October 7th Reflections — Two Years On
As I sit here eating my final meal in this year’s sukkah — leftover mac and cheese, humble and comforting — I’m struck by the strange ordinary rhythm of the day. Sheets changed, mattress turned, chocolate chip cookies baked, laundry started, and food prepped for later. And then, out to the bees.
For the past few weeks, I’ve had to delegate those visits, domestic demands being louder than the hum of the hives. It’s been a rough beekeeping summer. Since April, we’ve lost half our colonies — wax moths, absconding queens, mites, or some unhappy mix of all three. At Machanaim, I found one of the last stragglers today — a queenless hive, the final few bees still stubbornly clinging to order in a crumbling world. I combined them with a neighboring hive. Not because I’m hopeful — I’m not — but because it’s better than giving up. Better than closing the lid and letting destruction take over. Sometimes the “least bad” choice is the best one we get.
Kfar Hananiya, on the other hand, was a revelation. Three jumbo hives, all that remain after a long summer of fighting off Asian hornets. Week after week, I dreaded what I’d find. But now, with the fall chill setting in — nights dipping below 20°C — the hornets are gone. The bees were out today in full force, mellow and content, gathering pollen in the cool light. For the first time in a while, I breathed easier. A small reprieve. A moment of relief.
And today, the hostages began to come home.
It feels connected somehow — this easing of pressure, this cautious inhale. The hornets retreating, the bees rebuilding, the weather turning, the Torah scroll rewound to the beginning. We’ll start again, as we do every year. The question is: will we read it differently this time? Will we apply the lessons of what’s been revealed, or do we simply trace the same letters, the same patterns, unchanged?
Two years ago tomorrow, I walked into Beit Knesset during the mid-morning break of Simchat Torah. I remember bringing a slice of cake to an older woman who couldn’t manage the stairs. Then the murmurs began — pagers, phones, men running out — and the ordinary cracked open into the unimaginable. The nightmare began.
Two years later, we’re still turning pages, still trying to make sense of a story we didn’t write but are forced to live in. The book hasn’t changed — but have we? Have enough of us learned to be gentler, wiser, more steadfast — like those bees who, against all odds, keep rebuilding their hives?
Maybe that’s the question this Simchat Torah asks us: not whether we can start again, but whether we can start better.
