I suppose I should stop being in denial about the arrival of Tishrei?
For those of you interested in keeping track, the month of Tishrei contains the following in the span of three weeks: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, AND Simchat Torah. That's SEVEN festival days if you live outside Israel--seven days on which no melachot are supposed to be done, seven days of going to shul and eating festive meals. Is it any wonder that I love the following month, Cheshvan? It has no holidays!
Now, you might be thinking, "But holidays are fun! Don't you love celebrating, marking sacred time, connecting with the Divine, and all that?"
To which I would reply, "No! I actually don't! I like regular days. I love my routine. Holidays are disruptive. And I can connect with the Divine JUST FINE on regular days, thank you very much."
Though I will admit, hearing the shofar always gets me. And I do love Kol Nidrei (Yom Kippur gets major points for being only one day). But the main truth is, holidays are hard for me, and I often feel alone in that because while everyone else finds them so meaningful and so beautiful (or, at least, they say that they do), I find them somewhat meaningful and beautiful but also majorly stressful and anxiety-provoking. And it's not just the logistics of all those festival days that is a struggle, it's also the sheer magnitude of what these days represent: Book of Life? Book of Death? Genuine teshuvah? Making lasting positive changes to my life? It actually hurts my brain to think about it for too long, because what if I can't truly do teshuvah in the way it needs to be done...WHAT THEN??
If I'm being reflective, though, I guess these are relatively good hangups to have around the holidays, because I used to not be able to get anywhere past the food. And there is a LOT of food, usually in the form of festive meals with family and/or guests. I used to be so stressed out about those meals that I couldn't think about the rest of the holiday at all, and often passed up invitations to meals because it was just too hard. Today, I am proud to say that while I still have some anticipatory anxiety around these meals (How long will they be? When can I leave?), the food is not really an issue anymore; it's the schmoozing that is the tough part. While I don't LIKE disrupting my usual eating routine, I CAN do it when I want to. I can be a good guest and participate in conversation and eat like everyone else, because I am in recovery and I have earned the distinction of blending into the crowd. Just how I like it.
As for the rest of it, I am trying my best with the positive self-talk, reminding myself that I CAN take a couple of days off work to do things a little differently, and it will be fine. I have a new book that I am saving to start on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, along with my annual holiday reading of This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared by Alan Lew, and Return by Erica Brown. I accepted invitations to some meals, but didn't over-commit. And with regards to the pressure to make shul a super-meaningful affair, I think I am just accepting that shul is a challenge for me and isn't where I feel most connected to G-d. I'll go and spend the many hours there because that's what we do, but I am not expecting to feel anything out of the ordinary and I don't think G-d expects that of me, either, since He knows how I roll. I'm a "find G-d in nature" person, so I'll be having my Yamim Noraim chat with G-d while feeding an English muffin to the fish during Tashlich.
And here's a little secret: the holidays stress everyone out, even the people who are all spiritual and who love cooking. So if you're privately (or publicly) freaking out about this interminably long stretch of "islands in time," don't worry--you're not alone. Make it as bearable for yourself as you can, and find ways to see beauty even in small things. Give yourself permission to take breaks and relax. Push yourself a little, but not too much. And know that, like a light at the end of the tunnel, Cheshvan is coming!
Showing posts with label Judaism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judaism. Show all posts
Monday, September 18, 2017
Sunday, May 7, 2017
13 Reasons Why Not
For those of you who a) do not live in the U.S., b) do not keep up with Netflix, or c) do not associate with teenagers, consider this a friendly PSA: Netflix recently came out with a show called, "13 Reasons Why," about a teenage girl who dies by suicide and leaves behind a series of cassette tapes (nice throwback), each side dedicated to a classmate who she felt had wronged her enough to contribute to her death. The tapes get passed around from kid to kid with explicit instructions to listen to all 13 sides, and implicit instructions to feel guilty and ashamed for driving this girl to kill herself.
If you're anything like me, you might be thinking, "WTF is this show doing on television?!" or, "Who would even MAKE crap like this?" Well, not only has it been made, but it has created quite a sensation, particularly among teenagers and people who know/care about/work with them. I decided that before rushing to judgment, I should actually watch the show, and now that I have, I can tell you that while I do truly believe that the producers had noble intentions in making this series--bringing the issue of teen suicide and other difficult issues to the front of our collective consciousness--I also believe they got a lot of things wrong. While Hannah, the main character, is clearly depressed, the show does not discuss the issue of depression at all. It also does a disservice to mental health professionals by portraying the guidance counselor Hannah approaches as woefully inept, and I worry that this could discourage teens from seeking out adult help when they are struggling. And while I understand the argument that at least it's getting people talking about suicide and bringing the issue out into the open, but I would say that the danger of putting into the minds of teenagers the idea that you can get revenge on people by killing yourself (and then basically giving them a suicide how-to manual), far outweighs any "benefits."
I say all this as someone who knew two teenagers who took their own lives, one of whom was a former student of mine, whom I still think about daily. I also say this as someone who has spent her share of time in the throes of "passive suicidal ideation"--that is, wanting to die without having an actual plan to carry it out. For me, this was the worst part of all my mental health struggles, and it was never as dramatic as it is shown to be on "13 Reasons Why." No one wronged me, I had no terrible secrets, and I didn't need to make anyone "pay." I just didn't want to struggle anymore--I didn't have the heart or the energy for the hundred little daily battles that added up to more than I could bear. I was also seized by a deep-seated fear that I would always feel depressed and hopeless, and that my life would never get any better.
Fortunately, as a young adult in her 20s I was blessed with a gifted therapist, effective medication, and a fully functioning frontal lobe, all of which guided me to a place of knowing that despite sometimes feeling like I wanted to die, I would never actually take my own life. I knew that as firmly as I knew my own name, even as there were many things of which I was not sure: would I recover? Would my life amount to anything? I truly didn't know--but I knew I was in it for the long haul. Even now, there are days when my brain chemistry is wonky or I am feeling more depressed, and I have that thought: I hate my life. In my experience, thoughts of suicide are a bell that you can't really unring. The difference is that now, the thoughts come and go--they don't linger, and they don't scare me, because just as I knew it 10 years ago when I was really struggling, I know it now: I will never end my life. And here are some reasons...let's call them, "13 Reasons Why Not."
1) My parents. My single biggest reason to keep going has always been the love of the people who gave me life to begin with. My parents are my biggest cheerleaders and have always shown me that I am their priority, and that they love me whole. No matter how angry I ever got at myself, no matter how much fury I felt toward my life and the world, I always knew I would never, ever put my parents through the grief of losing their child to suicide. Absolutely never. No question. It's a non-starter.
2) G-d. So, I'll admit that while I have always had a firm belief in G-d, I'm a little hazy on some of the details, especially when it comes to suicide. I've read different opinions on what G-d "thinks" about suicide, but let's be honest: no one really knows. Still, I've always imagined that G-d would be disappointed if I bowed out early--not out of anger, but because He had a plan for me and I abandoned it. And if I can't handle disappointing people, I sure as sh*t don't want to disappoint G-d.
3) My Nana. Okay, so she passed away three years ago. Also, I'm not exactly sure what I think about the afterlife and whether or not you actually get to see people you loved who died before you. But if there's any chance that that happens, I definitely would not want to face my grandmother after having taken my own life. She was a fighter and a fiercely principled, loving woman, and she would NOT be okay with her only grandchild dying by suicide.
4) My other family members. My family is quirky (aren't all of ours?), but despite all the times I have had trouble connecting or have been distant or otherwise unavailable, they have stood by me. And I love them for it. Could I intentionally cause them the pain that would inevitably ensue if I ended my life? I really couldn't.
5) My friends and colleagues. Despite all the times when I think, I have no friends, I know that I actually do have some pretty amazing friends whom I love with my whole heart, and who would be devastated if I died. And then there's my work family, whom I'm with all day, five days a week, for 10 months of the year. There are lots of things we don't have in common, but there are more that we do, and I know that even though I sometimes feel "different" from them, they care about me deeply as a coworker, as a friend, and as a human being--and they would never want me to be gone for good.
6) My students, past and present. I love my students fiercely, and no matter how long ago I had them in class, they always remain "my kids." And I just could not put them through the trauma of having one of their teachers die unexpectedly. Not to mention the responsibility I have to be a role model, to demonstrate for them how to persevere through life's tough moments and to have faith in the future. "Suicide" is never what I want my students to think of when they think of me.
7) Sunrise and sunset. Each one is different and beautiful and miraculous. Don't you want to see tomorrow's? I do.
8) Springtime. Honestly, is there a more wondrous season? Flowers are blooming, birds are chirping, leaves are popping out, and baby animals are everywhere. It never, ever gets old. I am in a constant state of amazement every time I go outside from March through June, and I want to witness all the springs I possibly can.
9) You don't get to watch people's reactions to your death. This is probably my biggest beef with "13 Reasons Why," or at least one of them: it fails to communicate to teens that you don't get to see what happens after you die. You don't get to see the crying, you don't get to watch the memorials, and you don't get to hear all the wonderful things people will say about you. You don't get to do any of that, because you're dead. That's it. It's final. Full stop.
10) Curiosity. Simply put, I'm interested to see how my life plays out. I have some goals and plans and, nebulous though they may be, I'm curious to see what I can make my life into if I put them into action. Teaching. Motherhood. Exploring. I bet a lot of things will happen that I'm not expecting, and some might be painful and others will be wonderful, but I still want to see how it turns out. I actually think it could be pretty great.
11) I can do more good alive, than not alive. It sounds obvious, because it is. Alive, I can teach my students, nurture them, and guide them to become self-confident, positive members of a community. Alive, I can love my family and friends and add to their lives. I can cuddle babies, I can water plants, and I can volunteer my time at causes that matter to me. Dead, I can't do any of that. And that matters.
12) Tikkun Olam. This is the Jewish belief that we are put in this world to "fix it up." Whatever our current situation, we have been brought there because there is some fixing that needs to be done, that only we can do. I like to believe that I am alive because I have not yet fulfilled my "fix-up mission" on earth. I want to be a fixer and a healer--and I definitely do not want to make this world more broken than it is right now.
13) "Pain comes and goes like clouds. Love is the sun." --Glennon Doyle Melton
This is my favorite quote for dark times, for the times when depression sits like a brick in the middle of my skull and I don't feel good about anything. I love this quote because it has proven to be true, time and again--whatever crappy situation I find myself in, whatever intolerable feelings I am having, they all pass. It might take a few days, or even a couple of weeks, but they always fade away, and in their place is love. Not sunshine and roses everywhere, but love for the people in my life and for the beauty around me. Faith that the difficult times will pass has always been what keeps me going. It's true for me--and it's true for you, too.
If you're anything like me, you might be thinking, "WTF is this show doing on television?!" or, "Who would even MAKE crap like this?" Well, not only has it been made, but it has created quite a sensation, particularly among teenagers and people who know/care about/work with them. I decided that before rushing to judgment, I should actually watch the show, and now that I have, I can tell you that while I do truly believe that the producers had noble intentions in making this series--bringing the issue of teen suicide and other difficult issues to the front of our collective consciousness--I also believe they got a lot of things wrong. While Hannah, the main character, is clearly depressed, the show does not discuss the issue of depression at all. It also does a disservice to mental health professionals by portraying the guidance counselor Hannah approaches as woefully inept, and I worry that this could discourage teens from seeking out adult help when they are struggling. And while I understand the argument that at least it's getting people talking about suicide and bringing the issue out into the open, but I would say that the danger of putting into the minds of teenagers the idea that you can get revenge on people by killing yourself (and then basically giving them a suicide how-to manual), far outweighs any "benefits."
I say all this as someone who knew two teenagers who took their own lives, one of whom was a former student of mine, whom I still think about daily. I also say this as someone who has spent her share of time in the throes of "passive suicidal ideation"--that is, wanting to die without having an actual plan to carry it out. For me, this was the worst part of all my mental health struggles, and it was never as dramatic as it is shown to be on "13 Reasons Why." No one wronged me, I had no terrible secrets, and I didn't need to make anyone "pay." I just didn't want to struggle anymore--I didn't have the heart or the energy for the hundred little daily battles that added up to more than I could bear. I was also seized by a deep-seated fear that I would always feel depressed and hopeless, and that my life would never get any better.
Fortunately, as a young adult in her 20s I was blessed with a gifted therapist, effective medication, and a fully functioning frontal lobe, all of which guided me to a place of knowing that despite sometimes feeling like I wanted to die, I would never actually take my own life. I knew that as firmly as I knew my own name, even as there were many things of which I was not sure: would I recover? Would my life amount to anything? I truly didn't know--but I knew I was in it for the long haul. Even now, there are days when my brain chemistry is wonky or I am feeling more depressed, and I have that thought: I hate my life. In my experience, thoughts of suicide are a bell that you can't really unring. The difference is that now, the thoughts come and go--they don't linger, and they don't scare me, because just as I knew it 10 years ago when I was really struggling, I know it now: I will never end my life. And here are some reasons...let's call them, "13 Reasons Why Not."
1) My parents. My single biggest reason to keep going has always been the love of the people who gave me life to begin with. My parents are my biggest cheerleaders and have always shown me that I am their priority, and that they love me whole. No matter how angry I ever got at myself, no matter how much fury I felt toward my life and the world, I always knew I would never, ever put my parents through the grief of losing their child to suicide. Absolutely never. No question. It's a non-starter.
2) G-d. So, I'll admit that while I have always had a firm belief in G-d, I'm a little hazy on some of the details, especially when it comes to suicide. I've read different opinions on what G-d "thinks" about suicide, but let's be honest: no one really knows. Still, I've always imagined that G-d would be disappointed if I bowed out early--not out of anger, but because He had a plan for me and I abandoned it. And if I can't handle disappointing people, I sure as sh*t don't want to disappoint G-d.
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| My Nana and I, circa 1984. |
4) My other family members. My family is quirky (aren't all of ours?), but despite all the times I have had trouble connecting or have been distant or otherwise unavailable, they have stood by me. And I love them for it. Could I intentionally cause them the pain that would inevitably ensue if I ended my life? I really couldn't.
5) My friends and colleagues. Despite all the times when I think, I have no friends, I know that I actually do have some pretty amazing friends whom I love with my whole heart, and who would be devastated if I died. And then there's my work family, whom I'm with all day, five days a week, for 10 months of the year. There are lots of things we don't have in common, but there are more that we do, and I know that even though I sometimes feel "different" from them, they care about me deeply as a coworker, as a friend, and as a human being--and they would never want me to be gone for good.
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| A valentine from a former student. Melt my heart. |
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| Baby robins! It's the most wonderful time of the year! |
7) Sunrise and sunset. Each one is different and beautiful and miraculous. Don't you want to see tomorrow's? I do.
8) Springtime. Honestly, is there a more wondrous season? Flowers are blooming, birds are chirping, leaves are popping out, and baby animals are everywhere. It never, ever gets old. I am in a constant state of amazement every time I go outside from March through June, and I want to witness all the springs I possibly can.
9) You don't get to watch people's reactions to your death. This is probably my biggest beef with "13 Reasons Why," or at least one of them: it fails to communicate to teens that you don't get to see what happens after you die. You don't get to see the crying, you don't get to watch the memorials, and you don't get to hear all the wonderful things people will say about you. You don't get to do any of that, because you're dead. That's it. It's final. Full stop.
10) Curiosity. Simply put, I'm interested to see how my life plays out. I have some goals and plans and, nebulous though they may be, I'm curious to see what I can make my life into if I put them into action. Teaching. Motherhood. Exploring. I bet a lot of things will happen that I'm not expecting, and some might be painful and others will be wonderful, but I still want to see how it turns out. I actually think it could be pretty great.
11) I can do more good alive, than not alive. It sounds obvious, because it is. Alive, I can teach my students, nurture them, and guide them to become self-confident, positive members of a community. Alive, I can love my family and friends and add to their lives. I can cuddle babies, I can water plants, and I can volunteer my time at causes that matter to me. Dead, I can't do any of that. And that matters.
12) Tikkun Olam. This is the Jewish belief that we are put in this world to "fix it up." Whatever our current situation, we have been brought there because there is some fixing that needs to be done, that only we can do. I like to believe that I am alive because I have not yet fulfilled my "fix-up mission" on earth. I want to be a fixer and a healer--and I definitely do not want to make this world more broken than it is right now.
13) "Pain comes and goes like clouds. Love is the sun." --Glennon Doyle Melton
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| PC: Lisa Randolph via Twitter |
If you have ever thought about ending your own life, I hope my list of "13 Reasons Why Not" inspires you to make your own list. Even if you can't get 13 things--even if you can get only one thing--that one thing is all you need. And let me be the one to tell you, in case no one else does:
You are magnificent.
You are one-of-a-kind.
The world needs you.
Stay.
Please, please stay. It's been the best thing I've ever done. It will be for you, too. I know it.
Sunday, April 2, 2017
Beautifully Broken
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| www.jerichochambers.com |
But then, last weekend happened, and words started to come.
I had the privilege of attending a workshop led by the amazing Laura McKowen, whom I have raved about quite a bit on this blog, and Holly Whitaker, whom I have talked about less but who is no less fabulous. These two women do incredibly important work in the recovery world; both are in sobriety and are also in recovery from eating disorders. They are impassioned writers, speakers, and yoga people, and I am a little bit (or a lot) of a groupie, so I took my yoga-ambivalent self to a yoga studio and practiced yoga for four hours, just to learn from them. (Okay, there was writing involved, too, which is more my jam.)
The title of the workshop was, "Never Not Broken," and it centered on the premise that we have each been broken open by various life situations, and we will bear those cracks for the rest of our lives...but instead of weakening us, our brokenness makes us stronger and wiser. I was attracted to this idea because I view my life into very clearly divided "before" and "after" segments: "before," being before I developed an eating disorder my freshman year in college, and "after," being everything after my last hospitalization in 2007 (I call the in-between years, "the mess"). I visualize "before" and "after" through two photographs that sit on my parents' coffee table--one of me as a senior in high school, the other of me graduating from college. When I look at my high school senior self, I see her smile as genuine, the gleam in her eyes as a sign of her full life and endless hope, for she has no idea what's coming. The photo of me as a college senior, I hate. I look at that version of myself and I know my smile is fake; my eyes masking how trapped I felt in my body, in my mind, in my misery. For most of my time in recovery, I have wanted desperately to get back to the way I was "before." Why can I not be happy anymore? I often wonder. Instead, I'm stuck being this broken thing. Put back together, yes, but still cracked in ways that I haven't figured out how to repair.
Before the workshop started, I anticipated that I would spend most of it brooding over all the broken, shattered parts of me, and maybe I would even cry, which would be a huge breach of my "no public displays of emotion" rule. But somewhere around hour three, a weird thing happened. We were journaling in response to the prompt, "What do You Want?" and I realized that although there are still some things I desire but have yet to achieve, I actually have a lot of good things in my life. I have the most fulfilling job I could ask for; I get to do what I love and I know I am making a difference. My "work family" is close-knit and supportive. Through my Jewish education, I have made dear friends in Israel who nurture me in ways that no one else does. My parents and I have great relationships with each other. I am living on my own and paying my own bills, driving around in a car that I own, with enough money saved to allow me to plan for a future child. All told, I am actually not doing too badly. And admitting this was new to me, because my usual line of thinking is to focus on the negative...but sitting there in that workshop, I was able to really see all the vitality I have built into my life, and that I have achieved successes that were absolutely not possible a decade ago.
I pondered this as I lay on my mat, listening to Laura's calm voice easing us into the final restorative pose. Then, from the speakers, I heard familiar tune begin to play...the lyrics came:
I heard there was a sacred chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord...
Yup. She played Hallelujah. She played LEONARD COHEN.
There I was on my mat, with a big old grin on my face, because THIS WAS A WORKSHOP ABOUT BROKENNESS AND SHE'S PLAYING LEONARD F**KING COHEN (no disrespect intended).
Leonard Cohen, the iconic Jewish singer and songwriter, penned the following lyrics about human brokenness:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
We are all broken in some ways, some of us more than others, but we all bear at least a few cracks bequeathed upon us by the world and our own psyches. The challenge, as with any perceived weakness, is to learn how to leverage it to one's advantage. I know that I, personally, have gained enormous insight into myself and others from having gone through everything I've endured, much of which was excruciatingly painful while it was happening. I might not ever return to that innocent teenager I was before the eating disorder, the one who grins out from that high school senior photo. But I am damn sure more in tune with my emotions, more able to empathize with others, and more able to manage the demands of the world than she ever was. It was a trade I was never asked if I wanted to make; I was never given the choice of opting out. Brokenness can't work that way, because who would ever elect to be split open? Not I. But there were lessons I needed to learn, that I am still learning, and so I was given the pain and the blessing of being broken to my core.
At the end of the workshop, Laura and Holly herded all 50 of us into a circle, and we did the "go-around": say your name, where you're from, and one thing you're taking away from today. Every single person in the room had been touched by addiction, and many were in the beginning stages of recovery. Some people shared from a place of strength, others from a place of insecurity, but the underlying current was vulnerability.
Vulnerability sounded like the man who had just begun sobriety and said, "I'm on day 28."
It was the woman who ventured, "I'm an alcoholic. I've never actually said that before."
It came through in the voice of a young woman who shared about her suicide attempt.
It was the person who admitted, "I don't actually know anyone in recovery."
And as I sat there listening and waiting for my turn, I could see my self of ten years ago mirrored back to me in my fellow participants' words. I remembered the first time I ever said, "I am anorexic," and how exhilarating was that release, and how terrifying the admission. I remembered my "day one" in my first treatment program, where I finally found comfort among other people who understood the way my brain functioned and the twisted logic by which I lived my life. I remembered meeting my first recovered person, and how powerful that encounter was. I remembered all the times I had gone to bed, wishing that I would sleep forever. And I knew, sitting in that circle, that I wasn't there anymore. I had done the work and was still doing it. And I had a lot to be proud of.
The truth is, I still go through periods of depression, where I feel like I honestly might not make it through the day. I sometimes still find that when I am stressed or in periods of transition, my first instinct is to micro-manage my food as a release. I am socially anxious, extremely introverted, and yet often feel starved for genuine connection. All of those cracks are real. But I know how to navigate them and to avoid the traps they set. I prefer to view my current self as one who has been made stronger for having been broken.
The Japanese have a practice of putting broken pottery back together by sealing the cracks with lacquer mixed with gold dust. The artist Barbara Bloom explains:
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| www.simplyblessed.heartsdesire.com |
That's us, lovelies. Never not broken. And growing more beautiful all the time.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Adult Aloneness
Yup, I know. I've been away for a while...readjusting. "Coming down" from being in Israel is always an interesting process and it seems appropriate that it took me pretty much the entire month of Av to work through it. It might have taken longer, but...Starbucks Cold Brew. Secret weapon of champions.
There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.
When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:
"So...did you meet anyone?"
That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.
I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"
At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!
And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:
There is something really wrong with me.
Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.
And yet.
Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.
But maybe I'm not the only one.
I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:
The temple of my adult aloneness.
YES.
I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.
I think I could make that house into something beautiful.
There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.
When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:
"So...did you meet anyone?"
That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.
I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"
At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!
And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:
There is something really wrong with me.
Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.
And yet.
Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.
But maybe I'm not the only one.
I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:
The temple of my adult aloneness.
YES.
I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.
I think I could make that house into something beautiful.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Hishtadlut
Wow...it has been a long time since I last wrote! It seems I completely missed writing about Pesach this year--and actually missed the entire month of April--due to G.L.C (General Life Craziness). What can I say? It happens. Good thing Pesach Sheni is around the corner!
But lest you think that I've been slacking off, I'm going to tell you a bit about what I've been doing, and I'm going to be a bit more specific than in past posts because I feel like there's no way to tell this story otherwise.
First, the background: I was an active kid who played several different sports during grade school, but once I got to college, exercise morphed into something completely unhealthy. Like, I actually can't think of one way in which the benefits outweighed the enormous cost to me physically and mentally. When I started working on recovery, I had to quit exercising completely, and I stayed away from it for probably around three years before I tried it again. It did not go well. So, for the past 6 or so years, I've abstained from "purposeful exercise" (that is, exercise done for the purpose of exercising), and have relied solely on "incidental exercise" (such as walking to and from places, etc).
But this past year, I started to feel deeply an intense desire to try exercising again, but the wanting felt different to me--I didn't want to exercise to lose weight or burn calories; instead, I wanted to feel stronger and healthier in my body. I wanted to feel like my body was powerful. My team and I talked about how I would do it differently this time around: no numbers, no pushing for a certain time, no using any technology to record distance, heart rate, or calories burned. I wouldn't do it every day. I would not force myself to exercise outside in bad weather. No gyms. I wouldn't make myself eat less on days when I did not exercise. And on and on. Finally, we agreed on a plan. The only remaining obstacle was, I needed to gain some weight.
Not a lot of weight, but enough to give myself a cushion and to support my body in being more active, and also to help me stay recovery-focused mentally. Objectively, it seemed like something I should have been able to accomplish in a little over a month. After all, I'm in solid recovery. I knew why I needed to gain weight, and I was in favor of it. I had a goal that I really wanted to reach. How hard could this be?
Hard.
What I predicted would take me two months ended up taking four, and not because I wasn't trying. I tried really, really hard. For anyone who has ever had to gain weight, you know what it's like--eating past the point of fullness, eating when your'e not hungry, etc. It's completely unpleasant. But what's even MORE unpleasant is doing all those things, and then getting weighed and hearing, "Your weight is stable." For a while, I heard this nearly every week, and let me tell you, there was a lot of crying involved. A lot of crying, a lot of frustration, and a lot of fear. I was already doing everything I could do. What if I just wasn't able to reach this goal? What if it never happened for me?
When I first set my goal, I shared it with a good friend, someone who I knew would support me but also wouldn't ask me about it unless I brought it up first (if you don't have one, find yourself a friend like this). One day, after a particularly disappointing doctor's appointment, I called this friend and shared with her my frustration and my fear. She listened and gave encouragement, and then said, "You know, hishtadlut."
I said, "What's that?"
She explained that hishtadlut means putting in maximum effort and not giving up until you reach your goal. I looked it up after our conversation and found that even when a person thinks that all the hishtadlut in the world won't achieve his or her goal, that person is still obligated to try. In other words, pessimism is allowed, but giving up is not.
Sometimes, when I'm in the headspace of, "This feels IMPOSSIBLE," hearing someone say, "Just keep trying," feels invalidating. But when my friend explained the meaning of hishtadlut, it felt different, I think because it felt like my problem was common enough that there was an actual name for how to handle it. And the more I thought about hishtadlut, the more I realized that I really had only two options: quit, or push ahead. If I continued to put in all my effort, I had a chance at reaching my goal. But if I gave up, there was no way it was happening. So what else could I do, really, but keep trying?
And here's the thing: it worked.
I met my goal. Today was my first day of exercising, and it felt great--physically, but also mentally, because I knew I had worked really hard for this. It was hishtadlut that got me there.
Whatever your recovery goals, know that sometimes the only way is the long way...but maximum effort does pay off. It's not magic--it's something anyone can do. But there's no giving up. You deserve to feel the satisfaction and elation that comes with reaching your goal, so stick with hishtadlut--that's what will get you there.
But lest you think that I've been slacking off, I'm going to tell you a bit about what I've been doing, and I'm going to be a bit more specific than in past posts because I feel like there's no way to tell this story otherwise.
First, the background: I was an active kid who played several different sports during grade school, but once I got to college, exercise morphed into something completely unhealthy. Like, I actually can't think of one way in which the benefits outweighed the enormous cost to me physically and mentally. When I started working on recovery, I had to quit exercising completely, and I stayed away from it for probably around three years before I tried it again. It did not go well. So, for the past 6 or so years, I've abstained from "purposeful exercise" (that is, exercise done for the purpose of exercising), and have relied solely on "incidental exercise" (such as walking to and from places, etc).
But this past year, I started to feel deeply an intense desire to try exercising again, but the wanting felt different to me--I didn't want to exercise to lose weight or burn calories; instead, I wanted to feel stronger and healthier in my body. I wanted to feel like my body was powerful. My team and I talked about how I would do it differently this time around: no numbers, no pushing for a certain time, no using any technology to record distance, heart rate, or calories burned. I wouldn't do it every day. I would not force myself to exercise outside in bad weather. No gyms. I wouldn't make myself eat less on days when I did not exercise. And on and on. Finally, we agreed on a plan. The only remaining obstacle was, I needed to gain some weight.
Not a lot of weight, but enough to give myself a cushion and to support my body in being more active, and also to help me stay recovery-focused mentally. Objectively, it seemed like something I should have been able to accomplish in a little over a month. After all, I'm in solid recovery. I knew why I needed to gain weight, and I was in favor of it. I had a goal that I really wanted to reach. How hard could this be?
Hard.
What I predicted would take me two months ended up taking four, and not because I wasn't trying. I tried really, really hard. For anyone who has ever had to gain weight, you know what it's like--eating past the point of fullness, eating when your'e not hungry, etc. It's completely unpleasant. But what's even MORE unpleasant is doing all those things, and then getting weighed and hearing, "Your weight is stable." For a while, I heard this nearly every week, and let me tell you, there was a lot of crying involved. A lot of crying, a lot of frustration, and a lot of fear. I was already doing everything I could do. What if I just wasn't able to reach this goal? What if it never happened for me?
When I first set my goal, I shared it with a good friend, someone who I knew would support me but also wouldn't ask me about it unless I brought it up first (if you don't have one, find yourself a friend like this). One day, after a particularly disappointing doctor's appointment, I called this friend and shared with her my frustration and my fear. She listened and gave encouragement, and then said, "You know, hishtadlut."
I said, "What's that?"
She explained that hishtadlut means putting in maximum effort and not giving up until you reach your goal. I looked it up after our conversation and found that even when a person thinks that all the hishtadlut in the world won't achieve his or her goal, that person is still obligated to try. In other words, pessimism is allowed, but giving up is not.
Sometimes, when I'm in the headspace of, "This feels IMPOSSIBLE," hearing someone say, "Just keep trying," feels invalidating. But when my friend explained the meaning of hishtadlut, it felt different, I think because it felt like my problem was common enough that there was an actual name for how to handle it. And the more I thought about hishtadlut, the more I realized that I really had only two options: quit, or push ahead. If I continued to put in all my effort, I had a chance at reaching my goal. But if I gave up, there was no way it was happening. So what else could I do, really, but keep trying?
And here's the thing: it worked.
I met my goal. Today was my first day of exercising, and it felt great--physically, but also mentally, because I knew I had worked really hard for this. It was hishtadlut that got me there.
Whatever your recovery goals, know that sometimes the only way is the long way...but maximum effort does pay off. It's not magic--it's something anyone can do. But there's no giving up. You deserve to feel the satisfaction and elation that comes with reaching your goal, so stick with hishtadlut--that's what will get you there.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Depression--it's the Pits
You know it's going to be a bad day when one of your first thoughts upon waking is, "I hate this." Never mind that you might not even be sure what "this" is--you're in a Mood, and the Color of the Day is grey.
Maybe you manage to get yourself to work or school where task-driven adrenaline propels you along as the ever-competent person you are, but behind the smiles and efficiency is the thought, "I will not make it through this day." But, of course, you do, because what is the alternative, really? The more you get done, the more overwhelmed you become by all that there is yet to do, even once you finally get home ("Wait...I have to SHOWER?!") The very IDEA of simply standing under the water is enough to make you curl into the fetal position on the couch and stay there for a good long while.
You probably can't help but notice that everyone else in your life seems happy and well-adjusted (even if you know they really aren't, you still allow yourself to think that they are). And instead of rubbing off on you, everyone else's happiness only makes you feel more alone, more sad, and more discouraged at the state of your own life.
After feeling like this for several days, or weeks, you start to worry that you will be like this forever. You don't actually want to be dead, but you also don't want to continue on the path that you're on, and change just does not seem in the cards.
That's depression, friends. I've been there. And it is the worst.
Even though I spend less time in that state of mind now than I did in the past, I still revisit it every now and then, and even though I know it is time-limited and I know it's just me being out-of-sync biochemically, it is still real and painful--and incredibly isolating. I thought about that recently while I was in one of these Moods, and I noticed that during the entire two weeks that the depression lasted, I did not ask any of my friends for help in the moments when I needed it. That led me to wonder, Why is it so hard to ask for what we need?
Personally, I can think of several answers. To start, depression is too hard to explain. What can you really say to convey to someone how awful you feel despite the fact that your life is objectively not so bad? And then, there's the issue of how your "neediness" will be received. Sure, there is the potential for empathy, but there is also the risk of being told some version of, "You're too much for me"...and if you're anything like me, that does not always seem like a risk worth taking.
Last week, as I struggled with the question of, "to tell, or not to tell," I came across a bit of wisdom by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, in his book, A Code of Jewish Ethics, Vol. 2. He cites a story of some peasants who were drinking in a tavern, and one peasant asked another, "Tell me, do you love me or don't you love me?" The other peasant said that he did love the first peasant, to which the first peasant replied, "You say that you love me, but you do not know what I need. If you really loved me, you would know." The lesson? That loving another person means knowing his or her needs and offering help without being asked. In response to this story, Rabbi Telushkin says the following:
"One day, though, it occurred to me that the second peasant might truly have loved his friend, but just didn't know what was bothering him or precisely what he needed. Indeed, how many people who know you--and who may well love you--might not be aware of all the things that cause you to be upset or sad?...perhaps the first peasant should have told his friend what he needed or what was troubling him and thereby offered him the chance to be helpful and empathetic."
I can see the wisdom in this...after all, when my friends come to me with their sadness or troubles, it feels very satisfying and rewarding to be able to offer them comfort. In fact, those moments bring us closer together. So why am I denying my friends the same opportunity?
Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of depression, it seems like the best thing to do is to just grit my teeth and push through--because that's what a "strong" person would do. But Rabbi Telushkin offers another perspective on that misconception, as well, through a short story:
"A little boy was struggling to lift a heavy stone but could not budge it. The boy's father, who happened to be watching, said to his son, 'Are you using all your strength?'
'Yes, I am,' the boy said with irritation.
'No, you're not,' the father answered. 'You have not asked me to help you.'"
It's hard to remember, in the moment, that asking for help is a sign of strength--in fact, it's foolish to think we can go it alone. Maybe that means asking a friend, or a family member, or a therapist...or G-d. I'll admit that I did not do a good job of this during my most recent foray into depression, but next time (because there will be a next time!) I am going to make it a goal to reach out to at least one friend and try to let her in on how I'm feeling. I encourage you to do the same...because a little companionship can make anything, even depression, a lot more bearable.
Maybe you manage to get yourself to work or school where task-driven adrenaline propels you along as the ever-competent person you are, but behind the smiles and efficiency is the thought, "I will not make it through this day." But, of course, you do, because what is the alternative, really? The more you get done, the more overwhelmed you become by all that there is yet to do, even once you finally get home ("Wait...I have to SHOWER?!") The very IDEA of simply standing under the water is enough to make you curl into the fetal position on the couch and stay there for a good long while.
You probably can't help but notice that everyone else in your life seems happy and well-adjusted (even if you know they really aren't, you still allow yourself to think that they are). And instead of rubbing off on you, everyone else's happiness only makes you feel more alone, more sad, and more discouraged at the state of your own life.
After feeling like this for several days, or weeks, you start to worry that you will be like this forever. You don't actually want to be dead, but you also don't want to continue on the path that you're on, and change just does not seem in the cards.
That's depression, friends. I've been there. And it is the worst.
Even though I spend less time in that state of mind now than I did in the past, I still revisit it every now and then, and even though I know it is time-limited and I know it's just me being out-of-sync biochemically, it is still real and painful--and incredibly isolating. I thought about that recently while I was in one of these Moods, and I noticed that during the entire two weeks that the depression lasted, I did not ask any of my friends for help in the moments when I needed it. That led me to wonder, Why is it so hard to ask for what we need?
Personally, I can think of several answers. To start, depression is too hard to explain. What can you really say to convey to someone how awful you feel despite the fact that your life is objectively not so bad? And then, there's the issue of how your "neediness" will be received. Sure, there is the potential for empathy, but there is also the risk of being told some version of, "You're too much for me"...and if you're anything like me, that does not always seem like a risk worth taking.
Last week, as I struggled with the question of, "to tell, or not to tell," I came across a bit of wisdom by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, in his book, A Code of Jewish Ethics, Vol. 2. He cites a story of some peasants who were drinking in a tavern, and one peasant asked another, "Tell me, do you love me or don't you love me?" The other peasant said that he did love the first peasant, to which the first peasant replied, "You say that you love me, but you do not know what I need. If you really loved me, you would know." The lesson? That loving another person means knowing his or her needs and offering help without being asked. In response to this story, Rabbi Telushkin says the following:
"One day, though, it occurred to me that the second peasant might truly have loved his friend, but just didn't know what was bothering him or precisely what he needed. Indeed, how many people who know you--and who may well love you--might not be aware of all the things that cause you to be upset or sad?...perhaps the first peasant should have told his friend what he needed or what was troubling him and thereby offered him the chance to be helpful and empathetic."
I can see the wisdom in this...after all, when my friends come to me with their sadness or troubles, it feels very satisfying and rewarding to be able to offer them comfort. In fact, those moments bring us closer together. So why am I denying my friends the same opportunity?
Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of depression, it seems like the best thing to do is to just grit my teeth and push through--because that's what a "strong" person would do. But Rabbi Telushkin offers another perspective on that misconception, as well, through a short story:
"A little boy was struggling to lift a heavy stone but could not budge it. The boy's father, who happened to be watching, said to his son, 'Are you using all your strength?'
'Yes, I am,' the boy said with irritation.
'No, you're not,' the father answered. 'You have not asked me to help you.'"
It's hard to remember, in the moment, that asking for help is a sign of strength--in fact, it's foolish to think we can go it alone. Maybe that means asking a friend, or a family member, or a therapist...or G-d. I'll admit that I did not do a good job of this during my most recent foray into depression, but next time (because there will be a next time!) I am going to make it a goal to reach out to at least one friend and try to let her in on how I'm feeling. I encourage you to do the same...because a little companionship can make anything, even depression, a lot more bearable.
For more on asking for help and responding with empathy, watch this short gem narrated by Dr. Brené Brown. Pretty much nails it.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Focus on Your Own Tent!
Something I am really trying to work on is my tendency to assess myself against my perception of other people. I might think that I am doing just fine, until I see someone whom I perceive to be more successful at whatever I'm trying to do, and then--all of a sudden--whatever I'm doing is deficient. Mind you, nothing will have actually changed about me--it's just that when I compare myself to others, I often judge myself less favorably than I do when I try to evaluate myself independently. The obvious answer to this problem is, stop comparing myself to other people! Unfortunately, I've always found this much easier said than done. It's definitely true that I fall into the comparing trap much less frequently than I used to, but if I'm going to be honest, even in recovery I'm still a competitive woman with a perfectionist streak...so, some comparing seems inevitable.
I started thinking about this in earnest as I read last week's parasha (Balak). Balak, the Moabite king, hired the gentile prophet, Balaam, to curse the Jewish people. But, Balaam knew that Hashem favored the Jewish people and that he would be unable to make any prophecies to the contrary. As he looked out over the people of Israel, Balaam was able to utter only blessings.
"Balaam raised his eyes and saw Israel dwelling according to its tribes, and the spirit of G-d was upon him." (Numbers 24:2)
According to Rashi, the phrase, dwelling according to its tribes, refers to the meticulous organization of the Israelite camp. All the people dwelled in their tribal groups, and they arranged their tents so that no tent's entrance faced that of another tent. This allowed for a feeling of community while still protecting the privacy and modesty of individual families. The setup prevented general snooping and intrusions, but it also made it difficult for one person to become fixated on the possessions or private actions of another. Even thousands of years ago, the Israelites realized how easy it would be to fall into the trap of comparing oneself against another, and they knew they needed to protect their society from the damaging competitiveness that results.
My tendency to compare and compete with others often played itself out in my eating disorder. I constantly engaged in thought patterns such as, "How much is that person eating? I have to eat less," or, "If she's going to the gym, then I need to go, too." The only way I knew if I'd exercised enough, studied enough, or achieved enough was to measure myself against someone else. This was to my detriment and often completely irrational--even in the hospital, I would look at other girls on the floor and think, "She has more problems than I do. Why don't I have more problems? I'm not sick enough." Some of the best advice I ever got in intensive treatment was, "Put blinders on and focus on yourself." The truth is, there is always going to be someone sicker, or smarter, or more talented, or more attractive. There will always be someone who has more advanced degrees than I do, someone who is more athletic, or someone who is more professionally successful. So, the choice is mine: I can measure myself against the yardsticks of those other people, or I can validate all the hard work I've done and all the ways in which I have succeeded. One of the keys to my recovery has been learning how to acknowledge the ways in which I want to improve, while simultaneously affirming that I am enough, just as I am.
The ancient Israelites understood the importance of, "focusing on your own tent." They knew that privacy was important not only because it preserved modesty, but also because it safeguarded the integrity and individuality of everyone involved. When a person is free to focus on her own tent, she is able to invest her energy into making that tent the best it can be, regardless of what everyone else is doing. The Israelites recognized that an individual who is firmly grounded in her own strengths is going to be more able to serve the community than one who is not. My wish for all of us is that while we continue to connect and engage with the people around us, that we also allow ourselves the time and space to focus on our own tents, to make them radiate out the brilliant light that is ours alone.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
The Challenge of Relaxation
The past few weeks have put me back in close touch with a familiar, unpleasant emotional state: stress. It's getting to be the end of the school year, which is always a fun time but also brings with it a lot of Things That Must Get Done Immediately. At the top of my list have been 23 narrative progress reports, one for each student in my class--an endeavor that is time consuming, to say the least. Close behind that is the realization that I have exactly three days between my last day of school and when I leave for Israel, and one of them is Shabbat--not a whole lot of time to get ready! Then, there are all the small-yet-significant items such as student assessments, work meetings, and closing down a classroom that has accumulated a year's worth of papers and other random items. So, I've spent the better part of the past two weeks alternating between frantically trying to stay on top of things at work while also attempting to tackle some pre-trip preparations. The result has been a near-constant knot of stress in my stomach and frayed emotional ends...and, as this past Shabbat approached, I thought, "I CANNOT afford to take 25 hours off!" For the first time in a long time, I found myself resenting Shabbat.
At the root of this are two core beliefs that underpinned my eating disorder and my general tendency to be very, very hard on myself:
1) You earn your worth through what you do.
If I wasn't actively engaged in some productive activity, if I wasn't constantly giving others the impression that I was hardworking and dedicated, then I would lose my right to claim those adjectives. In order to be liked/admired/considered valuable, I must always be doing something visibly useful.
2) Relaxation is an indulgence.
If there was one word that would turn me off in an instant, it was indulgence. I believed wholeheartedly that indulgences were for people who had no willpower, that relaxation was for people too weak to push themselves. I, on the other hand, was a champion of self-denial who found some degree of satisfaction from forcing myself to work/study/exercise when others said, "I've had enough."
After years and years spent working on shedding these core beliefs, I've considered myself pretty much divorced from them...and yet, as this past Shabbat neared and my stress level rose, I found them creeping back into my line of thinking. But I've worked really hard to learn how to enjoy Shabbat, and I did not want to lose my ability to give myself over to the spirit of those 25 hours. I went back to some of the writings about Shabbat that I've collected over the years, and came across two that helped me refocus on the meaning of Shabbat:
"It is a day in which we abandon our plebeian pursuits and reclaim our authentic state, in which we may partake of a blessedness in which we are what we are, regardless of whether we are learned or not, of whether our career is a success or a failure..."
--Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath
and...
"Master of the world, let me merit the joy and freedom of the holy Shabbat, and let me nullify the enslavement of the days of the week. I pray that my mind will be completely settled, without any confusion at all--and that on the holy Sabbath no thoughts of labor and business, nor any worry or trouble, will enter my mind. Rather it will be in my eyes as though all my work is done. Then I will have truly attained the rest and pleasure and joy of the holy Sabbath."
--Reb Natan of Breslav, Likutei Tefilot 2:13
What I learn from these quotes is that Shabbat is a time for me to separate myself from doing and concentrate on being. In those 25 hours, I get to believe that it's not what I do that makes me valuable, it's who I am. And although that might be challenging to accept, it's also critical for maintaining a healthy attitude toward myself and toward life. For sure, it was challenging this week for me to say to myself, "For the next 25 hours, I'm done with work. There is nothing I have to do. I get to just be." But I managed, and let me tell you--if ever there was a week when I needed Shabbat, it was this week. A day of putting away the to-do list was exactly what my body and mind required.
I know that Shabbat can be challenging because it bumps up against those eating-disordered core beliefs that we cling to so tightly. Yet, to be able to lean into that window of time when we simply are who we are, is so precious and vital to recovery, and to life. I hope that we all can begin to release ourselves from the pressures of constantly producing and give ourselves that chance every week to relax and recharge.
At the root of this are two core beliefs that underpinned my eating disorder and my general tendency to be very, very hard on myself:
1) You earn your worth through what you do.
If I wasn't actively engaged in some productive activity, if I wasn't constantly giving others the impression that I was hardworking and dedicated, then I would lose my right to claim those adjectives. In order to be liked/admired/considered valuable, I must always be doing something visibly useful.
2) Relaxation is an indulgence.
If there was one word that would turn me off in an instant, it was indulgence. I believed wholeheartedly that indulgences were for people who had no willpower, that relaxation was for people too weak to push themselves. I, on the other hand, was a champion of self-denial who found some degree of satisfaction from forcing myself to work/study/exercise when others said, "I've had enough."
After years and years spent working on shedding these core beliefs, I've considered myself pretty much divorced from them...and yet, as this past Shabbat neared and my stress level rose, I found them creeping back into my line of thinking. But I've worked really hard to learn how to enjoy Shabbat, and I did not want to lose my ability to give myself over to the spirit of those 25 hours. I went back to some of the writings about Shabbat that I've collected over the years, and came across two that helped me refocus on the meaning of Shabbat:
"It is a day in which we abandon our plebeian pursuits and reclaim our authentic state, in which we may partake of a blessedness in which we are what we are, regardless of whether we are learned or not, of whether our career is a success or a failure..."
--Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath
and...
"Master of the world, let me merit the joy and freedom of the holy Shabbat, and let me nullify the enslavement of the days of the week. I pray that my mind will be completely settled, without any confusion at all--and that on the holy Sabbath no thoughts of labor and business, nor any worry or trouble, will enter my mind. Rather it will be in my eyes as though all my work is done. Then I will have truly attained the rest and pleasure and joy of the holy Sabbath."
--Reb Natan of Breslav, Likutei Tefilot 2:13
What I learn from these quotes is that Shabbat is a time for me to separate myself from doing and concentrate on being. In those 25 hours, I get to believe that it's not what I do that makes me valuable, it's who I am. And although that might be challenging to accept, it's also critical for maintaining a healthy attitude toward myself and toward life. For sure, it was challenging this week for me to say to myself, "For the next 25 hours, I'm done with work. There is nothing I have to do. I get to just be." But I managed, and let me tell you--if ever there was a week when I needed Shabbat, it was this week. A day of putting away the to-do list was exactly what my body and mind required.
I know that Shabbat can be challenging because it bumps up against those eating-disordered core beliefs that we cling to so tightly. Yet, to be able to lean into that window of time when we simply are who we are, is so precious and vital to recovery, and to life. I hope that we all can begin to release ourselves from the pressures of constantly producing and give ourselves that chance every week to relax and recharge.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Being Ready to Receive
In nine days we will begin our celebration of Shavuot, the commemoration of the day when Hashem gave the Torah to the Jewish people. I really love this holiday and its theme of recommitment...I even love staying awake all night learning Torah, despite my usually strict adherence to an early bedtime as mandated by the teaching profession. There is something about listening to the Ten Commandments being read aloud at the break of dawn that gives me goosebumps every time.
I came across an article by intellectual giant Adin Steinsaltz that (I think) beautifully captures the important distinction between Hashem's giving of the Torah, and the Jewish people's receiving of it. Although they clearly go together, they are not the same event. Steinsaltz points out that while the giving of the Torah was a one-time, top-down event, the receiving of the Torah was--is--an ongoing process that occurs from the bottom up. Although the Jewish people were willing to accept Torah right away, evident by their declaration of, "All the words that Hashem has spoken, we will do and we will hear!" (Shemot 24:7), it actually took a long time for them to be able to commit to living out the words of Torah. The Jews always knew they wanted it, but they just weren't ready right out of the gate. It took time for them to truly absorb what they had been given. Steinsaltz explains:
"The receiving itself is not just a matter of passively listening to the message of Torah; it is an act of committing oneself to absorbing the poetry and the principles, and carrying out the commandments all the days of one's life. To begin with, there had to be a certain receptive state of mind--'We shall do and we shall hear'--in order for the Torah to be given. On the other hand, the inner meaning of this formulation of readiness only became evident later, as expressed by the words of Moses forty years later when, in taking leave of the people, he said, 'And G-d did not give you a heart to know and eyes to see and ears to hear until this very day' (Deuteronomy 29:3). And indeed, only many generations later could it be said that the people of Israel had developed a heart able to know the Torah designated for them."
Now, while I would never fully equate recovery with receiving Torah, I do think there are some genuine parallels we can draw in the sense that both are drawn-out processes that depend on a gradual increase in readiness. In recovery, we might know what we need to do long before we are ready to actually do it. Although our treatment team gives us the tools, it might take an extended period of time for us to muster up the fortitude to use them.
For most of my recovery I worked with one outstanding nutrition therapist. There was a period of time many years ago in which I became frustrated with my compulsive need to measure everything I ate. Each time I brought it up, my nutritionist would suggest stopping the measuring. Although intellectually I knew it was a great idea, my response was always, "Mmmm...nah, I don't think so." This went on for months, until finally I entered a session with her and said, "I want to stop measuring!" Even then, we both knew I wouldn't be able to go cold turkey--so, she coached me through letting go of measuring one food item at a time. My nutritionist was ready to hand me Freedom From Measuring long before I was ready to receive it...but she understood that, and was patient with me throughout the entire process.
I really wanted to be able to recover immediately, just like the Jewish people had every intention of fully accepting Torah. But the reality is that recovery is not a linear process, and neither is receiving Torah--both are ongoing and challenges do pop up along the way, requiring us to shift and reaffirm our commitments. However, just as Hashem was--is--patient with the Jewish people throughout the evolution of our ability to receive, so too should we be patient with ourselves as we find our ways through recovery. It isn't only the end result that matters--it's the entire process of getting there. As Shavuot draws near, I invite all of us to assess honestly the progress we've made over the past year, and to recommit to the journey!
I came across an article by intellectual giant Adin Steinsaltz that (I think) beautifully captures the important distinction between Hashem's giving of the Torah, and the Jewish people's receiving of it. Although they clearly go together, they are not the same event. Steinsaltz points out that while the giving of the Torah was a one-time, top-down event, the receiving of the Torah was--is--an ongoing process that occurs from the bottom up. Although the Jewish people were willing to accept Torah right away, evident by their declaration of, "All the words that Hashem has spoken, we will do and we will hear!" (Shemot 24:7), it actually took a long time for them to be able to commit to living out the words of Torah. The Jews always knew they wanted it, but they just weren't ready right out of the gate. It took time for them to truly absorb what they had been given. Steinsaltz explains:
"The receiving itself is not just a matter of passively listening to the message of Torah; it is an act of committing oneself to absorbing the poetry and the principles, and carrying out the commandments all the days of one's life. To begin with, there had to be a certain receptive state of mind--'We shall do and we shall hear'--in order for the Torah to be given. On the other hand, the inner meaning of this formulation of readiness only became evident later, as expressed by the words of Moses forty years later when, in taking leave of the people, he said, 'And G-d did not give you a heart to know and eyes to see and ears to hear until this very day' (Deuteronomy 29:3). And indeed, only many generations later could it be said that the people of Israel had developed a heart able to know the Torah designated for them."
Now, while I would never fully equate recovery with receiving Torah, I do think there are some genuine parallels we can draw in the sense that both are drawn-out processes that depend on a gradual increase in readiness. In recovery, we might know what we need to do long before we are ready to actually do it. Although our treatment team gives us the tools, it might take an extended period of time for us to muster up the fortitude to use them.
For most of my recovery I worked with one outstanding nutrition therapist. There was a period of time many years ago in which I became frustrated with my compulsive need to measure everything I ate. Each time I brought it up, my nutritionist would suggest stopping the measuring. Although intellectually I knew it was a great idea, my response was always, "Mmmm...nah, I don't think so." This went on for months, until finally I entered a session with her and said, "I want to stop measuring!" Even then, we both knew I wouldn't be able to go cold turkey--so, she coached me through letting go of measuring one food item at a time. My nutritionist was ready to hand me Freedom From Measuring long before I was ready to receive it...but she understood that, and was patient with me throughout the entire process.
I really wanted to be able to recover immediately, just like the Jewish people had every intention of fully accepting Torah. But the reality is that recovery is not a linear process, and neither is receiving Torah--both are ongoing and challenges do pop up along the way, requiring us to shift and reaffirm our commitments. However, just as Hashem was--is--patient with the Jewish people throughout the evolution of our ability to receive, so too should we be patient with ourselves as we find our ways through recovery. It isn't only the end result that matters--it's the entire process of getting there. As Shavuot draws near, I invite all of us to assess honestly the progress we've made over the past year, and to recommit to the journey!
Monday, April 29, 2013
Shabbat Shalom?
Last week I had the privilege of co-facilitating a discussion on eating disorders in the observant Jewish community. We initially thought only a few people would voluntarily come to something like that...were we ever surprised when over twenty women showed up! The discussion was passionate and thought provoking, and one topic that rose to the surface time and time again was: Shabbat. How, exactly, does an individual with an eating disorder navigate that "island in time"?
The Jewish year is dotted with festivals, but they each happen only once: there is only one Pesach, one Yom Kippur, to get through each year. Shabbat, however, comes EVERY WEEK. This is supposed to be a blessing, a weekly opportunity for pleasure via food and rest. But, what if you find neither food nor rest pleasurable? For a person struggling with an eating disorder, Shabbat easily turns into 25 hours a week of facing head-on that which is most stressful.
I suppose it's not a stretch for people to understand why the lavish meals and seemingly constant presence of food can be so threatening to a person with an eating disorder. The challenge posed by rest, however, is perhaps more difficult to parse out. For me, physical rest is satisfying only if my brain is also able to quiet down...and, when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, my brain was never, ever quiet. I've always compared the endless stream of anxious, obsessive thoughts to the ticker tape that runs constantly across the bottom of the screen on CNN. It felt like there was never a moment when my brain wasn't broadcasting some worry, and the way I dealt with the anxiety (and with any uncomfortable feeling, really) was to exercise. Aside from the obvious "benefit" of burning calories, physical activity was my outlet for feelings and my way of coping with sensations that were unpleasant and scary. For many people with eating disorders, exercise serves that dual purpose. It's understandable, then, that to be faced with a day that is full of food AND devoid of physical exercise might feel like too much to bear.
So, the challenges are clear. What can we do? Well, some aspects of Shabbat are probably not going to change. There are always going to be meals, and it's probably never going to be considered "shabbosdik" to go for a long, sweaty run. However, there are ways to work within the system that can make the Shabbat experience, if not actually pleasurable, at least bearable to someone with an eating disorder.
Regarding food: My discussion co-facilitator made the brilliant suggestion of simply not keeping platters of food on the table where people are eating. If possible, put the food on a separate table or ledge so that it's not constantly staring people right in the face. This also helps people focus on whom they're eating with, not just what they're eating. To give the struggling individual some sense of control over the food, allow that person to serve him or herself, and ask ahead of time if he or she would like to be involved in the menu planning.
Regarding rest: "Rest" does not have to equal, "sitting around doing nothing." It is perfectly permissible to do leisurely activities such as taking a walk, playing board games (may I suggest Bananagrams?), or going to the park. Weather permitting, I personally go for a walk in nature EVERY Shabbat, and I also try to do something intellectually stimulating such as learning Torah or having a meaningful conversation. But, really, people are encouraged to engage in any pleasurable activity (within the bounds of halacha). For someone with an eating disorder, "distress tolerance" skills will be especially important on Shabbat and that person should be permitted to do whatever he or she finds soothing, no matter how "unusual" the choice might seem to others.
For people working on recovery, know this: there are going to be tough Shabbats...and that's okay. You are NOT a "bad Jew" because you fail to enjoy Shabbat, or because you can't freely partake of what everyone else seems to find pleasurable. You are doing the best you can. Beating yourself up for all the Shabbats that you "should have" enjoyed serves no purpose other than to make you feel badly about yourself. I was a big-time self-berator until I finally realized that punishing myself for missed opportunities did not bring back those chances, nor did it do anything to help me take advantage of future ones. That said, knowing I was unhappy was a major motivator for me to get well. And, now when I actually enjoy sitting at a Shabbat table with friends and good food, the experience is so much sweeter because it is a prize I've won. I wish for all of you that you find your own paths to future Shabbats full of pleasure and satisfaction--one small step at a time.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
The Need for Dialogue
For many months, I've had the beginnings of this blog post brewing in my mind, and this week's parshiot of Acharei Mot-Kedoshim provide me with the perfect jumping-off point. But then, Monday happened, and my city of Boston was irrevocably altered by tragedy. In the wake of that, writing about anything else seemed a bit superfluous. To be honest, it still does, in a way...but since many others (such as this guy) have already written far more eloquent, poignant pieces about Monday's events than I ever could, I suppose I'll just get back to what I can write about...which brings me to this week's Torah portion and the always relevant, ever controversial topic of sex.
I must begin by defining my parameters, here. I am acutely aware that some of the psukim in Acharei Mot and Kedoshim are often referred to in many ongoing, painful battles around various issues of sexuality. In the interest of keeping this an open forum for all, I am not going to get into any of those specific arguments here. This should in no way be interpreted as me ignoring these issues--on the contrary, I find them personally relevant and quite emotional. But, I'm aware that not everyone does, and I'm just trying to keep this blog something to which as many people as possible can relate.
And let's be honest: no matter who you are, or where you fall on whatever spectrum, we all can relate to sex.
So what does the book of Vayikra have to say about sexual relations? Well, in Acharei Mot alone, I count 17 psukim that lay out the laws governing sexual relationships, and nearly every single one contains the phrase, "You shall not". There is not a lot of discussion regarding any of these prohibitions; they are simply listed matter-of-factly and then are re-stated in Kedoshim, where each one is also given its corresponding punishment.
What I'd like to focus on here is not so much the specific content of the prohibitions, but rather the issue of a cultural sexual ethic being based primarily on unequivocal and harshly punished you shall nots. Interestingly, much of the basis for the practice of shomer negiah (refraining from physical contact with members of the opposite sex) is derived from Chapter 18 of Vayikra. Essentially, we are telling young people not to think of themselves or others as sexual beings, lest they fall into the trap of committing one of these sexual sins. This abstention from all manner of sexual thought and action should continue until the moment when they are expected to fulfill our very first commandment: be fruitful and multiply.
How often does that transition actually go seamlessly?
Again, I want to stress that I'm not intending to use this forum to debate the nature of the traditional Jewish sexual ethic. What I do want to challenge is the barrier against questioning and dialogue that a long list of you shall nots puts up. It's no secret that young adults have questions and concerns about sex, about their own bodies, thoughts, and feelings. And, since we've all been young adults, we've all had these questions. It is therefore our responsibility to do more than simply begin and end the discussion with "You shall not ____." Nothing shuts down conversation faster than an absolute negative. And, few things cause more inner turmoil for young people than the misperception that something wrong with them sexually. The relationship between sexuality and eating disorders is well documented. When people feel out of sync with what is culturally expected of them sexually, many respond by taking this confusion and fear out on their own bodies. For a girl who is expected to marry and have children before she is ready, this might mean starving herself to avoid maturing into a "woman." For an individual who is ready to explore sexuality before it is culturally permitted or in a way the community frowns upon, it might look like bingeing and purging to relieve some of those built-up emotions and anxieties. One way to support young people around issues of sexuality is to invite them to air their concerns and questions with trusted adults who won't just tell them what is and is not a sin, but who will respond with compassion and understanding. It is possible to maintain a cultural sexual ethic while also making room for dialogue about it. But the absence of dialogue certainly breeds fear, confusion, and self-hatred--all of which are key ingredients for an eating disorder.
So after all that, with what can I leave you? I suppose I am hoping that if you are a young person with concerns about sexuality, you will get the message that no matter how it seems, you are not the first person on earth to wonder about whatever it is you're wondering about. I'm also hoping that if you're an adult in a position to offer counsel to a young person about these matters, that you will open the doors of conversation instead of closing them. Listen to the person talking to you; find out where he or she is at. If we can support our young people and receive their questions gently, maybe we can make the journey a little less bumpy--so that sexual development doesn't lead to inner pain, but instead can be a healthy part of a full, recovered life.
I must begin by defining my parameters, here. I am acutely aware that some of the psukim in Acharei Mot and Kedoshim are often referred to in many ongoing, painful battles around various issues of sexuality. In the interest of keeping this an open forum for all, I am not going to get into any of those specific arguments here. This should in no way be interpreted as me ignoring these issues--on the contrary, I find them personally relevant and quite emotional. But, I'm aware that not everyone does, and I'm just trying to keep this blog something to which as many people as possible can relate.
And let's be honest: no matter who you are, or where you fall on whatever spectrum, we all can relate to sex.
So what does the book of Vayikra have to say about sexual relations? Well, in Acharei Mot alone, I count 17 psukim that lay out the laws governing sexual relationships, and nearly every single one contains the phrase, "You shall not". There is not a lot of discussion regarding any of these prohibitions; they are simply listed matter-of-factly and then are re-stated in Kedoshim, where each one is also given its corresponding punishment.
What I'd like to focus on here is not so much the specific content of the prohibitions, but rather the issue of a cultural sexual ethic being based primarily on unequivocal and harshly punished you shall nots. Interestingly, much of the basis for the practice of shomer negiah (refraining from physical contact with members of the opposite sex) is derived from Chapter 18 of Vayikra. Essentially, we are telling young people not to think of themselves or others as sexual beings, lest they fall into the trap of committing one of these sexual sins. This abstention from all manner of sexual thought and action should continue until the moment when they are expected to fulfill our very first commandment: be fruitful and multiply.
How often does that transition actually go seamlessly?
Again, I want to stress that I'm not intending to use this forum to debate the nature of the traditional Jewish sexual ethic. What I do want to challenge is the barrier against questioning and dialogue that a long list of you shall nots puts up. It's no secret that young adults have questions and concerns about sex, about their own bodies, thoughts, and feelings. And, since we've all been young adults, we've all had these questions. It is therefore our responsibility to do more than simply begin and end the discussion with "You shall not ____." Nothing shuts down conversation faster than an absolute negative. And, few things cause more inner turmoil for young people than the misperception that something wrong with them sexually. The relationship between sexuality and eating disorders is well documented. When people feel out of sync with what is culturally expected of them sexually, many respond by taking this confusion and fear out on their own bodies. For a girl who is expected to marry and have children before she is ready, this might mean starving herself to avoid maturing into a "woman." For an individual who is ready to explore sexuality before it is culturally permitted or in a way the community frowns upon, it might look like bingeing and purging to relieve some of those built-up emotions and anxieties. One way to support young people around issues of sexuality is to invite them to air their concerns and questions with trusted adults who won't just tell them what is and is not a sin, but who will respond with compassion and understanding. It is possible to maintain a cultural sexual ethic while also making room for dialogue about it. But the absence of dialogue certainly breeds fear, confusion, and self-hatred--all of which are key ingredients for an eating disorder.
So after all that, with what can I leave you? I suppose I am hoping that if you are a young person with concerns about sexuality, you will get the message that no matter how it seems, you are not the first person on earth to wonder about whatever it is you're wondering about. I'm also hoping that if you're an adult in a position to offer counsel to a young person about these matters, that you will open the doors of conversation instead of closing them. Listen to the person talking to you; find out where he or she is at. If we can support our young people and receive their questions gently, maybe we can make the journey a little less bumpy--so that sexual development doesn't lead to inner pain, but instead can be a healthy part of a full, recovered life.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Small Yet Mighty!
The past two weeks have been unusually trying ones, headlined by a major crisis at work and filled in with the more-mundane-yet-still-stressful demands of my professional and personal lives. I've had to pull out all my tricks in the name of maintaining some semblance of emotional equilibrium, and what I've discovered is that learning Torah makes for some great distress tolerance. Text study exercises my intellectual powers and allows me to shelve my feelings for a bit, permitting me to operate in a realm that is dominated by the analytical--not the emotional. Over the past ten days, when I've needed to ground myself in something I've often found myself turning to my chumash.
If you like cubits and animal sacrifices, the past two weeks' worth of parshiot would be right up your alley. Personally, I don't find either of those topics overly compelling, but this week in particular I found something in the parasha that grabbed me. It's small (I like small things), it's mysterious (fun!)...it's...
A little aleph.
Yep, a little aleph, right there at the end of the first word of the parasha: vayikra. Why the tiny letter, in a text written painstakingly and precisely by hand?
The word, vayikra (ויקרא), can be translated as, "and He called" (as in, Hashem called to Moshe). The Sages explain that the word, called, indicates a degree of closeness and affection that Hashem felt for Moshe. Without the aleph, however, the word becomes, vayikar (ויקר), which means, "He happened upon." Vayikar denotes a coincidental or accidental relationship, and in comparison with the implied meaning of vayikra, is indicative of an inferior connection. It is also used to describe Hashem's interaction with Bilaam, the gentile prophet known for being haughty and indifferent to the power of Hashem in the world. In contrast, Hashem calls to Moshe, a man who is the epitome of humility and sensitivity to the Divine presence.
That distinction seems to make solid sense...but why is the aleph at the end of vayikra so tiny? The Sages teach that it is because Moshe was so humble that he didn't believe he deserved for Hashem to call to him; he thought the word, vayikar, was prestigious enough for him. Hashem, on the other hand, wanted to express His affection and love for Moshe through the use of the word, vayikra. Because Moshe was so uncomfortable with the idea that he merited that supreme honor, Hashem compromised with him and allowed Moshe to write vayikra with a little aleph.
What I take from this is that humility is an important virtue...but so is recognizing one's significance. It's almost as if Hashem said to Moshe, "I know you think you're not special, but *I* know that you are. I won't force you to publicly acknowledge that you are exemplary, but neither will I let you forget that you are precious in My eyes."
Jewish tradition makes it clear that Moshe Rabbenu was one of the greatest men our people has ever known; yet, this man with so many gifts was also plagued by self-doubt. Part of what (I think) makes Moshe such an inspiring personality is that he was able to find balance between recognizing his uniquely prestigious role among the Jewish people, and believing that he was completely ordinary. Moshe found a way to acknowledge and honor his value without letting it consume him or alienate him from other people or from Hashem. This balance is what the little aleph symbolizes.
We all need the little aleph in our lives. We need to believe that although we are not everything, we are something. We might not be the most important person in the entire world, but we are uniquely created and loved by Hashem. And, we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that at times when we're not able to believe that we have value, Hashem will keep the little aleph handy as a way to call to us and remind us of our specialness and importance to this world.
If you like cubits and animal sacrifices, the past two weeks' worth of parshiot would be right up your alley. Personally, I don't find either of those topics overly compelling, but this week in particular I found something in the parasha that grabbed me. It's small (I like small things), it's mysterious (fun!)...it's...
A little aleph.
Yep, a little aleph, right there at the end of the first word of the parasha: vayikra. Why the tiny letter, in a text written painstakingly and precisely by hand?
The word, vayikra (ויקרא), can be translated as, "and He called" (as in, Hashem called to Moshe). The Sages explain that the word, called, indicates a degree of closeness and affection that Hashem felt for Moshe. Without the aleph, however, the word becomes, vayikar (ויקר), which means, "He happened upon." Vayikar denotes a coincidental or accidental relationship, and in comparison with the implied meaning of vayikra, is indicative of an inferior connection. It is also used to describe Hashem's interaction with Bilaam, the gentile prophet known for being haughty and indifferent to the power of Hashem in the world. In contrast, Hashem calls to Moshe, a man who is the epitome of humility and sensitivity to the Divine presence.
That distinction seems to make solid sense...but why is the aleph at the end of vayikra so tiny? The Sages teach that it is because Moshe was so humble that he didn't believe he deserved for Hashem to call to him; he thought the word, vayikar, was prestigious enough for him. Hashem, on the other hand, wanted to express His affection and love for Moshe through the use of the word, vayikra. Because Moshe was so uncomfortable with the idea that he merited that supreme honor, Hashem compromised with him and allowed Moshe to write vayikra with a little aleph.
What I take from this is that humility is an important virtue...but so is recognizing one's significance. It's almost as if Hashem said to Moshe, "I know you think you're not special, but *I* know that you are. I won't force you to publicly acknowledge that you are exemplary, but neither will I let you forget that you are precious in My eyes."
Jewish tradition makes it clear that Moshe Rabbenu was one of the greatest men our people has ever known; yet, this man with so many gifts was also plagued by self-doubt. Part of what (I think) makes Moshe such an inspiring personality is that he was able to find balance between recognizing his uniquely prestigious role among the Jewish people, and believing that he was completely ordinary. Moshe found a way to acknowledge and honor his value without letting it consume him or alienate him from other people or from Hashem. This balance is what the little aleph symbolizes.
We all need the little aleph in our lives. We need to believe that although we are not everything, we are something. We might not be the most important person in the entire world, but we are uniquely created and loved by Hashem. And, we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that at times when we're not able to believe that we have value, Hashem will keep the little aleph handy as a way to call to us and remind us of our specialness and importance to this world.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Out of the Straits...
I'll be honest: I'm not much of a psalms person. As much as I enjoy davening, I just haven't really gotten into the whole tehillim routine. Saying tehillim is on my list of things I "should" do, but don't yet feel any deep emotional motivation to actually put into practice. That said, this past Shabbat was Rosh Chodesh Shevat, and when the congregation began reciting Hallel on Saturday morning, I found myself actually reading some of the psalms...and wouldn't you know...
...something grabbed me.
That "something" is from the opening to Psalm 118:
.מן המצר קראתי יה, ענני במרחב יה
From the straits did I call upon Hashem; Hashem answered me with expansiveness.
The commentary in my siddur explains that this psalm reflects gratitude and confidence. Just as Hashem lifted King David out of his personal struggles and into glory, so too can we hope to be brought out of our own narrow places and into a freer, more radiant existence.
The idea of being liberated from confinement and released into the openness of the world resonates with me deeply (especially as I also think of this week's parasha, Bo, and the developing story of the Exodus). I remember well the feeling of being stuck in a narrow, compressed existence, one with limited vision, little hope, and seemingly no good options. From within that place, although I felt that I had no faith left, my spirit called out to Hashem...and He did answer me. He placed supportive people into my life and gave me the determination to use the help I received; He brought hope back into my heart, and He gave me the courage to take one step at a time until I was able to exit the cramped world of anorexia and reenter life.
There was a time when the expansiveness of life scared me. The world was too fast, too loud, too overwhelming. So, I built myself a tiny fortress and closed myself off from the challenges--and joys--of navigating the wider world. The problem was that after a while, the fortress ceased to be satisfying...but because it was so sturdily constructed, I couldn't get myself out of it. Once my desire for freedom became genuine, Hashem helped me return to the very openness I had once shunned.
I remember attending a panel of recovery speakers several years ago, back when I was first entering the final push of my own recovery. One of the women compared her eating disorder to, "a train to nowhere"...and recovery, she said, was the "train to everywhere." She could stop the train wherever she wanted, get off and explore, then resume the ride. If she wanted to truly experience life, that train was the only one that would get her anywhere worth going. I found this analogy so powerful that when I got home from the panel, I made a drawing of my own "train to everywhere" and hung it on my bulletin board, where it still sits to this day. When I feel myself start to get scared to take risks or to stop myself from growing, the "train to everywhere" reminds me of what this whole process is about: having the freedom to take my life in whatever direction I want, and being able to breathe deeply and fill my lungs with the fresh, open air of life.
Sometimes I think back to the years I spent in my fortress and remember how for so long I found its narrowness comforting and familiar. But, although the real world can be surprising and challenging at times, I continue to be grateful for being able to experience the breadth and depth of life. My wish for you is that you also find the courage to venture out into the open. The expanse can seem overwhelming, but it is also full of brightness and beauty. Give yourself permission to take from, and contribute to, the abundant world that Hashem created.
...something grabbed me.
That "something" is from the opening to Psalm 118:
.מן המצר קראתי יה, ענני במרחב יה
From the straits did I call upon Hashem; Hashem answered me with expansiveness.
The commentary in my siddur explains that this psalm reflects gratitude and confidence. Just as Hashem lifted King David out of his personal struggles and into glory, so too can we hope to be brought out of our own narrow places and into a freer, more radiant existence.
The idea of being liberated from confinement and released into the openness of the world resonates with me deeply (especially as I also think of this week's parasha, Bo, and the developing story of the Exodus). I remember well the feeling of being stuck in a narrow, compressed existence, one with limited vision, little hope, and seemingly no good options. From within that place, although I felt that I had no faith left, my spirit called out to Hashem...and He did answer me. He placed supportive people into my life and gave me the determination to use the help I received; He brought hope back into my heart, and He gave me the courage to take one step at a time until I was able to exit the cramped world of anorexia and reenter life.
There was a time when the expansiveness of life scared me. The world was too fast, too loud, too overwhelming. So, I built myself a tiny fortress and closed myself off from the challenges--and joys--of navigating the wider world. The problem was that after a while, the fortress ceased to be satisfying...but because it was so sturdily constructed, I couldn't get myself out of it. Once my desire for freedom became genuine, Hashem helped me return to the very openness I had once shunned.
I remember attending a panel of recovery speakers several years ago, back when I was first entering the final push of my own recovery. One of the women compared her eating disorder to, "a train to nowhere"...and recovery, she said, was the "train to everywhere." She could stop the train wherever she wanted, get off and explore, then resume the ride. If she wanted to truly experience life, that train was the only one that would get her anywhere worth going. I found this analogy so powerful that when I got home from the panel, I made a drawing of my own "train to everywhere" and hung it on my bulletin board, where it still sits to this day. When I feel myself start to get scared to take risks or to stop myself from growing, the "train to everywhere" reminds me of what this whole process is about: having the freedom to take my life in whatever direction I want, and being able to breathe deeply and fill my lungs with the fresh, open air of life.
Sometimes I think back to the years I spent in my fortress and remember how for so long I found its narrowness comforting and familiar. But, although the real world can be surprising and challenging at times, I continue to be grateful for being able to experience the breadth and depth of life. My wish for you is that you also find the courage to venture out into the open. The expanse can seem overwhelming, but it is also full of brightness and beauty. Give yourself permission to take from, and contribute to, the abundant world that Hashem created.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Fire and Ice
In this week's parasha, Va'eira, Hashem begins inflicting the Ten Plagues on the Egyptians. The seventh plague is hail--a tremendous hailstorm descends on Egypt, raining down icy precipitation that destroys all the plant life and also causes significant damage to the animals and humans. But, this is hail with a twist: deep inside every hailstone is a burning flame of fire.
Finding this to be a curious detail, I searched for an explanation. I learned that the Zohar teaches that while the plagues were indeed intended to punish Pharoah and the Egyptians, they also served to teach the Israelites important lessons about spiritual growth. The ice and fire in the hail symbolize two different personalities that reside within each individual. Hail represents an "icy" personality, someone who is cold toward others and appears unable to love, connect, or be passionate about anything. In contrast, the fire represents the spark of positive energy with a person--that which allows an individual to feel compassion, empathy, and enthusiasm for life. Although each person carries that spark within, sometimes it is hidden underneath an icy veneer. However, if the flame burns hot enough, it can melt the ice and burn freely.
To me, this sounds a lot like the dichotomy between who a person becomes when she or he has an eating disorder, and who that person actually is. Although I was never what one would call "bubbly," growing up I definitely had a sparkle to my personality. I had a sense of humor; I was affectionate; I was contagiously enthusiastic about my various passions. When I fell into anorexia, all of that disappeared behind a wall of impenetrable ice. I stopped valuing my relationships and prioritized my food and exercise obsessions above everything else. I had very little to talk about with other people; I lost interest in nearly everything. I felt as though I was wrapped inside my own narrow world, frozen off from the seemingly carefree existence that other people enjoyed. In some ways, I craved the ice--the world was too big, too chaotic, and too loud; I longed for smallness, simplicity, and quiet. Simply put, ice was safer than fire--easier to contain, and less likely to harm.
But, there was always a flame inside me, and my early recovery was nurtured by the people who were determined still to see it. Even if I had forgotten who I was, people who loved me had not...and they found gentle yet powerful ways to remind me of the spirited person I once had been. As I continued on my path, I discovered new ways to cultivate my spark: teaching, hiking, writing, and learning are among the many activities that keep me passionate and connected. I now have energy to feel love toward other people, and I'm aware that this is a beautifully self-perpetuating cycle: my inner flame allows me to demonstrate love and care toward others, and the authentic relationships that form as a result are what stoke my fire and keep my energy burning.
So, my message here is two-fold...
To parents, partners, friends, and loved ones of a person with an eating disorder: remember that the individual who is struggling is still who she or he was before the illness took hold. Even if this person seems devoid of energy, passion, and motivation; even if she or he seems impossible to reach, remind yourself that buried under that ice is the person you love. Find a way to see the spark within your loved one, and nurture it as best as you can, until the person once again can recognize her or his own inner fire.
To the person struggling with an eating disorder: I know life feels dark, cold, and often hopeless. But, remember that your illness is not who you are. It might feel like it has taken over, but you are more resilient than you think. After all, Hashem breathed your soul into you, so you have a piece of the Divine within. That's a flame that will never burn out! Trust the people around you who try to show you your spark--they know what they're talking about. Dig deep and find that flame...and slowly but surely, it will melt the ice and bring you back to life.
Finding this to be a curious detail, I searched for an explanation. I learned that the Zohar teaches that while the plagues were indeed intended to punish Pharoah and the Egyptians, they also served to teach the Israelites important lessons about spiritual growth. The ice and fire in the hail symbolize two different personalities that reside within each individual. Hail represents an "icy" personality, someone who is cold toward others and appears unable to love, connect, or be passionate about anything. In contrast, the fire represents the spark of positive energy with a person--that which allows an individual to feel compassion, empathy, and enthusiasm for life. Although each person carries that spark within, sometimes it is hidden underneath an icy veneer. However, if the flame burns hot enough, it can melt the ice and burn freely.
To me, this sounds a lot like the dichotomy between who a person becomes when she or he has an eating disorder, and who that person actually is. Although I was never what one would call "bubbly," growing up I definitely had a sparkle to my personality. I had a sense of humor; I was affectionate; I was contagiously enthusiastic about my various passions. When I fell into anorexia, all of that disappeared behind a wall of impenetrable ice. I stopped valuing my relationships and prioritized my food and exercise obsessions above everything else. I had very little to talk about with other people; I lost interest in nearly everything. I felt as though I was wrapped inside my own narrow world, frozen off from the seemingly carefree existence that other people enjoyed. In some ways, I craved the ice--the world was too big, too chaotic, and too loud; I longed for smallness, simplicity, and quiet. Simply put, ice was safer than fire--easier to contain, and less likely to harm.
But, there was always a flame inside me, and my early recovery was nurtured by the people who were determined still to see it. Even if I had forgotten who I was, people who loved me had not...and they found gentle yet powerful ways to remind me of the spirited person I once had been. As I continued on my path, I discovered new ways to cultivate my spark: teaching, hiking, writing, and learning are among the many activities that keep me passionate and connected. I now have energy to feel love toward other people, and I'm aware that this is a beautifully self-perpetuating cycle: my inner flame allows me to demonstrate love and care toward others, and the authentic relationships that form as a result are what stoke my fire and keep my energy burning.
So, my message here is two-fold...
To parents, partners, friends, and loved ones of a person with an eating disorder: remember that the individual who is struggling is still who she or he was before the illness took hold. Even if this person seems devoid of energy, passion, and motivation; even if she or he seems impossible to reach, remind yourself that buried under that ice is the person you love. Find a way to see the spark within your loved one, and nurture it as best as you can, until the person once again can recognize her or his own inner fire.
To the person struggling with an eating disorder: I know life feels dark, cold, and often hopeless. But, remember that your illness is not who you are. It might feel like it has taken over, but you are more resilient than you think. After all, Hashem breathed your soul into you, so you have a piece of the Divine within. That's a flame that will never burn out! Trust the people around you who try to show you your spark--they know what they're talking about. Dig deep and find that flame...and slowly but surely, it will melt the ice and bring you back to life.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
On Being Authentic
Happy 2013! This past week I savored a much-needed school vacation and was fortunate to spend it in the company of good friends. I had many conversations with a wide variety of individuals, some familiar friends and others whom I had just met...and a persistent theme kept recurring: authenticity. Despite our differences, what we were all talking about was our desire to honestly represent ourselves, to be seen for who we truly are. Some of us are in situations in which that's relatively simple; for others it is much more challenging. However, we all identified with the struggle of trying to remake ourselves in the image of others and how, at a certain point, self-respect wins the day and we no longer have the patience to be anything other than what we are.
Not surprisingly, this is a major theme of my personal journey through recovery. In the early stages, my mantra was, I will be whoever you want me to be. I actually remember telling my therapist that if other people would only just tell me what they wanted from me, I'd gladly do it, as long as they'd then be my friends. (Needless to say, any "friendships" I made via that strategy never lasted very long!) It took a lot of time and energy in therapy before I began to really understand myself and what my values, strengths, and passions were. At some point, I changed my mantra to, "This is who I am...if that's okay with you." I was willing to represent myself honestly, but only if I felt sure that the other people involved wouldn't have a problem with the way that I was. I had a sense of self, sure, but it definitely wasn't worth getting into a conflict--if I sensed any disapproval, I reverted back to my former stance of pretending to be the person I thought others wanted. It wasn't until relatively recently, in the late stages of recovery, that I've finally begun saying, "This is who I am"--with no qualifiers attached. To be sure, I'm still self-protective and don't go looking for confrontations--if I feel pretty confident that who I am will not be well received by someone, that's probably someone I'll avoid hanging out with. But, I'm no longer willing to lie about myself, either. Speaking my truth has become an aspect of my self-respect. I believe I am worthy of being seen--and respected--for who I actually am. I recognize that not everyone will respect me for who I am, but that doesn't mean I need to change fundamental aspects of myself. I am fine the way I am...and although some people won't appreciate that, enough people will.
So, what does Judaism say about this? Interestingly, I recently read a commentary on this week's parasha, Shemot, in which Rabbi Zelig Pliskin attributes the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt at least in part to their own lack of self-respect. He cites Rabbi Chayim Shmuelevitz as saying that once the "important" generation of Israelites (Joseph and his brothers) died out, the Jewish people lost a sense of themselves as a people worthy of respect. Once this happened, the Egyptians had no problem subjugating them and making them into slaves. What I take from this is that when we cease honoring ourselves, we permit other people to cease honoring us. When we stop saying, "This is who I am", we allow other people to make us into whatever they want us to be...and this certainly is a form of enslavement.
Truth and honesty are Jewish values. When we are honest about who we are, we elevate our own integrity. If we misrepresent ourselves, we give other people a reason to question our truthfulness in general. I would also argue that because each of us was made b'tzelem Elohim--in Hashem's image--we have a responsibility to live honestly as He created us. We are who we are for a reason, and when we honor ourselves by being authentic, we add a needed spark to the world.
In closing, I'll offer the words of Rabbi Tzvi Freeman, who wrote the following based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:
What is your job in this world? It is to become truth.
How do you become truth? By not lying to yourself.
It is not that you must do whatever you do with sincerity.
Sincerity itself is the work you must do.
It is what you must become.
Wishing us all a sincere, authentic start to 2013!
Not surprisingly, this is a major theme of my personal journey through recovery. In the early stages, my mantra was, I will be whoever you want me to be. I actually remember telling my therapist that if other people would only just tell me what they wanted from me, I'd gladly do it, as long as they'd then be my friends. (Needless to say, any "friendships" I made via that strategy never lasted very long!) It took a lot of time and energy in therapy before I began to really understand myself and what my values, strengths, and passions were. At some point, I changed my mantra to, "This is who I am...if that's okay with you." I was willing to represent myself honestly, but only if I felt sure that the other people involved wouldn't have a problem with the way that I was. I had a sense of self, sure, but it definitely wasn't worth getting into a conflict--if I sensed any disapproval, I reverted back to my former stance of pretending to be the person I thought others wanted. It wasn't until relatively recently, in the late stages of recovery, that I've finally begun saying, "This is who I am"--with no qualifiers attached. To be sure, I'm still self-protective and don't go looking for confrontations--if I feel pretty confident that who I am will not be well received by someone, that's probably someone I'll avoid hanging out with. But, I'm no longer willing to lie about myself, either. Speaking my truth has become an aspect of my self-respect. I believe I am worthy of being seen--and respected--for who I actually am. I recognize that not everyone will respect me for who I am, but that doesn't mean I need to change fundamental aspects of myself. I am fine the way I am...and although some people won't appreciate that, enough people will.
So, what does Judaism say about this? Interestingly, I recently read a commentary on this week's parasha, Shemot, in which Rabbi Zelig Pliskin attributes the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt at least in part to their own lack of self-respect. He cites Rabbi Chayim Shmuelevitz as saying that once the "important" generation of Israelites (Joseph and his brothers) died out, the Jewish people lost a sense of themselves as a people worthy of respect. Once this happened, the Egyptians had no problem subjugating them and making them into slaves. What I take from this is that when we cease honoring ourselves, we permit other people to cease honoring us. When we stop saying, "This is who I am", we allow other people to make us into whatever they want us to be...and this certainly is a form of enslavement.
Truth and honesty are Jewish values. When we are honest about who we are, we elevate our own integrity. If we misrepresent ourselves, we give other people a reason to question our truthfulness in general. I would also argue that because each of us was made b'tzelem Elohim--in Hashem's image--we have a responsibility to live honestly as He created us. We are who we are for a reason, and when we honor ourselves by being authentic, we add a needed spark to the world.
In closing, I'll offer the words of Rabbi Tzvi Freeman, who wrote the following based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:
What is your job in this world? It is to become truth.
How do you become truth? By not lying to yourself.
It is not that you must do whatever you do with sincerity.
Sincerity itself is the work you must do.
It is what you must become.
Wishing us all a sincere, authentic start to 2013!
Monday, December 10, 2012
This Little Light of Mine...
A few moments ago, I lit the menorah for the third night of Chanukah. As I write this post, the candles stand upright and proud in their holders, casting small yet hardy flames into the air above them. True, Chanukah isn't considered among the holiest of days in the Jewish calendar, but it does carry powerful messages for us to consider as we try to find our path in a world that often seems cast in darkness and shadows.
One of the central themes of Chanukah is the victory of the small band of Hasmoneans against the much larger Syrian-Greek army. As a classic culture, the Greeks had a lot to offer, and they were eager to share their Hellenist rituals and beliefs with the Jews--but the Jews weren't interested. Simply put, the Jews didn't want what the Greeks were selling. They appreciated many things about Greek culture--in fact, Judaism has often praised the ancient Greeks for their linguistic and philosophical contributions to the world. But although they were able to see the virtues of the Greeks, the Jews didn't want to be Greek--they wanted to be Jews, and they had to fight for their right to remain true to themselves.
This is a predicament that continues to face us today. As we grow and develop into ourselves, there is no shortage of people who are waiting to give us advice and tell us how they think we should live our lives. Sometimes, outside influence comes in the form of family or close friends who tell us what we should consider, what we should prioritize, what we should value. Other times, input comes from our surrounding culture that informs us, in no uncertain terms, of how we should dress, how we should speak, how we should behave. It is easy to be intimidated and confused in the face of all those "shoulds," and when we let those "shoulds" dictate our choices, that's when we start to lose ourselves. As a person who tries hard to avoid confrontation, I fully appreciate the challenge and scariness of bucking the trend. But, I also know that I spent many years of my life believing there were only two options--conform, or disappear--and neither of those was entirely successful (or satisfying). Slowly, I began to wonder if there might be a third option...and Chanukah teaches us that there is.
Chanukah is about the fight that we all must undertake to live by our own light. It's about remaining true to ourselves in the face of intense cultural pressure and not losing sight of our own priorities and visions. Chanukah reminds us that this is indeed a fight worth fighting, and that if we are willing to go through the struggle that growth entails, we will emerge stronger and more vital.
We light the Chanukah candles in accordance with the tradition of Beit Hillel: one candle for the first night, two for the second, and so on in an increasing manner. Hillel based his ruling on the principle of ma'alin ba'kodesh ve'ayn moridin--one increases in matters of holiness, and does not diminish. So it is with ourselves--if we do the work of living authentically and speaking our truth, our strength and virtue will increase, as will the light that we are able to share with others.
This Chanukah season, may we all have the courage to use our own light to guide us out of whatever darkness in which we find ourselves.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Outgrowing the Flower Pot
People who know me well could probably think of a variety of adjectives with which to describe me, but I'd be willing to bet that, "daring," would not be one of them. (I base this assumption on the high frequency with which I have been described as, "risk-averse.") In some ways, my cautiousness is an asset--it protects me from danger and unnecessarily risky situations. However, lately I have been thinking that although it keeps me safe, it also undeniably keeps me stuck.
On the one hand, if I have to be stuck somewhere, the life I currently lead isn't a terrible place to be. I have a job doing what I love to do; I live in a satisfactory apartment in a safe, clean neighborhood; I have amazing parents whom I get to see almost every weekend. I have in place many of the pieces that make up the picture of a functional, fulfilling adult life. And, for nearly a decade, this has been enough for me. In fact, for a long time this stable life of mine was all I wanted--as I worked my way through early recovery, I couldn't imagine that I would ever be able to do anything truly daring, nor did I want to. Even once my recovery was more secure, I felt it would be foolish to uproot myself from the support system I'd put into place--surely, such a move would cause me to unravel. So, I've stayed put, safe in my little flower pot of sorts, growing as tall as I've been able with roots that are limited in how far out they can extend.
But now...I think I might have outgrown the flower pot.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want to just throw away everything I've worked so hard to build, but I can't deny that I feel constrained and restricted to a life that is just okay, as opposed to a life that is great. But, herein lies the problem: moving from okay to great requires change, uncertainty, and a willingness to take chances. None of that dovetails so nicely with my lifelong history of risk aversion. When I think of making dramatic life changes--moving, changing jobs, etc--part of me feels alive, excited, and smiley while another part yells things like, "It's stupid to leave a stable situation!" And then, there is the quiet yet persistent voice that whispers, "What makes you think you deserve to be any happier than you are?"
My recent struggle with safety-vs-growth has led me to reexamine the Midrash about Nachshon, the Israelite who was brave enough to venture into the Red Sea before it split, thereby proving to Hashem that the Jews were a people of courage. As risks go, that was about as significant as it gets, and the other Israelites probably thought Nachshon was crazy to leave dry land to plunge headlong into roiling, uninviting waters. But in the end, it was Nachshon's courage that allowed the Jews to survive.
This doesn't mean that taking big chances is always a good idea. For sure, some risk-takers are met with disappointment. But it's also true that a life of positive growth requires a willingness to step into the unknown. An article I read on the Midrash of Nachshon explains,
"Surely risks must be calculated and carefully planned, but without an element of uncertainty nothing can be accomplished. There is no authentic life choice that is risk-free."
Recovery, for me, is about living an authentic life, about believing that I do deserve to feel more complete and satisfied than I do right now. What have I done all this work for, if not to grow up and out as much as possible? As I start to make plans for the future, I hope that I am able to channel some of Nachshon's courage to take risks (calculated and planned ones, of course). As Rebbe Nachman said:
"The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge. And the most important thing is not to be afraid."
On the one hand, if I have to be stuck somewhere, the life I currently lead isn't a terrible place to be. I have a job doing what I love to do; I live in a satisfactory apartment in a safe, clean neighborhood; I have amazing parents whom I get to see almost every weekend. I have in place many of the pieces that make up the picture of a functional, fulfilling adult life. And, for nearly a decade, this has been enough for me. In fact, for a long time this stable life of mine was all I wanted--as I worked my way through early recovery, I couldn't imagine that I would ever be able to do anything truly daring, nor did I want to. Even once my recovery was more secure, I felt it would be foolish to uproot myself from the support system I'd put into place--surely, such a move would cause me to unravel. So, I've stayed put, safe in my little flower pot of sorts, growing as tall as I've been able with roots that are limited in how far out they can extend.
But now...I think I might have outgrown the flower pot.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want to just throw away everything I've worked so hard to build, but I can't deny that I feel constrained and restricted to a life that is just okay, as opposed to a life that is great. But, herein lies the problem: moving from okay to great requires change, uncertainty, and a willingness to take chances. None of that dovetails so nicely with my lifelong history of risk aversion. When I think of making dramatic life changes--moving, changing jobs, etc--part of me feels alive, excited, and smiley while another part yells things like, "It's stupid to leave a stable situation!" And then, there is the quiet yet persistent voice that whispers, "What makes you think you deserve to be any happier than you are?"
My recent struggle with safety-vs-growth has led me to reexamine the Midrash about Nachshon, the Israelite who was brave enough to venture into the Red Sea before it split, thereby proving to Hashem that the Jews were a people of courage. As risks go, that was about as significant as it gets, and the other Israelites probably thought Nachshon was crazy to leave dry land to plunge headlong into roiling, uninviting waters. But in the end, it was Nachshon's courage that allowed the Jews to survive.
This doesn't mean that taking big chances is always a good idea. For sure, some risk-takers are met with disappointment. But it's also true that a life of positive growth requires a willingness to step into the unknown. An article I read on the Midrash of Nachshon explains,
"Surely risks must be calculated and carefully planned, but without an element of uncertainty nothing can be accomplished. There is no authentic life choice that is risk-free."
Recovery, for me, is about living an authentic life, about believing that I do deserve to feel more complete and satisfied than I do right now. What have I done all this work for, if not to grow up and out as much as possible? As I start to make plans for the future, I hope that I am able to channel some of Nachshon's courage to take risks (calculated and planned ones, of course). As Rebbe Nachman said:
"The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge. And the most important thing is not to be afraid."
Monday, October 15, 2012
"Lapses and Crises"
I know I've mentioned the importance of self-compassion many times, and I do genuinely believe in it...but I'll be honest and say that sometimes it's really hard for me. As a teacher, I'll gladly work with a student all year on one particular skill, but when it comes to myself, I expect proficiency right out of the gate. Lately, this has been a problem for me regarding religious observance--although I've been steadily increasing my religiosity over the past two years, I'm still far from where I'd like to be in terms of "religious fluency." To be fair, I was raised in a secular environment and still operate in one on a daily basis. There are times when my interactions and relationships with the many non-observant (or non-Jewish) people in my life lead me to make compromises and adjustments to my practice that I wish I didn't have to make--but I do make them, because I'm not yet always confident or assertive enough to say, "This is what I need," or "That won't work for me." When I consciously do something that I know is in violation of Jewish law, the self-judgment voice starts yelling, "You know better than that. You're supposed to be taking this seriously. How can you say you are religious and then go and do that? You're a fraud. You will never get better than this."
As this latest round of Jewish holidays neared its end, I struggled with this critical voice because I felt I hadn't observed the last couple of festival days as thoughtfully as I would have liked. Never mind that I did observe them more carefully than I had the year before...it wasn't perfect, and I knew I could have done better. I should have done better. In the middle of this overwhelmingly negative self-assessment, it dawned on me that this entire routine seemed awfully familiar--this was the same way I had talked to myself in the beginning of my recovery, every time I would give in to the urge to use an eating disorder behavior. Once I knew how I should be acting, there was no excuse for mistakes. I judged any slips into the eating disorder as signs that I wasn't taking recovery seriously, that I was insincere, that I was weak, and that I would never get any better than I was in that moment of lapse.
When I noticed that I was having these thoughts about myself as a religious person, I did what I often do in times of self-doubt: get advice from someone who knows more than I do. In this case, the person I consulted was Adin Steinsaltz, Jewish scholar extraordinaire and my newest intellectual hero. I'd been reading his book, Teshuvah, and in light of my current mood I decided to reread the chapter called, "Lapses and Crises." In this chapter, Steinsaltz emphasizes that stumbling is part of the process of advancement--not a negation of it. The people who aim the farthest are going to have more opportunities to trip along the way, and the struggle involved in moving from stage to stage is inherent to growth.
This does not mean, however, that we shouldn't take slips seriously...but, neither should we use them as an excuse to abandon the process entirely. Steinsaltz cautions, "The seriousness of individual lapses should not be minimized, but neither should even the worst of them be allowed to lead to despair and total abdication." In other words, acknowledge errors and take steps to correct them, but then move on--no mistake is worth resigning oneself to failure.
Steinsaltz understands that once we decide to change ourselves for the better in a specific way, we want our progress to be smooth and linear--and immediate. But, he teaches, this usually isn't how it works. He explains, "A person who confronts the necessity of making a change in his life or of pressing on with renewed determination must also reckon with internal resistance, partly conscious and immediate, partly unconscious and revealed only with the passage of time. He cannot simply 'turn over a new leaf' and start afresh; even after he sets out on his new path he will be hounded by those parts of him that remain unreconciled to his decision. The very struggle to ascend gives one the feeling of being at the bottom of the ladder; but this is only a trick of the senses and the imagination, for the ascent is, in fact, well underway."
Although he is writing specifically about the process of becoming religious, his words also resonate with me in terms of recovery. Both processes entail major life shifts in both behavioral and emotional realms, and we need to be patient with ourselves and understand that we will stumble along the way. When we do experience a setback, we should interpret it not as evidence of failure, but as a testament to our desire to strive higher...after all, if we were content to remain static, failure wouldn't be an issue. A healthy dose of frustration may propel us forward, but we must stop short of getting so discouraged that we quit altogether. Remember what Steinsaltz says: if you're stumbling, it's because you're already moving along the path. May we each keep this wisdom inside our own hearts as we aim to progress forward from wherever we are!
As this latest round of Jewish holidays neared its end, I struggled with this critical voice because I felt I hadn't observed the last couple of festival days as thoughtfully as I would have liked. Never mind that I did observe them more carefully than I had the year before...it wasn't perfect, and I knew I could have done better. I should have done better. In the middle of this overwhelmingly negative self-assessment, it dawned on me that this entire routine seemed awfully familiar--this was the same way I had talked to myself in the beginning of my recovery, every time I would give in to the urge to use an eating disorder behavior. Once I knew how I should be acting, there was no excuse for mistakes. I judged any slips into the eating disorder as signs that I wasn't taking recovery seriously, that I was insincere, that I was weak, and that I would never get any better than I was in that moment of lapse.
When I noticed that I was having these thoughts about myself as a religious person, I did what I often do in times of self-doubt: get advice from someone who knows more than I do. In this case, the person I consulted was Adin Steinsaltz, Jewish scholar extraordinaire and my newest intellectual hero. I'd been reading his book, Teshuvah, and in light of my current mood I decided to reread the chapter called, "Lapses and Crises." In this chapter, Steinsaltz emphasizes that stumbling is part of the process of advancement--not a negation of it. The people who aim the farthest are going to have more opportunities to trip along the way, and the struggle involved in moving from stage to stage is inherent to growth.
This does not mean, however, that we shouldn't take slips seriously...but, neither should we use them as an excuse to abandon the process entirely. Steinsaltz cautions, "The seriousness of individual lapses should not be minimized, but neither should even the worst of them be allowed to lead to despair and total abdication." In other words, acknowledge errors and take steps to correct them, but then move on--no mistake is worth resigning oneself to failure.
Steinsaltz understands that once we decide to change ourselves for the better in a specific way, we want our progress to be smooth and linear--and immediate. But, he teaches, this usually isn't how it works. He explains, "A person who confronts the necessity of making a change in his life or of pressing on with renewed determination must also reckon with internal resistance, partly conscious and immediate, partly unconscious and revealed only with the passage of time. He cannot simply 'turn over a new leaf' and start afresh; even after he sets out on his new path he will be hounded by those parts of him that remain unreconciled to his decision. The very struggle to ascend gives one the feeling of being at the bottom of the ladder; but this is only a trick of the senses and the imagination, for the ascent is, in fact, well underway."
Although he is writing specifically about the process of becoming religious, his words also resonate with me in terms of recovery. Both processes entail major life shifts in both behavioral and emotional realms, and we need to be patient with ourselves and understand that we will stumble along the way. When we do experience a setback, we should interpret it not as evidence of failure, but as a testament to our desire to strive higher...after all, if we were content to remain static, failure wouldn't be an issue. A healthy dose of frustration may propel us forward, but we must stop short of getting so discouraged that we quit altogether. Remember what Steinsaltz says: if you're stumbling, it's because you're already moving along the path. May we each keep this wisdom inside our own hearts as we aim to progress forward from wherever we are!
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