21

 

Every squirrel, ant, and bee knows that the larder must be stocked before winter comes. And it is not just these creatures who cope with the intrinsic difficulties of nature but also their literary brethren. I have already mentioned the love for home felt by the protagonists of The Wind in the Willows, and now I will add a description of a visit by Rat and Mole to the home of their friend and protector, Mr. Badger: a snowstorm rages outside but in the large kitchen a fire burns in the hearth, and stored in the larders are baskets of eggs and ham and dried herbs and piles of apples, turnips, potatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey.

A winter storeroom is also described in Willa Cather’s My Ántonia, whose plot takes place in frozen Nebraska at the beginning of the twentieth century: the cellar of a farming family in which there are summer fruits and casks of all kinds of preserves and pickles. My Ántonia, by the way, is a wonderful novel, and I recommend it to anyone looking for a good book to read.

And above all, here is the end of Bialik’s “Summer Is Dying”:

Soon a day of cloud and rain

Taps softly on the windowpane.

Did you mend your shoes!

Patch your mantle for this day?

Go forth, stock up on potatoes.

These words are beautifully poetic and cause the heart to sigh, but where I live the English winter of Kenneth Grahame does not exist, nor the Ukrainian winter of Bialik or the North American winter of Willa Cather. Apart from a few sociable insects, and perhaps a mole rat in hidden cellars, no one hoards food here in anticipation of winter. Our existential worries are directed at our reservoirs of water, namely the Sea of Galilee, and we hear endless reports and forecasts on its famous water levels, like certain people who are never satisfied and can never get enough. What height is it? Is it going up or down? Has enough water accumulated in the Sea of Galilee? Can I water my citrus trees this summer?

I remember thinking this when I read The Gardener’s Year by the Czech writer Karel Capek. In it, Capek describes his work in his ornamental garden month after month, for an entire year. I felt envy while reading—this time not writer’s envy but gardener’s—because Capek hardly refers to the subject of water and irrigation. There is a nice description of watering with a hose, but there is no mention of conserving water, because in the Czech Republic there is precipitation of all sorts throughout the year, and in the Middle East we harbor a traditional and constant anxiety that there will be a drought, even in the modern era of drip irrigation systems, purification plants, and desalination facilities. Not all of us, to my great shame and sorrow, because it is always possible to see some delinquent washing his car or hosing down his yard and to be annoyed at the waste of good water as it flows to the ground, but usually the citizens of Israel are mindful of the scarcity of water, and even the secular types among us pray for rain.

Regrettably, the official prayer for rain does not always work. This fact is well known, and the reason for it is twofold. First, our religious leaders are not good enough, and God no longer talks and listens to them the way he used to. Second, the writers of our rain prayers are not farmers but rabbis, and there are considerations involved that are off topic and might even sound strange. To begin with, look at the timing of this prayer: it is said on the last day of Sukkoth, the Feast of the Tabernacles, because the branches that cover the traditional sukkah do not really form roofs and the Jewish people want to sit in their sukkahs without worrying about getting wet in the rain. In other words, the mitzvah of sitting in the sukkah takes precedence over the needs of nature and agriculture. It is enough that God understands that those praying to Him for rain are not serious people, that they are more worried about their own personal comfort rather than the real needs of the world and the different creatures within it.

The actual content of the prayer for rain is also problematic. It is an unprofessional brief that does not define well the needs of its clients. This means it does not clarify to God exactly which rain to bring down, where and when and how much. This phenomenon is particularly evident in the story of the most celebrated rain man, Honi the Circle Drawer.

At the beginning of the story a severe drought is depicted: “Once it happened that the greater part of the month of Adar [winter’s end] had gone and yet no rain had fallen. The people sent a message to Honi the Circle Drawer, Pray that rain may fall.”

Honi had quite a reputation in that sphere, and indeed displayed self-confidence in his powers. He even responded to those who approached him with a boastful answer: “Go and bring in the Pesach ovens, so that they will not dissolve in the rain.” Pesach ovens were made of clay and perhaps mud, placed in the yards for use at Pesach. The holiday was approaching, and Honi, sure of his success, warned those who approached him that the rain he was about to bring down might damage their ovens.

He prayed and no rain fell. What did he do? He thereupon drew a circle in the ground and stood within it and exclaimed before God: Master of the Universe! Your children have turned to me because they see that I am as a member of your household. I swear by your great name, that I will not move from here until you have mercy upon your children. Rain began to drip (weak rain fell, not more than a drizzle).

And his disciples said to him: We believe that this rain came down merely to release you from your oath. Thereupon he exclaimed: It is not for this that I have prayed, but for rain to fill cisterns, ditches and caves (heavy rains that will fill all sorts of reservoirs).

The rain then began to come down with great force. Every drop being as big as the opening of a barrel. His disciples then said to him: Master, we believe that the rain came down to destroy the world. Thereupon he exclaimed before [God]. It is not for this that I have prayed, but for rain of benevolence, blessing and bounty. Then rain fell normally until the Israelites in Jerusalem were compelled to go up [for shelter to the Temple Mount] because of the rain [that did not stop and flooded the lower areas].

[His disciples then said to him] Master, in the same way as you have prayed for the rain to fall, pray for the rain to cease.

And Honi prayed again, and “immediately the wind began to blow and the clouds were dispersed and the sun shone.” There is certainly arrogance in Honi the Circle Drawer’s behavior, and also something childish and self-indulgent. It is somewhat strange to see God, a usually serious and purposeful character who is not always the fountain of patience, cooperating with this behavior. But the important point is that the prayer makes clear to God precisely what is wanted by the supplicants. In the case of a prayer for rain, do not request “mercy upon thy children,” a too-general formulation, and do not pray for rain “to fill cisterns, ditches and caves,” which indicates lack of thought and carelessness concerning possible consequences, nor should one pray for “rain of benevolence, blessing and bounty,” which turns into rain of fury and destruction when the beginning and end are not specified. You must specify the kind of rain you want, its duration and location, in a manner that God can understand.

Although my connections to God are not as good as Honi’s, I sometimes pray for rain as well. I admit that the wording of my prayers is not designed for the needs of the public at large or according to principles of faith. They are worded according to my own needs and those of my garden, but they are very clear and precise. And so, although better Jews than I sit in their sukkahs, I ask for a few hefty portions of rain before the Sukkoth holiday and also on the holiday itself, to persuade the wild grass to sprout before I sow my flowers. And then I add another request, that after the rain there will be a week of sunshine in which I can till them, uproot and exterminate them. And then I ask for another decent amount of rain, so that I can sow my seeds in well-watered soil, an expression that God is familiar with, understands, and remembers from the Bible.

From this time onward I ask for blessed rain devoid of long intervals, so that my flowers will neither blossom too early nor bloom all at once, and in the spring I ask for two more lots of rain: one around Pesach and the other two to three weeks after that so that flowering will continue, giving new seeds the possibility of developing in comfort and suitably swelling up before finally ripening.

I know my prayers for rain are selfish and rather annoying, but on the other hand—is there anything God cannot do? Worshippers with more difficult and egocentric requests have come and gone. Aside from that, it’s a fact that there are years in which God responds favorably to my prayers, and if He dawdles, I do not hesitate in turning to Zeus and Baal, because I am in favor of competition. When my prayers are answered, it is not only my garden and I who benefit, but other gardens and gardeners, and the forest and the field, their creatures and plants, and the entire natural world—and if, here and there, Jews get soaked while sitting in their sukkahs, it is no great calamity. The Jewish people have survived much worse.