Another week in Jerusalem...and what a week it has been! Unless you've been actively avoiding the news, you're probably at least somewhat aware of what people in Israel call, "the Situation." Communities in southern Israel continue to be under rocket fire from Hamas; Palestinian civilians continue to be caught in the crossfire (after basically being put there by their own leadership), and Israeli combat soldiers continue to carry out their ground operation in Gaza, which, tragically, has cost many of them their lives. In a country where everybody knows somebody who is fighting in Gaza, the mood here is tense and anxious as people keep tabs on the news, hoping there will be no more fatalities but knowing that, most likely, there will be.
Personally, I do not have any relatives in the Israeli army, but I do have several good friends whose husbands, brothers, and sons are currently in combat units in Gaza. I cannot even imagine the emotional roller coasters that these friends of mine are on; I don't know how they can successfully focus on activities of daily living while worrying about the safety of their loved ones. But, they do, and for that they have my total admiration. I don't know how I would handle being in their shoes. The truth is, being a watcher has been stressful and painful enough.
Fortunately, after many years of therapy I have learned quite a few "distress tolerance" skills, and during the past couple of weeks I have had many occasions to use them. I'll be honest and admit that, often, the path of least resistance seems to be just immersing myself in the anxiety and sadness, watching the news unfold and worrying about the people I know who are in harm's way...but if I did that, I would be miserable all the time. So, I've turned to my arsenal of distress tolerance strategies, out of which have emerged three favorites:
1) Distraction. For this, I have two main sources to thank: My ulpan program at the Conservative Yeshiva of Jerusalem, and the summer learning program at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies. Between these two programs, I have spent seven hours a day, five days a week, actively engaged in learning both conversational Hebrew and traditional Jewish texts. And, even when I felt like I could not possibly focus on anything other than the Situation, inevitably I would get wrapped up in my studies and would be able to shelve my anxiety, at least temporarily. It helped immensely to know that all of my classmates were experiencing feelings similar to mine. During our breaks or over lunch, we would often talk about our worries and reactions to the news. But, we also talked about other things, giving ourselves the time and space to think about life outside the current war. In times of stress, there really is nothing quite like being connected to people who "get it."
2) Prayer. I'll be totally up front and say that before this summer, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd said tehillim. I didn't really understand how that whole routine worked, and it was just Not My Thing. But, at my therapist's suggestion, I talked to a wonderful teacher of mine about how to use prayer as a way to calm my mind when anxious, obsessive thoughts start to take over. My teacher suggested choosing a favorite passuk or piece of tehillim and repeating it to myself slowly when I started to feel my mind careen out of control. I happened to know exactly one chapter of tehillim (luckily it's a great one!), and over the past week I've tried to recite it both during formal davening and at any time when I start to feel particularly worried about what's going on in Israel and the safety of my friends. It has been especially helpful to think of the names of the soldiers for whose safety I'm praying, and to recite tehillim with them in mind. While I have no conclusive answer as to whether or not this practice works cosmically, I will say that it has helped me a lot in the moment, which is good enough for me!
3) Getting Involved. What I hear Israelis saying over and over (and what I'm also saying) is, "I wish I could do something to help." Thinking positive thoughts is great, but sometimes you just want to roll up your sleeves and physically do something productive to make a tough situation a little bit better. Israelis, I have found, are experts at this. Kids in youth groups are out on the street, getting strangers to donate money and supplies to the soldiers; civilians are collecting food and personally driving it down to the soldiers in Gaza; thousands of people are turning out at the funerals and shivas of soldiers they didn't even know, just so the families feel the love of the entire Jewish community. This morning, I went with a few of my friends to an event at a private home in Jerusalem, where dozens of people had come together to assemble care packages for soldiers in units that have suffered casualties. As we all worked together to pack up army-issue socks and underwear, granola bars, books of tehillim, and t-shirts, people kept commenting on how good it felt to finally be doing something to help. Taking action, it seems, is a remarkably effective way to combat feelings of helplessness and anxiety.
There have been many times over the past few weeks when I've felt almost overcome with sadness, or fear, or worry. But now, as I reflect on the skills I've used, the connections I've made, and the courage I've witnessed, what I feel most of all is love. The news is still heartbreaking, and loved ones are still in danger. But being part of a larger community that works to support each other has made the tough moments easier to bear, and has replaced a lot of the anxiety with feelings of warmth and connection. My heart is full of gratitude to Am Yisrael, and I wish us all a truly peaceful, quiet, Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
For the Watchers
Shabbat shalom from Jerusalem!
It has been a beautiful week in many ways. I've continued exploring and debating texts in my classes at the Pardes Institute, and I also began an ulpan program that has empowered me to feel ever so slightly more proficient in Hebrew. I spent some quality time with some special teachers of mine, got to snuggle a baby, and had a glorious reunion with two friends I hadn't seen in a year or more. Also, the weather has been close to perfect. So, that's all wonderful.
And yet.
As I write this, Israeli troops are waging a ground operation in Gaza; one IDF soldier has already been killed and several more have been injured. Nearly every time I've checked my phone in the past week and a half, I have seen a notification that another rocket was launched from Gaza into Israel. I've seen and read reports of the suffering of the Palestinians in Gaza who are trapped, largely by their own leadership, in what seems to be a hopeless situation. And, I've watched as a ceasefire agreement failed and took with it the possibility of peace and quiet for civilians on both sides of the conflict. Added to all of this has been the seemingly endless stream of status updates on Facebook and other media posted by people who, most of the time, have very strong opinions despite not having many facts. Although my life has gone on relatively uninterrupted in Jerusalem (thank G-d!), there is a part of my brain that is always occupied with the larger struggle in which Israel is enveloped.
It is painful to watch, all the more so because I know there isn't really anything I can do to help as an American citizen who is only here for five weeks. I'm not in the army, nor do I have any other skills which would potentially be useful in this conflict. I can't bring aid to soldiers, nor can I offer shelter to families who are under near constant fire in southern Israel. My contributions have basically been limited to donating food to the Pina Chama, a soldiers' rest stop in the West Bank, and trying to daven with a little more kavannah aimed at the current situation. While I know that "every little bit helps," it still feels like a small drop in a very large bucket. I have realized, over the past two weeks, how emotionally challenging it is to be relegated to the role of a bystander while people (and a place) you love are suffering.
As I've struggled with the task of watching a problem unfold in front of me without being able to do anything to "fix it," I've thought over and over again about the parallels between that situation and that of parents who are watching their child struggle with an eating disorder. In the work that I do as a co-facilitator of a support group for parents and loved ones of individuals with eating disorders, I hear on a weekly basis about the sense of powerlessness, fear, anger, and anxiety that these parents feel. How excruciating it must be to watch the suffering of your child, the person whom you love most in this world! Parents, despite their purest positive intentions, cannot fix eating disorders. They can't eat for their children, provide "quick fix" therapy, or relieve the problem with any manner of rational discourse. All they can really do is love their children, provide support whenever possible...and watch, as their children do battle on the front lines. As I reflect on the many years in which my parents were stuck being witnesses to my struggle against anorexia, I can honestly say that although my work was grueling, painful, and exhausting, I think their role was just as agonizing. Although bystanders are held back from the actual combat, they are forced to watch the suffering of those they love...and being a watcher comes with a pain all its own.
Going into this Shabbat, I am going to continue to try my best to support this country I love from the sidelines. I will pray for the safety and security of the Israeli soldiers, as well as for the protection of civilians, Israeli and Palestinian alike. I will also take this opportunity to publicly thank my parents for enduring the challenge of watching for so many years, and for never once wavering in their support. And, for all the parents out there who wish they could do more to move their children along toward recovery...sometimes, the best you can do is let your children know you are in it with them for the long haul, that you love them and won't give up on them, and that you stand ready to do whatever you can to support them. I wish that you and your children find some peace in the process of recovery and that you can resume your full lives with energy and joy.
May this be a peaceful and quiet Shabbat for all.
It has been a beautiful week in many ways. I've continued exploring and debating texts in my classes at the Pardes Institute, and I also began an ulpan program that has empowered me to feel ever so slightly more proficient in Hebrew. I spent some quality time with some special teachers of mine, got to snuggle a baby, and had a glorious reunion with two friends I hadn't seen in a year or more. Also, the weather has been close to perfect. So, that's all wonderful.
And yet.
As I write this, Israeli troops are waging a ground operation in Gaza; one IDF soldier has already been killed and several more have been injured. Nearly every time I've checked my phone in the past week and a half, I have seen a notification that another rocket was launched from Gaza into Israel. I've seen and read reports of the suffering of the Palestinians in Gaza who are trapped, largely by their own leadership, in what seems to be a hopeless situation. And, I've watched as a ceasefire agreement failed and took with it the possibility of peace and quiet for civilians on both sides of the conflict. Added to all of this has been the seemingly endless stream of status updates on Facebook and other media posted by people who, most of the time, have very strong opinions despite not having many facts. Although my life has gone on relatively uninterrupted in Jerusalem (thank G-d!), there is a part of my brain that is always occupied with the larger struggle in which Israel is enveloped.
It is painful to watch, all the more so because I know there isn't really anything I can do to help as an American citizen who is only here for five weeks. I'm not in the army, nor do I have any other skills which would potentially be useful in this conflict. I can't bring aid to soldiers, nor can I offer shelter to families who are under near constant fire in southern Israel. My contributions have basically been limited to donating food to the Pina Chama, a soldiers' rest stop in the West Bank, and trying to daven with a little more kavannah aimed at the current situation. While I know that "every little bit helps," it still feels like a small drop in a very large bucket. I have realized, over the past two weeks, how emotionally challenging it is to be relegated to the role of a bystander while people (and a place) you love are suffering.
As I've struggled with the task of watching a problem unfold in front of me without being able to do anything to "fix it," I've thought over and over again about the parallels between that situation and that of parents who are watching their child struggle with an eating disorder. In the work that I do as a co-facilitator of a support group for parents and loved ones of individuals with eating disorders, I hear on a weekly basis about the sense of powerlessness, fear, anger, and anxiety that these parents feel. How excruciating it must be to watch the suffering of your child, the person whom you love most in this world! Parents, despite their purest positive intentions, cannot fix eating disorders. They can't eat for their children, provide "quick fix" therapy, or relieve the problem with any manner of rational discourse. All they can really do is love their children, provide support whenever possible...and watch, as their children do battle on the front lines. As I reflect on the many years in which my parents were stuck being witnesses to my struggle against anorexia, I can honestly say that although my work was grueling, painful, and exhausting, I think their role was just as agonizing. Although bystanders are held back from the actual combat, they are forced to watch the suffering of those they love...and being a watcher comes with a pain all its own.
Going into this Shabbat, I am going to continue to try my best to support this country I love from the sidelines. I will pray for the safety and security of the Israeli soldiers, as well as for the protection of civilians, Israeli and Palestinian alike. I will also take this opportunity to publicly thank my parents for enduring the challenge of watching for so many years, and for never once wavering in their support. And, for all the parents out there who wish they could do more to move their children along toward recovery...sometimes, the best you can do is let your children know you are in it with them for the long haul, that you love them and won't give up on them, and that you stand ready to do whatever you can to support them. I wish that you and your children find some peace in the process of recovery and that you can resume your full lives with energy and joy.
May this be a peaceful and quiet Shabbat for all.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
The Holding
Shalom from...Jerusalem! Thank G-d, once again I have been fortunate to come to Israel during my summer break from teaching. The past two weeks have been full of packing, worrying, flying, overcoming jet-lag, and gleefully running into the arms of friends and teachers I hadn't seen in months, or, in many cases, a full year. (For those of you whom I haven't yet seen...fear not, I'm coming for you!)
If you've been following the news, you know that this is not an easy time for Israel. As always, the issues are complex and trying to untangle them is a little like peeling an onion--as soon as you get through one layer, there's another one right underneath. But here's a very brief synopsis of one heartbreaking layer of that onion: On June 12, three Jewish Israeli teenage boys--Eyal, Naftali, and Gil-ad, were kidnapped while attempting to go home to their respective families for Shabbat. The boys were hitchhiking from a well-known hitchhiking stop in Gush Etzion (a common means of traveling in Israel), when they were picked up by men who turned out to be Palestinian terrorists. For the next eighteen days, the boys' families and friends waited anxiously for news while the Israeli military worked round the clock to locate the missing children. During this time, the entire Jewish community--not just in Gush Etzion, not just in Israel, but in the entire world--mobilized to support the boys and their families through whatever means possible, most often prayer or other acts of dedicated religious practice. Ultimately, though, the boys were found dead; apparently they were murdered by their kidnappers not long after they were abducted.
I arrived in Israel the morning of the funerals. Needless to say, since then, it has been hard for a day to go by without hearing someone mention the heartrending loss of Eyal, Naftali, and Gil-ad. It has also been a little bit disconcerting to walk into a country steeped in mourning and grappling with the aftermath of tragedy. But what has stood out to me most dramatically is the way the community has truly come together to hold and support one another through their individual and collective grief. Israelis of all stripes have closed ranks around the boys' families, reaching out with prayers and letters of support, knowing that they can do nothing to lessen the families' grief but being compelled to share in it, nonetheless. The families, in turn, have opened their arms back out to the community by being willing to receive all the energy and love coming at them. The result is a beautiful, collective holding.
Being held. How much more elemental does it get, really? We all need to know that we have people in our lives who will help us bear our emotions, who will get down in the trenches with us and help us weather the storm. No matter how introverted or independent we believe we are, we still have a basic, profound need to be held--and, I would venture, to be held by people beyond our immediate family members. We need friends, we need a network--no matter how small--that we can count on to catch us when we begin to crumble to the ground. When that need goes unacknowledged or unsatisfied, the results can be devastating: depression, isolation, self-injury, addiction, shame...the list goes on. Personally, the way I dealt with feeling unheld was by using food rituals and exercise to "hold myself." When there was no one in my daily life I could go to, I went to the gym instead. When I had no friends to chase away the loneliness, I filled the void with intricate and much-anticipated eating routines. It was a valiant effort, but it didn't work. It turns out, there is no substitute for being held.
A central part of my recovery has been seeking out relationships with people who will hold me, and whom I can hold. There is nothing more comforting than feeling the warmth of someone's support when I am in a time of need. As I've watched the people of Israel hold each other the past few weeks, I've become acutely aware of the ways in which this land, and the people in it, hold me, as well. The sheer natural beauty of this place cradles me when I need an escape from heavy thoughts. My teachers nurture my spiritual growth; they receive my questions openly and offer guidance and love as I make my way through this world. And my friends prove to me, over and over again, that I am as important to them as they are to me; that we are here for each other, no matter the distance between us. Food and exercise can never, ever compete with that. Being held is the best.
And so, during my time in Israel, I am going to enjoy the experience of being held by this unique and wondrous land I call my second home, and by the radiant, passionate people I call my chosen family. I wish that ALL of us allow ourselves access to the warmth and security of being held. There truly is nothing better.
If you've been following the news, you know that this is not an easy time for Israel. As always, the issues are complex and trying to untangle them is a little like peeling an onion--as soon as you get through one layer, there's another one right underneath. But here's a very brief synopsis of one heartbreaking layer of that onion: On June 12, three Jewish Israeli teenage boys--Eyal, Naftali, and Gil-ad, were kidnapped while attempting to go home to their respective families for Shabbat. The boys were hitchhiking from a well-known hitchhiking stop in Gush Etzion (a common means of traveling in Israel), when they were picked up by men who turned out to be Palestinian terrorists. For the next eighteen days, the boys' families and friends waited anxiously for news while the Israeli military worked round the clock to locate the missing children. During this time, the entire Jewish community--not just in Gush Etzion, not just in Israel, but in the entire world--mobilized to support the boys and their families through whatever means possible, most often prayer or other acts of dedicated religious practice. Ultimately, though, the boys were found dead; apparently they were murdered by their kidnappers not long after they were abducted.
I arrived in Israel the morning of the funerals. Needless to say, since then, it has been hard for a day to go by without hearing someone mention the heartrending loss of Eyal, Naftali, and Gil-ad. It has also been a little bit disconcerting to walk into a country steeped in mourning and grappling with the aftermath of tragedy. But what has stood out to me most dramatically is the way the community has truly come together to hold and support one another through their individual and collective grief. Israelis of all stripes have closed ranks around the boys' families, reaching out with prayers and letters of support, knowing that they can do nothing to lessen the families' grief but being compelled to share in it, nonetheless. The families, in turn, have opened their arms back out to the community by being willing to receive all the energy and love coming at them. The result is a beautiful, collective holding.
Being held. How much more elemental does it get, really? We all need to know that we have people in our lives who will help us bear our emotions, who will get down in the trenches with us and help us weather the storm. No matter how introverted or independent we believe we are, we still have a basic, profound need to be held--and, I would venture, to be held by people beyond our immediate family members. We need friends, we need a network--no matter how small--that we can count on to catch us when we begin to crumble to the ground. When that need goes unacknowledged or unsatisfied, the results can be devastating: depression, isolation, self-injury, addiction, shame...the list goes on. Personally, the way I dealt with feeling unheld was by using food rituals and exercise to "hold myself." When there was no one in my daily life I could go to, I went to the gym instead. When I had no friends to chase away the loneliness, I filled the void with intricate and much-anticipated eating routines. It was a valiant effort, but it didn't work. It turns out, there is no substitute for being held.
A central part of my recovery has been seeking out relationships with people who will hold me, and whom I can hold. There is nothing more comforting than feeling the warmth of someone's support when I am in a time of need. As I've watched the people of Israel hold each other the past few weeks, I've become acutely aware of the ways in which this land, and the people in it, hold me, as well. The sheer natural beauty of this place cradles me when I need an escape from heavy thoughts. My teachers nurture my spiritual growth; they receive my questions openly and offer guidance and love as I make my way through this world. And my friends prove to me, over and over again, that I am as important to them as they are to me; that we are here for each other, no matter the distance between us. Food and exercise can never, ever compete with that. Being held is the best.
And so, during my time in Israel, I am going to enjoy the experience of being held by this unique and wondrous land I call my second home, and by the radiant, passionate people I call my chosen family. I wish that ALL of us allow ourselves access to the warmth and security of being held. There truly is nothing better.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Order and Chaos
Apologies for the relatively long, post-less stretch...I've been enveloped by the End of School Year Craze and everything that goes with it. After seemingly endless hours typing progress reports for all of my students, the idea of sitting at a computer to write anything else just seemed...unappealing. But, I'm back, and I'm bringing with me some ideas that have been percolating for a while!
I wrote my last post after attending a shiur given by Rav Avi Weiss, the Rosh HaYeshiva of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah and the founder of Yeshivat Maharat in New York City. In case you haven't been following all the infighting taking place within Orthodox Jewry, I'll summarize very briefly by saying that Rav Avi Weiss has been at the center of a fair amount of controversy. He promotes "Open Orthodoxy," a movement of Modern Orthodoxy that emphasizes adherence to Halacha while also supporting innovation and flexibility, particularly in the area of women's involvement in Jewish ritual and practice. Yeshivat Maharat is the first American institution to ordain Orthodox women as Halachic authorities and spiritual leaders. Needless to say, all this innovation and flexibility doesn't sit so well with many members of mainstream Orthodoxy, and Rav Weiss has received a lot of criticism from many rabbinic leaders, including the Chief Rabbinate of Israel.
As I listened to Rav Weiss speak, I was struck not only by what he was actually talking about in that moment, but also by the realization that there, in front of me, was a man who was not afraid to have people disagree with him. His presence was gentle and humble, but also forceful. He is a man who stands by his principles and explores new territory, and when people push back, he holds his ground and keeps going. Say what you want about his positions on various issues, but you can't argue with the fact that Rav Avi Weiss does not let himself be swayed by disapproval. That is a quality I do not have...and one that I really admire.
On Shavuot, I read an essay by Rav Abraham Isaac Kook titled, "Souls of Chaos," in which he describes the profound inspiration and energy of people who dare to destroy the status quo in an effort to raise humanity to a higher level. Rav Kook explains, "The conventional pattern of living, based on propriety, on the requisites of good character and conformity to law--this corresponds to the way of the world of order. Every rebellion against this, whether inspired by levity or by the stirring of a higher spirit, reflects the world of chaos." He then goes on to explain that although people who prefer the world of order are often afraid of those who bring chaos and cannot tolerate their disruptiveness, the truth is that chaos is a necessary ingredient for the perfection of the world. According to Rav Kook, "These storms will bring fructifying rain, these dark clouds will pave the way for great light, as the prophet envisioned it: 'And the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity and out of darkness' (Isa. 29:18)."
I try to avoid making absolute statements, but I'll say that I am 99.9% firmly within the world of order. I like to please people; I don't like to invite disapproval or disagreement. I love rules and predictability, and I am not what one would call a "trailblazer." If I happen to have a point of view that diverges from that of the group, I might stick to it in my head but I certainly will be quiet about it. It is, I have found, just easier that way.
Easier, yes. But not very inspiring.
What Rav Kook is saying, and what Rav Weiss is demonstrating, is that we need people who are not afraid to make waves, because they are the change makers. If there was no one brave enough to stand up against the status quo and say, "I disagree--and I think I have a better way," how would we ever make progress? We don't need to live in a chaotic world, but we do need a little bit of chaos interspersed among the order, because by shaking up the landscape we make room for new growth. Similarly, within our own selves we need an element of change and disruption in order for us to break out of our patterns and stretch in new ways. Obviously, being 100% chaos is going to be a problem...but so is being 100% order.
I am probably never going to be one of Rav Kook's "souls of chaos," nor am I likely to ever be as confident in the face of disapproval as Rav Avi Weiss. But I like to think that I can learn from both of these men and give myself permission to experiment with making some small waves in safe places. Even if I continue to prefer conformity, I don't have to be afraid to go against the current now and then. Although I am comfortable in my habits and like the predictability of routines, I am allowed to "break my own rules" when doing so feels positive and exciting. I'll be honest: residing completely within the world of order has worked in some ways, and cost me dearly in others. It might be time to search out more of a middle ground.
We don't have to leave a trail of destruction in our wake, but perhaps the take-away here is that when we do find ourselves face to face with a little bit of chaos, we don't need to run and hide immediately. We can check it out, try it on, see how it feels. Who knows--maybe a little shake-up is exactly what we need.
I wrote my last post after attending a shiur given by Rav Avi Weiss, the Rosh HaYeshiva of Yeshivat Chovevei Torah and the founder of Yeshivat Maharat in New York City. In case you haven't been following all the infighting taking place within Orthodox Jewry, I'll summarize very briefly by saying that Rav Avi Weiss has been at the center of a fair amount of controversy. He promotes "Open Orthodoxy," a movement of Modern Orthodoxy that emphasizes adherence to Halacha while also supporting innovation and flexibility, particularly in the area of women's involvement in Jewish ritual and practice. Yeshivat Maharat is the first American institution to ordain Orthodox women as Halachic authorities and spiritual leaders. Needless to say, all this innovation and flexibility doesn't sit so well with many members of mainstream Orthodoxy, and Rav Weiss has received a lot of criticism from many rabbinic leaders, including the Chief Rabbinate of Israel.
As I listened to Rav Weiss speak, I was struck not only by what he was actually talking about in that moment, but also by the realization that there, in front of me, was a man who was not afraid to have people disagree with him. His presence was gentle and humble, but also forceful. He is a man who stands by his principles and explores new territory, and when people push back, he holds his ground and keeps going. Say what you want about his positions on various issues, but you can't argue with the fact that Rav Avi Weiss does not let himself be swayed by disapproval. That is a quality I do not have...and one that I really admire.
On Shavuot, I read an essay by Rav Abraham Isaac Kook titled, "Souls of Chaos," in which he describes the profound inspiration and energy of people who dare to destroy the status quo in an effort to raise humanity to a higher level. Rav Kook explains, "The conventional pattern of living, based on propriety, on the requisites of good character and conformity to law--this corresponds to the way of the world of order. Every rebellion against this, whether inspired by levity or by the stirring of a higher spirit, reflects the world of chaos." He then goes on to explain that although people who prefer the world of order are often afraid of those who bring chaos and cannot tolerate their disruptiveness, the truth is that chaos is a necessary ingredient for the perfection of the world. According to Rav Kook, "These storms will bring fructifying rain, these dark clouds will pave the way for great light, as the prophet envisioned it: 'And the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity and out of darkness' (Isa. 29:18)."
I try to avoid making absolute statements, but I'll say that I am 99.9% firmly within the world of order. I like to please people; I don't like to invite disapproval or disagreement. I love rules and predictability, and I am not what one would call a "trailblazer." If I happen to have a point of view that diverges from that of the group, I might stick to it in my head but I certainly will be quiet about it. It is, I have found, just easier that way.
Easier, yes. But not very inspiring.
What Rav Kook is saying, and what Rav Weiss is demonstrating, is that we need people who are not afraid to make waves, because they are the change makers. If there was no one brave enough to stand up against the status quo and say, "I disagree--and I think I have a better way," how would we ever make progress? We don't need to live in a chaotic world, but we do need a little bit of chaos interspersed among the order, because by shaking up the landscape we make room for new growth. Similarly, within our own selves we need an element of change and disruption in order for us to break out of our patterns and stretch in new ways. Obviously, being 100% chaos is going to be a problem...but so is being 100% order.
I am probably never going to be one of Rav Kook's "souls of chaos," nor am I likely to ever be as confident in the face of disapproval as Rav Avi Weiss. But I like to think that I can learn from both of these men and give myself permission to experiment with making some small waves in safe places. Even if I continue to prefer conformity, I don't have to be afraid to go against the current now and then. Although I am comfortable in my habits and like the predictability of routines, I am allowed to "break my own rules" when doing so feels positive and exciting. I'll be honest: residing completely within the world of order has worked in some ways, and cost me dearly in others. It might be time to search out more of a middle ground.
We don't have to leave a trail of destruction in our wake, but perhaps the take-away here is that when we do find ourselves face to face with a little bit of chaos, we don't need to run and hide immediately. We can check it out, try it on, see how it feels. Who knows--maybe a little shake-up is exactly what we need.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
"I" of Destiny
www.newyorker.com
Fortunately, two weeks ago I had the opportunity to attend a shiur by Rav Avi Weiss, and have been thinking about it ever since. His topic was, "Fate and Destiny: Coping with Adversity." I almost blogged about it right away, but instead chose to hold onto it until closer to my birthday, when I felt I would most need its message of empowerment--and would be most excited to share it.
Rav Avi Weiss packed so much meaning packed into that shiur, but what resonated with me most was when he made the following point: when a person struggles, it is normal for that person to ask, "Why?" But perhaps that is not the most effective question. Maybe instead of asking, "Why?" one should ask, "What now?"
To flesh out this idea, Rav Weiss brought a quote from Rav Soloveitchik's work, Fate and Destiny. Rav Soloveitchik views the human being as having two "I"s: the "I" of fate, and the "I" of destiny. Here is how he explains his concept of an "Existence of Destiny":
In short, the "I" of fate asks a speculative metaphysical question with regard to evil, and this question is not susceptible to solution and has no answer.
In the second dimension of man's existence, destiny, the question of suffering takes on new form. What is an, "Existence of Destiny?"
This is an active existence in which man confronts the environment into which he was cast with an understanding of his uniqueness, value, freedom and capacity without compromising his integrity and independence in his struggle with the outside. The slogan of the "I" of destiny is, "Against your will you are born, and against your will you die [but with your free will do you live]." Man is born as an object, dies as an object, but it is within his capacity to live as a "subject" -- as a creator who impresses on his life his individual imprimatur and who lives autonomously. According to Judaism, man's mission in his world is to turn fate into destiny--an existence that is passive and influenced, to an existence that is active and influential; an existence of compulsion, perplexity, and speechlessness, to an existence full of will and initiative.
Wow.
There is just so much I love about this, relating to both the specific challenge of struggling against adversity, and to the more general concepts of self-determination and empowerment. I feel that so much of recovery connects strongly to Rav Soloveitchik's idea of turning "an existence that is passive and influenced, to an existence that is active and influential; an existence of compulsion, perplexity, and speechlessness, to an existence full of will and initiative." And, what better time to reflect on my own commitment to this endeavor, than my birthday?
In what ways am I actively shaping my own destiny?
In what ways am I still being too passive?
In the coming year, how can I live more authentically as the "subject" of my own life?
We can all benefit from asking ourselves these questions--it's the ongoing work of recovery. So, even if it isn't anywhere near your birthday, I (gently) challenge you to think about how Rav Soloveitchik's ideas apply to your own journey through life. How can you wake up your "I" of destiny?
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Hatikvah
A few evenings ago, I had the opportunity to attend a lecture given by Rabbi Sharon Shalom, an Ethiopian-born Jew who emigrated to Israel, where he later received his rabbinic ordination. Rabbi Shalom spoke about his childhood in Ethiopia and his long, treacherous journey to Israel. Throughout his lecture, which he peppered with humorous anecdotes and insights into Ethiopian Jewish culture, Rabbi Shalom maintained a focus on hope. Time and time again, he quoted three lines from "Hatikvah," the Israeli national anthem:
Kol od balevav penimah
As long as within the heart
Nefesh yehudi homiyah
A Jewish soul still yearns
Od lo avdah tikvateinu
Our hope is not yet lost
Rabbi Shalom referenced these words as he described sitting with his grandfather in Ethiopia, listening to the old man tell him and his friends about Jerusalem. At one point, he asked his grandfather, "Which way is Jerusalem?" to which his grandfather basically replied, "Go straight." So, the next morning, Shalom and a friend of his snuck out of their village and started to run in the direction his grandfather had indicated. They ran for hours, these two little kids, expecting--hoping--to get to Jerusalem. When Shalom and his family eventually did begin their real journey to Israel, it involved a months-long, dangerous walk to Sudan, in which many people died. Because they felt Shalom would have the best chance of success in Israel if he went alone with other children, his parents sent him by himself while they remained in Sudan for several more years. A young boy going to a new country, alone, yet full of hope…because he was finally going to get to Jerusalem.
There were many, many "take-aways" from Rabbi Sharon Shalom's lecture, and a major one was definitely this: Giving up is not the Jewish way.
A few years ago, I wrote about the Talmudic quote, "Eretz Yisrael is earned through hardships." In that post, I addressed the question: If recovery is my metaphorical Land of Israel, how much am I willing to struggle to get there? How much hope in my own recovery am I able to hold…and how much energy am I willing to expend in order to make that hope a reality?
In order to get to Eretz Yisrael, the answer had to be: Whatever it takes. I am not giving up, and I am willing to do whatever it takes. As long as I have hope, I'm still in this game.
Rabbi Sharon Shalom literally walked through a war zone in order to get to Israel. His story is dramatic and exceptional, but it is not the only one of its kind. Our collective history as Jews is full of individuals who fought against tremendous odds and maintained hope in the face of extreme hardship. Hope--and a sense of agency--is our cultural legacy, and we need to use it. The road of recovery is full of challenges. But remember, as long as you have hope and are willing to act on it, you can go all the way.
We're Jews, and we don't give up.
A few years ago, I wrote about the Talmudic quote, "Eretz Yisrael is earned through hardships." In that post, I addressed the question: If recovery is my metaphorical Land of Israel, how much am I willing to struggle to get there? How much hope in my own recovery am I able to hold…and how much energy am I willing to expend in order to make that hope a reality?
In order to get to Eretz Yisrael, the answer had to be: Whatever it takes. I am not giving up, and I am willing to do whatever it takes. As long as I have hope, I'm still in this game.
Rabbi Sharon Shalom literally walked through a war zone in order to get to Israel. His story is dramatic and exceptional, but it is not the only one of its kind. Our collective history as Jews is full of individuals who fought against tremendous odds and maintained hope in the face of extreme hardship. Hope--and a sense of agency--is our cultural legacy, and we need to use it. The road of recovery is full of challenges. But remember, as long as you have hope and are willing to act on it, you can go all the way.
Kol od balevav penimah
Nefesh yehudi homiyah
Od lo avdah tikvateinu
Friday, April 25, 2014
The Self-Love Conundrum
As the name suggests, this week's parasha, Kedoshim, is full of mitzvot intended to elevate the Jewish people toward holiness. Included are many prohibitions that make inherent sense ("You shall not steal," "You shall not place a stumbling block before the blind," etc) and some that don't (shaatnez, anyone?). But there is also that most famous of mitzvot, the one that is so important that Hillel felt it encapsulates the entire Torah: "You shall love your fellow as yourself." (Vayikra 19:18)
This commandment may be fundamental, but it does beg the question: what if you don't love yourself?
For anyone who has ever struggled with low self-esteem or self-worth, the obstacle before this mitzvah is obvious. It sounds so basic, but the truth is that self-love can be elusive…and if you don't love yourself, can you really feel love toward another person?
Let's examine what it really means to love someone. In an article based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Yanki Tauber asserts that there are two components of love: respect and care. When we love a person, we must respect that person for who he or she is, and at the same time we need to care for that person and want the best for him or her. This requires an honest assessment of the person: what does he need? What is she lacking? Then, love means helping that person overcome his or her shortcomings and become his or her best self.
What I find most powerful about this is the understanding that "love" requires honest critique and acknowledgement of faults. It does not mean that we have to think the other person is perfect, just as she is. The same is true with self-love. If I love myself, that doesn't mean I have to think I have no weaknesses or deficits. It means I have to respect myself where I am at, acknowledge the struggles, and care for myself by helping myself overcome them. That is how we should love ourselves, and that is how we should love others.
In her article called, "Why Hasn't the Self-Esteem Movement Given Us Self-Esteem?" Chana Weisberg reinforces the importance of remembering that Hashem, Who is the source of all goodness, created each individual person on earth--including you. This means that each person, including you, has goodness at his or her core. Whether or not you choose to acknowledge or act on your goodness, the goodness remains and is independent of your achievements, skills, or how others think about you. You are good, simply because you are. That doesn't mean that everything you do is good. But it does mean that at your core is a spark of holiness that can never be erased. If you can acknowledge that spark within yourself, it opens the door for you to see it in others, too.
In my journey toward self-love, I have often turned to the work of "vulnerability and shame researcher" Brené Brown (not Jewish, but definitely relevant!). One of my favorite quotes of hers is:
"You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging."
It's all true. I am imperfect, and yet at the same time I am worthy of love, from others and from myself. I think this is the kind of love mentioned in this week's parasha: love that acknowledges faults and reaches beyond them to the fundamental goodness in every person. May we experience that love for ourselves, and also extend it to others.
Shabbat shalom!
This commandment may be fundamental, but it does beg the question: what if you don't love yourself?
For anyone who has ever struggled with low self-esteem or self-worth, the obstacle before this mitzvah is obvious. It sounds so basic, but the truth is that self-love can be elusive…and if you don't love yourself, can you really feel love toward another person?
Let's examine what it really means to love someone. In an article based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Yanki Tauber asserts that there are two components of love: respect and care. When we love a person, we must respect that person for who he or she is, and at the same time we need to care for that person and want the best for him or her. This requires an honest assessment of the person: what does he need? What is she lacking? Then, love means helping that person overcome his or her shortcomings and become his or her best self.
What I find most powerful about this is the understanding that "love" requires honest critique and acknowledgement of faults. It does not mean that we have to think the other person is perfect, just as she is. The same is true with self-love. If I love myself, that doesn't mean I have to think I have no weaknesses or deficits. It means I have to respect myself where I am at, acknowledge the struggles, and care for myself by helping myself overcome them. That is how we should love ourselves, and that is how we should love others.
In her article called, "Why Hasn't the Self-Esteem Movement Given Us Self-Esteem?" Chana Weisberg reinforces the importance of remembering that Hashem, Who is the source of all goodness, created each individual person on earth--including you. This means that each person, including you, has goodness at his or her core. Whether or not you choose to acknowledge or act on your goodness, the goodness remains and is independent of your achievements, skills, or how others think about you. You are good, simply because you are. That doesn't mean that everything you do is good. But it does mean that at your core is a spark of holiness that can never be erased. If you can acknowledge that spark within yourself, it opens the door for you to see it in others, too.
In my journey toward self-love, I have often turned to the work of "vulnerability and shame researcher" Brené Brown (not Jewish, but definitely relevant!). One of my favorite quotes of hers is:
"You are imperfect, you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging."
It's all true. I am imperfect, and yet at the same time I am worthy of love, from others and from myself. I think this is the kind of love mentioned in this week's parasha: love that acknowledges faults and reaches beyond them to the fundamental goodness in every person. May we experience that love for ourselves, and also extend it to others.
Shabbat shalom!
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