Being Holey

You guys. I just finished the most AMAZING book:

www.goodreads.com

Not "amazing" as in, best writing I've ever seen, but "amazing" as in, Oh my G-d, this book understands me. I feel held by this book.

The plot lines of Glennon's life and my life don't really have much in common, but the subtexts sure do. Though I can't relate to being a wife and mother, I absolutely can relate to being mired in self-destruction and having to claw oneself out, only to discover that, Hey, adulting is hard. Life is hard. But life is also beautiful.

In one essay, Glennon writes about how we all live our lives searching for something. We each have an "unquenchable thirst," what author Anne Lamott calls our "God-sized hole." The struggle of life is trying to find things to fill this hole. Some people choose, perhaps obviously, to fill it with G-d. Other people fill it with work or relationships. And still other people, like Glennon and I, fill it with eating disorders and addiction. It all goes to the same purpose: feeling full. It's just that some people seek fullness from the wrong things.

When I think back to my eating disorder years, the word that first comes to mind is, hunger. There was physical hunger for sure, but there was also a deeper, more agonizing emotional hunger. I could satisfy my physical hunger, but the emotional hunger was never, ever satisfied. It just kept burning, and the hole kept growing, and I kept trying to fill it with more of the same things that weren't working: more starving, more exercising, more studying. In recovery, I've had to find different hole-fillers. My favorites are: work, nature, reading, writing, family, and friends. Those work much better. For me, recovery has been about finding positive hole-fillers, and using them regularly.

I don't think it's any coincidence that I became religious soon after letting go of my eating disorder. I had a huge hole to fill, and observant Judaism is a great hole-filler. It has given me structure and rules, a context within which to meet people, and a basis from which to define my values. And, it has given me a deeper connection to G-d, one of my greatest comforts (and challenges). I have known for a long time that my attraction to the religious life isn't purely a desire to live a "holy life"--it's a desire to fill the hole, albeit with something meaningful and nourishing. I don't think that's such a bad thing.

To an extent, it has worked, though I can't honestly say that Judaism and G-d fill me completely. They don't, though sometimes I feel like they should. I daven every day, I observe Shabbat, I keep kosher, I say dozens of brachot daily, and G-d and I have a chat every night before bed. It's soulful and lovely. But here's the thing: the hole is still there. I am still hungry, still seeking. You'd think that G-d would perfectly fill a "God-sized hole," but, at least in my case, it hasn't really worked out that way. And I think it's because, with very rare exceptions, we need other people. A person cannot subsist on G-d alone. And so when I feel hungry these days, in spite of the davening and the chatting with Hashem, I have a more honest assessment of what I need: more connection and more belonging. That is my work right now in recovery--getting myself those things. 

Glennon explains it this way:

"Some people of faith swear that their God-shaped hole was filled when they found God, or Jesus, or meditation, or whatever else. I believe them, but that's not been my experience. My experience has been that even with God, life is hard. It's hard just because it's hard being holey."

I couldn't agree more.

And what I've learned from Glennon through her writing is that everyone is holey. We all are.  While our instinct might be to stay quiet about our holes, we really should be doing the opposite, because being holey is something we can connect over. I know that when my friends come to me with their holes, when they say, I'm so lonely, or, I don't feel like I'm doing anything meaningful with my time, etc., I feel honored to meet them in their vulnerability, AND I feel energized because those holes are things we can talk about. Connection is a beautiful byproduct of our emptiness.

So if you, too, ever feel like you have a hunger that will never be satisfied, know that you're not alone. It's God-sized, which explains why it feels so big. And we all have one, even the people who hide it well. The secret is that the more we give voice to it, the more we use it to connect to nourishing people and life practices, the more it fills. Little by little. 

Adult Aloneness

Yup, I know. I've been away for a while...readjusting. "Coming down" from being in Israel is always an interesting process and it seems appropriate that it took me pretty much the entire month of Av to work through it. It might have taken longer, but...Starbucks Cold Brew. Secret weapon of champions.

There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.

When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:

"So...did you meet anyone?"

That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.

I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"

At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!

And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:

There is something really wrong with me.

Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.

And yet.

Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.

But maybe I'm not the only one.

I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:

The temple of my adult aloneness. 

YES.

I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.

I think I could make that house into something beautiful.

Biblical Insecurity

I just finished Week 2 at Pardes, another week full of stimulating conversations and interesting learning. In one of my classes, we explored the story of Rachel, focusing on her beauty and how it affected her and her relationships with her husband, Jacob, and her sister, Leah.

For those of you not familiar with the story, Jacob arrives at the home of his uncle, Laban, after fleeing the wrath of his brother, Esau. When Jacob sees Laban's daughter, Rachel, he falls passionately in love with her immediately. Jacob arranges to work for Laban for seven years in exchange for marrying Rachel. But at the last minute, Laban substitutes Rachel's older sister, Leah, for Rachel, explaining that the older sister has to marry before the younger one. Jacob agrees to work for Laban another seven years, at which point he will finally be able to marry Rachel.

The narrative goes on to describe the sisters:

ועיני לאה רכות ורחל היתה יפת–תאר ויפת מראה
"Leah's eyes were weak, but Rachel was beautiful of form and of face." (Bamidbar 29:17)

Rachel's exquisite beauty is why Jacob fell in love with her, and Leah's implied lack of beauty, along with the fact that she played a role in deceiving him, is why Jacob does not desire her. Seeing this, Hashem intervenes:

 וירא יהוה כי–שנואה לאה ויפתח את–רחמה ורחל עקרה
"Now, seeing that Leah was disfavored, Hashem opened her womb, while Rachel was childless." (Bamidbar 29:31)

What follows is a heartbreaking story of sibling rivalry: Leah gives birth to child after child, each time hoping that Jacob will finally love her. Rachel is forced to watch her sister produce all these sons while she herself remains barren, and get so jealous that she has Jacob sleep with her maid in order that she should have a child. Eventually, Hashem grants Rachel her wish and she becomes pregnant herself, having one son and dying during the birth of a second.

As my class discussed this narrative, it became clear that most of my fellow students pitied Leah because she was unloved, and had limited sympathy for Rachel because she was beautiful and therefore the object of Jacob's desire. I found this interesting for two reasons:

1) It mirrors today's attitudes toward women--we feel sympathy for "unattractive" women, while we assume that "beautiful" women have it all.

2) Personally, I had a different view--I felt badly for both sisters. Why? Because it was clear to me that both were deeply insecure, particularly around their attachment to Jacob, the man they shared.

Leah knows she is the unfavored wife and understands that if she isn't going to be loved, at least she can be useful by producing the heirs that Jacob needs. With every birth of a son, she hopes that this will be the child who makes Jacob love her. Because that love never comes, Leah feels pressured to keep bearing children, ultimately giving her maid to Jacob when she herself stops getting pregnant. The bottom line for Leah is this: being loved is best, but being needed is better than being ignored.

Rachel, on the other hand, is the object of Jacob's desire. She knows her own beauty and understands that it is the reason for Jacob's love. But she also knows that she cannot give him what he needs--children. Rachel also recognizes the importance of being needed, because while infatuation can disappear, an heir is forever. Therefore, although Jacob loves her, Rachel does not feel that the relationship is secure until she satisfies his need for children. Her bottom line? A pretty but barren wife is ultimately not essential. She needs to make herself indispensable.

I think I read this narrative in this way because the sisters' insecurity really resonated with me. In many of my relationships, from childhood into adulthood, I have understood that I was not the favorite and could be disposed of at any time. Therefore, I felt I needed to guarantee my place by providing my friends with something they needed. My motto: it is better to be used than ignored. I think Leah and Rachel both understood that to be true.

Shedding that motto has taken a lot of effort and is still a work in progress. I do still carry a bit of belief that unless I offer something useful, my friends will prefer other people over me. But I've discovered that my truest friends like me for who I am, not what I give them. In my best friendships, the relationship is its own reward--I do not have to continuously supply other incentives. But that sense of security in relationships--and the knowledge that I deserve it--is something I've had to cultivate slowly over time, and it is easily threatened by outside competition. Still, I'm working hard to learn that a genuine friendship means that you both love--and need--each other, and that this doesn't disappear just because someone else comes into the picture.

Perhaps the story of Rachel and Leah does teach us about the advantages and disadvantages of beauty, and about humility, and about character. But I think it also teaches us about relationships and how challenging it can be for women to know they have to compete and hustle for love and belonging. I hope we can all do better than our foremothers in navigating those waters, and that we understand our inherent worthiness and lovability.

שבת שלום!

Depression--it's the Pits

You know it's going to be a bad day when one of your first thoughts upon waking is, "I hate this."  Never mind that you might not even be sure what "this" is--you're in a Mood, and the Color of the Day is grey.

Maybe you manage to get yourself to work or school where task-driven adrenaline propels you along as the ever-competent person you are, but behind the smiles and efficiency is the thought, "I will not make it through this day." But, of course, you do, because what is the alternative, really?  The more you get done, the more overwhelmed you become by all that there is yet to do, even once you finally get home ("Wait...I have to SHOWER?!")  The very IDEA of simply standing under the water is enough to make you curl into the fetal position on the couch and stay there for a good long while.

You probably can't help but notice that everyone else in your life seems happy and well-adjusted (even if you know they really aren't, you still allow yourself to think that they are). And instead of rubbing off on you, everyone else's happiness only makes you feel more alone, more sad, and more discouraged at the state of your own life.

After feeling like this for several days, or weeks, you start to worry that you will be like this forever.  You don't actually want to be dead, but you also don't want to continue on the path that you're on, and change just does not seem in the cards.

That's depression, friends.  I've been there.  And it is the worst.

Even though I spend less time in that state of mind now than I did in the past, I still revisit it every now and then, and even though I know it is time-limited and I know it's just me being out-of-sync biochemically, it is still real and painful--and incredibly isolating.  I thought about that recently while I was in one of these Moods, and I noticed that during the entire two weeks that the depression lasted, I did not ask any of my friends for help in the moments when I needed it.  That led me to wonder, Why is it so hard to ask for what we need?

Personally, I can think of several answers.  To start, depression is too hard to explain. What can you really say to convey to someone how awful you feel despite the fact that your life is objectively not so bad?  And then, there's the issue of how your "neediness" will be received. Sure, there is the potential for empathy, but there is also the risk of being told some version of, "You're too much for me"...and if you're anything like me, that does not always seem like a risk worth taking.

Last week, as I struggled with the question of, "to tell, or not to tell," I came across a bit of wisdom by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, in his book, A Code of Jewish Ethics, Vol. 2.  He cites a story of some peasants who were drinking in a tavern, and one peasant asked another, "Tell me, do you love me or don't you love me?" The other peasant said that he did love the first peasant, to which the first peasant replied, "You say that you love me, but you do not know what I need.  If you really loved me, you would know."  The lesson?  That loving another person means knowing his or her needs and offering help without being asked.  In response to this story, Rabbi Telushkin says the following:

"One day, though, it occurred to me that the second peasant might truly have loved his friend, but just didn't know what was bothering him or precisely what he needed.  Indeed, how many people who know you--and who may well love you--might not be aware of all the things that cause you to be upset or sad?...perhaps the first peasant should have told his friend what he needed or what was troubling him and thereby offered him the chance to be helpful and empathetic."

I can see the wisdom in this...after all, when my friends come to me with their sadness or troubles, it feels very satisfying and rewarding to be able to offer them comfort. In fact, those moments bring us closer together. So why am I denying my friends the same opportunity?

Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of depression, it seems like the best thing to do is to just grit my teeth and push through--because that's what a "strong" person would do.  But Rabbi Telushkin offers another perspective on that misconception, as well, through a short story:

"A little boy was struggling to lift a heavy stone but could not budge it.  The boy's father, who happened to be watching, said to his son, 'Are you using all your strength?'  

'Yes, I am,' the boy said with irritation.

'No, you're not,' the father answered. 'You have not asked me to help you.'"

It's hard to remember, in the moment, that asking for help is a sign of strength--in fact, it's foolish to think we can go it alone.  Maybe that means asking a friend, or a family member, or a therapist...or G-d.  I'll admit that I did not do a good job of this during my most recent foray into depression, but next time (because there will be a next time!) I am going to make it a goal to reach out to at least one friend and try to let her in on how I'm feeling.  I encourage you to do the same...because a little companionship can make anything, even depression, a lot more bearable.

For more on asking for help and responding with empathy, watch this short gem narrated by Dr. Brené Brown. Pretty much nails it.

What About Love?

Recently, I made a new friend--which, let's face it, is something that becomes exponentially more difficult after graduating from college.  I always get excited about new friends, because a) they don't happen that often, and b) I often wish I had more of them.  As a textbook introvert, I have a small number of very close, deep friendships, but I tend to run into trouble when those few friends go out of town or can't be reached by phone.  So, the promise of an authentic bond with a new person feels exciting and refreshing, but also brings along with it some feelings of caution.  Despite my craving for close connection, there were many years in which friendships definitely were not my most successful endeavors.  Even now that I am in recovery, when I enter into a new relationship I always have in the back of my mind the thought, "Don't make the same mistakes you used to make."

During my eating disorder, one of my biggest liabilities in relationships was my neediness.  At that time, I had very, very few friends--there just wasn't room for many of them in my life alongside anorexia.  I was desperately lonely, and as a result I clung tightly to anyone who promised connection.  Since I had so little self-worth I usually felt incredulous when someone actually wanted to be my friend...and then I lived in fear that one wrong move on my part would sabotage the entire operation.  I went overboard trying to endear myself to others via what one of my friends calls the, "Love Me, Love Me Dance"...and every time one of my emails or phone calls went unanswered, I experienced utter devastation and was certain that I accidentally had done something terrible, that the friendship was over.  I hated myself for being so needy, yet I couldn't help it--that hunger for love was so wide and so deep that I felt it would never be satisfied.

Many years of therapy and a few lasting, precious friendships later, I am relieved and happy to say that I no longer approach relationships with anywhere near that degree of clinginess.  As I've gained a genuine sense of self-love, I've found that I'm much more able to connect with others in a way that feels healthy.  And yet, remnants of former insecurities remain, and I occasionally still worry that friendships I hold dear will one day vanish.  I know how to manage those anxieties and understand that they are not, in fact, grounded in reality...but, there they are, nevertheless.  Recently I read something in the book, Toward a Meaningful Life:  The Wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, that offered me some insight into the link between self-love and loving others:

"If you don't find a way to love G-d, to love the G-d that resides in your soul, you will find yourself in a constant search for love.  We may even turn to unhealthy forms of love to replace this lack of inner love."

To me, this makes perfect sense:  when I didn't love myself at all, I needed others to do all that loving for me--and there was no amount of "other-love" that would satisfy the void inside myself.  Now that I do have a healthy dose of self-love in my life, now that I recognize the
G-dliness within myself, I'm free to enjoy--but not cling to--positive connections with other people.

Recovery is all about learning, and some lessons I learned the hard way.  There were relationships of mine that suffered in large part because of how I approached them.  But, although there was a time when I truly hated myself for "ruining" those connections, I don't feel that way anymore.  Was it unfortunate?  Absolutely.  Was it the best I could do at the time, with what I had?  Yes.  And, going through this evolution of how I approach relationships has made me more able than ever to tune in to myself and assess how I am contributing to a connection:  too much, to little, or just right?  It's not a perfect science and sometimes there are adjustments to be made...but, I also know that I'm not in danger anymore of reverting to my old imbalanced system.

Recovery is a tough journey, and I wish that all of us have friends to walk it with us.  I hope that we can all achieve a genuine degree of self-love and self-worth that will make those connections possible!

Anxiety Comes Calling...

Whenever I sat down to think about this week's blog post, my mind would stay on task for a few minutes before being distracted by news coming in from Israel--reports of rockets, missiles, air strikes, and sirens.  No matter how hard I tried to focus on philosophical issues, I always ended up dwelling on current events in the here and now...so I decided I needed to write about that.

As much as I relish a rich political debate, I don't want to have one here.  The more I learn about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the more I realize I will never be able to sort through all of its complexity.  To be honest, right now I am relatively uninterested in the nitty-gritty details of that complicated history.  What occupies my mind is something much more basic:

People I love are in danger, and I'm not able to help them.

For me, this is what it boils down to.  In my mind, Israel is no longer just a place where a lot of Jews live.  It is the place where my friends and teachers live, where I lived this past summer, where I have learned and grown and shared and connected.  The land of Israel is a place where I feel at home, and the friends I have over there are some of the people dearest to me in the entire world.  This week, I talked with friends of mine whose lives had gone from mundane to surreal in a matter of hours; I read about rockets landing near the communities of two of my teachers; I found out that my friend's husband was called up to the army; I heard about sirens going off in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.  My best friend told me about how she and her coworkers ran for cover when they heard a siren, and this morning I started my day by reading headlines about a public bus bombing in the city where she lives. As I go about my days in my relatively safe neighborhood far across the world from the center of the action, I can't help but notice the pit I feel in my stomach or the way my breath often stops just short of actually reaching my diaphragm.  I am aware of my fear, my frustration, and my sense of helplessness--and my need to manage all of those emotions effectively in order to keep living my life.

Historically, I've not done well with handling anxiety over things beyond my control.  My mind spins and whirls around the what-ifs, and I tend to need more reassurance than usual that no news does not, in fact, mean bad news.  In early recovery I started learning about the "cognitive distortions" in which I often engaged:  catastrophizing, emotional reasoning, jumping to conclusions...those were but a few of my favorites.  For a long time, I dealt with helplessness, fear, and anxiety by exercising or starving them into oblivion.  At this point in my journey, though, clearly I need some new strategies...and this past week has given me an opportunity to practice the coping skills that I've worked hard to develop.

Here's what has worked so far:  I try to keep my consumption of news reports to a reasonable amount, as opposed to keeping Israeli news sites up in my browser for the entire day.  I don't check the news late at night, when I need to be relaxing in preparation for sleep.  I make an effort to curtail the number of emails I send to my friends--enough to satisfy my need to know they're safe, but not so many so that taking care of my anxiety becomes another problem on their plates (okay, so my best friend still gets a lot of emails...but isn't that what best friends are for?).  When I say the prayer for peace every day, I say it with more feeling, more kavannah.  I signed up for the Shmira Project, started by two families affiliated with Livnot U'Lehibanot, one of my favorite Israeli organizations.  And, I've tried to shift my focus from what I can't control to what I can...how can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about in Israel?  How can I bring light to the lives of the people I care about here?

Two hours ago, a ceasefire went into effect.  I'm hopeful that it sticks, and that the rockets that have continued to rain on southern Israel will slow to a trickle, then to nothing.  I hope that life gets back to normal for my friends and teachers, and that soon we will return to thinking and talking about matters not related to national security.  Finally, I hope that this week when I wish them all a shabbat shalom, that's exactly what it will be.

Make Room for Guests!

Chag sameach--happy Sukkot to all!  Before I dive into the blog post itself, I just want to take a little bit of space to acknowledge that this blog is now one year old!  Developing it has been such a fun journey for me...many thanks to everyone who is along for the ride!

Now, onto the festival of Sukkot, of which we are currently smack in the middle.  After the somber, contemplative mood of the High Holidays, Sukkot brings us into a week of festive celebration.  One of the themes of the holiday is that of, "welcoming guests," or hachnasat orchim in Hebrew.  (For an adorably amusing "Shalom Sesame" video explaining hachnasat orchim, click here...I can't be the only one who gets all nostalgic for "Shalom Sesame!")  Just as Abraham was famous for waiting for strangers to pass by his tent so he could invite them in, so are we supposed to make an extra effort to invite people into our sukkot or to otherwise share the holiday with us.  The spirit of reaching out and welcoming others into our lives is part of what makes Sukkot such a joyous time.

I find the idea of hachnasat orchim to be especially personally relevant because opening myself and my space to others is definitely not a natural instinct of mine.  I am introverted to the core and have been since childhood; but, I am also aware that for the years when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, I took this particular personality trait to new heights.  In my mind, other people made things messy--and I hated mess.  I wanted things exactly how I wanted them, tightly under my control...and bringing other people into the mix inevitably meant letting in an element of unpredictability and uncertainty, which I simply could not tolerate.  Additionally, I was deeply afraid of rejection and of desiring a relationship with someone who did not want one with me.  I was not willing to risk feeling the pain of being unwanted--better to not reach out in the first place, than to reach out and be disappointed.  One of my early therapists had a name for this:  "people restricting."  In addition to restricting my intake of food, I was also severely limiting my intake of other people--I honestly felt it was the safest way to go.

I've since changed my mind.

Don't get me wrong--I am still a classic introvert who craves "alone time," but I have also discovered that along with unpredictability and uncertainty, other people also inject a lot of energy and love into my life.  In fact, when I think about the moments in my recovery that stand out to me as major milestones, every one of them was an experience that I shared with other people, and the connectedness that I felt with those individuals was part of what made each of those moments so precious.  My eating disorder stepped in to fill a gaping void in my life during a time when I felt profoundly empty.  In order for me to be willing to give it up, I needed something else to slip into that space--and I have found other people to be a critical part of what now "fills me up."  Interestingly, it's only in recovery that I've found myself actually able to present with other people.  Connectedness fuels my recovery, and my recovery powers connectedness--it's a beautifully self-perpetuating phenomenon.

So, although I still find that quiet time alone in a sukkah is sometimes just what I need, I also must acknowledge that when I do go out of my way to let others in, I am almost never disappointed and am almost always enriched.  Hachnasat orchim might not be my natural instinct, but it's definitely one of the best learned habits I've picked up on the way, and is one I am still working hard to cultivate.  During this week of sukkot and beyond, I encourage any other "people restrictors" out there to try a different approach, even just one time.  Invite others to be with you, wherever you are.  It's true--other people do sometimes make a bit of a mess, but they also bring a lot of joy!

Hod

This is the week of hod--humility--the counterpart of netzach (victory).  I'll admit that I've been having a little trouble solidifying my thoughts on humility, because I think it can be a tricky concept for people in recovery.  For those of us who struggle with "black-and-white thinking," it's easy to get on the humility train and ride it straight into relentless self-criticism and self-loathing.  It's true that part of humility is acknowledging our own shortcomings and our "smallness."  But, how can we do this while also remaining self-affirming?

In reading about hod, I found an article containing a quote that resonates with me strongly:

A full cup cannot be filled.  When you're filled with yourself and your needs, "I and nothing else," there is no room for more.  When you "empty" yourself before something greater than yourself, your capacity to receive increases beyond your previously perceived limits.   

For years, my cup was painfully empty and I relied on my eating disorder to give me an illusion of fullness.  So effective was anorexia at convincing me that my cup was full, that I shut out people and experiences that really could have enriched my life.  I had no room for relationships with people--my relationship with food was all I needed.  Going into intensive treatment required me to acknowledge the many ways in which my eating disorder had brought me to my knees.  When I was ready to recognize how empty my cup actually was, I made room for the possibility of filling it with things that would add tremendous value to my life.  By admitting how much help I needed, I opened the door for deep connection and profound learning. In recovery, I have found that people are more capable of satisfying my relational needs than I previously thought they would be.  What's more, I've found that I'm much more able to receive--and reciprocate--the love that others have to offer.   

When I think of hod, another story that keeps coming to my mind is one of my favorite Hasidic oral teachings:

A person should always have two pockets, with a note in each pocket.  On one note should be written, "For my sake was the world created."  On the other should be written, "I am but dust and ashes."

To me, this means that we each need a healthy dose of humility in our lives.  It is okay to recognize areas in which we want to improve and things we need to work on.  This is what keeps us growing and evolving.  Sometimes, it is important to acknowledge that we are really small in the grand scheme of things, and that we are part of a system that is much larger than ourselves.  But, we also need to remember that although we are small, we are significant.  Everything we are, we are because this is how Hashem wants us to be--all of our strengths, He gave us so that we could use them for the greater good. Humility is what allows us to say, "Wow--I am just one small person in this awesome universe.  But even though I am tiny, I have powers that Hashem has given me so that I might contribute to this world in a positive way."

In this week dedicated to hod, I encourage us all to do the following two things:

1) Think about the ways in which your cup is not full.  How can you open yourself to people and experiences that might enrich your life and your journey?

2) Acknowledge that you are just one life in a universe filled with Hashem's creations.  Take a moment to appreciate what it means to be one small part of a much larger system.  Then, consider your personal strengths and recognize that each one was a gift from Hashem, just for you.  How might you use your power to get the most out of this world?  How can you use it to give the most back?

"If the world is night...shine my life like a light."

One of my favorite Hassidic stories is the one about the lamplighter. If you have never read it, you can find it here...I recommend reading it before reading this whole post, but if time prevents this, I will give a VERY brief summary:

A Hasidic man once asked a Rebbe, "What is a Hassid?" The Rebbe explained that a Hassid is a lamplighter--a person who walks the streets carrying a flame and, knowing the flame is not his, goes from lamp to lamp to set them alight. A Hassid will go to great lengths to light a lamp, even if the lamp is in the desert or in the ocean. He has worked hard to improve himself, and now his task is to bring the light of self-improvement to others.

I could go on and on about all the elements of this story that I love, but what strikes me the most is how extremely fortunate I have been to have had so many lamplighters in my life. Developing an eating disorder was like plunging full-force into darkness--no connection, no inspiration, no joy. After living this way for years, I grew accustomed to the darkness--to the point that I had adapted my day-to-day existence so that I could function without light; to the point that I had forgotten what living in the light felt like. At some point, the weight of my misery finally registered with me, and I began to give up anorexia a bit at a time...but in its absence, I was left with a whole other kind of darkness--the darkness of loneliness, fear, uncertainty, and self-criticism that the eating disorder had masked.

There to guide me gently out of both levels of darkness have been my lamplighters. Some have been treatment professionals, dedicated clinicians who have helped me repair my relationships with myself, my body, and food. They have answered countless questions with endless patience, even when I asked the same question over and over again. They have given me space to cry, to get angry, and then have shown me how to weather my emotions and release them in positive ways. They got me to a place where I was healthy enough to work on the real issues, and then stuck by me to help me sort out the messiness that comes with life in recovery.

Other lamplighters have been my "recovery mentors"--radiant women who traveled their own journeys of recovery before I did, who were willing to share their stories with me, and who acted as models of what life could be like if I would only be brave enough to let go. These women have been my cheerleaders, the ones who looked me in the eyes and told me they knew I would be recovered one day...and now that I AM in recovery, they have continued to push me to challenge myself and extend my life in ways I wouldn't have imagined.

Finally, there have been my friends, without whose lamplighting power I would surely be lost. My friends have illuminated the best parts of myself and have made me believe that I am worthy of friendship, affection, and love. They've shown me how to live with honesty, how to take risks, and how to clean up messes I might make along the way. I have also been blessed with friends who have helped open my eyes and heart to the beauty of Judaism, who have shown me the richness of my religion and the awesomeness of authentic faith. They've given me the tools to begin to use Judaism to fill some of the lingering void in my life, and have demonstrated to me that there is room for me in this tradition, if only I am willing to be open to it and to make a place for myself.

So, this post is a tribute of sorts, to all my lamplighters--thank you for helping to bring me home to myself, and for making me a more complete version of myself along the way. Toda raba.