Hearing Haman

Every year at around this time I face the Purim Challenge; that is, finding personal meaning in a holiday that doesn't particularly resonate with me.  This year I'm a little late to the game...I struggled with it for days leading up to Purim, and only got inspired at literally the last minute, as I attended the "Last Minute Megillah Reading" on Purim day at my shul.  Nothing like taking it down to the wire!

Right before the reading started, the man doing the leyning made the usual request for no talking during the reading because of the requirement to hear every word of the Megillah.  I love any excuse to not talk, so that totally works for me.  Usually, the only noise heard during the Megillah reading is the racket made by the graggers and other noisemakers when Haman's name is read.  But yesterday, when Haman was mentioned for the first time, I started to connect the dots:  we only make noise immediately after Haman's name, not during--we don't drown him out.  Instead, we hear his name as we must hear all the other words in the story.  We register our displeasure, but we don't erase him.

This seems like an effective way to face our own personal stories, which are (most likely) dotted with names, places, and events we'd like to blot out.  The problem with that is, if we erase those parts of our stories, the narratives lose a lot of their significance.  I mean, where would the Purim story be without Haman?  If we take him out of the mix, there would be no villain and therefore no need for the heroism of Mordechai and Esther.  The opportunity for triumph would be lost if we took out the crisis.

When I think about my own story, I would LOVE to take a huge eraser and rub out my entire four years at college, which I will always associate with the birth and rapid rise of my eating disorder.  I live in a city with lots of universities, and as I walk around and see all the undergrads and campus buildings, I wish I could do that part of my life over in a totally different way. But since I can't, I just do my best to have very little present-day connection with the university I attended.  Whenever it comes up in conversation, I would love to drown it out with a gragger!

But maybe this is not the best way.  After all, without the struggle born in those four years, I never would have started the journey I'm on--one that has given me insights and skills that I would never want to trade for an easier path.  Maybe the best approach is Purim-style:  hear the hard parts, register your displeasure, and appreciate them as necessary for the journey.

Just as we can't effectively erase parts of our narratives, we also can't erase parts of ourselves.  We all have elements to our personalities that we dislike or find shameful: the judgmental, envious, fearful, spiteful, resistant, insecure parts (to name a few).  It's probably fair to say that we are each a little "Haman-esque" in some ways, just as we also have within us elements of Mordechai and Esther.  I cannot even count the number of times I have thought, "I hate that I'm like this!" when I catch myself exhibiting any of the above traits.  But maybe these elements of our personalities should not be hated and drowned out; maybe they need to be heard and better understood.  Sometimes our most difficult attributes need the most love and compassion before we are able to see how they fit into the Big Picture that is us.  We say we "hate" Haman, but we also have to acknowledge that he gave us a key piece of our collective narrative and provided us with one of our first experiences of national triumph.  What would we have missed out on learning, if Haman had never entered the picture?  Perhaps there is also much to learn from our seemingly less desirable traits, if only we can approach them with gentle curiosity.

A local artist named Deb Koffman expresses this much better than I ever could, in her piece titled, "Some of the Parts."  She has given me permission to include it here.  You can see more of her work at http://www.debkoffman.com.  Hopefully this piece inspires you to integrate all of your story, and all of your parts!

The Beautiful People

It seems to me that one way of approaching individuality is to want to stand out from the crowd and be recognized for one's uniqueness.  I definitely felt that way as a child; I yearned to be "the best" at something--anything, really--and craved the specialness and celebration that would come along with that (it never happened).  But as an adult, I seem to have taken the opposite approach:  my wish is to blend in and be, for lack of a better expression, "just like everyone else."

I'm not even entirely sure what that means.

Well actually, I do know what it means, kind of.  It means I want to be like the Beautiful People.  Who are they?  They are the women I work with and the young adults who go to my shul.  The Beautiful People are socially confident, partnered, and fashionable...and best of all, they belong.  They are never the ones standing around awkwardly at kiddush; they never appear uncomfortable; they somehow instinctively know which necklace or scarf will pair well with which outfit.  The Beautiful People follow the typical trajectory of adult development:  degree, job, partnership, kids--all before age 40.  Whatever is the secret to normalcy, they all seem to know it.

And I?  I can stand in one spot for 20 minutes watching birds, but after 5 minutes of small talk I'm bored out of my mind (either move on to what matters, or let's call it a day).  I am often the one standing around awkwardly at kiddush. I literally have to give myself a pep talk before going to social events. Makeup rarely occurs to me.  And, unlike pretty much everyone I know in my age bracket, I'm single and do not have children on the horizon.  

What's interesting is, taken by themselves, none of those traits bothers me much.  I've been to a lot of therapy and I like who I am, more or less.  But there's no question in my mind that I would have an easier time belonging if I was a different sort of person--a Beautiful Person.

Now, thanks to all that therapy, I'm fully aware that I'm engaging in at least four cognitive distortions (perhaps more!) when I get into this line of reasoning.  The truth is, I know that the "Beautiful People" whose easy lives I envy actually have problems of their own. I also recognize that I don't know them well at all, and it's entirely possible that they feel much more insecure than they appear.  But all of that rational thought pales in comparison to the envy and awe that I feel as I watch them move in their social circles, stylish, coupled, and at ease.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about what it means to move through life on a different path and at a different pace than most of one's peer group. I reached out to several of my Recovery Mentors, all of whom are strong, authentic women who have, in one way or another, gone about life in a "less traditional" way.  I asked them two main questions:

1) How do you go about feeling confident in a life that brings you joy if you are not in sync with your peers?

2) How do you counter the inner voice that pesters, "What's wrong with me, that I'm not like everyone else?!"

My mentors responded with wisdom, vulnerability, and empathy. They let me in on their own journeys and how they found confidence and self-acceptance without needing to conform in all ways. Best of all, they showed me that although I often feel like the "only one" who has these challenges, I am most definitely not alone in the struggle to live authentically.  And in response to my second, "What's wrong with me?" question, one of my mentors had this to say: 

"Absolutely NOTHING. There is something so very right and very you that you are not like everyone else."

It was exactly what I needed to hear, and it made me think of the Jewish belief that we are all created b'tzelem Elohim, in G-d's image.  In Chapter 3 of Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Akiva says: "Beloved is man, for he was created in the image [of G-d]; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to him that he was created in the image, as it says, 'For in the image of G-d, He made man.' (Bereishit 9:6)"  Not only are we each created in G-d's image, but G-d has taken the extra step of letting us know this about ourselves, so we can feel at ease with who we are and what path we are on.

When I stop comparing myself and my life with the fictitiously perfect lives of other people, I can recognize that there is a lot that is "so very right" about who I am.  I appreciate my ability to be patient and quiet and notice what is around me. I value my introversion and introspectiveness, but I know that I can connect deeply with other people.  I'm thankful that my mother taught me that a woman can, in fact, leave the house without makeup on.  And, I'm profoundly grateful for the qualities I have that will hopefully help me become a great foster or adoptive parent one day--whether I'm partnered or not.

G-d, in His infinite wisdom, made us each with the precise qualities that we need to have to fill our place in the world--and He has made sure we know that He loves us as we are.  But sometimes we will forget, and in those times, we all need people in our lives who will answer our cries of, "What's wrong with me?!" by saying, "Sister, listen: you are exactly who you are supposed to be."  I wish for us all that we have wise friends and loved ones who can guide us toward self-acceptance in those times when we need reminding of just how "right" we are.      

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!

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!

Being Ready to Receive

In nine days we will begin our celebration of Shavuot, the commemoration of the day when Hashem gave the Torah to the Jewish people.  I really love this holiday and its theme of recommitment...I even love staying awake all night learning Torah, despite my usually strict adherence to an early bedtime as mandated by the teaching profession.  There is something about listening to the Ten Commandments being read aloud at the break of dawn that gives me goosebumps every time.

I came across an article by intellectual giant Adin Steinsaltz that (I think) beautifully captures the important distinction between Hashem's giving of the Torah, and the Jewish people's receiving of it.  Although they clearly go together, they are not the same event.  Steinsaltz points out that while the giving of the Torah was a one-time, top-down event, the receiving of the Torah was--is--an ongoing process that occurs from the bottom up.  Although the Jewish people were willing to accept Torah right away, evident by their declaration of, "All the words that Hashem has spoken, we will do and we will hear!" (Shemot 24:7), it actually took a long time for them to be able to commit to living out the words of Torah.  The Jews always knew they wanted it, but they just weren't ready right out of the gate.  It took time for them to truly absorb what they had been given.  Steinsaltz explains:

"The receiving itself is not just a matter of passively listening to the message of Torah; it is an act of committing oneself to absorbing the poetry and the principles, and carrying out the commandments all the days of one's life.  To begin with, there had to be a certain receptive state of mind--'We shall do and we shall hear'--in order for the Torah to be given.  On the other hand, the inner meaning of this formulation of readiness only became evident later, as expressed by the words of Moses forty years later when, in taking leave of the people, he said, 'And G-d did not give you a heart to know and eyes to see and ears to hear until this very day' (Deuteronomy 29:3).  And indeed, only many generations later could it be said that the people of Israel had developed a heart able to know the Torah designated for them."

Now, while I would never fully equate recovery with receiving Torah, I do think there are some genuine parallels we can draw in the sense that both are drawn-out processes that depend on a gradual increase in readiness.  In recovery, we might know what we need to do long before we are ready to actually do it.  Although our treatment team gives us the tools, it might take an extended period of time for us to muster up the fortitude to use them.

For most of my recovery I worked with one outstanding nutrition therapist. There was a period of time many years ago in which I became frustrated with my compulsive need to measure everything I ate.  Each time I brought it up, my nutritionist would suggest stopping the measuring.  Although intellectually I knew it was a great idea, my response was always, "Mmmm...nah, I don't think so."  This went on for months, until finally I entered a session with her and said, "I want to stop measuring!"  Even then, we both knew I wouldn't be able to go cold turkey--so, she coached me through letting go of measuring one food item at a time.  My nutritionist was ready to hand me Freedom From Measuring long before I was ready to receive it...but she understood that, and was patient with me throughout the entire process.

I really wanted to be able to recover immediately, just like the Jewish people had every intention of fully accepting Torah.  But the reality is that recovery is not a linear process, and neither is receiving Torah--both are ongoing and challenges do pop up along the way, requiring us to shift and reaffirm our commitments.  However, just as Hashem was--is--patient with the Jewish people throughout the evolution of our ability to receive, so too should we be patient with ourselves as we find our ways through recovery.  It isn't only the end result that matters--it's the entire process of getting there.  As Shavuot draws near, I invite all of us to assess honestly the progress we've made over the past year, and to recommit to the journey!

Recovery Wisdom from the Fathers

Spring is definitely in the air!  It's hard to believe Pesach has come and gone, and we're now counting the days until Shavuot...woah.  This means it's time for two of my favorite seasonal rituals:

1) Feeding the leftover matzah, in small doses, to the geese and ducks at the pond

2) Reading Pirkei Avot

Both bring me a lot of joy in completely different ways, but for the sake of thematic consistency, I'll focus here on #2.

To be honest, I read Pirkei Avot in snippets throughout the year, but it excites me that the weeks between Pesach and Shavuot are earmarked for reading this tractate of the Talmud in earnest.  Yesterday, during the closing hours of Shabbat, I studied the first chapter with my friend (and chevruta par excellence), and then when I got home I couldn't resist looking ahead.  Toward the end of Chapter 2, I came across one of my favorite quotes, from Pirkei Avot 2:16:

"He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say:  You are not expected to complete the work and yet you are not free to evade it."

In its original context, this quote relates to the immense tasks of acquiring Torah wisdom and working to repair the world.  However, I think it can be generalized to other realms of life and applied to any situation in which a person faces a daunting yet necessary task.  Certainly, then, it speaks to the work of recovery.

In the beginning of my recovery, I often got overwhelmed when I stared down the road ahead, seeing the end result that I sincerely wanted but having no idea how--or if--I would get myself there.  One of the most supportive things my treatment team did was to communicate to me that I did not have to do everything at once, and none of it would have to be done alone--but they were not going to let me avoid the work, either.  Baby steps, they accepted and encouraged; inertia, they did not.  To be honest, this balance served me well.  I needed someone to acknowledge that what I was doing was hard and scary, and to reassure me that "slow and steady" would get me there, in the end.  But at the same time, I needed to be held accountable and to be reminded that it was my responsibility to take myself as far down the recovery road as I possibly could.  Rabbi Tarfon understood this principle and the truth of his words reaches out to us today:  We do not have to do everything, yet we must do something.

Which brings me to an excerpt from one of my other favorite quotes, taken from the famous words of Rabbi Hillel:

"And if not now, when?" (Pirkei Avot 1:14)

Let's face it:  There is never going to be a time that actually feels like a convenient time to work on recovery.  There's always something in the way:  work, school, family obligations, vacations, etc.  Few of us believe we have the luxury of "taking time off from life" to focus on getting well...but the truth is, it's not so much a luxury as it is a necessity.  Life, after all, is more than just going through the motions. If anything we do is going to have any meaning for us, we will have to be fully present to experience it.  I would argue that time invested in recovery--even when it initially feels like a loss or concession--is ultimately going to result in a life that is richer and more satisfying than anything you could experience through the haze of an eating disorder.  It's as Hillel said...there is never a good time, so the best time is now.

I hope you can take the words of Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Hillel with you into the coming weeks as you work on your respective journeys:  Take small steps, but take steps...and take them now!

Tricky Number Ten

As parshiot go, this past week's--Yitro--was a Big One.  Amid tremendous spectacle at Mt. Sinai, Hashem revealed to the Israelites the Ten Commandments.  Although the rest of the Torah would not be given until later, this first phase was monumental in its own right.  For a full translation of the Commandments, visit this page...but, for the sake of brevity, I'll give a quick recap:

1.  I am Hashem, your G-d.
2.  You shall have no other gods besides Me.
3.  You shall not take the Name of Hashem in vain.
4.  Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
5.  Honor your father and mother.
6.  You shall not murder.
7.  You shall not commit adultery.
8.  You shall not steal.
9.  You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10.  You shall not covet.

Commandments 1-4 are pretty essential to the essence of Judaism, so it seems logical that the list would lead with these.  Regarding Commandments 6-9, these are critical guidelines for morality, not to mention vital to the safety of the community and the maintenance of public order.  Although I'm sure no one enjoys a completely conflict-free relationship with his or her parents, it does make sense that (except in the most extreme circumstances) it is a child's duty to honor his or her parents by respecting them and providing them with what they need, materialistically and emotionally, as they age.

But what about Commandment # 10?

Personally, I find this to be the trickiest one of all.  It is the outlier on the list because unlike the rest, which primarily govern our actions, this one is directed at our thoughts.  While it is relatively easy to control what we do, it is a lot harder to control what we think--especially when the thought is fueled by such a common emotion as jealousy.  Is it realistic to think that a person could honestly live in a culture such as ours and never allow herself to feel envious of someone else?  Furthermore, let's say I do feel jealous...as long as I don't go out and actually steal the thing I want, or murder someone to get it, is the feeling itself really so bad?

Well, although I'm no master scholar, I've learned enough Torah to know that nothing is in there by mistake.  So, I decided to look a little closer at Commandment # 10 and see if I could figure out why it merits being on the same list as "You shall have no other gods besides Me," and "You shall not murder." I started by thinking about the role that "coveting" has played in my life.

Interestingly, my first memory of coveting something of my neighbor's dates all the way back to preschool, when I was fiercely jealous of my friend's long, silky, braided pigtails.  I watched the way she would whip those braids around her head with confidence and flair, something I knew I would never, ever be able to accomplish with my standard-issue bowl cut (which, although adorable in retrospect, seemed at the time to be most unfortunate).  I looked at my hair in the mirror in dismay.  If I could just have those braids, I thought, I would be a better version of me.  I was four years old.  What an early age at which to start seeing myself as "less than" someone else!

This sense of never measuring up favorably, of wanting someone else's skills, style, or demeanor, only continued.  I was jealous of my friends' athletic talents, singing voices, and fashion sense; I envied their social ease and confidence.  When I was struggling with anorexia, I strove to make my body smaller and smaller until I could win the much-sought-after title of "sickest girl"--something I never seemed able to attain.  The side effect of all this coveting was that I never stopped to appreciate what I did have--the skills I possessed, the achievements I'd accomplished, the character traits that made me special.  I was so busy focusing on what everyone else had, and what everyone else's life must be like, that I neglected to nurture my own strengths and validate my own journey.

For me, coveting has rarely been about material items, but it has nearly always been about personhood.  Simply put, I was never satisfied with who I was, and I felt that if I could only have whatever "it" was that other people internally possessed, I'd finally be a person worthy of positive attention, a person who mattered.  I think this mindset of self-negation is what makes coveting so dangerous.  When we want something someone else has so badly that we convince ourselves that we need it in order to be worthy/happy/successful/etc ourselves, we invalidate our own value as the people we actually are.  Additionally, coveting leads us to forget that Hashem designed each of us to fill a unique space in the world.  We are not meant to all look the same, act the same, or all have the same things.  When we covet that which is not ours, we are essentially saying that we know how our lives are supposed to be better than Hashem does.  This is NOT to say that we should just sit back and passively take whatever comes our way with the understanding that Hashem will provide us with everything we need.  On the contrary, we should take an active role in our own lives, but we should do so in a way that is authentic to who we really are--not in a way that tries to make us into someone else who we assume, "has it all."

I have by no means mastered the art of Thou Shall Not Covet, and I have a feeling that it is going to be a work in progress for a while.  But, I do feel that I am more aware of when I slip into that mindset, and I understand better the harm it causes to my relationship with myself and to my relationship with Hashem.  I wish for all of us--myself included--the ability to replace thoughts of, "I don't have enough ________", with the thought (and belief) that not only do we HAVE enough, but we ARE enough--as is.

Sing Your Inner Song

This past Shabbat was Shabbat Shira, the Shabbat on which we commemorate the miracle of Hashem splitting the sea and of the Israelites crossing through it, on dry land, to freedom.  Central to parashat Beshalach is שירת הים, The Song of the Sea.

This week I learned that there are differing views as to when the Israelites sang the Song.  At the end of the Song comes Shemot 15:19, which reads:

"When Pharoah's cavalry came with his chariots and horsemen into the sea and Hashem turned back the waters of the sea upon them, the Children of Israel walked on the dry land amid the sea."

According to Ibn Ezra, this verse is part of the Song; the crossing of the Israelites is included in the list of miracles that Hashem performed for the Israelites.  However, other commentators (including Ramban and Sforno) offer a different view.  They hold that this verse came after the Song, and therefore the Jews sang the Song while they were still in the process of crossing the sea.  I can see the validity of both positions, but personally I prefer the latter.  The idea that after all their years of slavery--years in which their bodies and spirits were pushed to the breaking point, years in which they nearly lost all hope--the Israelites still had within them the power of song, strikes me as poignant and powerfully moving.  Despite all their anxiety and fear, the Jews recognized that they were on a journey of liberation, and so they celebrated even before their passage was complete.  From this we can learn a valuable example of how to keep our inner song alive through difficult times, and how to emerge from periods of personal darkness with our voices strong.

Personally, I found that the darkness of my eating disorder was accompanied by silence--both external and internal.  Not only could I no longer hear my own song, but I also had lost the ability to express myself in any way other than monotone.  Singing (or at least singing well) requires emotions and a sense of connectivity to the present moment and the world at large.  Recovery is about reopening those channels of connection and reawakening emotions from the eating disorder-induced state of dormancy. I know that I often found this process a bit overwhelming, and it was frightening to get back in touch with the power of my own song (who was I to try to add my voice to this world?!)...but what I discovered is that my song had never really gone away--I just had to release the "mute" button.  I find that to be both comforting and remarkable...the idea that despite everything, my heart never forgot the words to its own song and was just waiting to be allowed to sing once more.

Just as the Israelites did not wait to finish crossing the sea before they began singing, neither should any of us believe that we must be "done" with recovery before we can begin to use our own voices.  What merits celebration is not only the finish line, but also the journey--the willingness to take step after step in faith toward a fuller, more authentic life.

One of my favorite poets is Mary Oliver, who explores this theme of the resilience of the inner song in several of her poems in the collection, Red Bird.  I'm including here one that I particularly love...I hope it resonates with some of you, as well!

I will try

I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world

www.fineartamerica.com

to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again and--
but wait.  Be still.  Listen!
Is it red bird?  Or something
inside myself, singing?

On Being Authentic

Happy 2013!  This past week I savored a much-needed school vacation and was fortunate to spend it in the company of good friends.  I had many conversations with a wide variety of individuals, some familiar friends and others whom I had just met...and a persistent theme kept recurring: authenticity.  Despite our differences, what we were all talking about was our desire to honestly represent ourselves, to be seen for who we truly are.  Some of us are in situations in which that's relatively simple; for others it is much more challenging.  However, we all identified with the struggle of trying to remake ourselves in the image of others and how, at a certain point, self-respect wins the day and we no longer have the patience to be anything other than what we are.

Not surprisingly, this is a major theme of my personal journey through recovery.  In the early stages, my mantra was, I will be whoever you want me to be.  I actually remember telling my therapist that if other people would only just tell me what they wanted from me, I'd gladly do it, as long as they'd then be my friends. (Needless to say, any "friendships" I made via that strategy never lasted very long!)  It took a lot of time and energy in therapy before I began to really understand myself and what my values, strengths, and passions were.  At some point, I changed my mantra to, "This is who I am...if that's okay with you."  I was willing to represent myself honestly, but only if I felt sure that the other people involved wouldn't have a problem with the way that I was.  I had a sense of self, sure, but it definitely wasn't worth getting into a conflict--if I sensed any disapproval, I reverted back to my former stance of pretending to be the person I thought others wanted.  It wasn't until relatively recently, in the late stages of recovery, that I've finally begun saying, "This is who I am"--with no qualifiers attached.  To be sure, I'm still self-protective and don't go looking for confrontations--if I feel pretty confident that who I am will not be well received by someone, that's probably someone I'll avoid hanging out with.  But, I'm no longer willing to lie about myself, either.  Speaking my truth has become an aspect of my self-respect.  I believe I am worthy of being seen--and respected--for who I actually am.  I recognize that not everyone will respect me for who I am, but that doesn't mean I need to change fundamental aspects of myself.  I am fine the way I am...and although some people won't appreciate that, enough people will.

So, what does Judaism say about this?  Interestingly, I recently read a commentary on this week's parasha, Shemot, in which Rabbi Zelig Pliskin attributes the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt at least in part to their own lack of self-respect.  He cites Rabbi Chayim Shmuelevitz as saying that once the "important" generation of Israelites (Joseph and his brothers) died out, the Jewish people lost a sense of themselves as a people worthy of respect.  Once this happened, the Egyptians had no problem subjugating them and making them into slaves.  What I take from this is that when we cease honoring ourselves, we permit other people to cease honoring us.  When we stop saying, "This is who I am", we allow other people to make us into whatever they want us to be...and this certainly is a form of enslavement.

Truth and honesty are Jewish values.  When we are honest about who we are, we elevate our own integrity.  If we misrepresent ourselves, we give other people a reason to question our truthfulness in general.  I would also argue that because each of us was made b'tzelem Elohim--in Hashem's image--we have a responsibility to live honestly as He created us.  We are who we are for a reason, and when we honor ourselves by being authentic, we add a needed spark to the world.

In closing, I'll offer the words of Rabbi Tzvi Freeman, who wrote the following based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:

What is your job in this world?  It is to become truth.
How do you become truth?  By not lying to yourself.  
It is not that you must do whatever you do with sincerity.
Sincerity itself is the work you must do.
It is what you must become.

Wishing us all a sincere, authentic start to 2013!

A Mother's Love

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Rachel, our matriarch, whose story began in parasha Vayetzei and concluded last week with her tragic death during childbirth in Vayishlach.  I should admit to being just a teensy bit biased towards her, as we do share the same name...but in all seriousness, what I learn from Rachel extends far beyond that one point of connection.

When Rachel dies, Jacob buries her on the side of the road on the way to Efrat as his family makes their way back to their homeland.  Her tomb is solitary, separated from that of her husband and the other matriarchs and patriarchs who are buried in the Cave of Machpelah.  A Midrash reveals the critical significance of Rachel's burial "on the road" by explaining that centuries later, when the Jewish people were exiled after the destruction of the First Temple, they passed by her grave on their way out of their homeland...and Rachel wept for them, begging Hashem to be merciful toward her children.  In response to her heartfelt pleas, Hashem promised Rachel, "There is hope for your destiny...the children shall return to their borders."  (Pesikta Rabbati, piska 2)

But not only is Rachel the mother of children in exile, she herself also knows all too well the feeling of being stuck "in process," not yet at her desired destination. Much of Rachel's story chronicles the ways in which she is "on the way," close-but-not-quite-there.  First, she must become the second wife of Jacob, when she should have been the first.  Then, there are all the years in which she is barren, unable to conceive children while she watches Leah give birth to son after son.  When she finally does give birth to Joseph, her first son, Rachel is prays to Hashem to give her another baby...but she dies bringing that much-desired second child, Benjamin, into this world.  

I recently read an article about Rachel that describes her in this way:

"It seems that Rachel's entire existence symbolizes "the way," the process.  Her life is a story of constant grappling with processes, and it is from Rachel we learn the significance of process.  

Something that is attained easily is of lesser value in a person's eyes.  When a person lacks something, he has a better understanding of its value.  When he must work hard in order to attain something, he appreciates it more, and is more attached to it.  In addition, the very process that he undergoes--even if he never achieves his final objective--causes his personality to grow and develop."

Recovery is a colossal process, if ever there was one.  Although we're not exiled from our homelands anymore, we have endured the experience of being in exile from ourselves.  We've been lonely, confused, lost, and scared...in fact, we may be feeling those emotions right now, depending on where we are in our process and how far removed we feel from where we want to be.  Rachel is the quintessential comforter of people who feel stranded "on the road."  She watches over us, shining her light on the path that we follow to our destinations.  Rachel loves us unconditionally with a compassion that comes from having been through her own rocky process in the name of a greater vision.  By caring so deeply for us, Rachel teaches us to care for ourselves--to be gentle with ourselves as we navigate the twists and turns on the roads leading back to our cores.  

As we press forward on our journeys, may we be comforted by the wise, maternal love of Rachel Imenu...and may we use her tenderness to propel ourselves onward, out of exile and back to our true selves.  

The Struggle for Wholeness

Since I started learning Torah, my friends and teachers have been telling me that the power of Torah is that no matter how many times you read it, you can always find in it something new.  At this point, I haven't read the entire Torah enough times to really test that theory, but this week I'm getting the sense that it holds water.  Last year I blogged about the episode in this week's parasha, Vayishlach, where Jacob wrestles with the angel.  (A quick recap for those unfamiliar with the text:  After using deception to claim the birthright that was intended for his older brother, Esau, Jacob fled from his homeland and remained in exile for around 20 years.  Finally, he hears that Esau is coming to meet him and Jacob prepares for the reunion with a good amount of fear and anxiety.  The night before he is to see his brother, Jacob has a dream in which a mysterious being wrestles with him until the break of dawn.)  I really love this story, and as I started reading the parsha for the second time, I felt a little disappointed that I'd already written about that section of text...but then, I found it:  something new!

While reading the psukim about Jacob and the angel, I was drawn to the following midrashic commentary at the bottom of the page:

We can imagine Jacob saying to himself, "Until now, I have responded to difficult situations by lying and running.  I deceived my father.  I ran away from Esau.  I left Laban's house stealthily instead of confronting him.  I hate myself for being a person who lies and runs.  But I'm afraid of facing up to the situation."  By not defeating his conscience, Jacob wins.  He outgrows his Jacob identity as the trickster and becomes Israel, the one who contends with God and people instead of avoiding or manipulating them.  At the end of the struggle, he is physically wounded and emotionally depleted.  Nevertheless, the Torah describes him (in 33:18) as shalem, translated "safe" with connotations of "whole," at peace with himself (shalem is related to the word "shalom"), possessing an integrity he never had before (S'fat Emet).   --Etz Hayim chumash, page 201.

I often feel that part of the challenge of reading Torah is finding ways to connect with the central figures of the narrative--how can I relate to them and make their experiences applicable to my life?  Through this commentary, I discover a whole new way to relate to Jacob.  Like Jacob, I went through a period of my life when I was deceptive and untruthful.  When confronted with any type of uncomfortable situation, I chose the path of avoidance, which was usually paved with lies.  I hated how my eating disorder had turned me into someone sneaky and dishonest, but I was unable to find the strength to face confrontations or challenges head-on.  For me, recovery has meant growing into a person who is willing to bear discomfort.  It has meant finding a way to be honest even when it might upset someone else, because having a strong sense of integrity has become more important to me than insulating myself from the bumpy parts of real life.

Jacob's battle leaves him injured and exhausted, yet undeniably whole.  Recovery is similar, in that probably no one (at least no one I know) escapes it unscathed.  I have found it to be physically demanding and often painful, and it has pushed me to the outer limits of my capacity for handling tough emotions.  So, why have I put myself through all of that?  I've done it because the "me" who has emerged out the other side is a fuller, more authentic self than I ever would have been had I not engaged in the struggle.  Although recovery, in the moment, often seemed impossibly challenging, it has ended up being the process that brought me to a clearer, brighter existence.  The eating disorder gave me a false sense of protection, but recovery provides me with a path toward genuine wholeness.  I hope that each of us is able to internalize the courage and wisdom of Jacob and use this strength to further our own positive transformations--and that we emerge from it all as individuals who truly know the meaning of shalem.  

   

"Lapses and Crises"

I know I've mentioned the importance of self-compassion many times, and I do genuinely believe in it...but I'll be honest and say that sometimes it's really hard for me.  As a teacher, I'll gladly work with a student all year on one particular skill, but when it comes to myself, I expect proficiency right out of the gate.  Lately, this has been a problem for me regarding religious observance--although I've been steadily increasing my religiosity over the past two years, I'm still far from where I'd like to be in terms of "religious fluency."  To be fair, I was raised in a secular environment and still operate in one on a daily basis. There are times when my interactions and relationships with the many non-observant (or non-Jewish) people in my life lead me to make compromises and adjustments to my practice that I wish I didn't have to make--but I do make them, because I'm not yet always confident or assertive enough to say, "This is what I need," or "That won't work for me."  When I consciously do something that I know is in violation of Jewish law, the self-judgment voice  starts yelling, "You know better than that.  You're supposed to be taking this seriously.  How can you say you are religious and then go and do that?  You're a fraud.  You will never get better than this." 

As this latest round of Jewish holidays neared its end, I struggled with this critical voice because I felt I hadn't observed the last couple of festival days as thoughtfully as I would have liked.  Never mind that I did observe them more carefully than I had the year before...it wasn't perfect, and I knew I could have done better.  I should have done better.  In the middle of this overwhelmingly negative self-assessment, it dawned on me that this entire routine seemed awfully familiar--this was the same way I had talked to myself in the beginning of my recovery, every time I would give in to the urge to use an eating disorder behavior.  Once I knew how I should be acting, there was no excuse for mistakes.  I judged any slips into the eating disorder as signs that I wasn't taking recovery seriously, that I was insincere, that I was weak, and that I would never get any better than I was in that moment of lapse.

When I noticed that I was having these thoughts about myself as a religious person, I did what I often do in times of self-doubt:  get advice from someone who knows more than I do.  In this case, the person I consulted was Adin Steinsaltz, Jewish scholar extraordinaire and my newest intellectual hero.  I'd been reading his book, Teshuvah, and in light of my current mood I decided to reread the chapter called, "Lapses and Crises."  In this chapter, Steinsaltz emphasizes that stumbling is part of the process of advancement--not a negation of it.  The people who aim the farthest are going to have more opportunities to trip along the way, and the struggle involved in moving from stage to stage is inherent to growth.

This does not mean, however, that we shouldn't take slips seriously...but, neither should we use them as an excuse to abandon the process entirely.  Steinsaltz cautions, "The seriousness of individual lapses should not be minimized, but neither should even the worst of them be allowed to lead to despair and total abdication."  In other words, acknowledge errors and take steps to correct them, but then move on--no mistake is worth resigning oneself to failure.

Steinsaltz understands that once we decide to change ourselves for the better in a specific way, we want our progress to be smooth and linear--and immediate.  But, he teaches, this usually isn't how it works.  He explains, "A person who confronts the necessity of making a change in his life or of pressing on with renewed determination must also reckon with internal resistance, partly conscious and immediate, partly unconscious and revealed only with the passage of time.  He cannot simply 'turn over a new leaf' and start afresh; even after he sets out on his new path he will be hounded by those parts of him that remain unreconciled to his decision.  The very struggle to ascend gives one the feeling of being at the bottom of the ladder; but this is only a trick of the senses and the imagination, for the ascent is, in fact, well underway."

Although he is writing specifically about the process of becoming religious, his words also resonate with me in terms of recovery.  Both processes entail major life shifts in both behavioral and emotional realms, and we need to be patient with ourselves and understand that we will stumble along the way.  When we do experience a setback, we should interpret it not as evidence of failure, but as a testament to our desire to strive higher...after all, if we were content to remain static, failure wouldn't be an issue.  A healthy dose of frustration may propel us forward, but we must stop short of getting so discouraged that we quit altogether.  Remember what Steinsaltz says:  if you're stumbling, it's because you're already moving along the path.  May we each keep this wisdom inside our own hearts as we aim to progress forward from wherever we are!  

"Why Should I?"

Although I initially planned to spend each week of Elul looking at a different theme of the month, I've decided that for the time being I'm going to stick with teshuva, on the grounds that there is just so much to explore within that one theme.  The more I thought about what I wrote last week, the more it occurred to me that in explaining a reason why the process of recovery can be so painful, I had really addressed only half of the issue.  What naturally follows from that is the question, "Well, if recovery hurts so much and is so uncomfortable, why should I bother putting myself through that in the first place?" Convincing someone (or yourself) that enduring the unpleasantness of early recovery is a worthwhile process can be a tough sell, but recently I came upon some words from--you guessed it--Rav Kook, that I believe both validate the paradox of a painful recovery and offer a solid argument in favor of sitting with the discomfort:

"At the inception of creation it was intended that the tree have the same taste as the fruit (Genesis Rabbah 5:9).  All the supportive actions that sustain any general worthwhile spiritual goal should by right be experienced in the soul with the same feeling of elation and delight as the goal itself is experienced when we envision it.  But earthly existence, the instability of life, the weariness of the spirit when confined in a corporate frame, brought it about that only the fruition of the final step, which embodies the primary ideal, is experienced in its pleasure and splendor.  The trees that bear the fruit have, however, become coarse matter and have lost their taste...But every defect is destined to be mended.  Thus we are assured that the day will come when creation will return to its original state, when the taste of the tree will be the same as the taste of the fruit."  (Orot HaTeshuva)

Here, Rav Kook acknowledges the reality that oftentimes, the process by which we achieve what we most desire is not, in fact, pleasurable.  If full recovery is the "fruit," then the process of getting there is the "tree"...and I think we can all probably agree that the journey is nowhere near as sweet as the destination.  Rav Kook validates this and also normalizes it by teaching us that this is one of the imperfections of life on earth, a less than ideal situation that is familiar to anyone who has ever traveled a long, arduous path toward a much-anticipated goal.  But, he also reassures us that someday the "injustice" of this reality will correct itself, and we will find ourselves in a world where both the process and the result are full of delight.

You might be thinking, "Okay, great.  Someday far, far in the future, this yucky situation will no longer be the reality.  But what about NOW?  How do I deal with it in the present as it happens?"  I have received many valuable answers to the question of how to cope with the discomfort and have personally tried a wide variety of "distress tolerance skills" and methods of "cognitive restructuring."  While not every strategy hit the mark, there were many that did help me manage the uncomfortable feelings and sensations that came along with early recovery.  However, another critical contributor to my ability to push through the unpleasantness was the underlying sense I had that all of the struggles I was enduring were serving to teach me something important.  Even in the moment, underneath all my stubbornness, resentment, and fear was a glimmer of understanding that if I could just pull this off, I would end up stronger for it.  Rav Kook reinforces this idea when he says,

"Penitence does not come to embitter life but to make it more pleasurable.  The joy of life resulting from penitence emerges out of all those currents of bitterness in which the soul is entangled in its initial steps toward penitence.  This is the creative higher prowess, to know that sweetness is drawn from all bitterness, life from all the pangs of death, abiding delights from every disease and pain." (Orot HaTeshuva)

For me, this has proven to be true.  While I would never, ever wish an eating disorder on anyone, I also would not want to give back all the insight and understanding that I've gained through the process of recovery. This does not erase the significant pain I often felt or the very real losses I incurred along the way...but it helps me to accept that this struggle was given to me so that it might teach me something important, and I believe it has.  In that light, my hope for all of us is that we find the courage to radically accept the discomfort, move through it, and emerge stronger on the other side.

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!  

Leaving...on a jet plane...

Ahhh...summer vacation.  I won't lie...it's one of the perks of being a teacher (and we MORE than earn it!).  Having said a rather adorable goodbye to my flock of third grade graduates, I'm ready to leap into summer mode.  For me, that means that in less than 48 hours, I will be on a plane...to Eretz Yisrael.

To the extent that it is possible to be in love with a place, I am in love with Israel.  The land there calls to me like nowhere else I've ever been...a few days spent hiking in the Negev or the Golan is my idea of pure delight.  I also find myself firmly attached to its people.  Over the years I've built up quite a collection of friends in Israel, people who know my heart in ways that others don't.  Let this be a warning to my "chevre":  you have a whole year's worth of hugs coming at you!

I think another thing I love about Israel is what happens to me inside myself while I am there.  Israel (and Israelis!) challenge me and push me to grow in ways that are a lot harder to target at home, for whatever reason.  When I think about going to Israel, I often think of that classic moment when Hashem tells Abraham, "Lech lecha...go forth...to the land that I will show you."  Closer examination of Hashem's words helps me to understand why going to Israel is so powerful for me.

"Lech" can be interpreted as "proceed," as in continuing on one's journey.  In Abraham's case, he is traveling from his homeland toward an unknown destination.  Abraham's willingness to leave his familiar territory and be guided by Hashem is what allows his growth to happen.  For me, picking up and traveling to a different country certainly does give me some momentum toward change, and I think this effect is strengthened because the place where I am going has such a strong sense of Hashem's presence.  When I am at home, surrounded by the same people and the same places day after day, it is easy for me to get into routines that are comfortable but do not challenge me.  I can travel the same well-worth paths but have a hard time finding the energy to turn myself in new directions.  In Israel, not only are my concrete surroundings different, but I feel I am more directly connected to Hashem.  I can feel His guidance more keenly and can use His energy to push myself along on my journey in ways that I might not have been brave enough to attempt otherwise.  

I have also been told that "lech lecha" can be translated literally as, "go to yourself."  In other words, Hashem is telling Abraham to get in touch with his core.  When I am in Israel, I sense that parts of myself that are ordinarily closed off become open and accessible.  Israel reconnects me to my adventurous self, which is so often overshadowed by the practical and responsible self that dominates my life from September through June.  Israel also brings me in touch with my spiritual core, which is nourished in that land in a way that it rarely is elsewhere.  Being in Israel for an extended period of time doesn't magically clarify my life, but it does give me an opportunity to shine some light on parts of my being that I don't often have time and space to examine. 

Every time I go to Israel, I always hope that I will be noticeably more "evolved" than I was on my previous trip.  This time is no exception--I hope that on this trip to Israel I will find myself able to be open in ways that last summer I was not, that the work I've done on recovery over the past year will allow me to experience the land and people I love more fully than before.  I am sure that in some ways this will happen, and in other ways I'll find that I still have work to do.  Regardless, I am looking forward to a beautiful adventure...and hopefully will find time to blog about it while I'm there!

Malchut

We've arrived at the final week of the Omer period!  In just a few days, we will celebrate Shavuot, the time when Hashem gave Torah to the Israelites at Mount Sinai.  That's what we've been waiting for throughout the entire counting of the Omer; that's our final destination.  So, it is fitting that the sefira for this week is the tenth and final one:  malchut.

As the last sefira in the chain, malchut receives all the other sefirot that have come before.  It is the purpose for the emanation of all the previous sefirot, the actualization of all the intention that has been building up along the way.  Put simply, malchut was what Hashem had in mind when he began the process of creating the world.  Its brilliance depends on all of the energy that goes into it, but there's no mistaking that malchut is the ultimate reflection of Hashem's glory.

For weeks, I've been writing about the other sefira and how they are analogous to various parts of the recovery journey; each one is an ingredient that is necessary to living a full and healthy life.  Malchut, then, IS recovery.  It is the reason why we embark on this process to begin with; the belief in its existence is what keeps us going.  There is nothing easy about the work of recovery.  I've always maintained that unless the end result was truly phenomenal, no one would ever put herself through the process!  What I've discovered, both through talking with other recovered individuals and through my own experience, is that recovery is absolutely, 100% worth it.  It is not perfection, but it is genuine life, the purpose for which we were created.

This is the week to celebrate our visions of recovery, to honor the ways we're living our goals and to make plans for how to achieve what we've yet to accomplish.  It's the week to remind ourselves that, yes, this IS worth it, that if we turn our intentions into actions, we can live the lives that Hashem intends for us.

My posts don't often generate a lot of comments, but I want to invite each of you to share something that recovery has allowed you to experience, something you've been able to be truly present for as a result of all your efforts in your journey.  We can all stand to benefit from the inspiration of others!

Chodesh tov, and chag sameach!

Yesod

This week of the Omer focuses on yesod.  Yesod is considered the foundation that links all the previous sefirot to the final one, malchut (to be discussed next week!).  It's the channel for the life force that has traveled through each of the sefirot, picking up all the accumulated divine attributes along the way.  If malchut is the ultimate recipient, then yesod is what connects malchut to the awesomeness of the gift.

The way in which yesod acts as the "connector" reminds me a lot of my own process of transitioning from contemplating recovery, to truly living recovery.  I spent years in the contemplation phase, picking up nuggets of inspiration wherever I could find them.  My nutritionists taught me how to nourish my body; my therapists showed me how to manage my emotions and connect with my desires.  Other patients shared with me their own experiences and offered me advice based on their own journeys.  After years of accumulating all this wisdom, I was primed for recovery and yet not actually living it.  I knew exactly what I needed to do.  And yet, there was a disconnect--I couldn't quite bring myself to connect my intellectual understanding of recovery with the behavioral change necessary to achieve it.

This is where yesod comes in.  For me, yesod has been what has made recovery a reality.  It is how I combined all the individual ingredients (the "tool box," for all you CBT folks) into a solid foundation for the structure of a recovered life.  Yesod is what bridged the gap between my intention and my actual behavior.  All of the skills I learned over a decade of eating disorder treatment were in place, but the skills alone could not make recovery happen.  I needed a connector to help me put the knowledge into practice, to help me move from just imagining recovery to actually living it.

If you are in a position of knowing you have the tools for recovery, yet feeling unable to make behavior changes, you are probably familiar with the feelings of frustration that come along with that cognitive dissonance.  This is the time to uncover your power of yesod, to find the motivation to put recovery knowledge into action in order to create the life you want.  We all deserve to have our dreams of recovery match the realities of our lives.  This requires us to construct our foundations, one element at a time.  This week, I encourage you to think about what steps you can take to turn your positive thoughts into recovery-oriented behavior.  How can you use yesod to help you build the life you desire?

Netzach

As the Omer period marches on, we enter Week 4 and focus on the attribute of netzach, or "victory."  But, "victory" alone might not be the most complete translation...I've also heard netzach interpreted as "endurance" or "eternity."  My understanding of this sefira combines all of these concepts.  Simply put, netzach is the effort and hard work that we put into reaching our goals.  It is what helps us find the strength to keep pursuing what we want, even when the obstacles are great, and even when the fight seems to be taking forever. 

Tapping into our netzach reservoirs is critical for staying on the path to recovery.  As I'm sure most of us can attest, there is very little that is glamorous about this process.  There are moments of inspiration and excitement as we catch glimpses of what life has to offer us in recovery, but most of our time is spent doing the work:  the appointments and therapy sessions, the meals and snacks, the concrete acts of breaking old patterns, the positive self-talk...the list goes on.  For me, this process has not been linear, and I actually can't think of anyone I know who can say that his or her path to recovery has been a straight shot.  There are ups and downs, potholes and detours.  So, what keeps us on course?  Netzach--our determination, and our understanding that although the journey is long, it is leading us where we want to go.

I recently learned that netzach is also sometimes likened to "tough love"...on the surface, what we have to go through seems harsh and perhaps unfair, but in the end it is for our greater good.  Sometimes, Hashem gives us blessings disguised in unappealing packages, but if we can get past the wrapping, we can see the true benefit of what is underneath.  I remember one low point during my illness; I was studying abroad and unhappily agreed to submit to weekly visits with a local doctor.  He couldn't have been more pleasant, but he was an elderly man, and I was convinced that he couldn't possibly understand what I was going through.  But, at the end of one visit he looked at me wisely and said, "I think it will be a good experience for your life, this."  Even then, as miserable as I was, part of my core self believed him.  Somehow I knew that if I stuck with the recovery process, eventually I would end up a more complete, well developed individual than I would have if I had not struggled and persevered.

I believe that I have had a lot to learn, and Hashem has chosen to teach me through the process of recovery. It has not been a smooth ride, but through my endurance and drive I have discovered the victory that comes from perseverance.  It is my wish that this week, we find the energy to recommit to staying the course--that we have faith in our ability to overcome obstacles, keep our eyes on the prize, and emerge victorious in the end.     

Spring Cleaning!

Although it's a small space, I'm always grateful to live in a studio apartment when the time comes to clean it. Now, I love for things to be clean and as germ-free as I can get them. I just am not wild about the actual process of cleaning, and the scrubbing and dusting tends to get old pretty quickly. Luckily, my living space consists of only three rooms...but even so, I take a lot of shortcuts: cleaning around things instead of under them; making neat piles instead of actually finding homes for everything, etc. This works relatively well most of the time, with one big exception: Pesach.

The pre-Pesach clean is no ordinary task. On Pesach we are forbidden not only to eat chametz, but also to have it anywhere in our possession. As a result, Jews all over the world engage in a thorough cleaning of their homes in the days leading up to Pesach, scouring every surface and searching every crevice for any sign of chametz. We have to get rid of all of it--not one crumb of edible chametz can remain behind. Clearly, this process is an intensive undertaking.

The annual Pesach cleaning reminds me a lot of the work that a real commitment to recovery requires. On Pesach, it is not acceptable to allow traces of chametz to remain in your home. The presence of even a tiny amount creates a halachic problem and prevents you from fulfilling the mitzvah of getting rid of chametz. Similarly, being fully on board with recovery requires a person to eradicate all traces of the eating disorder. As long as someone knowingly hangs onto small behaviors or thought patterns, he or she cannot fully participate in recovery. I definitely have found this to be true. There were plenty of times when I said I was committed to getting rid of my eating disorder, but I kept a little ritual or restrictive habit here and there in the hope that it wouldn't really matter, that I could enjoy recovery without having to get rid of everything. I have never found that to actually work. The only way I've been able to be wholly committed to recovery--and to fully experience it--is to actively search out the remnants of my eating disorder and tackle each one until I am ready to let go of it. There have been no shortcuts to this "soul cleaning"...leaving even a trace of the eating disorder behind would make all my efforts incomplete.

The Sages instructed us to physically destroy all of our chametz before Pesach because they knew that if we allowed it to remain in our possession, we might end up consuming it...or, we would just think about consuming it all the time! I've found this to be true in recovery, as well: getting rid of the concrete remains of the eating disorder (not just the emotional ones) is often a valuable and cathartic experience. At various points in my journey, I gave away my "sick" clothes, threw out diet food, ditched the bathroom scale, and recycled so-called "health" magazines, because I knew that hanging onto any of those things was going to keep me from fully living in recovery. Physically ridding my environment of those eating disorder symbols was hugely significant...and, let's be honest, it felt glorioiusly empowering! I would encourage anyone in the process of fighting an eating disorder to consider doing the same.

This year, as I prepare to tackle the Pesach cleaning, I am reminded of the importance of looking inward to see what internal "chametz" I need to get rid of. Are there any thought patterns, habits, or belief systems that are keeping me stuck in an uncomfortable space? Are there things I am hanging onto simply because they are familiar, even if they have outlived their usefulness? Now is the time to get rid of them. I hope we can all take this opportunity to clean not only our homes, but also our selves, so that we may enter into Pesach with our hearts and minds pure and shining.