Esther vs. Vashti? Really?

I know Purim has come and gone, and I know I've said (twice now) that I don't even really enjoy that holiday very much, but I've decided to dedicate yet another blog post to it, and here's why:  I've spent the past week stewing over the Purim story, and now I need to vent.  Hopefully, it will be somewhat organized.

Every year, I read the story of Purim and then hear it filtered through various people's perspectives.  Most interpretations I hear fall into two main categories:

1) Vashti is an evil and dangerous woman who defies Hashem's rules for how women should behave.  Because she dared to refuse to dance in front of her husband and his friends, one can only assume that she must have been covered with some unsightly rash or perhaps had suddenly sprouted a tail.  She deserved every bit of the punishment she got.  Esther, on the other hand, is pure, virtuous, and beautiful.  She was chosen to be queen for her grace and obedience.  Not only does she save the Jewish people, but she represents the quintessential Jewish woman.

2) Vashti is a strong, independent woman who refuses to let any man dictate what she should do.  She was a victim of the sexist culture of her time and had she lived today, she probably would have been a valiant feminist.  She was wrongly punished and she deserves to be admired by women everywhere for her fierce self-determination.  Esther, however, is simple and vain.  She plays on her good looks and depends on her sexuality to get what she wants.  Unlike Vashti, she is not particularly independent-minded and doesn't model positive assertiveness for girls and women today.

I don't agree with either one of these stories.

That said, I do find them both interesting, mostly because it is striking to me how each of these interpretations relies so heavily on the "good girl/bad girl" dichotomy.  If Esther is going to be the heroine, then Vashti must be the villain.  On the other hand, if Vashti is the admirable and charismatic one, then Esther must be contemptible and bland.   It's almost as if these women gain validity in their respective roles only by being compared to each other.  The danger here is that we end up pigeonholing both Vashti and Esther, and we don't allow either of them to be the dynamic women that they probably actually were.  Looking beyond the Purim story, how often do we do this to people in our own lives?  How often do people do this to us?  I think we can probably agree that no one is a completely monochromatic character.  Contrary to popular belief, the female species is not divided into "good girls" and "bad girls."  We should give ourselves credit for being far more complex than that.  We each make thousands of choices in our lives; some will be positive and some will not.  Sometimes we will conform with the majority, and sometimes we won't.  Our nuances are what make us interesting.  Although forcing everyone into the "good girl/bad girl" binary might make life less complicated, when we do this we squeeze the life out of all of us.

My teacher in Israel helped me tease out the "real" women underneath the simplistic images depicted in both of the above versions of the Purim story.  Vashti, it seems, is neither the dangerous vixen of the first story nor the radical feminist of the second.  Instead, she is a woman who preserved her morality by refusing to attend a party full of drinking men and dancing girls--and, incidentally, it was considered inappropriate in ancient Persia for wives of rulers to be present at such parties.  Vashti deserves credit for standing her ground even in the face of harsh consequences.  However, she isn't really a feminist because she doesn't demand equality--she just wants to be treated in the manner befitting the wife of a ruler in her society.  Because Esther enters the picture only as a result of Vashti's departure, one can only assume that she is aware of the circumstances surrounding the fall of her predecessor.  She understands that blatant defiance of the king leads to disaster, so she knows she needs to take a more subtle approach.  Yes, Esther is more demure than Vashti, and although this can be considered a virtue it is also the trait that nearly led her to pass up the opportunity to save her people.  Some people profess that Esther's beauty and docility are what made her the ideal queen; I would argue that these characteristics merely make her the ideal ornament for a powerful king.  When Esther truly becomes a queen is when she taps into the fire in her spirit and steps up to be a leader.

I don't think it's a stretch to see that both Esther and Vashti are admirable women who are also flawed, and that neither one of them exemplifies the "ideal woman"--instead, we need a little bit of both of them inside ourselves.  A virtuous woman is not necessarily someone who is submissive, dainty, and conformist; nor is she necessarily a bold, fearless rebel.  A woman can possess all of these qualities in varying proportions and still be just as worthy of respect and belonging as the woman standing next to her.  Girls do not need to strive to be like Esther and scorn Vashti; nor do they need to emulate Vashti at the expense of Esther.  Rather, they should be encouraged to evaluate honestly the choices of both women and to find ways in which they can identify with both Esther and Vashti.  Perhaps, if we can respect these two characters of long ago, we will begin to be more compassionate with our own complex, multifaceted selves.

Purim...Unmasked

Last year at this time, I explained why Purim has never been one of my favorite Jewish holidays.  This year as the holiday approached once more, I felt myself sighing a little bit internally in anticipation.  Recently someone asked me what I was going to dress up as for Purim, and my instinctive first thought was, "Well, nothing."  I do not enjoy wearing costumes; if I'm not performing on a stage, I don't do it.  I just don't think it's fun, and maybe it's my rigid streak talking, but I don't like pretending to be someone I'm not.  Which, when I think about it, strikes me as incredibly ironic, because I feel like I have actually spent--and continue to spend--quite a bit of my life pretending to be someone I'm not.  I tend to present myself in a way that I think other people will find appealing.  This doesn't mean I adopt a completely false persona, but it often does mean putting myself out there so that only selective parts of myself are revealed.  A political science professor whose course I took during my freshman year at college had a favorite saying: "It is not truth that is important, but that which is perceived to be."  I think, consciously and unconsciously, in the past I applied the same principle to my own life.  It didn't matter what was actually true about me; it mattered what other people thought was true about me.

Which brings me to Purim, and the custom of wearing costumes and masks.  Recently I learned that the words, Megilat Esther, themselves reveal a lot of the meaning behind this tradition.  The word megilat -- מגילת -- comes from the root גלה, which means to uncover, to reveal, or public.  In contrast, the name Esther -- אסתר -- comes from the root סתר, which means to cover, to hide, or private.  During Purim, wearing disguises helps us remember that we all have our public selves that we present to the world.  Beneath those exterior displays, however, are our true selves that we often choose to keep private.  Purim is a reminder that no one is completely as he or she appears to be.  We each have a hidden inner self that, though often afraid to make itself known, deserves to be seen.

The most elaborate mask I've ever worn was the mask of anorexia.  For years, I never took it off, lest anyone see the scared, lost me who cowered underneath.  As a result, every interaction I had during that time was with someone who only saw my outward persona.  Every connection was superficial because no one got to know who I really was. In fact, I kept the mask on for so long that I forgot who I was.  A central piece of my recovery has been finding ways to "go natural."  I began by taking off the anorexia mask in private (or in therapy) and giving myself time to figure out who I was underneath.  Then, I started identifying people with whom I felt it would be safe to be more genuine, and I began to let them know me.  Over time, that list has grown longer and longer, to the point where I now feel that while I still throw a tiny bit of a disguise on once in a while, overall the self I'm presenting to the world is me. 

In an article titled, "Being You -- A Purim Insight", Sara Tzafona writes:

"We can't possibly discern our purpose while attending a masquerade ball within our personal worlds.  We're not listening to G-d's message, or even trying to find it, if we are spending our time creating false personalities or attempting to become replicas of others rather than focusing on who we are meant to be.

It's pointless, because the world doesn't need replicas of others; the world needs authentic people who aren't afraid to reflect the G-dly soul that was given to them, who aren't afraid to go natural in this razzle-dazzle world that ridicules morality and ethics and authentic purpose.  

We have an obligation to shrug off the artificial masks that we present to the world, because each of us has a job that can be performed by no one else.  There can only be one me, one you, and one Esther.  We must all do our jobs.  And all jobs are created equal, though not the same.  All jobs provide a vital piece to the mosaic of this world, a vital channel to its healing."

This Purim, I wish for all of us the ability to enjoy the festivities...and then, when it's over, to find a safe space in which to take off our masks.  I hope that each of us can find a corner of the world in which we can shine our true light, as only our authentic selves can do.

Your Body is Your Donkey

Although they don't carry quite the same level of drama found in previous parshiot, I really enjoy reading the aspects of civil law expounded in parashat Mishpatim, which we read last week.  One of the things I find so fascinating about traditional Judaism is the code of ethics at its core--fundamental to the religion is the understanding that how people treat one another is just as important as all the ritualistic displays of piety.

There are several verses within Mishpatim that I could probably spend hours discussing, but one of my favorites is as follows:

"If you see the donkey of someone you hate collapsing under its burden and would refrain from helping him, you shall surely help with him." (Shemot 23:5)

On its surface, this verse explains that it is virtuous to come to the aid even of a person whom you might have good cause to hate.  While one's first response might be to let the hated person (and his animal) suffer, one should not let those negative emotions get in the way of offering assistance.  That interpretation of the verse has always been the one with which I've grappled, but this past week I learned of a new way to read the text that allows me to interact with it in an entirely new way.

The Hebrew word for donkey (chamor) shares the same root as the word for physicality (chomer).  The Baal Shem Tov explains that a person might see his/her body as the enemy of the soul, unable to live up to the soul's lofty aspirations.  In such a case, the person might seek to punish the body by ignoring its needs or trying to pound it into submission.  According to the Baal Shem Tov, through this verse the Torah instructs us to resist the urge to discipline our bodies through deprivation or suffering--rather, we should seek to nurture and refine our physical selves.

This idea resonates with me because it addresses head-on the trap that many of us fall into--viewing our physicality as our enemy.  When we become convinced that our bodies are what block us from reaching our full potential, it is a natural response for us to attempt to "revamp" our physical selves through training regimens that inevitably place our bodies under considerable strain.  The actual process might look different for each of us, but the outline is the same:

Thought:  My body is not cooperating.
Action:  Discipline, discipline, discipline--the harsher, the better!
Outcome:  The body collapses.
(And, yes--in some way, shape, or form, that is ALWAYS the outcome.)

The Torah teaches us to take a different approach.  Rather than view our bodies as obstacles that must be overcome in order to live our best lives, perhaps we should find ways to see the G-dliness within our physical selves.  Instead of ignoring our bodies when they cry out to us, maybe we could try a compassionate approach and offer our bodies the rest and comfort that they need.  It's true that the body is different from the soul--it is more focused on the "here and now," and is less concerned with the abstract, spiritual pursuits that occupy the soul.  When we are trying to transform our internal selves into more evolved people, it can be frustrating to take into account the limits and needs of our physical selves.  However, our bodies are not nuisances to be fought or ignored.  Just like our souls, our bodies were also created by Hashem and need to be cared for and assisted so that we can become our best, most integrated selves.

I wish for all of us the willingness to understand that self-improvement does not need to come at the expense of our bodies.  Our challenge is to seek out a state of balance between our spiritual and physical selves, in which all aspects of ourselves work together to create a unified, harmonious whole.  The Torah's command is a good place to start--the next time you notice that your body is straining under its burden, instead of looking the other way, try extending compassion to it, instead!

Tricky Number Ten

As parshiot go, this past week's--Yitro--was a Big One.  Amid tremendous spectacle at Mt. Sinai, Hashem revealed to the Israelites the Ten Commandments.  Although the rest of the Torah would not be given until later, this first phase was monumental in its own right.  For a full translation of the Commandments, visit this page...but, for the sake of brevity, I'll give a quick recap:

1.  I am Hashem, your G-d.
2.  You shall have no other gods besides Me.
3.  You shall not take the Name of Hashem in vain.
4.  Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
5.  Honor your father and mother.
6.  You shall not murder.
7.  You shall not commit adultery.
8.  You shall not steal.
9.  You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10.  You shall not covet.

Commandments 1-4 are pretty essential to the essence of Judaism, so it seems logical that the list would lead with these.  Regarding Commandments 6-9, these are critical guidelines for morality, not to mention vital to the safety of the community and the maintenance of public order.  Although I'm sure no one enjoys a completely conflict-free relationship with his or her parents, it does make sense that (except in the most extreme circumstances) it is a child's duty to honor his or her parents by respecting them and providing them with what they need, materialistically and emotionally, as they age.

But what about Commandment # 10?

Personally, I find this to be the trickiest one of all.  It is the outlier on the list because unlike the rest, which primarily govern our actions, this one is directed at our thoughts.  While it is relatively easy to control what we do, it is a lot harder to control what we think--especially when the thought is fueled by such a common emotion as jealousy.  Is it realistic to think that a person could honestly live in a culture such as ours and never allow herself to feel envious of someone else?  Furthermore, let's say I do feel jealous...as long as I don't go out and actually steal the thing I want, or murder someone to get it, is the feeling itself really so bad?

Well, although I'm no master scholar, I've learned enough Torah to know that nothing is in there by mistake.  So, I decided to look a little closer at Commandment # 10 and see if I could figure out why it merits being on the same list as "You shall have no other gods besides Me," and "You shall not murder." I started by thinking about the role that "coveting" has played in my life.

Interestingly, my first memory of coveting something of my neighbor's dates all the way back to preschool, when I was fiercely jealous of my friend's long, silky, braided pigtails.  I watched the way she would whip those braids around her head with confidence and flair, something I knew I would never, ever be able to accomplish with my standard-issue bowl cut (which, although adorable in retrospect, seemed at the time to be most unfortunate).  I looked at my hair in the mirror in dismay.  If I could just have those braids, I thought, I would be a better version of me.  I was four years old.  What an early age at which to start seeing myself as "less than" someone else!

This sense of never measuring up favorably, of wanting someone else's skills, style, or demeanor, only continued.  I was jealous of my friends' athletic talents, singing voices, and fashion sense; I envied their social ease and confidence.  When I was struggling with anorexia, I strove to make my body smaller and smaller until I could win the much-sought-after title of "sickest girl"--something I never seemed able to attain.  The side effect of all this coveting was that I never stopped to appreciate what I did have--the skills I possessed, the achievements I'd accomplished, the character traits that made me special.  I was so busy focusing on what everyone else had, and what everyone else's life must be like, that I neglected to nurture my own strengths and validate my own journey.

For me, coveting has rarely been about material items, but it has nearly always been about personhood.  Simply put, I was never satisfied with who I was, and I felt that if I could only have whatever "it" was that other people internally possessed, I'd finally be a person worthy of positive attention, a person who mattered.  I think this mindset of self-negation is what makes coveting so dangerous.  When we want something someone else has so badly that we convince ourselves that we need it in order to be worthy/happy/successful/etc ourselves, we invalidate our own value as the people we actually are.  Additionally, coveting leads us to forget that Hashem designed each of us to fill a unique space in the world.  We are not meant to all look the same, act the same, or all have the same things.  When we covet that which is not ours, we are essentially saying that we know how our lives are supposed to be better than Hashem does.  This is NOT to say that we should just sit back and passively take whatever comes our way with the understanding that Hashem will provide us with everything we need.  On the contrary, we should take an active role in our own lives, but we should do so in a way that is authentic to who we really are--not in a way that tries to make us into someone else who we assume, "has it all."

I have by no means mastered the art of Thou Shall Not Covet, and I have a feeling that it is going to be a work in progress for a while.  But, I do feel that I am more aware of when I slip into that mindset, and I understand better the harm it causes to my relationship with myself and to my relationship with Hashem.  I wish for all of us--myself included--the ability to replace thoughts of, "I don't have enough ________", with the thought (and belief) that not only do we HAVE enough, but we ARE enough--as is.

Sing Your Inner Song

This past Shabbat was Shabbat Shira, the Shabbat on which we commemorate the miracle of Hashem splitting the sea and of the Israelites crossing through it, on dry land, to freedom.  Central to parashat Beshalach is שירת הים, The Song of the Sea.

This week I learned that there are differing views as to when the Israelites sang the Song.  At the end of the Song comes Shemot 15:19, which reads:

"When Pharoah's cavalry came with his chariots and horsemen into the sea and Hashem turned back the waters of the sea upon them, the Children of Israel walked on the dry land amid the sea."

According to Ibn Ezra, this verse is part of the Song; the crossing of the Israelites is included in the list of miracles that Hashem performed for the Israelites.  However, other commentators (including Ramban and Sforno) offer a different view.  They hold that this verse came after the Song, and therefore the Jews sang the Song while they were still in the process of crossing the sea.  I can see the validity of both positions, but personally I prefer the latter.  The idea that after all their years of slavery--years in which their bodies and spirits were pushed to the breaking point, years in which they nearly lost all hope--the Israelites still had within them the power of song, strikes me as poignant and powerfully moving.  Despite all their anxiety and fear, the Jews recognized that they were on a journey of liberation, and so they celebrated even before their passage was complete.  From this we can learn a valuable example of how to keep our inner song alive through difficult times, and how to emerge from periods of personal darkness with our voices strong.

Personally, I found that the darkness of my eating disorder was accompanied by silence--both external and internal.  Not only could I no longer hear my own song, but I also had lost the ability to express myself in any way other than monotone.  Singing (or at least singing well) requires emotions and a sense of connectivity to the present moment and the world at large.  Recovery is about reopening those channels of connection and reawakening emotions from the eating disorder-induced state of dormancy. I know that I often found this process a bit overwhelming, and it was frightening to get back in touch with the power of my own song (who was I to try to add my voice to this world?!)...but what I discovered is that my song had never really gone away--I just had to release the "mute" button.  I find that to be both comforting and remarkable...the idea that despite everything, my heart never forgot the words to its own song and was just waiting to be allowed to sing once more.

Just as the Israelites did not wait to finish crossing the sea before they began singing, neither should any of us believe that we must be "done" with recovery before we can begin to use our own voices.  What merits celebration is not only the finish line, but also the journey--the willingness to take step after step in faith toward a fuller, more authentic life.

One of my favorite poets is Mary Oliver, who explores this theme of the resilience of the inner song in several of her poems in the collection, Red Bird.  I'm including here one that I particularly love...I hope it resonates with some of you, as well!

I will try

I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world

www.fineartamerica.com

to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again and--
but wait.  Be still.  Listen!
Is it red bird?  Or something
inside myself, singing?

Out of the Straits...

I'll be honest:  I'm not much of a psalms person.  As much as I enjoy davening, I just haven't really gotten into the whole tehillim routine.  Saying tehillim is on my list of things I "should" do, but don't yet feel any deep emotional motivation to actually put into practice.  That said, this past Shabbat was Rosh Chodesh Shevat, and when the congregation began reciting Hallel on Saturday morning, I found myself actually reading some of the psalms...and wouldn't you know...

...something grabbed me.

That "something" is from the opening to Psalm 118:

.מן המצר קראתי יה, ענני במרחב יה
From the straits did I call upon Hashem; Hashem answered me with expansiveness.

The commentary in my siddur explains that this psalm reflects gratitude and confidence.  Just as Hashem lifted King David out of his personal struggles and into glory, so too can we hope to be brought out of our own narrow places and into a freer, more radiant existence.

The idea of being liberated from confinement and released into the openness of the world resonates with me deeply (especially as I also think of this week's parasha, Bo, and the developing story of the Exodus).  I remember well the feeling of being stuck in a narrow, compressed existence, one with limited vision, little hope, and seemingly no good options.  From within that place, although I felt that I had no faith left, my spirit called out to Hashem...and He did answer me.  He placed supportive people into my life and gave me the determination to use the help I received; He brought hope back into my heart, and He gave me the courage to take one step at a time until I was able to exit the cramped world of anorexia and reenter life.

There was a time when the expansiveness of life scared me.  The world was too fast, too loud, too overwhelming.  So, I built myself a tiny fortress and closed myself off from the challenges--and joys--of navigating the wider world.  The problem was that after a while, the fortress ceased to be satisfying...but because it was so sturdily constructed, I couldn't get myself out of it.  Once my desire for freedom became genuine, Hashem helped me return to the very openness I had once shunned.

I remember attending a panel of recovery speakers several years ago, back when I was first entering the final push of my own recovery.  One of the women compared her eating disorder to, "a train to nowhere"...and recovery, she said, was the "train to everywhere."  She could stop the train wherever she wanted, get off and explore, then resume the ride.  If she wanted to truly experience life, that train was the only one that would get her anywhere worth going.  I found this analogy so powerful that when I got home from the panel, I made a drawing of my own "train to everywhere" and hung it on my bulletin board, where it still sits to this day.  When I feel myself start to get scared to take risks or to stop myself from growing, the "train to everywhere" reminds me of what this whole process is about:  having the freedom to take my life in whatever direction I want, and being able to breathe deeply and fill my lungs with the fresh, open air of life.

Sometimes I think back to the years I spent in my fortress and remember how for so long I found its narrowness comforting and familiar.  But, although the real world can be surprising and challenging at times, I continue to be grateful for being able to experience the breadth and depth of life.  My wish for you is that you also find the courage to venture out into the open.  The expanse can seem overwhelming, but it is also full of brightness and beauty.  Give yourself permission to take from, and contribute to, the abundant world that Hashem created.

Fire and Ice

In this week's parasha, Va'eira, Hashem begins inflicting the Ten Plagues on the Egyptians.  The seventh plague is hail--a tremendous hailstorm descends on Egypt, raining down icy precipitation that destroys all the plant life and also causes significant damage to the animals and humans.  But, this is hail with a twist:  deep inside every hailstone is a burning flame of fire.

Finding this to be a curious detail, I searched for an explanation.  I learned that the Zohar teaches that while the plagues were indeed intended to punish Pharoah and the Egyptians, they also served to teach the Israelites important lessons about spiritual growth.  The ice and fire in the hail symbolize two different personalities that reside within each individual.  Hail represents an "icy" personality, someone who is cold toward others and appears unable to love, connect, or be passionate about anything.  In contrast, the fire represents the spark of positive energy with a person--that which allows an individual to feel compassion, empathy, and enthusiasm for life.  Although each person carries that spark within, sometimes it is hidden underneath an icy veneer.  However, if the flame burns hot enough, it can melt the ice and burn freely.

To me, this sounds a lot like the dichotomy between who a person becomes when she or he has an eating disorder, and who that person actually is.  Although I was never what one would call "bubbly," growing up I definitely had a sparkle to my personality.  I had a sense of humor; I was affectionate; I was contagiously enthusiastic about my various passions.  When I fell into anorexia, all of that disappeared behind a wall of impenetrable ice.  I stopped valuing my relationships and prioritized my food and exercise obsessions above everything else.  I had very little to talk about with other people; I lost interest in nearly everything.  I felt as though I was wrapped inside my own narrow world, frozen off from the seemingly carefree existence that other people enjoyed.  In some ways, I craved the ice--the world was too big, too chaotic, and too loud; I longed for smallness, simplicity, and quiet.  Simply put, ice was safer than fire--easier to contain, and less likely to harm.

But, there was always a flame inside me, and my early recovery was nurtured by the people who were determined still to see it.  Even if I had forgotten who I was, people who loved me had not...and they found gentle yet powerful ways to remind me of the spirited person I once had been.  As I continued on my path, I discovered new ways to cultivate my spark:  teaching, hiking, writing, and learning are among the many activities that keep me passionate and connected.  I now have energy to feel love toward other people, and I'm aware that this is a beautifully self-perpetuating cycle:  my inner flame allows me to demonstrate love and care toward others, and the authentic relationships that form as a result are what stoke my fire and keep my energy burning.

So, my message here is two-fold...

To parents, partners, friends, and loved ones of a person with an eating disorder:  remember that the individual who is struggling is still who she or he was before the illness took hold.  Even if this person seems devoid of energy, passion, and motivation; even if she or he seems impossible to reach, remind yourself that buried under that ice is the person you love.  Find a way to see the spark within your loved one, and nurture it as best as you can, until the person once again can recognize her or his own inner fire.

To the person struggling with an eating disorder:  I know life feels dark, cold, and often hopeless.  But, remember that your illness is not who you are.  It might feel like it has taken over, but you are more resilient than you think.  After all, Hashem breathed your soul into you, so you have a piece of the Divine within.  That's a flame that will never burn out!  Trust the people around you who try to show you your spark--they know what they're talking about.  Dig deep and find that flame...and slowly but surely, it will melt the ice and bring you back to life.