Oct 7, 2024

For you, for us, for the promise of peace and of lighter hearts and better days.

When we are little, we learn to look up at the stars and process just how tiny we are relative to the entire known universe. Each of us are just microscopic blips on the head of some proverbial microscopic pin that could drop behind the cushion of some microscopic cosmic couch never to be thought of again.

Who are we, that our problems should matter so much? We are nothing, we were told, any more than a blade of grass or a grain of sand in the ocean.

The older I get, I am sure I learned it all backwards.

Each one of us is an entire universe.

Each one of us contains dreams, fears, anger, frustration, joy. The hope and hurt for people we love. The grief for people we’ve lost. Each of these things becomes the matter that makes up the universes swirling within us.

We contain multitudes.

Today I’m holding space for every person who has had their own universe impacted on October 7, 2023, and in the 366 days since.

For people in Israel. In Gaza. In Lebanon. In kibbutzim, in shelters, in the tents of refugee camps, in overtaxed hospitals, in bombed-out buildings, on fields where they still see the dead bodies of their friends.

I’m thinking of every person who has been displaced. Every person who fears for their family. Every person who has lost someone they love. Every person who has seen someone they love walk out the door one day, only to come home some other time, some other month, totally broken.

I’m thinking of people in the streets of New York City, and on the quads of college campuses. People in temples, in mosques, in therapy sessions and community support groups. People in airports wondering if their last names will trigger a second security screening. People reluctantly removing hijabs or tucking necklaces bearing six-pointed stars carefully beneath a crew neck.

I’m thinking of every person whose sense of safety and security has been shattered by one, two, three degrees of connection.

I’m thinking of people strolling past walls and under archways defaced with ugly, hateful graffiti that wasn’t there one year ago. It makes them walk just a little faster.

At the same time, I’m thinking of those doing the hard work of healing and repairing. Those who are picking up pieces, advocating for nuanced understanding, negotiating to resolve seemingly irresolvable conflicts, all while keeping the kerosene away from the fire.

I’m thinking of those who manage to hold onto the beautiful faith that decency and humanity will prevail because it must.

They are the source of my faith.

For them, for you, for us, for the promise of peace and lighter hearts and better days — I will light a white candle tonight.

---