Parshas Haazinu: Name That Song
Moshe doesn’t end his leadership with a to-do list.
He doesn’t give a closing speech or one last halachic detail.
He sings.
—
For the past bunch of years, I’ve been the systems guy. The ops lead.
The one who builds spreadsheets and workflows and writes the training manuals.
I know how to communicate clearly. I can break something down step by step, explain the moving parts, get from A to Z.
He doesn’t give a closing speech or one last halachic detail.
He sings.
הַאֲזִינוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם וַאֲדַבֵּרָה
“Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak…”
(Devarim 32:1)
That’s what he leaves us with. A song. One that’s sharp and structured, but still a song.
Because he knows people forget speeches. But melodies stick.
—
A few days after Rosh Hashana, I heard a song while out shopping, and I started humming it too.
Not on purpose. Not loudly. Just walking around the house and there it was:
Ochila LaKel… Esh’alah mimenu ma’aneh lashon…
“I hope for God… I ask Him for an answer of the tongue.”
It’s not one of the big dramatic tefillos of the season. Not Kol Nidrei or Unesaneh Tokef.
But it’s the one that’s stayed with me the longest this year.
I think it’s because it names something I’ve been working on for a while now: finding my voice again.
I didn’t set out to make it a kavannah.
It just landed in my bones the first time I heard it played.
I probably listened to it twenty times before I realized how deep it had gotten.
And when I read the translation, it sounded exactly how I feel.
“Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak…”
(Devarim 32:1)
That’s what he leaves us with. A song. One that’s sharp and structured, but still a song.
Because he knows people forget speeches. But melodies stick.
—
A few days after Rosh Hashana, I heard a song while out shopping, and I started humming it too.
Not on purpose. Not loudly. Just walking around the house and there it was:
Ochila LaKel… Esh’alah mimenu ma’aneh lashon…
“I hope for God… I ask Him for an answer of the tongue.”
It’s not one of the big dramatic tefillos of the season. Not Kol Nidrei or Unesaneh Tokef.
But it’s the one that’s stayed with me the longest this year.
I think it’s because it names something I’ve been working on for a while now: finding my voice again.
I didn’t set out to make it a kavannah.
It just landed in my bones the first time I heard it played.
I probably listened to it twenty times before I realized how deep it had gotten.
And when I read the translation, it sounded exactly how I feel.
—
For the past bunch of years, I’ve been the systems guy. The ops lead.
The one who builds spreadsheets and workflows and writes the training manuals.
I know how to communicate clearly. I can break something down step by step, explain the moving parts, get from A to Z.
But that’s not the kind of writing I’ve been drawn to lately.
Lately it’s more about voice.
Not leading a training session or writing process improvements. Voice as in the part of me that actually wants to say something.
The voice that doesn’t always know how to start.
The one that hesitates. The one that wants it to come out right.
—
When I sit down to write these posts, it doesn’t always come from an outline.
It might start with a feeling. A crumb. A pasuk.
Sometimes I circle around it for days.
Sometimes I whisper something like “sefasai tiftach” before I even open the computer.
And yeah, sometimes I use tools.
I’ll open ChatGPT and ask something like: “What else is hidden in Haazinu that I’m not seeing yet?” or “Help me get this line across more clearly.”
It might be 80/20—just a little polish at the end.
Or it might be 60/40—helping me figure things out from the middle.
Lately it’s more about voice.
Not leading a training session or writing process improvements. Voice as in the part of me that actually wants to say something.
The voice that doesn’t always know how to start.
The one that hesitates. The one that wants it to come out right.
—
When I sit down to write these posts, it doesn’t always come from an outline.
It might start with a feeling. A crumb. A pasuk.
Sometimes I circle around it for days.
Sometimes I whisper something like “sefasai tiftach” before I even open the computer.
And yeah, sometimes I use tools.
I’ll open ChatGPT and ask something like: “What else is hidden in Haazinu that I’m not seeing yet?” or “Help me get this line across more clearly.”
It might be 80/20—just a little polish at the end.
Or it might be 60/40—helping me figure things out from the middle.
It doesn’t write for me. It reflects. Sharpens.
It helps me stay in the process long enough to figure out what I actually want to say.
That’s part of the prayer too.
Not just the end result. The process of trying to say something real.
—
Speaking of tools and ratios, I use other tools too.
Like the sourdough spreadsheet I built (feel free to copy it for your own baking—happy to share).
I just plug in how many loaves I want, what weight, hydration, flour blend—and it spits out everything I need: flour, water, levain, salt. Step by step.
It’s exact. Efficient.
But that’s not baking.
It doesn’t know when the dough needs more time, or when the starter smells ready.
It doesn’t feel the texture in my hands.
And it certainly doesn’t get to taste the finished product.
It’s just a support.
The work still happens by feel. By listening.
Same with writing.
Same with prayer.
—
This blog—not just this post, but the whole thing—is where I’ve been trying to hold both parts of myself at the same time.
The guy who builds systems and the guy who sings while shaping dough.
The one who runs operations and the one trying to figure out how to speak from the heart.
The version of me who’s always been competent,
and the version of me who’s still learning how to be honest.
—
Moshe gave us a song so we wouldn’t forget.
This is mine. Or at least—it’s one I’m trying to remember how to sing.
Ochila LaKel…
I hope for God.
I hope for words that feel like me.
I hope that sharing this, even in process, is part of the praise.
Hashem, sefasai tiftach.
Please open my lips.
Let the words come through.
Even if they’re a little slow.
Even if I need help getting there.
—
If you’ve got a song stuck in your soul,
It helps me stay in the process long enough to figure out what I actually want to say.
That’s part of the prayer too.
Not just the end result. The process of trying to say something real.
—
Speaking of tools and ratios, I use other tools too.
Like the sourdough spreadsheet I built (feel free to copy it for your own baking—happy to share).
I just plug in how many loaves I want, what weight, hydration, flour blend—and it spits out everything I need: flour, water, levain, salt. Step by step.
It’s exact. Efficient.
But that’s not baking.
It doesn’t know when the dough needs more time, or when the starter smells ready.
It doesn’t feel the texture in my hands.
And it certainly doesn’t get to taste the finished product.
It’s just a support.
The work still happens by feel. By listening.
Same with writing.
Same with prayer.
—
This blog—not just this post, but the whole thing—is where I’ve been trying to hold both parts of myself at the same time.
The guy who builds systems and the guy who sings while shaping dough.
The one who runs operations and the one trying to figure out how to speak from the heart.
The version of me who’s always been competent,
and the version of me who’s still learning how to be honest.
—
Moshe gave us a song so we wouldn’t forget.
This is mine. Or at least—it’s one I’m trying to remember how to sing.
Ochila LaKel…
I hope for God.
I hope for words that feel like me.
I hope that sharing this, even in process, is part of the praise.
Hashem, sefasai tiftach.
Please open my lips.
Let the words come through.
Even if they’re a little slow.
Even if I need help getting there.
—
If you’ve got a song stuck in your soul,
or a line from Torah or davening you keep returning to,
please feel free to send it my way.
I’m learning how to listen better.
That’s part of this practice, too.
Good Shabbos!
please feel free to send it my way.
I’m learning how to listen better.
That’s part of this practice, too.
Good Shabbos!
Berke
Sourdough Calculator
