When hiking throughout our region, I occasionally come to a full stop, I stand under a thicket of trees, close my eyes and listen: to the wind as it tests the varied surfaces of the many leaf species; to the crickets, cicadas and bees as they perform the music of their vibrating bodies and wings which is their innate genius; to the rush of creek water rapids over silent stones.
Each Autumn, as I approach Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, I also come to a full stop in my busyness, I stand alone in the sanctuary of my synagogue, put my lips to the shofar, the traditional ram’s horn, and listen: to the sounds both sonorous and sputtering that I make so inexpertly; to the wailing cry filling that empty hall, a cry which tradition says pierces God’s heart as we beg for forgiveness and renewal; to the alarm shrilly and joyously piercing our human hearts with the call to wake up and begin our lives anew.
Jewish tradition ascribes mystical importance to the shofar’s blasts due to that piercing quality which transcends verbal articulation. It also ascribes similar significance to the sounds of nature, when it imagines the trees of the forest shouting for joy and each grass blade singing its own song. This past month, to prepare for Rosh Hashanah, I took my shofar with me out to the woods and streams, to blow unsteady and staccato notes through it. I wanted to hear what the ancient songs of the ram’s horn would sound like when interspersed with the even more ancient tunes of the natural world. Would their wordless notes combine in luscious harmony, creating a grand chorus of praise to God? Or would my lousy ram’s horn playing just annoy other hikers as it landed flat on the ever-moving music of creation?
The first time I sounded the shofar’s notes, I was standing on the banks of Kinderhook Creek whose rapids make that steady, soothing whoosh which transports me far from human affairs. After I made a few scratchy notes, my wife chuckled at me that I should be careful about any nearby moose who might mistake the sounds for mating calls. The second time, I was standing at the edge of a huge, open field at Five Rivers Environmental Center. How badly I wanted my shofar blasts to join the steady whirring music of the late afternoon crickets; but all I could muster was a tinny whine that went unnoticed by the flora and fauna going about their business. The third time I stood near the summit of Keleher Preserve, close to an old, gnarled tree whose three conjoined trunks formed the shape of the Hebrew letter shin, the first letter in the word shalom, peace. I fantasized to myself, is this a sign from God? Was I called here to blast away on my shofar, letting its sounds join with the songs of birds and wind and leaves and bugs, in a plaintive tune to God: “Lord, in this coming new year, we – Your human and more-than-human children - cry out to You: bring us peace”?
I brought the horn to my lips, spluttered a few bad notes, then surprisingly, let out a high-pitched shriek that reverberated off the trees and rock walls. Another hiker who had been walking behind me on the trail with his dog caught up to me, his face and voice tight with worry.
“Hey, did you hear that? What is that terrible sound?”
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, red-faced and embarrassed. “That was me blowing my ram’s horn to prepare for the Jewish new year.”
“Thank God,” he kind of snarled. “I really thought that was the sound of a bear or some other animal that was sick.”
He hustled away, looking angry.
I stood at the overlook, deflated. My shofar blasts were terrible. The magnificent symphony I hoped each time to make by mixing them with the sounds of the woods turned out to be nothing more than discordant screeches. What an awful way to bring the music of nature and faith together.
Then I remembered what I had learned from my teachers about the blasts of the shofar many years ago. Though technically their notes must be perfect and whole, the cry the notes imitate is that of a person who is imperfect and whose heart is at times broken: in other words, each one of us. The sounds made in nature are their own perfect notes, reflecting the simple majesty built into each living being. Yet every bug, bird, and Black Oak which exists will only sing for the shortest time, until it passes into decay and death. And in all this we learn a great lesson. Whether blasted poorly from a ram’s horn or buzzed expertly from beneath an insect’s wings, all sound is the glorious music which celebrates our too-brief yet brilliant and blessed existence. In this new year, may we all dance with abandon to these gracious melodies of this imperfectly perfect life.
Dan Ornstein is the rabbi of Congregation Ohav Shalom and a writer living in Albany, NY. Check out his writings at danornstein.com
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