There's no denying it--Pesach is coming! This morning I made my first shopping-for-Pesach trip, paying more than seems necessary for things like, "kosher for passover instant coffee." Although the market was a bit of a zoo, even at 9 am, there was a certain camaraderie among the shoppers, as if we all knew we were partners in this annual ritual of buying expensive food that we will consume for eight days and then give all the leftovers to our non-Jewish friends who think Passover food is "yummy."
Despite the routine stress and anxiety that goes into preparing for Pesach, I do enjoy this holiday because it forces me, once a year, to do things a different way...and also because it has so many rich themes to think about. In anticipation of the seders I will be attending later this week, I spent part of Shabbat looking through my favorite haggadah (which I've referenced before): A Night To Remember by Mishael Zion and Noam Zion. Inside the lengthy Maggid section, during which we retell the story of the Exodus, I found this gem of a poem by Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai:
And what is the continuity of my life? I am like one who left Egypt.
The Red Sea is split in two and I cross on dry ground
With two walls of water--on my right and on my left.
Behind me--Pharoah's soldiers and horsemen.
Before me--the wilderness
And, perhaps, the Promised Land.
This is the continuity of my life.
(from פתוח סגור פתוח)
In this poem, Yehuda Amichai makes personal the challenge facing the ancient Israelites: leaving behind something undesirable and unsustainable, in favor of something that is uncomfortably unfamiliar but which promises to be better.
When we read the story of Pesach, the language is so dramatic and the events are so epic that it is easy to lose sight of the human experience. What must it have been like for those Israelites, fleeing from torturous slavery, pursued by a powerful army, and heading toward the unknown? I imagine that they were afraid, yet propelled forward by the momentum of the journey, sustained by their faith and their hope of the Promised Land.
Isn't this what recovery--or, truly, any painful but necessary transformation--feels like?
You leave what you are familiar with because you must, because you will die if you remain...yet, "recovery" is scary in its own way. Other people promise you it's going to be better than what you're leaving behind, but you'll believe it when you see it. In the meantime, there are miles of wilderness to trek through. Sometimes, it's tempting to reverse course, until you turn around and are reminded of how awful it was where you began. So, you keep going--because that's the only viable option; because that's the journey to which you're committed; because maybe the Promised Land really is there, after all.
And all the while you're making the journey, you're writing the story of your life--from past to present, and hopefully to future.
Leaving the eating disorder behind is like leaving your own personal Egypt, and what follows is just as significant (though admittedly on a smaller scale) than the transformation our ancestors went through. It's scary to look ahead and see only wilderness...but remember to hold onto the hope that your own Promised Land is there, too...because it is. There won't be a road sign telling you when you've arrived, but you'll recognize it when you finally do--the feeling that, after all the wandering, you've arrived at a place where you feel genuinely positive about your life. You'll remember the slavery you came from, and the journey you undertook, and you'll think, "Wow. I did that. I've come a long way." And then, you'll keep going, because that's the logical next step, the continuity of your life.
This Pesach, honor the journey you've undertaken, and validate for yourself that it is hard, that it is scary...but that something better does wait for you, if you'll continue on to reach it.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
For tough days
Some days are tough days. Those are the days when you feel like you can't do anything right, like you've made one mistake too many, or like life is dishing out more than you can handle. It's easy, on days like those, to slip into the "shame mindset." When that happens, your lose your ability to separate what you do and what happens to you, from who you are. When I'm in the "shame mindset," I often have the following thoughts:
"I am bad at life."
"What's wrong with me?"
"Is G-d disappointed in me?"
There are others, but those are the Big Three. They nearly always pop up when I am feeling vulnerable to shame, and they are unhelpful 100% of the time.
Recently I came across a quote that, I think, challenges Shame quite effectively. I found it on www.chabad.org, and it's based on the talks and letters of Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson (specifically, Torat Menachem 5742 vol. 3, and 5747 vol. 4):
"Two ways you could write your life:
'I am so small, and I make such stupid messes that even if the Creator of this magnificent universe had some plan for me, by now He must have given up. So I do, too.'
Or:
'I am so small, and I make such stupid messes, yet nevertheless the Creator of this magnificent universe will not let go of His belief in me. So neither will I.' "
For me, making the shift from the first viewpoint to the second is the key to my emotional well-being. I am human, and I do make mistakes. I do sometimes get overwhelmed by life, and I occasionally handle things with less grace than I would have liked. I sometimes have thoughts I wish I didn't have, or I say things I wish I hadn't said. All of that is real...and normal. But the important thing, I think, is to remember that G-d sees beyond my day-to-day missteps and focuses on my true self, my inner being, which contains a spark of the Divine--and He won't give up on that.
I once emailed a special teacher of mine at a time when I was mentally "spinning" about whether or not I should view challenges or obstacles that pop up in my life as G-d's way of punishing me for "bad" things I may have done. ("I mean, I know the world doesn't work that way, but what if it does?!") Her response was exactly what I needed in that moment, and I have carried it with me since:
"No one knows how Hashem runs the world, and the most important thing we can do when we don't know what to do is to ask ourselves, "What do I imagine Hashem wants from me right now?'"
The journey is long, and there will be mistakes, large and small, made along the way. There will be hardships, some of which we will understand, and some of which we won't. The important thing is to not give up on ourselves, and to try our best, in the moment, to do what we think G-d would want us to do. It's a perspective that keeps us moving forward, rather than stagnating or moving backward. We can only do the best we can do, and that looks different from moment to moment. But it's always good enough for Hashem.
"I am bad at life."
"What's wrong with me?"
"Is G-d disappointed in me?"
There are others, but those are the Big Three. They nearly always pop up when I am feeling vulnerable to shame, and they are unhelpful 100% of the time.
Recently I came across a quote that, I think, challenges Shame quite effectively. I found it on www.chabad.org, and it's based on the talks and letters of Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson (specifically, Torat Menachem 5742 vol. 3, and 5747 vol. 4):
"Two ways you could write your life:
'I am so small, and I make such stupid messes that even if the Creator of this magnificent universe had some plan for me, by now He must have given up. So I do, too.'
Or:
'I am so small, and I make such stupid messes, yet nevertheless the Creator of this magnificent universe will not let go of His belief in me. So neither will I.' "
For me, making the shift from the first viewpoint to the second is the key to my emotional well-being. I am human, and I do make mistakes. I do sometimes get overwhelmed by life, and I occasionally handle things with less grace than I would have liked. I sometimes have thoughts I wish I didn't have, or I say things I wish I hadn't said. All of that is real...and normal. But the important thing, I think, is to remember that G-d sees beyond my day-to-day missteps and focuses on my true self, my inner being, which contains a spark of the Divine--and He won't give up on that.
I once emailed a special teacher of mine at a time when I was mentally "spinning" about whether or not I should view challenges or obstacles that pop up in my life as G-d's way of punishing me for "bad" things I may have done. ("I mean, I know the world doesn't work that way, but what if it does?!") Her response was exactly what I needed in that moment, and I have carried it with me since:
"No one knows how Hashem runs the world, and the most important thing we can do when we don't know what to do is to ask ourselves, "What do I imagine Hashem wants from me right now?'"
The journey is long, and there will be mistakes, large and small, made along the way. There will be hardships, some of which we will understand, and some of which we won't. The important thing is to not give up on ourselves, and to try our best, in the moment, to do what we think G-d would want us to do. It's a perspective that keeps us moving forward, rather than stagnating or moving backward. We can only do the best we can do, and that looks different from moment to moment. But it's always good enough for Hashem.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Do I have to feel joy?
Well, it's that time of year again: Purim time. Last year I introduced the Purim Challenge, whereby I attempt to find some point of connection to this holiday (not one of my favorites). So, seeing as Purim is once again approaching...let the challenge continue!
This year, I'd like to focus on the theme of joy. Purim falls in the month of Adar, a month in which we are supposed to make an extra effort to feel joy. The Talmud says,
This year, I'd like to focus on the theme of joy. Purim falls in the month of Adar, a month in which we are supposed to make an extra effort to feel joy. The Talmud says,
משנכנס אדר מרבין בשמחה
As Adar enters, joy increases (Taanit 29a)
(As a side note, this verse has been put to music in the form of an incredibly jaunty tune that was stuck in my head the entire time I wrote this blog post. The. Entire. Time. Listen here!)
Although the Talmud does not prescribe exactly how one is supposed to increase one's joy during Adar, it's generally accepted that one is supposed to find a way to feel extra happy during this month.
Which brings me to The Challenge: Joy.
If you asked me for a list of emotions I associate with myself, joy would probably not make the cut. My eating disorder was deeply entangled with clinical depression, and even from my position in recovery, I still go through periods when my mood dips low. It's fair to say that even when I'm feeling generally positive about life, I just don't tend toward the extreme end of the happiness continuum. I often feel content, and I am easily delighted, but...joy? No. Mandated joy is not going to be something I can connect to, and indeed, I think this is one of the main reasons why I am not a huge fan of Purim: all the gaiety and revelry is just a little bit much. And, as someone who does not readily experience joy, there are few things I find more alienating than watching everyone else experience joy, leaving me to wonder, "What's wrong with me, that I don't feel like everyone else?"
So, I asked a friend and teacher of mine about the joy theme, and she said that if I was interested in different Jewish views of joy, I should look to Kohelet (Ecclesiastes). At first, I thought she was joking, because Kohelet is not what I would call a joyful book (perhaps this is why I actually really like Kohelet). But I took her suggestion and reread Kohelet, and I noticed that interspersed among the cynicism there actually was a fair amount about joy. It wasn't what I would call, "Purim Joy," but it was a joy that felt much more palatable to me:
"I have observed the task which G-d has given the sons of man to be concerned with: He made everything beautiful in its time; He has also put an enigma into their minds so that man cannot comprehend what G-d has done from beginning to end.
Thus I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and do good in his life. Indeed every man who eats and drinks and finds satisfaction in all his labor--this is a gift of G-d." (Kohelet 3:10-13)
I love this.
This, in fact, is how I experience joy: marveling at the beauty and order of the natural world; feeling fulfilled after doing a good deed; being satisfied when I have worked hard at something and it all comes together. What I learn from Kohelet is that "joy" doesn't have to be full of loud exclamations of glee; instead, it can be a quiet but deep sense of appreciation for everything good that is in one's life...and a recognition that all of it comes from Hashem. It's a more subtle version of joy, but it's one that resonates with me...and I like the idea of Adar being a month when I make an extra effort to feel it.
However, I am still acutely aware that even that more nuanced version of joy sometimes feels out of reach, and the pressure of being "ordered" to feel it can be a bit overwhelming. If that's true for you, then start small. Find one thing in your day, or in the world around you, that you can appreciate and that makes you feel grounded, grateful, or satisfied. If you're someone in the position of caring for a person who feels far from joy, know that all your attempts to connect and bring light into that person's world are not going unnoticed. When I was battling depression, my family and friends never stopped asking me to do fun things with them--even when I repeatedly turned them down. They knew that at some point, I would be ready, and they wanted me to know I was always invited. That small act of faith and love on their part made a huge difference in my feelings of connectedness and security...and I bet it's the same for your loved one. This Adar, take your cues from the great authority on joy--Eeyore--and his buddies:
So, I asked a friend and teacher of mine about the joy theme, and she said that if I was interested in different Jewish views of joy, I should look to Kohelet (Ecclesiastes). At first, I thought she was joking, because Kohelet is not what I would call a joyful book (perhaps this is why I actually really like Kohelet). But I took her suggestion and reread Kohelet, and I noticed that interspersed among the cynicism there actually was a fair amount about joy. It wasn't what I would call, "Purim Joy," but it was a joy that felt much more palatable to me:
"I have observed the task which G-d has given the sons of man to be concerned with: He made everything beautiful in its time; He has also put an enigma into their minds so that man cannot comprehend what G-d has done from beginning to end.
Thus I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and do good in his life. Indeed every man who eats and drinks and finds satisfaction in all his labor--this is a gift of G-d." (Kohelet 3:10-13)
I love this.
This, in fact, is how I experience joy: marveling at the beauty and order of the natural world; feeling fulfilled after doing a good deed; being satisfied when I have worked hard at something and it all comes together. What I learn from Kohelet is that "joy" doesn't have to be full of loud exclamations of glee; instead, it can be a quiet but deep sense of appreciation for everything good that is in one's life...and a recognition that all of it comes from Hashem. It's a more subtle version of joy, but it's one that resonates with me...and I like the idea of Adar being a month when I make an extra effort to feel it.
However, I am still acutely aware that even that more nuanced version of joy sometimes feels out of reach, and the pressure of being "ordered" to feel it can be a bit overwhelming. If that's true for you, then start small. Find one thing in your day, or in the world around you, that you can appreciate and that makes you feel grounded, grateful, or satisfied. If you're someone in the position of caring for a person who feels far from joy, know that all your attempts to connect and bring light into that person's world are not going unnoticed. When I was battling depression, my family and friends never stopped asking me to do fun things with them--even when I repeatedly turned them down. They knew that at some point, I would be ready, and they wanted me to know I was always invited. That small act of faith and love on their part made a huge difference in my feelings of connectedness and security...and I bet it's the same for your loved one. This Adar, take your cues from the great authority on joy--Eeyore--and his buddies:
Image found on tom2tall.com
Monday, February 2, 2015
The Carob Tree
It is one of the great ironies of life in New England that I just shoveled a foot of snow off my car for the third time in a week, and in two days we will celebrate Tu B'Shevat--the "new year of the trees." The incongruity is striking, especially since all the trees I can see are coated with a thick, fluffy layer of white. But, I love Tu B'Shevat, if for no other reason than because it promises warmer, sunnier, blossom-filled days to come.
Yesterday, a dear friend and I hosted a Tu B'Shevat seder at our shul in conjunction with an incredible organization in Israel called Livnot U'Lehibanot, of which we're both alums. To support our efforts, Livnot provided us with beautiful Tu B'Shevat seder booklets, full of insights into the spiritual meanings behind all of the symbolic fruits and seeds we eat to celebrate the holiday. One stood out, and I've been mulling it over since: the carob.
The Hebrew name for carob is חרוב (charuv), which has several different meanings, all related to the themes of destruction and hardship. This sounds depressing until you learn that in Judaism, struggles are seen as steps toward greater elevation and growth--not as reasons for despair. The carob tree, therefore, represents resilience and the determination to stay the course through challenging times. Additionally, according to the Talmud, the carob tree takes 70 years to bear its first fruits; cultivating a carob tree requires dedication to the cause despite not seeing results until far in the future.
Is it just me, or could carob be the ultimate symbol of recovery?
If there is one thing I can say about recovering from an eating disorder, it is that it often takes a long, long time. Maybe not 70 years, but it can feel like 70 years when you're slogging through appointments and treatment programs and creeping toward health inch by painful inch. Sometimes it feels like it would be easier to just give up, rather than continue the slow fight toward a life that you can't really visualize but that everyone says will be "better." Remaining committed to recovery requires a belief that the challenges faced now will lead to a fuller and happier life later. The entire process cultivates resiliency, courage, and faith--and the reward for sticking with it is a life that nourishes you, just as the carob tree nourishes those who are patient enough to grow it.
But what about carob as a symbol of deprivation and struggle? How does one feel positive about that? Well, Judaism teaches that although carob trees represent destruction, their roots extend deep down to the source of water underneath the earth:
"Rabbi Elazar, the son of Rabbi Shimon said: 'Carob and sycamore roots spread down to the groundwater.'" (Midrash Rabba 13:17)
What does this mean? Perhaps it teaches us that sometimes, things have to fall apart before you can address the issues that are at the root of the problem. Here is a quote that I love from the Livnot booklet:
"Sometimes when things break down, hardship serves as a red flag, telling us that the essence of our existence was out of tune all along. According to Jewish spirituality, we are meant to practice seeing every experience as an opportunity to grow. Sometimes we want to create and to make the world better, but the energy for our effort doesn't come from the right source. One cannot expect to make peace only because of the fear of war, or to build strong relationships out of the fear of being alone. So, we find ourselves in an endless struggle. Instead of paying attention to the source, too many times we try quieting the symptoms. In this case, we need to go through a process of deprivation, where all our tools are broken or abandoned, in order to connect our roots back to the groundwater."
My eating disorder was a huge red flag that something was very, very wrong. At the time, I had no words--or even clear ideas--to explain what the real problems were. The only way I could communicate that I was unhappy was through my body. It wasn't until I had completely fallen apart, that I could start to get at the real issues at play. But even then, recovery didn't happen just because I knew I didn't want to live with an eating disorder for the rest of my life. In other words, treating the symptoms did not actually solve any of the problems. Addressing the true roots of my unhappiness has required a lot of therapy and self-examination--all hard work that couldn't really begin until the symptoms were under control. Despite the destruction that anorexia brought to my life, I am grateful that the struggle of emerging from my eating disorder allowed me to really see where my system was broken, because the process of repairing it has left me stronger than I otherwise would have been.
This Tu B'Shevat, I wish for all of us the strength and determination of the carob tree. May we have the courage to stay the course and bring ourselves back to the groundwater that nourishes us!
Yesterday, a dear friend and I hosted a Tu B'Shevat seder at our shul in conjunction with an incredible organization in Israel called Livnot U'Lehibanot, of which we're both alums. To support our efforts, Livnot provided us with beautiful Tu B'Shevat seder booklets, full of insights into the spiritual meanings behind all of the symbolic fruits and seeds we eat to celebrate the holiday. One stood out, and I've been mulling it over since: the carob.
The Hebrew name for carob is חרוב (charuv), which has several different meanings, all related to the themes of destruction and hardship. This sounds depressing until you learn that in Judaism, struggles are seen as steps toward greater elevation and growth--not as reasons for despair. The carob tree, therefore, represents resilience and the determination to stay the course through challenging times. Additionally, according to the Talmud, the carob tree takes 70 years to bear its first fruits; cultivating a carob tree requires dedication to the cause despite not seeing results until far in the future.
Is it just me, or could carob be the ultimate symbol of recovery?
If there is one thing I can say about recovering from an eating disorder, it is that it often takes a long, long time. Maybe not 70 years, but it can feel like 70 years when you're slogging through appointments and treatment programs and creeping toward health inch by painful inch. Sometimes it feels like it would be easier to just give up, rather than continue the slow fight toward a life that you can't really visualize but that everyone says will be "better." Remaining committed to recovery requires a belief that the challenges faced now will lead to a fuller and happier life later. The entire process cultivates resiliency, courage, and faith--and the reward for sticking with it is a life that nourishes you, just as the carob tree nourishes those who are patient enough to grow it.
But what about carob as a symbol of deprivation and struggle? How does one feel positive about that? Well, Judaism teaches that although carob trees represent destruction, their roots extend deep down to the source of water underneath the earth:
"Rabbi Elazar, the son of Rabbi Shimon said: 'Carob and sycamore roots spread down to the groundwater.'" (Midrash Rabba 13:17)
What does this mean? Perhaps it teaches us that sometimes, things have to fall apart before you can address the issues that are at the root of the problem. Here is a quote that I love from the Livnot booklet:
"Sometimes when things break down, hardship serves as a red flag, telling us that the essence of our existence was out of tune all along. According to Jewish spirituality, we are meant to practice seeing every experience as an opportunity to grow. Sometimes we want to create and to make the world better, but the energy for our effort doesn't come from the right source. One cannot expect to make peace only because of the fear of war, or to build strong relationships out of the fear of being alone. So, we find ourselves in an endless struggle. Instead of paying attention to the source, too many times we try quieting the symptoms. In this case, we need to go through a process of deprivation, where all our tools are broken or abandoned, in order to connect our roots back to the groundwater."
My eating disorder was a huge red flag that something was very, very wrong. At the time, I had no words--or even clear ideas--to explain what the real problems were. The only way I could communicate that I was unhappy was through my body. It wasn't until I had completely fallen apart, that I could start to get at the real issues at play. But even then, recovery didn't happen just because I knew I didn't want to live with an eating disorder for the rest of my life. In other words, treating the symptoms did not actually solve any of the problems. Addressing the true roots of my unhappiness has required a lot of therapy and self-examination--all hard work that couldn't really begin until the symptoms were under control. Despite the destruction that anorexia brought to my life, I am grateful that the struggle of emerging from my eating disorder allowed me to really see where my system was broken, because the process of repairing it has left me stronger than I otherwise would have been.
This Tu B'Shevat, I wish for all of us the strength and determination of the carob tree. May we have the courage to stay the course and bring ourselves back to the groundwater that nourishes us!
Monday, January 19, 2015
Money is the New Food
I feel like I should apologize for having taken so long to write this post, but the truth is that I've been thinking about this post for a long time--almost a month, in fact. I decided, at the beginning of January, that in 2015 I wanted to become "better" at giving tzedakah. I do donate money to several charities every year, but it has never felt like enough, nor like I'm doing it in the right frame of mind. I wanted giving tzedakah to feel more like a spiritual act, one in which I would engage regularly and to which I would commit more fully. So, I planned to do some learning about tzedakah and research effective giving practices, and then I was going to write a post teaching about tzedakah and explaining how meaningful the whole process was for me.
It was a great plan...but it didn't quite work out.
First, let me back up and explain: why the focus on tzedakah? Well, because it is one of the Jewish values and practices that I think is the most beautiful and the most just. The Rambam (Maimonides) wrote extensively on tzedakah, and he explains that giving money to people who need it is the way to live out the Torah value of, "Love your neighbor as yourself" (Vayikra 19:18):
It was a great plan...but it didn't quite work out.
First, let me back up and explain: why the focus on tzedakah? Well, because it is one of the Jewish values and practices that I think is the most beautiful and the most just. The Rambam (Maimonides) wrote extensively on tzedakah, and he explains that giving money to people who need it is the way to live out the Torah value of, "Love your neighbor as yourself" (Vayikra 19:18):
"This is the commandment that we were commanded, to love each other just as we love ourselves. That is to say that my concern and love for other Jews should be the same as my concern and love for myself--as far as both possessions and personal needs are involved...Whatever I want for myself, I want the same for that other person. And whatever I do not want for myself or my friends, I do not want for that other person.
This is the meaning of the verse, 'And you shall love the other person as yourself.'"
--Maimonides, Sefer HaMitzvot
I also fully believe in the Jewish idea that the money I have isn't really my money--it is G-d's money, given to me so that I might use it to better the world. Obviously, I need to make sure my needs are met, but beyond that, I need to remember that the money has been entrusted to me--it doesn't belong to me.
So, with all of that in mind, I was ready to dive into more mindful tzedakah giving...until I came face to face with a hard truth:
The way I relate to money mirrors the way I used to relate to food.
Allow me to demonstrate with a little table:
Thoughts About Money
|
Old Thoughts About Food
|
|
|
Needless to say, when I sat down to figure out how much disposable income I actually have on a monthly basis so that I might better determine how much I could give away, I could feel my anxiety climb higher...and higher...and higher. I am a public school teacher living in an expensive city. After the fixed monthly deductions from my paycheck for things like taxes and health care, and after rent, utilities, gas, and food...there's very, very little left to work with. As I crunched numbers with my parents, our conversation inevitably went from being about tzedakah, to being about my basic principle of financial restriction:
Me: "This is why I hate dealing with money. It stresses me out to see that there's basically nothing left. It's better if I don't know exact numbers and just try not to spend anything."
Parent: "Well, but you're actually doing okay. You certainly don't have to deny yourself things. What if you set aside $X every month that you could just spend on yourself..."
Me: (in my thought bubble) "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!"
This conversation was an important moment, because it brought home for me that although I have done a LOT of work on dismantling my old thoughts about food, I have done relatively little work on challenging my approach to money...which, I think it's safe to say, could be characterized as obsessive and ultra-controlling. And, while I do think that, values-wise, it's "more important" to give tzedakah than to spend money on myself, I recognize that this belief is also a way for me to avoid working on a huge challenge: "Normal Spending" (kind of like, "Normal Eating").
At the end of the day, I realized that although I might want to dive right into giving away 10% of my income, as is suggested by Jewish law, I'm just not ready for that. Similarly, though I always wanted to achieve Full Recovery, I wasn't ready for that right out of the gate, either. Money and I have a lot of work to do, and it's going to take time--just like it also has with food.
I did, in the end, come up with a respectable dollar amount that I could give to tzedakah each year without feeling like I'd have to compensate by never, ever buying myself anything. It's a good starting point; I hope to be able to give more one day, but that will come with time. For now, I'm going to try to feel satisfied with what I can do--and to commit to working on my "money issues," a little at a time.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
The Days of the Years
I find this week's parasha, Vayigash, to be one of the most moving in the Torah. This is the parasha where Joseph finally reveals himself to his brothers and reunites with Benjamin; Jacob learns that his treasured son, Joseph, is still alive; Jacob and his sons make the journey down to Egypt; and there is a beautiful, tearful reunion between father and long-lost son.
One of my favorite moments is when Joseph presents Jacob, his elderly father, to Pharaoh. It's clear that there is mutual respect between Pharaoh and Jacob, that each man recognizes the power within the other. Pharaoh asks Jacob,
One of my favorite moments is when Joseph presents Jacob, his elderly father, to Pharaoh. It's clear that there is mutual respect between Pharaoh and Jacob, that each man recognizes the power within the other. Pharaoh asks Jacob,
כמה ימי שני חייך
How many are the days of the years of your life? (Bereishit 47:8)
Many commentators note that it's a little odd for Pharaoh to inquire about the age of his visitor, and Rav Hirsch offers an interesting explanation. He points out that Pharaoh distinguishes between days and years; he takes this to mean that Pharaoh recognizes that a person can live a long life while only truly making full use of a few of his days. In other words, the years of one's life represent the sum total of time lived, while the days of one's life are only those times when one lives up to one's full potential. Jacob, too, understands this subtle distinction. He replies,
מעט ורעים היו ימי שני חיי ולא השיגו את–ימי שני חיי אבתי בימי מגוריהם
Few and bad have been the days of the years of my life, and they have not reached the life spans of my forefathers in the days of their sojourns. (47:9)
When evaluating the qualitative nature of his life, Jacob feels that he has fallen short. Compared to his forefathers, Jacob believes he has not truly lived his life to its greatest potential, and this pains him.
I find it humbling and somehow reassuring that Jacob, one of the great fathers of the Jewish people, judged himself so modestly and struggled with the feeling that he had not lived his life as well as he would have liked. Personally, I spend a lot of time on the mental hamster wheel of, "Am I doing a good job with my life?" There are a lot of factors: Am I happy? Am I making other people's lives better? Do I express enough gratitude? Do I spend enough time on worthy pursuits? Am I stretching and challenging myself enough? Inevitably, I will answer, "no," to at least one of those questions, thus sending myself into a spin of shame and fear that I am wasting time, that I am not using this life that I have as well as I could--should--be using it. It is a very fine line between healthy self-evaluation and unproductive self-shaming, and I am the first to admit that I do not always walk it successfully.
I have been thinking about this a lot recently because my grandmother passed away on erev Chanukah this year, twelve days shy of her 101st birthday. My Nana was, to use her own terminology, "a hot ticket." She was an athlete; she got a college education when few women were doing so; she volunteered at causes that were important to her; she gave generously of her time and her money; she never lost touch with anyone. At least in my mind, my Nana was someone who made full use of most of her days. She lived a long life, and she lived it well. In the days since her death, I've been thinking a lot about how, when I am ready to leave this world, I want to look back on my own life and believe that I used it as well as my Nana used hers.
Recovery is about putting the days back into the years. When I was really struggling with my eating disorder, I spent years existing but didn't truly live even one of those days. Now, I have the chance to live my life so that when I get to the end of my years, I'll be able to say that I lived the days well. To be honest, sometimes it feels like a lot of pressure. But it also feels like an incredible opportunity. To keep it manageable, I need to start small--take it day by day, little by little. Since we are about to begin a new calendar year, I encourage all of us to think about the concept of, "days and years," and try to infuse our days with more meaning. As we enter 2015, I wish all of us a year of days well lived!
Monday, December 8, 2014
Out of the Cave
Sometimes, you don't even realize how thirsty you are until you take that first sip of water, and suddenly it's like you can't get enough--you've been waiting for that water forever. That's how I felt this past weekend when I attended a Limmud conference and had my first real Jewish learning experience since returning from Israel this past summer. Returning to studying Jewish texts and history felt exciting, satisfying, and comforting--and the best part was that one of my amazing teachers from the Pardes Institute was there, so she and I got to learn together and enjoy some quality catch-up time. Soul nourished, bucket filled.
During the last session, I went to my teacher's class on Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, a great sage who lived in the Tannaitic period (10-220 C.E.). My teacher opened the class by describing Rabbi Shimon as someone who was "zealous and inflexible," but had to soften his positions a bit due to his life experiences. Rabbi Shimon thought learning Torah was absolutely the most important pursuit a person could undertake--certainly more vital than farming, which one could argue was essential for survival. He even prioritized Torah over saying the Shema--the Talmud Yerushalmi (Brachot) cites the famous dispute among the sages regarding the appropriate time for saying Shema, and Rabbi Shimon asserts that if one is learning Torah, he should not stop even for the Shema. Since one is required to say Shema twice a day within specific time windows, that's making a pretty bold statement.
Perhaps the most famous story about Rabbi Shimon is the one in which he hid in a cave with his son for twelve years to escape execution by the Romans. A miraculous carob tree and water well appeared in the cave, providing Rabbi Shimon and his son with food and drink while they hid in the cave, day in and day out, studying Torah and praying. When they finally emerged from the cave at the end of the twelve years, Rabbi Shimon was so distraught at the sight of people engaged in mundane daily activities (as opposed to learning Torah), that his eyes burned up everything he saw. As punishment for destroying His world, Hashem banished Rabbi Shimon and his son back to the cave for an additional twelve months. Upon exiting the cave for the second time, they saw a man running with two bundles of myrtle in his hands. When they learned that the two bundles were in honor of Shabbat--one for shamor and one for zachor--Rabbi Shimon finally realized that the "simple people" who engaged in day-to-day living weren't forgetting G-d at all--in fact, they were sanctifying Him.
I couldn't begin to tease apart all there is to learn from this story, but one element that I love is how Rabbi Shimon in many ways epitomizes cognitive rigidity, but ultimately learns to adjust his worldview to allow for some gray in between the black and white. Personally, I am no stranger to black-or-white thinking--it's something I still struggle with, particularly around topics that are emotionally charged. When my eating disorder began during my freshman year in college, I had to eat dinner at 6:00 pm exactly, no matter what. That was the Right Time, and any other time was the Wrong Time. This meant that I often ate dinner alone, because most people vary their dinner times based on other activities or with whom they'd like to eat, but I could not be flexible. If the choice was, eat with friends at 6:30 or eat alone at 6:00, I chose the latter every time. I had rules for everything: rules for eating, rules for exercising, rules for studying--and anyone who didn't follow the same rules was obviously doing it wrong. In hindsight, I can see that my eating disordered response to "rule breaking" was similar to Rabbi Shimon's: contempt, disapproval, anger, and fear. That led to a lot of loss--I spoiled many relationships, lost opportunities for connection, and missed out on fun because I could not bring myself to be flexible.
My favorite part of the story of Rabbi Shimon is that when Hashem sent him and his son back into the cave as punishment, they understood that it was punitive and they wanted to come out, which was why their sentence was only twelve months long. When they were allowed out, Rabbi Shimon was finally ready to be flexible. He didn't throw his standards and priorities to the wind, but he was able to see the gray area in between the two extremes. Reflecting on my own experiences, I see that when I was really "in" the rigidity of my eating disorder, I didn't even realize how stuck I was, nor was I ready to contemplate change. But once I'd had my first taste of recovery, I no longer wanted to go back to that same level of inflexibility. When I did slip back, I understood that it was a setback and I wanted to move forward. That's how I learned to make room for the gray, little by little.
At the end of the class, my teacher left us with this lesson: "Ultimately, you have to come out of the cave." A life lived in rigidity and extremes is not compatible with the rest of the world, and if you want to be able to relate to other people, you have to be willing to let go, at least a little bit. For me, recovery has been my process of "coming out of the cave," and I've found that it's beautiful out here in the world. May we all be able to experience the pleasure of life lived in the gray zone!
During the last session, I went to my teacher's class on Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, a great sage who lived in the Tannaitic period (10-220 C.E.). My teacher opened the class by describing Rabbi Shimon as someone who was "zealous and inflexible," but had to soften his positions a bit due to his life experiences. Rabbi Shimon thought learning Torah was absolutely the most important pursuit a person could undertake--certainly more vital than farming, which one could argue was essential for survival. He even prioritized Torah over saying the Shema--the Talmud Yerushalmi (Brachot) cites the famous dispute among the sages regarding the appropriate time for saying Shema, and Rabbi Shimon asserts that if one is learning Torah, he should not stop even for the Shema. Since one is required to say Shema twice a day within specific time windows, that's making a pretty bold statement.
Perhaps the most famous story about Rabbi Shimon is the one in which he hid in a cave with his son for twelve years to escape execution by the Romans. A miraculous carob tree and water well appeared in the cave, providing Rabbi Shimon and his son with food and drink while they hid in the cave, day in and day out, studying Torah and praying. When they finally emerged from the cave at the end of the twelve years, Rabbi Shimon was so distraught at the sight of people engaged in mundane daily activities (as opposed to learning Torah), that his eyes burned up everything he saw. As punishment for destroying His world, Hashem banished Rabbi Shimon and his son back to the cave for an additional twelve months. Upon exiting the cave for the second time, they saw a man running with two bundles of myrtle in his hands. When they learned that the two bundles were in honor of Shabbat--one for shamor and one for zachor--Rabbi Shimon finally realized that the "simple people" who engaged in day-to-day living weren't forgetting G-d at all--in fact, they were sanctifying Him.
I couldn't begin to tease apart all there is to learn from this story, but one element that I love is how Rabbi Shimon in many ways epitomizes cognitive rigidity, but ultimately learns to adjust his worldview to allow for some gray in between the black and white. Personally, I am no stranger to black-or-white thinking--it's something I still struggle with, particularly around topics that are emotionally charged. When my eating disorder began during my freshman year in college, I had to eat dinner at 6:00 pm exactly, no matter what. That was the Right Time, and any other time was the Wrong Time. This meant that I often ate dinner alone, because most people vary their dinner times based on other activities or with whom they'd like to eat, but I could not be flexible. If the choice was, eat with friends at 6:30 or eat alone at 6:00, I chose the latter every time. I had rules for everything: rules for eating, rules for exercising, rules for studying--and anyone who didn't follow the same rules was obviously doing it wrong. In hindsight, I can see that my eating disordered response to "rule breaking" was similar to Rabbi Shimon's: contempt, disapproval, anger, and fear. That led to a lot of loss--I spoiled many relationships, lost opportunities for connection, and missed out on fun because I could not bring myself to be flexible.
My favorite part of the story of Rabbi Shimon is that when Hashem sent him and his son back into the cave as punishment, they understood that it was punitive and they wanted to come out, which was why their sentence was only twelve months long. When they were allowed out, Rabbi Shimon was finally ready to be flexible. He didn't throw his standards and priorities to the wind, but he was able to see the gray area in between the two extremes. Reflecting on my own experiences, I see that when I was really "in" the rigidity of my eating disorder, I didn't even realize how stuck I was, nor was I ready to contemplate change. But once I'd had my first taste of recovery, I no longer wanted to go back to that same level of inflexibility. When I did slip back, I understood that it was a setback and I wanted to move forward. That's how I learned to make room for the gray, little by little.
At the end of the class, my teacher left us with this lesson: "Ultimately, you have to come out of the cave." A life lived in rigidity and extremes is not compatible with the rest of the world, and if you want to be able to relate to other people, you have to be willing to let go, at least a little bit. For me, recovery has been my process of "coming out of the cave," and I've found that it's beautiful out here in the world. May we all be able to experience the pleasure of life lived in the gray zone!
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