I love a good photograph. More than any other art form, photography has the power to move me deeply, to stop me in my tracks. It just amazes me, what a truly skilled photographer can capture with one click of the shutter.
A few days ago, I learned about the "What I Be" photography project created by Steve Rosenfield; particularly, the series he created in partnership with students at Yeshiva University in NYC. Each photograph features a head shot of an individual who has a bold message written on his or her arms, face, or chest. Next to each image is the statement, "I am not my _______," with the blank filled in by the subject's greatest insecurity. Through the "What I Be with the Jews of NYC" project, Rosenfield addresses head-on the stigmas and taboos that are often prevalent in observant Jewish communities.
Of course, this bold project has been met with plenty of controversy and opposing viewpoints among members of the YU community. I won't use this forum to discuss the debate, but I will share my personal opinion of the project:
I. Love. This. LOVE IT.
I can't quite imagine the courage it must have taken each one of the subjects to bear his or her greatest fear to family, community, and beyond, but I am so grateful to everyone who was willing to "put it out there." Is the project provocative? Absolutely. It challenges us to face the reality of who is within our communities, and what struggles reside there. And, while it might be perceived by some as a gratuitous airing of "dirty laundry," I would argue that "dirty laundry" is everywhere. We all have it. I have often felt too "flawed and complicated" to truly belong to any community. And yet, as I viewed the images in this photography project, I came face to face with dozens of people whose insecurities and struggles mirrored my own. Many times, I found myself thinking, "Wait, that happens here, too?" The answer is, YES. It happens here. Mental illness; emotional instability; trauma; diversity in race, family structure, and sexual orientation--it all happens, everywhere. While acknowledging it might be uncomfortable, discomfort leads to growth…and growth, hopefully, leads to inclusion and compassion and mutual support.
Furthermore, how about that message: "I am not my _________." While it's important to be able to give voice to our challenges, it is also critical not to be defined by them. When we're open about our vulnerabilities, we do risk being seen as, "The person with problem X." How vital it is, then, for us to practice saying (and believing), "Yes, I have problem X, but I AM NOT problem X." After all the time I spent in treatment, and all the years in which my eating disorder was front and center in my mind, it has been a huge relief to realize, "I am not my eating disorder." I also am not my exercise routine, or my perfectionism, or my social anxiety. The gift of recovery is realizing that those are just pieces of a much larger, richer puzzle that is ME. And although I want to be able to be open about my struggles, I also want to be sure to project to the world a version of myself that is more comprehensive than just the "Struggle Edition." We all deserve to be seen and accepted as our authentic selves. But before we can expect others to be okay with who we are, we need to be okay with who we are.
So, the next time your insecurities start to feel like the core of who you are, practice saying to yourself, "I am not my ______. It's part of me, but it isn't all of me." And, the more you practice saying this, to yourself and out loud to the world, the more likely it is that you'll meet others who will say, "I've been there, too."
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Name it!
Recently I attended a learning session titled, "Aaron's Silence and Yaakov's Angel: Labels and the Search for an Integrated Self." It was an incredibly rich discussion; the one downside was that it was Shabbat and I couldn't write anything down! But, I've been mulling over a lot of the ideas for the past week or so, and I want to share a few of them here.
It's clear that names are very important in the Torah. One of Adam's first tasks is to name all the animals; Abram and Sarai become Abraham and Sarah once they have earned that recognition in Hashem's eyes. In parasha Vayishlach, Jacob has his famous encounter with an angel, and we see again the significance of names.
Then he [the angel] said, "Let me go, for dawn has broken."
And he [Jacob] said, "I will not let you go unless you bless me."
He said to him, "What is your name?"
He replied, "Jacob."
He said, "No longer will it be said that your name is Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with the divine and with man and have overcome."
Then Jacob inquired, "What is your name?"
And he said, "Why do you ask my name?" And he blessed him there. (Bereishit 32:27-30)
Although there's certainly a lot to explore in the "Jacob-to-Israel" transition, the discussion we had in the workshop centered around Jacob's desire to know the angel's name, and the angel's refusal to disclose it. In this episode, the angel is widely understood to represent Jacob's estranged brother, Esau, and all of the negativity associated with that figure. When Jacob asks the angel to name himself, he is really wondering, "Who ARE you? Where do you get your power?" And, while appearing to dodge the question, the angel actually gives Jacob the answer: his strength comes from being unnamed, from being elusive and unknown. Unlike Jacob, who allows himself to be seen, the angel gathers his negative power by keeping everyone in the dark about who he is.
This same dynamic plays itself out in our lives whenever there is a problem that goes unnamed and unaddressed. To name something is to make it known and real. When there is a conflict or crisis brewing, our instinct might be to pretend it's not there and hope it goes away. However, by not naming it for what it is, we actually allow it to gain momentum and power in our lives. When we can bring the struggle out into the light, we diffuse the negative energy it builds up around itself.
My eating disorder went unnamed for nearly four years before I was willing to put a label on it. I thought, if I keep saying there's no problem, then there will be no problem. In actuality, my refusal to acknowledge my struggle meant that I did not get the help I needed, which only made the problem more severe. At some point, I became willing to say that I had, "issues with food." But it wasn't until I was able to call it, "anorexia," that I actually started to work on recovery.
Communities, too, need to be willing to put names to difficult issues. An eating disorder in secret is still an eating disorder, just like a battered woman who covers her bruises is still being abused, and an alcoholic who hides the bottles still has a drinking problem. When we pretend these issues don't exist among us, we actually add fuel to their fires by building up the secrecy and shame surrounding them. In contrast, when we bring a problem out into the light and say, "Here's what we're dealing with," we diminish the shame and the mystery.
There's significance to the fact that Jacob only triumphed over the angel once night gave way to dawn. In the dark, evil has the advantage. But once things are exposed in the light for what they truly are, we become able to avoid traps and pitfalls and can begin to repair what is broken. My wish for us all, as members of communities and as individuals, is that we not be afraid to name our struggles. Let's bring light into the hidden corners and allow healing to begin.
It's clear that names are very important in the Torah. One of Adam's first tasks is to name all the animals; Abram and Sarai become Abraham and Sarah once they have earned that recognition in Hashem's eyes. In parasha Vayishlach, Jacob has his famous encounter with an angel, and we see again the significance of names.
Then he [the angel] said, "Let me go, for dawn has broken."
And he [Jacob] said, "I will not let you go unless you bless me."
He said to him, "What is your name?"
He replied, "Jacob."
He said, "No longer will it be said that your name is Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with the divine and with man and have overcome."
Then Jacob inquired, "What is your name?"
And he said, "Why do you ask my name?" And he blessed him there. (Bereishit 32:27-30)
Although there's certainly a lot to explore in the "Jacob-to-Israel" transition, the discussion we had in the workshop centered around Jacob's desire to know the angel's name, and the angel's refusal to disclose it. In this episode, the angel is widely understood to represent Jacob's estranged brother, Esau, and all of the negativity associated with that figure. When Jacob asks the angel to name himself, he is really wondering, "Who ARE you? Where do you get your power?" And, while appearing to dodge the question, the angel actually gives Jacob the answer: his strength comes from being unnamed, from being elusive and unknown. Unlike Jacob, who allows himself to be seen, the angel gathers his negative power by keeping everyone in the dark about who he is.
This same dynamic plays itself out in our lives whenever there is a problem that goes unnamed and unaddressed. To name something is to make it known and real. When there is a conflict or crisis brewing, our instinct might be to pretend it's not there and hope it goes away. However, by not naming it for what it is, we actually allow it to gain momentum and power in our lives. When we can bring the struggle out into the light, we diffuse the negative energy it builds up around itself.
My eating disorder went unnamed for nearly four years before I was willing to put a label on it. I thought, if I keep saying there's no problem, then there will be no problem. In actuality, my refusal to acknowledge my struggle meant that I did not get the help I needed, which only made the problem more severe. At some point, I became willing to say that I had, "issues with food." But it wasn't until I was able to call it, "anorexia," that I actually started to work on recovery.
Communities, too, need to be willing to put names to difficult issues. An eating disorder in secret is still an eating disorder, just like a battered woman who covers her bruises is still being abused, and an alcoholic who hides the bottles still has a drinking problem. When we pretend these issues don't exist among us, we actually add fuel to their fires by building up the secrecy and shame surrounding them. In contrast, when we bring a problem out into the light and say, "Here's what we're dealing with," we diminish the shame and the mystery.
There's significance to the fact that Jacob only triumphed over the angel once night gave way to dawn. In the dark, evil has the advantage. But once things are exposed in the light for what they truly are, we become able to avoid traps and pitfalls and can begin to repair what is broken. My wish for us all, as members of communities and as individuals, is that we not be afraid to name our struggles. Let's bring light into the hidden corners and allow healing to begin.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Slow and Steady...
I'm not usually one to get super wrapped up in dates, anniversaries, and the like, but tomorrow might be an exception: January 13, 2014 will be the tenth anniversary of my discharge from residential treatment--my first-ever treatment for my eating disorder.
In my last post I talked about the nonlinear nature of recovery, and I think my own journey is a prime example of that. After that initial round of treatment, it certainly was not a "straight shot" to recovery for me. If I needed to pick a word to describe my recovery process, I think it might be, "slow." Not in a negative, "OMG WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG?!" kind of way (although there certainly were moments of that), but in a, "deliberate, tentative," kind of way. Any advancement was preceded by lots of serious thought, risk assessment, and just general getting used to the idea. Whenever I tried to take on too much, I usually panicked and lost some ground. In the end, the only way for me was the slow way. Little by little.
Of course, Jewish tradition has a thing or two to say about this.
In last week's parasha (Beshalach), the Exodus reached a climax with the splitting of the Sea of Reeds. The Children of Israel crossed over on dry land, while their Egyptian pursuers perished when the walls of water came crashing back down. In that moment by the Sea, the Jewish people acknowledged the tremendous miracle they had just witnessed and their faith in Hashem was unparalleled. However, despite the magnitude of everything that had just transpired, the Jews did not proceed on a linear path to faithful devotion to Hashem. Why? Perhaps they had taken on too much, too soon.
The Midrash (Mechilta) teaches that before the Splitting of the Sea, the Jewish people practiced idolatry, just as their Egyptian neighbors did. Idolatry, as we know, is one of the most serious transgressions in Judaism...so, if the Jews were steeped in idol worship, they must have been on a pretty low spiritual level. But, then they quickly transitioned to being the recipients of Divine salvation, witnesses to a vision of Hashem that was so great, it surpassed even that of the prophet Ezekiel (and that was a pretty intense vision). So then what happened? Did the Jews manage to hang on to this highest level of spirituality? No, they did not. In fact, it was only shortly thereafter that the Israelites began to question whether or not Hashem was truly with them--and this weakening of faith made them vulnerable to an attack by Amalek. Clearly, going from zero to sixty was not a sustainable path of progress.
In this week's parasha (Yitro), the Jewish people receive the Ten Commandments from Hashem at Sinai. The fact that there are TEN Commandments stated individually, and not just one huge one, suggests that growth is meant to be a step-by-step process. Instead of taking on everything at once, we are meant to focus on just one Mitzvah at a time, ascending the spiritual ladder in a slow, gradual way. If we try to jump from the ground to the top rung of a ladder in one leap, we will almost certainly fall. But, if we take things one rung at a time--in Torah, and in life in general--we can make it to the top safely.
So, as I reflect on the "slow and steady" journey of my last ten years, I'm comforted to know that this gradual method of ascent has proven throughout our history to be the surest way to go. To everyone who is anywhere at all along his or her personal recovery path--take it as slow as you need. There's no point in rushing. You'll get there! May we all have the courage to proceed, little by little.
In my last post I talked about the nonlinear nature of recovery, and I think my own journey is a prime example of that. After that initial round of treatment, it certainly was not a "straight shot" to recovery for me. If I needed to pick a word to describe my recovery process, I think it might be, "slow." Not in a negative, "OMG WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG?!" kind of way (although there certainly were moments of that), but in a, "deliberate, tentative," kind of way. Any advancement was preceded by lots of serious thought, risk assessment, and just general getting used to the idea. Whenever I tried to take on too much, I usually panicked and lost some ground. In the end, the only way for me was the slow way. Little by little.
Of course, Jewish tradition has a thing or two to say about this.
In last week's parasha (Beshalach), the Exodus reached a climax with the splitting of the Sea of Reeds. The Children of Israel crossed over on dry land, while their Egyptian pursuers perished when the walls of water came crashing back down. In that moment by the Sea, the Jewish people acknowledged the tremendous miracle they had just witnessed and their faith in Hashem was unparalleled. However, despite the magnitude of everything that had just transpired, the Jews did not proceed on a linear path to faithful devotion to Hashem. Why? Perhaps they had taken on too much, too soon.
The Midrash (Mechilta) teaches that before the Splitting of the Sea, the Jewish people practiced idolatry, just as their Egyptian neighbors did. Idolatry, as we know, is one of the most serious transgressions in Judaism...so, if the Jews were steeped in idol worship, they must have been on a pretty low spiritual level. But, then they quickly transitioned to being the recipients of Divine salvation, witnesses to a vision of Hashem that was so great, it surpassed even that of the prophet Ezekiel (and that was a pretty intense vision). So then what happened? Did the Jews manage to hang on to this highest level of spirituality? No, they did not. In fact, it was only shortly thereafter that the Israelites began to question whether or not Hashem was truly with them--and this weakening of faith made them vulnerable to an attack by Amalek. Clearly, going from zero to sixty was not a sustainable path of progress.
In this week's parasha (Yitro), the Jewish people receive the Ten Commandments from Hashem at Sinai. The fact that there are TEN Commandments stated individually, and not just one huge one, suggests that growth is meant to be a step-by-step process. Instead of taking on everything at once, we are meant to focus on just one Mitzvah at a time, ascending the spiritual ladder in a slow, gradual way. If we try to jump from the ground to the top rung of a ladder in one leap, we will almost certainly fall. But, if we take things one rung at a time--in Torah, and in life in general--we can make it to the top safely.
So, as I reflect on the "slow and steady" journey of my last ten years, I'm comforted to know that this gradual method of ascent has proven throughout our history to be the surest way to go. To everyone who is anywhere at all along his or her personal recovery path--take it as slow as you need. There's no point in rushing. You'll get there! May we all have the courage to proceed, little by little.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Running and Returning
3...2...1...Happy 2014!
The truth is, I really don't get that excited about New Year's Eve. (Who spent it on the couch watching "Finding Nemo" with a high school buddy? This girl.) As my father is fond of saying, "If you've seen one ball drop, you've seen 'em all." Nevertheless, I know this time of year does energize many people, particularly when it comes to one long-standing ritual: making New Year's resolutions.
My feelings about New Year's resolutions have run the gamut, ranging from, "Fun!" to, "No, thanks!" Now, I approach them with a more tempered attitude, which I could label, "Proceed with caution." It's not that I think January 1st-inspired goal setting is inherently a bad idea, but I do think it can lead to feelings of negativity if not approached carefully. How many of us have ever set a goal, fully intending to march toward it in a linear fashion, only to fall short and then feel like a complete failure? I cannot even begin to count the times when I've thought to myself, "EVERY YEAR I say I am going to be better at X or accomplish Y, and yet, here I am saying that AGAIN. Why haven't I gotten this right yet?" (In other words: "There must be something wrong with me.") Needless to say, this line of thinking is not particularly motivating.
Setting New Year's resolutions is a lot like the process of teshuva, and since that is such an important idea in Judaism, it's not surprising that our tradition has a thing or two to say about realistic self-improvement. In Chasidut, there is an expression called, "ratzo v'shov," literally, "running and returning." The idea is that nothing in life is a straight shot; rather, everything proceeds in a back-and-forth movement. We sleep and awaken; day becomes night; rain gives way to sunshine. According to Rebbe Nachman, understanding this to-and-fro pattern of the universe is essential to proceeding successfully along the path of teshuva.
"Ratzo v'shov" explains why a person sets a lofty goal and then inevitably stumbles along the way to achieving it. When the person realizes that she/he has not succeeded in the way she/he wanted to, the person feels despondent and demoralized. It is only when she or he understands that progress is meant to be incremental and that facing struggles is part of the journey, that the person becomes ready to try again. Rav Ephraim Kenig gave a shiur based on Likutey Moharan 6:4 in which he explains:
"When a person ascends so high in his spirituality and feels so close to G-d (ratzo, running), he needs to know that he is still far and has not attained G-d, as it were. On the other hand, the idea of shov, returning, is when a person is in the lowest of depths, feeling like nothing, thinking he will never get up again. The Yetzer HaRa says, 'You should know yourself already. You will never change. You will just keep making the same mistakes over and over again. Why even try to get up?' It is here where G-d says, 'I am with you in this place, let us ascend together.'"
This concept of ratzo v'shov is essential to making healthy resolutions, particularly ones that pertain to recovery. I frequently meet people with eating disorders (and parents of people with eating disorders) who express a fervent hope that the path to recovery will be linear. Despite everyone's best intentions, I have never met a single recovered person who has actually had a smooth, linear path to recovery. Whether one calls them, "slips," "bumps," "relapses," or something else, rough patches are part of the process. That's just the way it is--but this isn't necessarily a bad thing. No matter what obstacle causes you to stumble, you are never back at square one. And even in those low places, there is something to be learned and strength to be gained. The key is to ignore the negative voice that says, "You will never be better than this," and instead tune into the voice of Hashem, which says, "I am with you, take My hand. You can do it."
As we set goals and strive to meet them, let's keep in mind that it's normal to trip and fall--but it's possible to trip, fall, and still get up and reach the finish line victoriously. In 2014, may we find our stride in the rhythm of ratzo v'shov and use it to propel ourselves ever forward, to our better selves.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Debunking, "Perfect"
Recently I came across an article titled, "Six Kinds of Perfection." As a person who has never truly achieved even one kind of perfection (though certainly not for lack of trying), I was intrigued with the idea that there might, in fact, be six types to strive for. Perfectionists, rejoice! More chances to hit the target!
So, I started reading. Noting that the Sages called Bereishit, "the book of the righteous," the author proceeded to make the following claim:
"Genesis is the story of a series of perfect individuals. Adam (made in the image of G-d), Noah (whom the Torah calls 'a righteous man'), Abraham (described as 'G-d's beloved'), Isaac (the 'perfect offering'), Jacob (the ultimate 'whole person'), and Joseph ('the righteous')."
Noooooo. If there is one line of reasoning that frustrates me to no end, it's the argument that any Biblical figures were, "perfect." I'm no expert Torah scholar, but I don't think you need to look very far to find the complexities (flaws?) within the six individuals listed above. Were they inspirational? Certainly. Influential? Definitely. Instructive? For sure. But perfect?
Let's do a brief run-down: Although he was created in G-d's image, Adam committed one of the first "sins" in the Torah and then blamed Eve for his own inability to follow G-d's instructions. As for Noah, the Torah says, "Noah was a righteous man, perfect in his generations; Noah walked with G-d" (Bereishit 6:9). Many Sages have argued that the phrase, "in his generations," implies that Noah was only righteous compared with the deeply corrupt individuals among whom he lived, and he is often criticized for saving only his own family and not reaching out to try to save others. Abraham certainly was very virtuous...but he was also the man who put his wife in danger by asking her to pretend to be his sister, lest the Egyptians kill him to take her as their own. Like his father, Isaac also pretended that his wife was his sister, thereby endangering Rebecca and nearly tricking Abimelech's people into sinning by being intimate with a married woman. Jacob does bear the distinction of being Israel, the true father of the Jewish people. However, he is also the man who tricked his brother into giving up his birthright, and who deceived his father in order to secure his blessing. And, finally, there's Joseph. When Jacob arrives in Egypt after not seeing Joseph, his son, for 22 years, Jacob is overcome by emotion and greets Joseph enthusiastically. Joseph, however, responds in a curious way: by turning to his brothers and telling them he will alert Pharoah that they have arrived. With everything that has transpired in Joseph's family, with everything that remains unsaid between him and his father, Joseph is unable--or unwilling--to connect with Jacob in that moment.
My analysis here is relatively brief and simple, and I recognize that each of the points in the previous paragraph could be fodder for its own lengthly, intense discussion. But, clearly it is not hard to find the complexities within each of the key male players in Bereishit. I would suggest that deeming these men, "perfect," is an oversimplification that erases the richness and nuances of their characters.
I believe that what makes these individuals truly great is precisely that they are not perfect. They may loom larger than life over our collective narrative, but if they did not have their own weaknesses and flaws, how would any of us be able to relate to--or truly learn from--them? They don't need to be perfect to be worthy of our admiration. Instead, they earn our respect by dealing head-on with their own sets of challenges, sometimes making what seem like less-than-ideal choices but still managing to be leaders who get their jobs done.
Perfection is something so elusive that not even Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, or Joseph was able to achieve it. And yet, we don't stop trying to emulate these men. We don't stop studying their stories or invoking their names in blessings. We embrace them, complex figures all, because through their struggles they teach us much more than any "perfect" person ever could.
When I think about the people in my life with whom I'm most connected, I recognize that not a single one of them is perfect...and I love them all the more for their ability to live authentically and to actively work through their challenges. When I try to imagine a perfect person, all that comes to mind is a robotic, Stepford-wife-like creation who, as a result of her not having any complexities, is boring and impossible to relate to. Perfectionist though I am, when I ask myself, "Do my loved ones wish I was perfect?" I have to admit that the answer is probably, "no." Instead, what they probably wish is that I was more open with them about the true ups and downs of my life.
When I study Bereishit, I take comfort in the fact that even our greatest role models were only human beings--multilayered human beings with their own sets of strengths and weaknesses. It seems to me that Hashem has always understood that we cannot truly relate to perfection, and that if the bar is set at, "flawless," our shortcomings will only discourage and demoralize us. So, in His infinite wisdom, He gave us forefathers (and foremothers!) who could lead our people not because they were perfect, but because they knew how to rise above their challenges. As we each make our way through our own journeys, that's really the best we can hope for: to pass through obstacles and emerge on higher ground, and to become greater people because of it.
So, I started reading. Noting that the Sages called Bereishit, "the book of the righteous," the author proceeded to make the following claim:
"Genesis is the story of a series of perfect individuals. Adam (made in the image of G-d), Noah (whom the Torah calls 'a righteous man'), Abraham (described as 'G-d's beloved'), Isaac (the 'perfect offering'), Jacob (the ultimate 'whole person'), and Joseph ('the righteous')."
Noooooo. If there is one line of reasoning that frustrates me to no end, it's the argument that any Biblical figures were, "perfect." I'm no expert Torah scholar, but I don't think you need to look very far to find the complexities (flaws?) within the six individuals listed above. Were they inspirational? Certainly. Influential? Definitely. Instructive? For sure. But perfect?
Let's do a brief run-down: Although he was created in G-d's image, Adam committed one of the first "sins" in the Torah and then blamed Eve for his own inability to follow G-d's instructions. As for Noah, the Torah says, "Noah was a righteous man, perfect in his generations; Noah walked with G-d" (Bereishit 6:9). Many Sages have argued that the phrase, "in his generations," implies that Noah was only righteous compared with the deeply corrupt individuals among whom he lived, and he is often criticized for saving only his own family and not reaching out to try to save others. Abraham certainly was very virtuous...but he was also the man who put his wife in danger by asking her to pretend to be his sister, lest the Egyptians kill him to take her as their own. Like his father, Isaac also pretended that his wife was his sister, thereby endangering Rebecca and nearly tricking Abimelech's people into sinning by being intimate with a married woman. Jacob does bear the distinction of being Israel, the true father of the Jewish people. However, he is also the man who tricked his brother into giving up his birthright, and who deceived his father in order to secure his blessing. And, finally, there's Joseph. When Jacob arrives in Egypt after not seeing Joseph, his son, for 22 years, Jacob is overcome by emotion and greets Joseph enthusiastically. Joseph, however, responds in a curious way: by turning to his brothers and telling them he will alert Pharoah that they have arrived. With everything that has transpired in Joseph's family, with everything that remains unsaid between him and his father, Joseph is unable--or unwilling--to connect with Jacob in that moment.
My analysis here is relatively brief and simple, and I recognize that each of the points in the previous paragraph could be fodder for its own lengthly, intense discussion. But, clearly it is not hard to find the complexities within each of the key male players in Bereishit. I would suggest that deeming these men, "perfect," is an oversimplification that erases the richness and nuances of their characters.
I believe that what makes these individuals truly great is precisely that they are not perfect. They may loom larger than life over our collective narrative, but if they did not have their own weaknesses and flaws, how would any of us be able to relate to--or truly learn from--them? They don't need to be perfect to be worthy of our admiration. Instead, they earn our respect by dealing head-on with their own sets of challenges, sometimes making what seem like less-than-ideal choices but still managing to be leaders who get their jobs done.
Perfection is something so elusive that not even Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, or Joseph was able to achieve it. And yet, we don't stop trying to emulate these men. We don't stop studying their stories or invoking their names in blessings. We embrace them, complex figures all, because through their struggles they teach us much more than any "perfect" person ever could.
When I think about the people in my life with whom I'm most connected, I recognize that not a single one of them is perfect...and I love them all the more for their ability to live authentically and to actively work through their challenges. When I try to imagine a perfect person, all that comes to mind is a robotic, Stepford-wife-like creation who, as a result of her not having any complexities, is boring and impossible to relate to. Perfectionist though I am, when I ask myself, "Do my loved ones wish I was perfect?" I have to admit that the answer is probably, "no." Instead, what they probably wish is that I was more open with them about the true ups and downs of my life.
When I study Bereishit, I take comfort in the fact that even our greatest role models were only human beings--multilayered human beings with their own sets of strengths and weaknesses. It seems to me that Hashem has always understood that we cannot truly relate to perfection, and that if the bar is set at, "flawless," our shortcomings will only discourage and demoralize us. So, in His infinite wisdom, He gave us forefathers (and foremothers!) who could lead our people not because they were perfect, but because they knew how to rise above their challenges. As we each make our way through our own journeys, that's really the best we can hope for: to pass through obstacles and emerge on higher ground, and to become greater people because of it.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Spin Your Turkey Dreidel!
In case you haven't heard, two great holidays--Thanksgiving and Chanukah--are about to make an unlikely convergence. The resulting, "Thanksgivukkah," has become quite a craze, producing hybrid treats such as butternut squash sweet potato latkes, and even inspiring Conan O'Brien to get in on the action with the Turkey Dreidel. Personally, I feel like these two holidays are meant to be together--how else can you explain that the biblical Hebrew word for "give thanks," hodu (הודו), is ALSO the modern Hebrew word for, "turkey"? Coincidence? I think not.
The truth is that Thanksgiving and Chanukah also have some thematic similarities, chief among them being the shared emphasis on freedom, particularly cultural and religious freedom. Most of the original "Pilgrims" came to the New World because they were unhappy with the Church of England's inflexible, dictatorial style. In England, attendance at Anglican churches was mandatory and people didn't feel that it was safe to practice their religion openly in any other way. Similarly, the Maccabees of the Chanukah story rebelled against the Greeks' attempts to forcibly Hellenize the Jewish people in the Holy Land. Hellenic culture emphasized idol worship and focused on physical beauty--concepts that were deeply at odds with traditional Jewish values of monotheism and spiritual connection to Torah.
I find the common theme of freedom fascinating, particularly the Jewish resistance against a culture of materialism. Recently I have been feeling quite frustrated with the cultural world I inhabit--it seems that I can't go anywhere without seeing or hearing something related to dieting, weight loss, exercise, or physical appearance. Between television, radio, magazine covers, social media, and conversations overheard in just about any venue imaginable, there is no shortage of evidence that we live in a food-, body-, and weight-obsessed culture.
Recovering from an eating disorder while living in such an environment can be a maddeningly frustrating experience. A clinician I know explains it this way: "A person recovering from an eating disorder is recovering into a very disturbed world." To recover means to land above and beyond where the vast majority of people are in terms of food and body. Although it can be satisfying to have such an evolved perspective, it also can be challenging. It's hard to feel forced out of all the bonding that happens over discussions about exercise routines, and it can be daunting to try to practice "normal eating" when you are surrounded by people eating diet foods. Even though I know I should be proud of myself for doing what is healthy and supportive of a life in recovery, I sometimes experience shame around not complying with the prevailing cultural expectations. In those moments when I feel like I will scream if one more person comments on how she supposes she can afford to eat dessert because she worked out that morning, I have to dig deep and remind myself that I actually don't want to fit into that cultural norm--I've worked too hard to raise myself above it.
It is hard to swim alone against the tide. The Pilgrims and Maccabees knew this, which is why they each formed groups in order to defend and preserve their true values. Similarly, we need to surround ourselves with other people who can reinforce our commitment to a life free of the food-and-body obsession. This Thanksgivukkah season, I wish all of us the courage of our ancestors to keep our eyes and hearts trained on what is truly important and beautiful in this world.
The truth is that Thanksgiving and Chanukah also have some thematic similarities, chief among them being the shared emphasis on freedom, particularly cultural and religious freedom. Most of the original "Pilgrims" came to the New World because they were unhappy with the Church of England's inflexible, dictatorial style. In England, attendance at Anglican churches was mandatory and people didn't feel that it was safe to practice their religion openly in any other way. Similarly, the Maccabees of the Chanukah story rebelled against the Greeks' attempts to forcibly Hellenize the Jewish people in the Holy Land. Hellenic culture emphasized idol worship and focused on physical beauty--concepts that were deeply at odds with traditional Jewish values of monotheism and spiritual connection to Torah.
I find the common theme of freedom fascinating, particularly the Jewish resistance against a culture of materialism. Recently I have been feeling quite frustrated with the cultural world I inhabit--it seems that I can't go anywhere without seeing or hearing something related to dieting, weight loss, exercise, or physical appearance. Between television, radio, magazine covers, social media, and conversations overheard in just about any venue imaginable, there is no shortage of evidence that we live in a food-, body-, and weight-obsessed culture.
Recovering from an eating disorder while living in such an environment can be a maddeningly frustrating experience. A clinician I know explains it this way: "A person recovering from an eating disorder is recovering into a very disturbed world." To recover means to land above and beyond where the vast majority of people are in terms of food and body. Although it can be satisfying to have such an evolved perspective, it also can be challenging. It's hard to feel forced out of all the bonding that happens over discussions about exercise routines, and it can be daunting to try to practice "normal eating" when you are surrounded by people eating diet foods. Even though I know I should be proud of myself for doing what is healthy and supportive of a life in recovery, I sometimes experience shame around not complying with the prevailing cultural expectations. In those moments when I feel like I will scream if one more person comments on how she supposes she can afford to eat dessert because she worked out that morning, I have to dig deep and remind myself that I actually don't want to fit into that cultural norm--I've worked too hard to raise myself above it.
It is hard to swim alone against the tide. The Pilgrims and Maccabees knew this, which is why they each formed groups in order to defend and preserve their true values. Similarly, we need to surround ourselves with other people who can reinforce our commitment to a life free of the food-and-body obsession. This Thanksgivukkah season, I wish all of us the courage of our ancestors to keep our eyes and hearts trained on what is truly important and beautiful in this world.
image from www.timesofisrael.com
Monday, November 11, 2013
"Hashem is in this place..."
I think my favorite thing about Bereishit is the richness of the narratives. Our Matriarchs and Patriarchs, complex and dynamic figures all, have so much to teach us about the human experience that I really do feel like I learn something new from them every year.
The parashiot of last week (Vayeitzei) and this week (Vayishlach) each center around Jacob as he experiences two of the defining moments of his life. I recently read an insightful article by Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks that explores why Jacob--and not Abraham, Isaac, or Moses--is considered the true father of the Jewish people. After all, we call ourselves "Am Yisrael"--the children of Israel (Jacob). What is it about Jacob that earns him this status? Chief Rabbi Sacks argues that it is Jacob's resiliency, his ability to flourish in the wake of struggle, that makes him the ultimate leader of the Jewish people.
In last week's parasha, Jacob runs from Esau's anger and goes to sleep outdoors with his head on a pile of stones. While asleep, Jacob has one of his major spiritual epiphanies: he dreams of G-d's angels going up and down a ladder reaching from the ground up to heaven. When he wakes, he utters one of my favorite lines in the entire Torah:
The parashiot of last week (Vayeitzei) and this week (Vayishlach) each center around Jacob as he experiences two of the defining moments of his life. I recently read an insightful article by Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks that explores why Jacob--and not Abraham, Isaac, or Moses--is considered the true father of the Jewish people. After all, we call ourselves "Am Yisrael"--the children of Israel (Jacob). What is it about Jacob that earns him this status? Chief Rabbi Sacks argues that it is Jacob's resiliency, his ability to flourish in the wake of struggle, that makes him the ultimate leader of the Jewish people.
In last week's parasha, Jacob runs from Esau's anger and goes to sleep outdoors with his head on a pile of stones. While asleep, Jacob has one of his major spiritual epiphanies: he dreams of G-d's angels going up and down a ladder reaching from the ground up to heaven. When he wakes, he utters one of my favorite lines in the entire Torah:
"Surely Hashem is present in this place, and I did not know!" (Bereishit 28:16)
I connect deeply with the idea that Hashem truly is everywhere, even the most seemingly ordinary of places--if we don't see or feel Him, it's because we fail to notice, not because He's not there. Chief Rabbi Sacks takes this a step further and points out that not only did Jacob find Hashem in the middle of an otherwise obscure field, but also this happened at a moment of intense personal vulnerability for Jacob. Similarly, in this week's parasha, Jacob flees from Laban and is heading home to meet Esau (who he presumes is still angry with him), when, once again, he finds himself alone in the middle of the night. Suddenly, an angel appears and wrestles with Jacob until daybreak, at which point he gives Jacob his new name: Israel, "...for you have striven with the Divine and with man and have overcome" (Bereishit 32:29). Just as in Vayeitzei, Jacob descends to a place of true vulnerability only to emerge stronger than he was before. Explains Rabbi Sacks:
"These are the decisive spiritual encounters of Jacob's life, yet they happen in liminal space (the space that is neither starting point nor destination), at a time when Jacob was at risk in both directions, where he came from and where he was going to. Yet it was at these points of maximal vulnerability that he encountered G-d and found the courage to continue despite all the hazards of the journey.
That is the strength Jacob bequeathed the Jewish people."
From Jacob, we learn that G-d is present not only in our moments of glory; rather, He can be found even when we are struggling and are unsure in which direction to turn. If we are open to seeing Him, we can find Hashem even in our lowest, loneliest moments, and from those encounters we can gain the strength to move forward.
The "liminal space" of recovery is a scary place to be. It's a space in which we can no longer retreat into the obliviousness of the eating disorder, but we've also not yet reached secure footing on the other side. When I was in the thick of that space, there were times when I felt profoundly weakened, frightened, and alone. And yet...Hashem was there.
He was there in the constant, enveloping love of my family and the close friends who stuck by me the entire time. He was there in the new friendships that sprang up during treatment and gave me the day-to-day encouragement and understanding I needed. I found Hashem in my mentors, my clinicians, and others who challenged me and guided me along my path. Hashem was in the natural world that always managed to ground and soothe me, no matter how distressed I was. And the result was that I emerged from that vulnerable space, open for connections, more in touch with myself, and feeling a bit braver than I had been before. Was I automatically "cured"? No. But I knew that I was stronger for having gone through that struggle, and that I had within me the energy needed to keep going on the journey.
Of Jacob, Chief Rabbi Sacks writes:
"He said to Pharaoh, 'Few and hard have been the years of my life' (Genesis 47:9). Yet on the way he "encountered" angels, and whether they were wrestling with him or climbing the ladder to heaven, they lit the night with the aura of transcendence."
May we all be open to the presence of Hashem in the darkness, and may we emerge from that place more whole than we were when we went in.
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