I remember how confused I was when I first learned that the Jewish New Year does not mark the beginning of a new Torah cycle.

In fact, the preparation for the new year, and the ending of the old, seem to blend in to each other, like a watercolor painting where you can’t see the edges of objects clearly, or like concentric circles that overlap in so many places.

All the talk of transformation starts with Elul, a whole lunar month before Rosh Hashanah. Then comes Yom Kippur, and suddenly (yes, that’s how it feels) we’re in the week of Sukkot. We’re overwhelmed by what feels like a barrage of holidays.

It’s not until the end of Sukkot, marked by two days of communal prayer, Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah, that we read the last parsha of Torah—and the first, in the same day.

Torah ends with blessings in the form of a poem given over by Moses to the Israelites as they are about to cross over into the Promised Land—and finally with Moses’ death.

Joshua, who has now been handed the mantle, will be their new leader. Yet, what will his leadership bring?

It is a combination of sadness, joy, and uncertainty.

And isn’t it a little bit ironic that we read about Moses’ death, our beloved leader, on a day when we joyfully dance into the night, twirling and stomping and jumping with a Torah scroll—a holiday literally named “The Joy of Torah”?

It’s also true that Moses has been preparing to die for a long, long time.

How many times has he announced that he will not be allowed to cross over the Jordan into the Promised Land?

How many times has he repeated the teachings from God to the Israelites as he prepares them for their new life across the river, like a nervous parent who can’t let go?

How many times has he said that he will soon die?

I wonder if Moses is afraid to die—afraid to leave all this undone stuff to someone else, and this annoying, stiff-necked people he has led for so many decades, behind.

Because, even if Moses, unlike the Israelites, has complete faith at this point, he’s still going into the unknown.

And maybe that’s how life always goes, whether we’re the one leaving, like Moses, or entering, like Joshua.

We are excited about a new path we have been pursuing for years, the moment arrives, and we’re stepping into the unknown. No matter how much preparation we’ve had, we still wonder, “Do I know this stuff? Am I fully prepared?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own rabbinic ordination—an occasion of simcha, of joy—and the fact that I will be officially stepping into a new role in my life in just a few months.

What am I stepping into? How much more do I need to learn? How much time do I have to develop this role? Whom am I meant to serve?

I cried about this to a friend the other day.

“You have your whole life to do this!” is what she said.

To which I replied, “No, not my whole life! I’m already 60!”

To which she replied, “You have the whole rest of your life.”

To which I replied, “Yes, and I don’t know how long that will be; it could be decades, or a year, or a month, or a day.”

The fact is, we never know, even if we start out younger.

I was talking to someone else today who shared her anxiety around her parents’ impending deaths and their refusal to deal with their house. They regularly joke about the proximity of the cemetery where they will be buried; “When we die, all you’ll have to do is roll us down the hill!” Hahahaha.

But they have become angry, threatening to leave the room, when she has tried to talk about death in a serious way.

Instead, they like to give the example of the previous owners of their house whose family got a dumpster and literally threw everything out the windows into the garbage.

“They act like it will be simple to bury them, but they’re leaving an entire house full of stuff. It’s not only thoughtless, it’s wasteful and ecologically irresponsible.” (I paraphrase her words.)

When I asked if they might be afraid of dying, even though they are deeply religious, she considered this for a moment; as much as her mother joked about “coming back” to give her “lots of signs!” and to “watch over her” (more like watching her, with a comical wag of the finger), I wondered how deep their faith was at the core.

What did they really think would happen after they died?

Maybe nothing?

Maybe they would completely cease to exist?

If they knew for sure that they would be back and visit, wouldn’t it be easier to face leaving?

When someone moves away, don’t we promise we’ll come visit, just to lighten the blow, even when we know in our heart that we won’t?

Just as hard, we don’t know how long we have. We constantly gauge decisions based on the expected time limits.

During Sukkot, we are “commanded” to eat and sleep in a Sukkah, a precarious structure that remembers the days in the desert, when we could see the sky at night through our temporary homes.

It’s a joyful time of awareness that we have solid structures to live in now, that we are “free,” mixed with sadness of the memory of hard times—though those living with housing insecurity today would disagree; they’re living a precarious present!

It’s also interesting that a Yizkor service, when we remember those who have gone before us, is worked into the end of Sukkot—and we immediately enter into the new Torah cycle with Simchat Torah, with a sense of great joy and celebration!

Joy and sadness mix together.

In a Yizkor service, we recite psalm 90, with the phrase, לִמְנוֹת יָמֵינוּ, כֵּן הוֹדַע; וְנָבִא, לְבַב חָכְמָה/limnot yameyu, ken hoda; v’navi lavev chochma.

It’s a little complicated to translate with its short phrases strung ungrammatically together, but it basically says, “Teach us to count our days, so that we know, like a prophet, and (or to know, like a prophet who has) a heart of wisdom.”

Basically, we should measure our days, and be smart about how we use our time.

We ask for a heart of wisdom, one that knows how to treasure the present, because, unlike a prophet, we can not see into the end of our days.

We need these reminders because it’s hard to let go.

As the Torah and Moses show us, the past mixes with the present and the future. It goes in cycles, like concentric circles, blending into and overlapping with each other.

The new is not always, or only, joyful. Sometimes we dread it.

The end is not always, or only, sad. Sometimes we can’t wait for it.

The end is not only the end, and the beginning is not only the beginning.

And we are each at the center, barely knowing where we are, and certainly not knowing where we’re going.

I’m leading a baby naming this Sunday, for a baby born right in the middle of this cycle of holidays, when the past and the future, the sadness and the joy, all mix together, reminding us of the continuous cycle of life and death and love that never ends.

This beautiful baby has come into a very precarious world of many unknowns for the future.

But the fact that her family will be gathered around to support her on her journey, carrying with them a heritage of deep faith and culture, is significant. This is the grounding we all seek, whether we have “faith” or not.

My blessing for today is that she, and we all, acquire a heart of wisdom to understand how to appreciate and make the most of our numbered days, and to know in what ways we can serve to ensure a joyful future for all on Earth.

And may we deepen our faith that we can handle this unknown, just as our ancestors did.