Sukkot
You’ve probably never heard of Sukkot unless you're Jewish or close to someone who is. It’s not one of the flashy, headline-making holidays like Passover or Hanukkah, and it’s certainly not well-understood outside Jewish circles. But Sukkot—also called the Feast of Booths or Tabernacles—is one of the oldest, most beautiful holidays in Judaism. It’s a weeklong festival of joy, nature, memory, and fragility. A holiday about building something temporary on purpose, and finding sacredness not despite its impermanence, but because of it.
So let me explain what it is, why it matters, and what it means to me, especially this year.
So let me explain what it is, why it matters, and what it means to me, especially this year.
What Is Sukkot?
Sukkot begins five days after Yom Kippur, which means we go from the most solemn, introspective day of the year straight into a week that is literally called z’man simchateinu—"the time of our rejoicing." That emotional whiplash is kind of the point: Judaism doesn’t dwell in grief. We return to joy as a form of resilience. We swing the pendulum back toward life.
The core commandment of Sukkot is to dwell in a sukkah—a temporary, handmade outdoor structure with a leafy roof—meant to remind us of the fragile shelters the Israelites lived in during the Exodus. The sukkah must be partially open to the sky, so you can see the stars at night, and the roof must be made of natural material like palm fronds, bamboo, or branches. It's supposed to be flimsy. Vulnerable. And that’s the whole point.
We eat our meals in the sukkah, sing in the sukkah, sometimes even sleep there. It's a mitzvah to welcome guests into it—both literal guests and metaphorical ones, like the spirits of our ancestors.
There’s also the ritual of waving the lulav and etrog, which is one of the most deeply symbolic acts in all of Jewish tradition. The lulav is a bundle of three species--palm branch, myrtle, and willow—held together in one hand, while the etrog—a fragrant yellow citrus fruit—is held in the other. Each morning of the holiday (except Shabbat), we shake the lulav and etrog in six directions: forward, right, backward, left, upward, and downward. We do this to acknowledge that G-d’s presence is everywhere—above us, beneath us, all around us, even within us.
But it goes even deeper.
Each of the four species represents a different type of Jew:
And yet we bind them all together.
That’s the mitzvah.
The blessing isn’t on each plant alone. It’s on the unity. The waving of the lulav reminds us that all Jews—regardless of learning, practice, observance, or background—are essential to the wholeness of our people. No one is disposable. No one is unworthy. We can’t fulfill the mitzvah unless everyone is part of the bundle.
That message feels especially vital in our fragmented world. We’re not all going to agree, or be in the same place spiritually or politically or culturally—but Sukkot reminds us we’re still one people. Still shaking in all directions. Still showing up.
Sukkot begins five days after Yom Kippur, which means we go from the most solemn, introspective day of the year straight into a week that is literally called z’man simchateinu—"the time of our rejoicing." That emotional whiplash is kind of the point: Judaism doesn’t dwell in grief. We return to joy as a form of resilience. We swing the pendulum back toward life.
The core commandment of Sukkot is to dwell in a sukkah—a temporary, handmade outdoor structure with a leafy roof—meant to remind us of the fragile shelters the Israelites lived in during the Exodus. The sukkah must be partially open to the sky, so you can see the stars at night, and the roof must be made of natural material like palm fronds, bamboo, or branches. It's supposed to be flimsy. Vulnerable. And that’s the whole point.
We eat our meals in the sukkah, sing in the sukkah, sometimes even sleep there. It's a mitzvah to welcome guests into it—both literal guests and metaphorical ones, like the spirits of our ancestors.
There’s also the ritual of waving the lulav and etrog, which is one of the most deeply symbolic acts in all of Jewish tradition. The lulav is a bundle of three species--palm branch, myrtle, and willow—held together in one hand, while the etrog—a fragrant yellow citrus fruit—is held in the other. Each morning of the holiday (except Shabbat), we shake the lulav and etrog in six directions: forward, right, backward, left, upward, and downward. We do this to acknowledge that G-d’s presence is everywhere—above us, beneath us, all around us, even within us.
But it goes even deeper.
Each of the four species represents a different type of Jew:
- The etrog, which has both taste and smell, symbolizes Jews who have both knowledge of Torah and a life full of mitzvot (good deeds).
- The palm branch, which has taste but no smell, represents those who have Torah knowledge but are lacking in mitzvot.
- The myrtle, which has smell but no taste, symbolizes Jews who perform mitzvot but have little Torah knowledge.
- And the willow, which has neither taste nor smell, represents those who have neither Torah nor mitzvot—whether because they’ve never learned, or they’ve been pushed away, or life simply made it too hard.
And yet we bind them all together.
That’s the mitzvah.
The blessing isn’t on each plant alone. It’s on the unity. The waving of the lulav reminds us that all Jews—regardless of learning, practice, observance, or background—are essential to the wholeness of our people. No one is disposable. No one is unworthy. We can’t fulfill the mitzvah unless everyone is part of the bundle.
That message feels especially vital in our fragmented world. We’re not all going to agree, or be in the same place spiritually or politically or culturally—but Sukkot reminds us we’re still one people. Still shaking in all directions. Still showing up.
Why It’s Important
Sukkot teaches us something radical: that joy is a commandment. Not optional. Not a luxury. A mitzvah.
That idea changed something in me the first time I really absorbed it. As someone who struggles with anxiety and trauma, who sometimes dissociates just trying to make it through the day, the notion that joy is a spiritual discipline felt both confronting and comforting. I don’t have to wait for joy to arrive. I can build it, like a sukkah—imperfect, open to the elements, real.
It’s also a holiday about impermanence and presence. You build this little hut, decorate it with fruit and leaves and lights, and you know--you know—it won’t last. It’s not supposed to. You eat your meals inside it anyway. You bless it anyway. You make it beautiful anyway.
And that? That’s life.
Sukkot teaches us something radical: that joy is a commandment. Not optional. Not a luxury. A mitzvah.
That idea changed something in me the first time I really absorbed it. As someone who struggles with anxiety and trauma, who sometimes dissociates just trying to make it through the day, the notion that joy is a spiritual discipline felt both confronting and comforting. I don’t have to wait for joy to arrive. I can build it, like a sukkah—imperfect, open to the elements, real.
It’s also a holiday about impermanence and presence. You build this little hut, decorate it with fruit and leaves and lights, and you know--you know—it won’t last. It’s not supposed to. You eat your meals inside it anyway. You bless it anyway. You make it beautiful anyway.
And that? That’s life.
This Year, and the Years to Come
Right now at the time of this writing [2025 or 5786], I don’t have a sukkah. I live in a HOA [Homeowners' Association] which has strict rules about what structures people can have on their property, and I can't exactly go off to the woods for a week. And I’ll be honest—it hurts. I miss the smell of cedar branches overhead, the golden slant of afternoon light through the roof, the hum of insects and soft breeze while eating a slightly wobbly dinner under the stars. I miss the ritual of it. I miss the grounding.
But what helps is that Andy, my partner, my future husband—who’s still in New Zealand right now—has told me he wants us to do Sukkot together when he’s here in the States. And when I say “wants,” I mean really wants. He’s not Jewish, but he understands what this means to me. He wants to build the sukkah with me. He wants to string up lanterns and hang pomegranates and learn the blessings. He wants to sit with me in the fading light, arms around me, as we look up through the roof at the sky. He wants to dwell with me, not just in joy, but in fragile joy. The kind that requires trust. That kind of love is holy.
Until then, I make do.
Right now at the time of this writing [2025 or 5786], I don’t have a sukkah. I live in a HOA [Homeowners' Association] which has strict rules about what structures people can have on their property, and I can't exactly go off to the woods for a week. And I’ll be honest—it hurts. I miss the smell of cedar branches overhead, the golden slant of afternoon light through the roof, the hum of insects and soft breeze while eating a slightly wobbly dinner under the stars. I miss the ritual of it. I miss the grounding.
But what helps is that Andy, my partner, my future husband—who’s still in New Zealand right now—has told me he wants us to do Sukkot together when he’s here in the States. And when I say “wants,” I mean really wants. He’s not Jewish, but he understands what this means to me. He wants to build the sukkah with me. He wants to string up lanterns and hang pomegranates and learn the blessings. He wants to sit with me in the fading light, arms around me, as we look up through the roof at the sky. He wants to dwell with me, not just in joy, but in fragile joy. The kind that requires trust. That kind of love is holy.
Until then, I make do.
Sukkot for Those Without a Sukkah
If you're Jewish and you can’t build a sukkah this year, whether because of housing, cost, disability, safety, time, or anything else—you are still part of this holiday. The mitzvah is to dwell in the sukkah, yes, but dwelling can mean many things. Here are a few ways to honor the spirit of Sukkot when the full experience isn’t possible:
If you're Jewish and you can’t build a sukkah this year, whether because of housing, cost, disability, safety, time, or anything else—you are still part of this holiday. The mitzvah is to dwell in the sukkah, yes, but dwelling can mean many things. Here are a few ways to honor the spirit of Sukkot when the full experience isn’t possible:
- Eat one meal outside under the open sky. Even a snack. Even on your porch steps. Say a blessing. Breathe. Let the moment be sacred.
- Make a symbolic sukkah indoors. Some people set up a canopy of fabric and decorate it with leaves and lights. It’s not halachically valid, but spiritually it can still hold weight.
- Bring the outdoors in. Decorate your table with autumn branches, fruit, herbs. Let your space smell like the season.
- Wave the lulav and etrog anyway. You can often get a set from a local synagogue or order one online. Or borrow. Or make a symbolic version with local plants and a lemon.
- Invite guests. Not just to your home, but into your presence. Even virtually. The tradition of ushpizin—welcoming guests into the sukkah—can be done in spirit through storytelling or acts of kindness.
- Practice joy. This one’s the hardest and the most essential. Do one thing this week that gives you joy on purpose. Dance, cook something delicious, read in the sunlight, light a candle. Claim joy as a mitzvah.
Sukkot reminds us that everything we build in life is temporary. But also that temporary things can be incredibly precious. A shaky wooden hut. A bowl of figs. A half-hour in the sun. A promise between two people who haven’t yet closed the distance but will.
This is the season of dwelling in joy. However you can. Wherever you are.
Chag sameach.
