Moment of Clarity

I feel a bit guilty that it has been almost a month since my last post, especially since this time of year contains such great material:  counting the Omer and Shavuot.  The truth is that I just haven't had in me the energy or space to write anything--life has been a little nutty lately, leaving me with few leftover resources.  But I wanted to make an extra effort to write today, on erev Shavuot, because this really is one of my favorite Jewish holidays...and as an added bonus, it's my Hebrew birthday--a good time for contemplation.

One of my favorite Jewish moments of the year comes early in the morning on the first day of Shavuot, when those of us who have succeeded in staying up and learning all night make our way out into the courtyard of the shul for Shacharit.  As dawn breaks and the birds start singing, we stand together as we hear the Ten Commandments being read.  That moment of standing in community, re-receiving Torah under the early morning sky, always gives me goosebumps.

I love that moment because it is both simple and significant.  On the one hand, the Ten Commandments are some of the most elemental Jewish teachings; on the other, they are some of the most profound.  When we hear them being read, all the background chatter seems to fall away as we "zoom in" on what is most important.  That's one of the things I love about Shavuot:  in the middle of one of my life's busiest seasons, it offers me the chance to tune out all distractions and focus on the essential elements of my relationship with Hashem, my values, and my spiritual life as a whole.

Lately, I have strongly felt the need for a "background noise buffer."  Spring always seems to bring out people's body insecurities; the combination of beautiful weather and summer clothing apparently kicks people's diet-and-exercise mentalities into high gear.  I don't know if that's actually a scientifically proven phenomenon; what I do know is that lately I have felt surrounded by people who feel a need to talk about what they eat and how much they exercise.  As a person in eating disorder recovery, I've worked hard to get out of that mentality and I'm proud of the fact that I don't live my life by those rules anymore...but I'm not immune to peer pressure, and I'd be lying if I said that all of that talk didn't get to me at all.  While it doesn't make me actually question my values, it does sometimes make it harder to live them out proudly.  Taking time to refocus on my true priorities is the only way I can remain confident in my own choices, particularly the ones that seem to go against the mainstream cultural tide.  Refocusing provides me with an opportunity to realign myself so that I am living true to my values.

The same thing happens on Shavuot when I hear the Ten Commandments.  In that moment, I remember that my relationship with Hashem, along with everything I learn within the context of that relationship, is my true North Star.  In that moment, everything else falls away and I am free to reconnect to what's most important.  By the time Shavuot comes around, I badly need that moment of clarity, and I imagine we all do.  It's so easy to get distracted and thrown off course...we all would benefit from a moment free of background noise, a moment in which we reaffirm what it is that is truly at our cores.  This Shavuot, may we all have such a moment, and may we carry it with us along our journeys!

Second Chances

Some days, I wish for a reset button. Every morning, I ask Hashem to help me make the right decisions and do the right thing in every situation…and I really do try…but sometimes, I fall short. There’s always a reason: I was tired; the situation was too hard; I felt uncomfortable; it didn’t seem important—but in the end, I always feel badly when I know I’ve not lived up to my values. I’m especially sensitive about “making mistakes” in recovery, mostly because I feel as though, by this point, I really should have my act together. Even though I know recovery isn’t linear, and I know no one does it perfectly, and I know that even recovered people are entitled to have struggles now and then, I am still very quick to judge myself harshly for anything I perceive as a “failure.” Though I’ve come a long way in terms of being compassionate toward myself, sometimes it's hard to give myself a second chance.

As it turns out, Judaism understands the importance of second chances; in fact, there is an entire holiday devoted to exactly that.

A year after the Exodus from Egypt, Hashem told the Israelites to bring the korban Pesach (Passover sacrifice) on the 14th of Nissan, "in its appointed time" (Bamidbar 9:3). However there was a group of men who were unable to bring the sacrifice because they had recently come into contact with the dead and therefore were ritually impure. Upset at being excluded from this important ritual, these men approached Moses and said, "We are contaminated through a human corpse; why should we be diminished by not offering Hashem's offering in its appointed time among the Children of Israel?" (Bamidbar 9:7) Moses took their petition to Hashem, Who saw that these men deeply wanted to participate though they were temporarily unable to do so. In response to these men, Hashem created Pesach Sheni—a, “second chance holiday," one month after the original sacrificial offering, for the members of the community who had been previously unable to participate.

What are we to learn from Pesach Sheni? Perhaps this holiday is Hashem's way of reminding us of the power and possibility of change--if we do teshuva and truly want to "start fresh," it is never too late to do so. The sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchok Schneersohn, wrote:

"The theme of Pesach Sheni is that it is never too late! It is always possible to put things right. Even if one was ritually impure, or far away, and even in a case when this impurity or distance was deliberate--nonetheless it can be corrected."

This is a message we would do well to take with us in our journeys through recovery. Slips, setbacks, speed bumps--whatever you want to call them--are bound to happen, but they don't need to be cause for despair. There is always a chance to make a new start. Even if we gave into the eating disorder urge deliberately, the good news is that there is always a next meal, snack, or other food/body-related opportunity to try again.

Recently I was privileged to talk with an awesome group of teenage girls, all of whom are struggling with eating disorders in some form or another. In the course of the conversation, one of the girls admitted that she had recently used behaviors after a long stretch of being behavior free. It was clear that she felt ashamed and was nervous about what the other girls would think, but she needn't have worried...almost before she had even finished speaking, the other girls were reassuring her that, a) they had experienced exactly the same thing; and b) it is never too late to get back on track. One member of the group offered up the following quote: "Every day is a new beginning." And, it's true--we always have the power to make different choices, to move forward, to try again.

Pesach Sheni reminds us of the power of hope and the value of second chances. This year, on Pesach Sheni (and every day!), let's allow ourselves to make use of the opportunity that Hashem gives us to change unhelpful patterns and make new, positive choices. After all, every day is a new beginning!

No More Egypt

It's a mere few hours to go before Pesach begins, and I have just spent the better part of the day cooking and cleaning and otherwise engaging in last-minute preparations.  I've made a bunch of nutritious meals and snacks to get me through at least part of the week, and I've also been mentally preparing myself for the two seders ahead--spending hours around a dinner table packed with people, even when they're people I love, is not this introvert's idea of a blissfully good time.  But I've worked hard to be ready for Pesach this year, and I feel prepared.  I can be in the moment.  I can enjoy people's company.  I can stay up late and it will be fine.  And, I can eat whatever I want, because I'm in a place where I can do that.

So all things considered, I'm feeling pretty good...or at least I was, until I signed onto Facebook (I know, probably a mistake) and came face-to-face with a friend's status update, which (through text and photos!) outlined her latest achievements in the "21-Day Fix."  Now, this isn't a new thing--obviously, I've been seeing posts like this for 21 days--and I have tried hard to react to them in the best way I know how; mainly, I ignore them.  I mean, I love this friend of mine and I am happy for her that she's feeling good in her body and all of that...but, really, enough is more than enough.

It continues to blow my mind that so many women buy into the entire concept behind the "21-Day Fix" phenomenon.  First of all, ladies, are you broken?  What is there to fix, really?  You are fine the way you are.  And if you feel you're NOT fine the way you are, might I suggest exploring that feeling a bit further and seeing what's behind it, before jumping onto the "quick-fix" bandwagon?  Usually, when we feel negatively towards our bodies, it's not our physicality that needs fixing...it's our way of thinking about ourselves.  How about spending 21 days working on fixing that?

Additionally, it strikes me that our culture is so acclimated to body dissatisfaction and weight-shaming that it is considered not only normal, but actually admirable, for people to continuously post intimate details and images of their workouts, diets, and attempts at body transformation on social media.  I mean, it actually frightens me.  What kind of social environment have we created, here?  It's not helping with the whole, "female respect" thing (I acknowledge that this affects men, too, but in my experience the worst social-media offenders are overwhelmingly female).  Do we actually want to be perceived as having nothing better to talk about than food, weight, and body?  Do we truly want our bodies to be the first (or only?) things that other people think of when they think about us?  Furthermore, can we honestly say that we want our children, students, etc. to inherit the current norm of being totally preoccupied with "fixing" our bodies?  If the answer to those questions is, "no," then we have to start changing the culture in which we operate by not adding fuel to the body-shaming fire.

I recognize that this post sounds a lot like a rant, and I suppose it is...but it comes from a place of frustration with the sensation of "swimming up the cultural stream" that I so often experience in recovery.  I am tired of working so hard to have an intuitive approach to eating, and a loving relationship with my body, only to have it made harder by the societal pressure to go the other way.  That's one thing I wish everyone who puts their diet updates on social media would understand:  that by broadcasting their "successes" with the latest diet and exercise fad, they are actually making it harder--not easier--for other women to accept their own bodies.

Luckily, though, this unfortunate experience on Facebook happened to me on Erev Pesach, and after stewing about it for a few minutes, I remembered what this entire holiday is about:  freedom from our "narrow places," and liberation from whatever it is that enslaves us.  At that point, I had two choices: 1) Judge myself unfavorably in comparison to this friend of mine, and consequently restrict my eating at the seders; or, 2) recognize that my recovery is about being free from all of that craziness, and therefore grant myself permission to eat what I want...and enjoy it, without guilt.  I have put in my time worshipping the god of thin-and-fit, and I'm done with that.  I don't have to try to manipulate my body; I get to love my body by eating normally, exercising naturally, and--yes--enjoying treats without compensating for them.  It's a better, freer way of life, and I've worked hard for it.  So, this Pesach, no more Egypt for me...or, I hope, for any of us.  This year, may we be truly free!

Life's Continuity

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.

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.

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,

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:

Image found on tom2tall.com

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!