In Judaism, we’re not only juggling duties; we’re juggling torches of fire

“One who did not see the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah never saw true simchah in his life.” (Succah 51a)

During the time of the Beis Hamikdash, every night of Succos was celebrated with a Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. The singing, music, and dancing would go on until  daybreak, when a procession would make its way to the Shiloach spring to “draw water with joy.”

There was one aspect of the celebration that the Mishnah and Gemara make special mention of: the torch-juggling sages.

Juggling seems like a fun, charming spectacle, but doesn’t seem appropriate as a highlight of such a spiritual celebration. And to be performed by the gedolei hador? Wasn’t this beneath the dignity of the occasion and the sages themselves? (Rabbi YY Jacobson, TheYeshiva.net)

My succah is one of my favorite parts of my house. Our apartment building is terraced, with the lower levels built into the mountainside. My succah patio is wedged between the back wall of my house and the wall of the mountain, with a year-round pergola on top. It’s secluded and shady, a slice of space separated from the rest of the world. When we sit there as a family, there’s a palpable sense of serenity; it’s easy to imagine the cushioning from the outside world that the Ananei Hakavod provided our ancestors long ago.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe presented an exquisite explanation. Juggling, the Rebbe suggested, captures in a very physical and tangible way the meaning of life — and the path toward genuine joy.

Often, we hear people lament: “I’ve got too many balls in the air!” Life in our time is rushed, stressful, busy. Our chaotic world has become a juggling act, both at work and at home.

Yet in Judaism, we take this one step deeper. We’re not only juggling duties; we’re juggling torches of fire. We each carry a blazing torch within ourselves; our soul is afire with intense passion, light, and the incredible possibility to cast light and warmth on the world around us.

In life, you must juggle, toss up your “torch,” as high as you can. Allow your flaming soul to lift itself up and detach from all the pressures, stresses, burdens, and anxiety of your earthly existence.

In modern slang, they call it “downtime.” In Judaism, we call it “uptime.” We all deserve a few moments of intimacy with ourselves, with our G-d, with our truth.

Yet our torch shouldn’t stay up there forever. Descend it must, returning back to reality, to the daily grind. We cannot live in heaven; we must bring it down to earth.

The juggler is the person who has that unique ability to continuously operate on two levels, living simultaneously in two states of consciousness. One torch goes up, while the other comes down.

This year, though, the outside world threatened to intrude on our sanctuary. An upstairs neighbor was renovating, expanding their home by adding another room, creating the space by carving into the mountainside. For months, the area above and behind our succah patio was filled with tractors and jackhammers, the noise, dust and occasional rock filling the space below.

While I was happy for my neighbor to have this opportunity to expand, I was very apprehensive as the days ticked by and Tishrei was approaching.

Would our patio be intact for Succos? Would it be clean? Would the neighbors be able to stop construction for the week-plus, while we sat below?

My thoughts kept circling as I chopped apples and cleaned chickens, froze cookie dough and soups. As Rosh Hashanah passed and Yom Kippur approached, I couldn’t relax. I’d be in middle of davening, thinking high lofty thoughts, and then Bam! — the worry of the succah would intrude. (Seriously? Does this happen to anyone else?)

The nagging worry was like the proverbial succah bee — buzzing around me without any break. There were barely any succah-building days this year… how would we manage to pull it off… should we build elsewhere… borrow a succah?

I tried to throw off these concerns, cast them to higher spheres, but then would come the ever-present pounding and pummeling of the tractors above my head, and all the anxiety would come crashing down again.

To be a Jew means you have the ability to operate simultaneously in both spheres. As Yaakov Avinu’s dream suggests, a Jew is a ladder standing on the earth, while the top reaches the Heavens. Our souls are reaching higher for the truth, yet they must stay grounded to infuse this world with holiness.  If we want to live a life of holiness, we must master the art of juggling.

If I remain down here all the time, I get too entangled in the pressures of life, becoming burdened and depleted. If I stay up there all the time, I am abandoning my mission and my duties to man and to G-d.

It was the great sages who taught us this skill of juggling. There are people who enjoy running away to eternity — they’d love to toss themselves up, and never return. They abandon duty, service, family, in the name of constant spirituality. Conversely, there are others who don’t know how to get out of the rat race, out of their entanglement with the stresses of life. But it’s the great soul who masters the art of juggling: Fly high, but always remember your responsibility toward Hashem and man.

But we merited a miracle. Erev Succos arrived and lichtbentshen was approaching. I walked slowly inside the succah, the soft white sheets billowing a bit in the breeze. The sechach was rustling, the decorations gleaming, and even the floor tiles were shining after repeated washings to remove all the construction debris. It had been a madhouse of a marathon to get it all done, but the deep contentment that enveloped me made it all worth it.

I walked to the small table that held my Succos “candelabra” — a glass box with tea lights all ready for lighting. I loved this small box as much as I loved my regular weekly silver. It’s been witness to years of tefillos, tears of bakashos and joy from Succos to Succos.

I waved my hands over the small flames, whispered the brachah and the yehi ratzon. Standing there, my face shielded, I felt my heart open in gratitude, my thoughts lifting toward the darkening sky above. I wanted to pour out my emotions, to thank Hashem for His tovos, for giving us another Yom Tov to spend with Him, and allowing us to do so in our own special succah.

A shriek rent the air, rudely yanking me out of the clouds of my thoughts. I whirled away from the flames and dashed to Shloime, who was screeching, as he hopped from one foot to the other. A wayward screw had pierced the sole of his Shabbos shoes, and while he hadn’t been badly hurt, it was clearly painful.

I felt so jarred, jerked so rapidly out of my thoughts I ruefully let go of my lofty bakashos and bid them a safe journey as I let them soar above me. Then I knelt and pulled Shloime up to cuddle him in my lap. My life often feels like it’s flying, but I was determined I’d star in this juggling act.

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 813)