Three Little Words

Okay, so it's been a while. A lot has happened in the past month and a half: I went to Israel, I came home from Israel, and I moved to a new apartment. I would like to just take one moment to pat myself on the back for being an adult throughout all these changes. It wasn't easy, but I hung in there. And I have lots of trees outside my windows in my new apartment, with lots of birds, so I'm happy.

This summer I didn't learn full-time at The Pardes Institute, but I did go to their Tisha B'Av learning program where I got to hear some excellent shiurim and also a panel featuring several of my Pardes teachers. Despite being caffeine- and nutrient-deprived, I did get a lot out of the day, but one moment stood out, and that's what I want to write about here.

It happened in the first shiur I went to, taught by the incredible Yiscah Smith, of whom I am now a major fan. The title of her shiur was, "How To Restore Unity to a Fragmented World: Exploring the inner dimension of 'Loving one's fellow as oneself.'" Citing chapter 32 of the Tanya, Yiscah taught that because the greatness of one's own soul can never be known, it is also impossible to truly know the excellence of the soul of one's fellow...and therefore, one cannot rightfully say that his or her own soul is any better than anyone else's. We just can't know.

At this point, a young woman in the audience asked if this principle applied to all souls, or only Jewish souls? Yiscah explained that in the context in which the source was written, it was intended to speak only about Jews. Not satisfied by that answer, the woman pressed on: "But do you think that a non-Jewish soul is just as precious as a Jewish neshama?"

To which Yiscah replied, "I don't know. You know, the older I get, the more comfortable I am saying, 'I don't know.'"

Magic, those three words: I. Don't. Know. And how brave, an adult who is willing to speak them.

That exchange stuck with me because I was struck by the opportunity Yiscah had to make a faith-based claim of certainty that of course a Jewish soul is special in ways that other souls are not. Or, she could have gone the politically correct route and said that of course all souls are created equal. Each response would have reassured some members of the audience and probably rankled some others, but she would have looked like a teacher who was sure. And isn't that what teachers are supposed to be? I'm interested because I'm also a teacher, so this feels important.

The more I thought about it, the more I thought how important it is to be honest with one's students--and with oneself--about doubt and uncertainty. And the truth is that especially in areas of religion and faith, I am suspicious of people who are too sure. It's like they don't even know what they don't know. I contrasted Yiscah's declaration of not knowing with some conversations I have had with people who are very, very sure of what they believe. And I realized that the reason why those conversations leave me feeling uncomfortable is because there is no space in them for me to express my own doubts without having them erased by the other person's certainty. Whereas with Yiscah, I felt like I could talk to her all day about my struggles with belief, because she also has things she doesn't know.

I was raised Jewish but secular, which means that I was taught that religion is faith, and faith is different from fact. I was taught to be a critical thinker, to base my knowledge on science, and to not take anything at face value without doing my due diligence. But I also unequivocally believe in G-d and feel as though I do have proof, albeit nonscientific, that He exists. All of this together sometimes makes religious belief messy, especially as I have become observant, and can leave me feeling insecure in religious circles where everyone seems so sure all the time. So in the past, I would also pretend to be sure. I echoed what other people said and kept my mouth shut when questions bubbled up in my brain. A people-pleaser through and through, I was certainly not going to disappoint my intellectually and spiritually powerful teachers by asking a question that displayed the insecurity of my belief.

But recovery has been, in large part, about getting more comfortable with uncertainty. If nothing else, anorexia was definitely certainty, or at least the illusion of certainty, which was usually good enough for me. In recovery, I've had to get used to not knowing the nutritional information of everything I eat, not knowing my weight all the time, not living every day by the same rigid routine. I've had to ask myself Big Questions, like, "Do I want to find a partner?" and, "Should I buy a home?" and, "Am I ready to become a mother?" none of which have a clear answer. I just took the step of moving to a new apartment in a more suburban area, and the #1 question everyone asks me is, "Where are you going to go to shul?" I don't know. When I talk with people about wanting to adopt an older child through foster care, people ask how I am going to balance religious observance with the needs of a child who might not be Jewish by birth. I don't know. But if I delayed moving until I had settled on a shul, I would have missed out on this great apartment. And if I wait to become a foster parent until I have figured out all the details of how life with a hypothetical child will unfold, I will probably never become a foster parent, because who can be sure of anything like that? Believe me--I, more than most people, understand the need and desire for certainty. But I also know that that need can be paralyzing. Sometimes we have to make peace with not knowing.

I think one of the greatest gifts G-d gives to humans is that He doesn't allow us to know everything. We might strive for certainty, but usually we won't get it, and that's actually a good thing. It's good because it gives us freedom of movement, both physical and cognitive. It allows us to integrate new information, to assess situations objectively, and to change our minds. Not knowing gives us the ability to discover the world anew every time we dare to look at it differently. And while it might seem as though the people who "have it all together" are the ones who are sure of everything, it is actually the people who are brave enough to say, "I don't know," who know where it's at. I used to want to surround myself with certainty, but in recovery it is the Not Knowers who have become my people.

My hope for us is that we strike a healthy balance between knowing and not knowing. Too much of either can be destructive; the sweet spot is somewhere in the middle. And also that we not be afraid to admit our uncertainty, to ourselves or to others--because when we are brave enough to express doubt, we give other people permission to do the same. And who knows? Then maybe we can discover something new, together.

There is No God Proxy

Since my last post, I have been in the End-of-School-Year vortex: wrapping up teaching, finding a new apartment, booking movers, and planning summer travel. Some days, I feel like I am KILLING IT at this adulting thing...other days, I want to curl up on my futon and not do anything except watch the chimney swifts darting around in the sky outside (they always look like they are having the best time). Yesterday evening was of the latter type, and then it got dark out so no more chimney swifts, so I decided to search for a little inspiration online. I went on Instagram (sometimes a good idea, sometimes a tricky one) and saw that Laura McKowen had written a blog post in honor of her 1,000th day of sobriety.

One of the greatest blessings of my recovery is that I've found myself some truly outstanding teachers along the way. These women are some of the most open-hearted people I know, and they are all eager to share the wisdom they've gained from their own journeys. With some of my teachers, I've had close personal relationships; with others, like Laura, I've connected in person but know them mainly through their blogs or other online forums. Laura is a true gem. She positively radiates authenticity and she is brave as all get-out, even when being brave means saying, "I don't have anything figured out and am a total mess right now." So when I saw that she had been sober for 1,000 days, I immediately had to read her post about it.

www.lauramckowen.com

Laura lists 5 lessons she's learned in 1,000 days of sobriety. They're all perceptive and each one rings true for me, but #2 resonates with me the strongest. Here is Laura's second lesson from sobriety:

Don't make anyone your god.

Never before have I seen anyone articulate so clearly what I do all the time, what I have always believed to be proof that I am pathologically insecure or hopelessly needy or pitifully devoid of integrity. Maybe each of those things is a little bit true, but the bigger truth is that I haven't been negating myself, I've been trying to find myself. I've just been going about it the wrong way. And, while I've known for a long time that this pattern isn't healthy, it has been very, very hard to change it. Old habits die hard, and all that.

For me, making someone my god means that I adjust my words and actions to elicit the approval of another person. It means that I reach out with emails or texts and then wait, simmering with anticipation, for a reply--and, when one is late in coming, spin fantasies about what I might have done wrong to make this person not want to stay in touch with me. It means I let another person dictate what parts of me are acceptable and what parts need adjusting or squashing. It is giving higher weight to someone else's opinions and judgments than I give to my own. It is not believing in my own strengths and positive qualities unless someone else affirms them. And it is a driving hunger-- deeper and more desperate than any I ever felt for food--for connection with a person; a hunger that leads me to think, I will be anyone you want me to be--just don't leave me.

Without going into all the painful details, I'll just say this: making someone my god has never, ever ended well.

Laura's post got me thinking: when I make someone my god, what happens to my actual God? I still think about God when I'm davening or saying brachot or observing Shabbat, but I stop thinking about my relationship with God, because I am mistakenly looking for that relationship with another human. I am so busy seeking validation, praise, and affirmation from someone else that I forget I already receive all of those things from God. When I make someone my god, that person inevitably ends up disappointing me because humans cannot actually manage all that power. I also end up feeling out of control because I am flailing around in search of a security that doesn't exist. People were never, ever meant to be god.

Who I am, and how "okay" I am, is a matter that is solely between me and the God Who made me. Other people can have their opinions, but those are just human opinions, not Divine opinions. If I get rejected or rebuffed by another individual, that is human rejection, not Divine rejection. That's not to say it doesn't sting--it does, often badly--but it is not a final verdict on my worthiness. People might cause me to feel insecure or inferior, but those are just feelings, not facts. The fact is, I am fine. I am flawed, and I have things--many things--to work on, but at my core I am a good person who is deserving of love and belonging...and I can always find both of those things with God.

For sure, we need other people, and people's opinions matter. Connections with people matter. God cannot replace relationships with other humans, and I don't think He wants to. But if you find yourself trying to use people to replace God, if you are looking to human beings to affirm your baseline worth as an individual, I would suggest that you examine how that's working for you. Take Laura's advice: don't make anyone your God. You already have a God, and that God created you with love and care. You are who you're supposed to be. You're independent, remarkable, and intuitive. Use people to enhance those qualities, not to work against them. But never forget that God has already ruled: you are worthy. You are.

13 Reasons Why Not

For those of you who a) do not live in the U.S., b) do not keep up with Netflix, or c) do not associate with teenagers, consider this a friendly PSA: Netflix recently came out with a show called, "13 Reasons Why," about a teenage girl who dies by suicide and leaves behind a series of cassette tapes (nice throwback), each side dedicated to a classmate who she felt had wronged her enough to contribute to her death. The tapes get passed around from kid to kid with explicit instructions to listen to all 13 sides, and implicit instructions to feel guilty and ashamed for driving this girl to kill herself.

If you're anything like me, you might be thinking, "WTF is this show doing on television?!" or, "Who would even MAKE crap like this?" Well, not only has it been made, but it has created quite a sensation, particularly among teenagers and people who know/care about/work with them. I decided that before rushing to judgment, I should actually watch the show, and now that I have, I can tell you that while I do truly believe that the producers had noble intentions in making this series--bringing the issue of teen suicide and other difficult issues to the front of our collective consciousness--I also believe they got a lot of things wrong. While Hannah, the main character, is clearly depressed, the show does not discuss the issue of depression at all. It also does a disservice to mental health professionals by portraying the guidance counselor Hannah approaches as woefully inept, and I worry that this could discourage teens from seeking out adult help when they are struggling. And while I understand the argument that at least it's getting people talking about suicide and bringing the issue out into the open, but I would say that the danger of putting into the minds of teenagers the idea that you can get revenge on people by killing yourself (and then basically giving them a suicide how-to manual), far outweighs any "benefits."

I say all this as someone who knew two teenagers who took their own lives, one of whom was a former student of mine, whom I still think about daily. I also say this as someone who has spent her share of time in the throes of "passive suicidal ideation"--that is, wanting to die without having an actual plan to carry it out. For me, this was the worst part of all my mental health struggles, and it was never as dramatic as it is shown to be on "13 Reasons Why." No one wronged me, I had no terrible secrets, and I didn't need to make anyone "pay." I just didn't want to struggle anymore--I didn't have the heart or the energy for the hundred little daily battles that added up to more than I could bear. I was also seized by a deep-seated fear that I would always feel depressed and hopeless, and that my life would never get any better.

Fortunately, as a young adult in her 20s I was blessed with a gifted therapist, effective medication, and a fully functioning frontal lobe, all of which guided me to a place of knowing that despite sometimes feeling like I wanted to die, I would never actually take my own life. I knew that as firmly as I knew my own name, even as there were many things of which I was not sure: would I recover? Would my life amount to anything? I truly didn't know--but I knew I was in it for the long haul. Even now, there are days when my brain chemistry is wonky or I am feeling more depressed, and I have that thought: I hate my life. In my experience, thoughts of suicide are a bell that you can't really unring. The difference is that now, the thoughts come and go--they don't linger, and they don't scare me, because just as I knew it 10 years ago when I was really struggling, I know it now: I will never end my life. And here are some reasons...let's call them, "13 Reasons Why Not."

1) My parents. My single biggest reason to keep going has always been the love of the people who gave me life to begin with. My parents are my biggest cheerleaders and have always shown me that I am their priority, and that they love me whole. No matter how angry I ever got at myself, no matter how much fury I felt toward my life and the world, I always knew I would never, ever put my parents through the grief of losing their child to suicide. Absolutely never. No question. It's a non-starter.

2) G-d. So, I'll admit that while I have always had a firm belief in G-d, I'm a little hazy on some of the details, especially when it comes to suicide. I've read different opinions on what G-d "thinks" about suicide, but let's be honest: no one really knows. Still, I've always imagined that G-d would be disappointed if I bowed out early--not out of anger, but because He had a plan for me and I abandoned it. And if I can't handle disappointing people, I sure as sh*t don't want to disappoint G-d.

My Nana and I, circa 1984.

3) My Nana. Okay, so she passed away three years ago. Also, I'm not exactly sure what I think about the afterlife and whether or not you actually get to see people you loved who died before you. But if there's any chance that that happens, I definitely would not want to face my grandmother after having taken my own life. She was a fighter and a fiercely principled, loving woman, and she would NOT be okay with her only grandchild dying by suicide.


4) My other family members. My family is quirky (aren't all of ours?), but despite all the times I have had trouble connecting or have been distant or otherwise unavailable, they have stood by me. And I love them for it. Could I intentionally cause them the pain that would inevitably ensue if I ended my life? I really couldn't.

5) My friends and colleagues. Despite all the times when I think, I have no friends, I know that I actually do have some pretty amazing friends whom I love with my whole heart, and who would be devastated if I died. And then there's my work family, whom I'm with all day, five days a week, for 10 months of the year. There are lots of things we don't have in common, but there are more that we do, and I know that even though I sometimes feel "different" from them, they care about me deeply as a coworker, as a friend, and as a human being--and they would never want me to be gone for good.

A valentine from a former student.
Melt my heart.

6) My students, past and present. I love my students fiercely, and no matter how long ago I had them in class, they always remain "my kids." And I just could not put them through the trauma of having one of their teachers die unexpectedly. Not to mention the responsibility I have to be a role model, to demonstrate for them how to persevere through life's tough moments and to have faith in the future. "Suicide" is never what I want my students to think of when they think of me.

Baby robins!
It's the most wonderful time of the year!

7) Sunrise and sunset. Each one is different and beautiful and miraculous. Don't you want to see tomorrow's? I do.

8) Springtime. Honestly, is there a more wondrous season? Flowers are blooming, birds are chirping,  leaves are popping out, and baby animals are everywhere. It never, ever gets old. I am in a constant state of amazement every time I go outside from March through June, and I want to witness all the springs I possibly can.



9) You don't get to watch people's reactions to your death.  This is probably my biggest beef with "13 Reasons Why," or at least one of them: it fails to communicate to teens that you don't get to see what happens after you die. You don't get to see the crying, you don't get to watch the memorials, and you don't get to hear all the wonderful things people will say about you. You don't get to do any of that, because you're dead. That's it. It's final. Full stop.

10) Curiosity. Simply put, I'm interested to see how my life plays out. I have some goals and plans and, nebulous though they may be, I'm curious to see what I can make my life into if I put them into action. Teaching. Motherhood. Exploring. I bet a lot of things will happen that I'm not expecting, and some might be painful and others will be wonderful, but I still want to see how it turns out. I actually think it could be pretty great.

11) I can do more good alive, than not alive. It sounds obvious, because it is. Alive, I can teach my students, nurture them, and guide them to become self-confident, positive members of a community. Alive, I can love my family and friends and add to their lives. I can cuddle babies, I can water plants, and I can volunteer my time at causes that matter to me. Dead, I can't do any of that. And that matters.

12) Tikkun Olam. This is the Jewish belief that we are put in this world to "fix it up." Whatever our current situation, we have been brought there because there is some fixing that needs to be done, that only we can do. I like to believe that I am alive because I have not yet fulfilled my "fix-up mission" on earth. I want to be a fixer and a healer--and I definitely do not want to make this world more broken than it is right now.

13) "Pain comes and goes like clouds. Love is the sun." --Glennon Doyle Melton

PC: Lisa Randolph via Twitter

This is my favorite quote for dark times, for the times when depression sits like a brick in the middle of my skull and I don't feel good about anything. I love this quote because it has proven to be true, time and again--whatever crappy situation I find myself in, whatever intolerable feelings I am having, they all pass. It might take a few days, or even a couple of weeks, but they always fade away, and in their place is love. Not sunshine and roses everywhere, but love for the people in my life and for the beauty around me. Faith that the difficult times will pass has always been what keeps me going. It's true for me--and it's true for you, too.

If you have ever thought about ending your own life, I hope my list of "13 Reasons Why Not" inspires you to make your own list. Even if you can't get 13 things--even if you can get only one thing--that one thing is all you need. And let me be the one to tell you, in case no one else does: 

You are magnificent.

You are one-of-a-kind.

The world needs you.

Stay.

Please, please stay. It's been the best thing I've ever done. It will be for you, too. I know it.

Being Holey

You guys. I just finished the most AMAZING book:

www.goodreads.com

Not "amazing" as in, best writing I've ever seen, but "amazing" as in, Oh my G-d, this book understands me. I feel held by this book.

The plot lines of Glennon's life and my life don't really have much in common, but the subtexts sure do. Though I can't relate to being a wife and mother, I absolutely can relate to being mired in self-destruction and having to claw oneself out, only to discover that, Hey, adulting is hard. Life is hard. But life is also beautiful.

In one essay, Glennon writes about how we all live our lives searching for something. We each have an "unquenchable thirst," what author Anne Lamott calls our "God-sized hole." The struggle of life is trying to find things to fill this hole. Some people choose, perhaps obviously, to fill it with G-d. Other people fill it with work or relationships. And still other people, like Glennon and I, fill it with eating disorders and addiction. It all goes to the same purpose: feeling full. It's just that some people seek fullness from the wrong things.

When I think back to my eating disorder years, the word that first comes to mind is, hunger. There was physical hunger for sure, but there was also a deeper, more agonizing emotional hunger. I could satisfy my physical hunger, but the emotional hunger was never, ever satisfied. It just kept burning, and the hole kept growing, and I kept trying to fill it with more of the same things that weren't working: more starving, more exercising, more studying. In recovery, I've had to find different hole-fillers. My favorites are: work, nature, reading, writing, family, and friends. Those work much better. For me, recovery has been about finding positive hole-fillers, and using them regularly.

I don't think it's any coincidence that I became religious soon after letting go of my eating disorder. I had a huge hole to fill, and observant Judaism is a great hole-filler. It has given me structure and rules, a context within which to meet people, and a basis from which to define my values. And, it has given me a deeper connection to G-d, one of my greatest comforts (and challenges). I have known for a long time that my attraction to the religious life isn't purely a desire to live a "holy life"--it's a desire to fill the hole, albeit with something meaningful and nourishing. I don't think that's such a bad thing.

To an extent, it has worked, though I can't honestly say that Judaism and G-d fill me completely. They don't, though sometimes I feel like they should. I daven every day, I observe Shabbat, I keep kosher, I say dozens of brachot daily, and G-d and I have a chat every night before bed. It's soulful and lovely. But here's the thing: the hole is still there. I am still hungry, still seeking. You'd think that G-d would perfectly fill a "God-sized hole," but, at least in my case, it hasn't really worked out that way. And I think it's because, with very rare exceptions, we need other people. A person cannot subsist on G-d alone. And so when I feel hungry these days, in spite of the davening and the chatting with Hashem, I have a more honest assessment of what I need: more connection and more belonging. That is my work right now in recovery--getting myself those things. 

Glennon explains it this way:

"Some people of faith swear that their God-shaped hole was filled when they found God, or Jesus, or meditation, or whatever else. I believe them, but that's not been my experience. My experience has been that even with God, life is hard. It's hard just because it's hard being holey."

I couldn't agree more.

And what I've learned from Glennon through her writing is that everyone is holey. We all are.  While our instinct might be to stay quiet about our holes, we really should be doing the opposite, because being holey is something we can connect over. I know that when my friends come to me with their holes, when they say, I'm so lonely, or, I don't feel like I'm doing anything meaningful with my time, etc., I feel honored to meet them in their vulnerability, AND I feel energized because those holes are things we can talk about. Connection is a beautiful byproduct of our emptiness.

So if you, too, ever feel like you have a hunger that will never be satisfied, know that you're not alone. It's God-sized, which explains why it feels so big. And we all have one, even the people who hide it well. The secret is that the more we give voice to it, the more we use it to connect to nourishing people and life practices, the more it fills. Little by little. 

The Fall and the Comfort

And so, here we are. My last full day in Israel; I leave for the airport motza'ei Shabbat. To be honest, the primary emotion right now is exhaustion...there have been so many feelings during this time of transition that I don't really have the energy to endure any more. The grief and loneliness that come with leaving, the comfort of anticipating being back in an environment that I know like the back of my hand, the anxiety about travel and the pressure to reconnect with people back home...I'm feeling all of it. All the time. And it is so, so tiring.

Today is also Rosh Chodesh Av, the first day of the saddest month in the Jewish calendar and the beginning of the Nine Days, a period of mourning leading up to the 9th of Av. On 9 Av (Tisha B'Av in Hebrew), both the First and Second Temples were destroyed (there are also other calamities in Jewish history that are attributed to that date). It is a day of fasting and personal affliction, a day on which we are even prohibited to learn Torah. Unlike Yom Kippur, which is also a major fast day but brings with it the promise of teshuva and a fresh start, there is nothing uplifting about Tisha B'Av. It's all sad, all the time.

But then, there's a turning. The name of the month, Av, means "father." The custom is to add to it the word, menachem, which means, "comforter." So the full name of the month is often given as "Menachem Av," or, "Father the Comforter." In other words, in this month where there is so much sadness leading up to Tisha B'Av, Hashem (our Father, if you don't mind the gendered language) is there to console us.

I really like this idea, especially because I'm about to leave Israel and go back into the Diaspora, where holiness and connectedness sometimes feel very far away. But G-d is never far from me, no matter where I am. When I feel lonely and can't get in touch with anyone, I can remember that G-d is there to keep me company and comfort me. To some people, that idea might seem a little silly...I mean, G-d is not a person, so how can G-d really keep you company? I don't really have a good answer other than faith...and I'm glad I have that, because G-d is the One I can call on at any hour, on any day and in any place, whenever I feel lost and alone.

So, as I prepare to leave this place, I feel comforted by the knowledge that G-d is coming with me. And I also feel profoundly grateful for the past month that I have had here in Israel. I'm grateful to the staff and faculty at the Pardes Institute, who always make me feel like I've come home the minute I step into the building.  I'm grateful to my fellow students for challenging me and drawing me out of my shell in order to get to know me and connect. I'm grateful to my Israeli friends who went out of their way to see me while I was here. And I'm profoundly grateful to my teachers past and present, who continue to nurture me and serve as my surrogate family while I'm here. They take me into their homes, offer life advice and emotional support, and make sure I am safe and cared for in all ways. None of that can be replicated, but the warmth and security it generates can come with me. And believe me, I'm taking it all the way across the Atlantic.

So, I'm just about ready to go, or at least as ready as one can ever be to leave one's Favorite Place On Earth. But I think I'm leaving a little stronger and braver than I was when I got here. There's the fall, and then there's the comfort. Menachem Av.

What's a Woman Worth?

I know...I'm a delinquent blogger. I actually can't even think of a good excuse, other than, "life." But I have been thinking about writing and have had a post brewing in my head for a few weeks...so here it is.

Three weeks ago we read parasha Bechukotai, the last parasha in the book of Vayikra. Towards the end of the parasha the Torah speaks about "valuations," that is, how much monetary value gets assigned to a human life should one want to contribute the value of oneself to the Temple. The chapter opens with these verses:

וידבר יהוה אל–משה לאמר: דבר אל–בני ישראל ואמרת אלהם איש כי יפלא נדר בערכך נפשת ליהיה

Hashem spoke to Moses, saying: "Speak to the Children of Israel and say to them: If a man articulates a vow to Hashem regarding a valuation of living beings... (Vayikra 27:1-2)

The Torah then goes on to list how much a person is worth, as follows (in translation):

...the valuation of a male shall be: for someone twenty years to sixty years of age, the valuation shall be fifty silver shekels, of the sacred shekel. If she is female, the valuation shall be thirty shekels. And if from five to twenty years of age, the valuation of a male shall be twenty shekels and of a female ten shekels. And if from one month to five years of age, the valuation of a male shall be five silver shekels; and for a female, the valuation shall be three silver shekels. And if from sixty years and up, if for a male, the valuation shall be fifteen shekels; and for a female, ten shekels. (Vayikra 27: 3-7)

Okay, so I might be the Queen of the Obvious Question, but here it is: Why is a woman always worth less than a man?

The week of that parasha, I heard a beautiful dvar Torah given by Torah scholar and writer Tamar Biala, in which she referenced a contemporary midrash written by Rivka Lubitch. In the midrash, Rivka Lubitch focuses on one word in particular:

בערכך

which, she notes, doesn't actually translate as, "the valuation," but as, "your valuation." What does this mean? It means that it is not G-d who declared that a woman is worth less than a man; rather, it is humans who decided this. In the time that the Torah was given, the general consensus--among both men and women--was that males were worth more than females. Hashem understood this, and so the valuations were written to reflect it.

In other words, the problem is not that women are Divinely decreed to be of a lesser value than men. The problem is that women themselves feel that they are of a lesser value.

Now, I'd like to think that feminism has a strong enough foothold today that most of us would agree that a woman and a man should have equal value. But I know that in many cultures this is not the case, and even in my own culture, women receive messages--both overt and covert--that they are worth less than their male counterparts. These messages are troubling on many levels but they do the most damage when the women themselves buy into them. And we have bought into them. Nearly every woman and girl I've talked to who has a history of an eating disorder has expressed that at the heart of her struggles was the core belief, "I am not worthy."

I am not worthy of taking up space.
I am not worthy of help.
I am not worthy of food.
I am not worthy of love.

How much depression, shame, guilt, and self-hate could be avoided if we had a different view of our own worth?

This idea came up again for me this past week as we read parasha Nasso, specifically, the section about the Sotah or "Wayward Wife." In brief: if a husband suspected his wife of adultery but had no proof of either guilt or innocence, he should bring her before the Kohen. The Kohen would remove the woman's head covering (to shame her) and make her take an oath that if she had not committed adultery, there would be no curse, but if she had strayed, she would die. Then the Kohen would write out the oath on a scroll, dissolve it in water, and force the woman to drink it. If she was innocent, nothing would happen to her, but if she was guilty, she would die an unpleasant death.

I would say that's more than a little troubling and I could go on about it at length, but that's not for here.

Anyway, as I read those verses this past Shabbat and thought about the Sotah in conjunction with the issue of valuations, I began to wonder, "What would have happened if the women of that time had stood up and collectively said, 'ABSOLUTELY NOT!'?" What if they had said no to such a degrading and humiliating ritual? What if they had known that they deserved to be treated with more dignity, just as their husbands were? Now obviously, the women of that time would not have responded this way and it's unfair to project modern sensibilities onto ancient times, and all that. But to me, that is the real tragedy of the Sotah--that both the men and the women believed that was a reasonable way for women to be treated. There was no collective uprising of women who said, "I am too valuable to be subjected to this. I deserve better."

I think the lesson here is twofold:

1) G-d really does value all humans equally--it's just the humans themselves who have a different idea.

2) We cannot expect others to consider us worthy if we do not consider ourselves worthy.

And we are worthy. Of food, of love, of respect, of support, of happiness. G-d already knows this. He's just waiting for us to catch on.

Born With Purpose

Birthdays...on the surface, purely delightful; in reality, so much more complicated.  I don't know that I've ever had an approach to birthdays that wasn't at least partly tainted with anxiety:  I clearly remember crying on my ninth birthday because I WOULD NEVER. BE EIGHT. AGAIN. (Yup...I was that kid.)  Fast forward to my twenties, and I still received my birthday with mixed emotions; only then, it was due to the mire of anorexia and depression in which I found myself stuck.  Every year, my birthday would roll around and I would feel a deep pull of sadness as my own emotions failed to match those of my family and friends.  My parents' excitement was the hardest for me to assimilate:  they were celebrating a wonderful child they loved, and I felt like that child didn't really exist.  While I was grateful and comforted by their enthusiasm for my life, part of me remained convinced that I didn't deserve it.

Well, yesterday I officially entered my "early thirties"(!), and I approached the day feeling hopeful that maybe this would be the year when I would feel only (or at least mostly) happy on my birthday. After all, I've been through a lot of therapy, and I'm now in solid recovery and have a life that I enjoy and am proud of in many ways.  And yet, as the day neared, I felt myself getting on the old, familiar emotional roller-coaster of self-criticsm and guilt.  Luckily, I still happened to be working my way through Toward a Meaningful Life: The wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson by Simon Jacobson, and the chapter titled, "Birth," may have saved my relationship with my birthday.

The Rebbe's idea is simple, yet profound:  Your birth was the moment in which Hashem knew the world could not continue without you.  At the time you were born, Hashem put you on earth for a specific purpose; that moment was the beginning of your mission on earth.  Jacobson expresses the Rebbe's philosophy as follows:

"Many people seem to feel that because we didn't choose to enter the world, our birth is a stroke of coincidence or serendipity.  This couldn't be further from the truth.  Birth is G-d's way of saying that He has invested His will and energy in creating you; G-d feels great joy when you are born, the greatest pleasure imaginable, for the moment of birth realizes His intention in wanting you..."

Wow.

When I actually sat and thought about that--that Hashem put me here on purpose, to bring something to the world that only I could bring; that He created me with love and care and joy--I mean, I actually felt goosebumps.  That's not to say that I then rushed out to buy party hats and streamers, but I did spend some time thinking about what Hashem might have had in mind when He created me...when He breathed my soul into my body, what was the hole in the world that He was hoping I would fill?  How can I use the many, many gifts with which I've been blessed to not just imagine a better, more sacred world, but actually help create one?

My suspicion is that for many of us in recovery (and for many other people, too), birthdays are a mixed emotional bag.  I offer this teaching of the Rebbe's in the hope that if your birthday approaches and you feel there's nothing to celebrate, you remember that even if you don't think you're special, at the moment of your birth G-d felt nothing but joy.  He created you filled with purpose and Divine light...and all of it is still inside you, just waiting to be let out.

So, as another year of my life begins, I feel profoundly grateful to all the people whom Hashem has put in my life to help me along my path:  my amazingly devoted parents and family; my friends who nourish me with both fun and authentic connection; my students who fill me with passion and purpose; my teachers who believe in the power of my mind and heart...and, this little community here, because through our collective energy we release a little more light into this world.  May we all be blessed with such supports and able to use the gifts they give.

Remember:

"Birth is G-d saying you matter." -- The Rebbe



     

Get Out of the Rut

Although Shavuot technically is one of the major Jewish festivals, it's not a holiday that I grew up hearing a lot about.  Probably this is because, aside from staying up all night learning and eating ice cream (yay!), Shavuot doesn't require much in the way of ritual.  There is no frantic house-cleaning, no fasting, no costumes, no traditional gift-giving.  And yet, Shavuot has become one of my favorite holidays as an adult.  What it lacks in typical markers of festivity, it makes up for in themes:  Shavuot is a time for recommitment and rejuvenation, for getting ourselves out of whatever spiritual ruts in which we've found ourselves.

Perhaps I find it particularly meaningful because my Hebrew birthday is Sivan 4, just two days before Shavuot begins.  I'm not really sure what one is technically supposed to do on one's Hebrew birthday, but I like to use this time to do a sort of spiritual self-assessment--a re-clarification of priorities, an acknowledgement of progress, and a rededication of effort in areas that are still lacking.  This dovetails beautifully with the themes of Shavuot...and also, I've realized lately, of recovery.

When the Jews received the Torah at Sinai, it was a MAJOR event...so monumental that it would have been impossible to sustain that level of intensity for the thousands of years that were yet to come.  How were the Jewish people supposed to remain energized once the excitement and novelty of receiving the Torah wore off?  The answer is Shavuot:  our annual acknowledgement of reaccepting Torah and of figuring out what that means to us, in this moment.  In this way, the process of receiving Torah becomes actively ongoing and our relationship with Torah--and with Hashem--remains dynamic and exciting.  Shavuot gives us an opportunity to reestablish the basics as well as to add layers to our practice so that it reflects our continuing growth.

Recovery works in much the same way.  That initial commitment to recovery is exciting, but let's be honest--miles down that path, it's easy to get stuck in a rut.  These are the times when we might not be regressing, but we're also not progressing--we're just sort of hanging out, not feeling particularly energized.  This is when it's helpful to reassess our personal definitions of progress in recovery.  What we once considered a monumental leap forward might be old hat by now, and we might need to set a new goal as a way to keep the process from getting stale.  Personally, I believe that "full recovery" is not a fixed point, but an evolving state of being, as what we need to feel satisfied and nourished by life is bound to change with time.  Similarly, no one is ever "done" accepting Torah--it is a process that needs to be revisited year after year, with new goals and fresh energy.

This year on Shavuot I invite all of us to (gently) reassess ourselves:  Where are we Jewishly, and where are we in recovery?  How can we reinvigorate ourselves and move forward?  I hope that all of us can find ways to recommit ourselves to our processes and to grow in directions that we find fulfilling.

Being Ready to Receive

In nine days we will begin our celebration of Shavuot, the commemoration of the day when Hashem gave the Torah to the Jewish people.  I really love this holiday and its theme of recommitment...I even love staying awake all night learning Torah, despite my usually strict adherence to an early bedtime as mandated by the teaching profession.  There is something about listening to the Ten Commandments being read aloud at the break of dawn that gives me goosebumps every time.

I came across an article by intellectual giant Adin Steinsaltz that (I think) beautifully captures the important distinction between Hashem's giving of the Torah, and the Jewish people's receiving of it.  Although they clearly go together, they are not the same event.  Steinsaltz points out that while the giving of the Torah was a one-time, top-down event, the receiving of the Torah was--is--an ongoing process that occurs from the bottom up.  Although the Jewish people were willing to accept Torah right away, evident by their declaration of, "All the words that Hashem has spoken, we will do and we will hear!" (Shemot 24:7), it actually took a long time for them to be able to commit to living out the words of Torah.  The Jews always knew they wanted it, but they just weren't ready right out of the gate.  It took time for them to truly absorb what they had been given.  Steinsaltz explains:

"The receiving itself is not just a matter of passively listening to the message of Torah; it is an act of committing oneself to absorbing the poetry and the principles, and carrying out the commandments all the days of one's life.  To begin with, there had to be a certain receptive state of mind--'We shall do and we shall hear'--in order for the Torah to be given.  On the other hand, the inner meaning of this formulation of readiness only became evident later, as expressed by the words of Moses forty years later when, in taking leave of the people, he said, 'And G-d did not give you a heart to know and eyes to see and ears to hear until this very day' (Deuteronomy 29:3).  And indeed, only many generations later could it be said that the people of Israel had developed a heart able to know the Torah designated for them."

Now, while I would never fully equate recovery with receiving Torah, I do think there are some genuine parallels we can draw in the sense that both are drawn-out processes that depend on a gradual increase in readiness.  In recovery, we might know what we need to do long before we are ready to actually do it.  Although our treatment team gives us the tools, it might take an extended period of time for us to muster up the fortitude to use them.

For most of my recovery I worked with one outstanding nutrition therapist. There was a period of time many years ago in which I became frustrated with my compulsive need to measure everything I ate.  Each time I brought it up, my nutritionist would suggest stopping the measuring.  Although intellectually I knew it was a great idea, my response was always, "Mmmm...nah, I don't think so."  This went on for months, until finally I entered a session with her and said, "I want to stop measuring!"  Even then, we both knew I wouldn't be able to go cold turkey--so, she coached me through letting go of measuring one food item at a time.  My nutritionist was ready to hand me Freedom From Measuring long before I was ready to receive it...but she understood that, and was patient with me throughout the entire process.

I really wanted to be able to recover immediately, just like the Jewish people had every intention of fully accepting Torah.  But the reality is that recovery is not a linear process, and neither is receiving Torah--both are ongoing and challenges do pop up along the way, requiring us to shift and reaffirm our commitments.  However, just as Hashem was--is--patient with the Jewish people throughout the evolution of our ability to receive, so too should we be patient with ourselves as we find our ways through recovery.  It isn't only the end result that matters--it's the entire process of getting there.  As Shavuot draws near, I invite all of us to assess honestly the progress we've made over the past year, and to recommit to the journey!

Small Yet Mighty!

The past two weeks have been unusually trying ones, headlined by a major crisis at work and filled in with the more-mundane-yet-still-stressful demands of my professional and personal lives.  I've had to pull out all my tricks in the name of maintaining some semblance of emotional equilibrium, and what I've discovered is that learning Torah makes for some great distress tolerance.  Text study exercises my intellectual powers and allows me to shelve my feelings for a bit, permitting me to operate in a realm that is dominated by the analytical--not the emotional.  Over the past ten days, when I've needed to ground myself in something I've often found myself turning to my chumash.

If you like cubits and animal sacrifices, the past two weeks' worth of parshiot would be right up your alley.  Personally, I don't find either of those topics overly compelling, but this week in particular I found something in the parasha that grabbed me.  It's small (I like small things), it's mysterious (fun!)...it's...

A little aleph.

Yep, a little aleph, right there at the end of the first word of the parasha:  vayikra. Why the tiny letter, in a text written painstakingly and precisely by hand?

The word, vayikra (ויקרא), can be translated as, "and He called" (as in, Hashem called to Moshe).  The Sages explain that the word, called, indicates a degree of closeness and affection that Hashem felt for Moshe.  Without the aleph, however, the word becomes, vayikar (ויקר), which means, "He happened upon."  Vayikar denotes a coincidental or accidental relationship, and in comparison with the implied meaning of vayikra, is indicative of an inferior connection.  It is also used to describe Hashem's interaction with Bilaam, the gentile prophet known for being haughty and indifferent to the power of Hashem in the world.  In contrast, Hashem calls to Moshe, a man who is the epitome of humility and sensitivity to the Divine presence.

That distinction seems to make solid sense...but why is the aleph at the end of vayikra so tiny?  The Sages teach that it is because Moshe was so humble that he didn't believe he deserved for Hashem to call to him; he thought the word, vayikar, was prestigious enough for him.  Hashem, on the other hand, wanted to express His affection and love for Moshe through the use of the word, vayikra.  Because Moshe was so uncomfortable with the idea that he merited that supreme honor, Hashem compromised with him and allowed Moshe to write vayikra with a little aleph.

What I take from this is that humility is an important virtue...but so is recognizing one's significance.  It's almost as if Hashem said to Moshe, "I know you think you're not special, but *I* know that you are.  I won't force you to publicly acknowledge that you are exemplary, but neither will I let you forget that you are precious in My eyes."

Jewish tradition makes it clear that Moshe Rabbenu was one of the greatest men our people has ever known; yet, this man with so many gifts was also plagued by self-doubt.  Part of what (I think) makes Moshe such an inspiring personality is that he was able to find balance between recognizing his uniquely prestigious role among the Jewish people, and believing that he was completely ordinary.  Moshe found a way to acknowledge and honor his value without letting it consume him or alienate him from other people or from Hashem.  This balance is what the little aleph symbolizes.

We all need the little aleph in our lives.  We need to believe that although we are not everything, we are something.  We might not be the most important person in the entire world, but we are uniquely created and loved by Hashem.  And, we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that at times when we're not able to believe that we have value, Hashem will keep the little aleph handy as a way to call to us and remind us of our specialness and importance to this world.

Purim...Unmasked

Last year at this time, I explained why Purim has never been one of my favorite Jewish holidays.  This year as the holiday approached once more, I felt myself sighing a little bit internally in anticipation.  Recently someone asked me what I was going to dress up as for Purim, and my instinctive first thought was, "Well, nothing."  I do not enjoy wearing costumes; if I'm not performing on a stage, I don't do it.  I just don't think it's fun, and maybe it's my rigid streak talking, but I don't like pretending to be someone I'm not.  Which, when I think about it, strikes me as incredibly ironic, because I feel like I have actually spent--and continue to spend--quite a bit of my life pretending to be someone I'm not.  I tend to present myself in a way that I think other people will find appealing.  This doesn't mean I adopt a completely false persona, but it often does mean putting myself out there so that only selective parts of myself are revealed.  A political science professor whose course I took during my freshman year at college had a favorite saying: "It is not truth that is important, but that which is perceived to be."  I think, consciously and unconsciously, in the past I applied the same principle to my own life.  It didn't matter what was actually true about me; it mattered what other people thought was true about me.

Which brings me to Purim, and the custom of wearing costumes and masks.  Recently I learned that the words, Megilat Esther, themselves reveal a lot of the meaning behind this tradition.  The word megilat -- מגילת -- comes from the root גלה, which means to uncover, to reveal, or public.  In contrast, the name Esther -- אסתר -- comes from the root סתר, which means to cover, to hide, or private.  During Purim, wearing disguises helps us remember that we all have our public selves that we present to the world.  Beneath those exterior displays, however, are our true selves that we often choose to keep private.  Purim is a reminder that no one is completely as he or she appears to be.  We each have a hidden inner self that, though often afraid to make itself known, deserves to be seen.

The most elaborate mask I've ever worn was the mask of anorexia.  For years, I never took it off, lest anyone see the scared, lost me who cowered underneath.  As a result, every interaction I had during that time was with someone who only saw my outward persona.  Every connection was superficial because no one got to know who I really was. In fact, I kept the mask on for so long that I forgot who I was.  A central piece of my recovery has been finding ways to "go natural."  I began by taking off the anorexia mask in private (or in therapy) and giving myself time to figure out who I was underneath.  Then, I started identifying people with whom I felt it would be safe to be more genuine, and I began to let them know me.  Over time, that list has grown longer and longer, to the point where I now feel that while I still throw a tiny bit of a disguise on once in a while, overall the self I'm presenting to the world is me. 

In an article titled, "Being You -- A Purim Insight", Sara Tzafona writes:

"We can't possibly discern our purpose while attending a masquerade ball within our personal worlds.  We're not listening to G-d's message, or even trying to find it, if we are spending our time creating false personalities or attempting to become replicas of others rather than focusing on who we are meant to be.

It's pointless, because the world doesn't need replicas of others; the world needs authentic people who aren't afraid to reflect the G-dly soul that was given to them, who aren't afraid to go natural in this razzle-dazzle world that ridicules morality and ethics and authentic purpose.  

We have an obligation to shrug off the artificial masks that we present to the world, because each of us has a job that can be performed by no one else.  There can only be one me, one you, and one Esther.  We must all do our jobs.  And all jobs are created equal, though not the same.  All jobs provide a vital piece to the mosaic of this world, a vital channel to its healing."

This Purim, I wish for all of us the ability to enjoy the festivities...and then, when it's over, to find a safe space in which to take off our masks.  I hope that each of us can find a corner of the world in which we can shine our true light, as only our authentic selves can do.

Your Body is Your Donkey

Although they don't carry quite the same level of drama found in previous parshiot, I really enjoy reading the aspects of civil law expounded in parashat Mishpatim, which we read last week.  One of the things I find so fascinating about traditional Judaism is the code of ethics at its core--fundamental to the religion is the understanding that how people treat one another is just as important as all the ritualistic displays of piety.

There are several verses within Mishpatim that I could probably spend hours discussing, but one of my favorites is as follows:

"If you see the donkey of someone you hate collapsing under its burden and would refrain from helping him, you shall surely help with him." (Shemot 23:5)

On its surface, this verse explains that it is virtuous to come to the aid even of a person whom you might have good cause to hate.  While one's first response might be to let the hated person (and his animal) suffer, one should not let those negative emotions get in the way of offering assistance.  That interpretation of the verse has always been the one with which I've grappled, but this past week I learned of a new way to read the text that allows me to interact with it in an entirely new way.

The Hebrew word for donkey (chamor) shares the same root as the word for physicality (chomer).  The Baal Shem Tov explains that a person might see his/her body as the enemy of the soul, unable to live up to the soul's lofty aspirations.  In such a case, the person might seek to punish the body by ignoring its needs or trying to pound it into submission.  According to the Baal Shem Tov, through this verse the Torah instructs us to resist the urge to discipline our bodies through deprivation or suffering--rather, we should seek to nurture and refine our physical selves.

This idea resonates with me because it addresses head-on the trap that many of us fall into--viewing our physicality as our enemy.  When we become convinced that our bodies are what block us from reaching our full potential, it is a natural response for us to attempt to "revamp" our physical selves through training regimens that inevitably place our bodies under considerable strain.  The actual process might look different for each of us, but the outline is the same:

Thought:  My body is not cooperating.
Action:  Discipline, discipline, discipline--the harsher, the better!
Outcome:  The body collapses.
(And, yes--in some way, shape, or form, that is ALWAYS the outcome.)

The Torah teaches us to take a different approach.  Rather than view our bodies as obstacles that must be overcome in order to live our best lives, perhaps we should find ways to see the G-dliness within our physical selves.  Instead of ignoring our bodies when they cry out to us, maybe we could try a compassionate approach and offer our bodies the rest and comfort that they need.  It's true that the body is different from the soul--it is more focused on the "here and now," and is less concerned with the abstract, spiritual pursuits that occupy the soul.  When we are trying to transform our internal selves into more evolved people, it can be frustrating to take into account the limits and needs of our physical selves.  However, our bodies are not nuisances to be fought or ignored.  Just like our souls, our bodies were also created by Hashem and need to be cared for and assisted so that we can become our best, most integrated selves.

I wish for all of us the willingness to understand that self-improvement does not need to come at the expense of our bodies.  Our challenge is to seek out a state of balance between our spiritual and physical selves, in which all aspects of ourselves work together to create a unified, harmonious whole.  The Torah's command is a good place to start--the next time you notice that your body is straining under its burden, instead of looking the other way, try extending compassion to it, instead!

Tricky Number Ten

As parshiot go, this past week's--Yitro--was a Big One.  Amid tremendous spectacle at Mt. Sinai, Hashem revealed to the Israelites the Ten Commandments.  Although the rest of the Torah would not be given until later, this first phase was monumental in its own right.  For a full translation of the Commandments, visit this page...but, for the sake of brevity, I'll give a quick recap:

1.  I am Hashem, your G-d.
2.  You shall have no other gods besides Me.
3.  You shall not take the Name of Hashem in vain.
4.  Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
5.  Honor your father and mother.
6.  You shall not murder.
7.  You shall not commit adultery.
8.  You shall not steal.
9.  You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10.  You shall not covet.

Commandments 1-4 are pretty essential to the essence of Judaism, so it seems logical that the list would lead with these.  Regarding Commandments 6-9, these are critical guidelines for morality, not to mention vital to the safety of the community and the maintenance of public order.  Although I'm sure no one enjoys a completely conflict-free relationship with his or her parents, it does make sense that (except in the most extreme circumstances) it is a child's duty to honor his or her parents by respecting them and providing them with what they need, materialistically and emotionally, as they age.

But what about Commandment # 10?

Personally, I find this to be the trickiest one of all.  It is the outlier on the list because unlike the rest, which primarily govern our actions, this one is directed at our thoughts.  While it is relatively easy to control what we do, it is a lot harder to control what we think--especially when the thought is fueled by such a common emotion as jealousy.  Is it realistic to think that a person could honestly live in a culture such as ours and never allow herself to feel envious of someone else?  Furthermore, let's say I do feel jealous...as long as I don't go out and actually steal the thing I want, or murder someone to get it, is the feeling itself really so bad?

Well, although I'm no master scholar, I've learned enough Torah to know that nothing is in there by mistake.  So, I decided to look a little closer at Commandment # 10 and see if I could figure out why it merits being on the same list as "You shall have no other gods besides Me," and "You shall not murder." I started by thinking about the role that "coveting" has played in my life.

Interestingly, my first memory of coveting something of my neighbor's dates all the way back to preschool, when I was fiercely jealous of my friend's long, silky, braided pigtails.  I watched the way she would whip those braids around her head with confidence and flair, something I knew I would never, ever be able to accomplish with my standard-issue bowl cut (which, although adorable in retrospect, seemed at the time to be most unfortunate).  I looked at my hair in the mirror in dismay.  If I could just have those braids, I thought, I would be a better version of me.  I was four years old.  What an early age at which to start seeing myself as "less than" someone else!

This sense of never measuring up favorably, of wanting someone else's skills, style, or demeanor, only continued.  I was jealous of my friends' athletic talents, singing voices, and fashion sense; I envied their social ease and confidence.  When I was struggling with anorexia, I strove to make my body smaller and smaller until I could win the much-sought-after title of "sickest girl"--something I never seemed able to attain.  The side effect of all this coveting was that I never stopped to appreciate what I did have--the skills I possessed, the achievements I'd accomplished, the character traits that made me special.  I was so busy focusing on what everyone else had, and what everyone else's life must be like, that I neglected to nurture my own strengths and validate my own journey.

For me, coveting has rarely been about material items, but it has nearly always been about personhood.  Simply put, I was never satisfied with who I was, and I felt that if I could only have whatever "it" was that other people internally possessed, I'd finally be a person worthy of positive attention, a person who mattered.  I think this mindset of self-negation is what makes coveting so dangerous.  When we want something someone else has so badly that we convince ourselves that we need it in order to be worthy/happy/successful/etc ourselves, we invalidate our own value as the people we actually are.  Additionally, coveting leads us to forget that Hashem designed each of us to fill a unique space in the world.  We are not meant to all look the same, act the same, or all have the same things.  When we covet that which is not ours, we are essentially saying that we know how our lives are supposed to be better than Hashem does.  This is NOT to say that we should just sit back and passively take whatever comes our way with the understanding that Hashem will provide us with everything we need.  On the contrary, we should take an active role in our own lives, but we should do so in a way that is authentic to who we really are--not in a way that tries to make us into someone else who we assume, "has it all."

I have by no means mastered the art of Thou Shall Not Covet, and I have a feeling that it is going to be a work in progress for a while.  But, I do feel that I am more aware of when I slip into that mindset, and I understand better the harm it causes to my relationship with myself and to my relationship with Hashem.  I wish for all of us--myself included--the ability to replace thoughts of, "I don't have enough ________", with the thought (and belief) that not only do we HAVE enough, but we ARE enough--as is.

Sing Your Inner Song

This past Shabbat was Shabbat Shira, the Shabbat on which we commemorate the miracle of Hashem splitting the sea and of the Israelites crossing through it, on dry land, to freedom.  Central to parashat Beshalach is שירת הים, The Song of the Sea.

This week I learned that there are differing views as to when the Israelites sang the Song.  At the end of the Song comes Shemot 15:19, which reads:

"When Pharoah's cavalry came with his chariots and horsemen into the sea and Hashem turned back the waters of the sea upon them, the Children of Israel walked on the dry land amid the sea."

According to Ibn Ezra, this verse is part of the Song; the crossing of the Israelites is included in the list of miracles that Hashem performed for the Israelites.  However, other commentators (including Ramban and Sforno) offer a different view.  They hold that this verse came after the Song, and therefore the Jews sang the Song while they were still in the process of crossing the sea.  I can see the validity of both positions, but personally I prefer the latter.  The idea that after all their years of slavery--years in which their bodies and spirits were pushed to the breaking point, years in which they nearly lost all hope--the Israelites still had within them the power of song, strikes me as poignant and powerfully moving.  Despite all their anxiety and fear, the Jews recognized that they were on a journey of liberation, and so they celebrated even before their passage was complete.  From this we can learn a valuable example of how to keep our inner song alive through difficult times, and how to emerge from periods of personal darkness with our voices strong.

Personally, I found that the darkness of my eating disorder was accompanied by silence--both external and internal.  Not only could I no longer hear my own song, but I also had lost the ability to express myself in any way other than monotone.  Singing (or at least singing well) requires emotions and a sense of connectivity to the present moment and the world at large.  Recovery is about reopening those channels of connection and reawakening emotions from the eating disorder-induced state of dormancy. I know that I often found this process a bit overwhelming, and it was frightening to get back in touch with the power of my own song (who was I to try to add my voice to this world?!)...but what I discovered is that my song had never really gone away--I just had to release the "mute" button.  I find that to be both comforting and remarkable...the idea that despite everything, my heart never forgot the words to its own song and was just waiting to be allowed to sing once more.

Just as the Israelites did not wait to finish crossing the sea before they began singing, neither should any of us believe that we must be "done" with recovery before we can begin to use our own voices.  What merits celebration is not only the finish line, but also the journey--the willingness to take step after step in faith toward a fuller, more authentic life.

One of my favorite poets is Mary Oliver, who explores this theme of the resilience of the inner song in several of her poems in the collection, Red Bird.  I'm including here one that I particularly love...I hope it resonates with some of you, as well!

I will try

I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world

www.fineartamerica.com

to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again and--
but wait.  Be still.  Listen!
Is it red bird?  Or something
inside myself, singing?

Out of the Straits...

I'll be honest:  I'm not much of a psalms person.  As much as I enjoy davening, I just haven't really gotten into the whole tehillim routine.  Saying tehillim is on my list of things I "should" do, but don't yet feel any deep emotional motivation to actually put into practice.  That said, this past Shabbat was Rosh Chodesh Shevat, and when the congregation began reciting Hallel on Saturday morning, I found myself actually reading some of the psalms...and wouldn't you know...

...something grabbed me.

That "something" is from the opening to Psalm 118:

.מן המצר קראתי יה, ענני במרחב יה
From the straits did I call upon Hashem; Hashem answered me with expansiveness.

The commentary in my siddur explains that this psalm reflects gratitude and confidence.  Just as Hashem lifted King David out of his personal struggles and into glory, so too can we hope to be brought out of our own narrow places and into a freer, more radiant existence.

The idea of being liberated from confinement and released into the openness of the world resonates with me deeply (especially as I also think of this week's parasha, Bo, and the developing story of the Exodus).  I remember well the feeling of being stuck in a narrow, compressed existence, one with limited vision, little hope, and seemingly no good options.  From within that place, although I felt that I had no faith left, my spirit called out to Hashem...and He did answer me.  He placed supportive people into my life and gave me the determination to use the help I received; He brought hope back into my heart, and He gave me the courage to take one step at a time until I was able to exit the cramped world of anorexia and reenter life.

There was a time when the expansiveness of life scared me.  The world was too fast, too loud, too overwhelming.  So, I built myself a tiny fortress and closed myself off from the challenges--and joys--of navigating the wider world.  The problem was that after a while, the fortress ceased to be satisfying...but because it was so sturdily constructed, I couldn't get myself out of it.  Once my desire for freedom became genuine, Hashem helped me return to the very openness I had once shunned.

I remember attending a panel of recovery speakers several years ago, back when I was first entering the final push of my own recovery.  One of the women compared her eating disorder to, "a train to nowhere"...and recovery, she said, was the "train to everywhere."  She could stop the train wherever she wanted, get off and explore, then resume the ride.  If she wanted to truly experience life, that train was the only one that would get her anywhere worth going.  I found this analogy so powerful that when I got home from the panel, I made a drawing of my own "train to everywhere" and hung it on my bulletin board, where it still sits to this day.  When I feel myself start to get scared to take risks or to stop myself from growing, the "train to everywhere" reminds me of what this whole process is about:  having the freedom to take my life in whatever direction I want, and being able to breathe deeply and fill my lungs with the fresh, open air of life.

Sometimes I think back to the years I spent in my fortress and remember how for so long I found its narrowness comforting and familiar.  But, although the real world can be surprising and challenging at times, I continue to be grateful for being able to experience the breadth and depth of life.  My wish for you is that you also find the courage to venture out into the open.  The expanse can seem overwhelming, but it is also full of brightness and beauty.  Give yourself permission to take from, and contribute to, the abundant world that Hashem created.

Fire and Ice

In this week's parasha, Va'eira, Hashem begins inflicting the Ten Plagues on the Egyptians.  The seventh plague is hail--a tremendous hailstorm descends on Egypt, raining down icy precipitation that destroys all the plant life and also causes significant damage to the animals and humans.  But, this is hail with a twist:  deep inside every hailstone is a burning flame of fire.

Finding this to be a curious detail, I searched for an explanation.  I learned that the Zohar teaches that while the plagues were indeed intended to punish Pharoah and the Egyptians, they also served to teach the Israelites important lessons about spiritual growth.  The ice and fire in the hail symbolize two different personalities that reside within each individual.  Hail represents an "icy" personality, someone who is cold toward others and appears unable to love, connect, or be passionate about anything.  In contrast, the fire represents the spark of positive energy with a person--that which allows an individual to feel compassion, empathy, and enthusiasm for life.  Although each person carries that spark within, sometimes it is hidden underneath an icy veneer.  However, if the flame burns hot enough, it can melt the ice and burn freely.

To me, this sounds a lot like the dichotomy between who a person becomes when she or he has an eating disorder, and who that person actually is.  Although I was never what one would call "bubbly," growing up I definitely had a sparkle to my personality.  I had a sense of humor; I was affectionate; I was contagiously enthusiastic about my various passions.  When I fell into anorexia, all of that disappeared behind a wall of impenetrable ice.  I stopped valuing my relationships and prioritized my food and exercise obsessions above everything else.  I had very little to talk about with other people; I lost interest in nearly everything.  I felt as though I was wrapped inside my own narrow world, frozen off from the seemingly carefree existence that other people enjoyed.  In some ways, I craved the ice--the world was too big, too chaotic, and too loud; I longed for smallness, simplicity, and quiet.  Simply put, ice was safer than fire--easier to contain, and less likely to harm.

But, there was always a flame inside me, and my early recovery was nurtured by the people who were determined still to see it.  Even if I had forgotten who I was, people who loved me had not...and they found gentle yet powerful ways to remind me of the spirited person I once had been.  As I continued on my path, I discovered new ways to cultivate my spark:  teaching, hiking, writing, and learning are among the many activities that keep me passionate and connected.  I now have energy to feel love toward other people, and I'm aware that this is a beautifully self-perpetuating cycle:  my inner flame allows me to demonstrate love and care toward others, and the authentic relationships that form as a result are what stoke my fire and keep my energy burning.

So, my message here is two-fold...

To parents, partners, friends, and loved ones of a person with an eating disorder:  remember that the individual who is struggling is still who she or he was before the illness took hold.  Even if this person seems devoid of energy, passion, and motivation; even if she or he seems impossible to reach, remind yourself that buried under that ice is the person you love.  Find a way to see the spark within your loved one, and nurture it as best as you can, until the person once again can recognize her or his own inner fire.

To the person struggling with an eating disorder:  I know life feels dark, cold, and often hopeless.  But, remember that your illness is not who you are.  It might feel like it has taken over, but you are more resilient than you think.  After all, Hashem breathed your soul into you, so you have a piece of the Divine within.  That's a flame that will never burn out!  Trust the people around you who try to show you your spark--they know what they're talking about.  Dig deep and find that flame...and slowly but surely, it will melt the ice and bring you back to life.

On Being Authentic

Happy 2013!  This past week I savored a much-needed school vacation and was fortunate to spend it in the company of good friends.  I had many conversations with a wide variety of individuals, some familiar friends and others whom I had just met...and a persistent theme kept recurring: authenticity.  Despite our differences, what we were all talking about was our desire to honestly represent ourselves, to be seen for who we truly are.  Some of us are in situations in which that's relatively simple; for others it is much more challenging.  However, we all identified with the struggle of trying to remake ourselves in the image of others and how, at a certain point, self-respect wins the day and we no longer have the patience to be anything other than what we are.

Not surprisingly, this is a major theme of my personal journey through recovery.  In the early stages, my mantra was, I will be whoever you want me to be.  I actually remember telling my therapist that if other people would only just tell me what they wanted from me, I'd gladly do it, as long as they'd then be my friends. (Needless to say, any "friendships" I made via that strategy never lasted very long!)  It took a lot of time and energy in therapy before I began to really understand myself and what my values, strengths, and passions were.  At some point, I changed my mantra to, "This is who I am...if that's okay with you."  I was willing to represent myself honestly, but only if I felt sure that the other people involved wouldn't have a problem with the way that I was.  I had a sense of self, sure, but it definitely wasn't worth getting into a conflict--if I sensed any disapproval, I reverted back to my former stance of pretending to be the person I thought others wanted.  It wasn't until relatively recently, in the late stages of recovery, that I've finally begun saying, "This is who I am"--with no qualifiers attached.  To be sure, I'm still self-protective and don't go looking for confrontations--if I feel pretty confident that who I am will not be well received by someone, that's probably someone I'll avoid hanging out with.  But, I'm no longer willing to lie about myself, either.  Speaking my truth has become an aspect of my self-respect.  I believe I am worthy of being seen--and respected--for who I actually am.  I recognize that not everyone will respect me for who I am, but that doesn't mean I need to change fundamental aspects of myself.  I am fine the way I am...and although some people won't appreciate that, enough people will.

So, what does Judaism say about this?  Interestingly, I recently read a commentary on this week's parasha, Shemot, in which Rabbi Zelig Pliskin attributes the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt at least in part to their own lack of self-respect.  He cites Rabbi Chayim Shmuelevitz as saying that once the "important" generation of Israelites (Joseph and his brothers) died out, the Jewish people lost a sense of themselves as a people worthy of respect.  Once this happened, the Egyptians had no problem subjugating them and making them into slaves.  What I take from this is that when we cease honoring ourselves, we permit other people to cease honoring us.  When we stop saying, "This is who I am", we allow other people to make us into whatever they want us to be...and this certainly is a form of enslavement.

Truth and honesty are Jewish values.  When we are honest about who we are, we elevate our own integrity.  If we misrepresent ourselves, we give other people a reason to question our truthfulness in general.  I would also argue that because each of us was made b'tzelem Elohim--in Hashem's image--we have a responsibility to live honestly as He created us.  We are who we are for a reason, and when we honor ourselves by being authentic, we add a needed spark to the world.

In closing, I'll offer the words of Rabbi Tzvi Freeman, who wrote the following based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:

What is your job in this world?  It is to become truth.
How do you become truth?  By not lying to yourself.  
It is not that you must do whatever you do with sincerity.
Sincerity itself is the work you must do.
It is what you must become.

Wishing us all a sincere, authentic start to 2013!

The Best Laid Plans...

I really dislike curveballs...

...and yet, life seems to enjoy throwing them.

You know how it is...you have a plan, one that excites you and energizes you, one that you think will move your life in the direction you want it to go, and then...WHAM.  Curveball.  So much for the plan.

Very recently, I found myself in this situation--a plan that I had looked forward to with great hope and excitement suddenly fell apart and left me back at square one.  Now, it's true that I've been in therapy for over a decade, but let's be real--the demise of a Really Good Plan is still cause for some serious emotional crumbling.  First thought:  Now what will I do?  Second thought:  I can't do anything.  Third thought:  I don't want to eat.

Yep, that was the third thought, because even in recovery, I know that when I am vulnerable, that's where my mind goes.  But the amazing thing about recovery is that I can recognize such a thought as a red flag and can intervene before ever putting that thought into action.  So, instead of not eating, I did the following:  I cried; I reached out to someone I trusted; I distracted myself; I took a nap (all of which, it should be noted, ultimately were way more effective than going hungry).  And, I thought about the concept of bitachon.

Bitachon is translated as trust.  It is a way of applying the concept of "faith in Hashem" to one's everyday life.  If you have faith in Hashem, then you should trust Hashem.  But what does that mean?

On a simplistic level, it means understanding that Hashem would never make us go through something that wasn't ultimately for the greater good.  It also means acknowledging that we don't see the whole picture--only Hashem can do that.  Consequently, we might have plans that seem perfect to us, but maybe they won't ultimately get us where we need to go--and when that happens, Hashem intervenes and foils our plans.  This may seem devastating to us because we can't see where we are headed--all we can see are our ruined plans.  But, remembering that Hashem creates reality in a way that is for our benefit--and the world's--can help us trust that even that which seems bad, might lead us somewhere good.

However, it's important to understand that bitachon does NOT mean being complacent or believing that "everything will be fine if I just sit back and trust Hashem."  Rav Shimshon Pincus Zatzal explains that when we are confronted with adversity, it is misguided bitachon to convince ourselves that there is no problem and that Hashem will handle everything.  Rather, bitachon means acknowledging the severity of the challenges we face and using the tools Hashem has given us to lift ourselves out of problematic situations.  Bitachon is not passive--it is the active channeling of our trust in Hashem to propel ourselves forward.

Personally, I like this idea of bitachon much better than the notion that I just should be happy no matter what my circumstances, because Hashem is taking me where I need to go.  I mean, I have faith in Hashem, but I also believe in personal agency--and bitachon is the intersection of the two.  Perhaps that "great plan" of mine actually wasn't in sync with Hashem's big picture--I can accept that.  I can also use the skills and tools that Hashem has given me--determination, resourcefulness, thoughtfulness, patience--to find another option for myself that is better aligned with what Hashem ultimately wants for me.  Yes, life threw me a curveball...but, I don't need to throw up my hands and wait for the next pitch to smack me in the face.  I can pick up my glove, channel my fielding skills...and trust that Hashem will help me catch it.