I'm writing my first post of 2017, twenty-six days late. I've been thinking about blogging a lot, but something has been in the way--call it writer's block, or apathy, or fatigue, or maybe a combination of those--whatever it is, it has loomed in my brain, imposing and opaque, blocking all my attempts to get any thoughts into writing.
But two days ago, a dear friend messaged me and said, "Any reason you haven't been blogging? I miss your posts!" At which point, I thought, "Oh...I guess people do read it." And then I went through the motions of going online and looking up what Rabbi Jonathan Sacks has to say about this week's parasha, because when I'm coming up dry on inspiration, he's pretty much my go-to.
I'll get to Rabbi Sacks in a minute, but I think it's clear what the real lesson is here: friends are our best weapon in overcoming inertia.
So. In last week's parasha, Hashem speaks to Moses and tells him that he is being tasked with leading the Jewish people out of Egypt. Moses protests, insisting he's not up for the task, but G-d wins the argument because, you know, He's G-d. So Moses and Aaron appear before Pharaoh and plead their case, but it doesn't go well--Pharaoh retaliates by forcing the Israelites to not only make their quota of bricks, but now also gather their own straw for the bricks. The Israelites then basically turn against Moses and Aaron, accusing the two men of making their burden even harder to bear.
This week, Moses and Aaron begin bringing G-d's plagues to Pharaoh, but each one fails to do what it is intended to do: convince Pharaoh to let the Jews go. Moses does absolutely everything he can, and still, no freedom. But all along, Hashem reassures Moses that the Jewish people will go free, if Moses can just see the process through.
Rabbi Sacks teaches that the key take-away here is this: the greatest leaders are plagued by significant setbacks, but still manage to rise. This is certainly true of Moses, and is also true of successful leaders in many other fields--politics, science, the arts, business. And if this is true of our leaders, who are arguably among our best and brightest, how much more so is it true of us "regular people"? We are going to encounter setbacks, some of which will be pretty major. The key, as many a motivational speaker has proclaimed, is to not stay down, but rather to use the challenge to make ourselves stronger.
I have been in recovery for 12 years and cannot even begin to count my setbacks. The severe ones landed me in psychiatric hospitals and day programs. But there were also dozens of tiny bumps in the road--a missed snack, a forbidden walk, a resurrection of an arbitrary food rule--that I could (and sometimes did) brush off as insignificant, but that were really symptoms of a larger lapse in my recovery mindset. Any setbacks, large or small, can be demoralizing because they spark self-criticism and self-doubt: I am not really in recovery. I'm actually not doing well at all. I am such a loser for still having a hard time with this. (At least, that's my soundtrack. Maybe yours is different, but I suspect there are some similar lines.)
The key, for me, has been to allow myself a few negative thoughts but then start to take a deeper look at what is going on when I hit a bump. Am I anxious about something? Am I feeling vulnerable? Is there a particular stressor in my life and I'm using an old coping mechanism to deal with it? Once I start taking that careful look and talking about it with my people, I can actually deal with the underlying issue and avoid falling back into the eating disorder. And that whole process--encountering struggle, examining it, and adjusting for it--makes me stronger.
Rabbi Sacks cites a letter written by Rabbi Yitzhak Hutner to one of his students who was discouraged after repeatedly failing to master a piece of Talmud. Rabbi Hutner wrote:
Know, however, my dear friend, that your soul is rooted not in the tranquility of the good inclination, but in the battle of the good inclination...The wisest of men said, "A righteous man falls seven times, but rises again." Fools believe that the intent of the verse is to teach us that the righteous man falls seven times and, despite this, he rises. But the knowledgeable are aware that the essence of the righteous man's rising again is because of his seven falls.
The line I keep coming back to is: your soul is rooted not in the tranquility of the good inclination, but in the battle of the good inclination.
Brilliant, right?
We are primed for struggle, and that is what strengthens us. We cannot become great without it. We can't recover without it. That's not to say that we don't also need times without struggle, but our souls get their juice from being squeezed a little bit. That's where we're rooted, and it's from where we grow.
Showing posts with label struggle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label struggle. Show all posts
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Hishtadlut
Wow...it has been a long time since I last wrote! It seems I completely missed writing about Pesach this year--and actually missed the entire month of April--due to G.L.C (General Life Craziness). What can I say? It happens. Good thing Pesach Sheni is around the corner!
But lest you think that I've been slacking off, I'm going to tell you a bit about what I've been doing, and I'm going to be a bit more specific than in past posts because I feel like there's no way to tell this story otherwise.
First, the background: I was an active kid who played several different sports during grade school, but once I got to college, exercise morphed into something completely unhealthy. Like, I actually can't think of one way in which the benefits outweighed the enormous cost to me physically and mentally. When I started working on recovery, I had to quit exercising completely, and I stayed away from it for probably around three years before I tried it again. It did not go well. So, for the past 6 or so years, I've abstained from "purposeful exercise" (that is, exercise done for the purpose of exercising), and have relied solely on "incidental exercise" (such as walking to and from places, etc).
But this past year, I started to feel deeply an intense desire to try exercising again, but the wanting felt different to me--I didn't want to exercise to lose weight or burn calories; instead, I wanted to feel stronger and healthier in my body. I wanted to feel like my body was powerful. My team and I talked about how I would do it differently this time around: no numbers, no pushing for a certain time, no using any technology to record distance, heart rate, or calories burned. I wouldn't do it every day. I would not force myself to exercise outside in bad weather. No gyms. I wouldn't make myself eat less on days when I did not exercise. And on and on. Finally, we agreed on a plan. The only remaining obstacle was, I needed to gain some weight.
Not a lot of weight, but enough to give myself a cushion and to support my body in being more active, and also to help me stay recovery-focused mentally. Objectively, it seemed like something I should have been able to accomplish in a little over a month. After all, I'm in solid recovery. I knew why I needed to gain weight, and I was in favor of it. I had a goal that I really wanted to reach. How hard could this be?
Hard.
What I predicted would take me two months ended up taking four, and not because I wasn't trying. I tried really, really hard. For anyone who has ever had to gain weight, you know what it's like--eating past the point of fullness, eating when your'e not hungry, etc. It's completely unpleasant. But what's even MORE unpleasant is doing all those things, and then getting weighed and hearing, "Your weight is stable." For a while, I heard this nearly every week, and let me tell you, there was a lot of crying involved. A lot of crying, a lot of frustration, and a lot of fear. I was already doing everything I could do. What if I just wasn't able to reach this goal? What if it never happened for me?
When I first set my goal, I shared it with a good friend, someone who I knew would support me but also wouldn't ask me about it unless I brought it up first (if you don't have one, find yourself a friend like this). One day, after a particularly disappointing doctor's appointment, I called this friend and shared with her my frustration and my fear. She listened and gave encouragement, and then said, "You know, hishtadlut."
I said, "What's that?"
She explained that hishtadlut means putting in maximum effort and not giving up until you reach your goal. I looked it up after our conversation and found that even when a person thinks that all the hishtadlut in the world won't achieve his or her goal, that person is still obligated to try. In other words, pessimism is allowed, but giving up is not.
Sometimes, when I'm in the headspace of, "This feels IMPOSSIBLE," hearing someone say, "Just keep trying," feels invalidating. But when my friend explained the meaning of hishtadlut, it felt different, I think because it felt like my problem was common enough that there was an actual name for how to handle it. And the more I thought about hishtadlut, the more I realized that I really had only two options: quit, or push ahead. If I continued to put in all my effort, I had a chance at reaching my goal. But if I gave up, there was no way it was happening. So what else could I do, really, but keep trying?
And here's the thing: it worked.
I met my goal. Today was my first day of exercising, and it felt great--physically, but also mentally, because I knew I had worked really hard for this. It was hishtadlut that got me there.
Whatever your recovery goals, know that sometimes the only way is the long way...but maximum effort does pay off. It's not magic--it's something anyone can do. But there's no giving up. You deserve to feel the satisfaction and elation that comes with reaching your goal, so stick with hishtadlut--that's what will get you there.
But lest you think that I've been slacking off, I'm going to tell you a bit about what I've been doing, and I'm going to be a bit more specific than in past posts because I feel like there's no way to tell this story otherwise.
First, the background: I was an active kid who played several different sports during grade school, but once I got to college, exercise morphed into something completely unhealthy. Like, I actually can't think of one way in which the benefits outweighed the enormous cost to me physically and mentally. When I started working on recovery, I had to quit exercising completely, and I stayed away from it for probably around three years before I tried it again. It did not go well. So, for the past 6 or so years, I've abstained from "purposeful exercise" (that is, exercise done for the purpose of exercising), and have relied solely on "incidental exercise" (such as walking to and from places, etc).
But this past year, I started to feel deeply an intense desire to try exercising again, but the wanting felt different to me--I didn't want to exercise to lose weight or burn calories; instead, I wanted to feel stronger and healthier in my body. I wanted to feel like my body was powerful. My team and I talked about how I would do it differently this time around: no numbers, no pushing for a certain time, no using any technology to record distance, heart rate, or calories burned. I wouldn't do it every day. I would not force myself to exercise outside in bad weather. No gyms. I wouldn't make myself eat less on days when I did not exercise. And on and on. Finally, we agreed on a plan. The only remaining obstacle was, I needed to gain some weight.
Not a lot of weight, but enough to give myself a cushion and to support my body in being more active, and also to help me stay recovery-focused mentally. Objectively, it seemed like something I should have been able to accomplish in a little over a month. After all, I'm in solid recovery. I knew why I needed to gain weight, and I was in favor of it. I had a goal that I really wanted to reach. How hard could this be?
Hard.
What I predicted would take me two months ended up taking four, and not because I wasn't trying. I tried really, really hard. For anyone who has ever had to gain weight, you know what it's like--eating past the point of fullness, eating when your'e not hungry, etc. It's completely unpleasant. But what's even MORE unpleasant is doing all those things, and then getting weighed and hearing, "Your weight is stable." For a while, I heard this nearly every week, and let me tell you, there was a lot of crying involved. A lot of crying, a lot of frustration, and a lot of fear. I was already doing everything I could do. What if I just wasn't able to reach this goal? What if it never happened for me?
When I first set my goal, I shared it with a good friend, someone who I knew would support me but also wouldn't ask me about it unless I brought it up first (if you don't have one, find yourself a friend like this). One day, after a particularly disappointing doctor's appointment, I called this friend and shared with her my frustration and my fear. She listened and gave encouragement, and then said, "You know, hishtadlut."
I said, "What's that?"
She explained that hishtadlut means putting in maximum effort and not giving up until you reach your goal. I looked it up after our conversation and found that even when a person thinks that all the hishtadlut in the world won't achieve his or her goal, that person is still obligated to try. In other words, pessimism is allowed, but giving up is not.
Sometimes, when I'm in the headspace of, "This feels IMPOSSIBLE," hearing someone say, "Just keep trying," feels invalidating. But when my friend explained the meaning of hishtadlut, it felt different, I think because it felt like my problem was common enough that there was an actual name for how to handle it. And the more I thought about hishtadlut, the more I realized that I really had only two options: quit, or push ahead. If I continued to put in all my effort, I had a chance at reaching my goal. But if I gave up, there was no way it was happening. So what else could I do, really, but keep trying?
And here's the thing: it worked.
I met my goal. Today was my first day of exercising, and it felt great--physically, but also mentally, because I knew I had worked really hard for this. It was hishtadlut that got me there.
Whatever your recovery goals, know that sometimes the only way is the long way...but maximum effort does pay off. It's not magic--it's something anyone can do. But there's no giving up. You deserve to feel the satisfaction and elation that comes with reaching your goal, so stick with hishtadlut--that's what will get you there.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
The Reckoning
This past Shabbat we finished the book of Shemot, which ends with parasha Pekudei. The word pekudei can be translated as, "reckoning," and the parasha opens with the following verse:
אלה פקודי המשכן משכן העדת אשר פקד על–פי משה עבדת הלוים ביד איתמר בן–אהרן הכהן
These are the reckonings of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of Testimony, which were reckoned at Moses' bidding. The labor of the Levites was under the authority of Itamar, son of Aaron the Kohen.
What follows is a detailed list of all the gold, silver, and copper that people donated for the construction of the Tabernacle. Moses kept track of every contribution and how it was used, a biblical version of what we might now call, "transparency."
Coincidentally, during the same week in which we read Pekudei, I was also reading Brené Brown's new book, Rising Strong, and happened to be on the chapter called, "The Reckoning." (Brief book evaluation: not my favorite of hers, a little sound bite-y, but I'm still a fan.) In this book, Brené explores the process of "rising strong" after a fall, and the first stage of doing so is what she calls The Reckoning--engaging with our feelings and getting curious about why we have them.
Brené says:
"I don't think we can learn much about ourselves, our relationships, or the world without recognizing and getting curious about emotion. Fortunately, unlike navigating using dead reckoning, we don't need to immediately be precise in order to find our way. We just need to bring our feelings to light. We just need to be honest and curious. I'm having an emotional reaction to what's happened and I want to understand is enough for the reckoning."
For me, this resonates strongly. Even as a child, I would have emotional reactions to things and would immediately judge myself harshly for what I considered, "wrong feelings" (usually anger or fear). I never got curious or wanted to understand; in fact, I never even really talked about it because I was so sure that my feelings made me a bad person.
When I was a freshman in college, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was miserable. I didn't get curious then, either. Instead, I told myself that there was something wrong with me because everyone else was happy and I was not. Keep it to yourself and deal with it, was pretty much my philosophy. "Dealing with it" meant exercising and dieting away my pain; in short, developing the eating disorder that would control my life for most of the next decade. I shut down all my feelings and all my connections in an effort to protect myself, but didn't stop to think of what this might cost me. As Brené Brown says, "...shutting down comes with a price--a price we rarely consider when we're focused on finding our way out of pain." Truth.
And now? Now, my first response to an emotional reaction is sometimes still judgment (old habits die hard), which nearly always leads to shame. The difference is that I now recognize that this is unhelpful, and instead I try to "observe" my feelings neutrally. Then, usually in therapy, I can do the work of getting curious and figuring out why I reacted the way I did. For me, doing that work in the context of therapy is hugely important because the support of an objective observer (my therapist) helps me to avoid the shame traps that are easy to fall into when I'm alone.
Reckoning with emotion--acknowledging our feelings and approaching them with curiosity--is a lot of work and often feels harder than shutting down. But I've found that this is deceptive; in fact, the reckoning often leads to a way out of the feelings, whereas shutting down pretty much ensures that I'll stay stuck in them. My eating disorder was all about shutting down; recovery is about open and honest emotional exploration. I don't think it's any coincidence that since I've been engaged in the process of emotional reckoning, I've developed more satisfying and authentic relationships--with others and with myself--than I ever did in the entire time I struggled with anorexia.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones who feel what we feel, with the intensity that we feel it. This is false. Everyone has feelings; some people just prefer to deny them. I propose a different approach: get honest, get curious. Strive to understand your emotions, rather than stuff them away. It's healthier, and it leads to more resiliency and greater insight. If you're brave enough to engage in The Reckoning, you might just find that you are stronger than you thought--and you will begin to see a way out of the darkness of the icky feelings and back into the light.
אלה פקודי המשכן משכן העדת אשר פקד על–פי משה עבדת הלוים ביד איתמר בן–אהרן הכהן
These are the reckonings of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of Testimony, which were reckoned at Moses' bidding. The labor of the Levites was under the authority of Itamar, son of Aaron the Kohen.
What follows is a detailed list of all the gold, silver, and copper that people donated for the construction of the Tabernacle. Moses kept track of every contribution and how it was used, a biblical version of what we might now call, "transparency."
Coincidentally, during the same week in which we read Pekudei, I was also reading Brené Brown's new book, Rising Strong, and happened to be on the chapter called, "The Reckoning." (Brief book evaluation: not my favorite of hers, a little sound bite-y, but I'm still a fan.) In this book, Brené explores the process of "rising strong" after a fall, and the first stage of doing so is what she calls The Reckoning--engaging with our feelings and getting curious about why we have them.
Brené says:
"I don't think we can learn much about ourselves, our relationships, or the world without recognizing and getting curious about emotion. Fortunately, unlike navigating using dead reckoning, we don't need to immediately be precise in order to find our way. We just need to bring our feelings to light. We just need to be honest and curious. I'm having an emotional reaction to what's happened and I want to understand is enough for the reckoning."
For me, this resonates strongly. Even as a child, I would have emotional reactions to things and would immediately judge myself harshly for what I considered, "wrong feelings" (usually anger or fear). I never got curious or wanted to understand; in fact, I never even really talked about it because I was so sure that my feelings made me a bad person.
When I was a freshman in college, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was miserable. I didn't get curious then, either. Instead, I told myself that there was something wrong with me because everyone else was happy and I was not. Keep it to yourself and deal with it, was pretty much my philosophy. "Dealing with it" meant exercising and dieting away my pain; in short, developing the eating disorder that would control my life for most of the next decade. I shut down all my feelings and all my connections in an effort to protect myself, but didn't stop to think of what this might cost me. As Brené Brown says, "...shutting down comes with a price--a price we rarely consider when we're focused on finding our way out of pain." Truth.
And now? Now, my first response to an emotional reaction is sometimes still judgment (old habits die hard), which nearly always leads to shame. The difference is that I now recognize that this is unhelpful, and instead I try to "observe" my feelings neutrally. Then, usually in therapy, I can do the work of getting curious and figuring out why I reacted the way I did. For me, doing that work in the context of therapy is hugely important because the support of an objective observer (my therapist) helps me to avoid the shame traps that are easy to fall into when I'm alone.
Reckoning with emotion--acknowledging our feelings and approaching them with curiosity--is a lot of work and often feels harder than shutting down. But I've found that this is deceptive; in fact, the reckoning often leads to a way out of the feelings, whereas shutting down pretty much ensures that I'll stay stuck in them. My eating disorder was all about shutting down; recovery is about open and honest emotional exploration. I don't think it's any coincidence that since I've been engaged in the process of emotional reckoning, I've developed more satisfying and authentic relationships--with others and with myself--than I ever did in the entire time I struggled with anorexia.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones who feel what we feel, with the intensity that we feel it. This is false. Everyone has feelings; some people just prefer to deny them. I propose a different approach: get honest, get curious. Strive to understand your emotions, rather than stuff them away. It's healthier, and it leads to more resiliency and greater insight. If you're brave enough to engage in The Reckoning, you might just find that you are stronger than you thought--and you will begin to see a way out of the darkness of the icky feelings and back into the light.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
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.
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.
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