Strolling Among the Redwood

I stroll the remnants of the ancient forest

Redwoods reach past their own sheltered shade.

Ancient pillars, that catch the sun,

creating home and haven

for the forest folk, and for those who merely visit.

Their glory is not in their imposing height or even their hoary age,

but in the buried weaving of shared roots below,

each towering tree nestled and supported

by its children, siblings, parents and neighbors,

the network of roots sustaining a grove.

So too my ancient wandering people —

our resilience is found not in the solitary soul,

but in the communion of us all,

living and dead,

local and dispersed,

our souls entwined together behind the veil of vision,

bound in the bonds of life,

holding one another to endure and to triumph.

The redwood survives centuries,

scarred yet standing,

its rings a record of every drought and flood.

So too my people Israel,

enduring the scars and wounds of exile and return,

each generation another ring of Torah,

another circle of our sacred song.

When one ancient trunk falls to the forest floor,

Supple shoots spring from the decaying stump,

life insisting on life, stronger still than death.

So too my people —

from ashes, new communities.

From silence, new melodies.

From wandering, new homes.

From memories, renewed vitality.

With the redwoods we witness:

“Stand tall, lean on each other, survive and thrive.”

Our Jewish hearts respond:

“We remember, we renew, we return.”

We begin again.