Masters of Returning

Almost every year, something happens to me during one of the strangest moments of the year.

It’s Hoshana Rabbah, the “last day” to seal our fortune for the year, the culmination of everything we’ve been striving for throughout the Yamim Noraim. The journey that starts in Elul comes to its crescendo during this mysterious minhag of the nevi’im. After fasting, davening for hours, crying, laughing, dancing and yearning, the tefillos seem to get more and more intense as we repeatedly plead, Hoshana, Hoshana.

And then it all comes to a sudden stop with this final action.

We take our hoshanos and we hit them on the floor. The kavanos are so exalted that many of us don’t even attempt to have any. We trust the nevi’im, people who genuinely heard Hashem’s voice, and we follow their lead. With nothing left to do and nothing left to say, we hit these five simple branches on the ground in a last effort to accomplish what we’ve been trying 
to build.

And it’s at that moment I usually start crying under my tallis.

It just happens and for years I didn’t really know why I was crying or what it was about. When I stand up, I feel lighter, almost free. Over the years, I’ve come to identify that moment as a type of deep and beautiful surrender into Hashem’s will. But that moment doesn’t really begin on Hoshana Rabbah. It starts much earlier…

From the beginning of Elul there is an energy in the air. A movement of desire, yearning and commitment to try to come home to ourselves and to Hashem. There’s an urgency to fully take advantage of everything these awesome days have to offer, to really meet the King in the field, to crown Him as my Father and King on Rosh Hashanah, to come back to Him and cleanse myself on Yom Kippur. To become the best version of myself.

And while the yomim noraim are an amazing and transcendent experience, they can also be intense, especially when you put all your kochos into it.  Sometimes, the yearning to get close can highlight how far we still have to travel in our inner work and avodas Hashem. Often, our deep ratzon for growth brings hopes and dreams and sometimes hidden expectations. Sometimes even an almost desperate need to make sure we “get there.” And when we are striving so much to “get there” it can imply that we are not satisfied with the “here”. 

And then after all the ratzon, all that desire and yearning to move ahead, to be closer, it’s time to shift to a completely different energy. We head towards Sukkos. We shift to an attitude of love and acceptance. It’s time to rest and trust the process, to stop trying and start a kind of deep, holy sitting — leisheiv basukkah. A time to descend with these exalted lights we tasted and bring them down with us into our everyday lives. A time for deep integration. 

There was a time for ratzon and running toward being better. And now we transition into a time of returning and sitting. Rebbe Nachman teaches that on the path of teshuvah we need to be baki b’ratzo and baki b’shov, masters of running and masters of returning.

Running towards Hashem makes sense, but what is a master of returning?

For me, it means returning to our “normal” selves, with all our normal challenges, but with a totally different light. We need to integrate, but in a specific way. Not by holding on to the light of those high moments, but by learning to shine love, light and new perspective into our old darknesses. To return to the parts of ourselves that still need work and meet them differently. To be able to love and be loved, without needing to be perfect anymore. To return to the simplicity of the sukkah. To sit in a flimsy, temporary dwelling and somehow feel totally protected and held. To realize that I don’t need to fix everything right now. I can simply sit with Hashem and allow myself to be held exactly where I am.

The seforim connect the days of Sukkos to‭ ‬וימינו‭ ‬תחבקני‭,‬ Hashem’s embrace. There is something unique about a hug. A hug shows: I can hold you. We don’t need to fix anymore right now. I accept you, I love you, and I can hold all of you exactly as you are. We are invited into the Sukkah, a place of unconditional love, protection, and joy and our avodah on Sukkos is simply to receive that hug. To allow my deepest self to be held and loved by Hashem. And when we experience that, we can begin to do that for ourselves as well.

Sukkos is zman simchaseinu. The Maharal teaches that simcha comes from shleimus, from a sense of wholeness or completion. כי‭ ‬השמחה‭ ‬היא‭ ‬מצד‭ ‬השלימות. We tend to believe that simcha will come when all the pieces of our lives finally become okay. But maybe real simcha begins when I become okay with all the pieces of my life. All the pieces of myself. That is shleimus. That is simcha.

That is the precious gift that Hashem gives to us on Sukkos. A loving reminder that while we have so much more to go, we are exactly where we need to be and we can rejoice now. Sukkos teaches us to be sameach b’chelko, happy with what I have right now, even while I keep working toward more.

During Sukkos, we open our hearts and allow this message to sink in. We’ve experienced running forward toward who we want to become, and we’ve experienced the deeper avodah of sitting with who we are. Baki b’ratzo, baki b’shov.

And with both of those experiences within us, we approach Hoshana Rabbah. Suddenly there is an air of Yamim Noraim again. The tefillos intensify. We circle the bimah again and again, pleading Hoshana, Hoshana. We are asking for more, reaching for more, striving again.

But there is a difference. We are not the same people doing the striving anymore. We have spent days sitting in the sukkah, days allowing ourselves to be held. We have learned that acceptance was never meant to replace growth. It was meant to change the place we grow from. We can give our avodah everything we have, while learning to let go of the results. We can strive from a place of acceptance.

And then comes that final, mysterious act. After everything we have done since Elul, after all the davening, fasting, crying, dancing, yearning and sitting, we are left holding five simple aravos. We execute one final act of hishtadlus. We hit them against the ground, and there is nothing more to do.

And I think that is why I cry.

Maybe those tears are where the ratzo and the shov finally meet. I still want so much. I still have so far to go. I hope I never stop yearning to grow and become closer to Hashem. But I am also learning that I can love every step of the way. I can give it everything I have, and then let go into Hashem and His plan for me.

So I take my aravos, the simplest of the four minim, and with tears in my eyes and joy in my heart, I leave them on top of the Aron Kodesh, right where they belong.

After all the trying, perhaps what’s left is something much simpler.

Just me and Hashem.