Three Little Words

Okay, so it's been a while. A lot has happened in the past month and a half: I went to Israel, I came home from Israel, and I moved to a new apartment. I would like to just take one moment to pat myself on the back for being an adult throughout all these changes. It wasn't easy, but I hung in there. And I have lots of trees outside my windows in my new apartment, with lots of birds, so I'm happy.

This summer I didn't learn full-time at The Pardes Institute, but I did go to their Tisha B'Av learning program where I got to hear some excellent shiurim and also a panel featuring several of my Pardes teachers. Despite being caffeine- and nutrient-deprived, I did get a lot out of the day, but one moment stood out, and that's what I want to write about here.

It happened in the first shiur I went to, taught by the incredible Yiscah Smith, of whom I am now a major fan. The title of her shiur was, "How To Restore Unity to a Fragmented World: Exploring the inner dimension of 'Loving one's fellow as oneself.'" Citing chapter 32 of the Tanya, Yiscah taught that because the greatness of one's own soul can never be known, it is also impossible to truly know the excellence of the soul of one's fellow...and therefore, one cannot rightfully say that his or her own soul is any better than anyone else's. We just can't know.

At this point, a young woman in the audience asked if this principle applied to all souls, or only Jewish souls? Yiscah explained that in the context in which the source was written, it was intended to speak only about Jews. Not satisfied by that answer, the woman pressed on: "But do you think that a non-Jewish soul is just as precious as a Jewish neshama?"

To which Yiscah replied, "I don't know. You know, the older I get, the more comfortable I am saying, 'I don't know.'"

Magic, those three words: I. Don't. Know. And how brave, an adult who is willing to speak them.

That exchange stuck with me because I was struck by the opportunity Yiscah had to make a faith-based claim of certainty that of course a Jewish soul is special in ways that other souls are not. Or, she could have gone the politically correct route and said that of course all souls are created equal. Each response would have reassured some members of the audience and probably rankled some others, but she would have looked like a teacher who was sure. And isn't that what teachers are supposed to be? I'm interested because I'm also a teacher, so this feels important.

The more I thought about it, the more I thought how important it is to be honest with one's students--and with oneself--about doubt and uncertainty. And the truth is that especially in areas of religion and faith, I am suspicious of people who are too sure. It's like they don't even know what they don't know. I contrasted Yiscah's declaration of not knowing with some conversations I have had with people who are very, very sure of what they believe. And I realized that the reason why those conversations leave me feeling uncomfortable is because there is no space in them for me to express my own doubts without having them erased by the other person's certainty. Whereas with Yiscah, I felt like I could talk to her all day about my struggles with belief, because she also has things she doesn't know.

I was raised Jewish but secular, which means that I was taught that religion is faith, and faith is different from fact. I was taught to be a critical thinker, to base my knowledge on science, and to not take anything at face value without doing my due diligence. But I also unequivocally believe in G-d and feel as though I do have proof, albeit nonscientific, that He exists. All of this together sometimes makes religious belief messy, especially as I have become observant, and can leave me feeling insecure in religious circles where everyone seems so sure all the time. So in the past, I would also pretend to be sure. I echoed what other people said and kept my mouth shut when questions bubbled up in my brain. A people-pleaser through and through, I was certainly not going to disappoint my intellectually and spiritually powerful teachers by asking a question that displayed the insecurity of my belief.

But recovery has been, in large part, about getting more comfortable with uncertainty. If nothing else, anorexia was definitely certainty, or at least the illusion of certainty, which was usually good enough for me. In recovery, I've had to get used to not knowing the nutritional information of everything I eat, not knowing my weight all the time, not living every day by the same rigid routine. I've had to ask myself Big Questions, like, "Do I want to find a partner?" and, "Should I buy a home?" and, "Am I ready to become a mother?" none of which have a clear answer. I just took the step of moving to a new apartment in a more suburban area, and the #1 question everyone asks me is, "Where are you going to go to shul?" I don't know. When I talk with people about wanting to adopt an older child through foster care, people ask how I am going to balance religious observance with the needs of a child who might not be Jewish by birth. I don't know. But if I delayed moving until I had settled on a shul, I would have missed out on this great apartment. And if I wait to become a foster parent until I have figured out all the details of how life with a hypothetical child will unfold, I will probably never become a foster parent, because who can be sure of anything like that? Believe me--I, more than most people, understand the need and desire for certainty. But I also know that that need can be paralyzing. Sometimes we have to make peace with not knowing.

I think one of the greatest gifts G-d gives to humans is that He doesn't allow us to know everything. We might strive for certainty, but usually we won't get it, and that's actually a good thing. It's good because it gives us freedom of movement, both physical and cognitive. It allows us to integrate new information, to assess situations objectively, and to change our minds. Not knowing gives us the ability to discover the world anew every time we dare to look at it differently. And while it might seem as though the people who "have it all together" are the ones who are sure of everything, it is actually the people who are brave enough to say, "I don't know," who know where it's at. I used to want to surround myself with certainty, but in recovery it is the Not Knowers who have become my people.

My hope for us is that we strike a healthy balance between knowing and not knowing. Too much of either can be destructive; the sweet spot is somewhere in the middle. And also that we not be afraid to admit our uncertainty, to ourselves or to others--because when we are brave enough to express doubt, we give other people permission to do the same. And who knows? Then maybe we can discover something new, together.

See the Birthing

The end of the school year is always a crazy time for me as a teacher.  This year was no exception, as I discussed in a previous post.  Aside from all the logistical hoops through which I had to jump, there was also the poignancy of saying goodbye to my flock of third grade graduates, to whom I'd become deeply attached.  I thought that this year I might not have much time to dwell on the transition, due to my impending departure (tomorrow!) to Israel...incorrect!  I always, always have time for Transition Anxiety because, if I'm going to be honest, "change" isn't really my thing.

Sure enough, not even one day after closing up my classroom for the summer, I felt the anxiety set in.  For ten and a half months of the year, work is my world and "teacher" is my identity.  My colleagues are my "other family," and each year my heart grows just a little bit larger to hold a new class of students, all of whom become "my kids."  When I am at work, I know who I am and I like that version of myself.  I thrive on the structure of my days, and I know how to deliver what is expected of me.  No matter how much I need summer vacation, it is always a tough adjustment.  I usually feel a bit lost without my usual routine, I miss the easy social connections I have with the other teachers, and I definitely miss the kids.  At the bottom of all of this is the unspoken question, Who am I outside of teaching?  It's murky territory, and I don't like it.

Coincidentally (or not?), when I picked up my copy of, Toward a Meaningful Life:  The wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, this past Shabbat, I opened directly to the chapter titled, "Upheaval and Change."  To be fair, most of the Rebbe's teachings in this chapter are intended to refer to global upheaval and catastrophic events, but I think they can be applied to personal life changes and transitions, as well.  Put generally, the Rebbe says that when things around us are changing, we can use our relationship with Hashem to ground us.  Upheaval gives us the chance to separate who we are from our material world, to get in touch with that which is at our cores and does not change.  Additionally, he teaches that change is an opportunity for growth:

"Our sages teach, 'Who is wise?  The one who sees the birthing' [Talmud, Tamid 32a]--not just the darkness, but how it leads to light.  Growth occurs in three stages:  an embryonic state, a void between old and new, and a state of transformation.  Upheaval is the middle, chaotic stage.  From our human perspective, it may appear as an abyss, but in the larger view, it is the first sign of something new, a birthing."

I think recovery is definitely this way--the "letting go" stage, when we release our hold on the eating disorder but don't yet have anything positive to cling to, certainly can feel like a frightening abyss.  But, as the Rebbe says, that chaos leads to transformation and growth into a fuller, more authentic life.

I can also apply it to where I am in this moment:  the transitional space between "teacher mode" and summer.  It is hard for me to let go of teaching and the comfortable routine it brings.  But when I stop and think, I know that I am the same "me" whether I am working or not, that who I am is more than my profession, and that maybe this time away from work will give me an opportunity to develop some of the other aspects of myself that get a bit lost during the year.  Tomorrow I will fly to Israel, where I will get to spend time with people dear to my heart, learning texts I love in a place that is my second home.  If I allow myself to expand beyond my identity as a teacher, if I let myself fully inhabit the experiences of this next month, then I know I will grow in ways I can't yet anticipate.  Getting to that growth requires some traveling through uncertainty, but if the choice was either, a) consistency and stagnation, or,  b) disruption and transformation, I know I would choose "b," hands down.

So, for all of us staring down some sort of transition or change and the anxiety it brings, I share the words of the Rebbe and our sages as a reminder that if we can weather the bumps in the road, we will be rewarded with a birth into new beginnings.  I will certainly continue to write and share with you what I am learning on this next adventure!

(For skeptics who need a bit more convincing--or if you just like good music--the Indigo Girls reinforce the Rebbe in this song.)

From a Teacher's Heart

I hope you all will forgive me if I digress a bit from the usual themes of this blog, in order to focus on something that has been dominating my mind for the past several days.  In all likelihood, this deviation from the norm is harder for me than it will be for you--in my mind, I have "rules" for this blog (Must be recovery!  Must be Jewish!) and it is challenging for me to be flexible and acknowledge that this week, I have something else that I want--need--to write about.  But, never fear--I'll do my best to bring it all together at some point!

Last Friday afternoon, my students were reading quietly as they always do after lunch, and I took advantage of the quiet to check the news on my laptop.  Expecting the usual mix of political and entertainment headlines, I was shocked at what I found instead:  reports of a mass shooting at a Connecticut elementary school, details of which were still unfolding.  The rest of the afternoon passed in a surreal blur: I would teach a lesson, then check the news during a lull, then simply turn and watch my kids in all their vibrant vitality.  By the time I dismissed my class of third graders, I knew the gruesome outcome of the brutal assault on Sandy Hook Elementary School: 28 people dead, including 6 educators and 20 six- and seven-year-old children.

For the first few days after the shooting, my mind was consumed with thoughts about the tragedy.  Not being a parent myself, I couldn't really conceptualize the grief that the parents of the slain children were feeling.  But, as a third grade teacher, I felt complete empathy for the teachers at Sandy Hook.  I thought about what it would be like to lose colleagues and students in such a sudden, tragic way.  I worried about where I would hide 23 nine-year-olds in my own classroom if, G-d forbid, we ever faced a similar situation.  I watched and read interviews with teachers who had protected their students by hiding them in bathrooms, closets, and cabinets, teachers who had kept their kids calm by reading to them and telling them to "wait for the good guys."  As a teacher, I am deeply devoted to my students and feel fiercely protective of them...and the idea of NOT being able to shield them from such trauma is just about the worst thing I can imagine.  For me, thinking of what it must have been like for those teachers is absolutely devastating.

This week, I've had to give myself plenty of space to feel grief over what happened in Connecticut.  I'm also conscious of the fact that five years ago I probably would not have been capable of having such an intense emotional reaction to a story in the news--I had numbed myself into emotional flatline.  This week, however, I've felt the full force of sadness as I've tried to wrap my mind around the deaths of so many children and the adults who cared for them.  Years ago, I would have run from such strong feelings as quickly as possible.  Now, however, I am able to recognize that being able to have emotions is also what helps me be connected to other people who are going through a similar experience.

It has been a tough week to be an elementary school teacher...but, it has also been a special one.  On Monday morning, my colleagues and I met for an emergency staff meeting to discuss what we might face during the day.  We expressed our fears, we cried, we hugged each other...and then we went to meet our students, who came through the doors full of precious energy and reminded us of why, exactly, we do the work that we do.  I have never felt more privileged to be a teacher than I have this week.  My heart is with the teachers from Sandy Hook, and I pray that they will find the strength to guide themselves and their students through this dark time--emerging, once more, into the light.

"I have learned two lessons in my life:  first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones.  Second, just as despair can come to one another only from human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by human beings."  --Elie Wiesel