Adult Aloneness

Yup, I know. I've been away for a while...readjusting. "Coming down" from being in Israel is always an interesting process and it seems appropriate that it took me pretty much the entire month of Av to work through it. It might have taken longer, but...Starbucks Cold Brew. Secret weapon of champions.

There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.

When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:

"So...did you meet anyone?"

That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.

I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"

At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!

And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:

There is something really wrong with me.

Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.

And yet.

Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.

But maybe I'm not the only one.

I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:

The temple of my adult aloneness. 

YES.

I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.

I think I could make that house into something beautiful.

Your Body is Your Donkey

Although they don't carry quite the same level of drama found in previous parshiot, I really enjoy reading the aspects of civil law expounded in parashat Mishpatim, which we read last week.  One of the things I find so fascinating about traditional Judaism is the code of ethics at its core--fundamental to the religion is the understanding that how people treat one another is just as important as all the ritualistic displays of piety.

There are several verses within Mishpatim that I could probably spend hours discussing, but one of my favorites is as follows:

"If you see the donkey of someone you hate collapsing under its burden and would refrain from helping him, you shall surely help with him." (Shemot 23:5)

On its surface, this verse explains that it is virtuous to come to the aid even of a person whom you might have good cause to hate.  While one's first response might be to let the hated person (and his animal) suffer, one should not let those negative emotions get in the way of offering assistance.  That interpretation of the verse has always been the one with which I've grappled, but this past week I learned of a new way to read the text that allows me to interact with it in an entirely new way.

The Hebrew word for donkey (chamor) shares the same root as the word for physicality (chomer).  The Baal Shem Tov explains that a person might see his/her body as the enemy of the soul, unable to live up to the soul's lofty aspirations.  In such a case, the person might seek to punish the body by ignoring its needs or trying to pound it into submission.  According to the Baal Shem Tov, through this verse the Torah instructs us to resist the urge to discipline our bodies through deprivation or suffering--rather, we should seek to nurture and refine our physical selves.

This idea resonates with me because it addresses head-on the trap that many of us fall into--viewing our physicality as our enemy.  When we become convinced that our bodies are what block us from reaching our full potential, it is a natural response for us to attempt to "revamp" our physical selves through training regimens that inevitably place our bodies under considerable strain.  The actual process might look different for each of us, but the outline is the same:

Thought:  My body is not cooperating.
Action:  Discipline, discipline, discipline--the harsher, the better!
Outcome:  The body collapses.
(And, yes--in some way, shape, or form, that is ALWAYS the outcome.)

The Torah teaches us to take a different approach.  Rather than view our bodies as obstacles that must be overcome in order to live our best lives, perhaps we should find ways to see the G-dliness within our physical selves.  Instead of ignoring our bodies when they cry out to us, maybe we could try a compassionate approach and offer our bodies the rest and comfort that they need.  It's true that the body is different from the soul--it is more focused on the "here and now," and is less concerned with the abstract, spiritual pursuits that occupy the soul.  When we are trying to transform our internal selves into more evolved people, it can be frustrating to take into account the limits and needs of our physical selves.  However, our bodies are not nuisances to be fought or ignored.  Just like our souls, our bodies were also created by Hashem and need to be cared for and assisted so that we can become our best, most integrated selves.

I wish for all of us the willingness to understand that self-improvement does not need to come at the expense of our bodies.  Our challenge is to seek out a state of balance between our spiritual and physical selves, in which all aspects of ourselves work together to create a unified, harmonious whole.  The Torah's command is a good place to start--the next time you notice that your body is straining under its burden, instead of looking the other way, try extending compassion to it, instead!

Our Two Souls

One of the classic teachings of Judaism comes from Deuteronomy 6:5:
And you shall love the Lord, your G-d, with all your heart and with all your soul... 
I've recited this piece of text hundreds of times in my life, but rarely thought deeply about its wording.  In a recent class at Pardes, my teacher introduced me to how the Midrash Rabba explains this text:

"What do all your heart and all your soul mean?  With each different soul that He created in you."

My teacher then explained that Hashem placed within each of us two souls.  One is the נפש בהמי, the  animal soul; the other is the נשמה טהורה, the pure soul.  The animal soul is considered to be "lower" and is concerned mainly with ME and NOW--in other words, survival.  The pure soul is the "higher" soul and is more mature and reflective; it is concerned with both me and others, now and later.        Sometimes our two souls are on the same wavelength, but other times they may send us conflicting messages, and we have to tease them apart.

There is a lot in this idea that resonates with me, but one thing that strikes me in particular is how the two souls are compared to each other via their classification as either "higher" or "lower."  The lower soul is the one that speaks to us about our basic needs:  food, rest, safety, etc., while the higher soul encourages us to think beyond just ourselves in the present moment.  I think many of us would not have much trouble jumping to the conclusion that we should use our higher soul to override our lower soul and that our animal impulses should be subjugated.  This seems to be the message that we often get from society:  "Stop thinking about yourself.  Push your body past its limits--you don't really need to sleep, or to eat.  Do more with less."  This mentality is the fuel that often feeds eating disorders...but, I would argue that this is not at all what is at the core of this Jewish teaching.

This Midrash tells us that Hashem gave us both souls on purpose.  Why would Hashem bother giving us an animal soul in the first place, if we are just supposed to suppress it all the time?  That "lower soul" is our survival instinct.  It is how we assess immediate danger and how we ensure that our basic human needs are met.  This soul is our voice of self-preservation, and I would suggest that unless we honor our lower soul, the higher soul won't be able to do its job.  Part of what I've learned over the years is that if I don't take care of myself, I can't take care of others at the level at which I'd like to.  If I don't get enough rest, I'm cranky with my friends and have no energy to spend on those relationships.  If I deny my hunger and don't eat enough, I can't focus on teaching my students because part of my mind is stuck on my empty stomach.  Basically, if I don't make sure there is enough in my cup, nothing will be able to spill over into anyone else's.  Now, does this mean I should be concerned only with myself or that I should immediately get everything I want?  Of course not...but, neither should I ignore my basic needs under the false premise that prioritizing the well-being of others is a more worthy pursuit than caring for myself.  Hashem gave me both souls because He understands that by ensuring that my basic needs are securely met, I become available to connect with--and genuinely care for--others.  Both souls are essential, and neither should be dismissed as less valuable than the other.

Take some time to tune into your two souls.  What are they saying?  Are you listening?  I wish for you the ability to hear what the two voices of your truth are telling you, and the courage to take steps toward honoring both essential pieces of yourself.

Find Truth in the Return

Being in Israel always opens me up to parts of myself that are less accessible in other places.  Consequently, I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to feel centered within oneself and in tune with one's inner voice.  A teacher of mine at Pardes introduced me to the work of Rav Kook (rhymes with, "look"), a brilliant Jewish scholar who also happened to be the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Palestine under the British Mandate.  Here is what Rav Kook has to say about clarity within the soul:

"When one forgets the essence of one's own soul, when one distracts his mind from attending to the substantive content of his own inner life, everything becomes confused and uncertain.  The primary step, which immediately sheds light on a darkened zone, is for the person to return to himself, to the root of his soul, and from there to the Soul of all souls..." (Orot HaTeshuva 15:10)

I may be just a fledgling Torah student, but I believe I understand what Rav Kook is saying.  When I lose sight of what is important in my life and instead become too focused on peripheral matters, I become ungrounded and insecure inside myself.  For a long time, the realities of my life seemed too painful to face.  Instead of dealing with the sources of my unhappiness, I latched onto the shiny distractions of weight and body.  As I became more and more certain that food and exercise were all that mattered, the rest of my life fell away until it was nearly gone, until I was all but unrecognizable even to myself.

Recovery has been a process of returning, of coming home to myself.  Many things have helped:  therapy, writing, and being with people who knew me prior to the eating disorder and could remind me of who I was "before."  The healthier my body became, the more I began to reconnect emotionally with the parts of myself I had forgotten, and to remember what was truly important to me.  Recovery has allowed me to become a teacher and construct a professional identity of which I am proud and through which I find deep fulfillment.  It has made possible my trips to Israel, where I've been able to prioritize my spiritual and religious growth in ways that feel vital to me.  And, it has made me available to connect with some special people who have become my closest friends and who can mirror back to me who I really am, in case I forget.

When I am in touch with my inner truth, I feel a greater sense of security about my place in the world.  I also feel more able to connect with Hashem because when I talk to Him, there is more conviction in my own voice.  I believe Rav Kook is correct--returning to oneself is key.  It doesn't solve every problem, but it allows one to be more present to develop solutions and to experience the journey on the way.

This week, give yourself some quiet space in which to think about your true self, your real priorities and your bottom lines.  Are you living in a way that honors who you are at your core?  Try to identify one way in which you could move closer to your center...and when you are ready, take the first step.

Why Deny?

Hello again!  I decided I needed a little breather in the wake of my Omer-marathon leading up to Shavuot, but last week's parasha (Nasso) sparked a little fire inside me and I have been mentally formulating this blog post since then.  I realize that Nasso is chock-full of material ripe for discussion (perhaps we will come back to the sotah issue another day), but what I want to focus on is the nazirite.  Simply put, a nazirite (in the time of the Temple) was an individual who took on vows of asceticism in an effort to achieve a higher level of holiness.  Specifically, the vow was to abstain from wine and all grape products, to refrain from cutting one's hair, and to avoid contact with the dead and with graves.  It would be a reasonable assumption that Judaism, with its famously stringent laws of kashrut and Shabbat prohibitions, would proclaim virtuous any person who is willing to be even more restrictive than the religion demands.  Interestingly, this is not the case.  When it comes to the nazirite, the Sages are split in their opinions.

Because I think many of us with histories of eating disorders know all too well how seductive and appealing the practice of self-denial can be, I am going to bypass the Talmudic commentary that looks favorably upon the nazirite (although, to be clear, it certainly exists and is easy to find, if you're motivated to do so).  What I find much more fascinating are the words of Sages who clearly do NOT approve of the nazirite vow.

When an individual ends his/her term as a nazirite, that person is required to make a sin offering to Hashem.  If a nazirite is so holy, what purpose could there be for a sin offering?  Rabbi Eliezer Hakappar argued that a nazirite was required to make atonement because, by practicing extreme self-denial, he had "sinned against the soul."  Despite all its laws and regulations, Judaism values the enjoyment of life and does not encourage people to be more restrictive than necessary.  As the Sages asked, "Is it not enough what the Torah has forbidden you, but you wish to forbid yourself more things?" (Nedarim 9:1)

This resonates deeply with me because for so long, my guiding principle was Restrictiveness.  Forget the fact that I was deeply miserable--there was something about self-denial that also gave me a feeling of superiority, of separateness, of virtuousness.  I thought I was special because I could resist what others could not.  In that mindset, I never once thought of my vigorous suppression of appetite as "sinning against my soul."  But now I think that's exactly what it was.

The Talmud teaches,

"In the future world, a man will have to give an accounting for every good thing his eyes saw, but of which he did not eat."  (Kiddushin 4:12)  Rabbi Elazar believed this so strongly that he regularly set aside money so that he could taste every kind of food at least once a year.

When I think about that, it almost brings tears to my eyes--that kind of dedication to pleasure and value of delicious experiences.  What would it be like to live in that way, to prioritize and savor the enjoyment of food?  How can we shift our paradigm from the societal messages of, "Avoid x, y, and z if you don't want to get fat," to the much more nurturing perspective of, "What am I hungry for?  What would be yummy?  How can I be good to my soul in this moment?"  Perhaps just asking the questions--and listening to the answers--is a solid place to start.

Thoughts on Beauty

I have always been a bit of an "attractiveness neglector." In terms of my own personal appearance, I tend to value function over aesthetics. "Fashion", "style", and "accessories" are vocabulary words in a language I do not speak. That's not to say that I am out of touch with what makes for a reasonably put-together physical appearance, just that external beauty has never been at the forefront of my mind. In early recovery, my refusal to play the cultural beauty game was my way of rebelling against a societal value system that I felt placed physical appearance above all other attributes. I did not see a way for recovery, with its "I-am-more-than-my-body" message, to co-exist with a desire to be considered physically beautiful.

I honestly did not expect that Judaism, which places such value on scholarship and mitzvot, would present me with a way to integrate the two. And yet, I am finding that it does...and I want to share some of these ideas with you here.

In Jewish tradition, inner beauty is most important. We should remain focused on how we act and who we are, rather than on how we look. And yet, external beauty is also important, because its role is to reflect how beautiful we are on the inside. Judaism teaches that the physical body houses the soul, which is created in the Divine image. Hillel asserted that because the soul resides in the body, care and proper treatment of the body are of the utmost importance. We should, of course, focus on refining our inner selves and behaving in a manner that is pleasing to Hashem. But, we should also view our bodies as ways to radiate our inner beauty out into the world. It is important to maintain an appearance that is well-kept, to wear clothing that is clean and neat, and to take good care of our bodies. Our attention to our external attractiveness does not have to be an end in and of itself, but rather a way of communicating to others our beauty within.

Most importantly, we must remember that true beauty comes from harmony between body and spirit. Consider this quote regarding our matriarch, Sarah, who was renowned for her beauty:

"Sarah's beauty was one of complete synchronization between external and internal, between body and soul. This kind of beauty does not fade with age, pregnancy, or weight gain. It is a beauty that is cultivated inwardly and shines forth." (from innernet.org.il ...view full article here)

Well said!

I love the idea that physical beauty need not be at the expense of inner development, that the two are not mutually exclusive but rather can reflect and complement each other. In my tendency toward "black-and-white" thinking, I had assumed that if I spent energy trying to make my body look attractive, I would be selling out my recovery-oriented value system. Judaism is offering me another way to think about this: putting time and effort into my physical appearance is not vain, nor is it superficial...it's a way of honoring the precious glow of my inner self.

Now that's a concept of beauty I can get behind!