We have reached the winter solstice, the day with the shortest amount of daylight. There is something magical about this day, as the world cloaks itself in darkness before beginning to regain more light in the coming days. We also reach the 9th of Tevet in the Hebrew calendar. The warm glow of the Hanukkah candles has faded, and we slip into hibernation, waiting for the first signs of spring that come in Shevat. Tonight, the Ya’ar lies silent as dusk falls. No sounds of children playing or teachers cajoling. Staring up at the half moon hanging in the dusky sky, it’s easy to believe for a minute that the whole world is sleeping. Waiting.
During this time of year, when the days get shorter and the sun sets earlier, people often ask me at the start of Shorashim Limmud, “Are you outside today?” as if to say, “Really? Learning outside in the winter?!” And each week I reply with an enthusiastic, “Yes!”
We continue to explore the Ya’ar in every season, and winter is one of the most beautiful times to soak in the lessons that the earth is teaching us. Over the last two winters, I have gained a new appreciation for the birds I can easily spot in the leafless trees, the shimmering moon that shines brighter in the cold winter air, and the satisfying warmth of a fire built by your own two hands on a cold night.
I was excited to see what wintery secrets we would uncover as I headed into the Ya’ar with our K-2 group last Thursday. It is the eighth night of Hanukkah, and before we enjoy latkes and candles and singing, we are spending an hour in our frosty and beautiful Ya’ar. The sun has set, our path twinkles with string lights, and the light of our ner tamid, our ever-burning light, guides us on our way.
Flashlight beams bob among the trees as students search for
items on their melachot scavenger hunt, including “something that looks like fire” and “something you could use to write.” Their search sparks questions like “What counts as part of creation?” and “What does it mean for something to be sleeping?” We also spend time gathering leaves, sticks, and moss to construct a mishkan (shelter) for our ner tamid. The mishkan guards the candle from the wind, but it also has to be carefully configured so that the flame and its brushy container never touch.
These are images that remain seared into my memory from that night of learning: a flickering candle nestled in the dark woods, little fingers keeping warm and keeping busy to make a shelter, and eyes combing the treetops and forest floor for special treasures. Something about it is pure magic. Maybe because these are moments that can only be experienced in the Ya’ar and cannot be replicated in a building or indoor classroom. In these moments, I believe in the magic that the darkness offers us in the winter months. I hope you will someday come to see it too!
