Sukkot and our cosmic spiral through the stars

And now it’s almost Sukkot. The festival where we sit beneath fragile roofs, exposed to the elements, – davka praying for the first rains to fall — staring up through palm fronds at the stars and thinking we somehow understand what it means to live with uncertainty.

We build these sukkahs as if the act itself—laying down branches, leaving gaps for the sky—could remind us that everything is temporary, that life is precious and delicate. We tell ourselves we get it. That we know nothing is permanent.

But last year, as Sukkot began, I didn’t fully understand. Not really.

My boys and I sat with friends in Nachlaot , laughing as we ate sushi under the fronds. We shook the Lulav and Etrog — East, South, West and North… up and down — We leaned into the joy of the moment, savoring the simplicity (and the spicy tuna roll and whisky), feeling connected to each other and the world around us. We had no idea that, in just two days, that entire world would be shattered.

October 7th came. The invasion, the terror, the war. Hostages dragged into tunnels, homes reduced to ash, families torn apart. Our sense of safety, of normalcy, of permanence—everything disappeared in a single, devastating moment. And now, a year later, we’re here again. And I hear the sound of power tools and hammers fill the air.

We’re still building.

This time, though, we know. We feel the fragility in every breath, in every step we take. Life is temporary. The ground beneath us is shaky, not solid. We build our sukkahs again, but now we understand the truth—that nothing is guaranteed, that everything we love is more fragile than we ever realized.

And yet, we build.

We build and we build.

We will sit beneath the rustling palm fronds, looking up through the spaces, knowing that the stars are there even if we can’t always see them. We build because that’s who we are. Even now, with hostages held in terror tunnels, with families displaced from the north and south, with our hearts heavy with loss, we continue. We keep moving forward, not out of denial, but out of defiance. Out of hope.

Sukkot reminds us not only of fragility but of resilience. We build these flimsy structures year after year, not because we’re naïve, but because we believe in something bigger. We believe in the power to continue, even when the weight of the world presses down on us. We move through the Jewish year in spirals, always coming back to the same moments, but never the same as before. Each time, we carry more grief, but also more understanding. We carry the memory of loss, but also the hope that comes with it.

We look up through the spaces towards the sky, seeking the light. Because even when the night is dark, even when the uncertainty feels unbearable, we keep building. We keep seeking. We keep moving forward on that cosmic spiral. Moon after moon. Year after year. We were, we are, and we will be… here.