The Jewish world is poised between two realities. Right now, we dwell in the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Tradition teaches that this ten-day period is an open door into the spiritual realm, where almost anything is possible—finding inner peace, leaving our failings behind, and becoming renewed. To be only slightly crude, it’s not unlike what happens when my car is washed and detailed: the grime disappears, and it feels new again.

The other reality is the world outside, which feels to be in such disarray that it staggers like a drunken animal that didn’t realize the fruit it ate was fermented. Or perhaps it did know, and chose to get drunk anyway. I can sympathize.

We too stumble through our days, trying to understand what has gone wrong with our communities and our political leaders. They dart from one topic to another, offering no depth and little concern for the chasm between truth and falsehood. The president continues to say bizarre things, and I worry for our nation. Israel’s prime minister continues to ignore the will of the people, and I worry for their nation too.

I often write about feeling helpless in this so-called “real world.” And yet—I am still hopeful. Because to lose hope is to surrender completely, and I am not ready for that. Not yet.

A verse from Proverbs encourages me: “The righteous fall seven times and rise again.” No, I don’t claim to be righteous; I have often said that I am perfectly imperfect. But all who strive to make the world better—the scientists, artists, teachers, writers, clergy, social workers, all of us who care and try—we know about failure. Failing and getting up to try a different approach. Looking for new avenues to the same end. Making the world a little better, one step at a time.

I am also lifted by the closing words of Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz in the weekly missive from the Steinsaltz Center:

“In our current reality, as we face the ongoing trauma of October 7th and its aftermath, Moses’ ancient wisdom speaks directly to our souls. We have witnessed evil that shattered our sense of security, yet we continue to stand. The families of hostages, the bereaved, our soldiers—all embody this divine command to be strong and take courage. We have fallen, but we are not utterly cast down.

“The Torah’s honest optimism teaches us that acknowledging our vulnerability does not diminish our hope; it strengthens our capacity to endure and ultimately overcome. This Rosh Hashanah, we carry both our wounds and our resilience, knowing that even in our darkest moments, we possess the sacred ability to rise again.”

Rabbi Steinsaltz was pointing to the phrase “Be strong and of good courage,” which Moses repeated in this week’s Torah portion. Moses knew his own end was near, yet that did not stop him from urging the nascent Israelites forward with strength and resolve as they prepared to enter the Promised Land.

I, too, am choosing strength, hope, and courage for the coming year. I don’t yet know what that will look like, or what will be asked of me, but it feels right—and I am determined to try.