A friend of mine recently shared this poem on her Facebook page, in the context of thinking about the High Holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and the week in between, ten days collectively called the Days of Awe, the holiest days of the Jewish calendar). It really spoke to me, and I thought I would tease out my thoughts here. First, let me re-share the poem, by Mary Oliver, called Wild Geese:

~

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

~

This lovely poem brought to my mind this idea of atonement as a function of releasing the despair you carry around with you over the course of the year. “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” A significant part of our prayers during Yom Kippur consist of atoning for our sins, confessing our wrongdoings, appealing to G-d for forgiveness and the blessing of a new year to try and to better, be better. I don’t think of despair as a sin, as something that needs to be forgiven, but I do really like this idea of sharing that burden with G-d and asking that G-d relieve us of that burden.

This poem also speaks to accepting yourself as you are, and recognizing that you have a place in the world, and that it’s meaningful. When you hold onto your despair, it can be difficult or even impossible to see that. This release of despair, this atonement, can bring you to a more peaceful place of self-acceptance and even a sense of home, a sense that you do in fact belong here.

The shofar call, which can indeed sound like wild geese, every year at this time and season, reminds us that we “do not have to be good.” G-d is not expecting perfection from us. But as we are taught in Pirkei Avot, while we are not required to complete the work, we are not permitted to abandon it. We do not have to be good, but we certainly need to try. We can release our despair, we can atone for the ways in which we were not kind enough to ourselves, or the ways in which we were not kind enough to others, or the ways in which others were not kind enough to us. And as a result, we can lean into the gift of a fresh new year and a clean slate. We can go on, full of hope that maybe, just maybe, there could be less despair accumulated moving forward. We can take our place “in the family of things” — understanding that we are not alone in this world, or in this work. Nowadays, being Jewish can feel very isolating; it helps us release a little of that despair by harkening to the call of wild geese and remembering that many other Jews are doing the same.

As much as holidays are a communal experience, the process of praying for Yom Kippur feels intimate and personal for me. Many people say Yom Kippur is about forgiveness; I’ve written previously how I hate the idea of forgiveness. In lieu of forgiveness which can be hollow and trite, I try each year to come up with something I can lean into, in which I specifically can find both meaning for the year that has passed, and hope for the future. This year, I will atone by releasing the despair of the last year that has taken its toll on my heart, my mind, my body, and my soul. May we all harken to the call of wild geese, the call of the shofar, and share more blessings and less despair in the year to come.

G’Mar Hatimah Tovah.