It was early morning on Chol Hamoed Pesach—the in-between days of Passover that carry both the freedom of the holiday and the calm of the everyday. As I woke, I made a deliberate choice to look up. The sky has always taught me things. Or at least reminded me of things that matter.
I could use some uplifting. After all, it’s a mitzvah to feel joy during the festival. So I allowed the sky to do its work.
Above me stretched a breathtaking techelet—a soft, Israeli blue, radiant and alive. Sure, scientists can explain it with atmosphere and light, but that morning it felt like something more. It was a harmony between sechel and regesh—between reason and feeling. Not money, not noise, not the day’s errands—but an inner light, a trace of G dliness.
And then I saw the clouds.
There were three distinct colors. White, grey, and black. Perhaps because it had rained during the night—and maybe again that morning—the sky was layered and textured, shifting above me. I stood still, bundled up in coat, sweaters, and wool hat (it can still be cold on Pesach here in Israel). I watched the clouds.
Three colors. Three stages. Three moods of life.
The black ones, we tend to fear. They bring cold, disruption, rain. But rain is life. The soil, the plants, even the quiet creatures underground—like the humble earthworm—all thrive from it. Even the darkness is, in its own way, a blessing.
But how can I say that to those who lived through our darkest times? To Jews in exile, to those who suffered through so many storms? Sometimes black is just… black. Pain is not always something we can explain. Still, in our tradition, we say gam zu letovah—“this too is for the good.” Not because it feels good, but because we hold on to hope.
Then come the grey clouds. The in-between. Nothing dramatic. Nothing awful. Just quiet. Maybe boring. But maybe necessary. A time to recover. To breathe. To rebuild after the storm. Even after a hurricane, people return, fix what they can, and keep going. That’s human resilience. That’s the quiet part of healing.
And finally—the white clouds. The soft ones. The moments when things begin to feel clear again. After the tension, the pressure, the traffic jams of life, there’s a shift. A new pace. A smoother path. Like sailors resetting the sails, rolling up their sleeves, and pushing on. You begin again.
Sometimes, the sky is cloudless. And even that, just being, can be holy.
To sum it up: the clouds pass. All of them.
Black, grey, white. There is always space between them. Life is like that—changing, unpredictable, rich in seasons. Some days bring challenge. Some bring quiet. And some bring light.
And if we pause long enough to look up—we might just feel it.
A whisper of presence.
A blessing in motion.
A touch of holiness on an ordinary morning.
Dr. Hayim Abramson is an educator, writer and poet whose work explores Jewish spirituality, language, and human resilience. He is the author of “Shirat HaNeshamah” (available at www.hayimabramson.com), a collection of Hebrew poetry, and his works appear in both English, Hebrew and Spanish.
