The theory of a sukkah feels queer to me – a temporary, self-built space for the purpose of shelter, but also importantly with an open roof for a view of the stars. It reminds me of a garden witch, a midwife, an herbalist lesbian pulling herbs from her garden to dry and dangle from the door of her room. It reminds me of alternative histories, and sets of knowledge – my friends sitting around a coffee table analyzing each other’s birth charts, brewing each other rose bud tea for aching hearts, or mixing personalized lotions and sugar scrubs with lavender for soft skin. LGBT communities, LGBT families, are temporary structures for safety like the sukkah itself. They’re built out of necessity, with open roofs and a mystical air. They’re comforting, they’re placeless, and they’re adaptable.
Sukkot feels mystical. It’s nights spent staring through wooden beams at thick stars, with the spiciness of cloves, and lemony etrog floating around you. Feast of Tabernacles sounds like a tarot card.
I’ve been interested in the thorough methodology of Sukkot’s harvests, the mystical components of plants we collect for spells of safety, holiday, a good night’s sleep in the outdoors. For Sukkot we pull from a theory of herbs and plants from a history of herbalists in gardens – searching for remedies for every ailment. In this way, Sukkot feels healing in a way that’s queer, and flowery. Its components have specificity, care, and history. The scents in the air, the view of the unknown and wondrous sky are curated for the holiday. It’s a holiday about awe and magic in a shelter built by the hands of a community.
Decorating my first post-grad apartment also feels like Sukkot – the collecting of natural tchotchkes, string lights, jars of herbs, Yankee Candles my twitter mutual traded me in the parking lot of the library. As an interesting exercise, this Sukkot I’ve been burning my Yankee Candle Christmas Cookies jar – the furthest thing from Jewish, or natural. My apartment smells sugary.