If you are reading this (and living outside of Israel), it means you have successfully made it through not one, not two, but THREE, three-day yom tovs. Amazing!
Is anyone else ready for Cheshvan?!
In all seriousness, despite feeling a bit relieved to resume my normal life routine, I truly did enjoy the chaggim this year. Simchat Torah gave me a much-needed energy boost at the end as we celebrated finishing, and restarting, the reading of the Torah. I found myself eager to get back to the rich narrative of Bereishit, and excited by the possibility of discovering new teachings in the familiar text of the Torah. This past Shabbat I heard a dvar Torah that reaffirmed my belief that there is always, always, something new to learn in Torah.
In his dvar, the speaker focused on the Hebrew word, timshol (תמשל), found in Bereishit 4:7. Speaking to Cain, Hashem warns him that if he changes his ways and repents, he'll be forgiven, but if he doesn't, "sin rests at the door." The verse concludes with the words, v'atah timshol-bo (ואתה תמשל–בו), which, depending on how the word תמשל is translated, can mean any of the following:
"thou shalt conquer [sin]"
"do thou conquer [sin]"
"thou can conquer [sin]"
"thou mayest conquer [sin]"
The speaker then referenced East of Eden, by John Steinbeck, as a means of exploring the subtle yet critical differences in these translations. In that story, the characters come across two different translations for תמשל--thou shalt, and do thou. Convinced that there must be a definitive ruling on the word, the characters investigate further and delve into the Hebrew language until arriving at the translation, thou mayest. Regarding the implications of this, one character says the following:
"The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in 'Thou shalt,' meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word timshel--'Thou mayest'--that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if 'Thou mayest'--it is also true that 'Thou mayest not.' Don't you see?"
This character goes on to argue that the ability to choose--"thou mayest"--is what makes human beings great. When it is a sure thing ("thou shalt") or a command ("do thou"), neither one of those leaves any room for human agency. But when doing the right thing is a choice, one that we must actively select and pursue, that makes us responsible for using our precious gift of free will--something that (arguably) no other creatures on earth can do.
This idea really resonates with me as it relates to recovery. When I was in my first round of intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I heard a lot of, "You'll definitely recover," "You're going to beat this," and "You'll be fine." These messages were reassuring, but also a bit confusing: I certainly did not FEEL ready to recover, but here were all these people telling me that I WOULD, so maybe it was inevitable? If I just hung in there long enough, maybe it would just...happen?
This is not to say that I didn't actively pursue recovery, but I do think there were times when I was lulled into complacency because I believed that, in the end, I would magically pull it together and full recovery would happen no matter what. So what if I didn't exactly follow my meal plan, or if I skipped a snack here and there? I was going to recover anyway. It wasn't until years later that I realized...no. Recovery is not a guarantee, nor is it a mandate. If I wanted it, I had to choose it...and I had to do more than just choose it mentally. I then had to make the actual behavior changes that would move me toward that choice. Ironically, in order for me to make "I may recover" a reality, I had to understand that "I may not recover" was the equally viable alternative. Was that scary, and less reassuring than a guarantee of success? For sure. But it was also empowering, because as I have accepted responsibility for my own recovery, the success has become mine--not something that happens to me, but something I make happen.
I believe that recovery can be ours, that Hashem does give us all the tools we need to reach it...but I also believe He gives us free will, which means that the decision to use those tools rests in our hands alone. If we choose recovery, Hashem will support us every step of the way...but He can't make that choice for us, and neither can our family, friends, or doctors, no matter how much they might want to.
As Steinbeck says, "the way is open." Thou mayest. So...how will you choose recovery this year?
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Sunday, September 22, 2013
In Your Back Pocket
There really is nothing quite like Sukkot. All of a sudden, temporary dwellings pop up all over the neighborhood--in yards, in driveways, on balconies--and people forgo their standard kitchens and dining rooms in order to eat their meals out in the (somewhat) open air. If the weather holds, it's nothing short of glorious; if it doesn't, you get some good stories. And, this being New England, either outcome is equally possible.
One of the aspects of Sukkot that I find intriguing is the coming of the Ushpizin (Aramaic for "guests"). The Ushpizin are the souls of the seven great leaders of Israel--Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph, and King David--who are believed to visit with us in the sukkah during the festival. Welcoming guests is an important part of any Jewish holiday, but it is especially integral to the observance of Sukkot, which is a celebration of Jewish unity. Along with all of our run-of-the-mill "earthly" visitors, the seven Ushpizin enter the sukkah on each of the seven nights of the festival. Each one takes a turn leading the rest, and each one represents one of the Kabbalistic sefirot and its corresponding character traits:
Abraham--chesed--lovingkindness
Isaac--gevurah--strength and discipline
Jacob--tiferet--truth and beauty
Moses--netzach--endurance and victory
Aaron--hod--humility and divine splendor
Joseph--yesod--spiritual foundation and connection
David--malchut--sovereignty
The idea is that the Ushpizin help us access the Divine within ourselves through the spiritual pathways they represent. It's a beautiful concept--you can explore it in more detail here and here.
I really love the idea of these seven distinguished forefathers of mine coming to give me an extra dose of spiritual nourishment during Sukkot. It actually reminds me of a concept that some of my "recovery buddies" and I developed early into our journeys--we called it, "keeping people in your back pocket." When we knew we would be entering into a situation that posed a challenge, we'd imagine having tiny yet powerful versions of supportive people in our lives tucked into our pockets (since it's all metaphorical, this works even if you wear skirts). I remember countless conversations with a friend of mine that inevitably involved one of us telling the other, "I'll have you in my back pocket!" Somehow, having her in my pocket would give me comfort and courage to do whatever hard thing needed doing: eating an extra snack, having a difficult conversation, going to an unfamiliar social event, etc.
I've traveled far on my road of recovery, but from time to time I still draw upon the people I've stashed in my back pocket. Each person provides me with an extra dose of something different: poise, assertiveness, bravery, flexibility, confidence--the list goes on. Sometimes, I imagine one of my "pocket people" doing nothing more than squeezing my hand and saying, "You can do this!" They may not have the illustrious status of the Ushpizin, but each mentor, teacher, and friend who has ever occupied space in my pocket has given my soul nourishment when I've needed it most.
We all need people in our back pockets...all year long, not just during Sukkot. As we take our first steps into this new year, I invite you to think about who you could squeeze into your pocket for those moments when you need a little extra inspiration and courage. Really pack them in--the more, the better--and allow them to strengthen you whenever you need it!
One of the aspects of Sukkot that I find intriguing is the coming of the Ushpizin (Aramaic for "guests"). The Ushpizin are the souls of the seven great leaders of Israel--Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph, and King David--who are believed to visit with us in the sukkah during the festival. Welcoming guests is an important part of any Jewish holiday, but it is especially integral to the observance of Sukkot, which is a celebration of Jewish unity. Along with all of our run-of-the-mill "earthly" visitors, the seven Ushpizin enter the sukkah on each of the seven nights of the festival. Each one takes a turn leading the rest, and each one represents one of the Kabbalistic sefirot and its corresponding character traits:
Abraham--chesed--lovingkindness
Isaac--gevurah--strength and discipline
Jacob--tiferet--truth and beauty
Moses--netzach--endurance and victory
Aaron--hod--humility and divine splendor
Joseph--yesod--spiritual foundation and connection
David--malchut--sovereignty
The idea is that the Ushpizin help us access the Divine within ourselves through the spiritual pathways they represent. It's a beautiful concept--you can explore it in more detail here and here.
I really love the idea of these seven distinguished forefathers of mine coming to give me an extra dose of spiritual nourishment during Sukkot. It actually reminds me of a concept that some of my "recovery buddies" and I developed early into our journeys--we called it, "keeping people in your back pocket." When we knew we would be entering into a situation that posed a challenge, we'd imagine having tiny yet powerful versions of supportive people in our lives tucked into our pockets (since it's all metaphorical, this works even if you wear skirts). I remember countless conversations with a friend of mine that inevitably involved one of us telling the other, "I'll have you in my back pocket!" Somehow, having her in my pocket would give me comfort and courage to do whatever hard thing needed doing: eating an extra snack, having a difficult conversation, going to an unfamiliar social event, etc.
I've traveled far on my road of recovery, but from time to time I still draw upon the people I've stashed in my back pocket. Each person provides me with an extra dose of something different: poise, assertiveness, bravery, flexibility, confidence--the list goes on. Sometimes, I imagine one of my "pocket people" doing nothing more than squeezing my hand and saying, "You can do this!" They may not have the illustrious status of the Ushpizin, but each mentor, teacher, and friend who has ever occupied space in my pocket has given my soul nourishment when I've needed it most.
We all need people in our back pockets...all year long, not just during Sukkot. As we take our first steps into this new year, I invite you to think about who you could squeeze into your pocket for those moments when you need a little extra inspiration and courage. Really pack them in--the more, the better--and allow them to strengthen you whenever you need it!
Sunday, September 8, 2013
On the Battlefield
And...we're back. Sincere apologies for my lack of posts for the past few weeks. It's easy to explain, really--within one week, all of the following things occurred: I moved to a new apartment, the new school year began, and the chaggim started. I'm sure you can imagine the scene as I tried to prepare for all of those activities; needless to say, that great blog post I was envisioning about the shofar never materialized in time for Rosh Hashana. Maybe next year...
But, never fear. I'm back, albeit still a bit frazzled, and I happen to be reading a thought-provoking book called, Return: Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe by Erica Brown. Yesterday's topic was "discipline" and brought with it this corresponding quote from the liturgy: "For the sin we have committed before You by eating and drinking." I'll admit that I had a teensy whisper of the thought, "What does SHE think she's going to tell ME about discipline, eating, and drinking?!" But, I was also curious, and I proceeded (warily) to read that day's installment...and I'm grateful that I did, because she actually presents a rather intriguing concept that I want to share here.
In her discussion of willpower and what happens for us internally when we have to make choices between positive and negative forces, Erica Brown integrates the work of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, who coined the phrase, "bechira point." In Hebrew, bechira means "choice," and Rabbi Dessler explains a person's bechira point as the point at which an individual feels genuinely torn between two opposing choices, one positive and one negative. He compares the bechira point to a battlefield:
"When two armies are locked in battle, fighting takes place only at the battlefront. Territory behind the lines of one army is under that army's control and little or no resistance need be expected there. A similar situation prevails in respect of territory behind the lines of the other army. If one side gains a victory at the front and pushes the enemy back, the position of the battlefront will have changed. In fact, therefore, fighting takes place only at one location."
Rabbi Dessler explains that the bechira point is only activated when one faces a decision that actually is a struggle. For example, someone who is raised to eat only kosher food will not struggle internally with whether or not to eat a ham sandwich. However, someone who ate ham sandwiches for lunch every day of his childhood and begins keeping kosher as an adult might very well feel conflicted over whether or not to give up that favorite food. Rabbi Dessler articulates that the goal is for a person "not to remain in that confused state in which 'truth' and 'falsehood' seem equally valid alternatives.' " If we exercise our willpower enough times in favor of a positive choice, we will then feel compelled to make that good decision because we will have integrated it into our way of life. Rabbi Dessler calls this stage, "compulsion," and when we reach it, we've changed the battlefield.
I really love this "battlefield" image, partly because it conjures up memories of playing "Human Stratego" at overnight camp, but mostly because it is such an apt metaphor for recovery. At every stage in the process, there are battles we fight between our inner strength and our eating disorder. Whatever issue we're tackling at any given moment, that's our bechira point--and once that obstacle is mastered, we shift our battlefield to take on the next challenge. This might seem discouraging because it implies a continuous fight--and, isn't "recovery" supposed to mean that the battle is over? I would argue that "recovery" doesn't imply a complete lack of struggle; it just means that our choices evolve, becoming more nuanced and less stark. For example, when I first began teaching many years ago, I would eat a small breakfast and then work the entire 7 hour day before allowing myself to have another meal; I was so paralyzed by the idea of eating lunch with other people. At this point, I've been eating lunch with my colleagues for several years and it would honestly never occur to me to force myself to go an entire workday without eating; that is no longer where my battlefield lies. However, I do sometimes struggle with whether or not to allow myself to relax when I get home from work, instead of pushing myself to do errands and "be productive." There's still a battlefield, but the nature of the conflict has shifted considerably and I no longer feel held hostage by the choices I need to make.
Rabbi Dessler also speaks of the highest level on the battlefield, higher even than compulsion. He explains that compulsion still requires an active choice, even if it IS a positive one. The true aim is to be so committed to a healthy, virtuous way of life that we do good purely for its own sake--it's just natural. This point is what Rabbi Dessler calls, "love." Erica Brown explains,
"For those who are able with constancy and regularity to conquer the forces working against them through active choice, freedom [to choose the positive or negative] turns into compulsion. That compulsion turns into love."
Recovery involves all three stages, and we may experience more than one at a time as we tackle different issues. But the truth is, all of these battles can be won. We can use discipline and willpower to train ourselves to make supportive choices...and then, we get to experience the ultimate victory of not needing to make those "choices" at all, because doing what is right and healthy comes naturally with love. Believe me: it happens. It might happen slowly or unevenly, but it does happen. Going into 5774, I wish for us all a year filled with a little less battlefield and a lot more love.
But, never fear. I'm back, albeit still a bit frazzled, and I happen to be reading a thought-provoking book called, Return: Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe by Erica Brown. Yesterday's topic was "discipline" and brought with it this corresponding quote from the liturgy: "For the sin we have committed before You by eating and drinking." I'll admit that I had a teensy whisper of the thought, "What does SHE think she's going to tell ME about discipline, eating, and drinking?!" But, I was also curious, and I proceeded (warily) to read that day's installment...and I'm grateful that I did, because she actually presents a rather intriguing concept that I want to share here.
In her discussion of willpower and what happens for us internally when we have to make choices between positive and negative forces, Erica Brown integrates the work of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, who coined the phrase, "bechira point." In Hebrew, bechira means "choice," and Rabbi Dessler explains a person's bechira point as the point at which an individual feels genuinely torn between two opposing choices, one positive and one negative. He compares the bechira point to a battlefield:
"When two armies are locked in battle, fighting takes place only at the battlefront. Territory behind the lines of one army is under that army's control and little or no resistance need be expected there. A similar situation prevails in respect of territory behind the lines of the other army. If one side gains a victory at the front and pushes the enemy back, the position of the battlefront will have changed. In fact, therefore, fighting takes place only at one location."
Rabbi Dessler explains that the bechira point is only activated when one faces a decision that actually is a struggle. For example, someone who is raised to eat only kosher food will not struggle internally with whether or not to eat a ham sandwich. However, someone who ate ham sandwiches for lunch every day of his childhood and begins keeping kosher as an adult might very well feel conflicted over whether or not to give up that favorite food. Rabbi Dessler articulates that the goal is for a person "not to remain in that confused state in which 'truth' and 'falsehood' seem equally valid alternatives.' " If we exercise our willpower enough times in favor of a positive choice, we will then feel compelled to make that good decision because we will have integrated it into our way of life. Rabbi Dessler calls this stage, "compulsion," and when we reach it, we've changed the battlefield.
I really love this "battlefield" image, partly because it conjures up memories of playing "Human Stratego" at overnight camp, but mostly because it is such an apt metaphor for recovery. At every stage in the process, there are battles we fight between our inner strength and our eating disorder. Whatever issue we're tackling at any given moment, that's our bechira point--and once that obstacle is mastered, we shift our battlefield to take on the next challenge. This might seem discouraging because it implies a continuous fight--and, isn't "recovery" supposed to mean that the battle is over? I would argue that "recovery" doesn't imply a complete lack of struggle; it just means that our choices evolve, becoming more nuanced and less stark. For example, when I first began teaching many years ago, I would eat a small breakfast and then work the entire 7 hour day before allowing myself to have another meal; I was so paralyzed by the idea of eating lunch with other people. At this point, I've been eating lunch with my colleagues for several years and it would honestly never occur to me to force myself to go an entire workday without eating; that is no longer where my battlefield lies. However, I do sometimes struggle with whether or not to allow myself to relax when I get home from work, instead of pushing myself to do errands and "be productive." There's still a battlefield, but the nature of the conflict has shifted considerably and I no longer feel held hostage by the choices I need to make.
Rabbi Dessler also speaks of the highest level on the battlefield, higher even than compulsion. He explains that compulsion still requires an active choice, even if it IS a positive one. The true aim is to be so committed to a healthy, virtuous way of life that we do good purely for its own sake--it's just natural. This point is what Rabbi Dessler calls, "love." Erica Brown explains,
"For those who are able with constancy and regularity to conquer the forces working against them through active choice, freedom [to choose the positive or negative] turns into compulsion. That compulsion turns into love."
Recovery involves all three stages, and we may experience more than one at a time as we tackle different issues. But the truth is, all of these battles can be won. We can use discipline and willpower to train ourselves to make supportive choices...and then, we get to experience the ultimate victory of not needing to make those "choices" at all, because doing what is right and healthy comes naturally with love. Believe me: it happens. It might happen slowly or unevenly, but it does happen. Going into 5774, I wish for us all a year filled with a little less battlefield and a lot more love.
Monday, August 19, 2013
"Why Weren't You Zusha?"
Since we are smack in the middle of Elul, it's not surprising that lately I've been thinking a lot about teshuva. I also happen to be reading a fabulous book called, I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn't) by Brené Brown, which focuses on how women experience shame. Though I don't believe teshuva is a shame-based process, I do believe that some of the ways we act in response to our own feelings of shame are certainly grist for the teshuva mill.
Brené Brown defines shame as, "the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection." Since, as humans, we are programmed to need connection--interpersonally as well as spiritually--the sense of disconnection that comes from shame can be profoundly disconcerting. It is then not surprising that one might go to great lengths to avoid feeling shame...and, one of the ways we do that is by attempting to be whomever we perceive others want us to be. Like chameleons, we adjust our speech and behavior (maybe also clothing) to blend in with what is expected by our peer group in any given situation. We might find ourselves nodding in agreement to something we don't actually support, or glossing over our true beliefs in an effort to avoid confrontation. In our efforts to remain connected and avoid shame, we sacrifice our authenticity. Brené Brown describes this dynamic as follows: "Shame, or the fear of being shamed, moves us away from our authentic selves. We tell people what they want to hear, or we don't speak out when we should. In turn, we feel shame for being dishonest, misrepresenting our beliefs or not taking an important stand." When we believe we can't be connected and be ourselves, we often prioritize being connected...and end up paying a heavy price.
Although I don't think I could have articulated it when I was really struggling, it's clear to me now that my eating disorder had its roots in shame. Some of the shame came from internal sources and some of it came from other people, but the result was that I believed nothing about me was okay: my body, my thoughts, my feelings--I was ashamed of all of it. I had two main strategies for dealing with shame. One was to make myself physically as small as possible so there would be less for people to find objectionable. The other was to be hyper-alert to (perceived) hints from other people as to how they wanted me to be--and then, be that way.
Being in recovery has meant giving up anorexia as a means for coping with shame; it is simply not possible to be in recovery and also be starving yourself. However, it is possible to be in recovery and still be a people-pleaser, and I'll admit that "going chameleon" is still sometimes a default strategy of mine. Over the years, I've avoided many arguments and smoothed over countless conflicts; I've reinforced others' opinions by agreeing with them; I've given people the answers I believed they wanted, rather than answers that were honest. In return, I got connection, but I lost my authentic sense of self. At some point, I realized I no longer knew what I thought, or what I liked. Learning to eat again was hard, but relearning my own Self has been even harder--and is something I'm still working on.
Judaism teaches us that we are each born at the moment when Hashem realizes the world can no longer exist without us. He creates each of us with a purpose, to fulfill a unique role in the world. When we sacrifice our authenticity in order to "blend," we abandon the very work that we were put on earth to do. Personally, I recognize that I lose sight of my authentic self more often than I would like. I sometimes prioritize superficial connections with other people over deeper connections with Hashem--and with myself. As I focus on my process of teshuva, I feel regret when I think of all the ways in which I've not been true to myself...and I feel committed to working harder in the coming year on cultivating my own authenticity.
There is a beautiful Hasidic story about Reb Zusha of Anipoli that goes something like this:
Reb Zusha was on his deathbed, surrounded by his disciples. He was crying and no one could comfort him. One student asked his Rebbe, "Why do you cry? You were almost as wise as Moses and as kind as Abraham." Reb Zusha answered, "When I pass from this world and appear before the Heavenly Tribunal, they won't ask me, 'Zusha, why weren't you as wise as Moses or as kind as Abraham,' rather, they will ask me, 'Zusha, why weren't you Zusha?' Why didn't I fulfill my potential, why didn't I follow the path that could have been mine? That is why I am crying."
As we prepare for the High Holy Days, I invite each of us to think about whether we are behaving in ways that feel authentic to us, or whether, out of fear of shame, we are giving up our own uniqueness in order to be "just like everyone else." Remember--Hashem doesn't want a duplicate of someone else...He wants US. I wish that each of us enters the new year knowing that we give Hashem joy when we are authentic--and that we are worthy of connection when we are our true selves.
Brené Brown defines shame as, "the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection." Since, as humans, we are programmed to need connection--interpersonally as well as spiritually--the sense of disconnection that comes from shame can be profoundly disconcerting. It is then not surprising that one might go to great lengths to avoid feeling shame...and, one of the ways we do that is by attempting to be whomever we perceive others want us to be. Like chameleons, we adjust our speech and behavior (maybe also clothing) to blend in with what is expected by our peer group in any given situation. We might find ourselves nodding in agreement to something we don't actually support, or glossing over our true beliefs in an effort to avoid confrontation. In our efforts to remain connected and avoid shame, we sacrifice our authenticity. Brené Brown describes this dynamic as follows: "Shame, or the fear of being shamed, moves us away from our authentic selves. We tell people what they want to hear, or we don't speak out when we should. In turn, we feel shame for being dishonest, misrepresenting our beliefs or not taking an important stand." When we believe we can't be connected and be ourselves, we often prioritize being connected...and end up paying a heavy price.
Although I don't think I could have articulated it when I was really struggling, it's clear to me now that my eating disorder had its roots in shame. Some of the shame came from internal sources and some of it came from other people, but the result was that I believed nothing about me was okay: my body, my thoughts, my feelings--I was ashamed of all of it. I had two main strategies for dealing with shame. One was to make myself physically as small as possible so there would be less for people to find objectionable. The other was to be hyper-alert to (perceived) hints from other people as to how they wanted me to be--and then, be that way.
Being in recovery has meant giving up anorexia as a means for coping with shame; it is simply not possible to be in recovery and also be starving yourself. However, it is possible to be in recovery and still be a people-pleaser, and I'll admit that "going chameleon" is still sometimes a default strategy of mine. Over the years, I've avoided many arguments and smoothed over countless conflicts; I've reinforced others' opinions by agreeing with them; I've given people the answers I believed they wanted, rather than answers that were honest. In return, I got connection, but I lost my authentic sense of self. At some point, I realized I no longer knew what I thought, or what I liked. Learning to eat again was hard, but relearning my own Self has been even harder--and is something I'm still working on.
Judaism teaches us that we are each born at the moment when Hashem realizes the world can no longer exist without us. He creates each of us with a purpose, to fulfill a unique role in the world. When we sacrifice our authenticity in order to "blend," we abandon the very work that we were put on earth to do. Personally, I recognize that I lose sight of my authentic self more often than I would like. I sometimes prioritize superficial connections with other people over deeper connections with Hashem--and with myself. As I focus on my process of teshuva, I feel regret when I think of all the ways in which I've not been true to myself...and I feel committed to working harder in the coming year on cultivating my own authenticity.
There is a beautiful Hasidic story about Reb Zusha of Anipoli that goes something like this:
Reb Zusha was on his deathbed, surrounded by his disciples. He was crying and no one could comfort him. One student asked his Rebbe, "Why do you cry? You were almost as wise as Moses and as kind as Abraham." Reb Zusha answered, "When I pass from this world and appear before the Heavenly Tribunal, they won't ask me, 'Zusha, why weren't you as wise as Moses or as kind as Abraham,' rather, they will ask me, 'Zusha, why weren't you Zusha?' Why didn't I fulfill my potential, why didn't I follow the path that could have been mine? That is why I am crying."
As we prepare for the High Holy Days, I invite each of us to think about whether we are behaving in ways that feel authentic to us, or whether, out of fear of shame, we are giving up our own uniqueness in order to be "just like everyone else." Remember--Hashem doesn't want a duplicate of someone else...He wants US. I wish that each of us enters the new year knowing that we give Hashem joy when we are authentic--and that we are worthy of connection when we are our true selves.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
From Thought to Action
Wow...when I look back on my last post, it seems like I wrote it so long ago (even though it was really only 12 days). Since then, I've had to readjust to being home in the States after a month in my "other home" in Israel, and I'll admit that reentry has had some rocky spots. It's tough to transition between two places, even when (or perhaps because) I adore both of them. I have a hard time writing from that "ungrounded" space, so this post has been a while in coming...but, in the interim, a couple of things happened to give my creative juices a kick:
1) Rosh Chodesh Elul!
2) The yarhzeit of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (ג אלול)
Why are these important? Well, Elul happens to be one of my favorite months of the year due to its emphasis on introspection, self-evaluation, and teshuva (yep...I love that stuff!). And, no one is a greater source of inspiration for me in the areas of teshuva and self-reflection than Rav Kook. I've quoted him several times on this blog, and I'm about to do so again--every time I read his work, I come away with something new.
I think recovery is one of the greatest forms of teshuva that there is; it's a process of turning away from an unhealthy lifestyle and re-embracing--and recommitting to--the positively productive, fulfilling, and connected lives we were meant to lead. I'm going to share three excerpts from Rav Kook's famous work, Orot HaTeshuva (The Lights of Penitence), and I'll explain how I see each one relating to recovery as a process of teshuva.
(Note: Rav Kook consistently uses the masculine form when referring to "person," and I'm keeping his gendered language intact for the sake of preserving the text. But, feel free to make whatever substitutions you would like in your own mind!)
Rav Kook writes:
"It is in the nature of penitence to endow a person with peace and with solemnity at the same time. Even the mere thought of penitence is a comfort to him. In one tiny glimmer of its great light there is already to be found the noble happiness of a whole world, but together with this it confronts his spirit constantly with the obligation of completing it. This saves him from pride and invests him with a sweet light, which endows his life with great and abiding value."
What I love about this is how Rav Kook recognizes that the very step of THINKING about teshuva (or recovery!) is valuable in and of itself. A person can feel heartened and galvanized when she first commits to the idea of recovery, and it's important to recognize that the readiness to be open to this process is significant. However, Rav Kook also cautions us against falling into the trap of only thinking about it, and not actually doing it. The intention to do teshuva is commendable, but ultimately it needs to lead to actions that follow through. This is also true regarding recovery--setting goals is important, but then so is actually working towards them. If we are going to be truthfully committed to this process, then we have the responsibility of sticking with it and actually making it happen. But, it's not only the end result of all that work that has value--it's the very process itself.
Continuing his ideas about the process of teshuva, Rav Kook says:
"Through the thoughts of penitence a person hears G-d's voice calling him, from the Torah and from the feelings of the heart, from the world and its fullness, and all that is contained therein."
Yes. Yes. YES.
For me, there is nothing ultimately more comforting than knowing--feeling--that Hashem is my greatest coach. I view recovery as more than just maintaining my physical health, but also using my healthy body to help me live the life that G-d wants me to lead. When I struggle with feelings of, "Maybe I can't go any farther," I do seek out the voice of Hashem for reassurance and comfort. For me, I find that connection with Hashem in nature--there is no way I can be still and alert in the natural world and not hear and feel the call of Hashem. When I'm in a place of fear or ambivalence or confusion regarding what to do next in recovery, going for a walk or sitting outside helps me feel grounded in connection to Hashem, and that gives me the resolve to keep pushing. If "nature" isn't your thing, I really encourage you to find SOMEWHERE where you can hear G-d's voice most clearly, where He can give you encouragement to turn your thoughts of recovery into actions.
Finally, I have one last Rav Kook nugget to share:
"I see how the sins serve as an obstruction against the bright divine light, which shines so brightly on every soul, and they darken the soul. Penitence, even if it is only entertained in thought, effects a great redress. But the soul can reach full liberation only when the potential of penitence is translated into action. However, since the thought is tied up with holiness and with the desire for penitence, there is no need to be concerned. G-d, may He be praised, will surely make available all the circumstances for the attainment of full penitence, which illumines all the dark places in its light."
If we think of recovery as teshuva, the message is clear: As long as we are committed to the process and willing to do the work, Hashem will provide us with whatever support we need to make it happen. We don't need to worry, "What if I can't do it?" The truth is, G-d will make sure that we can...we just have to be brave enough to make use of the tools He gives us.
Going into Elul, I encourage each of us to think of a way we could further advance our own recovery...and then start doing it. May this lead us into a new year of growth and satisfaction!
1) Rosh Chodesh Elul!
2) The yarhzeit of Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (ג אלול)
Why are these important? Well, Elul happens to be one of my favorite months of the year due to its emphasis on introspection, self-evaluation, and teshuva (yep...I love that stuff!). And, no one is a greater source of inspiration for me in the areas of teshuva and self-reflection than Rav Kook. I've quoted him several times on this blog, and I'm about to do so again--every time I read his work, I come away with something new.
I think recovery is one of the greatest forms of teshuva that there is; it's a process of turning away from an unhealthy lifestyle and re-embracing--and recommitting to--the positively productive, fulfilling, and connected lives we were meant to lead. I'm going to share three excerpts from Rav Kook's famous work, Orot HaTeshuva (The Lights of Penitence), and I'll explain how I see each one relating to recovery as a process of teshuva.
(Note: Rav Kook consistently uses the masculine form when referring to "person," and I'm keeping his gendered language intact for the sake of preserving the text. But, feel free to make whatever substitutions you would like in your own mind!)
Rav Kook writes:
"It is in the nature of penitence to endow a person with peace and with solemnity at the same time. Even the mere thought of penitence is a comfort to him. In one tiny glimmer of its great light there is already to be found the noble happiness of a whole world, but together with this it confronts his spirit constantly with the obligation of completing it. This saves him from pride and invests him with a sweet light, which endows his life with great and abiding value."
What I love about this is how Rav Kook recognizes that the very step of THINKING about teshuva (or recovery!) is valuable in and of itself. A person can feel heartened and galvanized when she first commits to the idea of recovery, and it's important to recognize that the readiness to be open to this process is significant. However, Rav Kook also cautions us against falling into the trap of only thinking about it, and not actually doing it. The intention to do teshuva is commendable, but ultimately it needs to lead to actions that follow through. This is also true regarding recovery--setting goals is important, but then so is actually working towards them. If we are going to be truthfully committed to this process, then we have the responsibility of sticking with it and actually making it happen. But, it's not only the end result of all that work that has value--it's the very process itself.
Continuing his ideas about the process of teshuva, Rav Kook says:
"Through the thoughts of penitence a person hears G-d's voice calling him, from the Torah and from the feelings of the heart, from the world and its fullness, and all that is contained therein."
Yes. Yes. YES.
For me, there is nothing ultimately more comforting than knowing--feeling--that Hashem is my greatest coach. I view recovery as more than just maintaining my physical health, but also using my healthy body to help me live the life that G-d wants me to lead. When I struggle with feelings of, "Maybe I can't go any farther," I do seek out the voice of Hashem for reassurance and comfort. For me, I find that connection with Hashem in nature--there is no way I can be still and alert in the natural world and not hear and feel the call of Hashem. When I'm in a place of fear or ambivalence or confusion regarding what to do next in recovery, going for a walk or sitting outside helps me feel grounded in connection to Hashem, and that gives me the resolve to keep pushing. If "nature" isn't your thing, I really encourage you to find SOMEWHERE where you can hear G-d's voice most clearly, where He can give you encouragement to turn your thoughts of recovery into actions.
Finally, I have one last Rav Kook nugget to share:
"I see how the sins serve as an obstruction against the bright divine light, which shines so brightly on every soul, and they darken the soul. Penitence, even if it is only entertained in thought, effects a great redress. But the soul can reach full liberation only when the potential of penitence is translated into action. However, since the thought is tied up with holiness and with the desire for penitence, there is no need to be concerned. G-d, may He be praised, will surely make available all the circumstances for the attainment of full penitence, which illumines all the dark places in its light."
If we think of recovery as teshuva, the message is clear: As long as we are committed to the process and willing to do the work, Hashem will provide us with whatever support we need to make it happen. We don't need to worry, "What if I can't do it?" The truth is, G-d will make sure that we can...we just have to be brave enough to make use of the tools He gives us.
Going into Elul, I encourage each of us to think of a way we could further advance our own recovery...and then start doing it. May this lead us into a new year of growth and satisfaction!
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Crossing the Threshold
Wow...it seems unreal that a month has flown by so quickly and that I will be leaving Israel tomorrow. My time here has been amazing, thanks to nourishing connections with my "chosen family" of teachers and friends over here, full days of Jewish learning, and some incredible bird watching. The fact that the weather has been consistently perfect definitely helped to sweeten the deal! Of course, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't feel some a lot of "transition anxiety" and sadness in anticipation of my return home. But I also know that the good thing about all the love and learning I've experienced here is that these are portable goods--I can bring them with me into my life at home, and I'm sure they'll be inspiring blog posts for at least the next few weeks :).
In the last session of my class on Sefer Shemot, my teacher introduced us to a concept that feels especially relevant to the themes of transition and growth. She had titled the course, "Standing At the Threshold," and explained that the inspiration for the title came from Victor Turner's idea of "liminal space." Simply put, liminal space is a stage in the process of going through a ritual--a sort of "in-between" stage in which a person has detached from a previous identity but has not yet reached the point of attaining the new identity that comes with completion of the ritual. In liminality, a person's sense of self becomes amorphous, causing disorientation but also allowing for the possibility of new beginnings. Some common, real-life examples include students who have graduated high school but have not yet begun college, a couple who is engaged but not yet married, etc. My teacher explained that at the start of the Exodus, the Israelites were in a liminal space. They had begun to be set apart from the Egyptians but didn't yet have a real identity of their own as a people. When the Israelites took the korban Pesach and painted their doorposts with blood, they were beginning a process of transition that they didn't fully understand. Representing liminal space, the doorposts served as a transitional bridge between their old lives as slaves, and their new lives as Jews. Although crossing that threshold was significant in itself, the transition would only be complete once the Jews actually left Egypt. In other words, an Israelite who put blood on his doorpost to escape the plague but didn't take the additional step of leaving Egypt would not have fully transitioned into a member of the Jewish nation.
I've been mulling over this idea for several days, and it has caused me to take a long, honest look at myself. In many ways, recovery has been like one long transition (many smaller transitions?) away from my previous identity as "the girl with an eating disorder," and toward a manifestation of my genuine self. Have I shed the eating disorder label that I once wore so proudly? Yes. But, have I really, truly grown into myself? This is the part I am still working on.
Some days, it feels like "enough" simply to not be anorexic anymore. But, just as "happy" is NOT the same as, "not sad," I don't think I'm satisfied defining "recovered" as, "not sick." I've definitely done a good job of being, "not sick," but would I be content if my evolution stopped here? Honestly, I don't think I would. I've painted my proverbial doorpost and have even made it out of Mitzrayim, but have I fully entered the Promised Land? Not yet.
Now don't get me wrong: there is a lot to be said for no longer being eating disordered. I love the freedom I have attained, and I consider it hard won. However, just as "anorexia" never really summed up my entire persona, neither does, "non-anorexic." What about all the other ways in which I want to define myself? I'm aware that some aspects of my identity, such as my professional self, I've done an excellent job of cultivating because they are a) fun, and b) relatively non-threatening. But there are other areas (relationships!?) in which I'm still very much in a transitional space, in which I feel held back by fear. I think that if I truly want to become my full self in recovery, I'm going to need to take some steps toward growth and commitment in those areas.
It's easy to get lulled into thinking that the process of recovery ends when you ditch the eating disordered behaviors, but I'm challenging all of us to rethink that idea. In what ways are we still in our "liminal spaces"? How might we actively adopt a new mentality that might offer us greater freedom and development?
As members of the Jewish nation, we are more than just, "not slaves." We are Jews. How can we move from being "not eating disordered," to being who we were truly created to be?
In the last session of my class on Sefer Shemot, my teacher introduced us to a concept that feels especially relevant to the themes of transition and growth. She had titled the course, "Standing At the Threshold," and explained that the inspiration for the title came from Victor Turner's idea of "liminal space." Simply put, liminal space is a stage in the process of going through a ritual--a sort of "in-between" stage in which a person has detached from a previous identity but has not yet reached the point of attaining the new identity that comes with completion of the ritual. In liminality, a person's sense of self becomes amorphous, causing disorientation but also allowing for the possibility of new beginnings. Some common, real-life examples include students who have graduated high school but have not yet begun college, a couple who is engaged but not yet married, etc. My teacher explained that at the start of the Exodus, the Israelites were in a liminal space. They had begun to be set apart from the Egyptians but didn't yet have a real identity of their own as a people. When the Israelites took the korban Pesach and painted their doorposts with blood, they were beginning a process of transition that they didn't fully understand. Representing liminal space, the doorposts served as a transitional bridge between their old lives as slaves, and their new lives as Jews. Although crossing that threshold was significant in itself, the transition would only be complete once the Jews actually left Egypt. In other words, an Israelite who put blood on his doorpost to escape the plague but didn't take the additional step of leaving Egypt would not have fully transitioned into a member of the Jewish nation.
I've been mulling over this idea for several days, and it has caused me to take a long, honest look at myself. In many ways, recovery has been like one long transition (many smaller transitions?) away from my previous identity as "the girl with an eating disorder," and toward a manifestation of my genuine self. Have I shed the eating disorder label that I once wore so proudly? Yes. But, have I really, truly grown into myself? This is the part I am still working on.
Some days, it feels like "enough" simply to not be anorexic anymore. But, just as "happy" is NOT the same as, "not sad," I don't think I'm satisfied defining "recovered" as, "not sick." I've definitely done a good job of being, "not sick," but would I be content if my evolution stopped here? Honestly, I don't think I would. I've painted my proverbial doorpost and have even made it out of Mitzrayim, but have I fully entered the Promised Land? Not yet.
Now don't get me wrong: there is a lot to be said for no longer being eating disordered. I love the freedom I have attained, and I consider it hard won. However, just as "anorexia" never really summed up my entire persona, neither does, "non-anorexic." What about all the other ways in which I want to define myself? I'm aware that some aspects of my identity, such as my professional self, I've done an excellent job of cultivating because they are a) fun, and b) relatively non-threatening. But there are other areas (relationships!?) in which I'm still very much in a transitional space, in which I feel held back by fear. I think that if I truly want to become my full self in recovery, I'm going to need to take some steps toward growth and commitment in those areas.
It's easy to get lulled into thinking that the process of recovery ends when you ditch the eating disordered behaviors, but I'm challenging all of us to rethink that idea. In what ways are we still in our "liminal spaces"? How might we actively adopt a new mentality that might offer us greater freedom and development?
As members of the Jewish nation, we are more than just, "not slaves." We are Jews. How can we move from being "not eating disordered," to being who we were truly created to be?
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Hearing My Voice
Earlier this week, we observed Tisha B'Av, the most mournful day on the Jewish calendar. It was appropriately unpleasant, with a 25-hour-long fast in the heat of summer, but it was also decidedly meaningful. To me, there is no more powerful place to be on Tisha B'Av than Jerusalem, no better place in which to witness the ways in which the Jewish community has rebuilt itself, despite all the parts of it that still need repair. But this Tisha B'Av was especially meaningful to me on a personal level because this year I took on the task of publicly reading aloud, to the Pardes community, the first chapter of Eicha.
This was a significant undertaking for me for several reasons. First, on a purely practical level, I had never before learned trope of any kind and had no real experience with public leyning (unless one counts a few psukim that I memorized for my bat mitzvah sixteen years ago). Second, when I am in religious settings I am very self-conscious of the fact that I was not brought up in a traditionally observant lifestyle, and I often feel like a fraud when I try to do something indicative of a "more religious" background. Finally there's that old, familiar voice in the back of my mind that quietly yet forcefully asserts itself whenever I publicly take on a challenge: Just who do you think you ARE, to do something like that?!
And yet, I really wanted to do this, so a few months ago I slowly taught myself the Eicha trope (thanks, virtualcantor.com!) and set about learning to leyn the first chapter. As soon as Pardes started organizing students to publicly read Eicha, I signed up for perek alef. As the eve of Tisha B'Av drew near, I noticed my excitement and anxiety mounting simultaneously. On the one hand, here was an opportunity to do something profoundly spiritually meaningful within a community I care a lot about...on the other hand, where did I get the audacity to think that I could pull this off--or that I should?
I'm not sure how my leyning sounded to anyone else, but what struck me was the sheer power of hearing my own voice. I wasn't going to win any Grammy Awards for technical brilliance, but I was clear, I was confident, and I was present in that moment with every inch of my being. Who is this person, I wondered, who has so much presence? When did I become someone who would voluntarily become visible and heard?
Over many years in recovery, I have become that person. It is to the credit of the clinicians who have given me the tools to bring myself out of the shadows, and to my family and friends who have motivated me to actually use them. It's thanks to my Pardes teachers and fellow students who have made me feel safe to take risks and secure in the knowledge that, even if I don't know all the answers, I still deserve to be heard.
Given that it was Tisha B'Av, it would probably be a bit inappropriate and inaccurate to say that my leyning experience was enjoyable, but it certainly was powerful. There was profound meaning in hearing my own voice chant the history of my people, while looking out over the lights of Jerusalem twinkling in the night sky. Like Jerusalem, there are ways in which I still feel incomplete and less than whole, but there is also undeniable evidence of all the repair and growth I've worked hard to achieve.
May we all continue to heal our broken parts, and may we develop into our most harmonious selves, ready to project our voices out into the world.
This was a significant undertaking for me for several reasons. First, on a purely practical level, I had never before learned trope of any kind and had no real experience with public leyning (unless one counts a few psukim that I memorized for my bat mitzvah sixteen years ago). Second, when I am in religious settings I am very self-conscious of the fact that I was not brought up in a traditionally observant lifestyle, and I often feel like a fraud when I try to do something indicative of a "more religious" background. Finally there's that old, familiar voice in the back of my mind that quietly yet forcefully asserts itself whenever I publicly take on a challenge: Just who do you think you ARE, to do something like that?!
And yet, I really wanted to do this, so a few months ago I slowly taught myself the Eicha trope (thanks, virtualcantor.com!) and set about learning to leyn the first chapter. As soon as Pardes started organizing students to publicly read Eicha, I signed up for perek alef. As the eve of Tisha B'Av drew near, I noticed my excitement and anxiety mounting simultaneously. On the one hand, here was an opportunity to do something profoundly spiritually meaningful within a community I care a lot about...on the other hand, where did I get the audacity to think that I could pull this off--or that I should?
I'm not sure how my leyning sounded to anyone else, but what struck me was the sheer power of hearing my own voice. I wasn't going to win any Grammy Awards for technical brilliance, but I was clear, I was confident, and I was present in that moment with every inch of my being. Who is this person, I wondered, who has so much presence? When did I become someone who would voluntarily become visible and heard?
Over many years in recovery, I have become that person. It is to the credit of the clinicians who have given me the tools to bring myself out of the shadows, and to my family and friends who have motivated me to actually use them. It's thanks to my Pardes teachers and fellow students who have made me feel safe to take risks and secure in the knowledge that, even if I don't know all the answers, I still deserve to be heard.
Given that it was Tisha B'Av, it would probably be a bit inappropriate and inaccurate to say that my leyning experience was enjoyable, but it certainly was powerful. There was profound meaning in hearing my own voice chant the history of my people, while looking out over the lights of Jerusalem twinkling in the night sky. Like Jerusalem, there are ways in which I still feel incomplete and less than whole, but there is also undeniable evidence of all the repair and growth I've worked hard to achieve.
May we all continue to heal our broken parts, and may we develop into our most harmonious selves, ready to project our voices out into the world.
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