leave you with a poem/memoir in miniature of the Elul + Psalm 27 practice that has felt most sacred to me.
Psalm 27 OR Cooking Breakfast for my wife at 4am
I have never been a morning person.
But I am a "have morning" person.
I don't do well waking up and rushing out the door.
My mornings need - or I need from them -
space
air
breathing room
ritual
So when the alarm goes off at 4am, I get up.
(okay, actually I hit snooze until 4:30
and snuggle my wife a little longer)
We get up,
her and me together.
We say good morning.
Brush teeth and hair.
Pray.
And then I trudge upstairs to make us both breakfast.
The House is
dark
quiet
No one else is awake yet.
There is peace in that, early as it is, and I am
grateful
I get in a flow when cooking breakfast.
It's hard to switch tasks with a brain like mine.
Once I start, it's tough to
stop.
If I want music, I have to hit
play
Before I
start.
This morning I remember to do so,
the music so quiet I can barely hear it.
This morning, it is Elul.
And I have a
ritual
Aly Halpert serenades me as I
boil water
toast bread
whisk egg
ritual,
all of it.
"Achat sha'alti meit Hashem..."
With the Holy Name on my lips I have no fear.
With a full, nourished stomach, I can face anything.
Even an early morning
Cooking breakfast for the love of my life
Before the sun has risen
Kochav Yehudis (she/her): I am an autistic Ashkenazi lesbian deeply invested in multidisciplinary artistry, multireligious ritual, homemaking, storytelling, and cultural research, seeking the path of the Hebrew Priestess. My dream and calling is to connect people to the most honest story of themselves through artistry, scholarship, and ritual. I believe deeply in the body as a source of the Divine and want to open access to that embodied connectivity for others. As a settler, I hope, pray, and fight for Indigenous sovereignty from Palestine to Turtle Island and beyond. I am driven in this and all of my work by the Jewish concept of tikkun olam; I perceive the world is broken, I perceive the world is beautiful, and I commit to sacred repair. I believe great change starts closest to the heart. I live out my values in a sacred multi-religious partnership with my wife Olivia.
