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.
Showing posts with label Israel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Israel. Show all posts
Friday, August 25, 2017
Friday, August 5, 2016
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.
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.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Lessons From an American Buddhist Nun
Well, it's happening: my time in Israel is winding down. A week from Sunday, I will be heading home to the States. My summer program at Pardes finished yesterday, and that was when it hit me that I was going to have to say goodbye to everything and everyone that has been so precious to me this summer. Now, this isn't new; it happens every year and every year it's awful. But this year I am feeling it particularly acutely, I think because my connections were so authentic and so nourishing. I was able to really put myself out there and let myself be seen, and the reward was total acceptance--not something I experience on a daily basis at home. Who would want to say goodbye to that? Not I.
So I woke up this morning with "gray goggles" on and thought, "I am not going to get through this day." But I got myself together and went out to meet a friend, which helped for a couple of hours...but I had only been back in my apartment for about ten minutes when I started crying. I just felt such a void, so much loneliness--my brain just kept saying, Fill it, fill it, I can't bear it. Distract with something, anything.
So I picked up a source sheet from one of my classes because, desperate times. Now, this was an AMAZING class, and the last session focused on "losing and finding meaning." The source sheet boasts an impressive variety of contributors; to name a few: Rav Soloveitchik, Leo Tolstoy, Woody Allen, and Fred Rogers. For real. But I bypassed all of those in favor of an excerpt from an interview with the American Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron:
"For me the spiritual path has always been learning how to die. That involves not just death at the end of this particular life, but all the falling apart that happens continually. The fear of death--which is also the fear of groundlessness, of insecurity, of not having it all together--seems to be the most fundamental thing we have to work with. Because these endings happen all the time! Things are always ending and arising and ending. But we are strangely conditioned to feel that we're supposed to experience just the birth part and not the death part.
We have so much fear of not being in control, of not being able to hold on to things. Yet the true nature of things is that you're never in control...You can never hold on to anything. That's the nature of how things are. But it's almost like it's in the genes of being born human that you can't accept that. You can buy it intellectually, but moment to moment it brings up a lot of panic and fear. So my own path has been training to relax with groundlessness and the panic that accompanies it."
That's it.
That's how I feel right now, and how I feel at the end of every summer in Israel. I want to hold on to everything. I'm afraid of losing my connection to Judaism and my connection to the people I care about here. I hate the groundlessness I feel when I transition away from this place. And what accompanies all of this is grief--for the loss of people and places that are such a big piece of my heart, even if I know they're not really leaving me and I can still stay in touch. But it's not the same. And it does feel like death. The joy I felt at the beginning--that was the birth part. And what I'm experiencing now--this is the death part.
But that's how it is. It's unavoidable. And I do panic: What if I can't come back next summer? What if my friends forget about me? What if they don't respond to my emails? What if I have to spend an entire year feeling lonely and spiritually unfulfilled? And on and on. But I recognize these thoughts, and I am able to label them as Typical Leaving Israel Thoughts; this doesn't take the sting out of them but does let me relax into them a little bit because I know they're normal. I'm allowed to be sad, because endings are hard. But I have strategies: I can go for a walk; I can watch the birds; I can write. I can bring my grief to people I trust and say, Here it is. You don't have to fix it. You don't have to make me feel happy. Just be with me where I am. Help me relax with the groundlessness.
And yet, there is still so much love. So much sun. And one week left, which I plan to enjoy as best as I can while still making room for All The Feelings. Going into this Shabbat, I am profoundly grateful for all that I have been given over the past month, because those blessings are precisely what makes leaving so hard. I think I'm the lucky one.
So I woke up this morning with "gray goggles" on and thought, "I am not going to get through this day." But I got myself together and went out to meet a friend, which helped for a couple of hours...but I had only been back in my apartment for about ten minutes when I started crying. I just felt such a void, so much loneliness--my brain just kept saying, Fill it, fill it, I can't bear it. Distract with something, anything.
So I picked up a source sheet from one of my classes because, desperate times. Now, this was an AMAZING class, and the last session focused on "losing and finding meaning." The source sheet boasts an impressive variety of contributors; to name a few: Rav Soloveitchik, Leo Tolstoy, Woody Allen, and Fred Rogers. For real. But I bypassed all of those in favor of an excerpt from an interview with the American Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron:
"For me the spiritual path has always been learning how to die. That involves not just death at the end of this particular life, but all the falling apart that happens continually. The fear of death--which is also the fear of groundlessness, of insecurity, of not having it all together--seems to be the most fundamental thing we have to work with. Because these endings happen all the time! Things are always ending and arising and ending. But we are strangely conditioned to feel that we're supposed to experience just the birth part and not the death part.
We have so much fear of not being in control, of not being able to hold on to things. Yet the true nature of things is that you're never in control...You can never hold on to anything. That's the nature of how things are. But it's almost like it's in the genes of being born human that you can't accept that. You can buy it intellectually, but moment to moment it brings up a lot of panic and fear. So my own path has been training to relax with groundlessness and the panic that accompanies it."
That's it.
That's how I feel right now, and how I feel at the end of every summer in Israel. I want to hold on to everything. I'm afraid of losing my connection to Judaism and my connection to the people I care about here. I hate the groundlessness I feel when I transition away from this place. And what accompanies all of this is grief--for the loss of people and places that are such a big piece of my heart, even if I know they're not really leaving me and I can still stay in touch. But it's not the same. And it does feel like death. The joy I felt at the beginning--that was the birth part. And what I'm experiencing now--this is the death part.
But that's how it is. It's unavoidable. And I do panic: What if I can't come back next summer? What if my friends forget about me? What if they don't respond to my emails? What if I have to spend an entire year feeling lonely and spiritually unfulfilled? And on and on. But I recognize these thoughts, and I am able to label them as Typical Leaving Israel Thoughts; this doesn't take the sting out of them but does let me relax into them a little bit because I know they're normal. I'm allowed to be sad, because endings are hard. But I have strategies: I can go for a walk; I can watch the birds; I can write. I can bring my grief to people I trust and say, Here it is. You don't have to fix it. You don't have to make me feel happy. Just be with me where I am. Help me relax with the groundlessness.
And yet, there is still so much love. So much sun. And one week left, which I plan to enjoy as best as I can while still making room for All The Feelings. Going into this Shabbat, I am profoundly grateful for all that I have been given over the past month, because those blessings are precisely what makes leaving so hard. I think I'm the lucky one.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Love Is the Sun
So. Remember how, in my last post (all about how happy I was), I said:
"I know the happiness won't last forever, probably not even for the duration of this summer program. I'm a mood cycler, and eventually the downswing will come."
Well, today was one of the Down Days.
I felt the shift beginning yesterday, and I thought, Oh...it's happening. And then I woke up this morning, and I couldn't access the pure elation of the previous week at all. I went to class, and all the material felt hard; I observed the participation of my classmates but couldn't bring myself to chime in. At one point, a fellow student caught my eye, smiled at me, and said, "How are you?" So I did what I always do when I'm not feeling it--I fake it to the best of my ability. I dug up a smile, pasted it on my face, and said, "Good! How are you?" Social obligation fulfilled.
Now, there's no real reason why I am emotionally slogging through today, whereas last week I was on a happiness high. Nothing bad has happened; nothing good has gone away. I just know that some days are like this, and when it happens, it doesn't really do me much good to wonder why. Rationality doesn't help; "looking on the bright side" doesn't help. But there are a few things that do:
1) Perspective. Over the years I have experienced the full range of moods, ranging from lying on the floor in the fetal position and not wanting to wake up the next morning, to genuine happiness and inner peace. The mood I am currently experiencing is somewhere in the middle. It's not the best, but it's also not the worst. It's uncomfortable, but it's something I can deal with. I know how to do this because I have done it before.
2) Time. With regard to my own personal mood cycles, the most important thing I have learned is that given enough time, things will even out and I will feel better. This truth has proven itself over and over--if I can just hang in there and take care of myself, the waves of negativity will wash away. Now you might be thinking, "Wait-it-out is not a viable strategy for combatting true depression," and I would say that you are correct. When I have been truly depressed, the most essential tools in my arsenal have been therapy and medication. Actually, those are still tools I use regularly, which probably explains why I have fewer episodes of genuine depression than I used to. But of course, there are lots of shades of low moods that aren't as extreme as depression, and those also need to be dealt with. For me, recovery does not mean that my mood is always positive, or even on the positive end of the spectrum. But it does mean that I know how to handle darkness, and that I take the initiative to combat it however I can...and one of the ways is by telling myself, "This will pass," and then doing something to distract myself in the meantime.
Glennon Doyle Melton recently wrote a profoundly brave and honest post on her blog, Momastery, in which she explores what it feels like to literally be at emotional rock bottom--a place in which death doesn't seem like such a bad option--and how to lift yourself up just enough to know that life is always worth fighting for. I'm linking the whole post here and I encourage you to read it in its entirety, especially if you or someone you know is struggling/has ever struggled with thoughts of suicide. These issues need to be de-shamed and talked about honestly, and Glennon opens up the dialogue thoughtfully and articulately. When I read her piece, I thought, "Yes. That's exactly it." And here is the part that I have taken with me and integrated into my core, the part that best captures what my experience of depression and lowness has been like in recovery:
"You just don't follow Despair's directions. You wait the despair monster out. You let it yammer away and try to scare the shit out of you and then you remember that despair is loud, but it's a LIAR...
Am I able to do this because I beat the monster? Because it leaves me alone now? NO! Still speaks to me. It's just not the BOSS of me. I just say: Oh, shut up. You lie. Pain comes and goes like clouds. LOVE IS THE SUN."
And that's really it. Pain comes and goes like clouds, but LOVE IS THE SUN. So today, as I waited for the clouds to pass, I did my best to engage in learning, got myself a yummy drink at a cafe after class, sat outside on the porch and read, reached out to a friend, and wrote. I still felt down, but I told myself, "This is just clouds, and love is the sun." And here in Israel, thank G-d, I have access to so much love.
I think it might just be a sunnier day tomorrow.
"I know the happiness won't last forever, probably not even for the duration of this summer program. I'm a mood cycler, and eventually the downswing will come."
Well, today was one of the Down Days.
I felt the shift beginning yesterday, and I thought, Oh...it's happening. And then I woke up this morning, and I couldn't access the pure elation of the previous week at all. I went to class, and all the material felt hard; I observed the participation of my classmates but couldn't bring myself to chime in. At one point, a fellow student caught my eye, smiled at me, and said, "How are you?" So I did what I always do when I'm not feeling it--I fake it to the best of my ability. I dug up a smile, pasted it on my face, and said, "Good! How are you?" Social obligation fulfilled.
Now, there's no real reason why I am emotionally slogging through today, whereas last week I was on a happiness high. Nothing bad has happened; nothing good has gone away. I just know that some days are like this, and when it happens, it doesn't really do me much good to wonder why. Rationality doesn't help; "looking on the bright side" doesn't help. But there are a few things that do:
1) Perspective. Over the years I have experienced the full range of moods, ranging from lying on the floor in the fetal position and not wanting to wake up the next morning, to genuine happiness and inner peace. The mood I am currently experiencing is somewhere in the middle. It's not the best, but it's also not the worst. It's uncomfortable, but it's something I can deal with. I know how to do this because I have done it before.
2) Time. With regard to my own personal mood cycles, the most important thing I have learned is that given enough time, things will even out and I will feel better. This truth has proven itself over and over--if I can just hang in there and take care of myself, the waves of negativity will wash away. Now you might be thinking, "Wait-it-out is not a viable strategy for combatting true depression," and I would say that you are correct. When I have been truly depressed, the most essential tools in my arsenal have been therapy and medication. Actually, those are still tools I use regularly, which probably explains why I have fewer episodes of genuine depression than I used to. But of course, there are lots of shades of low moods that aren't as extreme as depression, and those also need to be dealt with. For me, recovery does not mean that my mood is always positive, or even on the positive end of the spectrum. But it does mean that I know how to handle darkness, and that I take the initiative to combat it however I can...and one of the ways is by telling myself, "This will pass," and then doing something to distract myself in the meantime.
Glennon Doyle Melton recently wrote a profoundly brave and honest post on her blog, Momastery, in which she explores what it feels like to literally be at emotional rock bottom--a place in which death doesn't seem like such a bad option--and how to lift yourself up just enough to know that life is always worth fighting for. I'm linking the whole post here and I encourage you to read it in its entirety, especially if you or someone you know is struggling/has ever struggled with thoughts of suicide. These issues need to be de-shamed and talked about honestly, and Glennon opens up the dialogue thoughtfully and articulately. When I read her piece, I thought, "Yes. That's exactly it." And here is the part that I have taken with me and integrated into my core, the part that best captures what my experience of depression and lowness has been like in recovery:
"You just don't follow Despair's directions. You wait the despair monster out. You let it yammer away and try to scare the shit out of you and then you remember that despair is loud, but it's a LIAR...
Am I able to do this because I beat the monster? Because it leaves me alone now? NO! Still speaks to me. It's just not the BOSS of me. I just say: Oh, shut up. You lie. Pain comes and goes like clouds. LOVE IS THE SUN."
And that's really it. Pain comes and goes like clouds, but LOVE IS THE SUN. So today, as I waited for the clouds to pass, I did my best to engage in learning, got myself a yummy drink at a cafe after class, sat outside on the porch and read, reached out to a friend, and wrote. I still felt down, but I told myself, "This is just clouds, and love is the sun." And here in Israel, thank G-d, I have access to so much love.
I think it might just be a sunnier day tomorrow.
Monday, July 11, 2016
I'm...Happy?
First things first: breaking the One Meal Rule worked out great. I had an amazing Shabbat! In case you were concerned.
Second: today was my first full day of classes at the Pardes Institute, which has been my summer intellectual home for the past 5 years. Here is today's low-down:
1) How Much Are You Worth? Introductory Talmud (Bava Kama)
I might be totally outing myself as a geek here, but there is something so fun about working your way through a piece of Talmud. It's like a gigantic puzzle. And in an intro class, no one is really good at it, and I like that I have permission not to be good at it yet, but to enjoy it nevertheless. Today, my chevruta and I began studying the civil laws of "damages." It's amazing how compelling that can actually be.
2) Modern Jewish Thought: G-d, Torah, Chosen People
This class totally blew my mind. Wide open. I'm not really a philosophy person, except apparently I am, because I am loving every minute of this. I left today's class with a ton of unanswered questions, which, when you're engaged in Jewish learning, is the sign of a successful day.
3) Beauty and the Beast: Power, Seduction, and Challenges of Vanity
I mean, what's not to love about that? The instructor is one of my all-time favorite teachers and you would not believe how much she can cram into two and a half hours. I'm still digesting it. But let me just say, if you've ever wondered how the story of Adam and Eve relates to Pandora's Box, I now can explain it to you.
So anyway, it was a great day. And the weirdest thing happened, about midway through the afternoon class: I realized I felt happy. This is a big deal. I am not a person whose baseline emotion is, "happy." While I wouldn't say I'm unhappy, I'm usually neutral at best. There are times when I feel content, but happy is not a word I attach to myself often. And yet, here I was, in a windowless classroom in Pardes, and it occurred to me that I loved where I was. I was intellectually and spiritually engaged; I was having stimulating conversations with interesting people; I was reunited with people close to my heart in a place that is important to me. And I felt happy. It was so weird! But I loved it.
I know the happiness won't last forever, probably not even for the duration of this summer program. I'm a mood cycler, and eventually the downswing will come. But I'm not worried about that right now. I feel competent, brave, and energized. Maybe that's what happiness does for you? I'm not sure, but I'll take it.
Happiness...so sweet, especially when it's rare. I'm going to do my best to enjoy it!
Second: today was my first full day of classes at the Pardes Institute, which has been my summer intellectual home for the past 5 years. Here is today's low-down:
1) How Much Are You Worth? Introductory Talmud (Bava Kama)
I might be totally outing myself as a geek here, but there is something so fun about working your way through a piece of Talmud. It's like a gigantic puzzle. And in an intro class, no one is really good at it, and I like that I have permission not to be good at it yet, but to enjoy it nevertheless. Today, my chevruta and I began studying the civil laws of "damages." It's amazing how compelling that can actually be.
2) Modern Jewish Thought: G-d, Torah, Chosen People
This class totally blew my mind. Wide open. I'm not really a philosophy person, except apparently I am, because I am loving every minute of this. I left today's class with a ton of unanswered questions, which, when you're engaged in Jewish learning, is the sign of a successful day.
3) Beauty and the Beast: Power, Seduction, and Challenges of Vanity
I mean, what's not to love about that? The instructor is one of my all-time favorite teachers and you would not believe how much she can cram into two and a half hours. I'm still digesting it. But let me just say, if you've ever wondered how the story of Adam and Eve relates to Pandora's Box, I now can explain it to you.
So anyway, it was a great day. And the weirdest thing happened, about midway through the afternoon class: I realized I felt happy. This is a big deal. I am not a person whose baseline emotion is, "happy." While I wouldn't say I'm unhappy, I'm usually neutral at best. There are times when I feel content, but happy is not a word I attach to myself often. And yet, here I was, in a windowless classroom in Pardes, and it occurred to me that I loved where I was. I was intellectually and spiritually engaged; I was having stimulating conversations with interesting people; I was reunited with people close to my heart in a place that is important to me. And I felt happy. It was so weird! But I loved it.
I know the happiness won't last forever, probably not even for the duration of this summer program. I'm a mood cycler, and eventually the downswing will come. But I'm not worried about that right now. I feel competent, brave, and energized. Maybe that's what happiness does for you? I'm not sure, but I'll take it.
Happiness...so sweet, especially when it's rare. I'm going to do my best to enjoy it!
Friday, July 8, 2016
The "One Meal Rule" Was Made to Be Broken
Ah, Israel. Land of milk, honey, and feral cats. So good to be back!
The cool thing about returning to a place every year is that you can see how much better you get at navigating that place. The first time I was on my own in Israel, I was pretty much at a loss--couldn't communicate, couldn't navigate, had no idea what was safe and what was not, etc. But as this summer's trip got started, I noticed that I was handling pretty well things that would have really challenged me in years past:
1) Figuring out how to get from Tel Aviv to my apartment in Jerusalem
2) Filling several day's worth of free time before my program started
3) Going to a medical clinic for a small (non-recovery related) issue and asserting myself with an Israeli doctor
There were two things that very nearly pushed me over the edge, but I held on. First, when I had already been waiting 30 minutes to check out in the grocery store and a woman with a VERY full cart told me to move back and cut right in front of me. I wanted to cry, but I did not. I saved it for when I got back to my apartment and realized I had no internet connection. THEN I cried. But I got some help and handled it, and in a few hours it was up and running. Success! So far, so good!
But then, there was the issue of Shabbat plans. It just so happens that everyone who would normally host me for Shabbat is out of town this week, so as of last night I had no plans for either Friday night or Saturday lunch. Now, at home this would be no big deal--I am by myself for most Shabbats and actually like it because it gives me some quiet downtime after a week of teaching. But in Israel, spending Shabbat alone somehow feels more pathetic than it does at home. Still, I had pretty much convinced myself that it would be fine, when one of my teachers, who takes me under her wing every summer, texted me and asked what my plans were. Even before the words, "I don't have any," left my fingertips, I thought to myself, "She's not going to like this...." Now, I've explained the whole "quiet Shabbat alone" thing to her before, but she's Israeli and Israelis operate under a different paradigm--it is a cardinal rule that One Should Never Be Alone On Shabbat, and this goes even for die-hard introverts like myself. So it didn't surprise me at all when my teacher responded with, "Do you want me to call a friend?" I didn't think it would pan out, though--so last minute! And I'm vegetarian! Who would take that on? Well, I don't know exactly how she did it, but within 12 hours my teacher had nabbed me a place at a lovely family's table for Friday night. And then a few hours later I got ANOTHER text from my teacher, saying she had found a lunch meal for me, as well, with two young women I'd actually met one time on a previous visit.
I knew, objectively, that this was just what I needed--I now had plans for BOTH meals and would not be lonely at all. But on the other hand was my One Meal Rule: at home, if I get invited to one Shabbat meal, I'm off the hook for the other one. Dinner out = lunch at home, and vice versa. It's hard to say exactly why Shabbat meals stress me out, but mostly I think it's the unknowns: how long will it last, will I be able to leave when I want, who else will be there, what will we eat, what will we talk about, what will I say, etc. It's all just a little overwhelming...and even as I was maybe 90% happy to accept the lunch invitation, there was 10% of me that started to panic: "Too much! Too much! I can't!"
But then I thought, wait a minute...actually, I can. I am the one who made it from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem speaking only in Hebrew. I am the one who, though I lacked the vocabulary to stick up for myself, did have the wherewithal to give a dirty look to the woman who cut me in line at the supermarket. I am the one who got creative when I learned that my apartment didn't have any ice cube trays (in Israel? In the summer?!) and figured out that I could use the refrigerator's egg trays, instead. And I am the one who chose be honest and tell my teacher that I had no plans for Shabbat, knowing that she would do what good friends always do: get you what you need. So I can certainly swing two meals out in the same Shabbat weekend. Will it push my limits? For sure. But I have a feeling I will be glad I did it. And I feel very fortunate to have people in my life, like my teacher, who will go out of their way to help me grow.
So, if I never post again, you can assume that breaking the One Meal Rule did me in. But I have a feeling I'll be back next week!
The cool thing about returning to a place every year is that you can see how much better you get at navigating that place. The first time I was on my own in Israel, I was pretty much at a loss--couldn't communicate, couldn't navigate, had no idea what was safe and what was not, etc. But as this summer's trip got started, I noticed that I was handling pretty well things that would have really challenged me in years past:
1) Figuring out how to get from Tel Aviv to my apartment in Jerusalem
2) Filling several day's worth of free time before my program started
3) Going to a medical clinic for a small (non-recovery related) issue and asserting myself with an Israeli doctor
There were two things that very nearly pushed me over the edge, but I held on. First, when I had already been waiting 30 minutes to check out in the grocery store and a woman with a VERY full cart told me to move back and cut right in front of me. I wanted to cry, but I did not. I saved it for when I got back to my apartment and realized I had no internet connection. THEN I cried. But I got some help and handled it, and in a few hours it was up and running. Success! So far, so good!
But then, there was the issue of Shabbat plans. It just so happens that everyone who would normally host me for Shabbat is out of town this week, so as of last night I had no plans for either Friday night or Saturday lunch. Now, at home this would be no big deal--I am by myself for most Shabbats and actually like it because it gives me some quiet downtime after a week of teaching. But in Israel, spending Shabbat alone somehow feels more pathetic than it does at home. Still, I had pretty much convinced myself that it would be fine, when one of my teachers, who takes me under her wing every summer, texted me and asked what my plans were. Even before the words, "I don't have any," left my fingertips, I thought to myself, "She's not going to like this...." Now, I've explained the whole "quiet Shabbat alone" thing to her before, but she's Israeli and Israelis operate under a different paradigm--it is a cardinal rule that One Should Never Be Alone On Shabbat, and this goes even for die-hard introverts like myself. So it didn't surprise me at all when my teacher responded with, "Do you want me to call a friend?" I didn't think it would pan out, though--so last minute! And I'm vegetarian! Who would take that on? Well, I don't know exactly how she did it, but within 12 hours my teacher had nabbed me a place at a lovely family's table for Friday night. And then a few hours later I got ANOTHER text from my teacher, saying she had found a lunch meal for me, as well, with two young women I'd actually met one time on a previous visit.
I knew, objectively, that this was just what I needed--I now had plans for BOTH meals and would not be lonely at all. But on the other hand was my One Meal Rule: at home, if I get invited to one Shabbat meal, I'm off the hook for the other one. Dinner out = lunch at home, and vice versa. It's hard to say exactly why Shabbat meals stress me out, but mostly I think it's the unknowns: how long will it last, will I be able to leave when I want, who else will be there, what will we eat, what will we talk about, what will I say, etc. It's all just a little overwhelming...and even as I was maybe 90% happy to accept the lunch invitation, there was 10% of me that started to panic: "Too much! Too much! I can't!"
But then I thought, wait a minute...actually, I can. I am the one who made it from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem speaking only in Hebrew. I am the one who, though I lacked the vocabulary to stick up for myself, did have the wherewithal to give a dirty look to the woman who cut me in line at the supermarket. I am the one who got creative when I learned that my apartment didn't have any ice cube trays (in Israel? In the summer?!) and figured out that I could use the refrigerator's egg trays, instead. And I am the one who chose be honest and tell my teacher that I had no plans for Shabbat, knowing that she would do what good friends always do: get you what you need. So I can certainly swing two meals out in the same Shabbat weekend. Will it push my limits? For sure. But I have a feeling I will be glad I did it. And I feel very fortunate to have people in my life, like my teacher, who will go out of their way to help me grow.
So, if I never post again, you can assume that breaking the One Meal Rule did me in. But I have a feeling I'll be back next week!
Sunday, July 3, 2016
And...I'm off!
Well, the time has nearly arrived--I'm leaving for Israel tonight! The end of the school year was so overwhelming that I really didn't start thinking about this trip until maybe a week ago, and then I realized, "I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO!" But now, the to-do list is all checked off, the bags are packed, and my anxiety and I are ready to go.
Because, let's be honest, there is so much I can be anxious about! There are any number of possible flight problems, things that can go wrong with luggage, transportation issues, etc. I know I won't be wholly at ease until I finally arrive at my apartment in Jerusalem. Simply put, I like to be where I'm going, but I don't like getting there.
But, PG, I will get there. And, of course, I have some goals.
The first is related to physical health. I have been at a healthy place for a long time, but in the past month or so I've managed to boost myself up a little bit more so I could begin exercising...and I've managed to maintain it. I like how my body feels right now, and I'm proud of what I've managed to accomplish. Any long stretch of time away from my usual routine and environment can pose challenges, but I feel ready to tackle them this summer. It will be work, but it's work I think I can do--and I'm determined to give it my best effort.
The second is related to emotional health. Last summer was the first time I experienced symptoms of depression while in Israel, and it totally threw me off because Israel was supposed to be my "happy place." So I've been proactive this time around and have arranged a bit of a safety net--people I can text or call when I feel like isolating but really need connection.
My third goal is just...to be present. It's as simple and complicated as that. I want to learn new ideas and meet new people, maybe even make some new friends. I want to be myself and not worry about what others might be thinking. If there is an opportunity to do something fun and spontaneous, I don't want to be so chained to my routine that I can't take advantage of it. I want to have fun. And be connected, and be enriched. All those forms of nourishment that Israel is so uniquely good at providing.
And, hopefully I will be back here often over the next month to write about my experiences! So stay tuned :).
Lehitraot!
Because, let's be honest, there is so much I can be anxious about! There are any number of possible flight problems, things that can go wrong with luggage, transportation issues, etc. I know I won't be wholly at ease until I finally arrive at my apartment in Jerusalem. Simply put, I like to be where I'm going, but I don't like getting there.
But, PG, I will get there. And, of course, I have some goals.
The first is related to physical health. I have been at a healthy place for a long time, but in the past month or so I've managed to boost myself up a little bit more so I could begin exercising...and I've managed to maintain it. I like how my body feels right now, and I'm proud of what I've managed to accomplish. Any long stretch of time away from my usual routine and environment can pose challenges, but I feel ready to tackle them this summer. It will be work, but it's work I think I can do--and I'm determined to give it my best effort.
The second is related to emotional health. Last summer was the first time I experienced symptoms of depression while in Israel, and it totally threw me off because Israel was supposed to be my "happy place." So I've been proactive this time around and have arranged a bit of a safety net--people I can text or call when I feel like isolating but really need connection.
My third goal is just...to be present. It's as simple and complicated as that. I want to learn new ideas and meet new people, maybe even make some new friends. I want to be myself and not worry about what others might be thinking. If there is an opportunity to do something fun and spontaneous, I don't want to be so chained to my routine that I can't take advantage of it. I want to have fun. And be connected, and be enriched. All those forms of nourishment that Israel is so uniquely good at providing.
And, hopefully I will be back here often over the next month to write about my experiences! So stay tuned :).
Lehitraot!
Sunday, June 30, 2013
See the Birthing
The end of the school year is always a crazy time for me as a teacher. This year was no exception, as I discussed in a previous post. Aside from all the logistical hoops through which I had to jump, there was also the poignancy of saying goodbye to my flock of third grade graduates, to whom I'd become deeply attached. I thought that this year I might not have much time to dwell on the transition, due to my impending departure (tomorrow!) to Israel...incorrect! I always, always have time for Transition Anxiety because, if I'm going to be honest, "change" isn't really my thing.
Sure enough, not even one day after closing up my classroom for the summer, I felt the anxiety set in. For ten and a half months of the year, work is my world and "teacher" is my identity. My colleagues are my "other family," and each year my heart grows just a little bit larger to hold a new class of students, all of whom become "my kids." When I am at work, I know who I am and I like that version of myself. I thrive on the structure of my days, and I know how to deliver what is expected of me. No matter how much I need summer vacation, it is always a tough adjustment. I usually feel a bit lost without my usual routine, I miss the easy social connections I have with the other teachers, and I definitely miss the kids. At the bottom of all of this is the unspoken question, Who am I outside of teaching? It's murky territory, and I don't like it.
Coincidentally (or not?), when I picked up my copy of, Toward a Meaningful Life: The wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, this past Shabbat, I opened directly to the chapter titled, "Upheaval and Change." To be fair, most of the Rebbe's teachings in this chapter are intended to refer to global upheaval and catastrophic events, but I think they can be applied to personal life changes and transitions, as well. Put generally, the Rebbe says that when things around us are changing, we can use our relationship with Hashem to ground us. Upheaval gives us the chance to separate who we are from our material world, to get in touch with that which is at our cores and does not change. Additionally, he teaches that change is an opportunity for growth:
"Our sages teach, 'Who is wise? The one who sees the birthing' [Talmud, Tamid 32a]--not just the darkness, but how it leads to light. Growth occurs in three stages: an embryonic state, a void between old and new, and a state of transformation. Upheaval is the middle, chaotic stage. From our human perspective, it may appear as an abyss, but in the larger view, it is the first sign of something new, a birthing."
I think recovery is definitely this way--the "letting go" stage, when we release our hold on the eating disorder but don't yet have anything positive to cling to, certainly can feel like a frightening abyss. But, as the Rebbe says, that chaos leads to transformation and growth into a fuller, more authentic life.
I can also apply it to where I am in this moment: the transitional space between "teacher mode" and summer. It is hard for me to let go of teaching and the comfortable routine it brings. But when I stop and think, I know that I am the same "me" whether I am working or not, that who I am is more than my profession, and that maybe this time away from work will give me an opportunity to develop some of the other aspects of myself that get a bit lost during the year. Tomorrow I will fly to Israel, where I will get to spend time with people dear to my heart, learning texts I love in a place that is my second home. If I allow myself to expand beyond my identity as a teacher, if I let myself fully inhabit the experiences of this next month, then I know I will grow in ways I can't yet anticipate. Getting to that growth requires some traveling through uncertainty, but if the choice was either, a) consistency and stagnation, or, b) disruption and transformation, I know I would choose "b," hands down.
So, for all of us staring down some sort of transition or change and the anxiety it brings, I share the words of the Rebbe and our sages as a reminder that if we can weather the bumps in the road, we will be rewarded with a birth into new beginnings. I will certainly continue to write and share with you what I am learning on this next adventure!
(For skeptics who need a bit more convincing--or if you just like good music--the Indigo Girls reinforce the Rebbe in this song.)
Sure enough, not even one day after closing up my classroom for the summer, I felt the anxiety set in. For ten and a half months of the year, work is my world and "teacher" is my identity. My colleagues are my "other family," and each year my heart grows just a little bit larger to hold a new class of students, all of whom become "my kids." When I am at work, I know who I am and I like that version of myself. I thrive on the structure of my days, and I know how to deliver what is expected of me. No matter how much I need summer vacation, it is always a tough adjustment. I usually feel a bit lost without my usual routine, I miss the easy social connections I have with the other teachers, and I definitely miss the kids. At the bottom of all of this is the unspoken question, Who am I outside of teaching? It's murky territory, and I don't like it.
Coincidentally (or not?), when I picked up my copy of, Toward a Meaningful Life: The wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, this past Shabbat, I opened directly to the chapter titled, "Upheaval and Change." To be fair, most of the Rebbe's teachings in this chapter are intended to refer to global upheaval and catastrophic events, but I think they can be applied to personal life changes and transitions, as well. Put generally, the Rebbe says that when things around us are changing, we can use our relationship with Hashem to ground us. Upheaval gives us the chance to separate who we are from our material world, to get in touch with that which is at our cores and does not change. Additionally, he teaches that change is an opportunity for growth:
"Our sages teach, 'Who is wise? The one who sees the birthing' [Talmud, Tamid 32a]--not just the darkness, but how it leads to light. Growth occurs in three stages: an embryonic state, a void between old and new, and a state of transformation. Upheaval is the middle, chaotic stage. From our human perspective, it may appear as an abyss, but in the larger view, it is the first sign of something new, a birthing."
I think recovery is definitely this way--the "letting go" stage, when we release our hold on the eating disorder but don't yet have anything positive to cling to, certainly can feel like a frightening abyss. But, as the Rebbe says, that chaos leads to transformation and growth into a fuller, more authentic life.
I can also apply it to where I am in this moment: the transitional space between "teacher mode" and summer. It is hard for me to let go of teaching and the comfortable routine it brings. But when I stop and think, I know that I am the same "me" whether I am working or not, that who I am is more than my profession, and that maybe this time away from work will give me an opportunity to develop some of the other aspects of myself that get a bit lost during the year. Tomorrow I will fly to Israel, where I will get to spend time with people dear to my heart, learning texts I love in a place that is my second home. If I allow myself to expand beyond my identity as a teacher, if I let myself fully inhabit the experiences of this next month, then I know I will grow in ways I can't yet anticipate. Getting to that growth requires some traveling through uncertainty, but if the choice was either, a) consistency and stagnation, or, b) disruption and transformation, I know I would choose "b," hands down.
So, for all of us staring down some sort of transition or change and the anxiety it brings, I share the words of the Rebbe and our sages as a reminder that if we can weather the bumps in the road, we will be rewarded with a birth into new beginnings. I will certainly continue to write and share with you what I am learning on this next adventure!
(For skeptics who need a bit more convincing--or if you just like good music--the Indigo Girls reinforce the Rebbe in this song.)
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Anxiety Comes Calling...
Whenever I sat down to think about this week's blog post, my mind would stay on task for a few minutes before being distracted by news coming in from Israel--reports of rockets, missiles, air strikes, and sirens. No matter how hard I tried to focus on philosophical issues, I always ended up dwelling on current events in the here and now...so I decided I needed to write about that.
As much as I relish a rich political debate, I don't want to have one here. The more I learn about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the more I realize I will never be able to sort through all of its complexity. To be honest, right now I am relatively uninterested in the nitty-gritty details of that complicated history. What occupies my mind is something much more basic:
People I love are in danger, and I'm not able to help them.
For me, this is what it boils down to. In my mind, Israel is no longer just a place where a lot of Jews live. It is the place where my friends and teachers live, where I lived this past summer, where I have learned and grown and shared and connected. The land of Israel is a place where I feel at home, and the friends I have over there are some of the people dearest to me in the entire world. This week, I talked with friends of mine whose lives had gone from mundane to surreal in a matter of hours; I read about rockets landing near the communities of two of my teachers; I found out that my friend's husband was called up to the army; I heard about sirens going off in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. My best friend told me about how she and her coworkers ran for cover when they heard a siren, and this morning I started my day by reading headlines about a public bus bombing in the city where she lives. As I go about my days in my relatively safe neighborhood far across the world from the center of the action, I can't help but notice the pit I feel in my stomach or the way my breath often stops just short of actually reaching my diaphragm. I am aware of my fear, my frustration, and my sense of helplessness--and my need to manage all of those emotions effectively in order to keep living my life.
Historically, I've not done well with handling anxiety over things beyond my control. My mind spins and whirls around the what-ifs, and I tend to need more reassurance than usual that no news does not, in fact, mean bad news. In early recovery I started learning about the "cognitive distortions" in which I often engaged: catastrophizing, emotional reasoning, jumping to conclusions...those were but a few of my favorites. For a long time, I dealt with helplessness, fear, and anxiety by exercising or starving them into oblivion. At this point in my journey, though, clearly I need some new strategies...and this past week has given me an opportunity to practice the coping skills that I've worked hard to develop.
Here's what has worked so far: I try to keep my consumption of news reports to a reasonable amount, as opposed to keeping Israeli news sites up in my browser for the entire day. I don't check the news late at night, when I need to be relaxing in preparation for sleep. I make an effort to curtail the number of emails I send to my friends--enough to satisfy my need to know they're safe, but not so many so that taking care of my anxiety becomes another problem on their plates (okay, so my best friend still gets a lot of emails...but isn't that what best friends are for?). When I say the prayer for peace every day, I say it with more feeling, more kavannah. I signed up for the Shmira Project, started by two families affiliated with Livnot U'Lehibanot, one of my favorite Israeli organizations. And, I've tried to shift my focus from what I can't control to what I can...how can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about in Israel? How can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about here?
Two hours ago, a ceasefire went into effect. I'm hopeful that it sticks, and that the rockets that have continued to rain on southern Israel will slow to a trickle, then to nothing. I hope that life gets back to normal for my friends and teachers, and that soon we will return to thinking and talking about matters not related to national security. Finally, I hope that this week when I wish them all a shabbat shalom, that's exactly what it will be.
As much as I relish a rich political debate, I don't want to have one here. The more I learn about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the more I realize I will never be able to sort through all of its complexity. To be honest, right now I am relatively uninterested in the nitty-gritty details of that complicated history. What occupies my mind is something much more basic:
People I love are in danger, and I'm not able to help them.
For me, this is what it boils down to. In my mind, Israel is no longer just a place where a lot of Jews live. It is the place where my friends and teachers live, where I lived this past summer, where I have learned and grown and shared and connected. The land of Israel is a place where I feel at home, and the friends I have over there are some of the people dearest to me in the entire world. This week, I talked with friends of mine whose lives had gone from mundane to surreal in a matter of hours; I read about rockets landing near the communities of two of my teachers; I found out that my friend's husband was called up to the army; I heard about sirens going off in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. My best friend told me about how she and her coworkers ran for cover when they heard a siren, and this morning I started my day by reading headlines about a public bus bombing in the city where she lives. As I go about my days in my relatively safe neighborhood far across the world from the center of the action, I can't help but notice the pit I feel in my stomach or the way my breath often stops just short of actually reaching my diaphragm. I am aware of my fear, my frustration, and my sense of helplessness--and my need to manage all of those emotions effectively in order to keep living my life.
Historically, I've not done well with handling anxiety over things beyond my control. My mind spins and whirls around the what-ifs, and I tend to need more reassurance than usual that no news does not, in fact, mean bad news. In early recovery I started learning about the "cognitive distortions" in which I often engaged: catastrophizing, emotional reasoning, jumping to conclusions...those were but a few of my favorites. For a long time, I dealt with helplessness, fear, and anxiety by exercising or starving them into oblivion. At this point in my journey, though, clearly I need some new strategies...and this past week has given me an opportunity to practice the coping skills that I've worked hard to develop.
Here's what has worked so far: I try to keep my consumption of news reports to a reasonable amount, as opposed to keeping Israeli news sites up in my browser for the entire day. I don't check the news late at night, when I need to be relaxing in preparation for sleep. I make an effort to curtail the number of emails I send to my friends--enough to satisfy my need to know they're safe, but not so many so that taking care of my anxiety becomes another problem on their plates (okay, so my best friend still gets a lot of emails...but isn't that what best friends are for?). When I say the prayer for peace every day, I say it with more feeling, more kavannah. I signed up for the Shmira Project, started by two families affiliated with Livnot U'Lehibanot, one of my favorite Israeli organizations. And, I've tried to shift my focus from what I can't control to what I can...how can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about in Israel? How can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about here?
Two hours ago, a ceasefire went into effect. I'm hopeful that it sticks, and that the rockets that have continued to rain on southern Israel will slow to a trickle, then to nothing. I hope that life gets back to normal for my friends and teachers, and that soon we will return to thinking and talking about matters not related to national security. Finally, I hope that this week when I wish them all a shabbat shalom, that's exactly what it will be.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Holding onto Growth
It's hard for me to believe, but in a few days I will be saying goodbye to Israel. My program at Pardes has finished and I am now in that nebulous transition phase, trying to be present to enjoy my remaining time here while also preparing for departure. While I'm looking forward to reconnecting with the people and places of home, I also feel like I am leaving home, because that is what Israel has become for me: a home for my soul.
Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings: plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing. If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others: fear. As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here: someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open. I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers. In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self. Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?
One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:
"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself. This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)
What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings. I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment. Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world. He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others. I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress. In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery. I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own. I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel: other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.
So...
...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...
...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...
...תודה רבה B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!
Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings: plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing. If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others: fear. As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here: someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open. I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers. In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self. Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?
One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:
"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself. This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)
What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings. I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment. Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world. He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others. I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress. In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery. I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own. I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel: other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.
So...
...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...
...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...
...תודה רבה B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Victory...In Meal Form
Shavua tov! I hope we're all emerging from Shabbat rested and energized for a new week. I was fortunate to enjoy a beautiful Shabbat in Jerusalem and want to share a bit of the experience with you.
On Saturday I had Shabbat lunch at the home of one of my Pardes teachers, along with five other students from my program. Walking into large groups of people tends to really stress me out, so I arrived a little early to give myself time to settle in before everyone else came. (It helped that my teacher has two adorable children under age 5, and I was more than happy to keep them occupied while she and her husband finished preparing the meal!) By the time we sat down for kiddush, I felt comfortable and ready to be present for the experience of the lunch, which turned out to be one of the best Shabbat experiences I've had thus far in Israel.
What made this Shabbat lunch so amazing? Well, many significant things happened: 1) I arrived at the table hungry, and I was okay with that; 2) I ate foods that I did not cook myself and whose ingredients were at least partially unknown to me; 3) I made conversation; 4) I listened to what other people said; 5) I ate dessert, not because I was particularly hungry but because it looked delicious; 6) I left the table feeling full, and I was okay with that. Even as I write this, I am aware of how mundane those things seem...it sounds like any ordinary meal. And yet, for me the beauty of this experience was its sheer simplicity and the knowledge that the basic act of enjoying a leisurely meal with friends was something I could taste for myself.
There were whole years full of Shabbats when none of this would have been possible. If I made it to the table at all, it was in body only--my mind was frantically calculating, measuring, comparing, and worrying--leaving no room for being present. This past Saturday, the victory was in being able to take full delight in an experience I used to be able to only watch others enjoy.
Despite having spent all morning in shul, I believe my most spiritual moment of the day occurred as I sat around that table, surrounded by delicious food and delightful company. I felt intense thankfulness to Hashem for seeing me through recovery to that day, that meal. I'm glad Hashem knows what's in my heart even when I can't express it in words, because there's no way I could truly verbalize the gratitude I feel as I reflect on what I was able to be present for this past Shabbat. It was, as I like to say, a total "Baruch Hashem moment." It was also not the first time in recovery when I've had such a moment at a meal, but part of the gift is that it is exciting every time. For me, recovery means being in a perpetual state of shehecheyanu, because I never take for granted being able to enjoy eating freely in the company of others.
I share this anecdote not because it contains some deep Torah insight or profound spiritual teaching. Rather, I share it because there was a time when I did not believe such an experience would ever be within my reach, and this past Shabbat I found the prize firmly in my grasp. I want to say that it is possible to trek through the arduous process of recovery and emerge on the other side, able to engage fully with the delights of this world. If it can happen for me, it can happen for you, too.
On Saturday I had Shabbat lunch at the home of one of my Pardes teachers, along with five other students from my program. Walking into large groups of people tends to really stress me out, so I arrived a little early to give myself time to settle in before everyone else came. (It helped that my teacher has two adorable children under age 5, and I was more than happy to keep them occupied while she and her husband finished preparing the meal!) By the time we sat down for kiddush, I felt comfortable and ready to be present for the experience of the lunch, which turned out to be one of the best Shabbat experiences I've had thus far in Israel.
What made this Shabbat lunch so amazing? Well, many significant things happened: 1) I arrived at the table hungry, and I was okay with that; 2) I ate foods that I did not cook myself and whose ingredients were at least partially unknown to me; 3) I made conversation; 4) I listened to what other people said; 5) I ate dessert, not because I was particularly hungry but because it looked delicious; 6) I left the table feeling full, and I was okay with that. Even as I write this, I am aware of how mundane those things seem...it sounds like any ordinary meal. And yet, for me the beauty of this experience was its sheer simplicity and the knowledge that the basic act of enjoying a leisurely meal with friends was something I could taste for myself.
There were whole years full of Shabbats when none of this would have been possible. If I made it to the table at all, it was in body only--my mind was frantically calculating, measuring, comparing, and worrying--leaving no room for being present. This past Saturday, the victory was in being able to take full delight in an experience I used to be able to only watch others enjoy.
Despite having spent all morning in shul, I believe my most spiritual moment of the day occurred as I sat around that table, surrounded by delicious food and delightful company. I felt intense thankfulness to Hashem for seeing me through recovery to that day, that meal. I'm glad Hashem knows what's in my heart even when I can't express it in words, because there's no way I could truly verbalize the gratitude I feel as I reflect on what I was able to be present for this past Shabbat. It was, as I like to say, a total "Baruch Hashem moment." It was also not the first time in recovery when I've had such a moment at a meal, but part of the gift is that it is exciting every time. For me, recovery means being in a perpetual state of shehecheyanu, because I never take for granted being able to enjoy eating freely in the company of others.
I share this anecdote not because it contains some deep Torah insight or profound spiritual teaching. Rather, I share it because there was a time when I did not believe such an experience would ever be within my reach, and this past Shabbat I found the prize firmly in my grasp. I want to say that it is possible to trek through the arduous process of recovery and emerge on the other side, able to engage fully with the delights of this world. If it can happen for me, it can happen for you, too.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Find Truth in the Return
Being in Israel always opens me up to parts of myself that are less accessible in other places. Consequently, I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to feel centered within oneself and in tune with one's inner voice. A teacher of mine at Pardes introduced me to the work of Rav Kook (rhymes with, "look"), a brilliant Jewish scholar who also happened to be the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Palestine under the British Mandate. Here is what Rav Kook has to say about clarity within the soul:
"When one forgets the essence of one's own soul, when one distracts his mind from attending to the substantive content of his own inner life, everything becomes confused and uncertain. The primary step, which immediately sheds light on a darkened zone, is for the person to return to himself, to the root of his soul, and from there to the Soul of all souls..." (Orot HaTeshuva 15:10)
I may be just a fledgling Torah student, but I believe I understand what Rav Kook is saying. When I lose sight of what is important in my life and instead become too focused on peripheral matters, I become ungrounded and insecure inside myself. For a long time, the realities of my life seemed too painful to face. Instead of dealing with the sources of my unhappiness, I latched onto the shiny distractions of weight and body. As I became more and more certain that food and exercise were all that mattered, the rest of my life fell away until it was nearly gone, until I was all but unrecognizable even to myself.
Recovery has been a process of returning, of coming home to myself. Many things have helped: therapy, writing, and being with people who knew me prior to the eating disorder and could remind me of who I was "before." The healthier my body became, the more I began to reconnect emotionally with the parts of myself I had forgotten, and to remember what was truly important to me. Recovery has allowed me to become a teacher and construct a professional identity of which I am proud and through which I find deep fulfillment. It has made possible my trips to Israel, where I've been able to prioritize my spiritual and religious growth in ways that feel vital to me. And, it has made me available to connect with some special people who have become my closest friends and who can mirror back to me who I really am, in case I forget.
When I am in touch with my inner truth, I feel a greater sense of security about my place in the world. I also feel more able to connect with Hashem because when I talk to Him, there is more conviction in my own voice. I believe Rav Kook is correct--returning to oneself is key. It doesn't solve every problem, but it allows one to be more present to develop solutions and to experience the journey on the way.
This week, give yourself some quiet space in which to think about your true self, your real priorities and your bottom lines. Are you living in a way that honors who you are at your core? Try to identify one way in which you could move closer to your center...and when you are ready, take the first step.
"When one forgets the essence of one's own soul, when one distracts his mind from attending to the substantive content of his own inner life, everything becomes confused and uncertain. The primary step, which immediately sheds light on a darkened zone, is for the person to return to himself, to the root of his soul, and from there to the Soul of all souls..." (Orot HaTeshuva 15:10)
I may be just a fledgling Torah student, but I believe I understand what Rav Kook is saying. When I lose sight of what is important in my life and instead become too focused on peripheral matters, I become ungrounded and insecure inside myself. For a long time, the realities of my life seemed too painful to face. Instead of dealing with the sources of my unhappiness, I latched onto the shiny distractions of weight and body. As I became more and more certain that food and exercise were all that mattered, the rest of my life fell away until it was nearly gone, until I was all but unrecognizable even to myself.
Recovery has been a process of returning, of coming home to myself. Many things have helped: therapy, writing, and being with people who knew me prior to the eating disorder and could remind me of who I was "before." The healthier my body became, the more I began to reconnect emotionally with the parts of myself I had forgotten, and to remember what was truly important to me. Recovery has allowed me to become a teacher and construct a professional identity of which I am proud and through which I find deep fulfillment. It has made possible my trips to Israel, where I've been able to prioritize my spiritual and religious growth in ways that feel vital to me. And, it has made me available to connect with some special people who have become my closest friends and who can mirror back to me who I really am, in case I forget.
When I am in touch with my inner truth, I feel a greater sense of security about my place in the world. I also feel more able to connect with Hashem because when I talk to Him, there is more conviction in my own voice. I believe Rav Kook is correct--returning to oneself is key. It doesn't solve every problem, but it allows one to be more present to develop solutions and to experience the journey on the way.
This week, give yourself some quiet space in which to think about your true self, your real priorities and your bottom lines. Are you living in a way that honors who you are at your core? Try to identify one way in which you could move closer to your center...and when you are ready, take the first step.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Find What's Yummy
Shalom from Israel! I do feel like I should apologize for the long stretch without any postings...as predicted, getting computer access has been a bit tricky. But, though I haven't been writing, I've been quite busy exploring Jerusalem and reuniting with dear friends after many, many months apart. This week I began a 3-week-long course of study at the Pardes Institute, and although I've only had three days of learning so far, I've already made one major discovery:
I LOVE learning Torah!
This is no small realization, especially because I distinctly remember a time when I thought studying Torah sounded both tedious and unproductive. I've found that not only is learning Torah way more mentally stimulating than I'd originally thought, but also that I have a huge appetite for it. I can't get enough of the beit midrash, with its continuous current of debate and intellectual energy. I am completely enthralled by Talmud and the scrupulous attention that the talmudic rabbis paid to every single detail. Also, I just love the feeling of exploring something new in an environment where every question is valid and every opinion merits air time. Beginning to learn Torah has also been incredibly humbling--it has been a long time since I've had to learn ANYTHING from scratch, and the feeling can be uncomfortable at times. But at the same time, the struggle is delicious because the rewards are so satisfying.
At first, I couldn't really see how my newfound enthusiasm for Torah learning related to recovery, but I believe I've found a link. Discovering what energizes us is a major part of recovery work--figuring out what truly excites us, and making space for it in our lives. A great therapist of mine once said, "You need to find what's yummy to you." In other words, it's important to figure out what genuinely brings you positive energy and joy. For me, in this moment, learning Torah is yummy. I'm grateful to have this opportunity to bring it into my life, and I look forward to sharing with you what I'm learning!
What about you? What does your soul find delicious?
I LOVE learning Torah!
This is no small realization, especially because I distinctly remember a time when I thought studying Torah sounded both tedious and unproductive. I've found that not only is learning Torah way more mentally stimulating than I'd originally thought, but also that I have a huge appetite for it. I can't get enough of the beit midrash, with its continuous current of debate and intellectual energy. I am completely enthralled by Talmud and the scrupulous attention that the talmudic rabbis paid to every single detail. Also, I just love the feeling of exploring something new in an environment where every question is valid and every opinion merits air time. Beginning to learn Torah has also been incredibly humbling--it has been a long time since I've had to learn ANYTHING from scratch, and the feeling can be uncomfortable at times. But at the same time, the struggle is delicious because the rewards are so satisfying.
At first, I couldn't really see how my newfound enthusiasm for Torah learning related to recovery, but I believe I've found a link. Discovering what energizes us is a major part of recovery work--figuring out what truly excites us, and making space for it in our lives. A great therapist of mine once said, "You need to find what's yummy to you." In other words, it's important to figure out what genuinely brings you positive energy and joy. For me, in this moment, learning Torah is yummy. I'm grateful to have this opportunity to bring it into my life, and I look forward to sharing with you what I'm learning!
What about you? What does your soul find delicious?
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Leaving...on a jet plane...
Ahhh...summer vacation. I won't lie...it's one of the perks of being a teacher (and we MORE than earn it!). Having said a rather adorable goodbye to my flock of third grade graduates, I'm ready to leap into summer mode. For me, that means that in less than 48 hours, I will be on a plane...to Eretz Yisrael.
To the extent that it is possible to be in love with a place, I am in love with Israel. The land there calls to me like nowhere else I've ever been...a few days spent hiking in the Negev or the Golan is my idea of pure delight. I also find myself firmly attached to its people. Over the years I've built up quite a collection of friends in Israel, people who know my heart in ways that others don't. Let this be a warning to my "chevre": you have a whole year's worth of hugs coming at you!
I think another thing I love about Israel is what happens to me inside myself while I am there. Israel (and Israelis!) challenge me and push me to grow in ways that are a lot harder to target at home, for whatever reason. When I think about going to Israel, I often think of that classic moment when Hashem tells Abraham, "Lech lecha...go forth...to the land that I will show you." Closer examination of Hashem's words helps me to understand why going to Israel is so powerful for me.
"Lech" can be interpreted as "proceed," as in continuing on one's journey. In Abraham's case, he is traveling from his homeland toward an unknown destination. Abraham's willingness to leave his familiar territory and be guided by Hashem is what allows his growth to happen. For me, picking up and traveling to a different country certainly does give me some momentum toward change, and I think this effect is strengthened because the place where I am going has such a strong sense of Hashem's presence. When I am at home, surrounded by the same people and the same places day after day, it is easy for me to get into routines that are comfortable but do not challenge me. I can travel the same well-worth paths but have a hard time finding the energy to turn myself in new directions. In Israel, not only are my concrete surroundings different, but I feel I am more directly connected to Hashem. I can feel His guidance more keenly and can use His energy to push myself along on my journey in ways that I might not have been brave enough to attempt otherwise.
I have also been told that "lech lecha" can be translated literally as, "go to yourself." In other words, Hashem is telling Abraham to get in touch with his core. When I am in Israel, I sense that parts of myself that are ordinarily closed off become open and accessible. Israel reconnects me to my adventurous self, which is so often overshadowed by the practical and responsible self that dominates my life from September through June. Israel also brings me in touch with my spiritual core, which is nourished in that land in a way that it rarely is elsewhere. Being in Israel for an extended period of time doesn't magically clarify my life, but it does give me an opportunity to shine some light on parts of my being that I don't often have time and space to examine.
Every time I go to Israel, I always hope that I will be noticeably more "evolved" than I was on my previous trip. This time is no exception--I hope that on this trip to Israel I will find myself able to be open in ways that last summer I was not, that the work I've done on recovery over the past year will allow me to experience the land and people I love more fully than before. I am sure that in some ways this will happen, and in other ways I'll find that I still have work to do. Regardless, I am looking forward to a beautiful adventure...and hopefully will find time to blog about it while I'm there!
To the extent that it is possible to be in love with a place, I am in love with Israel. The land there calls to me like nowhere else I've ever been...a few days spent hiking in the Negev or the Golan is my idea of pure delight. I also find myself firmly attached to its people. Over the years I've built up quite a collection of friends in Israel, people who know my heart in ways that others don't. Let this be a warning to my "chevre": you have a whole year's worth of hugs coming at you!
I think another thing I love about Israel is what happens to me inside myself while I am there. Israel (and Israelis!) challenge me and push me to grow in ways that are a lot harder to target at home, for whatever reason. When I think about going to Israel, I often think of that classic moment when Hashem tells Abraham, "Lech lecha...go forth...to the land that I will show you." Closer examination of Hashem's words helps me to understand why going to Israel is so powerful for me.
"Lech" can be interpreted as "proceed," as in continuing on one's journey. In Abraham's case, he is traveling from his homeland toward an unknown destination. Abraham's willingness to leave his familiar territory and be guided by Hashem is what allows his growth to happen. For me, picking up and traveling to a different country certainly does give me some momentum toward change, and I think this effect is strengthened because the place where I am going has such a strong sense of Hashem's presence. When I am at home, surrounded by the same people and the same places day after day, it is easy for me to get into routines that are comfortable but do not challenge me. I can travel the same well-worth paths but have a hard time finding the energy to turn myself in new directions. In Israel, not only are my concrete surroundings different, but I feel I am more directly connected to Hashem. I can feel His guidance more keenly and can use His energy to push myself along on my journey in ways that I might not have been brave enough to attempt otherwise.
I have also been told that "lech lecha" can be translated literally as, "go to yourself." In other words, Hashem is telling Abraham to get in touch with his core. When I am in Israel, I sense that parts of myself that are ordinarily closed off become open and accessible. Israel reconnects me to my adventurous self, which is so often overshadowed by the practical and responsible self that dominates my life from September through June. Israel also brings me in touch with my spiritual core, which is nourished in that land in a way that it rarely is elsewhere. Being in Israel for an extended period of time doesn't magically clarify my life, but it does give me an opportunity to shine some light on parts of my being that I don't often have time and space to examine.
Every time I go to Israel, I always hope that I will be noticeably more "evolved" than I was on my previous trip. This time is no exception--I hope that on this trip to Israel I will find myself able to be open in ways that last summer I was not, that the work I've done on recovery over the past year will allow me to experience the land and people I love more fully than before. I am sure that in some ways this will happen, and in other ways I'll find that I still have work to do. Regardless, I am looking forward to a beautiful adventure...and hopefully will find time to blog about it while I'm there!
Friday, April 6, 2012
Splitting Our Seas
It's here...Erev Pesach. For the past week, I've been a ball of anxiety: heightened demands of work plus the added stress of cleaning for Pesach rendered me a frazzled, short-tempered mess. Now, though, the work week is over; the cooking and cleaning are done. None of it is perfect, but I've decided it's good enough. And now, in the time remaining before Shabbat and Pesach begin, I have some thoughts that I want to share with you.
Last week, I got a surprise phone call from one of my beautiful friends all the way in Israel(!), and she shared with me a teaching she had read about regarding the Splitting of the Sea. The Chassidic masters teach that we each reside in two worlds: the land world and the sea world. The land world is our revealed life--our social and professional selves, our conscious thoughts, our family lives. In contrast, the sea world is hidden, full of our deepest desires and innately known truths which, though essential to our core beings, rarely get expressed in our day-to-day existences.
I often have felt a stark contrast between my land and sea realities. Because of the concrete, immediate demands of my daily life, I sometimes need to act in ways that do not directly support my innermost values and convictions. Depending on my surroundings, I may or may not feel comfortable admitting to my true feelings or deepest yearnings. Sometimes, it is hard for me to decipher what I really want...is this a quick fix, or something that will make me genuinely happy? I think the struggle to blend my revealed life with my hidden core has been a major theme of my recovery.
The Chassidic masters recognize this conflict, and they teach that this is the meaning of the Splitting of the Sea. When Hashem split the Red Sea, He also split the seas within every human being. The Israelites were able to walk across what had been submerged underwater moments before; we as individuals are able to see clearly our innermost selves that ordinarily seem inaccessible. This is an opportunity for us to engage with our cores and to bring to light our deepest hungers and our concealed selves. We can bring out into the open whatever it is about ourselves that we ordinarily keep hidden from view.
Of course, after the People of Israel crossed the sea on dry land, Hashem closed up the waters, and what had been passable was once again closed off. Similarly, we can expect that we will not always be able to connect so clearly with our inner selves. However, the potential for such a crossing, such a connection, will never be lost.
I hope that each of us allows ourselves the opportunity this Pesach to get in touch with our "sea realities." Listen to the voice at your core: what is it telling you? How might you use these eight days to bring some of your inner world to light?
!!חג כשר ושמח
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Untying the Tangles
One of my "projects" during the past year has been integrating more daily prayer into my life. I find that taking time to "talk" to Hashem when I begin and end my day helps me to feel more grounded and centered...and, not surprisingly, I love the structure of the ritual. I've been fortunate to have the guidance of some gifted rabbis, and of some friends who have doubled as passionate teachers. I'll be truthful and admit that not EVERY prayer resonates with me. But, there are a few to which I feel deeply connected, and I would like to focus this post on one of them: Ana B'koach.
Ana B'koach is one of my favorite parts of the Kabbalat Shabbat liturgy. I'm aware that it is loaded with deep kabbalistic meaning, but that's not why I love it (I don't really "get" kabbalah, to be honest). No, the main reason why I'm drawn to this prayer is its beginning:
Ana b'koach gedulat yemincha, tatir tzerurah.
I've heard this translated several ways, but my favorite is: We beg You, with the strength of Your right hand, untie our tangles. I just LOVE that image. There have been many times in my life, particularly in my recovery journey, when I have felt that my soul is all tied up in knots. When I was in treatment, a therapist asked me to draw how I envisioned myself and my eating disorder. I remember drawing a little red stick figure surrounded by a tangled mess of black scribbles. In recovery, I have found freedom from that hopelessness. However, there are still times when I feel bound up by life, pulled in different directions and unsure how to unwind. In those moments, I yearn for Hashem to reach down and gently help me untie myself.
The other theme of this prayer that resonates with me is that Hashem treats gently and mercifully those who acknowledge His "oneness." Part of my work in recovery has been realizing that, ultimately, life is in Hashem's control--not in mine. It has been a tough concept to accept, because if there's one thing I love, it's being in control. That's a big part of what my eating disorder was all about: micromanaging my surroundings, my intake, and my body in an effort to avoid all discomfort. In recovery, I'm having to realize that I'm just not as powerful as I might sometimes wish I was. I can take initiative, I can put my best effort into things, and I can make educated choices...but the truth is that I do not see the whole picture, and I might not know what ultimately is best for me. The only one who sees how all the pieces fit together is Hashem, and I have to trust that all the experiences He brings me are going to lead me to positive growth. When I internalize this belief, I open myself to Hashem's love and mercy.
When I say Ana B'koach, I close my eyes and turn my focus inward to a conversation that is between just Hashem and me. As my mouth recites the traditional Hebrew, here is what my soul is saying:
Please, Hashem, help me untangle myself. As I try to live my life in a way that makes You proud of me, please protect me and bless me. Guide me to bring goodness to my community and light to the people whose lives I touch. Help me to keep my eye on the ball and to see my way out of confusion. Please, Hashem, know that I am trying. Show me what is right for me to do.
Recently, I came across this version of Ana B'koach sung by a choir from a girls' school in Israel. I can't get enough of it...I find it absolutely beautiful and want to share it with you!
My wish for us all is that we continue to merit Hashem's help in untangling ourselves from the knots in which we find ourselves.
Ana B'koach is one of my favorite parts of the Kabbalat Shabbat liturgy. I'm aware that it is loaded with deep kabbalistic meaning, but that's not why I love it (I don't really "get" kabbalah, to be honest). No, the main reason why I'm drawn to this prayer is its beginning:
Ana b'koach gedulat yemincha, tatir tzerurah.
I've heard this translated several ways, but my favorite is: We beg You, with the strength of Your right hand, untie our tangles. I just LOVE that image. There have been many times in my life, particularly in my recovery journey, when I have felt that my soul is all tied up in knots. When I was in treatment, a therapist asked me to draw how I envisioned myself and my eating disorder. I remember drawing a little red stick figure surrounded by a tangled mess of black scribbles. In recovery, I have found freedom from that hopelessness. However, there are still times when I feel bound up by life, pulled in different directions and unsure how to unwind. In those moments, I yearn for Hashem to reach down and gently help me untie myself.
The other theme of this prayer that resonates with me is that Hashem treats gently and mercifully those who acknowledge His "oneness." Part of my work in recovery has been realizing that, ultimately, life is in Hashem's control--not in mine. It has been a tough concept to accept, because if there's one thing I love, it's being in control. That's a big part of what my eating disorder was all about: micromanaging my surroundings, my intake, and my body in an effort to avoid all discomfort. In recovery, I'm having to realize that I'm just not as powerful as I might sometimes wish I was. I can take initiative, I can put my best effort into things, and I can make educated choices...but the truth is that I do not see the whole picture, and I might not know what ultimately is best for me. The only one who sees how all the pieces fit together is Hashem, and I have to trust that all the experiences He brings me are going to lead me to positive growth. When I internalize this belief, I open myself to Hashem's love and mercy.
When I say Ana B'koach, I close my eyes and turn my focus inward to a conversation that is between just Hashem and me. As my mouth recites the traditional Hebrew, here is what my soul is saying:
Please, Hashem, help me untangle myself. As I try to live my life in a way that makes You proud of me, please protect me and bless me. Guide me to bring goodness to my community and light to the people whose lives I touch. Help me to keep my eye on the ball and to see my way out of confusion. Please, Hashem, know that I am trying. Show me what is right for me to do.
Recently, I came across this version of Ana B'koach sung by a choir from a girls' school in Israel. I can't get enough of it...I find it absolutely beautiful and want to share it with you!
My wish for us all is that we continue to merit Hashem's help in untangling ourselves from the knots in which we find ourselves.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Whatever It Takes
During one of our many thought-provoking conversations, a dear Israeli friend of mine once paraphrased the Talmud when she said, "Eretz Yisrael is earned through hardships." (For those interested in the exact quote, see Talmud Berachot 5a!) My friend and I talked a lot about how this phrase applies to our own lives in a metaphorical sense...what personal "Promised Lands" have we had to struggle to achieve?
This past week, two events teamed up to bring this discussion back to the forefront of my mind. First, I received a surprise phone call from this particular friend, across the many miles and time zones that separate New England and Israel--talk about a total heart-warmer! Second, I had the opportunity to return as a "recovery speaker" to one of the facilities in which I received intensive treatment for my eating disorder nearly a decade ago. The women in my audience were a fabulous bunch, and we talked a lot about what separates people who do recover, from people who don't. What is it about people who attain full recovery that allows them to do that?
For me, recovery is my Eretz Yisrael, and I've had to struggle to make it my reality. As I think most people who've dealt with eating disorders can attest, these illnesses are the epitome of self-inflicted cruelty, both physical and emotional. Mine was no exception--when I was deep in anorexia, I was the most profoundly miserable I have ever been...and yet, I was also strangely comfortable being so miserable. I knew intellectually that life in recovery was what I wanted, but was I willing to leave behind the security and familiarity of my eating disorder? For a long time--years--the answer was, no. I remember saying to my therapist, "I want to BE recovered, I just don't want to DO recovery." In other words, I wanted the end result, without having to endure the hard work and struggle necessary to achieve it.
I've found (surprise!) that this is not how recovery works. The point at which I really began to move towards recovery was when I was finally able to say, "I will do whatever it takes." I will eat the food, I will gain the weight, I will go to therapy, I will keep all my appointments, I will stop lying, I will not exercise, I will not self-harm...it was a daunting list of commitments that were often painful to keep, and each one demanded my full effort. That's not to say I was 100% on board with all of those at once--but I had to be open to the idea and willing to try. For many years, I was firmly on track to becoming one of those women who lives the rest of her life "managing" her eating disorder--functioning effectively, but definitely not free. Why? Because although I wanted recovery, I wasn't willing to do all the challenging work necessary to get there. Now, I know that I will never settle for that kind of life, because I have committed to undergoing the "hardships" of recovery so that I will reside permanently in my Promised Land.
And, here's the best part...although the initial stages of recovery definitely did feel like "hardships," the later stages just feel like normal life--sometimes bumpy, sometimes smooth, but always infinitely preferable to anorexia, and all the more precious because I know how hard I've had to work to get there. No amount of simply dreaming about recovery made it a reality for me--it was dreaming, coupled with action, pure and simple. For me, life in the land of Recovery truly has been earned through hardships--and has proven worth it in every way.
This past week, two events teamed up to bring this discussion back to the forefront of my mind. First, I received a surprise phone call from this particular friend, across the many miles and time zones that separate New England and Israel--talk about a total heart-warmer! Second, I had the opportunity to return as a "recovery speaker" to one of the facilities in which I received intensive treatment for my eating disorder nearly a decade ago. The women in my audience were a fabulous bunch, and we talked a lot about what separates people who do recover, from people who don't. What is it about people who attain full recovery that allows them to do that?
For me, recovery is my Eretz Yisrael, and I've had to struggle to make it my reality. As I think most people who've dealt with eating disorders can attest, these illnesses are the epitome of self-inflicted cruelty, both physical and emotional. Mine was no exception--when I was deep in anorexia, I was the most profoundly miserable I have ever been...and yet, I was also strangely comfortable being so miserable. I knew intellectually that life in recovery was what I wanted, but was I willing to leave behind the security and familiarity of my eating disorder? For a long time--years--the answer was, no. I remember saying to my therapist, "I want to BE recovered, I just don't want to DO recovery." In other words, I wanted the end result, without having to endure the hard work and struggle necessary to achieve it.
I've found (surprise!) that this is not how recovery works. The point at which I really began to move towards recovery was when I was finally able to say, "I will do whatever it takes." I will eat the food, I will gain the weight, I will go to therapy, I will keep all my appointments, I will stop lying, I will not exercise, I will not self-harm...it was a daunting list of commitments that were often painful to keep, and each one demanded my full effort. That's not to say I was 100% on board with all of those at once--but I had to be open to the idea and willing to try. For many years, I was firmly on track to becoming one of those women who lives the rest of her life "managing" her eating disorder--functioning effectively, but definitely not free. Why? Because although I wanted recovery, I wasn't willing to do all the challenging work necessary to get there. Now, I know that I will never settle for that kind of life, because I have committed to undergoing the "hardships" of recovery so that I will reside permanently in my Promised Land.
And, here's the best part...although the initial stages of recovery definitely did feel like "hardships," the later stages just feel like normal life--sometimes bumpy, sometimes smooth, but always infinitely preferable to anorexia, and all the more precious because I know how hard I've had to work to get there. No amount of simply dreaming about recovery made it a reality for me--it was dreaming, coupled with action, pure and simple. For me, life in the land of Recovery truly has been earned through hardships--and has proven worth it in every way.
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