Rosh Hashanah starts tonight, the Jewish New Year, and in celebration we’ll dip apples in honey to ensure a sweet new year for us and all our friends, online and offline. Have a wonderful one, dear friends.
From The River Midnight:
The village of Blaszka has reached the final moment of Yom Kippur. The Rabbi calls tekiah gedolah, the great blast, the long call that closes the gates of eternity. Hershel raises the shofar. As he sounds the call, the ram’s horn curls in its spiral toward heaven. Awake, awake, the gates are closing, and we are left again in the world of time, alone with each other.
In the village of Blaszka, as in every other place, even in fairy tales, there was an oldest son and a youngest son, a rich sister and a poor sister, the clever, the wise, the wicked and naive, a constellation of people, seemingly motionless, a river of stars in the midnight sky. But go closer and the stars are exploding suns that come into being and die and in between give life to all manner of things. Look and you’ll see the planets with their seas rising and falling under the pull of the circling moons. Even closer, you’ll see the trees of the forest and mushrooms sprouting in the dark places. Watch how the mushroom pickers, when they find one that’s wormy, cut it into pieces which they scatter on the ground to spread the spores, so new mushrooms will grow.
Mushrooms are the fruit of the fungus. Below ground are cell-wide threads that take sugars from the roots of trees, giving in exchange water and minerals. Because the roots are hard and thick, they would have trouble getting what they need without these threads, this network of life blood running through the ground connecting all the trees, making of the woods a single living thing. So make yourself a bowl of mushroom soup, and as you lift the spoon to your lips, remember that this, too, is the river midnight, and as you drink, know that Hanna-Leah made this exact same soup for Hershel, once upon a time.
From the mountain top: