Tali sat on the back step of her empty house, hands tucked between her knees, as dusk fell like a heavy cloak over the fields. A cool breeze stirred the first golden leaves, and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself, rattling inside the spaces her old dreams used to fill.
It hadn’t always been like this. Only six months ago, the house had been vibrant with plans — a bakery opening downtown, joyful whispers about a nursery someday, promises spoken over Friday night candles. But one terrible winter had somehow taken it all: the business lost to fire, the silent miscarriage, the slow unraveling of the dreams she and Avi had built together. He still sat across from her at dinner, but his eyes, like hers, looked elsewhere—toward sadness too sprawling to name.
She had thought loss was like a sudden storm. But it turned out it was more like a drought: a slow, aching emptiness.
Tali rubbed the heel of her palm against her chest, as if she could stir her heart back to life. What now? she thought helplessly. The world felt so still, as if it had ended. As if she had ended.
Out across the fields, a movement caught her eye. A neighbor’s sheep had broken through the fence again, a small white blur among the almond blossoms. Without thinking, she rose, grabbing a stick and calling out softly. The lamb flickered toward her like a wisp of light, bleating forlornly.
Some part of her cracked, and tears blurred her sight as she crouched down on the rough dirt. There, in the twilight, she scooped the lamb into her arms, its tiny body trembling against her chest. It smelled of hay and sunshine and wildness. Warmth flooded her, sudden and fierce. Life—fragile, stubborn, persistent—was still here.
She carried the lamb back to her neighbor’s pasture, her movement gentle, a cradle rather than a capture. As she set it down inside the fence, her eyes lifted to the sky. Stars had begun to scatter across the darkening blue, reckless and radiant.
Words she hadn’t thought of in years stirred in her memory, from the haftarah portion she’d memorized so long ago: "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up—do you not perceive it?"
A breath shuddered out of her, half-laugh, half-sob. Maybe starting over wasn’t about forcing old dreams back to life. Maybe it was about opening her hands wide enough to catch new ones.
The next morning, Tali rose early and kneaded challah dough, just for herself. She braided it with clumsy hands and let it rise beside the window where the sun poured in. Later, she sifted through the garden, planting late summer herbs, each seed a prayer she couldn’t yet form into words.
One afternoon, the little neighbor boy, Ezra, wandered over and pointed to the tiny green shoots beginning to sprout where she'd once given up hope.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Something new,” she said softly, leaning down to press a seedling deeper into the good, waiting earth.
Ezra beamed and clumsily handed her a slightly crushed wildflower. Tali tucked it behind her ear without thinking. For the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled without forcing it, the edges of her heart aching not from breaking but from beginning to heal.
She had thought she was alone inside her grief. But under the surface of everything — quiet and certain as G-d’s faithfulness — life was unfurling. It had never left. It was just waiting for her to say yes again.
And maybe, she thought as she held the tiny crushed flower close to her heart, new dreams could be just as beautiful as the ones she had lost. Different, yes. But woven with the same light.
She wasn’t starting over from nothing.
She was starting over from love.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
Tali sat on the back step of her empty house, hands tucked between her knees, as dusk fell like a heavy cloak over the fields. A cool breeze stirred the first golden leaves, and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself, rattling inside the spaces her old dreams used to fill.
It hadn’t always been like this. Only six months ago, the house had been vibrant with plans — a bakery opening downtown, joyful whispers about a nursery someday, promises spoken over Friday night candles. But one terrible winter had somehow taken it all: the business lost to fire, the silent miscarriage, the slow unraveling of the dreams she and Avi had built together. He still sat across from her at dinner, but his eyes, like hers, looked elsewhere—toward sadness too sprawling to name.
She had thought loss was like a sudden storm. But it turned out it was more like a drought: a slow, aching emptiness.
Tali rubbed the heel of her palm against her chest, as if she could stir her heart back to life. What now? she thought helplessly. The world felt so still, as if it had ended. As if she had ended.
Out across the fields, a movement caught her eye. A neighbor’s sheep had broken through the fence again, a small white blur among the almond blossoms. Without thinking, she rose, grabbing a stick and calling out softly. The lamb flickered toward her like a wisp of light, bleating forlornly.
Some part of her cracked, and tears blurred her sight as she crouched down on the rough dirt. There, in the twilight, she scooped the lamb into her arms, its tiny body trembling against her chest. It smelled of hay and sunshine and wildness. Warmth flooded her, sudden and fierce. Life—fragile, stubborn, persistent—was still here.
She carried the lamb back to her neighbor’s pasture, her movement gentle, a cradle rather than a capture. As she set it down inside the fence, her eyes lifted to the sky. Stars had begun to scatter across the darkening blue, reckless and radiant.
Words she hadn’t thought of in years stirred in her memory, from the haftarah portion she’d memorized so long ago: "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up—do you not perceive it?"
A breath shuddered out of her, half-laugh, half-sob. Maybe starting over wasn’t about forcing old dreams back to life. Maybe it was about opening her hands wide enough to catch new ones.
The next morning, Tali rose early and kneaded challah dough, just for herself. She braided it with clumsy hands and let it rise beside the window where the sun poured in. Later, she sifted through the garden, planting late summer herbs, each seed a prayer she couldn’t yet form into words.
One afternoon, the little neighbor boy, Ezra, wandered over and pointed to the tiny green shoots beginning to sprout where she'd once given up hope.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Something new,” she said softly, leaning down to press a seedling deeper into the good, waiting earth.
Ezra beamed and clumsily handed her a slightly crushed wildflower. Tali tucked it behind her ear without thinking. For the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled without forcing it, the edges of her heart aching not from breaking but from beginning to heal.
She had thought she was alone inside her grief. But under the surface of everything — quiet and certain as G-d’s faithfulness — life was unfurling. It had never left. It was just waiting for her to say yes again.
And maybe, she thought as she held the tiny crushed flower close to her heart, new dreams could be just as beautiful as the ones she had lost. Different, yes. But woven with the same light.
She wasn’t starting over from nothing.
She was starting over from love.
—
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
