Although Shavuot technically is one of the major Jewish festivals, it's not a holiday that I grew up hearing a lot about. Probably this is because, aside from staying up all night learning and eating ice cream (yay!), Shavuot doesn't require much in the way of ritual. There is no frantic house-cleaning, no fasting, no costumes, no traditional gift-giving. And yet, Shavuot has become one of my favorite holidays as an adult. What it lacks in typical markers of festivity, it makes up for in themes: Shavuot is a time for recommitment and rejuvenation, for getting ourselves out of whatever spiritual ruts in which we've found ourselves.
Perhaps I find it particularly meaningful because my Hebrew birthday is Sivan 4, just two days before Shavuot begins. I'm not really sure what one is technically supposed to do on one's Hebrew birthday, but I like to use this time to do a sort of spiritual self-assessment--a re-clarification of priorities, an acknowledgement of progress, and a rededication of effort in areas that are still lacking. This dovetails beautifully with the themes of Shavuot...and also, I've realized lately, of recovery.
When the Jews received the Torah at Sinai, it was a MAJOR event...so monumental that it would have been impossible to sustain that level of intensity for the thousands of years that were yet to come. How were the Jewish people supposed to remain energized once the excitement and novelty of receiving the Torah wore off? The answer is Shavuot: our annual acknowledgement of reaccepting Torah and of figuring out what that means to us, in this moment. In this way, the process of receiving Torah becomes actively ongoing and our relationship with Torah--and with Hashem--remains dynamic and exciting. Shavuot gives us an opportunity to reestablish the basics as well as to add layers to our practice so that it reflects our continuing growth.
Recovery works in much the same way. That initial commitment to recovery is exciting, but let's be honest--miles down that path, it's easy to get stuck in a rut. These are the times when we might not be regressing, but we're also not progressing--we're just sort of hanging out, not feeling particularly energized. This is when it's helpful to reassess our personal definitions of progress in recovery. What we once considered a monumental leap forward might be old hat by now, and we might need to set a new goal as a way to keep the process from getting stale. Personally, I believe that "full recovery" is not a fixed point, but an evolving state of being, as what we need to feel satisfied and nourished by life is bound to change with time. Similarly, no one is ever "done" accepting Torah--it is a process that needs to be revisited year after year, with new goals and fresh energy.
This year on Shavuot I invite all of us to (gently) reassess ourselves: Where are we Jewishly, and where are we in recovery? How can we reinvigorate ourselves and move forward? I hope that all of us can find ways to recommit ourselves to our processes and to grow in directions that we find fulfilling.
Showing posts with label Shavuot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shavuot. Show all posts
Sunday, May 12, 2013
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!
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Why Deny?
Hello again! I decided I needed a little breather in the wake of my Omer-marathon leading up to Shavuot, but last week's parasha (Nasso) sparked a little fire inside me and I have been mentally formulating this blog post since then. I realize that Nasso is chock-full of material ripe for discussion (perhaps we will come back to the sotah issue another day), but what I want to focus on is the nazirite. Simply put, a nazirite (in the time of the Temple) was an individual who took on vows of asceticism in an effort to achieve a higher level of holiness. Specifically, the vow was to abstain from wine and all grape products, to refrain from cutting one's hair, and to avoid contact with the dead and with graves. It would be a reasonable assumption that Judaism, with its famously stringent laws of kashrut and Shabbat prohibitions, would proclaim virtuous any person who is willing to be even more restrictive than the religion demands. Interestingly, this is not the case. When it comes to the nazirite, the Sages are split in their opinions.
Because I think many of us with histories of eating disorders know all too well how seductive and appealing the practice of self-denial can be, I am going to bypass the Talmudic commentary that looks favorably upon the nazirite (although, to be clear, it certainly exists and is easy to find, if you're motivated to do so). What I find much more fascinating are the words of Sages who clearly do NOT approve of the nazirite vow.
When an individual ends his/her term as a nazirite, that person is required to make a sin offering to Hashem. If a nazirite is so holy, what purpose could there be for a sin offering? Rabbi Eliezer Hakappar argued that a nazirite was required to make atonement because, by practicing extreme self-denial, he had "sinned against the soul." Despite all its laws and regulations, Judaism values the enjoyment of life and does not encourage people to be more restrictive than necessary. As the Sages asked, "Is it not enough what the Torah has forbidden you, but you wish to forbid yourself more things?" (Nedarim 9:1)
This resonates deeply with me because for so long, my guiding principle was Restrictiveness. Forget the fact that I was deeply miserable--there was something about self-denial that also gave me a feeling of superiority, of separateness, of virtuousness. I thought I was special because I could resist what others could not. In that mindset, I never once thought of my vigorous suppression of appetite as "sinning against my soul." But now I think that's exactly what it was.
The Talmud teaches,
"In the future world, a man will have to give an accounting for every good thing his eyes saw, but of which he did not eat." (Kiddushin 4:12) Rabbi Elazar believed this so strongly that he regularly set aside money so that he could taste every kind of food at least once a year.
When I think about that, it almost brings tears to my eyes--that kind of dedication to pleasure and value of delicious experiences. What would it be like to live in that way, to prioritize and savor the enjoyment of food? How can we shift our paradigm from the societal messages of, "Avoid x, y, and z if you don't want to get fat," to the much more nurturing perspective of, "What am I hungry for? What would be yummy? How can I be good to my soul in this moment?" Perhaps just asking the questions--and listening to the answers--is a solid place to start.
Because I think many of us with histories of eating disorders know all too well how seductive and appealing the practice of self-denial can be, I am going to bypass the Talmudic commentary that looks favorably upon the nazirite (although, to be clear, it certainly exists and is easy to find, if you're motivated to do so). What I find much more fascinating are the words of Sages who clearly do NOT approve of the nazirite vow.
When an individual ends his/her term as a nazirite, that person is required to make a sin offering to Hashem. If a nazirite is so holy, what purpose could there be for a sin offering? Rabbi Eliezer Hakappar argued that a nazirite was required to make atonement because, by practicing extreme self-denial, he had "sinned against the soul." Despite all its laws and regulations, Judaism values the enjoyment of life and does not encourage people to be more restrictive than necessary. As the Sages asked, "Is it not enough what the Torah has forbidden you, but you wish to forbid yourself more things?" (Nedarim 9:1)
This resonates deeply with me because for so long, my guiding principle was Restrictiveness. Forget the fact that I was deeply miserable--there was something about self-denial that also gave me a feeling of superiority, of separateness, of virtuousness. I thought I was special because I could resist what others could not. In that mindset, I never once thought of my vigorous suppression of appetite as "sinning against my soul." But now I think that's exactly what it was.
The Talmud teaches,
"In the future world, a man will have to give an accounting for every good thing his eyes saw, but of which he did not eat." (Kiddushin 4:12) Rabbi Elazar believed this so strongly that he regularly set aside money so that he could taste every kind of food at least once a year.
When I think about that, it almost brings tears to my eyes--that kind of dedication to pleasure and value of delicious experiences. What would it be like to live in that way, to prioritize and savor the enjoyment of food? How can we shift our paradigm from the societal messages of, "Avoid x, y, and z if you don't want to get fat," to the much more nurturing perspective of, "What am I hungry for? What would be yummy? How can I be good to my soul in this moment?" Perhaps just asking the questions--and listening to the answers--is a solid place to start.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
The Count is On
With the conclusion of Passover last night, my life shifted neatly into its post-Pesach routines: switching back the dishes, grocery shopping once again for "regular" food, feeding leftover matzah to the neighborhood waterfowl, etc. I'm also back to writing, which means I can now begin to share my thoughts on another great post-Pesach tradition: counting the Omer.
Brief overview: beginning on the second night of Pesach, Jews traditionally begin counting the days until Shavuot. Pesach marks the Exodus and the Jews' emergence into freedom; Shavuot is the day that the Jewish people received Torah at Mount Sinai. Because freedom without Torah would be incomplete, we "count the Omer" as a way to show how much we yearn to fulfill the word of Torah. The annual 49-day counting period is considered a time of introspection and self-improvement, during which we prepare ourselves once again to receive Torah. (For a much more in-depth explanation, visit chabad.org or aish.com.)
Each of the seven weeks of the Omer corresponds to one of seven sefirot (the forms of Divine energy through which Hashem makes manifest different attributes and qualities). Because the concept of gradual self-refinement seems so in line with recovery, I've decided that during the Omer period, I will focus my blog entries on each week's respective sefirah. Hopefully, this exercise will help us all use this time period to examine our own lives and to reach for higher ground.
Stay tuned!
Brief overview: beginning on the second night of Pesach, Jews traditionally begin counting the days until Shavuot. Pesach marks the Exodus and the Jews' emergence into freedom; Shavuot is the day that the Jewish people received Torah at Mount Sinai. Because freedom without Torah would be incomplete, we "count the Omer" as a way to show how much we yearn to fulfill the word of Torah. The annual 49-day counting period is considered a time of introspection and self-improvement, during which we prepare ourselves once again to receive Torah. (For a much more in-depth explanation, visit chabad.org or aish.com.)
Each of the seven weeks of the Omer corresponds to one of seven sefirot (the forms of Divine energy through which Hashem makes manifest different attributes and qualities). Because the concept of gradual self-refinement seems so in line with recovery, I've decided that during the Omer period, I will focus my blog entries on each week's respective sefirah. Hopefully, this exercise will help us all use this time period to examine our own lives and to reach for higher ground.
Stay tuned!
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