Rosh Hashanah 5784

Feeding the Worms 

by Danusha Laméris 

Ever since I found out that earthworms have taste buds 

all over the delicate pink strings of their bodies, 

I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine 

the dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples 

permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley, 

avocado, and melon, the feathery tops of carrots. 

I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden, 

almost vulgar—though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure 

so sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can, 

forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu. 

I figured, if there's a place that would appreciate a poem about the beautiful symbiosis of compost, it’s here in Park Slope. This poem embodies the duality of this Holy day. It is Yom Harat Olam, the birthday of the world. Really, the day that human beings were created to perceive, take part in, protect, enjoy, and relish in this place we call home. The first day of creation, according to our tradition, was on the 25th of Elul, six days ago. What we call the birthday of the world–this day of Rosh Hashanah–is the day that we were created. It’s the day that our relationship with this planet began, our anniversary with the earthworms, trees and plants, the sun, moon and stars. It’s our Interdependence Day. 

The Gemara, in Sanhedrin 38a asks, “Why was humankind created on the 6th day?” So late in the week, so close to Shabbat. There are four answers given: The rst, so that heretics wouldn’t be able to say that the Holy One had a (human) partner in the act of creation. The second answer, so that if a person becomes haughty, they can know that even the mosquito preceded them in the acts of creation. The third answer, so that the human being enters into the mitzvah of keeping Shabbos immediately. The fourth answer, in order that the human being enter into a (Shabbat) feast immediately, as the whole world was prepared for them. 

Our own Rabbi Carie Carter taught, usually when the Rabbis have many reasons for something, it means that they don’t really know. This is a good thing. It’s a very Jewish thing. It leaves us room to bring ourselves into the dance of questioning, noticing which reasons resonate and which repel us. We could spend at least an hour unpacking each of the Gemara’s speculations, but the one that jumps at me is the second–so that if a person becomes haughty, they can know that even the mosquito preceded them. In other words, in order to remind us that we are dependent on every single living thing. That, just as the trees inhale our carbon dioxide and exhale our oxygen, in a beautiful, alive, symbiotic relationship, thus is the case with all life. Which today, Yom Harat Olam, celebrates. 

Another question leaves the Rabbis puzzled. (Shocking, I know) Throughout the centuries, they have asked why the Torah begins with the birth of the world and not with the rst Mitzvah, which was the birth of the Jewish people. Another teacher of mine who I am privileged to be with today, my mentor Rabbi Victor Reinstein, introduced me to the Netivot Shalom–the Slonimer Rebbe–who died in the year 2000 in Jerusalem. 

On this question, in the very opening of his book, the Slonimer answers with a quote from Tehilim: 

ּ֣כַֹח ַ֭מֲע ָׂשיו ִה ִּ֣גיד ְל ַעּ֑מֹו ָלֵ֥תת֝ ָל ֶ֗הם נֲַחַ֥לת ּגֹו ִיֽם׃ 

God revealed to God’s people God’s powerful works, in giving them the heritage of nations. 

The Slonimer explains that the creation of the world needed to be first in the Torah in order for us to know deeply that the earth belongs to Hashem. That nobody can truly own it. That if anything, the earth owns us. We are forever in relationship with her seasons, cycles, foods, and even her bursts of anger as are manifested through climate change.

In perhaps my favorite book about interdependence, Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, she writes, “Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.” This day celebrates our relationship with the world, and our dependence on her. 

In the same breath, this day of celebrating our interdependence, Yom Harat Olam, is also Yom haDin, the day of Judgement, the day that we examine our actions and our fragility, a day where we begin to remember, for a moment, as our poem says, “our place on the menu”. 

I sometimes struggle with a fear of flying. Though it’s gotten much better over the years, something just doesn’t feel quite right to me about being 35,000 feet in the air, hurled across the globe in a metal tube. It highlights my fragility and vulnerability in a way that forces me to confront my biggest fears. Recently, before a flight that I was feeling particularly nervous about, I called my friend Leeza. We all need a friend who just says it like it is, who doesn’t always coddle us or indulge our fears. “But, Leeza,” I said, “what if I die on the plane?” “Well,” she said, “then you’ll be dead. I don’t think you’ll care.” We laughed together, knowing how right she was, how vulnerable we are, and how little control we actually have over our future. To hold both Yom Harat Olam and Yom haDin on this day, is to celebrate our humanness, our vulnerability, and our dependence on one another. 

To speak of interdependence is, in a way, to speak of its not so distant cousin, codependence. I think of codependence like the vine that attaches to the tree, draining its life slowly. Codependence, in human relationships, is when one or both parties give up their needs on behalf of the other. The unfortunate result is that one or both people feel as if they have no self, no worth, no confidence, no roots without the other person. Perhaps I am not alone in this sanctuary in knowing the experience of codependence deeply. When a vine wraps itself around a tree, it’s not doing so maliciously, even if the end result is the tree ceding her strength and power, her essence, herself, to the vine. 

I smiled when I read recently that there are certain plants that need fire to sprout. Among them are bockbrush and manzanita, found on the west coast and in Mexico. They carry seeds that are encapsulated by a hard shell. Only the heat of fire can break them open so they can sprout new life. This has been true in my life, and perhaps I’m not alone with that as well. Sometimes, in order to burst forth into the next chapter, a metaphorical fire is needed to loosen the hard shell around us. 

The more I’ve studied the Torah of nature, the more I have learned that birth and death are not two distinct concepts, but a continuous and interdependent process. Like this day, with its seemingly different themes models for us, the cycles of life and death, while seemingly binary, are completely intertwined. In this way, I feel less alone, a part of a bigger cycle in which death, decomposition, and rebirth are woven together. 

In my short time at PSJC, getting coffee at various coffee shops around town, I have been struck by the amount of people who have described their relationships here as “chosen family.” A beautiful web of interdependence is palpable here. In the davvening, in the shmoozing at kiddush, in the way I have seen people show up for simchas and shivas alike, knowing that like a permaculture garden, we support one another to grow, heal, and flourish. 

My role here is Associate Rabbi of PSJC. Associate coming from the Latin ad, meaning “to” and socius, meaning “sharing, allied.” I’m thinking of my role as being in an allied partnership, an interdependent relationship, with Rabbi Carie, the staff at PSJC, and the community as a whole. I feel deeply grateful to get to partner in this beautifully connected, deep, diverse, and garden of souls. 

May we be blessed to be written and sealed in the book of Life, the book of presence to the miracles of this life. May we be blessed to be written in the book of interdependence, deep and supportive relationship to one another, the earth, and the Divine. May we be blessed with the strength and vulnerability to hold and celebrate our humanness, our fragility, and our resilience. Shanah Tovah.