"I" of Destiny

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Just in case you missed last year's birthday post, I'll summarize it by saying that, although it is a lovely occasion, my birthday brings with it its fair share of emotional challenges.  And, here I am, once again, at Erev Birthday, feeling the usual mix of pure gratitude for this life I lead combined with self-criticism and frustration regarding all the ways I haven't quite hit the mark.  It's a time of year when I need a little extra inspiration, a little extra spiritual connectivity and galvanization.

Fortunately, two weeks ago I had the opportunity to attend a shiur by Rav Avi Weiss, and have been thinking about it ever since.  His topic was, "Fate and Destiny:  Coping with Adversity."  I almost blogged about it right away, but instead chose to hold onto it until closer to my birthday, when I felt I would most need its message of empowerment--and would be most excited to share it.

Rav Avi Weiss packed so much meaning packed into that shiur, but what resonated with me most was when he made the following point:  when a person struggles, it is normal for that person to ask, "Why?"  But perhaps that is not the most effective question.  Maybe instead of asking, "Why?" one should ask, "What now?"

To flesh out this idea, Rav Weiss brought a quote from Rav Soloveitchik's work, Fate and Destiny.  Rav Soloveitchik views the human being as having two "I"s:  the "I" of fate, and the "I" of destiny.  Here is how he explains his concept of an "Existence of Destiny":

In short, the "I" of fate asks a speculative metaphysical question with regard to evil, and this question is not susceptible to solution and has no answer.

In the second dimension of man's existence, destiny, the question of suffering takes on new form. What is an, "Existence of Destiny?"

This is an active existence in which man confronts the environment into which he was cast with an understanding of his uniqueness, value, freedom and capacity without compromising his integrity and independence in his struggle with the outside.  The slogan of the "I" of destiny is, "Against your will you are born, and against your will you die [but with your free will do you live]."  Man is born as an object, dies as an object, but it is within his capacity to live as a "subject" -- as a creator who impresses on his life his individual imprimatur and who lives autonomously.  According to Judaism, man's mission in his world is to turn fate into destiny--an existence that is passive and influenced, to an existence that is active and influential; an existence of compulsion, perplexity, and speechlessness, to an existence full of will and initiative.  

Wow.

There is just so much I love about this, relating to both the specific challenge of struggling against adversity, and to the more general concepts of self-determination and empowerment.  I feel that so much of recovery connects strongly to Rav Soloveitchik's idea of turning "an existence that is passive and influenced, to an existence that is active and influential; an existence of compulsion, perplexity, and speechlessness, to an existence full of will and initiative."  And, what better time to reflect on my own commitment to this endeavor, than my birthday?

In what ways am I actively shaping my own destiny?
In what ways am I still being too passive?
In the coming year, how can I live more authentically as the "subject" of my own life?

We can all benefit from asking ourselves these questions--it's the ongoing work of recovery.  So, even if it isn't anywhere near your birthday, I (gently) challenge you to think about how Rav Soloveitchik's ideas apply to your own journey through life.  How can you wake up your "I" of destiny?

Hatikvah

A few evenings ago, I had the opportunity to attend a lecture given by Rabbi Sharon Shalom, an Ethiopian-born Jew who emigrated to Israel, where he later received his rabbinic ordination.  Rabbi Shalom spoke about his childhood in Ethiopia and his long, treacherous journey to Israel.  Throughout his lecture, which he peppered with humorous anecdotes and insights into Ethiopian Jewish culture, Rabbi Shalom maintained a focus on hope.  Time and time again, he quoted three lines from "Hatikvah," the Israeli national anthem:

Kol od balevav penimah

As long as within the heart

Nefesh yehudi homiyah

A Jewish soul still yearns

Od lo avdah tikvateinu

Our hope is not yet lost

Rabbi Shalom referenced these words as he described sitting with his grandfather in Ethiopia, listening to the old man tell him and his friends about Jerusalem.  At one point, he asked his grandfather, "Which way is Jerusalem?" to which his grandfather basically replied, "Go straight."  So, the next morning, Shalom and a friend of his snuck out of their village and started to run in the direction his grandfather had indicated.  They ran for hours, these two little kids, expecting--hoping--to get to Jerusalem.  When Shalom and his family eventually did begin their real journey to Israel, it involved a months-long, dangerous walk to Sudan, in which many people died.  Because they felt Shalom would have the best chance of success in Israel if he went alone with other children, his parents sent him by himself while they remained in Sudan for several more years.  A young boy going to a new country, alone, yet full of hope…because he was finally going to get to Jerusalem.  

There were many, many "take-aways" from Rabbi Sharon Shalom's lecture, and a major one was definitely this:  Giving up is not the Jewish way.

A few years ago, I wrote about the Talmudic quote, "Eretz Yisrael is earned through hardships."  In that post, I addressed the question:  If recovery is my metaphorical Land of Israel, how much am I willing to struggle to get there?  How much hope in my own recovery am I able to hold…and how much energy am I willing to expend in order to make that hope a reality?

In order to get to Eretz Yisrael, the answer had to be:  Whatever it takes.  I am not giving up, and I am willing to do whatever it takes.  As long as I have hope, I'm still in this game.

Rabbi Sharon Shalom literally walked through a war zone in order to get to Israel.  His story is dramatic and exceptional, but it is not the only one of its kind.  Our collective history as Jews is full of individuals who fought against tremendous odds and maintained hope in the face of extreme hardship.  Hope--and a sense of agency--is our cultural legacy, and we need to use it.  The road of recovery is full of challenges.  But remember, as long as you have hope and are willing to act on it, you can go all the way.

Kol od balevav penimah

Nefesh yehudi homiyah

Od lo avdah tikvateinu

We're Jews, and we don't give up.

The Self-Love Conundrum

As the name suggests, this week's parasha, Kedoshim, is full of mitzvot intended to elevate the Jewish people toward holiness.  Included are many prohibitions that make inherent sense ("You shall not steal," "You shall not place a stumbling block before the blind," etc) and some that don't (shaatnez, anyone?).  But there is also that most famous of mitzvot, the one that is so important that Hillel felt it encapsulates the entire Torah:  "You shall love your fellow as yourself." (Vayikra 19:18)

This commandment may be fundamental, but it does beg the question:  what if you don't love yourself?

For anyone who has ever struggled with low self-esteem or self-worth, the obstacle before this mitzvah is obvious.  It sounds so basic, but the truth is that self-love can be elusive…and if you don't love yourself, can you really feel love toward another person?

Let's examine what it really means to love someone.  In an article based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Yanki Tauber asserts that there are two components of love:  respect and care.  When we love a person, we must respect that person for who he or she is, and at the same time we need to care for that person and want the best for him or her.  This requires an honest assessment of the person:  what does he need?  What is she lacking?  Then, love means helping that person overcome his or her shortcomings and become his or her best self.

What I find most powerful about this is the understanding that "love" requires honest critique and  acknowledgement of faults.  It does not mean that we have to think the other person is perfect, just as she is.  The same is true with self-love.  If I love myself, that doesn't mean I have to think I have no weaknesses or deficits.  It means I have to respect myself where I am at, acknowledge the struggles, and care for myself by helping myself overcome them.  That is how we should love ourselves, and that is how we should love others.

In her article called, "Why Hasn't the Self-Esteem Movement Given Us Self-Esteem?" Chana Weisberg reinforces the importance of remembering that Hashem, Who is the source of all goodness, created each individual person on earth--including you.  This means that each person, including you, has goodness at his or her core.  Whether or not you choose to acknowledge or act on your goodness, the goodness remains and is independent of your achievements, skills, or how others think about you.  You are good, simply because you are.  That doesn't mean that everything you do is good.  But it does mean that at your core is a spark of holiness that can never be erased.  If you can acknowledge that spark within yourself, it opens the door for you to see it in others, too.

In my journey toward self-love, I have often turned to the work of "vulnerability and shame researcher" Brené Brown (not Jewish, but definitely relevant!).  One of my favorite quotes of hers is:

"You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging."

It's all true.  I am imperfect, and yet at the same time I am worthy of love, from others and from myself. I think this is the kind of love mentioned in this week's parasha:  love that acknowledges faults and reaches beyond them to the fundamental goodness in every person.  May we experience that love for ourselves, and also extend it to others.

Shabbat shalom!

The Power of Stories

I don't know if anyone else has this same Pesach experience, but I always find it hard to really "tune in" to the meaning of the holiday while the holiday is actually going on.  What can I say--Pesach stresses me out.  I appreciate its beauty and meaning, but often get sidetracked by the practical challenges these eight days present.  And, of course, there's the endless internal tug-of-war between the voice that says, "I want to do it exactly right," and the voice that replies, "If kitniyot are good enough for Sephardim, they're good enough for me."  Needless to say, it's a balancing act, and the crazy-making of the logistics often eclipses the actual essence of what this time of year is supposed to be about.

While looking for some reading material to help me refocus, I came across an article called, "The Commandment of Counting" by the wise Rebbetzin Tziporah Heller.  She outlines the significance of the transition between Pesach and Shavuot and the meaning behind the ritual of counting the Omer, which we start doing on the evening of the second day of Pesach and continue for 49 days, all the way until Shavuot.  Noting that the Hebrew word for "number" (mispar מספר) is closely related to the word for "story" (sipur ספור), Rebbetzin Heller explains that although the number of days in the Omer never changes, we go through the process of counting each one because it forces us to slow down and appreciate the individual days that make up the stories of our lives.  Most of the time, we live in such a blur that we lose awareness of what we've gone through.  On Pesach, we become physically free, and on Shavuot, we become spiritually free, as well.  The time in between is one in which we learn to tune in to the power of our own stories.  There is the collective story of the Jewish nation and how we evolved from ex-slaves to people able to connect to Hashem through Torah.  But there are also our individual stories about how each of us has become who we are.  The journey from Pesach to Shavuot is an opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with both of these narratives.

It may sound overly simplistic, but one benefit I have discovered in recovery is the ability to appreciate my own story.  My eating disorder was often a disease of comparisons--I could only see myself in terms of how I "measured up" to other people.  I couldn't honor my own process or experiences, because inevitably there was someone whose process or experiences trumped mine in some way.  I disregarded my own story by telling myself:

You haven't been through as much as she has.
Your eating disorder is nothing compared to hers.
You think you have problems?  Look at that person!  Now, SHE has problems.
Why haven't you reached as many "life milestones" as that person has?
You don't have any experiences worth talking about.
Your story is boring.

It was a litany of self-negation.

When I first started to emerge from my eating disorder, I had gained some freedom but did not yet know who I was, because I was alienated from my own story.  I still believed that if I couldn't claim exceptionality, I couldn't claim anything.  In recovery, I have had to learn to manage the "dialectic":  It's true that I haven't been through everything that everyone else has, BUT it's also true that I have been through my own things.  My story might not be as flashy as the next person's, but it is still a story that I can own--a story that is worth telling.  It is important for me to take time to tune into my narrative and to appreciate how it has developed.  I rarely give myself time and space to do that…and maybe that's part of what this period of counting the Omer is for.

What I wish for each of us as we enter these 49 days is, that we recognize the power of our own stories.  We each have one, and they're all worth telling.  The process of discovering who we are, of "coming into our own" as individuals (and as members of the larger Jewish community), is one that merits reflection and appreciation.  Spiritual freedom only comes once we know who we are, and that requires being able to tell our own stories.  So, tune into your story.  Tell it to yourself…and then begin to share it with others!

Life in your Life

I'll admit it:  I was one of those people grumbling about how early Pesach preparations started this year.  Since when do supermarkets start selling matzah two weeks before Purim?!  But, with only two weeks to go until Seder #1, it seems I can't avoid it any longer.  Pesach is quickly approaching, bringing with it The Big Clean, hours-long seders, and very, very flat sandwiches.

And, thoughts of freedom.

Last year at around this time, I wrote about the challenges of freedom--how living in recovery often means having more adult responsibilities and engaging head-on with the ups and downs of life.  This year, I'd like to dig a little deeper into what "freedom" really means, with the help of the always inspiring Adin Steinsaltz.

In an article titled, "To Be Free," Steinsaltz explains that slavery is not merely the absence of freedom, and freedom is not only the absence of slavery.  They each must have a definition independent of the other.  He defines slavery as the condition of being completely controlled by the will of another, while freedom is the ability to act upon one's own will.

"The individual who lacks a will of his own does not become free once he is unshackled:  he is simply a slave without a master…Between ceasing to be a slave and acquiring freedom, the individual must thus pass through an intermediate stage in his progress, without which he cannot become truly free--he must develop inner qualities of his own.  The miracle of the Exodus was not completed with the people's departure from the house of bondage; they needed to develop to become a truly free people and not merely runaway slaves."

Steinsaltz goes on to assert that a developed sense of self (or peoplehood) is essential for an individual or collective group to be free:

"In other words, the slave is doubly bound, first of all by his subjugation to another's will, and secondly by his lack of a will and personality of his own.  A person who retains his own essential character can never be completely enslaved; and, conversely, a person who has no independent self-image can never be truly free."

I find this concept of freedom to be particularly pertinent to a discussion of recovery.  What makes "slavery" to an eating disorder so debilitating isn't only the sensation of living under the thumb of a relentless task master; it's also the absence of any meaningful, independent sense of self.  In order for recovery (freedom) to really take hold, a person needs not only to let go of the eating disorder, but also to develop a full and satisfying identity apart from the illness.

Early in my recovery, an important mentor of mine used to coach me to develop "life in my life," by which she meant, "Find some interests!  Fill your life with something!  Learn who you are!"  Though this was sometimes daunting, it was also among some of the best advice I ever received.  After all, I had developed my eating disorder, at least in part, to fill a void and meet an unsatisfied need.  Why would I ever give that up, in favor of nothing?  Merely living without anorexia left me feeling vulnerable and empty.  I needed to actively replace the eating disorder with the ideas, desires, and passions that made me, me.

At least in the beginning, recovery often feels like a full-time job.  There are so many appointments to go to, it's tough to have any leftover time or energy to devote to outside interests.  But, I would argue that figuring out what you actually like doing with your time is just as important as keeping up with all your therapy sessions.  "Recovery" doesn't just mean, "not having an eating disorder."  It means having healthy interests, relationships, and activities--a life that is full of life.

As we gear up for Pesach 5774, I wish each of us the strength to not only step away from what enslaves us, but also to step toward who we truly are as individuals.  Escape bondage, and pursue freedom.  Put some life in your life!

"The Whole Megillah"

After taking a few weeks off from posting, I'm glad to report that I'm back…just in time for Purim!  I think over the years I've made pretty clear that Purim and I do not mesh well together.  Perhaps because of that, every year I feel obligated to find some way to connect with this holiday that otherwise doesn't really resonate with me.  I call it, "The Purim Challenge."

Here's this year's point of connection!

One of the mitzvot of Purim is hearing Megilat Esther read aloud, once on the Eve of Purim, and once on Purim day.  The catch is, in order to fulfill the mitzvah, you must hear every word of the Megillah--if you miss even one word, you haven't fulfilled your obligation.  Now, on any given Shabbat, if you miss a word here and there from the public Torah reading, it's no big deal.  So, what does this Purim stringency teach us?

In her article, "Every Inch Counts," Sara Debbie Gutfreund explains that the obligation to hear every word in Megilat Esther teaches us that every small step in our lives has meaning.  The Purim story is one that develops incrementally.  Hashem does not swoop in and save the day through magnificent miracles; instead, Esther and Mordechai have to carefully plot out their course of action, step by tiny step.  Last year, I wrote about Esther-Vashti dichotomy and explored why Vashti, brave rebel though she was, ultimately failed to effect change, while demure Esther succeeded.  Perhaps it is because Vashti tried to take a giant leap all at once--defying the king outright--rather than focusing on what intermediate steps could take her closer to her ultimate goal.  Esther recognized that the battle wouldn't be won with one sweeping victory.  Instead, she had to be patient and take things one step at a time.

This reminds me very much of how recovery is also an incremental, inch-by-inch process.  In a group that I co-lead for parents of people with eating disorders, I often hear mothers and fathers express frustration over what they perceive as their child's "lack of progress."  What good is all the therapy and nutritional counseling if nothing is actually shifting in their child's behaviors?  It's a great question, born of a sincere desire to see positive growth and recovery happen for their loved one.  I usually respond by reminding them that progress is not always apparent to the outsider--a lot of change happens internally before it manifests itself outwardly, and so it's possible for their child to be working really hard without having much to show for it externally.  The slow nature of the recovery process can also be frustrating for the person with the eating disorder, because--let's be honest--who wouldn't want to just snap her fingers and become recovered?  But, as the Purim story teaches us, the surest path is one measured in inches, in which every little step along the way is essential to the creation of the beautiful whole.

This year as we celebrate Purim, I hope all of us can honor the "inches" in our own journeys.  Let's be patient with ourselves as we make small but steady advances toward our goals, whatever they may be!

Wearing the Pants

Today I made a Big Purchase.  It wasn't a residence or a car; I didn't book an expensive vacation; I did not become the owner of any glittering, new jewelry.

I bought a pair of pants.

This was a big deal because when I first started becoming religiously observant four years ago, the first thing I did was trade in my pants for skirts.  It was a relatively easy change to make, one I could implement immediately, unlike the complex lifestyle adjustments of keeping Shabbat and maintaining a kosher home.  I liked having a visible symbol of my Jewish identity, something I could wear every day that would remind me of this new piece of myself that I was discovering.  I enjoyed knowing that, just as I could recognize other observant Jewish people walking down the street, they would now look at me and know that I was also religious.  Most of all, I loved rules, and was excited to have a new one to follow:  Skirts Only--No Pants.

Even though other aspects of my religious life took long periods of time to develop, this wardrobe shift happened seemingly overnight and quickly became an all-or-nothing, non-negotiable practice.  Though I truly felt it was a positively motivated choice, wrapped up in my staunch adherence to the No Pants Policy were many layers of insecurity and perfectionism, along with a strong dose of all-or-nothing thinking.  I fell in love with religious Judaism at a time when my identity without my eating disorder was just beginning to take shape.  I needed a new place to belong, and Judaism was that place.  Insecure about my lack of background knowledge, I felt I should at least look the part so that others would accept me while I was learning.  One thing I felt sure of was that person who is trying to join a group cannot afford to break any rules.  Was I serious about becoming observant?  Was I committed to living a Jewish life in all ways?  If the answer to both of those questions was, "yes," then the answer to the question of clothing was clear:  No Pants.

As long as I insisted on approaching Judaism with the same sense of rigidity I had applied to my eating disorder, there was never going to be any room for flexibility.  Yet, this is what I honestly thought Judaism demanded, until I started meeting women who challenged that notion.  There was the time I paid a visit to one of my Modern Orthodox teachers at her home and she answered the door wearing pants.  Or the time I went bowling motzei Shabbat with a group of my religious friends, and a bunch of the girls showed up in jeans.  At first I thought these were just flukes, but then it kept happening:  over and over, I met women who I knew had strong religious identities, who cared about halacha, who were active members of their observant Jewish communities…and who sometimes wore pants.

Mind blown.

After encountering all this hard evidence, I started to feel ready to experiment.  The truth is, I enjoy wearing skirts.  But sometimes, pants are just easier, like when there's a foot of snow on the ground, or if I'm going hiking, or when it's Sunday and I just want to lounge around.  So I started testing out wearing pants…and…nothing happened.  I still observe Shabbat; I continue to keep kosher; I still daven every day and learn Torah as often as I can.  Wearing the occasional pair of pants doesn't change any of that, but it does make me feel like a more flexible, open-minded human being.  It's true that in some circles, observant Judaism IS very black-and-white, and if I wanted to belong there, then pants would always be a no-no.  But I've worked hard, in recovery, to learn that a secure identity does not have to be a rigid construction.  (I've also learned that the Torah doesn't actually prohibit women from wearing pants, and while some women might take that stringency upon themselves, I can choose to be among the many who don't.)  My eating disorder was all about rules, severity, and harsh discipline--and I've worked too hard to move away from that mindset, to go back to it now.  I want my Jewish observance to flourish in recovery, to be inspired and genuine and also able to withstand some healthy flexibility.

I once had a recovery mentor who taught me to say, "I don't have to______.  I get to _____."  Today, as I bought my new jeans, I heard my recovered self say, "I don't have to control my wardrobe with an iron fist.  I get to wear what's comfortable."  This afternoon, I davened mincha while wearing pants.  And it was good.