Sukkot in my neighborhood
Boston isn’t Atlanta.
For that I’m grateful.
(Don’t take it personally)
There are lots of legitimate reasons I love Boston. Eastern Massachusetts is a crucible of history, innovation, education, Jewish community, and intellectual fervor that has few parallels.
But there’s one particular aspect of life in my neighborhood that I love the most.
There is nothing like running on a cold fall evening, going apple pickling with a fleece jacket in late September, and celebrating the holidays with a cool breeze kicking leaves around the temple parking lot.
But while I love walking around and doing things in fall, my favorite Fall activity has nothing to do with running, picking, or football.
It’s about Sukkot.
Sukkot is a holiday full of mystery, weather, and a whole host of cool ancient stuff that we’ve kept on doing the same way for thousands of years. Whether or not you believe the Lulav is a primitive rain dance or an indication that God is everywhere, or whether you’re into the Sukkah as a temporary house in the desert/on a Jerusalem pilgrimage or as a booth to sleep in the field during the harvest, it really doesn’t matter. We keep on shaking and praying, eating and dwelling, fall after fall in the cool New England air. It’s fairly awesome.
And while I’ve shaken the lulav in places other than Eastern Massachusetts, including a lovely evening by the beach in Ashkelon and one in the Jerusalem hills, there’s nothing like a cold Fall breeze blowing through the schach as you sip hot tea in your backyard sukkah.
It’s a good thing that I feel that way.
Because I never plan on leaving.