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.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Sunday, May 8, 2016
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, May 19, 2013
What About Love?
Recently, I made a new friend--which, let's face it, is something that becomes exponentially more difficult after graduating from college. I always get excited about new friends, because a) they don't happen that often, and b) I often wish I had more of them. As a textbook introvert, I have a small number of very close, deep friendships, but I tend to run into trouble when those few friends go out of town or can't be reached by phone. So, the promise of an authentic bond with a new person feels exciting and refreshing, but also brings along with it some feelings of caution. Despite my craving for close connection, there were many years in which friendships definitely were not my most successful endeavors. Even now that I am in recovery, when I enter into a new relationship I always have in the back of my mind the thought, "Don't make the same mistakes you used to make."
During my eating disorder, one of my biggest liabilities in relationships was my neediness. At that time, I had very, very few friends--there just wasn't room for many of them in my life alongside anorexia. I was desperately lonely, and as a result I clung tightly to anyone who promised connection. Since I had so little self-worth I usually felt incredulous when someone actually wanted to be my friend...and then I lived in fear that one wrong move on my part would sabotage the entire operation. I went overboard trying to endear myself to others via what one of my friends calls the, "Love Me, Love Me Dance"...and every time one of my emails or phone calls went unanswered, I experienced utter devastation and was certain that I accidentally had done something terrible, that the friendship was over. I hated myself for being so needy, yet I couldn't help it--that hunger for love was so wide and so deep that I felt it would never be satisfied.
Many years of therapy and a few lasting, precious friendships later, I am relieved and happy to say that I no longer approach relationships with anywhere near that degree of clinginess. As I've gained a genuine sense of self-love, I've found that I'm much more able to connect with others in a way that feels healthy. And yet, remnants of former insecurities remain, and I occasionally still worry that friendships I hold dear will one day vanish. I know how to manage those anxieties and understand that they are not, in fact, grounded in reality...but, there they are, nevertheless. Recently I read something in the book, Toward a Meaningful Life: The Wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, that offered me some insight into the link between self-love and loving others:
"If you don't find a way to love G-d, to love the G-d that resides in your soul, you will find yourself in a constant search for love. We may even turn to unhealthy forms of love to replace this lack of inner love."
To me, this makes perfect sense: when I didn't love myself at all, I needed others to do all that loving for me--and there was no amount of "other-love" that would satisfy the void inside myself. Now that I do have a healthy dose of self-love in my life, now that I recognize the
G-dliness within myself, I'm free to enjoy--but not cling to--positive connections with other people.
Recovery is all about learning, and some lessons I learned the hard way. There were relationships of mine that suffered in large part because of how I approached them. But, although there was a time when I truly hated myself for "ruining" those connections, I don't feel that way anymore. Was it unfortunate? Absolutely. Was it the best I could do at the time, with what I had? Yes. And, going through this evolution of how I approach relationships has made me more able than ever to tune in to myself and assess how I am contributing to a connection: too much, to little, or just right? It's not a perfect science and sometimes there are adjustments to be made...but, I also know that I'm not in danger anymore of reverting to my old imbalanced system.
Recovery is a tough journey, and I wish that all of us have friends to walk it with us. I hope that we can all achieve a genuine degree of self-love and self-worth that will make those connections possible!
During my eating disorder, one of my biggest liabilities in relationships was my neediness. At that time, I had very, very few friends--there just wasn't room for many of them in my life alongside anorexia. I was desperately lonely, and as a result I clung tightly to anyone who promised connection. Since I had so little self-worth I usually felt incredulous when someone actually wanted to be my friend...and then I lived in fear that one wrong move on my part would sabotage the entire operation. I went overboard trying to endear myself to others via what one of my friends calls the, "Love Me, Love Me Dance"...and every time one of my emails or phone calls went unanswered, I experienced utter devastation and was certain that I accidentally had done something terrible, that the friendship was over. I hated myself for being so needy, yet I couldn't help it--that hunger for love was so wide and so deep that I felt it would never be satisfied.
Many years of therapy and a few lasting, precious friendships later, I am relieved and happy to say that I no longer approach relationships with anywhere near that degree of clinginess. As I've gained a genuine sense of self-love, I've found that I'm much more able to connect with others in a way that feels healthy. And yet, remnants of former insecurities remain, and I occasionally still worry that friendships I hold dear will one day vanish. I know how to manage those anxieties and understand that they are not, in fact, grounded in reality...but, there they are, nevertheless. Recently I read something in the book, Toward a Meaningful Life: The Wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, that offered me some insight into the link between self-love and loving others:
"If you don't find a way to love G-d, to love the G-d that resides in your soul, you will find yourself in a constant search for love. We may even turn to unhealthy forms of love to replace this lack of inner love."
To me, this makes perfect sense: when I didn't love myself at all, I needed others to do all that loving for me--and there was no amount of "other-love" that would satisfy the void inside myself. Now that I do have a healthy dose of self-love in my life, now that I recognize the
G-dliness within myself, I'm free to enjoy--but not cling to--positive connections with other people.
Recovery is all about learning, and some lessons I learned the hard way. There were relationships of mine that suffered in large part because of how I approached them. But, although there was a time when I truly hated myself for "ruining" those connections, I don't feel that way anymore. Was it unfortunate? Absolutely. Was it the best I could do at the time, with what I had? Yes. And, going through this evolution of how I approach relationships has made me more able than ever to tune in to myself and assess how I am contributing to a connection: too much, to little, or just right? It's not a perfect science and sometimes there are adjustments to be made...but, I also know that I'm not in danger anymore of reverting to my old imbalanced system.
Recovery is a tough journey, and I wish that all of us have friends to walk it with us. I hope that we can all achieve a genuine degree of self-love and self-worth that will make those connections possible!
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Anxiety Comes Calling...
Whenever I sat down to think about this week's blog post, my mind would stay on task for a few minutes before being distracted by news coming in from Israel--reports of rockets, missiles, air strikes, and sirens. No matter how hard I tried to focus on philosophical issues, I always ended up dwelling on current events in the here and now...so I decided I needed to write about that.
As much as I relish a rich political debate, I don't want to have one here. The more I learn about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the more I realize I will never be able to sort through all of its complexity. To be honest, right now I am relatively uninterested in the nitty-gritty details of that complicated history. What occupies my mind is something much more basic:
People I love are in danger, and I'm not able to help them.
For me, this is what it boils down to. In my mind, Israel is no longer just a place where a lot of Jews live. It is the place where my friends and teachers live, where I lived this past summer, where I have learned and grown and shared and connected. The land of Israel is a place where I feel at home, and the friends I have over there are some of the people dearest to me in the entire world. This week, I talked with friends of mine whose lives had gone from mundane to surreal in a matter of hours; I read about rockets landing near the communities of two of my teachers; I found out that my friend's husband was called up to the army; I heard about sirens going off in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. My best friend told me about how she and her coworkers ran for cover when they heard a siren, and this morning I started my day by reading headlines about a public bus bombing in the city where she lives. As I go about my days in my relatively safe neighborhood far across the world from the center of the action, I can't help but notice the pit I feel in my stomach or the way my breath often stops just short of actually reaching my diaphragm. I am aware of my fear, my frustration, and my sense of helplessness--and my need to manage all of those emotions effectively in order to keep living my life.
Historically, I've not done well with handling anxiety over things beyond my control. My mind spins and whirls around the what-ifs, and I tend to need more reassurance than usual that no news does not, in fact, mean bad news. In early recovery I started learning about the "cognitive distortions" in which I often engaged: catastrophizing, emotional reasoning, jumping to conclusions...those were but a few of my favorites. For a long time, I dealt with helplessness, fear, and anxiety by exercising or starving them into oblivion. At this point in my journey, though, clearly I need some new strategies...and this past week has given me an opportunity to practice the coping skills that I've worked hard to develop.
Here's what has worked so far: I try to keep my consumption of news reports to a reasonable amount, as opposed to keeping Israeli news sites up in my browser for the entire day. I don't check the news late at night, when I need to be relaxing in preparation for sleep. I make an effort to curtail the number of emails I send to my friends--enough to satisfy my need to know they're safe, but not so many so that taking care of my anxiety becomes another problem on their plates (okay, so my best friend still gets a lot of emails...but isn't that what best friends are for?). When I say the prayer for peace every day, I say it with more feeling, more kavannah. I signed up for the Shmira Project, started by two families affiliated with Livnot U'Lehibanot, one of my favorite Israeli organizations. And, I've tried to shift my focus from what I can't control to what I can...how can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about in Israel? How can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about here?
Two hours ago, a ceasefire went into effect. I'm hopeful that it sticks, and that the rockets that have continued to rain on southern Israel will slow to a trickle, then to nothing. I hope that life gets back to normal for my friends and teachers, and that soon we will return to thinking and talking about matters not related to national security. Finally, I hope that this week when I wish them all a shabbat shalom, that's exactly what it will be.
As much as I relish a rich political debate, I don't want to have one here. The more I learn about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the more I realize I will never be able to sort through all of its complexity. To be honest, right now I am relatively uninterested in the nitty-gritty details of that complicated history. What occupies my mind is something much more basic:
People I love are in danger, and I'm not able to help them.
For me, this is what it boils down to. In my mind, Israel is no longer just a place where a lot of Jews live. It is the place where my friends and teachers live, where I lived this past summer, where I have learned and grown and shared and connected. The land of Israel is a place where I feel at home, and the friends I have over there are some of the people dearest to me in the entire world. This week, I talked with friends of mine whose lives had gone from mundane to surreal in a matter of hours; I read about rockets landing near the communities of two of my teachers; I found out that my friend's husband was called up to the army; I heard about sirens going off in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. My best friend told me about how she and her coworkers ran for cover when they heard a siren, and this morning I started my day by reading headlines about a public bus bombing in the city where she lives. As I go about my days in my relatively safe neighborhood far across the world from the center of the action, I can't help but notice the pit I feel in my stomach or the way my breath often stops just short of actually reaching my diaphragm. I am aware of my fear, my frustration, and my sense of helplessness--and my need to manage all of those emotions effectively in order to keep living my life.
Historically, I've not done well with handling anxiety over things beyond my control. My mind spins and whirls around the what-ifs, and I tend to need more reassurance than usual that no news does not, in fact, mean bad news. In early recovery I started learning about the "cognitive distortions" in which I often engaged: catastrophizing, emotional reasoning, jumping to conclusions...those were but a few of my favorites. For a long time, I dealt with helplessness, fear, and anxiety by exercising or starving them into oblivion. At this point in my journey, though, clearly I need some new strategies...and this past week has given me an opportunity to practice the coping skills that I've worked hard to develop.
Here's what has worked so far: I try to keep my consumption of news reports to a reasonable amount, as opposed to keeping Israeli news sites up in my browser for the entire day. I don't check the news late at night, when I need to be relaxing in preparation for sleep. I make an effort to curtail the number of emails I send to my friends--enough to satisfy my need to know they're safe, but not so many so that taking care of my anxiety becomes another problem on their plates (okay, so my best friend still gets a lot of emails...but isn't that what best friends are for?). When I say the prayer for peace every day, I say it with more feeling, more kavannah. I signed up for the Shmira Project, started by two families affiliated with Livnot U'Lehibanot, one of my favorite Israeli organizations. And, I've tried to shift my focus from what I can't control to what I can...how can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about in Israel? How can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about here?
Two hours ago, a ceasefire went into effect. I'm hopeful that it sticks, and that the rockets that have continued to rain on southern Israel will slow to a trickle, then to nothing. I hope that life gets back to normal for my friends and teachers, and that soon we will return to thinking and talking about matters not related to national security. Finally, I hope that this week when I wish them all a shabbat shalom, that's exactly what it will be.
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."
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Make Room for Guests!
Chag sameach--happy Sukkot to all! Before I dive into the blog post itself, I just want to take a little bit of space to acknowledge that this blog is now one year old! Developing it has been such a fun journey for me...many thanks to everyone who is along for the ride!
Now, onto the festival of Sukkot, of which we are currently smack in the middle. After the somber, contemplative mood of the High Holidays, Sukkot brings us into a week of festive celebration. One of the themes of the holiday is that of, "welcoming guests," or hachnasat orchim in Hebrew. (For an adorably amusing "Shalom Sesame" video explaining hachnasat orchim, click here...I can't be the only one who gets all nostalgic for "Shalom Sesame!") Just as Abraham was famous for waiting for strangers to pass by his tent so he could invite them in, so are we supposed to make an extra effort to invite people into our sukkot or to otherwise share the holiday with us. The spirit of reaching out and welcoming others into our lives is part of what makes Sukkot such a joyous time.
I find the idea of hachnasat orchim to be especially personally relevant because opening myself and my space to others is definitely not a natural instinct of mine. I am introverted to the core and have been since childhood; but, I am also aware that for the years when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, I took this particular personality trait to new heights. In my mind, other people made things messy--and I hated mess. I wanted things exactly how I wanted them, tightly under my control...and bringing other people into the mix inevitably meant letting in an element of unpredictability and uncertainty, which I simply could not tolerate. Additionally, I was deeply afraid of rejection and of desiring a relationship with someone who did not want one with me. I was not willing to risk feeling the pain of being unwanted--better to not reach out in the first place, than to reach out and be disappointed. One of my early therapists had a name for this: "people restricting." In addition to restricting my intake of food, I was also severely limiting my intake of other people--I honestly felt it was the safest way to go.
I've since changed my mind.
Don't get me wrong--I am still a classic introvert who craves "alone time," but I have also discovered that along with unpredictability and uncertainty, other people also inject a lot of energy and love into my life. In fact, when I think about the moments in my recovery that stand out to me as major milestones, every one of them was an experience that I shared with other people, and the connectedness that I felt with those individuals was part of what made each of those moments so precious. My eating disorder stepped in to fill a gaping void in my life during a time when I felt profoundly empty. In order for me to be willing to give it up, I needed something else to slip into that space--and I have found other people to be a critical part of what now "fills me up." Interestingly, it's only in recovery that I've found myself actually able to present with other people. Connectedness fuels my recovery, and my recovery powers connectedness--it's a beautifully self-perpetuating phenomenon.
So, although I still find that quiet time alone in a sukkah is sometimes just what I need, I also must acknowledge that when I do go out of my way to let others in, I am almost never disappointed and am almost always enriched. Hachnasat orchim might not be my natural instinct, but it's definitely one of the best learned habits I've picked up on the way, and is one I am still working hard to cultivate. During this week of sukkot and beyond, I encourage any other "people restrictors" out there to try a different approach, even just one time. Invite others to be with you, wherever you are. It's true--other people do sometimes make a bit of a mess, but they also bring a lot of joy!
Now, onto the festival of Sukkot, of which we are currently smack in the middle. After the somber, contemplative mood of the High Holidays, Sukkot brings us into a week of festive celebration. One of the themes of the holiday is that of, "welcoming guests," or hachnasat orchim in Hebrew. (For an adorably amusing "Shalom Sesame" video explaining hachnasat orchim, click here...I can't be the only one who gets all nostalgic for "Shalom Sesame!") Just as Abraham was famous for waiting for strangers to pass by his tent so he could invite them in, so are we supposed to make an extra effort to invite people into our sukkot or to otherwise share the holiday with us. The spirit of reaching out and welcoming others into our lives is part of what makes Sukkot such a joyous time.
I find the idea of hachnasat orchim to be especially personally relevant because opening myself and my space to others is definitely not a natural instinct of mine. I am introverted to the core and have been since childhood; but, I am also aware that for the years when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, I took this particular personality trait to new heights. In my mind, other people made things messy--and I hated mess. I wanted things exactly how I wanted them, tightly under my control...and bringing other people into the mix inevitably meant letting in an element of unpredictability and uncertainty, which I simply could not tolerate. Additionally, I was deeply afraid of rejection and of desiring a relationship with someone who did not want one with me. I was not willing to risk feeling the pain of being unwanted--better to not reach out in the first place, than to reach out and be disappointed. One of my early therapists had a name for this: "people restricting." In addition to restricting my intake of food, I was also severely limiting my intake of other people--I honestly felt it was the safest way to go.
I've since changed my mind.
Don't get me wrong--I am still a classic introvert who craves "alone time," but I have also discovered that along with unpredictability and uncertainty, other people also inject a lot of energy and love into my life. In fact, when I think about the moments in my recovery that stand out to me as major milestones, every one of them was an experience that I shared with other people, and the connectedness that I felt with those individuals was part of what made each of those moments so precious. My eating disorder stepped in to fill a gaping void in my life during a time when I felt profoundly empty. In order for me to be willing to give it up, I needed something else to slip into that space--and I have found other people to be a critical part of what now "fills me up." Interestingly, it's only in recovery that I've found myself actually able to present with other people. Connectedness fuels my recovery, and my recovery powers connectedness--it's a beautifully self-perpetuating phenomenon.
So, although I still find that quiet time alone in a sukkah is sometimes just what I need, I also must acknowledge that when I do go out of my way to let others in, I am almost never disappointed and am almost always enriched. Hachnasat orchim might not be my natural instinct, but it's definitely one of the best learned habits I've picked up on the way, and is one I am still working hard to cultivate. During this week of sukkot and beyond, I encourage any other "people restrictors" out there to try a different approach, even just one time. Invite others to be with you, wherever you are. It's true--other people do sometimes make a bit of a mess, but they also bring a lot of joy!
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!
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Circumcise...the Heart?
This past Shabbat was my first back at home after a summer in Jerusalem, and I was a little worried that it wouldn't feel as holy and nourishing as Shabbat always does in Israel. It was a bit of an adjustment, but turned out to be pretty enjoyable thanks to some great company and yummy food...and some thought-provoking Torah.
In last week's parsha (Eikev), Moshe speaks to the Israelites and basically outlines for them all the ways in which they had been stubborn and difficult, and reminds them of all the ways in which Hashem took care of them in spite of their obstinacy. He emphasizes that Hashem chose the Israelites from among all the nations because of His tremendous love for them. Moshe then implores the people to, "Cut away, therefore, the thickening about your hearts and stiffen your necks no more." (Devarim 10:16). Literally translated, Moshe is asking the people to "circumcise the foreskin of your heart." This is some dramatic language and certainly conjures up some strong mental images...but what does it mean?
The "foreskin of your heart" is often interpreted as that which blocks the heart from being open to Hashem's teachings. Circumcising the heart, therefore, implies making oneself open and available to receive the Divine. Moshe recognizes that the Jewish people's stubbornness has prevented them from truly being able to access Hashem's love for them, and he is instructing them to let down their defenses so that they might be able to open their minds.
This idea really resonates with me when I think about the process of recovery. For a long time in my own journey, I had a bit of a control issue--namely, I liked to be in control of everything, at all times. I was also fiercely self-protective and terrified that if I let my guard down at all, I would be endangered or harmed. Combine the need for control with the mission to never be hurt, and you get a maddening, defensive stubbornness, which is exactly what I extended to anyone who tried to get me to loosen my grip on my eating disorder. It wasn't until I was ready to open my tightly clenched fists to the fresh air of flexible thinking that I really began to make some progress on recovery.
I think that the first step is to recognize that the "foreskin of our hearts" is there in the first place, to acknowledge that we are resisting change and avoiding vulnerability...and this isn't necessarily bad, but it does prevent growth. Once we are able to admit to our stubbornness, we can then begin to think of ways to chip away at it, little by little. As someone who clings firmly to the safety of the status quo, I fully recognize how scary it can be to open oneself up to the world. However, I also know that when I am willing to try new experiences or make myself vulnerable to another individual, I am rarely disappointed--in fact, I usually come away feeling as though my world has been made brighter because of what I was willing to let in.
During our weekly parsha discussion, my chevruta pointed out to me that there is a parallel pasuk in parshat Nitzavim, in which Moshe promises that if the Israelites follow Hashem's commandments with all their being, "Then the Lord G-d will circumcise your heart and the hearts of your offspring to love the Lord your G-d with all your heart and soul, in order that you may live." (Devarim 30:6) In Eikev, Moshe instructs the Jewish people to circumcise their own hearts, but in Nitzavim he tells them that Hashem will open up their hearts for them. The way I understand this is, first we have to remove the barriers from our own hearts--and then, Hashem will open us up to His love. In other words, if we're willing to get the process started, Hashem will take us the whole way.
To those of you who sense that your hearts are a bit closed off, I would say this: remember that you're not being difficult for difficulty's sake--chances are, you're doing the best you can to protect yourself. But, remember also that the eating disorder is a covering around the heart--not the heart itself. It isn't what you are, it's what's preventing you from being fully yourself. There's no need to rip the covering off all at once--yikes!--but maybe there's a way to get the process started, a step you could take to give yourself a taste of what your life could be like without that barrier. I bet it could be brilliant!
In last week's parsha (Eikev), Moshe speaks to the Israelites and basically outlines for them all the ways in which they had been stubborn and difficult, and reminds them of all the ways in which Hashem took care of them in spite of their obstinacy. He emphasizes that Hashem chose the Israelites from among all the nations because of His tremendous love for them. Moshe then implores the people to, "Cut away, therefore, the thickening about your hearts and stiffen your necks no more." (Devarim 10:16). Literally translated, Moshe is asking the people to "circumcise the foreskin of your heart." This is some dramatic language and certainly conjures up some strong mental images...but what does it mean?
The "foreskin of your heart" is often interpreted as that which blocks the heart from being open to Hashem's teachings. Circumcising the heart, therefore, implies making oneself open and available to receive the Divine. Moshe recognizes that the Jewish people's stubbornness has prevented them from truly being able to access Hashem's love for them, and he is instructing them to let down their defenses so that they might be able to open their minds.
This idea really resonates with me when I think about the process of recovery. For a long time in my own journey, I had a bit of a control issue--namely, I liked to be in control of everything, at all times. I was also fiercely self-protective and terrified that if I let my guard down at all, I would be endangered or harmed. Combine the need for control with the mission to never be hurt, and you get a maddening, defensive stubbornness, which is exactly what I extended to anyone who tried to get me to loosen my grip on my eating disorder. It wasn't until I was ready to open my tightly clenched fists to the fresh air of flexible thinking that I really began to make some progress on recovery.
I think that the first step is to recognize that the "foreskin of our hearts" is there in the first place, to acknowledge that we are resisting change and avoiding vulnerability...and this isn't necessarily bad, but it does prevent growth. Once we are able to admit to our stubbornness, we can then begin to think of ways to chip away at it, little by little. As someone who clings firmly to the safety of the status quo, I fully recognize how scary it can be to open oneself up to the world. However, I also know that when I am willing to try new experiences or make myself vulnerable to another individual, I am rarely disappointed--in fact, I usually come away feeling as though my world has been made brighter because of what I was willing to let in.
During our weekly parsha discussion, my chevruta pointed out to me that there is a parallel pasuk in parshat Nitzavim, in which Moshe promises that if the Israelites follow Hashem's commandments with all their being, "Then the Lord G-d will circumcise your heart and the hearts of your offspring to love the Lord your G-d with all your heart and soul, in order that you may live." (Devarim 30:6) In Eikev, Moshe instructs the Jewish people to circumcise their own hearts, but in Nitzavim he tells them that Hashem will open up their hearts for them. The way I understand this is, first we have to remove the barriers from our own hearts--and then, Hashem will open us up to His love. In other words, if we're willing to get the process started, Hashem will take us the whole way.
To those of you who sense that your hearts are a bit closed off, I would say this: remember that you're not being difficult for difficulty's sake--chances are, you're doing the best you can to protect yourself. But, remember also that the eating disorder is a covering around the heart--not the heart itself. It isn't what you are, it's what's preventing you from being fully yourself. There's no need to rip the covering off all at once--yikes!--but maybe there's a way to get the process started, a step you could take to give yourself a taste of what your life could be like without that barrier. I bet it could be brilliant!
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Holding onto Growth
It's hard for me to believe, but in a few days I will be saying goodbye to Israel. My program at Pardes has finished and I am now in that nebulous transition phase, trying to be present to enjoy my remaining time here while also preparing for departure. While I'm looking forward to reconnecting with the people and places of home, I also feel like I am leaving home, because that is what Israel has become for me: a home for my soul.
Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings: plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing. If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others: fear. As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here: someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open. I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers. In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self. Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?
One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:
"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself. This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)
What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings. I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment. Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world. He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others. I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress. In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery. I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own. I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel: other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.
So...
...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...
...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...
...תודה רבה B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!
Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings: plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing. If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others: fear. As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here: someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open. I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers. In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self. Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?
One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:
"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself. This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)
What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings. I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment. Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world. He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others. I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress. In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery. I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own. I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel: other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.
So...
...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...
...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...
...תודה רבה B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!
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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