Three Little Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Fall and the Comfort

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons From an American Buddhist Nun

Well, it's happening: my time in Israel is winding down. A week from Sunday, I will be heading home to the States. My summer program at Pardes finished yesterday, and that was when it hit me that I was going to have to say goodbye to everything and everyone that has been so precious to me this summer. Now, this isn't new; it happens every year and every year it's awful. But this year I am feeling it particularly acutely, I think because my connections were so authentic and so nourishing. I was able to really put myself out there and let myself be seen, and the reward was total acceptance--not something I experience on a daily basis at home. Who would want to say goodbye to that? Not I.

So I woke up this morning with "gray goggles" on and thought, "I am not going to get through this day." But I got myself together and went out to meet a friend, which helped for a couple of hours...but I had only been back in my apartment for about ten minutes when I started crying. I just felt such a void, so much loneliness--my brain just kept saying, Fill it, fill it, I can't bear it. Distract with something, anything.

So I picked up a source sheet from one of my classes because, desperate times. Now, this was an AMAZING class, and the last session focused on "losing and finding meaning." The source sheet boasts an impressive variety of contributors; to name a few: Rav Soloveitchik, Leo Tolstoy, Woody Allen, and Fred Rogers. For real. But I bypassed all of those in favor of an excerpt from an interview with the American Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron:

"For me the spiritual path has always been learning how to die. That involves not just death at the end of this particular life, but all the falling apart that happens continually. The fear of death--which is also the fear of groundlessness, of insecurity, of not having it all together--seems to be the most fundamental thing we have to work with. Because these endings happen all the time! Things are always ending and arising and ending. But we are strangely conditioned to feel  that we're supposed to experience just the birth part and not the death part. 

We have so much fear of not being in control, of not being able to hold on to things. Yet the true nature of things is that you're never in control...You can never hold on to anything. That's the nature of how things are. But it's almost like it's in the genes of being born human that you can't accept that. You can buy it intellectually, but moment to moment it brings up a lot of panic and fear. So my own path has been training to relax with groundlessness and the panic that accompanies it."

That's it.

That's how I feel right now, and how I feel at the end of every summer in Israel. I want to hold on to everything. I'm afraid of losing my connection to Judaism and my connection to the people I care about here. I hate the groundlessness I feel when I transition away from this place. And what accompanies all of this is grief--for the loss of people and places that are such a big piece of my heart, even if I know they're not really leaving me and I can still stay in touch. But it's not the same. And it does feel like death. The joy I felt at the beginning--that was the birth part. And what I'm experiencing now--this is the death part.

But that's how it is. It's unavoidable. And I do panic: What if I can't come back next summer? What if my friends forget about me? What if they don't respond to my emails? What if I have to spend an entire year feeling lonely and spiritually unfulfilled? And on and on. But I recognize these thoughts, and I am able to label them as Typical Leaving Israel Thoughts; this doesn't take the sting out of them but does let me relax into them a little bit because I know they're normal. I'm allowed to be sad, because endings are hard. But I have strategies: I can go for a walk; I can watch the birds; I can write. I can bring my grief to people I trust and say, Here it is. You don't have to fix it. You don't have to make me feel happy. Just be with me where I am. Help me relax with the groundlessness.

And yet, there is still so much love. So much sun. And one week left, which I plan to enjoy as best as I can while still making room for All The Feelings. Going into this Shabbat, I am profoundly grateful for all that I have been given over the past month, because those blessings are precisely what makes leaving so hard. I think I'm the lucky one.

Biblical Insecurity

I just finished Week 2 at Pardes, another week full of stimulating conversations and interesting learning. In one of my classes, we explored the story of Rachel, focusing on her beauty and how it affected her and her relationships with her husband, Jacob, and her sister, Leah.

For those of you not familiar with the story, Jacob arrives at the home of his uncle, Laban, after fleeing the wrath of his brother, Esau. When Jacob sees Laban's daughter, Rachel, he falls passionately in love with her immediately. Jacob arranges to work for Laban for seven years in exchange for marrying Rachel. But at the last minute, Laban substitutes Rachel's older sister, Leah, for Rachel, explaining that the older sister has to marry before the younger one. Jacob agrees to work for Laban another seven years, at which point he will finally be able to marry Rachel.

The narrative goes on to describe the sisters:

ועיני לאה רכות ורחל היתה יפת–תאר ויפת מראה
"Leah's eyes were weak, but Rachel was beautiful of form and of face." (Bamidbar 29:17)

Rachel's exquisite beauty is why Jacob fell in love with her, and Leah's implied lack of beauty, along with the fact that she played a role in deceiving him, is why Jacob does not desire her. Seeing this, Hashem intervenes:

 וירא יהוה כי–שנואה לאה ויפתח את–רחמה ורחל עקרה
"Now, seeing that Leah was disfavored, Hashem opened her womb, while Rachel was childless." (Bamidbar 29:31)

What follows is a heartbreaking story of sibling rivalry: Leah gives birth to child after child, each time hoping that Jacob will finally love her. Rachel is forced to watch her sister produce all these sons while she herself remains barren, and get so jealous that she has Jacob sleep with her maid in order that she should have a child. Eventually, Hashem grants Rachel her wish and she becomes pregnant herself, having one son and dying during the birth of a second.

As my class discussed this narrative, it became clear that most of my fellow students pitied Leah because she was unloved, and had limited sympathy for Rachel because she was beautiful and therefore the object of Jacob's desire. I found this interesting for two reasons:

1) It mirrors today's attitudes toward women--we feel sympathy for "unattractive" women, while we assume that "beautiful" women have it all.

2) Personally, I had a different view--I felt badly for both sisters. Why? Because it was clear to me that both were deeply insecure, particularly around their attachment to Jacob, the man they shared.

Leah knows she is the unfavored wife and understands that if she isn't going to be loved, at least she can be useful by producing the heirs that Jacob needs. With every birth of a son, she hopes that this will be the child who makes Jacob love her. Because that love never comes, Leah feels pressured to keep bearing children, ultimately giving her maid to Jacob when she herself stops getting pregnant. The bottom line for Leah is this: being loved is best, but being needed is better than being ignored.

Rachel, on the other hand, is the object of Jacob's desire. She knows her own beauty and understands that it is the reason for Jacob's love. But she also knows that she cannot give him what he needs--children. Rachel also recognizes the importance of being needed, because while infatuation can disappear, an heir is forever. Therefore, although Jacob loves her, Rachel does not feel that the relationship is secure until she satisfies his need for children. Her bottom line? A pretty but barren wife is ultimately not essential. She needs to make herself indispensable.

I think I read this narrative in this way because the sisters' insecurity really resonated with me. In many of my relationships, from childhood into adulthood, I have understood that I was not the favorite and could be disposed of at any time. Therefore, I felt I needed to guarantee my place by providing my friends with something they needed. My motto: it is better to be used than ignored. I think Leah and Rachel both understood that to be true.

Shedding that motto has taken a lot of effort and is still a work in progress. I do still carry a bit of belief that unless I offer something useful, my friends will prefer other people over me. But I've discovered that my truest friends like me for who I am, not what I give them. In my best friendships, the relationship is its own reward--I do not have to continuously supply other incentives. But that sense of security in relationships--and the knowledge that I deserve it--is something I've had to cultivate slowly over time, and it is easily threatened by outside competition. Still, I'm working hard to learn that a genuine friendship means that you both love--and need--each other, and that this doesn't disappear just because someone else comes into the picture.

Perhaps the story of Rachel and Leah does teach us about the advantages and disadvantages of beauty, and about humility, and about character. But I think it also teaches us about relationships and how challenging it can be for women to know they have to compete and hustle for love and belonging. I hope we can all do better than our foremothers in navigating those waters, and that we understand our inherent worthiness and lovability.

שבת שלום!

I'm...Happy?

First things first: breaking the One Meal Rule worked out great. I had an amazing Shabbat! In case you were concerned.

Second: today was my first full day of classes at the Pardes Institute, which has been my summer intellectual home for the past 5 years. Here is today's low-down:

1) How Much Are You Worth? Introductory Talmud (Bava Kama)
I might be totally outing myself as a geek here, but there is something so fun about working your way through a piece of Talmud. It's like a gigantic puzzle. And in an intro class, no one is really good at it, and I like that I have permission not to be good at it yet, but to enjoy it nevertheless. Today, my chevruta and I began studying the civil laws of "damages." It's amazing how compelling that can actually be.

2) Modern Jewish Thought: G-d, Torah, Chosen People
This class totally blew my mind. Wide open. I'm not really a philosophy person, except apparently I am, because I am loving every minute of this. I left today's class with a ton of unanswered questions, which, when you're engaged in Jewish learning, is the sign of a successful day.

3) Beauty and the Beast: Power, Seduction, and Challenges of Vanity
I mean, what's not to love about that? The instructor is one of my all-time favorite teachers and you would not believe how much she can cram into two and a half hours. I'm still digesting it.  But let me just say, if you've ever wondered how the story of Adam and Eve relates to Pandora's Box, I now can explain it to you.

So anyway, it was a great day. And the weirdest thing happened, about midway through the afternoon class: I realized I felt happy. This is a big deal. I am not a person whose baseline emotion is, "happy." While I wouldn't say I'm unhappy, I'm usually neutral at best. There are times when I feel content, but happy is not a word I attach to myself often. And yet, here I was, in a windowless classroom in Pardes, and it occurred to me that I loved where I was. I was intellectually and spiritually engaged; I was having stimulating conversations with interesting people; I was reunited with people close to my heart in a place that is important to me. And I felt happy. It was so weird! But I loved it.

I know the happiness won't last forever, probably not even for the duration of this summer program. I'm a mood cycler, and eventually the downswing will come. But I'm not worried about that right now. I feel competent, brave, and energized. Maybe that's what happiness does for you? I'm not sure, but I'll take it.

Happiness...so sweet, especially when it's rare. I'm going to do my best to enjoy it!

Holding onto Growth

It's hard for me to believe, but in a few days I will be saying goodbye to Israel.  My program at Pardes has finished and I am now in that nebulous transition phase, trying to be present to enjoy my remaining time here while also preparing for departure.  While I'm looking forward to reconnecting with the people and places of home, I also feel like I am leaving home, because that is what Israel has become for me:  a home for my soul.

Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings:  plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing.  If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others:  fear.  As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here:  someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open.  I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers.  In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self.  Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?

One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:

"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself.  This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)

What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings.  I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment.  Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world.  He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others.  I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress.  In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery.  I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own.  I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel:  other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.

So...

...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...

...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...

...תודה רבה  B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!

Our Two Souls

One of the classic teachings of Judaism comes from Deuteronomy 6:5:
And you shall love the Lord, your G-d, with all your heart and with all your soul... 
I've recited this piece of text hundreds of times in my life, but rarely thought deeply about its wording.  In a recent class at Pardes, my teacher introduced me to how the Midrash Rabba explains this text:

"What do all your heart and all your soul mean?  With each different soul that He created in you."

My teacher then explained that Hashem placed within each of us two souls.  One is the נפש בהמי, the  animal soul; the other is the נשמה טהורה, the pure soul.  The animal soul is considered to be "lower" and is concerned mainly with ME and NOW--in other words, survival.  The pure soul is the "higher" soul and is more mature and reflective; it is concerned with both me and others, now and later.        Sometimes our two souls are on the same wavelength, but other times they may send us conflicting messages, and we have to tease them apart.

There is a lot in this idea that resonates with me, but one thing that strikes me in particular is how the two souls are compared to each other via their classification as either "higher" or "lower."  The lower soul is the one that speaks to us about our basic needs:  food, rest, safety, etc., while the higher soul encourages us to think beyond just ourselves in the present moment.  I think many of us would not have much trouble jumping to the conclusion that we should use our higher soul to override our lower soul and that our animal impulses should be subjugated.  This seems to be the message that we often get from society:  "Stop thinking about yourself.  Push your body past its limits--you don't really need to sleep, or to eat.  Do more with less."  This mentality is the fuel that often feeds eating disorders...but, I would argue that this is not at all what is at the core of this Jewish teaching.

This Midrash tells us that Hashem gave us both souls on purpose.  Why would Hashem bother giving us an animal soul in the first place, if we are just supposed to suppress it all the time?  That "lower soul" is our survival instinct.  It is how we assess immediate danger and how we ensure that our basic human needs are met.  This soul is our voice of self-preservation, and I would suggest that unless we honor our lower soul, the higher soul won't be able to do its job.  Part of what I've learned over the years is that if I don't take care of myself, I can't take care of others at the level at which I'd like to.  If I don't get enough rest, I'm cranky with my friends and have no energy to spend on those relationships.  If I deny my hunger and don't eat enough, I can't focus on teaching my students because part of my mind is stuck on my empty stomach.  Basically, if I don't make sure there is enough in my cup, nothing will be able to spill over into anyone else's.  Now, does this mean I should be concerned only with myself or that I should immediately get everything I want?  Of course not...but, neither should I ignore my basic needs under the false premise that prioritizing the well-being of others is a more worthy pursuit than caring for myself.  Hashem gave me both souls because He understands that by ensuring that my basic needs are securely met, I become available to connect with--and genuinely care for--others.  Both souls are essential, and neither should be dismissed as less valuable than the other.

Take some time to tune into your two souls.  What are they saying?  Are you listening?  I wish for you the ability to hear what the two voices of your truth are telling you, and the courage to take steps toward honoring both essential pieces of yourself.

Find What's Yummy

Shalom from Israel!  I do feel like I should apologize for the long stretch without any postings...as predicted, getting computer access has been a bit tricky.  But, though I haven't been writing, I've been quite busy exploring Jerusalem and reuniting with dear friends after many, many months apart.  This week I began a 3-week-long course of study at the Pardes Institute, and although I've only had three days of learning so far, I've already made one major discovery:

I LOVE learning Torah!

This is no small realization, especially because I distinctly remember a time when I thought studying Torah sounded both tedious and unproductive.  I've found that not only is learning Torah way more mentally stimulating than I'd originally thought, but also that I have a huge appetite for it.  I can't get enough of the beit midrash, with its continuous current of debate and intellectual energy.  I am completely enthralled by Talmud and the scrupulous attention that the talmudic rabbis paid to every single detail.  Also, I just love the feeling of exploring something new in an environment where every question is valid and every opinion merits air time.  Beginning to learn Torah has also been incredibly humbling--it has been a long time since I've had to learn ANYTHING from scratch, and the feeling can be uncomfortable at times.  But at the same time, the struggle is delicious because the rewards are so satisfying.

At first, I couldn't really see how my newfound enthusiasm for Torah learning related to recovery, but I believe I've found a link.  Discovering what energizes us is a major part of recovery work--figuring out what truly excites us, and making space for it in our lives.  A great therapist of mine once said, "You need to find what's yummy to you."  In other words, it's important to figure out what genuinely brings you positive energy and joy.  For me, in this moment, learning Torah is yummy. I'm grateful to have this opportunity to bring it into my life, and I look forward to sharing with you what I'm learning!

What about you?  What does your soul find delicious?