The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party: Another Prayer for Israel

I made this image from a composite of pieces of royalty-free images from Pixabay, like a collage. I played with the colors and density and other things in the images. The background is a dense forest of varying greens. Leafy. And there is a bright hedge. Then layered on top of that is a series of doors with large knobs and vines - sepia brown. Leading into them is a stone pathway. The main characters in the foreground are the female figure - light hair, light skin, lacy dress, all in light sepia tones. She is holding a very large china cup with steam rising from it. There is an old fashioned pocket watch - also in sepia browns and bronzes. The chain begins at her elbow, the links cross in front of her, and the time reads 12:00.

I woke up this morning with another prayer for Israel swimming around in my mind.
As I prepared to lead minyan, I wrote a draft and impulsively shared it after our misheberach - in the space we typically offer prayers for Israel and the hostages and Gaza and the West Bank and everyone in the Land.

This is the third draft. It may continue to evolve, but also, it says what I need to say right now.

The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party: Another Prayer for Israel
Rabbi Amy Josefa Ariel, January 2025

God,
At this Mad Hatter’s tea party,
my chair an inverted olive tree,
the roots poke and
oil pools at my bare feet.

My dress is a patchwork of bring them home posters, hospital rubble,
yellow ribbons, bullet marks in plaster, urine stained sheets, a cookie recipe,
drafts of song lyrics, a baby registration certificate - for twins,
the cold floor of another bomb shelter, white body bags, the child’s sock left behind in a safe room,
a trout fishery label, a bit of schach from a sukkah, a torn bit of hijab, and batman stickers.

English Breakfast tea seeps through the cracks in the bone china.
The Hatter keeps pouring.
I am drenched.

But, God, even if I have cried gallons of tears and the riddles are unsolvable
and some of the narratives are nonsensical
and who sits where and when feels like chaos
and when I cross my arms and stomp my foot because it is not actually eternally tea time,
the cold liquid splashes my legs . . . 

I am not Alice.
I will not leave without saying goodbye.
I will not leave at all. 

So help me.
Help me stay curious and when I can’t make sense out of nonsense help me find a better storyteller.
Help me hold onto my muchness and remember who I am.
Help me discern meaning and intention however the world around us spins.

And God, 
When I pray for peace, help me stay raw. 
Help me taste the bitterness of the tea and feel the rough patchwork
against 
my skin.