I grew up in Toronto and am accustomed to a great deal of snow. Although I have been stranded in snowstorms, stuck in a snow bank, and almost frozen to death, I love snow and that special sense of peace when I wake up and look outside and see the world covered in white. I never understood Ovid's lament when freezing in Constanta:
"One drift succeeds another here.
The north wind hardens it, making it eternal;
It spreads in drifts through all the bitter year."
As far as I was concerned, hardened drifts of snow meant I could toboggan. I never had to shovel the snow because we lived in an apartment building. Even when I formed
Weinberg's Snow Removal Service, &
Warriors, I did not resent the soft, refreshing and beautiful snow.
That is, until the last storm here in New York. Trees all over the city fell knocking done wires, cutting off our Internet service, phones, and electricity. The roads all over the city are full of potholes. Our house took a beating. Our car is kvetching about the roads and is suffering all sorts of aches and pains.
You win, Ovid! What was once a source of joy and play has been transformed into a hated enemy. I wonder if I will ever regain that childish sense of joy, or the appreciation of the particular peace of watching the snow begin to fall.
Strange musings when we just entered the period of transformation in the Jewish calendar. We have begun to clean our homes in preparation for Pesach. We will change from bread to Matzah. We will experience the transformation from slavery to freedom, from exile to redemption, and from the bitter to the sweet. The transformations are never permanent; hence we begin again each year before Pesach.
Perhaps the freedom of Pesach is a celebration of transformations. We find freedom in our ability to change and transform our perceptions of the world. We ourselves are transformed into better people when we rejoice over our opportunities to change. Pesach sets the mode for transformation during the entire year, allowing us to be open to change and grow.
The specific transformations are not permanent. The ability to transform is the constant of a healthy, functioning human being. The old can be transformed into the young. So, rather than hold on to my new hatred of snow, I'll reject Ovid's "eternal drifts," and will look forward to the next transformation when I will appreciate the snow's beauty and, as a child, the opportunities to toboggan. Care to join me?
Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Simcha L. Weinberg
President
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