Life's Continuity

There's no denying it--Pesach is coming!  This morning I made my first shopping-for-Pesach trip, paying more than seems necessary for things like, "kosher for passover instant coffee."  Although the market was a bit of a zoo, even at 9 am, there was a certain camaraderie among the shoppers, as if we all knew we were partners in this annual ritual of buying expensive food that we will consume for eight days and then give all the leftovers to our non-Jewish friends who think Passover food is "yummy."

Despite the routine stress and anxiety that goes into preparing for Pesach, I do enjoy this holiday because it forces me, once a year, to do things a different way...and also because it has so many rich themes to think about.  In anticipation of the seders I will be attending later this week, I spent part of Shabbat looking through my favorite haggadah (which I've referenced before):  A Night To Remember by Mishael Zion and Noam Zion.  Inside the lengthy Maggid section, during which we retell the story of the Exodus, I found this gem of a poem by Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai:

And what is the continuity of my life?  I am like one who left Egypt.
The Red Sea is split in two and I cross on dry ground
With two walls of water--on my right and on my left.
Behind me--Pharoah's soldiers and horsemen.
Before me--the wilderness
And, perhaps, the Promised Land.
This is the continuity of my life.

(from פתוח סגור פתוח)

In this poem, Yehuda Amichai makes personal the challenge facing the ancient Israelites:  leaving behind something undesirable and unsustainable, in favor of something that is uncomfortably unfamiliar but which promises to be better.

When we read the story of Pesach, the language is so dramatic and the events are so epic that it is easy to lose sight of the human experience.  What must it have been like for those Israelites, fleeing from torturous slavery, pursued by a powerful army, and heading toward the unknown?  I imagine that they were afraid, yet propelled forward by the momentum of the journey, sustained by their faith and their hope of the Promised Land.

Isn't this what recovery--or, truly, any painful but necessary transformation--feels like?

You leave what you are familiar with because you must, because you will die if you remain...yet, "recovery" is scary in its own way.  Other people promise you it's going to be better than what you're leaving behind, but you'll believe it when you see it. In the meantime, there are miles of wilderness to trek through.  Sometimes, it's tempting to reverse course, until you turn around and are reminded of how awful it was where you began.  So, you keep going--because that's the only viable option; because that's the journey to which you're committed; because maybe the Promised Land really is there, after all.

And all the while you're making the journey, you're writing the story of your life--from past to present, and hopefully to future.

Leaving the eating disorder behind is like leaving your own personal Egypt, and what follows is just as significant (though admittedly on a smaller scale) than the transformation our ancestors went through.  It's scary to look ahead and see only wilderness...but remember to hold onto the hope that your own Promised Land is there, too...because it is.  There won't be a road sign telling you when you've arrived, but you'll recognize it when you finally do--the feeling that, after all the wandering, you've arrived at a place where you feel genuinely positive about your life.  You'll remember the slavery you came from, and the journey you undertook, and you'll think, "Wow.  I did that.  I've come  a long way."  And then, you'll keep going, because that's the logical next step, the continuity of your life.

This Pesach, honor the journey you've undertaken, and validate for yourself that it is hard, that it is scary...but that something better does wait for you, if you'll continue on to reach it.