Weddings, walks and wonders filled our Sukkot holiday.  And sweet sukkah after sweet sukkah. We transformed our recent anniversary chuppah into our sukkah.  Instead of gathering the customary foliage and twigs for its “roof”, we nestled it beneath the branches of one of our favorite oak trees.  Birch trunks hugged us tight in a season harsh, yet headed to hallowed. In the middle of a majestic tree’s beams and boughs, sky became a jigsaw puzzle, meant to be put together by we who would look up and seek story.  We invited the tale, tucked into a tribe of wood and marveled at its telling, star by planet, sunset by sunrise.  There, between lines and words, realized, the sky is not always civilized.  For it is does not speak the narrative of our wants, but spills the chronicles of the always been and yet to be.  Every season is perfectly tuned.  We need only yield the strings of our heart, so all of creation can sing. Tabernacles do not tell time, for a feast doesn’t care for seconds and minutes.  Hours are of no consequence.  The emptied clock of it allows you to begin to breathe in every possible way, filling lung, limb, soul and spirit.  Tucked in, you recall what dwells in bird song and water rapids.  You thank Him for every cloud that dapples light, bringing intermittent shade and creati...
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Cessor Journals | October 16, 2020