G-d,

here I am again.

Another year turning over,

another door opening

while I am still standing

among the wreckage of the last room.

I wish I could tell You

I am entering this year

with a peaceful heart.

I am not.

My heart is bruised.

My hands are tired.

There are things I have lost

that I still reach for in the dark

before remembering

they are gone.

There is grief here.

There is loneliness.

There is fear.

There is the particular exhaustion

of having survived something

and then realizing

survival does not mean

you are finished hurting.

And yes,

I am angry.

I am fucking angry.

I am angry at what was taken.

Angry at what I could not save.

Angry at promises

that became ashes.

Angry at all the times

I had to be strong

when I desperately wanted

someone else to hold the weight.

I am angry at You, too.

There.

I said it.

I do not know

what You were doing

while I was drowning.

I do not understand

why some prayers seem to vanish

into a ceiling of silence.

I do not understand

why healing can take so damn long.

But I am still talking to You.

Maybe that is faith.

Not certainty.

Not serenity.

Not some polished little smile

that says everything happens for a reason.

Maybe faith is this:

G-d,

I am furious with You,

and I am still here.

I am hurting,

and I still turn my face toward You.

I cannot feel Your light,

but I remember

that light exists.

So I reach.

Not because I am unbroken.

Because I am not.

I reach with the hands

that have carried too much.

I reach with the heart

that has been cracked open

again and again.

I reach through the fucking darkness

with whatever remains of me.

And somewhere inside that darkness,

something is blooming.

Small.

Stubborn.

Almost impossible to see.

A green thing

pushing through the ruined soil.

A flower opening

because it does not know

it is supposed to give up.

Maybe that is me.

Maybe that is You.

Maybe the miracle

is not that the winter never came.

Maybe the miracle

is that winter did not get

the final word.

Chai means life.

חי.

Two letters.

So much life

inside such a small word.

Life when I am laughing.

Life when I am crying.

Life when I am furious.

Life when I am afraid.

Life when I am certain.

Life when I doubt everything.

Life when I can pray

with my whole heart,

and life when all I can manage is

G-d,

please.

Please.

Please.

Let this year be gentler.

Let there be mornings

when I wake up

and the first thing I feel

is not dread.

Let there be laughter

that catches me by surprise.

Let there be music.

Let there be color.

Let there be people

who stay.

Let there be work

that makes my hands sing.

Let there be love

that does not require me

to disappear inside it.

Let there be a body

I can inhabit

without fighting it every day.

Let there be healing

that does not erase

what happened to me,

but transforms what happened

into something

that no longer owns me.

And when I forget

that I have survived before,

remind me.

When I mistake exhaustion

for failure,

remind me.

When grief tells me

this is all there will ever be,

remind me that grief is a liar

about the future.

When anger burns through me,

do not ask me to become

smaller than it.

Teach me what the fire

can illuminate.

Teach me how to carry it

without letting it consume me.

And when I cannot see

the way forward,

be the light

I cannot yet see.

Not a blinding light.

Not a miracle

falling from the heavens

to make everything simple.

Just enough light

for the next step.

Just enough

to see where my feet are.

Just enough

to find the next flower.

Just enough

to remember

that darkness is not proof

that light has disappeared.

G-d,

I am bringing You

the whole mess.

The grief.

The rage.

The fear.

The hope.

The scars.

The dreams.

The things I am ashamed of.

The things I am proud of.

The parts of me

that still feel like a frightened child.

The parts of me

that have become fierce enough

to survive anything.

I bring You

the person I was.

The person I became.

The person I am becoming.

I do not have a clean offering.

I have a heart

with dirt beneath its fingernails.

I have a soul

that has been through hell

and still wants to sing.

I have a prayer

that sometimes sounds like worship

and sometimes sounds like

WHAT THE FUCK, HASHEM?

But it is still a prayer.

Because I am still reaching.

And maybe that is enough

for tonight.

Maybe tomorrow

I will reach farther.

Maybe tomorrow

the flower will open another inch.

Maybe tomorrow

there will be more light.

So bless this new year,

G-d.

Not because it will be painless.

But because I am alive

to meet it.

Bless the fragile beginning.

Bless the unfinished healing.

Bless the courage

to begin again.

And if all I can carry

into this year

is this tiny word,

חי,

then let it be enough.

Chai.

Life.

My life.

Still here.

Still becoming.

Still blooming.

Still reaching for You

with both hands,

even angry,

even grieving,

even afraid,

still reaching

toward the light.