This past weekend was Passover. For the first time, probably since I was a very little girl, I did not celebrate it in the ‘usual way’. I did not gather with extended family to read the Haggadah my mother wrote. I did not make more food than any normal human could possibly eat. I did not prepare the traditional Passover plate for the seder. Instead, I told an extremely abridged version of the Passover story to my grandchildren, ages 3 and 5, lit a candle and said the blessing, made chicken soup with matzo balls for dinner and hid the afikomen for Mali and Jujee to find. Yes, they got presents. Yes, they ate LOTS of matzo (with apple butter and almond butter. Really?) and Yes, it was just perfect.

And…earlier in the day I did something I had never done on Passover before. I went ‘Forest Bathing’. My friend Jessie Brown led a group of us in this experience. We trekked to an unusually forested spot in Phoenix, by a pond with turtles, tadpoles and frogs. She invited us to spend time really seeing, hearing and touching what was there. Each of us went our separate ways to do this. Even in the desert I could see signs of spring. New buds on the trees, tiny yellow flowers, green coming through sandy desert crevices. I heard birds of all kinds and took my shoes off to feel the hard, dry desert ground.

And then, I saw it. A rattler, as long as a couch and as thick as my arm, stretched out only 10 feet from me, drinking at the pond. I was transfixed and, surprisingly, without fear. Only minutes before I had stood in that exact spot watching the tadpoles swim around underwater sticks and branches, unaware there was a monster of a creature lurking nearby. It was elegant, magnificent and so a part of the landscape that I did not question its right to be there drinking the murky water at this desert oasis.

I walked back, barefooted, to our spot under a tree where a tea ceremony was about to begin. I walked feeling somewhat transformed by this encounter, as if I had just witnessed magic. The tea ceremony began with an offering of tea to the land. I offered to hold the cup and speak the words. I honored the land for the wild gifts it brought us today and I poured the tea onto the parched ground as if it were a thirsty stranger. 

Then it hit me…this is my Passover celebration. This is the cup for the prophet, Elijah, who comes to homes on Passover to partake of drink and sustenance. This is the cup, that when filled, is brought to the door that has been opened to express welcome to anyone who wants to share our seder meal, for anyone in need of food, drink or company. But this Passover, Elijah is the land, the new green shoots, the birds, the frogs and the snake, each needing something from me, from us, in order to survive and thrive. I cannot pass over the necessity for every living being to exist harmoniously in this eco-system. I cannot pass over the fact that, as Jonathan shared, we need this place more than this place needs us. Maybe that is not totally accurate but we cannot pass over the effects our way of life has had on this and places like this. The truth is that this little oasis is surrounded by highway noise, air traffic and new development. Maybe it is time for the Passover traditions I knew my whole life to transform to address the times in which we are living.

My mother always added something new at the end of each seder. Usually it was her commentary on the state of the world, on how we, as Jews, have an obligation to stand on the side of justice and to have hope, even when hope seemed so far away. And, although my mother who would be turning 100 this month if she were still with us, had little connection to or understanding of the natural world. I felt her with me there in the desert forest, with the rattlesnake nearby and the parched earth soaking up the tea from the ceremonial cup. As Jonathan shared later with us in a text, the snake represents rebirth, resurrection, initiation and wisdom. In that moment, I wondered whether or not my mother was that snake, leading me to a new way of celebrating another holiday of miracles.