Dot to dot. . .

The soup is bubbling on the stove, and my kitchen is redolent with onion and dill.
The old stainless steel vessel, oversized for a crowd, now holding just enough for a few, but still filled to the brim with memories.

Passover is almost here, and as we ready to retell the ancient story, the pot tells a story of its own, and the scent in my kitchen captures the depth of its meaning.

Outside, the early morning sky turns from dawn’s faint tint of rose to soft gray then pale blue.

The birds chirp, there is a glimpse of brilliant purple. The blossoms on our jacaranda tree have bloomed almost magically over night.

And even as the world often seems dark, and we ache over these troubled times, a new day dawns, nature’s glory renewed, and the soup simmers.

So it is that the holiday reminds of the cycling of the year, that winter’s chill will be followed by spring’s warmth, that even as the Israelites were enslaved, they would be freed. Even as they swallowed the bitter maror, even as they tasted the salt of their tears, the sea would part, the manna would fall, the Promised Land would beckon.

And so it is that we are obligated to retell the story, year, after year, sips of wine and crumbles of matzah on the table, bites of bitter herbs, dabs of sweet charoset, reenacting the telling as if we too were slaves yearning to be free.

And to remember.

And so as I ready for the holiday, the jumble of memories of Passover past bubble up, just as that soup on the stove.

The seemingly endless dark wood table with my grandpa at its head, chanting in the ancient Hebrew, as my cousins made mischief underneath. My father, reading proudly from the mostly English Union Haggadah, so pleased to be able to observe the holiday freely in his fully American Jewish home, with his wife and children around him.

And the rare occasions when my aunts and uncles from my mother’s side of the family joined us, and the solemn ritual devolved into raucous singing in Ladino, the ancient Spanish they had spoken at home, Chad Gadya never the same again.

And then, those seders in my own home, grandparents and children around the table, making room for friends who had become family, the bottomless soup pot with always enough for one more, and the often chaotic reenacting of the ancient ritual.

And so, the memories pull me back even as they push me forward, they remind that we are mere dots on the human timeline, but those dots connect us to all those who came before and to all those who will come after.

And so, this year, our kids and grands are scattered to seder tables near and far, and we will mark the holiday with dear friends closer to home, but the story will be told, pinkies dipped in wine, parsley in salt water, Hillel sandwiches eaten.

And those dots on the timeline will stretch ever ahead, and I remain grateful to be connected to something larger than myself, to those millions of dots that came before, and to those that will come after.

And spring will come, the soup will bubble, and the story will go on.

May it be so.