Elul Is the Time to Begin Again: A Season for Healing and Silence

The Midrash teaches that before the twenty-two holy letters were used for Creation, they remained hidden for two thousand years, delighting the Holy One, blessed be He. From that hidden delight, the world itself emerged. When we reflect on this idea, it becomes clear that every beginning starts as something private before it is revealed to the world. Everything in creation longs to fulfill its purpose and transform into something greater. Coal becomes flame, a seed becomes fruit, water becomes life, and life becomes Torah. Creation is a constant cycle of birth, growth, and renewal, and at its core lies joy.

When the letters appeared before the Creator, each requested the honor of becoming the letter through which the world would be created. One by one they presented their merits, approaching in reverse order — from what would later be revealed as the end back toward the beginning. The treasures of Torah were distributed according to their significance, but the mystery of Bereishit remained concealed.

When the letter Bet proudly declared that blessing would emerge through her, the humble Aleph remained outside. The King of Kings asked why she had not joined the others. Aleph replied that the task had already been completed and that a worthy heir to the crown had already been chosen. What more was there for her to add? Yet it was Aleph, the letter of God, that would ultimately stand at the head of them all.

Everything begins with Aleph, and everything ultimately returns to it. Creation itself gives rise to humanity, and the Infinite Light longs to reveal its Oneness within the world. "I am my Beloved's, and my Beloved is mine." Every chapter of life tells this story of return.

It All Began in Elul

There is no month more suited to beginning again than Elul. It is a season of renewal, a time when a person can feel as though they are being created anew. If I could turn the sands of the hourglass back just two weeks, I would discover that there could not have been a more fitting time for the lesson I was about to learn.

The diagnosis was clear: bleeding polyps on my vocal cords.

“Surgery may be necessary,” the doctor explained gently, “but before we consider that, there is a chance for a miracle. If you can maintain complete vocal silence for three weeks, we may be able to avoid it.”

Through Dr. Shoffel Chavakuk, a specialist in vocal cords, the Creator delivered a message I could no longer ignore. There was no alternative. I had to stop — not slow down, not cut back, but stop completely.

Learning the Language of Silence

The time had come to heal, and with healing came silence. Our sages teach, “I have found nothing better for the body than silence,” and suddenly those words were no longer an abstract teaching. They had become my reality. It was time to stop speaking and start listening.

And yet, the news struck me with tremendous force. Physically and emotionally, I felt unable to move. Everything inside me became tangled together, and for the first time in my life I truly understood what people mean when they say that the heavens have fallen upon them.

Looking back, I should not have been surprised. The warning signs had been everywhere. For more than a year I had been traveling from one gathering to another, delivering lectures while my vocal cords were already under strain. The singing voice that audiences longed to hear — and that I longed even more to share, had gradually faded into silence.

Still, accepting it felt impossible.

Me? Not speaking?

The realization did not arrive all at once. It rose slowly, gathering strength until it settled heavily in my chest. Then came the tears.

The Sweetness of Surrender

They were not tears of panic or despair, but what I have always called “sweet tears” — the tears that emerge when resistance finally gives way to surrender. They reminded me of a newborn’s first cry after nine months of waiting, a cry that marks both an ending and a beginning.

In those tears, I felt like a daughter returning home to her Father. I found myself saying silently, “I am Yours, Father. Completely in Your hands. Do with me whatever is right and good. All I need is You. I am coming home.”

The time had come to appoint “judges and officers at your gates” — not only in the broader sense, but specifically at the gate of the mouth. As Rabbi Ofer Gisin beautifully explains from the verse in Isaiah: “Go, My people, enter your chambers and shut your doors behind you. Hide yourself for a brief moment until the indignation passes.”

Sometimes the holiest thing a person can do is close the door of speech and open the door of the soul.

A Gift Hidden Inside the Silence

As the days passed, a new realization slowly emerged. Every day of silence was actually a gift. It was an opportunity to observe, to breathe the world in differently, and to experience life without the constant need to respond.

For the first time in years, I found myself occupied simply with being. I listened to what was never spoken aloud. And believe me, there are countless words hidden inside silence.

Then, during the evening prayer of Rosh Chodesh Elul 5783, a profound realization descended upon me. I was learning who I was all over again. Elul, of all times, had become a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to return to myself.

I was rediscovering my voice through silence. I was reconnecting with that place that existed before a single sound, before a single word, before speech itself became language.

Returning to My Original Self

I understood that before returning to the stage and to my fast-paced life of teaching and inspiring others, it was my turn to grow.

It was my turn, Orah Yiskah bat Dinah, to become once again a hidden partner in Bereishit.

To return to the earliest version of myself. To become a guest in God's wondrous world and, at the same time, a host to an entirely different kind of prayer — one that would eventually blossom into the sweetest word of all: Redemption.

The realization moved me deeply. More deeply than I can describe.

The Beauty of New Beginnings

One morning I opened my eyes and said thank You.

Another morning, another blessing, another act of creation.

I stepped outside and immediately felt it in the air. It was that unique season between endings and beginnings. Summer was drawing to a close, and everyone seemed to be preparing for something new.

The buses returning from Tzfat were emptier. The crowds at butcher shops and gas stations were gradually being replaced by children carrying schoolbags, pencil cases, and freshly wrapped notebooks. Memories of vacation were already beginning to fade as students prepared for another year in yeshivot, seminaries, and schools across the country.

There is something irresistible about a new beginning. Something inviting. Something eternal.

It causes us to forget that we have stood at this exact threshold before.

And yet every year feels different. Every year feels new.

That is one of faith’s greatest gifts.

The Resurrection Called Teshuvah

Rabbi Yonatan Eybeschutz writes in Ya’arot Devash regarding the blessing, “Faithful are You to revive the dead,” that accepting the repentance of a sinner is itself a form of resurrection. After all, our sages teach that the wicked are called dead even during their lifetime.

The Creator is the One Who revives the dead — not only physically, but spiritually as well. He remembers us even when we forget ourselves. He waits patiently for us to remember who we are and to begin again.

This memory lives within the Jewish people. For thousands of years we have carried the desire to leave behind failure, to believe again, and to begin again, regardless of where life has found us.

A child entering first grade, a teenager leaving for yeshivah, a young woman beginning seminary, or a girl celebrating her bat mitzvah, each experiences renewal in their own way.

From childhood through adulthood, every soul longs for a fresh beginning.

Returning to the Starting Line

And so I sit on a bench near my home, practicing silence. Observing differently, renewing myself, and beginning again.

Grateful that in my own way I have once again become part of the renewal of Creation.

Sometimes we must return to the starting line in order to continue the journey. Sometimes we must pause in order to move forward. Sometimes we must lose our voice in order to discover it.

For from us love emerges, and to us it returns.

Love itself is the purpose of the journey back.

Back to the beginning.