What Seeds Will You Plant?
The sign read: “Courtyard Concerts—Today at 6:30!”
A few weeks ago, as I was walking down West 85th Street on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, this small wooden plaque caught my eye. I love this kind of New York City neighborhood stuff, so I returned at 6:30 for the concert. In what could only be called a “courtyard” in Manhattan, a violinist and a pianist were playing a Beethoven concerto—their beautiful music alone would have been enough to make me smile, but adding to the delight was the hula hoop swiveling around the violinist’s hips as she played.
The concerts, she explained to the growing crowd, had started during the pandemic—when many musicians, out-of-work and unable to play in traditional venues, offered these types of outdoor gatherings as a way to bring people together safely and to share their talents. The hula hoop? Also a product of the pandemic, when a friend of the violinist challenged her to learn to hula hoop while playing her instrument. With a lot of time on her hands, she successfully met the challenge. And so, even when the restrictions were lifted and these professional musicians were able to work again in concert halls and Broadway theatres, they continued these courtyard concerts as a way to bring unexpected joy to a neighborhood sidewalk on random afternoons.
Last week, I participated in an event with the Institute for Jewish Spirituality (IJS), celebrating five years of their daily online meditation and honoring Rabbi Marc Margolius (a BJ member!) for his leadership of the project. IJS had been offering a reasonably well-attended weekly sit before COVID—but when the pandemic began, they expanded to a daily sit, meeting a need for grounding, structure, and community felt by so many. Soon one hundred people were coming, then two hundred, then more, and more, and more. The pandemic restrictions eased, but the daily sit has endured; five years later, hundreds of people continue to gather for spiritual practice in a global community.
There are many other stories like this, of individual and communal practices that began during the pandemic and–having become something profound and meaningful–continue to this day. (BJ’s daily Zoom minyan is another wonderful example.) As I stood on 85th Street listening to the courtyard concert, it occurred to me that this phenomenon is a perfect expression of an idea found in Psalm 26, which is recited as part of the Shabbat liturgy:
.הַזֹּרְעִים בְּדִמְעָה בְּרִנָּה יִקְצֹֽרוּ הָלוֹךְ יֵלֵךְ וּבָכֹה, נֹשֵׂא מֶֽשֶׁךְ־הַזָּֽרַע בֹּֽא־יָבוֹא בְרִנָּה, נֹשֵׂא אֲלֻמֹּתָיו
Those who have sown in tears shall reap in joy. Those who go forth weeping, carrying bags of seeds, shall come home with shouts of joy, bearing their sheaves.
The concerts, the daily meditation, the Zoom minyan—all were seeds planted as we cried, as the world endured so much suffering during COVID. And all bore such unexpected fruit, which has been reaped in joy—and which continues to nourish and delight in ways that could not have been anticipated during that time of tears.
And so I wonder: What are the seeds we are planting now, or that we could be planting now, through our tears of heartbreak as we wait for the hostages to come home, as we see young lives cut short by violence born of hate, as we watch our democracy threatened. Yes, there is much to cry about—but we have a choice: Will we allow our tears to simply fall, or will we plant seeds that they can water? Seeds that will one day blossom into something beautiful. Seeds whose blessings we can’t yet imagine. Seeds whose sheaves we will one day carry, shouting with joy.
What seeds will you plant right now?
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Shuli Passow