There is No God Proxy

Since my last post, I have been in the End-of-School-Year vortex: wrapping up teaching, finding a new apartment, booking movers, and planning summer travel. Some days, I feel like I am KILLING IT at this adulting thing...other days, I want to curl up on my futon and not do anything except watch the chimney swifts darting around in the sky outside (they always look like they are having the best time). Yesterday evening was of the latter type, and then it got dark out so no more chimney swifts, so I decided to search for a little inspiration online. I went on Instagram (sometimes a good idea, sometimes a tricky one) and saw that Laura McKowen had written a blog post in honor of her 1,000th day of sobriety.

One of the greatest blessings of my recovery is that I've found myself some truly outstanding teachers along the way. These women are some of the most open-hearted people I know, and they are all eager to share the wisdom they've gained from their own journeys. With some of my teachers, I've had close personal relationships; with others, like Laura, I've connected in person but know them mainly through their blogs or other online forums. Laura is a true gem. She positively radiates authenticity and she is brave as all get-out, even when being brave means saying, "I don't have anything figured out and am a total mess right now." So when I saw that she had been sober for 1,000 days, I immediately had to read her post about it.

www.lauramckowen.com

Laura lists 5 lessons she's learned in 1,000 days of sobriety. They're all perceptive and each one rings true for me, but #2 resonates with me the strongest. Here is Laura's second lesson from sobriety:

Don't make anyone your god.

Never before have I seen anyone articulate so clearly what I do all the time, what I have always believed to be proof that I am pathologically insecure or hopelessly needy or pitifully devoid of integrity. Maybe each of those things is a little bit true, but the bigger truth is that I haven't been negating myself, I've been trying to find myself. I've just been going about it the wrong way. And, while I've known for a long time that this pattern isn't healthy, it has been very, very hard to change it. Old habits die hard, and all that.

For me, making someone my god means that I adjust my words and actions to elicit the approval of another person. It means that I reach out with emails or texts and then wait, simmering with anticipation, for a reply--and, when one is late in coming, spin fantasies about what I might have done wrong to make this person not want to stay in touch with me. It means I let another person dictate what parts of me are acceptable and what parts need adjusting or squashing. It is giving higher weight to someone else's opinions and judgments than I give to my own. It is not believing in my own strengths and positive qualities unless someone else affirms them. And it is a driving hunger-- deeper and more desperate than any I ever felt for food--for connection with a person; a hunger that leads me to think, I will be anyone you want me to be--just don't leave me.

Without going into all the painful details, I'll just say this: making someone my god has never, ever ended well.

Laura's post got me thinking: when I make someone my god, what happens to my actual God? I still think about God when I'm davening or saying brachot or observing Shabbat, but I stop thinking about my relationship with God, because I am mistakenly looking for that relationship with another human. I am so busy seeking validation, praise, and affirmation from someone else that I forget I already receive all of those things from God. When I make someone my god, that person inevitably ends up disappointing me because humans cannot actually manage all that power. I also end up feeling out of control because I am flailing around in search of a security that doesn't exist. People were never, ever meant to be god.

Who I am, and how "okay" I am, is a matter that is solely between me and the God Who made me. Other people can have their opinions, but those are just human opinions, not Divine opinions. If I get rejected or rebuffed by another individual, that is human rejection, not Divine rejection. That's not to say it doesn't sting--it does, often badly--but it is not a final verdict on my worthiness. People might cause me to feel insecure or inferior, but those are just feelings, not facts. The fact is, I am fine. I am flawed, and I have things--many things--to work on, but at my core I am a good person who is deserving of love and belonging...and I can always find both of those things with God.

For sure, we need other people, and people's opinions matter. Connections with people matter. God cannot replace relationships with other humans, and I don't think He wants to. But if you find yourself trying to use people to replace God, if you are looking to human beings to affirm your baseline worth as an individual, I would suggest that you examine how that's working for you. Take Laura's advice: don't make anyone your God. You already have a God, and that God created you with love and care. You are who you're supposed to be. You're independent, remarkable, and intuitive. Use people to enhance those qualities, not to work against them. But never forget that God has already ruled: you are worthy. You are.

Beautifully Broken

www.jerichochambers.com

When I started this blog, I tried hard to publish something at least every other week...I think because I had so much to say, and sharing it felt so urgent. Clearly, I have gotten away from that level of frequency, and it's not that I haven't had anything to write about...it's more that I haven't been able to find the most effective way to write about what has been going on for me. I feel as though I need a degree of separation from things in order to write about them clearly, and that separation hasn't happened yet, so the words haven't come. I say this not as an apology for not writing, but more as an explanation as to why I haven't been on the blog as much lately.





But then, last weekend happened, and words started to come.

I had the privilege of attending a workshop led by the amazing Laura McKowen, whom I have raved about quite a bit on this blog, and Holly Whitaker, whom I have talked about less but who is no less fabulous. These two women do incredibly important work in the recovery world; both are in sobriety and are also in recovery from eating disorders. They are impassioned writers, speakers, and yoga people, and I am a little bit (or a lot) of a groupie, so I took my yoga-ambivalent self to a yoga studio and practiced yoga for four hours, just to learn from them. (Okay, there was writing involved, too, which is more my jam.)

The title of the workshop was, "Never Not Broken," and it centered on the premise that we have each been broken open by various life situations, and we will bear those cracks for the rest of our lives...but instead of weakening us, our brokenness makes us stronger and wiser. I was attracted to this idea because I view my life into very clearly divided "before" and "after" segments: "before," being before I developed an eating disorder my freshman year in college, and "after," being everything after my last hospitalization in 2007 (I call the in-between years, "the mess").  I visualize "before" and "after" through two photographs that sit on my parents' coffee table--one of me as a senior in high school, the other of me graduating from college. When I look at my high school senior self, I see her smile as genuine, the gleam in her eyes as a sign of her full life and endless hope, for she has no idea what's coming. The photo of me as a college senior, I hate. I look at that version of myself and I know my smile is fake; my eyes masking how trapped I felt in my body, in my mind, in my misery. For most of my time in recovery, I have wanted desperately to get back to the way I was "before." Why can I not be happy anymore? I often wonder. Instead, I'm stuck being this broken thing. Put back together, yes, but still cracked in ways that I haven't figured out how to repair.

Before the workshop started, I anticipated that I would spend most of it brooding over all the broken, shattered parts of me, and maybe I would even cry, which would be a huge breach of my "no public displays of emotion" rule. But somewhere around hour three, a weird thing happened. We were journaling in response to the prompt, "What do You Want?" and I realized that although there are still some things I desire but have yet to achieve, I actually have a lot of good things in my life. I have the most fulfilling job I could ask for; I get to do what I love and I know I am making a difference. My "work family" is close-knit and supportive. Through my Jewish education, I have made dear friends in Israel who nurture me in ways that no one else does. My parents and I have great relationships with each other. I am living on my own and paying my own bills, driving around in a car that I own, with enough money saved to allow me to plan for a future child. All told, I am actually not doing too badly. And admitting this was new to me, because my usual line of thinking is to focus on the negative...but sitting there in that workshop, I was able to really see all the vitality I have built into my life, and that I have achieved successes that were absolutely not possible a decade ago.

I pondered this as I lay on my mat, listening to Laura's calm voice easing us into the final restorative pose. Then, from the speakers, I heard familiar tune begin to play...the lyrics came:

I heard there was a sacred chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord...

Yup. She played Hallelujah. She played LEONARD COHEN.

There I was on my mat, with a big old grin on my face, because THIS WAS A WORKSHOP ABOUT BROKENNESS AND SHE'S PLAYING LEONARD F**KING COHEN (no disrespect intended).

Leonard Cohen, the iconic Jewish singer and songwriter, penned the following lyrics about human brokenness:

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in.

We are all broken in some ways, some of us more than others, but we all bear at least a few cracks bequeathed upon us by the world and our own psyches. The challenge, as with any perceived weakness, is to learn how to leverage it to one's advantage. I know that I, personally, have gained enormous insight into myself and others from having gone through everything I've endured, much of which was excruciatingly painful while it was happening. I might not ever return to that innocent teenager I was before the eating disorder, the one who grins out from that high school senior photo. But I am damn sure more in tune with my emotions, more able to empathize with others, and more able to manage the demands of the world than she ever was. It was a trade I was never asked if I wanted to make; I was never given the choice of opting out.  Brokenness can't work that way, because who would ever elect to be split open? Not I. But there were lessons I needed to learn, that I am still learning, and so I was given the pain and the blessing of being broken to my core.

At the end of the workshop, Laura and Holly herded all 50 of us into a circle, and we did the "go-around": say your name, where you're from, and one thing you're taking away from today. Every single person in the room had been touched by addiction, and many were in the beginning stages of recovery. Some people shared from a place of strength, others from a place of insecurity, but the underlying current was vulnerability.

Vulnerability sounded like the man who had just begun sobriety and said, "I'm on day 28."

It was the woman who ventured, "I'm an alcoholic. I've never actually said that before."

It came through in the voice of a young woman who shared about her suicide attempt.

It was the person who admitted, "I don't actually know anyone in recovery."

And as I sat there listening and waiting for my turn, I could see my self of ten years ago mirrored back to me in my fellow participants' words. I remembered the first time I ever said, "I am anorexic," and how exhilarating was that release, and how terrifying the admission. I remembered my "day one" in my first treatment program, where I finally found comfort among other people who understood the way my brain functioned and the twisted logic by which I lived my life. I remembered meeting my first recovered person, and how powerful that encounter was. I remembered all the times I had gone to bed, wishing that I would sleep forever. And I knew, sitting in that circle, that I wasn't there anymore. I had done the work and was still doing it. And I had a lot to be proud of.

The truth is, I still go through periods of depression, where I feel like I honestly might not make it through the day. I sometimes still find that when I am stressed or in periods of transition, my first instinct is to micro-manage my food as a release. I am socially anxious, extremely introverted, and yet often feel starved for genuine connection. All of those cracks are real. But I know how to navigate them and to avoid the traps they set. I prefer to view my current self as one who has been made stronger for having been broken.

The Japanese have a practice of putting broken pottery back together by sealing the cracks with lacquer mixed with gold dust. The artist Barbara Bloom explains:

www.simplyblessed.heartsdesire.com

"When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful." 

That's us, lovelies. Never not broken. And growing more beautiful all the time.

The Blessing of Rain

You guys, we made it. Cheshvan starts tomorrow night! I have never looked forward to a month so much. Actually, I think we should start a movement to remove "Mar" from "Marcheshvan." Cheshvan is not a bitter month. Cheshvan is the best month. NO HOLIDAYS--an introverted routine-lover's paradise.

So, yes, the chaggim were a bit...much. More to the point, this entire fall has been a bit much, which is why I haven't been writing. I've been too busy trying to navigate my brain chemistry, which has been a little temperamental due to a shift in medications. It is not an exaggeration when I say that there were some days when managing my mood felt like such a monumental task that taking a shower seemed a cruel and unreasonable additional chore.  Oh, you want me to enter assessment data into a spreadsheet? You want me to make travel arrangements? You want me to go to a social event? I'm busy SURVIVING here, people. I'm in full canary mode, sensitive to everything and feeling all the feels.

I don't think it's a coincidence that my mood started to stabilize right as the chaggim were winding down. Cheshvan and a neutral mood--quiet on all fronts. I'll take it.

Since I'm feeling more even-keeled, I've been able to actually stop and think about items that catch my attention. One thing I noticed recently is that we just had a change in one of the parts of the Amidah. Beginning on Simchat Torah, we add the following phrase to Blessing #2, which focuses on Divine might:

משיב הרוח ומוריד הגשם

He makes the wind blow and the rain fall

Taken in geographical context, it makes total sense why we need that addition. We say it during the winter, which is the rainy season in Israel, while during the rest of the year there is basically no rain there at all. So we really need that rain during the winter in order for things to grow and bloom. If the rain doesn't come, the land dies. 

But let's be honest, rain is kind of a pain. You need special boots. You need a raincoat and an umbrella. It makes driving difficult. Streets can flood. It makes everything grey, which is kind of depressing. So it's easy to forget, on your third consecutive day of rain, why rain is such a blessing. It's easy to forget that rain makes things new.

For the past two months, I've been in rainy mode. There were a few peeks of sun, but mostly clouds and rain. I fear that place and when I'm in it, I worry that I will never get out. But I did get out, because the storm passed. That was Lesson #1: The Storm Always Passes. And on the first day I finally felt the sun come out, I was so excited that I actually emailed my psychiatrist and said, "I felt like a normal version of me today! It was AMAZING!" So that was Lesson #2: Rain Brings Gratitude. Probably the best part of that story is that my psychiatrist replied and basically said that she was really glad I had a good day, but there would probably be more bad ones to follow because that's how recovery from depression goes, which I thought was a great dose of realism. There will always be more rain, and for those of us who roll this way, the storms may be extreme. But then...there is the washing clean, and the growing, and the blooming. During my most recent dark time, I learned a few things. I learned how to trust my friends more and accept their love. I became a better observer of my own emotions and reactions without judging them. I also gained confidence in my ability to hang tight and wait it out, without using self-destructive behaviors. Those were all things I needed to learn, and I couldn't have learned them without the dark time, so G-d sent me some rain. It was painful and messy, but it was what I needed.

Come to think of it, my entire eating disorder--the rainiest years of my life thus far, for sure--may have been a complete emotional washout, but it was also where my best growing came from. I am absolutely certain I would not have become the person I am today without my journey through recovery, which would not have happened had the eating disorder never occurred. Once again, G-d gave me the rain I needed in order to bloom. I am NOT saying that, "everything happens for a reason," or some other platitude to brush over the very real and very damaging pain that I went through, or that others have endured. I'm not suggesting that we just put on our rose-colored glasses and thank G-d for all our suffering. What I am saying is that if we're going to go through a rainy season, we might as well reap the benefits. And I do believe that from every flood, every collapse, every breakdown, something new can grow up from the center of the destruction, if only we allow it--and it might be even stronger and more beautiful than what was there before.

When we add the phrase about rain into our prayers, we are acknowledging that we need G-d to send us this weather that is sometimes quite inconvenient, because it is vital to our survival and growth. Rain is what allows us to thrive in the sun. Emotional rain works the same way, and that's what I'm taking away from this holiday season. Rain comes and then it goes, and leaves us with a new beginning. 

A New Spin on an Old Classic

In the most recent meeting of the Rosh Chodesh group at my shul, I learned a version of the dreidel game that is so fabulous, I absolutely have to share it here!

No coins needed! All that is required is a dreidel, comfortable company, and a healthy dose of honest self-reflection. For this game, the meaning of the letters on the dreidel is as follows:

נס -- נ -- "Nes" or "Miracle": What is a small (or big!) miracle in my life, from this past month or year? Recognize, and be thankful!

גבורה -- ג -- "Gevurah" or "Strength": What are my strengths? In what areas do I shine?

התחזקות -- ה -- "Hitchazkut" or "Strengthening": What are areas in my life in which I need more strength? What are things I need to work on?

שליחות -- ש -- "Shlichut" or "Mission": Where do my passions lie? To what do I want to be more dedicated?


Pretty spectacular, right? Here is how my personal dreidel would shape up:

נ -- My students are my daily miracles...watching them learn and being surprised by their wisdom and compassion. Also, walking across Israel this summer was truly miraculous--sharing the adventure and beauty of nature with amazing friends, and being healthy enough to enjoy it all!

ג -- One strength of mine is empathy. I think I am able to tune into others' feelings and "meet them where they're at," so to speak. Another strength is self-expression. Given time to think through my words, I am able to articulate myself clearly and firmly through writing and speaking.

ה -- One area in which I need a bit of a boost is my openness to other people. I am very guarded, and my default is "boundaries" instead of "sharing." This does serve a purpose, but it also prevents me from connecting with people at times. I also need to strengthen my self-confidence and self-appreciation. I want to be okay with myself, and not place so much power in the hands of others and their opinions.

ש -- I am passionate about my work...teaching children gives me such energy and joy, and I feel honored to be part of their development into curious, ethical, intellectual people! I am also passionate about recovery--pursuing it, experiencing it, and sharing it with those who may be in need of support.

So...that's my dreidel! What does yours look like this year??