#sorry rosh

[baihujun]

happiest of birthdays to @roshanina !!

[thegroundhogdidit]

rosh hashanah starts on spirk day this year it's what leonard nimoy would've wanted

[anderperries]

imagine you’re an actor in the town of riverdale and you check backstage.com to see if there are any gigs you wanna audition for and there’s a casting call for some weird snuff film where you’re meant to wear a mask of one of those weird kids from the high school who’s always up to some shit. and also it seems like this listing is from that same person filming the outside of everybody’s house. but the job’s paid and most people won’t post casting calls for riverdale because of all the murders and the cult and whatnot. so you’re like… fuck it.

[briar--rising]

Rosh Hashanah is next week. It's always been my favorite holiday, and every year I prepare for it and look forward to it. But this year I've been dreading it, and until this past week I couldn't figure out why.

I haven't been to synagogue much in the past year. I've gone a handful of times, but much less than any other year since graduating college. And I thought of going, my therapist tried to encourage me to go because she knows it often makes me feel better, but there was just this inner resistance that I couldn't figure out and wasn't ready to look at closely enough to decipher anyway. And then as the High Holy Days got closer and closer I started to notice that I was really dreading them, which is not how I usually feel. And so I brought it up in therapy on Tuesday, and came to some really important realizations.

I've been doing a lot of very serious grief work and trauma work this fall. My most serious trauma anniversaries are almost all in the fall, and it's a season of great grief and usually highly elevated symptoms for me. My first serious psychotic break was in the fall, four of my five hospitalizations have been in the fall, etc. Until this year I spent every autumn of the past decade pretty severely psychotic. I could not face the trauma and grief that this time of year brings up for me, I could not process those feelings and memories without losing my mind in defense so that I wouldn't have to truly experience them. I've always known this, and for a few years have tried very hard to truly experience my grief and not retreat into psychosis, but I never managed it until this year.

This autumn has been different. I've still struggled with psychosis much more than in the summer, I still have to fight it most days. But I'm winning most of those fights. And I'm grieving. I'm mourning, I'm crying, I'm sitting with my feelings for as long as I can bear and then distracting myself from them when they get too much instead of retreating into symptoms most of the time. I'm genuinely experiencing the thoughts and feelings I need to be experiencing. I'm reading about death, about grief, about loss, I'm talking about these things in therapy. It's often incredibly painful, though sometimes it is simply a peaceful kind of sorrow. I'm getting in touch with a lot of the feelings I've found so difficult to face from some of the hardest times of my life, and I'm experiencing some of them again.

And some of those feelings that I was really quite blindsided by and that I've been largely repressing for 15 years are incredibly complicated feelings about G-d. When I was 11 years old I was just like any other religious and traumatized kid: I prayed to G-d to fix it. I did that thing kids do, I tried to make bargains with Him. "Dear G-d, if I clean my room will You save my mommy? If I'm perfect, will You fix my family?" You know. Things like that.

I was desperate for anything, anyone to save me. I talk sometimes about the particular traumas of that year, about my brother's birth, about my mother's hospitalizations, about her suicide attempt. But I have no words to express the year as a whole, except to say that terrible thing after terrible thing after terrible thing happened, and throughout all of it I was neglected and left at sea. My mom was sick, my dad was trying to keep his head above water, no one was there for me. So I tried to turn to G-d. And when He wasn't there for me either, I felt incredibly abandoned and betrayed, both by Him but also because I was taking my feelings about my family neglecting me during severe trauma and putting them onto Him. It's hard for me to express the levels of hurt and rage I felt at G-d during that time period.

And then my memory cuts out. I remember approximately nothing from shortly after my twelfth birthday (in June) until November over a year later. I have a handful of memories of specific events that took place at school or at camp, but absolutely zero memories of my internal feelings or anything that ever took place at home during seventh grade. It's just. Gone. Always has been, probably always will be.

The next significant things I remember in terms of my relationship to G-d and my religion are all about Hebrew High School, which I loved (I got to start it early bc I was being bullied in normal Hebrew School), and preparing for my Bat Mitzvah, which I also loved. My memory goes from intense feelings of betrayal and abandonment and agony to instantaneously a relatively low conflict, positive relationship with G-d and Judaism (with Jewish-appropriate amounts of questioning of course and moments of anger, but no true rage and despair like I once felt). And I stayed in that space of Judaism-as-comfort-with-minimal-internal-conflict for the next 10+ years. I have no idea how that transition happened, but it certainly didn't occur because I slowly and naturally dealt with all of my complicated feelings and embraced religion after processing.

And then this year, well. I guess the processing came due. I'd like to be very very clear that being Jewish always has been and always will be incredibly important to me, and nothing about any of this changes that. I am struggling, though. I'm re-experiencing a lot of those childhood feelings of betrayal and abandonment and confusion and rage. And not being ready to face those feelings is why I've been subconsciously avoiding synagogue for the past year, and is why I've been dreading the holidays. At least now I'm aware of what's happening, so that's a step in the right direction. And in the long term this is a good and important step not only in my trauma recovery but in my relationship with Judaism and with G-d; I can't have as deep of a relationship as I want without this kind of struggle. To quote my therapist, "your relationship with Judaism is too important to you to be easy." Thankfully in Judaism struggling like this is not only allowed but expected. But it is a struggle, right now. A painful one.

I leave you all with a song I've been listening to on repeat that is helping me confront and think about a lot of these feelings:

[tsyvia48]

Genesis 22, Good Omens style

Avraham was nervous. God had sent angels to speak with him before, but never this many. And the one in the center was frightening. He seemed to be in charge, but from his posture to his eyes—the color of a wine stain—there was nothing kind or welcoming about him.

Avraham’s eyes moved from face to face. None of them were kind and welcoming. They looked…bored? But wait, there near the back was Israfel. They met eyes and smiled at one another. Avraham hadn’t seen him since that hot day in Mamre. He’d been the only one of the three who actually ate of the cakes Sarah had labored over. Israfel had enjoyed the food heartily, and it had brought comfort to Sarah.

Avraham relaxed. If Israfel was here, surely all was well.

“Avraham” boomed the head angel with the wine-stain eyes and the sharp jaw line.

Avraham looked around. They’d been standing there for quite a long moment. Avraham was the only human there, but the angel said it as if he was commanding attention. “Here I am” replied Avraham. It was the correct answer to the divine call of one’s name.

Continues after the break.

“Take your son,” the angel continued.

“My lord, I have two sons.”

The angel looked at him, seemingly for the first time. “Your favorite one”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, I do not have a favorite,”

The angel looked a bit annoyed. Avraham tried to find Israfel’s eyes in the assembled. Israfel was looking down and wringing his hands.

“The one that you love, then,” said the angel, frustrated, looking at his companions with indignation.

Before Avraham could protest, Israfel shuffled meekly to the head angel and whispered in his ear.

“Yitzak!” Said the frightening angel as Israfel returned to his place at the back of the small formation.

Avraham nodded.

“Go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the heights that God will point out to you.”

A burnt offering? Yitzak? Surely this was a mistake. God had never requested human sacrifice. Never. Avraham searched their faces. There was nothing there but cold indifference. His eyes found Israfel who averted his gaze. Avraham thought he saw tears in Israfel’s eyes.

“It is a test.” The center Angel declared. The others broke out in polite applause.

Avraham choked back a sob.

x

Aziraphale paces in the Judean night. He mutters softly to himself. “Surely Gabriel misunderstood the Almighty. Human sacrifice?”

“Alright, Aziraphale?” growls a familiar voice.

Aziraphale spins quickly, surprise and relief on his face. “Crawly! Oh, dear. You’re here. Tell me, do you know Avraham?”

“Hmm, I do. I convinced him to tell people his wife was his sister,” the demon grins. “Twice, actually.”

“You what?” The Angel stares in disbelief.

“Well, I -“

Aziraphale cuts him off. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, look, Gabriel’s delivered a ‘test.’ Avraham is meant to offer his son as a burnt offering.”

“Ngk.” Crawly scoffs. “It wasn’t enough to send my side to kill Job’s kids. Now She’s making them do it themselves?”

“Oh, I don’t think She wants the boy killed. I can’t believe that.”

The demon looks at him, eyebrows raised over wide eyes. “I mean,” Aziraphale stammers, “I’m sure She told the host to test Avraham. Part of the ineffable plan…” he falters… “oh, Crawly, I feel just awful about it. I was the one who blessed Sarah so she could have a baby at all! She was 90 years old!” The angel meets the demon’s eyes, forehead creased in worry, “I’m supposed to accompany Avraham to Moriah. And report back on the results of the test,” the angel wrings his hands.

The demon purses his lips. “I could come along and try to thwart you, I suppose,” he says nonchalantly, looking away from Aziraphale to punctuate his indifference.

“Oh, would you?!” Aziraphale smiles, starts to reach for the other’s hand, thinks better of it, and clasps his own hands together.

“I’m a demon,” Crawly says, shrugging and suppressing a smile, “it’s what I do.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale beamed. “Avraham will be taking two servants on the journey to Moriah. We leave in the morning.”

“Right,” says Crawly, looking around. “I’ll disguise myself. Not sure old Avi will be glad to see me again. Shall I be Bildad the Shuhite, once more?”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale beamed. “I quite liked Bildad.”

“Good. That’s settled, then.” With a wave of his hand, Crawly conjures a small campfire and settles himself on a small boulder, which conveniently scoots itself near the fire. “Might as well get comfortable.” He gestures for the angel to sit on a miraculously placed second rock. “I trust you don’t mind if I have some wine,” the demon is pouring wine from ceramic jug into ceramic cup, neither of which were there moments ago. When the cup is full, he sets the jug down near his feet, between himself and his companion.

“Would you like a taste?” the demon quickly glances at the angel who sits on his rock, straight-backed.

Aziraphale looks at the cup in Crawly’s hands. His own hands are clasped tightly together in his lap. He doesn’t answer.

“In my opinion, it’s better than ox meat” the demon says quietly, not looking at Aziraphale as he takes a small sip. The angel makes a barely audible “oh” and Crawly tries not to smile. He slouches into his rock, robes pooling around him, and sips again, rather more audibly than is strictly necessary. He smacks his lips in satisfaction.

“Surely it wouldn’t hurt to taste it,” the angel says quietly, “to know what the fuss is about.”

“Surely,” Crawly repeats back, seriously. “It is your job to understand humans, isn’t it, Principality?”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale nods. His face quickly clouds. “You aren’t tempting me are you?”

“Aziraphale, we’ve established angels can’t be tempted, haven’t we?” Crawly is already pouring wine into a newly-formed second cup. He holds it out to his companion. “You’re doing your job. You’re understanding humans and their experience, so you can better serve Heaven…as far as you can.”

Crawly doesn’t wink as Aziraphale tentatively reaches for the cup.

“Well, just one cup. To know what it’s about.”

“Of course,” says the demon, “just one.”

Several hours later, the fire is mostly embers. Angel and demon share conversation and silence by turns.

“What’s with the name change?” Crawly asks, apropos of nothing. “I thought Avram was a fine name.”

“Oh that!” The Angel brightens, “that was my idea, actually. I thought a new name would help really convey the new relationship between the human and the almighty.”

“But it’s so close? Why bother with such a small change?”

“My dear Crawly, sometimes the small changes are the most profound, don’t you think? It was the almighty Herself who suggested adding a letter from her NAME for Avram and Sarai’s new names. I thought that was delightfully clever.” Aziraphale wiggles happily and looks into his cup, which should have been empty hours ago, given all that he’d drunk. Finding it still half full he smiles into it and takes another sip.

Crawly brows knit together. “What did you say just then?”

“What, that the almighty is delightfully clever?”

“No, no, before that. Something about small changes.”

“Hmm, yes. Small changes can be the most profound.” Aziraphale takes another sip of his wine. “This is quite pleasant,” he says, pointing to the cup. “I don’t know why I was so averse to it.”

Crawly doesn’t respond. He is now sitting on the ground, using his rock as a backrest, and sprawling in impossible angles. His foot waves absently.

“I say, Crawly. Are you listening?”

“What? Oh.” Crawly refocuses his reptilian eyes on the decidedly tipsy Angel. “Of course I’m listening. This is Pleasant. You are Averse.”

As the sky lightens, Crawly sobers up. Aziraphale watches with bleary eyes and, after one failed attempt (and a rather loud passing of wind), the angel manages to expel the wine from his corporation.

x

With the breaking of dawn, Avraham saddles his ass and takes with him two of his servants and his son Yitzak. He splits the wood for the burnt offering, and he sets out for the place of which God had told him.

They set out in two pairs, Avraham and Yitzak flanking the donkey and Aziraphale and Bildad following behind. Yitzak tires after several hours of walking. He’s only a boy, after all, and not used to this kind of exertion. Bildad offers to carry some of the donkey’s pack so Yitzak can ride. Avraham looks at him with gratitude as the redhead shoulders a heavy pack. When Yitzak falls asleep in the saddle, Bildad helps Avraham tie the boy into his perch so he won’t fall out and get hurt. They walk on either side of the beast keeping an eye on the sleeping figure as it sways above them. Their talk about goats and sheep eventually turns to Avraham’s sons. Bildad smiles as Avraham tells stories about the boys making one another laugh and generally making mischief. Aziraphale walks quietly behind, smiling to himself.

In the evening, after Yitzak and Avraham are asleep, Aziraphale and Bildad sit by the fire and drink wine.

As the night drags on, Bildad sinks lower and lower in his slouch until he’s lying on his back looking up at the sky. Aziraphale glances over at him and then up at the night’s sky.

“They are beautiful from here.”

“Hmm? Wassat?” Crowley rolls his head drunkenly toward the angel.

“The stars,” Aziraphale says, pointing and looking up, “they’re beautiful.

“Are they?” Bildad asks, wistfully.

“Well, look at them!” Aziraphale replies, breathless, “they’re gorgeous.”

“Tell me,” Bildad turns all of his attention on Aziraphale. “Tell me, Angel? Please?” His voice is quiet, wistful.

Aziraphale stares back, incredulous. Bildad looks expectantly over the rims of the dark glasses. Aziraphale meets that golden gaze and his breath catches. “You can’t…you haven’t…all this time” he whispers, trails off, looks up at the sky and back to Bildad.

Bildad waits, watching, inebriated but patient.

“Well, I…” Aziraphale looks away from Bildad’s face again and lies back, fully prone. He discreetly wipes away tears. “There are so many of them.” He starts. Bildad settles back down, face toward the stars he cannot see. “From here they appear as white lights, twinkling and sparkling. They are pin pricks in the darkest black,” Aziraphale points, “right now I can see the Milky Way just there, and the Argo Nevis skimming along it.”

Bildad smiles and sighs. He closes his eyes and listens as the angel describes the constellations.

x

The second day of travel, Aziraphale and Avraham walk together talking quietly as Bildad and Yitzak walk ahead with the donkey, playing games and laughing.

“Surely God doesn’t want me to actually hurt him,” Avraham whispers so only Aziraphale can hear.

“Yes, well. It is not for me to know what God wants,” Aziraphale whispers back. “This is meant to be a test, but be not afraid.”

“Be not afraid? I’m afraid, Israfel. I’m very afraid,” Avraham’s whisper edges toward anger. Bildad looks back at them and quickly looks away.

“Shh,” Aziraphale places one hand on the patriarch’s arm. “It’s a test, and surely there is more than one way to pass a test. We will figure something out.”

Avraham allows himself to be placated. Israfel has that effect. He doesn’t know how this will be alright, but he trusts that the angel doesn’t want to hurt him or his son.

The afternoon is spent in silence, all four travelers tired and lost in thought.

x

On the third day, Aziraphale hears the heavenly trumpet and sees a beam of light streak on to a mountain in the near distance. He points it out to Avraham who looks up and sees the place from afar. Avraham sighs, frowning.

“You stay here with the donkey,” he says to Bildad and Aziraphale. “The boy and I will go up there. We will worship and we will return to you.”

Avraham takes the wood for the burnt offering and gives it to his son Yitzak to carry. He himself takes the firestone and the knife; and the two walk off together.

Before they’ve walked more than five paces, Yitzak says to his father Avraham, “Father!” And he answers, “Yes, my son.” And he says, “Here are the firestone and the wood; but where is the sheep for the burnt offering?”

Avraham looks back toward the two man-shaped beings with the donkey. He finds Aziraphale’s eyes as he replies, “It is God who will see to the sheep for this burnt offering, my son.” And the two of them walk on together.

Aziraphale and Bildad tie the donkey to a tree, and follow father and son. They blink themselves further up the mountain. They watch the two approach, careful to remain unseen.

“So the test is whether or not Avraham is willing to kill his kid, right? It’s about the intention, not the, um, execution?” Bildad cringes at the pun, his attention fixed on the two figures walking up the side of the mountain.

“Well…that is to say…the instructions were less than explicit” Aziraphale replies. “But, yes, one could argue, that it is the intention, the willingness, that is being tested.”

“Hmmngh” Bildad scoffs.

Between the humans and their watchers, a shaft of sunlight illuminates a spot in Avraham’s path. Avraham builds an altar there. He lays out the wood. Crying, he binds his son, Yitzak.

“Father, what are you doing?” Yitzak’s eyes are big with confusion as fear creeps in, but he does not resist his father’s hands.

“May God forgive me,” Avraham whispers as he lifts his son and lays him on the altar, on top of the wood.

With tear stains on his dusty face, Avraham picks up the knife to slay his son.

“Surely he’s passed the test!” Bildad hisses at his companion with urgency bordering on desperation, “Stop him, Angel!”

“He’ll need a substitute offering,” Aziraphale spits it out quickly and strides toward Avraham, hand outstretched “Avraham! Avraham!” He calls out.

“Here I am!” Avraham cries with relief.

With a wave of Bildad’s hand, a ram appears. As it wheels in confusion, its horns catch in a thicket. Its nostrils flare and its eyes widen with fear.

Bildad places a hand on the animal’s head. “You don’t deserve this,” he says, “I can’t save you, but I can make sure you don’t die afraid.” The animal’s breath settles. Bildad slinks away, hiding behind an outcropping of rock.

Below him Aziraphale is radiating a full body halo. He’s turned on all the theatrics.

“Do not raise your hand against the boy, or do anything to him. For now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your favored one, from Me.”

Avraham backs away from his son who stares in disbelief at the knife. They make eye contact, and Avraham knows he and Yitzak will never be the same. He looks down, away from his son, and resists the urge to curse God.

When Avraham looks up, his eye fall upon a ram, caught in the thicket by its horns. So Avraham goes and takes the ram and offers it up as a burnt offering in place of his son.

Inspired in part by this post about the significance of Crowley’s name.

[buckybarnesisjewish]

Bucky: “I’m lost in the sauce*”

*Rosh Hashanah honey fountain

[unganseylike]

just got extremely emotional and teary about my dog who died over a year ago. meanwhile my savta is in the active process of dying

[poetfromthevoid]

New year, same old shitty life.

[fred-the-dinosaur-draws]

this is neither my art nor useful tutorials. But boy if this isn't the place for another Rosh Hashanah dinosaur...

I made Gary (my gecko) a tiny Tallis and yarmulke for Rosh Hashanah and he wished u all happy new year

[nickbutnodick]

shout out to the jewish ppl! i got to sleep in today bc of you :)

[alaskan-wallflower]

(so sorry this is late) but i hope that anyone who sees this and observes yom kippur had a peaceful day and an easy fast (if you do fast, idk if everyone does, but regardless, i hope that you had a peaceful day)

[schizononagesimus]

where are all my yehudit posts ive seen TWO. I want to see my hot ancestor executing the most well thought out murder plot of the century tis the SEASON

[vaguelyhauntedcornfield]

Saying ur busy is so weird when ur unemployed…like im working on certificate courses and job apps and running errands/doing chores and i probably could do them another time and be free tonight…but ive got the motivation now so im busy sorry friends 😭

[jessicalprice]

why are all the Jews suddenly posting about cheesecake, you ask? because it’s Shavuot!

sorry, let me give you a quick guide to Jewish holidays

Rosh Hashanah: dip apples in honey, contemplate feeling guilty

Yom Kippur: feel guilty, don’t eat

Sukkot: build a treehouse, shake a lemon at God

Simchat Torah: dance with a Torah scroll

Hanukkah: resist tyranny, eat fried food, set things on fire

Tu B’shvat: hug trees, eat every type of fruit and nut you can acquire, do complicated wine math

Purim: put on a drunken play about a teenage beauty queen, cast shade at tyrants

Passover: don’t eat pastry

Maimuna: eat a ton of pastry

Lag B’omer: set things on fire, shoot arrows, learn about rabbis with laser eyes

Shavuot: eat cheese and stay up all night reading with your female friends

Tisha B’av: mourn, preferably AT people

Hope that clears up any confusion

[wordsmithic]

Ah yes, that's why my pomegranate post takes notes again 😂

Happy Nowruz!

Traditional style Hellenic ceramics from Evoia, by skyrianceramics on instagram

For our culture pomegranates symbolise prosperity, fertility, and good luck and they can be seen around more and more as decorations and charms, as the New Year approaches.

[grapehyasynth]

Wilmon + "Oh come on, Simme" 👀💜

"Oh, come on, Simme," Wille chuckles, jostling Simon's arm as they carry everyone's empty glasses into Simon's tiny kitchen. "Don't be a sore loser."

Maybe they've rushed this exes can be friends thing, although it's been a year, because it's the first part of what Wille has said that bothers him, has been bothering him since he noticed Wille doing it the last few weeks. "Why are you calling me that?"

Wille unloads the glasses onto the counter and frowns at him. "A sore loser? Sorry, I was teasing."

"No, why are you calling me Simme."

"Everyone calls you -- well, Ayub calls you that--"

"But you never have." Simon shrugs a little, his T-shirt suddenly feeling like it's laying weird across his shoulders.

Wille is quiet, and Simon can see that he's chewing at the inside of his lip. After a moment, Wille leans back against the counter, shoulders slumping forward a little. "I thought it could help to make a separation, kind of," he admits. "Between being friends now, and...before. I needed to find a way to--" He tilts his head, and winces like he's just barely caught himself from saying something. I needed to find a new way to love you, is what Simon imagines he nearly said.

"I always liked the way you said my whole name. I know it's the same number of syllables, and people probably think a nickname is more intimate, but it felt like you were--" Simon makes a gesture with his hands and blushes as he finishes, "Like you were cradling it."

Wille's eyes are darting between his, his gaze as intense as ever. It feels like a tractor beam tugging at the center of Simon's chest. "I love saying your name. It's one of my favorite things in the world."

Simon opens his mouth, breathless hope on his tongue, but Rosh appears in the doorway. "We're ready for the next game, come on."