The G-d Connection

I've been back from Israel for two weeks now, and I've more or less readjusted.  There are some features of life in the States that I definitely missed while I was away; namely, listening to Pandora Radio, using self-checkout lines at the supermarket, and drinking Starbucks iced coffee (cold brew...yes).  But in other areas, my heart misses Israel, and what I long for most of all are the connections with my Israeli friends and "family."  I have a very comfortable, predictable life here in the U.S., and I love comfort and predictability...but those features don't help me when I feel lonely.  And there are times, even as I'm enjoying the routine of my life at home, when the sense of my separation from my friends in Israel leaves me keenly aware of a raw, deep hunger for connection.  Complicating matters further is the fact that my BFA (Best Friend in America) has moved out of state.  Lately, loneliness and I have gotten to know each other quite well.

Still, it's not all bleak.  I have had some lovely interactions with people here at home and have enjoyed reconnecting with them.  But there's one relationship that has comforted me more than any other, one friend who consistently reminds me that I am not alone, and that friend is...G-d.

I was inspired to actively invest in this "G-d connection" by a dear friend of mine in Israel, who has graciously fielded a few "Help, I'm really lonely!" emails from me and whose sage advice, if distilled, comes down to this: keep reaching out, keep making friends, and keep talking to G-d.  She explained to me that she views spirituality as one's relationship with Hashem, and everything we do in that context is all about that relationship.  In any intimate relationship, we do things that we think will make our partner happy; in the case of G-d, that includes rituals of observance.  We also talk with our partner, not just as a means to get our needs met, but as a way to deepen the connection between us.  Similarly, we have davening as a formal way of communicating with G-d, but it's also important to engage Him/Her in casual, intimate conversation.  If we invest enough time and energy into this relationship with Hashem, it can become one of the most important relationships we have.

Jewish tradition strongly endorses "talking to Hashem" in this way.  I learned from one of my teachers about the practice of hitbodedut, a concept developed by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov.  Hitbodedut is an unstructured, spontaneous form of prayer in which one talks to G-d about anything on one's mind.  In his work, Likutei Moharan, Rebbe Nachman explains how to do hitbodedut:

"Hitbodedut is the highest and most exalted experience...To pour out our thoughts between ourselves and G-d--in complaints or frustrations, in words of kindness or agreement, and to request and beseech G-d that we will be able to approach closer to G-d in our true behaviors and desires.

Everything in our heart we should discuss before G-d:  Regrets and changes I have made concerning the past...Desires and yearnings for the future...And if I am feeling alienated from G-d--about all of this I should talk with G-d."

I like knowing that I can talk to G-d at any time, in any place, about anything.  And, since it's important in any relationship to listen as well as talk, I can listen to G-d, too, and try to hear what He/She is telling me.

Of course, G-d is not the same as a human friend.  I can't rely only on my relationship with G-d; I need to work on developing more friendships, as well.  My friend and my teacher both emphasized that Hashem is not a substitute for human relationships; however, if I put effort into cultivating my relationship with G-d, it can sustain me and comfort me in times when I feel lonely and in need of connection.

The truth is, I've been "talking to G-d" for a long time.  Growing up without a best friend, I figured out pretty early that a friendship with G-d was one that would never fail me.  And when I was in college, struggling mightily with my eating disorder and the worst depression I've ever experienced, sometimes I used to just lie on my bed, close my eyes, and imagine that G-d was holding me.  But I always felt like I could never tell anyone about this; it seemed a little like having an "imaginary friend"--not something you would want anyone else to know about!  Imagine my surprise (and delight!) when I learned that a) other people do this, too; and b) our tradition supports it.

And so, as I've readjusted to life in the States, I've tried to connect to G-d in a friendly way on a daily basis.  Last Friday I got inspired to clean for Shabbat by imagining that Hashem was coming to visit me in my apartment.  The other day, I went for a walk in a park and told G-d how beautiful I thought everything was.  When I'm bored or lonely, I try to do some Jewish learning.  And every night, after saying Shema but before going to sleep, I take a minute to thank Hashem for all the good things that happened during the day.  None of this has completely fixed the loneliness problem, but it has definitely made me feel more connected and has reassured me that even when I am lonely, I'm never truly alone.

So, if I may offer one suggestion to anyone suffering from loneliness, depression, or isolation, it would be the advice my friend gave to me:  talk to G-d.  Share your worries, your joys, your sadness.  Do things to make G-d happy (they'll probably make you happier, too).  And, as my teacher says:  when we pray the Amidah, one of the reasons why we whisper is because G-d is right in front of us.

The Unlived Life

It is officially my last full day in Israel (for now, I keep reminding myself).  Tomorrow morning I have to get on a plane and leave one home, the place where my soul lives, and go to another home, the place where I actually live and have lived for my entire life.  There are people and places in both homes that I love dearly, but I think this actually makes the transition harder, not easier.  Transitions...I hate them...and this one is a doozy.

I hadn't planned to write another blog post until I got home, but I've been thinking about a source I read on Tisha B'Av as part of a shiur on alienation, exile, and redemption.  Full disclosure:  this shiur was in the middle of the afternoon on Tisha B'Av, and due to my caffeine and glucose deficit, I *might* have dozed of a teeny bit.  Consequently, I am not exactly sure what the broader context was for this source...but I think it stands well on its own.  It comes from the book, Missing Out, by the Jewish psychotherapist and essayist Adam Phillips.  In this book, Phillips explores the concept that we all have two lives:  our actual lives, and the lives we wish we had.  He writes:

"Our unlived lives--the lives we live in fantasy, the wished-for lives--are often more important to us than our so-called lived lives...What we fantasize about, what we long for, are the experiences, the things and the people that are absent...We learn to live somewhere between the lives we have and the lives we would like...There is always what will turn out to be the life we led, and the life that accompanied it, the parallel life (or lives) that never actually happened...the risks untaken and the opportunities avoided or unprovided.  We refer to them as our unlived lives because somewhere we believe that they were open to us; but for some reason they were not possible.  And what was not possible all too easily becomes the story of our lives."

Boom.

When I read this, it felt like an indictment.  It felt as though Phillips had peered into my brain and seen the thoughts that I bury in there and try to avoid thinking about.  Lately, my mind has been churning around the gap between my "unlived life" and my "lived life."  I am keenly aware that I am heading back to a life that has many strengths--practicality, predictability, security, comfort--but that also falls short, in some ways, of what I wish I could have for myself. This has been brewing in my mind lately not because I am naive enough to think that moving to Israel would be the gateway to living my fantasy life.  It's  because the people I am connected to in Israel never fail to remind me that the things they want for me--connection, love, family, community, learning--are actually the things I deeply want for myself but usually try to convince myself that I don't need.

In a way, sensing the gap between my lived and unlived lives is a step in the right direction.  When I was engaged in the struggle with my eating disorder, I didn't have a fantasy life.  I couldn't see beyond where I was to imagine what could be.  I hated my life, but I felt no sense of agency and didn't believe I had the power to make it any better.  In recovery, I do have the ability to visualize what I really want.  I also understand that whether or not I end up actually living that life is up to me. The sense of possibility is exciting but comes with the weight of being responsible for making it happen.

At the end of the shiur, the lecturer left us with this question to ask ourselves:

"How can I bridge the gap between the life I an preoccupied with in my mind, and the life I'm actually living?"

That is the question I'm wrestling with as I prepare to leave Israel and reenter my "real life."  I don't know the answer, but I do know that actively seeking one is the next step for me in my process.  I feel lucky to be in a place where I am able to envision more for myself and believe that it is possible.  I've worked hard to get to this point, and now it's time for me to push ahead.

Thank you to everyone in my "Israeli family" who has reminded me to keep my eyes on the prize of a wholly fulfilling, nourishing life.  B"H I will make some progress toward that this year, and I'll report back to you next summer!

The Power of Connection

Well, friends, there's good news and bad news.  Bad news:  I have only five days left in Israel.  Good news:  I have five whole days left in Israel!  I keep see-sawing back and forth between being sad and depressed about leaving, and being determined to enjoy all the time I have left here.  Let me tell you, it's emotionally exhausting.

What will I miss most?  The people, and the connectedness.  How are those different?  Well, there are many individual people in Israel whom I love--friends and teachers who each occupy their own little section of my heart.  Additionally, aside from the people themselves, there is a larger sense of connection that I feel when I'm here, a sense of being part of a Jewish community, which is something that I don't often experience back at home.

My sense of belonging to a greater community in Israel is mostly thanks to the summer program at the Pardes Institute, which this year brought an exceptionally dynamic group of Jewish adults together to learn.  I took two phenomenal classes:  one on aggada, and one on the writings of Rav Soloveitchik.  It was in this second class that I began to learn about the teachings of one of modern Judaism's great philosophers, and I was particularly impacted by the way he explained loneliness and connection.

Rav Soloveitchik writes:

"Quite often a man finds himself in a crowd among strangers.  He feels lonely.  No one knows him, no one cares for him, no one is concerned with him.  It is again an existential experience.  He begins to doubt his ontological worth.  This leads to alienation from the crowd surrounding him.  Suddenly someone taps him on the shoulder and says: 'Aren't you Mr. So-and-So?  I have heard so much about you.'  In a fraction of a second his awareness changes.  An alien being turns into a fellow member of an existential community (the crowd).  What brought about the change?  The recognition by somebody, the word!"  (from an essay delivered at the 78th annual meeting of the Conference of Jewish Communal Service)

Alone in a crowd among strangers...I feel like this often, which I don't think is all that unusual, but it's still an uncomfortable feeling.  The beautiful thing about being in Israel, however, is that someone nearly always breaks through the loneliness and establishes connection.  At Pardes, it happened when I walked in on the first day and was immediately overwhelmed by the huge number people milling about.  As I looked around, I made eye contact with a staff member whom I knew from previous summers, and she came over with a warm, "Hel-lo!" and a hug.  Connection established!  Secure in the knowledge that I had been recognized, I felt brave enough to track down other familiar faces and even start conversations with some new people.  A few days later, a woman with whom I'd exchanged about two words since the start of the program approached me and asked if I'd be her hevruta because she'd really been wanting to learn with me.  Really? I thought.  Why?! We did learn together, and I never found out why she'd wanted to, but it didn't matter--she had recognized me, we connected, and I wasn't just one anonymous person out of a hundred anymore; I was Somebody who mattered.

For me, being part of a larger community is one of the best parts about being in Israel.  But, supreme introvert that I am, sometimes community gets to be a bit much and I need to scale it back.  That's where friends come in.  At home, I have a handful of acquaintances who are good for surface-level interactions, but only one really great friend.  This is due in large part to the fact that during college and graduate school--prime friendship-making years--I was devoted nearly exclusively to my eating disorder and didn't have time, energy, or brain space to make friends.  In recovery, my life has opened up considerably, but I still find making friends challenging due to some underlying issues (lack of confidence, social anxiety, etc) with which I'm still wrestling.  In Israel, though, I get the chance to try things differently (I am on vacation, after all), and I have been rewarded with several precious friendships born out of genuine connection.  I'm not sure exactly why it's easier in Israel...maybe it's because the relationships are facilitated by our shared love for Judaism; maybe it's because I'm braver here...but whatever the reason, the results speak for themselves.  On this trip I was able to reconnect with all of my friends from previous years, but I also got lucky and made some new ones.  We had long conversations (often on long walks) in which we talked about our journeys both in Judaism and in life in general.  We aired our insecurities and found validation when the other person inevitably said, "Me, too!" Inside these connections, I felt seen in a way I rarely do, and it was an incredible feeling.

Rav Soloveitchik explains it this way:

"Friendship--not as a surface-relation but as an existential in-depth-relation between two individuals--is realizable only within the framework of the covenantal community, where in-depth personalities relate themselves to each other ontologically...In the majestic community, in which surface personalities meet and commitment never exceeds the bounds on the utilitarian, we may find collegiality, neighborliness, civility, or courtesy--but not friendship, which is the exclusive experience awarded by G-d to covenantal man, who is thus redeemed from his agonizing solitude."  (Lonely Man of Faith)

So.  As I prepare to leave this place that I love, I want to express my deepest gratitude to the people with whom I've felt those existential, in-depth connections.  Thank you to Pardes for creating an environment and community in which such friendships can be born.  Thank you to my true friends, old and new, for reaffirming for me the beauty of genuine friendship and showing me that I am capable--and worthy--of developing those connections.  I will take the strength you've given me back home and try to use it to form some friendships there...because really, relationships are what make life in recovery worth living.  And, b"H, may we meet again next year in Israel!

The Walls Come Down

"In order to understand, I destroyed myself."

-Fernando Pessoa

I recently came across this quote and was struck by how clearly it connects to the space of Jewish time we're currently occupying:  the Nine Days of mourning, which will culminate with Tisha B'Av, the saddest day in the Jewish calendar.  There are many tragedies in Jewish history that have fallen on Tisha B'Av, but the two primary ones are the destructions of both the First and Second Temples.  We can imagine what once was the most sacred structure in our tradition, crumbling to the ground in a pile of debris.  And yet, as I look out at Jerusalem today, I am struck by the magnificence of what has been rebuilt and the ways in which Judaism is still vibrantly, unquestioningly alive.  

What happens when the walls come down?  That's the question that Alan Lew tackles in his book, This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared.  As he explains, at the moment of complete destruction, you can no longer deny the problems that have weakened the foundation.  And he's not speaking only of buildings--this is about us.  On an individual level, Tisha B'Av is when all the protective walls of denial that we've so carefully constructed in our lives come tumbling down, and we are left to face the hard truth of what remains.  He writes:

"On Tisha B'Av it is as if this emptiness has broken loose from its bounds and swallowed everything up.  The Temple burns...This image touches us deeply because we are always under siege, and we are held there by our attempts to hold off the emptiness we intuit at the center of our lives."

Once the walls we've built to ward off emptiness collapse, what are we to do?  One option would be to wallow in the rubble.  Another option, suggests Lew, is to examine honestly what remains when the walls come down, and figure out where to go from there.  There is something strangely liberating about complete collapse, because it allows us two valuable opportunities:  1) to acknowledge that we are in crisis; 2) to rebuild.

I remember very clearly what it felt like to be under siege.  It was being in college and spending all my time either studying or exercising, not socializing; it was slaving over rituals involving tiny amounts of food; it was studying abroad in Spain and calling my parents every day, crying and frightened.  On one such phone call, my mother remarked, "Maybe it's a good thing you're so miserable, because you'll finally do something about it."  She was right; the siege was unsustainable...but I wasn't yet ready to change. 

And then, in the fall of my senior year, the walls came down and I collapsed.  It was messy and ugly and scary, but it was also a gift, because it allowed me to admit that I needed help.  The edifice I'd so carefully constructed to conceal the anguish I felt lay in ruins at my feet.  There was no more room to hide and deny.  As Lew explains:

"We spend a great deal of time and energy propping up our identity, an identity we realize at bottom is really a construct.  So it is that we are always living at some distance from ourselves.  We live in a fearful state of siege, trying to prop up an identity that keeps crumbling, that we secretly intuit to be empty.  Then Tisha B'Av comes and the walls begin to crumble, and then the entire city collapses.  But something persists--something fundamentally nameless and empty, something that remains when all else has fallen away."

Recovery, for me, has been a process of examining that part of me that survived collapse, mining it for strength, and building a new life around its cultivation.  It's a process that started on the day I left college to enter residential treatment, and it continues to this day.  And the result of all that hard work of rebuilding is a life that is richer and more fulfilling than the one I had before.  The fundamentals of who I am haven't changed...but the way I interact with others, with myself, and with G-d definitely has.  I know myself better now than I ever would have if I had not had to endure the destruction of my walls.  

We will all find ourselves at times in our lives when the houses that we've constructed for ourselves crumble to the ground.  When this happens, the key is to view the destruction as an opportunity to clear out the debris and fully examine what remains at our core.

"Tisha B'Av has a hot tip for us:  Take the suffering.  Take the loss.  Turn toward it.  Embrace it.  Let the walls come down...And Tisha B'Av has a few questions for us as well.  Where are we?  What transition point are we standing at?  What is causing sharp feeling in us, disturbing us, knocking us a little off balance?  Where is our suffering?  What is making us feel bad?  What is making us feel at all?  How long will we keep the walls up?  How long will we furiously defend against what we know deep down to be the truth of our lives?"

As we make our way through this time of national mourning, I hope we can each look inward, as well, to see what Tisha B'Av means for us on an individual level.  Remember: you can survive the falling of the walls.  It won't break you--it will hurt, but in the end it will make you stronger.  My hope is that we can each allow for a little destruction, so that we get to experience the possibility and freedom that come along with rebuilding.  

  

When Things Get Real

I often think of Israel as my "happy place."  At home during the winter, as I dig out my car from under multiple feet of snow, I fantasize about the perfect summer weather in Jerusalem (80s and sunny every day!).  When I am feeling lonely and disconnected from community, I think fondly of all the warm relationships I have with my friends and teachers in Israel.  When it's Shabbat at home but doesn't look like Shabbat because everyone around me is driving and going in and out of stores, I long for the true peace and quiet of a Jerusalem Shabbat.  When I talk to other people about my time in Israel, I always look so happy that they inevitably ask, "Do you ever think about moving there?"  At which point, I sigh and explain why it's not in the cards right now; people appreciate the logistical and practical issues but usually give me a look that says, "But you'd be so happy there!"

It's true that Israel is a special place to which I feel deeply connected, and in which I experience a happiness that I don't often get in other places.  However, my "sunshine and roses" outlook on Israel is heavily influenced by the fact that I've never been here for longer than six weeks at a stretch, and I'm always here on vacation.  In other words, my time in Israel is not "real life."  No wonder it's so great!

I am now in the middle of my fifth summer in Israel (4th consecutive), and a few days ago I got smacked in the face by an unexpected visitor--reality--and it came dressed in its usual guises: depression and anxiety.  While these emotions are not unusual in my "real life" back at home, I have rarely (never?) experienced them for any significant length of time in Israel.  But there they were, undeniably.  For a couple of days I moved through my life as if I was viewing the world through a curtain of gray gauze.  I was desperately hungry for connection, yet I felt I couldn't connect to anyone.  Empty time made me an anxious mess; I felt a compulsive need to fill every minute with any sort of activity, if only it would distract me from feeling lonely and sad...and yet, there were times when all I had the energy to do was lie on my bed and stare at the wall.

If I had been at home, I would have known that all I needed to do was wait it out, and the dark mood would pass.  But since I was in ISRAEL, all of these tough emotions were accompanied by "judging":  You're not supposed to feel this way in Israel!  You're ruining your time here by being unhappy!  You can't be happy anywhere!  Did these thoughts help?  I'll let you guess.

In the middle of my low mood, though, I made a realization:  The reason I had access to all these feelings was because Israel was no longer a novelty; rather, it had become more like "real life" and less like some kind of utopia.  I understood that the more time I spend in one place, the less realistic it becomes to expect that all of that time is going to be happy time.  That isn't because I'm incapable of being happy; it's because when I'm real, my emotions--all of them, not just the "good" ones--make themselves known.  In a way, these rough past few days have been a sort of compliment to the State of Israel:  "Congratulations, you are now Real Life."

And, in the spirit of being my full, authentic, emotional self in this second home of mine, I used some tried-and-true coping skills to pull myself through:  I cried; I took a nap; I opened up to a couple of great one-to-one conversations; I watched the birds; I sat and read in the sunshine...and, wouldn't you know it, the dark mood passed, just like it eventually always does in Real Life.

This experience has reminded me that no place is the "perfect" place, and that the more time I spend in Israel, the less likely it is that it will all be happy time--but that's not bad, it's just authentic.  Recovery works the same way: it's not all positivity all the time, and there are unhappy and difficult times even when we're genuinely doing well, because that's how life goes.  In the end, I suppose it's a good thing that I finally experienced unhappiness in Israel...it made the place more real to me, and confirmed that even though it's not Utopia, I love it anyway with my whole heart.

Countering the Inner Critic

I'm baaaack...in Israel!  I arrived last week and have enjoyed a beautiful reunion with many of the people and places I love in and around Jerusalem and, more specifically, the beit midrash at the Pardes Institute.  Today was the first day of classes, and this afternoon I finally got to dive into a fascinating class on aggada, or Talmudic stories.  It was an amazing two-and-a-half hours in which I began to explore Talmud from a new angle and also learned a bit about myself in the process.

There we sat in the beit midrash, my havrutot and I, poring over a piece of aggada.  It was a very engaging text and we got really into it, tossing around ideas as we explored.  Through our discussion, I came up with a way of understanding the text in which I felt pretty confident; not only did it seem to make sense, but it was actually kind of clever.  I felt great--here I was, not two hours into being back in the beit midrash, and already I was cracking the aggadic code.

When we went back into the classroom to discuss the text with our instructor, I was eager to participate (unusual for introverted me, but I felt that good about my theory).  As the discussion went on, though, it became apparent that the way I had read the story was actually completely incorrect.  Very slowly, I inched my hand back down and hoped that the instructor hadn't noticed I had raised it and wouldn't call on me.  A thought raced through my mind:  Whew!  It's a good thing you didn't actually SAY anything!

But then, I noticed other thoughts that followed:

You don't know what you're doing.

You're not smart.

If you don't say anything, at least you'll never look stupid for saying the wrong thing.

I'm not proud of those thoughts, but I am proud that I immediately recognized them for what they were--my critical voice--and my response to them was different than it would have been in the past.  In the past, I would have vowed never to open my mouth in that class again.  I also would have spent the rest of the afternoon berating myself for being "bad" at learning Jewish texts.  Instead, I noticed the thoughts and feelings I was having and managed to come up with some rebuttals for each of the self-critical thoughts:

You don't know what you're doing.  Well, in some ways that is technically correct.  I don't really know what I'm doing.  I didn't grow up studying this material and do have relatively little background in Jewish texts--only what I've cobbled together over the past three summers at Pardes.  I'm not supposed to understand this perfectly yet.  Everyone starts as a beginner, and that's just what I am--a beginner.

You're not smart.  Actually, I am smart.  I earned great grades in school; I have a college diploma and a Master's degree; I'm successful at a cognitively demanding profession.  I'm just not educated in this particular field.  No, I'm not an expert in Talmud or Tanakh.  But I do have a great brain that's full of knowledge about other subjects.

If you don't say anything, at least you'll never look stupid for saying the wrong thing.  This was the hardest thought to combat, because on some level I do believe it.  But I then I remembered what Hillel says in Pirke Avot:  "A bashful person cannot learn." That's something I definitely believe as a teacher, but haven't always believed as a student.  But it's true...if I don't take any risks, I might not experience public failure, but I also won't grow at all.  I have to be willing to ask questions, be wrong, and "look stupid" in order to really learn...and I do want to learn.

Then, of course, there's this gem from one of my favorite go-to websites when I'm feeling down, despair.com:

And the thing is, I am enjoying it.  I loved that class and can't wait until it meets again, and I'm excited for all the other classes that I'll experience this summer.  I feed off the energy of a buzzing beit midrash and love diving into material that is new and challenging.  And being a beginner is okay.  Not knowing is okay, and being wrong is also okay.  Being scared and bashful and ashamed--that's what's not okay.  So I am going to try hard not to be those things this summer.  I'm going to go ahead and learn, most likely making some missteps along the way, but I'm going to enjoy it and know that this summer I'll have grown in more ways than one.

Shabbat Blues

I guess I'll begin by thanking you for your patience with me, as I've been something of a delinquent blogger of late.  What can I say?  The month of June is a crazy one for teachers, and sadly, writing of any kind (except progress reports) just hasn't been happening.  But I think I've also been putting off writing this post, because it's a sad one for me to write, and I don't like sad things.  Avoidance!

But, here we are.  The sad truth is, a dear friend of mine--my best friend in America--is moving out of state.  In my entire life, I have had only two friends whom I would call Best Friends; one whom I met in college and who has since moved to Israel, and this other friend.  And because I am, perhaps, the world's most introverted person, I don't have many "backup friends" to fall back on.  On nearly every Shabbat afternoon for the past few years, this friend and I have had a "walk date" (both of us have usually hit our limit for sitting and schmoozing by mid-afternoon). Since I've had a hard time finding a comfortable peer group in the Jewish community where I live, those walks have been the grounding center of my Shabbat experience and, in my mind, are one of the most beautiful friendship rituals we created together. I said goodbye to this friend of mine last night because she's away this Shabbat and I'm going to Israel on Tuesday, and by the time I get back, she and her husband and baby will have moved away.  When I think about not having her in my daily life, the only words I can think of are words of sadness:  Loss. Empty. Void. Lonely. Grief.  And for the first time in a long time, I find myself dreading Shabbat.

Of course, the greatest irony in the whole situation is that I was able to sustain a deep friendship with this woman only because I was mentally and physically healthy enough to do so; however, recovery also means that I'm now deeply feeling all the painful emotions that come along with the separation.  And since this Shabbat will be my first official one without her, I'm anticipating that there will be a lot of "feeling" going on...which could be a problem because Shabbat is supposed to be a day of joy, not a day to be sad.  It's generally considered "inappropriate" to feel or express sadness on Shabbat, which is why, for instance, we don't sit shiva on Shabbat.  But if anything, recovery has left me less able to dictate my emotions--whatever's going to come, just comes.  How am I really supposed to avoid feeling sad on Shabbat when my friend's absence is going to be most acutely felt?

Well, as it turns out, like most things in Judaism, sadness on Shabbat is not such a black-and-white issue.  It's true that one is generally supposed to avoid experiencing sadness on Shabbat; however, there are times when crying is considered okay, particularly if doing so helps a person to feel better.  One example is that of Rabbi Akiva, whose students found him crying on Shabbat following the death of his son.  The students questioned this behavior, reminding Rabbi Akiva that he, himself, had taught them that Shabbat was supposed to be a time of delight.  Rabbi Akiva replied by saying that it was his oneg (delight) on Shabbat to indulge his sadness.  Similarly, Rabbi Moses Isserles (the Rema) rules that crying on Shabbat is acceptable if it helps the person to feel better by releasing the sadness from his or her heart.  This makes practical sense to me, because I know that when I try to squelch my emotions, they don't actually go away--they just simmer until they inevitably leak out in some unfortunate way.  On the other hand, if I accept how I'm feeling and inhabit the emotion by giving it air time, the result is like a wave:  it comes in strong, peaks, and ebbs away.  Although crying is painful, it is also wonderful...the release, relief, and calmness I feel afterward usually leave me glad I allowed myself to do it.

When I brought up with my teacher this issue of missing my best friend on Shabbat and worrying that I wouldn't be able to stop myself from being sad, her response was, "Be kind to yourself."  I think I am going to take her advice, and the teachings of Rabbi Akiva and the Rema, to heart this week as I go into Shabbat.  While my intention won't be to make myself sad on purpose, if it happens, I'm going to let it happen.  Suppressing emotions never ends well.  On this and every Shabbat, I hope we can all experience our feelings and move through them so that on the other side we can feel peace.