Okay, so it's been a while. A lot has happened in the past month and a half: I went to Israel, I came home from Israel, and I moved to a new apartment. I would like to just take one moment to pat myself on the back for being an adult throughout all these changes. It wasn't easy, but I hung in there. And I have lots of trees outside my windows in my new apartment, with lots of birds, so I'm happy.
This summer I didn't learn full-time at The Pardes Institute, but I did go to their Tisha B'Av learning program where I got to hear some excellent shiurim and also a panel featuring several of my Pardes teachers. Despite being caffeine- and nutrient-deprived, I did get a lot out of the day, but one moment stood out, and that's what I want to write about here.
It happened in the first shiur I went to, taught by the incredible Yiscah Smith, of whom I am now a major fan. The title of her shiur was, "How To Restore Unity to a Fragmented World: Exploring the inner dimension of 'Loving one's fellow as oneself.'" Citing chapter 32 of the Tanya, Yiscah taught that because the greatness of one's own soul can never be known, it is also impossible to truly know the excellence of the soul of one's fellow...and therefore, one cannot rightfully say that his or her own soul is any better than anyone else's. We just can't know.
At this point, a young woman in the audience asked if this principle applied to all souls, or only Jewish souls? Yiscah explained that in the context in which the source was written, it was intended to speak only about Jews. Not satisfied by that answer, the woman pressed on: "But do you think that a non-Jewish soul is just as precious as a Jewish neshama?"
To which Yiscah replied, "I don't know. You know, the older I get, the more comfortable I am saying, 'I don't know.'"
Magic, those three words: I. Don't. Know. And how brave, an adult who is willing to speak them.
That exchange stuck with me because I was struck by the opportunity Yiscah had to make a faith-based claim of certainty that of course a Jewish soul is special in ways that other souls are not. Or, she could have gone the politically correct route and said that of course all souls are created equal. Each response would have reassured some members of the audience and probably rankled some others, but she would have looked like a teacher who was sure. And isn't that what teachers are supposed to be? I'm interested because I'm also a teacher, so this feels important.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought how important it is to be honest with one's students--and with oneself--about doubt and uncertainty. And the truth is that especially in areas of religion and faith, I am suspicious of people who are too sure. It's like they don't even know what they don't know. I contrasted Yiscah's declaration of not knowing with some conversations I have had with people who are very, very sure of what they believe. And I realized that the reason why those conversations leave me feeling uncomfortable is because there is no space in them for me to express my own doubts without having them erased by the other person's certainty. Whereas with Yiscah, I felt like I could talk to her all day about my struggles with belief, because she also has things she doesn't know.
I was raised Jewish but secular, which means that I was taught that religion is faith, and faith is different from fact. I was taught to be a critical thinker, to base my knowledge on science, and to not take anything at face value without doing my due diligence. But I also unequivocally believe in G-d and feel as though I do have proof, albeit nonscientific, that He exists. All of this together sometimes makes religious belief messy, especially as I have become observant, and can leave me feeling insecure in religious circles where everyone seems so sure all the time. So in the past, I would also pretend to be sure. I echoed what other people said and kept my mouth shut when questions bubbled up in my brain. A people-pleaser through and through, I was certainly not going to disappoint my intellectually and spiritually powerful teachers by asking a question that displayed the insecurity of my belief.
But recovery has been, in large part, about getting more comfortable with uncertainty. If nothing else, anorexia was definitely certainty, or at least the illusion of certainty, which was usually good enough for me. In recovery, I've had to get used to not knowing the nutritional information of everything I eat, not knowing my weight all the time, not living every day by the same rigid routine. I've had to ask myself Big Questions, like, "Do I want to find a partner?" and, "Should I buy a home?" and, "Am I ready to become a mother?" none of which have a clear answer. I just took the step of moving to a new apartment in a more suburban area, and the #1 question everyone asks me is, "Where are you going to go to shul?" I don't know. When I talk with people about wanting to adopt an older child through foster care, people ask how I am going to balance religious observance with the needs of a child who might not be Jewish by birth. I don't know. But if I delayed moving until I had settled on a shul, I would have missed out on this great apartment. And if I wait to become a foster parent until I have figured out all the details of how life with a hypothetical child will unfold, I will probably never become a foster parent, because who can be sure of anything like that? Believe me--I, more than most people, understand the need and desire for certainty. But I also know that that need can be paralyzing. Sometimes we have to make peace with not knowing.
I think one of the greatest gifts G-d gives to humans is that He doesn't allow us to know everything. We might strive for certainty, but usually we won't get it, and that's actually a good thing. It's good because it gives us freedom of movement, both physical and cognitive. It allows us to integrate new information, to assess situations objectively, and to change our minds. Not knowing gives us the ability to discover the world anew every time we dare to look at it differently. And while it might seem as though the people who "have it all together" are the ones who are sure of everything, it is actually the people who are brave enough to say, "I don't know," who know where it's at. I used to want to surround myself with certainty, but in recovery it is the Not Knowers who have become my people.
My hope for us is that we strike a healthy balance between knowing and not knowing. Too much of either can be destructive; the sweet spot is somewhere in the middle. And also that we not be afraid to admit our uncertainty, to ourselves or to others--because when we are brave enough to express doubt, we give other people permission to do the same. And who knows? Then maybe we can discover something new, together.
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label faith. Show all posts
Friday, August 25, 2017
Sunday, June 2, 2013
No "Yeah Buts!"
This past week's parasha is one that leads the reader, upon beginning its first chapter, to have a sneaking suspicion that it is not going to end well for Am Yisrael. Indeed, that would be putting it lightly--the well-known episode of the meraglim, or spies, featured in parashat Shelach is one of disastrous consequences for the Jewish people. Here, in a nutshell, is what happens:
As the Jews near Eretz Yisrael, Moshe sends twelve upstanding men to scout out the territory and the people who dwell there. Although Hashem has promised them the land, the Jewish people still need to figure out the most efficient, responsible way to conquer it. So, the spies go into the land for forty days, and when they come back, ten of them report that, yes, the land is as good as promised...however, it is occupied by some rather intimidating, larger-than-life humans who would surely be too strong for the Jews to overpower. Two of the spies, Caleb and Joshua, try to convince the people that they will be victorious...but, to no avail. Before long, those other ten spies instill such uncertainty and fear in the people that they demand a new leader who will replace Moshe and bring them back to Egypt, to the miserable-yet-familiar confines of slavery. Understandably, Hashem is furious that despite all the miracles He has done for the Jews, they still are unconvinced of His protection and power and do not believe that He could bring them into the Promised Land. So, He declares that the Jews will wander in the wilderness for forty years, during which time the entire adult generation will die, leaving only their children to inherit Eretz Yisrael.
When the spies reported their findings to the people, they transitioned from their positive observations to their negative ones through the Hebrew word, efes, which roughly translates as, "however." (Interestingly, in modern Hebrew efes means, "zero," which coincides with how the spies used it to completely negate all the goodness of the land.) Through that word, the spies let their insecurities overtake what should have been their fundamental knowledge that the land would be theirs--it was only a matter of how.
As I read these chapters of Shelach, I remembered a phrase that came up quite a bit in my recovery: "Yeah, but...". I was formally introduced to the concept of the "Yeah Buts" many years ago when I attended a body image workshop led by two of my recovery mentors. They explained that the eating disorder uses "Yeah Buts" to refute the positive messages of our healthy voices. For every encouraging statement, every suggestion toward progress, there was a "Yeah But" to prove that it wouldn't work. (Examples: "I guess I could add Food X to my afternoon snack...yeah, but Food X doesn't taste good at that time of day." "I probably should increase my nutritionist appointments to every week instead of twice a month...yeah, but I don't want to pay all those copays.") The main problem of "Yeah Buts" is that they shut down possibilities and convince us that what we want--what we know we could have--is actually out of our reach.
With that one word, efes, the spies uttered a gigantic, "Yeah, but...".
This past Shabbat I read a weekly Parsha column by Rabbi Dov Linzer, Rosh HaYeshiva and Dean of the Yeshivat Chovevei Rabbinical School in NYC. Rabbi Linzer goes into a detailed analysis of the story of the spies, but he also manages to universalize its lesson as follows:
If one is not a priori committed to an enterprise, if one does not believe that the land is good, then every problem looms large, every challenge becomes an obstacle. However, if there is a fundamental belief in G-d's promise and in the goodness of the land, then whatever the problems and whatever the challenges, they can be met and dealt with--"We shall surely ascend and conquer it, for we can surely do it!" (13:30)
What I take from Rabbi Linzer's message is that when we believe wholeheartedly that a positive outcome is ours for the taking, then we will look at challenges as just parts of the journey--uncomfortable parts, perhaps, but completely surpassable. However, if we enter into a process with a lack of faith at our core, then obstacles become reasons to abandon the entire undertaking. On this blog, I have previously compared recovery to Eretz Yisrael, and I believe the comparison holds true here. Just like the Promised Land, recovery is what we yearn for, what we dream could be ours. If we believe that Hashem has put it within our reach and that if we work hard, we shall surely attain it, then all the bumps in the road to get there become just that--mere bumps in the road. It's when we start to doubt that we could ever truly live in recovery, that we become vulnerable to the "Yeah Buts."
If you find yourself doubting your ability to recover, I hope that you can use the lesson of the spies to remind yourself that the only thing really standing between you and recovery is whether or not you believe you can do it. If you believe recovery will be yours, then you will overcome all the obstacles in your path. As Joshua and Caleb said, "the Land is very, very good!" (14:7) So is recovery--so, don't let any "Yeah Buts" prevent you from having it!
As the Jews near Eretz Yisrael, Moshe sends twelve upstanding men to scout out the territory and the people who dwell there. Although Hashem has promised them the land, the Jewish people still need to figure out the most efficient, responsible way to conquer it. So, the spies go into the land for forty days, and when they come back, ten of them report that, yes, the land is as good as promised...however, it is occupied by some rather intimidating, larger-than-life humans who would surely be too strong for the Jews to overpower. Two of the spies, Caleb and Joshua, try to convince the people that they will be victorious...but, to no avail. Before long, those other ten spies instill such uncertainty and fear in the people that they demand a new leader who will replace Moshe and bring them back to Egypt, to the miserable-yet-familiar confines of slavery. Understandably, Hashem is furious that despite all the miracles He has done for the Jews, they still are unconvinced of His protection and power and do not believe that He could bring them into the Promised Land. So, He declares that the Jews will wander in the wilderness for forty years, during which time the entire adult generation will die, leaving only their children to inherit Eretz Yisrael.
When the spies reported their findings to the people, they transitioned from their positive observations to their negative ones through the Hebrew word, efes, which roughly translates as, "however." (Interestingly, in modern Hebrew efes means, "zero," which coincides with how the spies used it to completely negate all the goodness of the land.) Through that word, the spies let their insecurities overtake what should have been their fundamental knowledge that the land would be theirs--it was only a matter of how.
As I read these chapters of Shelach, I remembered a phrase that came up quite a bit in my recovery: "Yeah, but...". I was formally introduced to the concept of the "Yeah Buts" many years ago when I attended a body image workshop led by two of my recovery mentors. They explained that the eating disorder uses "Yeah Buts" to refute the positive messages of our healthy voices. For every encouraging statement, every suggestion toward progress, there was a "Yeah But" to prove that it wouldn't work. (Examples: "I guess I could add Food X to my afternoon snack...yeah, but Food X doesn't taste good at that time of day." "I probably should increase my nutritionist appointments to every week instead of twice a month...yeah, but I don't want to pay all those copays.") The main problem of "Yeah Buts" is that they shut down possibilities and convince us that what we want--what we know we could have--is actually out of our reach.
With that one word, efes, the spies uttered a gigantic, "Yeah, but...".
This past Shabbat I read a weekly Parsha column by Rabbi Dov Linzer, Rosh HaYeshiva and Dean of the Yeshivat Chovevei Rabbinical School in NYC. Rabbi Linzer goes into a detailed analysis of the story of the spies, but he also manages to universalize its lesson as follows:
If one is not a priori committed to an enterprise, if one does not believe that the land is good, then every problem looms large, every challenge becomes an obstacle. However, if there is a fundamental belief in G-d's promise and in the goodness of the land, then whatever the problems and whatever the challenges, they can be met and dealt with--"We shall surely ascend and conquer it, for we can surely do it!" (13:30)
What I take from Rabbi Linzer's message is that when we believe wholeheartedly that a positive outcome is ours for the taking, then we will look at challenges as just parts of the journey--uncomfortable parts, perhaps, but completely surpassable. However, if we enter into a process with a lack of faith at our core, then obstacles become reasons to abandon the entire undertaking. On this blog, I have previously compared recovery to Eretz Yisrael, and I believe the comparison holds true here. Just like the Promised Land, recovery is what we yearn for, what we dream could be ours. If we believe that Hashem has put it within our reach and that if we work hard, we shall surely attain it, then all the bumps in the road to get there become just that--mere bumps in the road. It's when we start to doubt that we could ever truly live in recovery, that we become vulnerable to the "Yeah Buts."
If you find yourself doubting your ability to recover, I hope that you can use the lesson of the spies to remind yourself that the only thing really standing between you and recovery is whether or not you believe you can do it. If you believe recovery will be yours, then you will overcome all the obstacles in your path. As Joshua and Caleb said, "the Land is very, very good!" (14:7) So is recovery--so, don't let any "Yeah Buts" prevent you from having it!
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Chodesh Tov...it's Elul!
This past Shabbat, we also celebrated Rosh Chodesh Elul. Elul is the month preceding the High Holidays and is traditionally a time dedicated to introspection, self-evaluation, and spiritual preparation to get us ready for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. In keeping with this practice, during this month I will aim to center each of my weekly posts around a different theme of Elul and how it relates to recovery.
One traditional Elul practice is to recite Psalm 27 twice a day throughout the month. Below is a translation of this psalm:
The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?
When evil men assail me to devour my flesh it is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.
Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear; should war beset me, still would I be confident.
One thing I ask of the Lord, only that do I seek: to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord, to frequent His temple.
He will shelter me in His pavilion on an evil day, grant me the protection of His tent, raise me high upon a rock.
Now is my head high over my enemies roundabout; I sacrifice in His tent with shouts of joy, singing and chanting a hymn to the Lord.
Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud; have mercy on me, answer me. In Your behalf my heart says: "Seek My face!"
O Lord, I seek Your face.
Do not hide from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger; You have ever been my help.
Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O G-d, my deliverer.
Though my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will take me in.
Show me Your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my watchful foes.
Do not subject me to the will of my foes, for false witnesses and unjust accusers have appeared against me.
Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living...
Look to the Lord; be strong and of good courage!
O look to the Lord!
When I read the first half of the psalm, I am struck by the strong faith of the speaker and the confidence that no matter what obstacles rise up, Hashem will offer protection and safety. The psalmist recognizes that to have such unshakable faith is to know security, peace, and the joy of victory. This reminds me of the mindset that we often need to spur us into recovery. Because giving up the eating disorder essentially requires a huge leap of faith, we need to feel confident that Hashem is looking out for us and will help us along the journey. When we feel this way, we often feel empowered, motivated, and confident that we can do the hard work recovery demands--this is what propels our momentum and inspires us to take risks and grow. I know that when I have an experience that shows me how far I have come in recovery, I enjoy a delicious sense of accomplishment and power as well as deep gratitude to Hashem for getting me to that point.
The second half of the psalm, however, carries a decidedly different tune. All of a sudden, the psalmist speaks of fear, of doubt, of loneliness. He begs Hashem not to abandon him in his time of danger and need, and implores G-d to show him the path to a righteous and holy life. In my mind, this conjures up times when my resolve has weakened, when I've had setbacks, or when the challenges of living a healthy life seemed far, far too demanding--in short, every time I've ever doubted my ability to "make it" in recovery. The psalmist expresses the intense fear and anguish that can arise at such a time--it's enough to make a person doubt whether he or she has the strength to keep going. When we are in such a state of despair, remembering that Hashem's love for us is everlasting can give us the courage to keep engaging with life. The psalmist recognizes an essential truth: Hashem never gives up on us and never stops wanting us to connect with Him. In fact, G-d begs us to seek Him out. And so, even when his faith is weakened, the psalmist hangs onto his determination to feel Hashem's love...and through this, he finds renewed courage.
Psalm 27 is about oneness--unity between the individual and Hashem, and also the joining inside ourselves of our faith and our insecurities. Elul is a time to bring ourselves closer to G-d, and is also a time to evaluate that relationship...and, like any relationship, our connection with Hashem sometimes feels strong and other times feels hazy. But, what I take from this psalm is that this is normal--holding the positive with the negative is part of how life works. Recovery is not a linear path into sunshine and roses; it is full of the ups and downs of real life in this world. We need to be able to use the strength that we gather in times of security to help us sit with the uncertainties that are also bound to arise--because we know that if we gather our faith and hang on, we will feel safe and strong once again.
So, as we begin our journey through Elul, I wish for you that you do as the psalmist instructs: Look to Hashem, and be brave! You can do it!
One traditional Elul practice is to recite Psalm 27 twice a day throughout the month. Below is a translation of this psalm:
The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?
When evil men assail me to devour my flesh it is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.
Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear; should war beset me, still would I be confident.
One thing I ask of the Lord, only that do I seek: to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord, to frequent His temple.
He will shelter me in His pavilion on an evil day, grant me the protection of His tent, raise me high upon a rock.
Now is my head high over my enemies roundabout; I sacrifice in His tent with shouts of joy, singing and chanting a hymn to the Lord.
Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud; have mercy on me, answer me. In Your behalf my heart says: "Seek My face!"
O Lord, I seek Your face.
Do not hide from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger; You have ever been my help.
Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O G-d, my deliverer.
Though my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will take me in.
Show me Your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my watchful foes.
Do not subject me to the will of my foes, for false witnesses and unjust accusers have appeared against me.
Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living...
Look to the Lord; be strong and of good courage!
O look to the Lord!
When I read the first half of the psalm, I am struck by the strong faith of the speaker and the confidence that no matter what obstacles rise up, Hashem will offer protection and safety. The psalmist recognizes that to have such unshakable faith is to know security, peace, and the joy of victory. This reminds me of the mindset that we often need to spur us into recovery. Because giving up the eating disorder essentially requires a huge leap of faith, we need to feel confident that Hashem is looking out for us and will help us along the journey. When we feel this way, we often feel empowered, motivated, and confident that we can do the hard work recovery demands--this is what propels our momentum and inspires us to take risks and grow. I know that when I have an experience that shows me how far I have come in recovery, I enjoy a delicious sense of accomplishment and power as well as deep gratitude to Hashem for getting me to that point.
The second half of the psalm, however, carries a decidedly different tune. All of a sudden, the psalmist speaks of fear, of doubt, of loneliness. He begs Hashem not to abandon him in his time of danger and need, and implores G-d to show him the path to a righteous and holy life. In my mind, this conjures up times when my resolve has weakened, when I've had setbacks, or when the challenges of living a healthy life seemed far, far too demanding--in short, every time I've ever doubted my ability to "make it" in recovery. The psalmist expresses the intense fear and anguish that can arise at such a time--it's enough to make a person doubt whether he or she has the strength to keep going. When we are in such a state of despair, remembering that Hashem's love for us is everlasting can give us the courage to keep engaging with life. The psalmist recognizes an essential truth: Hashem never gives up on us and never stops wanting us to connect with Him. In fact, G-d begs us to seek Him out. And so, even when his faith is weakened, the psalmist hangs onto his determination to feel Hashem's love...and through this, he finds renewed courage.
Psalm 27 is about oneness--unity between the individual and Hashem, and also the joining inside ourselves of our faith and our insecurities. Elul is a time to bring ourselves closer to G-d, and is also a time to evaluate that relationship...and, like any relationship, our connection with Hashem sometimes feels strong and other times feels hazy. But, what I take from this psalm is that this is normal--holding the positive with the negative is part of how life works. Recovery is not a linear path into sunshine and roses; it is full of the ups and downs of real life in this world. We need to be able to use the strength that we gather in times of security to help us sit with the uncertainties that are also bound to arise--because we know that if we gather our faith and hang on, we will feel safe and strong once again.
So, as we begin our journey through Elul, I wish for you that you do as the psalmist instructs: Look to Hashem, and be brave! You can do it!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Crossing the Sea
I have a little bit of an optimism problem...specifically, the problem is that I am not an optimist. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a pessimist, but I'm definitely pragmatic. I do not believe that things will always work out for the best. Risk-taking, for me, usually involves imagining every possible negative outcome I can think of and deciding whether or not I could tolerate it. In short, I'm not big on "leaps of faith." I absolutely do believe in Hashem, and I do trust in His protection...but, at the same time, I am not about to leap into the unknown without at least some sense of confidence that I will not regret it.
It seems the ancient Israelites also experienced this sense of trepidation when faced with the challenge of crossing the Red Sea. Their choice was either to return to slavery in Egypt, or to attempt to cross a vast, cold, unfamiliar body of water. All of a sudden, slavery wasn't looking so terrible...after all, they'd been slaves for so long that the lifestyle offered them a comforting sense of security. Sure, it was miserable...but it was also predictable and familiar. Is it any wonder that when they were staring down that expanse of the Red Sea, they may have started to waver a bit on their determination to escape?
According to one midrash, an Israelite named Nachshon was the first one to set foot into the water. As he waded in, inch by inch, the sea did not part...but he kept going, because he knew that returning to slavery really was not an option. Only when Nachshon was in the water up to his nose, did Hashem finally part the sea, enabling Nachshon and the rest of the Israelites to cross on dry land. Apparently, Hashem was not ready to part the sea until He knew that the Israelites had enough faith to enter the water.
To me, the message of this midrash is beautifully applicable to the risk involved in pursuing recovery. When I reflect on the source of my early ambivalence toward recovery, the word that comes to mind most often is fear. Abandoning the familiarity and security of the confines of anorexia was completely petrifying...even if, objectively, it seemed obvious that recovery offered me a much greater chance at happiness. I think this fear of the unknowns of recovery is often hard for patients' loved ones to understand, because it does seem counter-intuitive: to the witness, the eating disorder is so clearly a source of misery, and recovery is the path to freedom. But, to the person with an eating disorder, entering recovery is like wading into the Red Sea--it requires acceptance of risk and tremendous courage and faith.
In my own process, I've found that once I showed that I truly was willing to do the work of recovery, the path seemed considerably more clear than it did when I was staring at it from the camp of anorexia. It hasn't been a total breeze, but I do feel that once I demonstrated my commitment, Hashem provided me the sources of strength and guidance I needed to make the journey. To those who are still in the place of hesitation: I understand your fear, because I felt it myself. But, maybe if you take the first few steps in faith, you will find the reassurance you need to continue.
עזי וזמרת יה ויהי–לי לישועה
Hashem is my strength and might; He is become my deliverance.
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