This past Shabbat we finished the book of Shemot, which ends with parasha Pekudei. The word pekudei can be translated as, "reckoning," and the parasha opens with the following verse:
אלה פקודי המשכן משכן העדת אשר פקד על–פי משה עבדת הלוים ביד איתמר בן–אהרן הכהן
These are the reckonings of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of Testimony, which were reckoned at Moses' bidding. The labor of the Levites was under the authority of Itamar, son of Aaron the Kohen.
What follows is a detailed list of all the gold, silver, and copper that people donated for the construction of the Tabernacle. Moses kept track of every contribution and how it was used, a biblical version of what we might now call, "transparency."
Coincidentally, during the same week in which we read Pekudei, I was also reading Brené Brown's new book, Rising Strong, and happened to be on the chapter called, "The Reckoning." (Brief book evaluation: not my favorite of hers, a little sound bite-y, but I'm still a fan.) In this book, Brené explores the process of "rising strong" after a fall, and the first stage of doing so is what she calls The Reckoning--engaging with our feelings and getting curious about why we have them.
Brené says:
"I don't think we can learn much about ourselves, our relationships, or the world without recognizing and getting curious about emotion. Fortunately, unlike navigating using dead reckoning, we don't need to immediately be precise in order to find our way. We just need to bring our feelings to light. We just need to be honest and curious. I'm having an emotional reaction to what's happened and I want to understand is enough for the reckoning."
For me, this resonates strongly. Even as a child, I would have emotional reactions to things and would immediately judge myself harshly for what I considered, "wrong feelings" (usually anger or fear). I never got curious or wanted to understand; in fact, I never even really talked about it because I was so sure that my feelings made me a bad person.
When I was a freshman in college, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was miserable. I didn't get curious then, either. Instead, I told myself that there was something wrong with me because everyone else was happy and I was not. Keep it to yourself and deal with it, was pretty much my philosophy. "Dealing with it" meant exercising and dieting away my pain; in short, developing the eating disorder that would control my life for most of the next decade. I shut down all my feelings and all my connections in an effort to protect myself, but didn't stop to think of what this might cost me. As Brené Brown says, "...shutting down comes with a price--a price we rarely consider when we're focused on finding our way out of pain." Truth.
And now? Now, my first response to an emotional reaction is sometimes still judgment (old habits die hard), which nearly always leads to shame. The difference is that I now recognize that this is unhelpful, and instead I try to "observe" my feelings neutrally. Then, usually in therapy, I can do the work of getting curious and figuring out why I reacted the way I did. For me, doing that work in the context of therapy is hugely important because the support of an objective observer (my therapist) helps me to avoid the shame traps that are easy to fall into when I'm alone.
Reckoning with emotion--acknowledging our feelings and approaching them with curiosity--is a lot of work and often feels harder than shutting down. But I've found that this is deceptive; in fact, the reckoning often leads to a way out of the feelings, whereas shutting down pretty much ensures that I'll stay stuck in them. My eating disorder was all about shutting down; recovery is about open and honest emotional exploration. I don't think it's any coincidence that since I've been engaged in the process of emotional reckoning, I've developed more satisfying and authentic relationships--with others and with myself--than I ever did in the entire time I struggled with anorexia.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones who feel what we feel, with the intensity that we feel it. This is false. Everyone has feelings; some people just prefer to deny them. I propose a different approach: get honest, get curious. Strive to understand your emotions, rather than stuff them away. It's healthier, and it leads to more resiliency and greater insight. If you're brave enough to engage in The Reckoning, you might just find that you are stronger than you thought--and you will begin to see a way out of the darkness of the icky feelings and back into the light.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Sunday, February 21, 2016
The Beautiful People
It seems to me that one way of approaching individuality is to want to stand out from the crowd and be recognized for one's uniqueness. I definitely felt that way as a child; I yearned to be "the best" at something--anything, really--and craved the specialness and celebration that would come along with that (it never happened). But as an adult, I seem to have taken the opposite approach: my wish is to blend in and be, for lack of a better expression, "just like everyone else."
I'm not even entirely sure what that means.
Well actually, I do know what it means, kind of. It means I want to be like the Beautiful People. Who are they? They are the women I work with and the young adults who go to my shul. The Beautiful People are socially confident, partnered, and fashionable...and best of all, they belong. They are never the ones standing around awkwardly at kiddush; they never appear uncomfortable; they somehow instinctively know which necklace or scarf will pair well with which outfit. The Beautiful People follow the typical trajectory of adult development: degree, job, partnership, kids--all before age 40. Whatever is the secret to normalcy, they all seem to know it.
And I? I can stand in one spot for 20 minutes watching birds, but after 5 minutes of small talk I'm bored out of my mind (either move on to what matters, or let's call it a day). I am often the one standing around awkwardly at kiddush. I literally have to give myself a pep talk before going to social events. Makeup rarely occurs to me. And, unlike pretty much everyone I know in my age bracket, I'm single and do not have children on the horizon.
What's interesting is, taken by themselves, none of those traits bothers me much. I've been to a lot of therapy and I like who I am, more or less. But there's no question in my mind that I would have an easier time belonging if I was a different sort of person--a Beautiful Person.
Now, thanks to all that therapy, I'm fully aware that I'm engaging in at least four cognitive distortions (perhaps more!) when I get into this line of reasoning. The truth is, I know that the "Beautiful People" whose easy lives I envy actually have problems of their own. I also recognize that I don't know them well at all, and it's entirely possible that they feel much more insecure than they appear. But all of that rational thought pales in comparison to the envy and awe that I feel as I watch them move in their social circles, stylish, coupled, and at ease.
Lately I have been thinking a lot about what it means to move through life on a different path and at a different pace than most of one's peer group. I reached out to several of my Recovery Mentors, all of whom are strong, authentic women who have, in one way or another, gone about life in a "less traditional" way. I asked them two main questions:
1) How do you go about feeling confident in a life that brings you joy if you are not in sync with your peers?
2) How do you counter the inner voice that pesters, "What's wrong with me, that I'm not like everyone else?!"
My mentors responded with wisdom, vulnerability, and empathy. They let me in on their own journeys and how they found confidence and self-acceptance without needing to conform in all ways. Best of all, they showed me that although I often feel like the "only one" who has these challenges, I am most definitely not alone in the struggle to live authentically. And in response to my second, "What's wrong with me?" question, one of my mentors had this to say:
"Absolutely NOTHING. There is something so very right and very you that you are not like everyone else."
It was exactly what I needed to hear, and it made me think of the Jewish belief that we are all created b'tzelem Elohim, in G-d's image. In Chapter 3 of Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Akiva says: "Beloved is man, for he was created in the image [of G-d]; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to him that he was created in the image, as it says, 'For in the image of G-d, He made man.' (Bereishit 9:6)" Not only are we each created in G-d's image, but G-d has taken the extra step of letting us know this about ourselves, so we can feel at ease with who we are and what path we are on.
When I stop comparing myself and my life with the fictitiously perfect lives of other people, I can recognize that there is a lot that is "so very right" about who I am. I appreciate my ability to be patient and quiet and notice what is around me. I value my introversion and introspectiveness, but I know that I can connect deeply with other people. I'm thankful that my mother taught me that a woman can, in fact, leave the house without makeup on. And, I'm profoundly grateful for the qualities I have that will hopefully help me become a great foster or adoptive parent one day--whether I'm partnered or not.
G-d, in His infinite wisdom, made us each with the precise qualities that we need to have to fill our place in the world--and He has made sure we know that He loves us as we are. But sometimes we will forget, and in those times, we all need people in our lives who will answer our cries of, "What's wrong with me?!" by saying, "Sister, listen: you are exactly who you are supposed to be." I wish for us all that we have wise friends and loved ones who can guide us toward self-acceptance in those times when we need reminding of just how "right" we are.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
What is Righteousness?
I've been working at this recovery thing for a long time--twelve years--and the longer I'm at it, the more I realize that there is always a "next step." Even after you're physically healthy and well-adjusted, you'll likely think, "I want an even better relationship with my body," or, "I want to be even happier with my life than I am right now," or whatever version of the self-improvement tape you play in your brain. This isn't a bad thing; it's just part of being a self-aware human being. But it does mean making goals and trying to achieve them, and THAT means risking failure...because, let's be honest, failure happens.
Even as a seasoned recovery veteran, I am not immune to setbacks. Recently, I made a new goal with enthusiasm and determination...and then I stopped to assess my progress and discovered that actually I hadn't made very much. This was not for lack of trying; it's just that sometimes even when I work hard, it doesn't pay off right away. I know this is normal, but somehow it is always disappointing. So, I reached out to a dear friend of mine and vented about how frustrated I was with myself for not being successful right away, etc. etc. In response, this friend gave me validation and compassion, but more than that, she gave me...a Jewish source. Yep. Because I have friends like that.
"For a righteous man can fall seven times and rise, but the wicked shall stumble upon evil."
-Proverbs 24:16
My friend pointed out that not only does this mean that even the righteous experience failure (and often!), but also that the defining characteristic of a "righteous" person is that he or she rises after falling...and keeps trying. A wicked person fails and gives up, but a righteous person experiences setbacks and continues to fight.
But then, my friend told me something that I thought was even more interesting: she said, it is taught that the worst aspect of the Yetzer HaRa (the "evil inclination" that we all have), is not hatred or anger or cruelty...it's despair. Why? Because when one falls into despair, one stops trying, and then failure is inevitable--not because one never had a chance, but because one stopped believing in that chance.
For me, that really resonates--the idea that the worst thing we can do is to give up on ourselves, to believe that we can never change. When I realized that I hadn't met my goal right away, one of my first thoughts was, "This always happens!" It's natural to follow that thought with, "Well, then why keep trying?" I have often had that thought when I try to implement change, and then I do stop trying, and then, no surprise, I don't change. And that is what the Yetzer HaRa wants: for me to stay stuck in a low place, where I am more likely to slip back into negative thoughts and behaviors.
What would it mean, then, to say, "NO," to discouragement, to rise after falling? It would mean abandoning the easy way out--giving up--in favor of the tougher, but more rewarding, pursuit of the life we want and deserve to have. I have often thought, and heard others say, "I know what I need to do, but I can't make myself do it." That, right there, is the Yetzer HaRa talking. That's the voice of resignation and despair. But we can choose to listen to a different voice, the righteous voice that says, "Keep trying! You'll get it!"
It's hard to switch voices, and it's also hard to take ownership of the fact that we CAN change and therefore need to work to make it happen. But it's so, so worth it. It helps to remember that righteousness means not perfection, but perseverance, and that's something we can all do. Failure is uncomfortable, but it's only permanent if we give up. Instead, we have to listen to the voice deep inside us that says, "Keep going! You can do it! And you're worth it."
Because you are.
Even as a seasoned recovery veteran, I am not immune to setbacks. Recently, I made a new goal with enthusiasm and determination...and then I stopped to assess my progress and discovered that actually I hadn't made very much. This was not for lack of trying; it's just that sometimes even when I work hard, it doesn't pay off right away. I know this is normal, but somehow it is always disappointing. So, I reached out to a dear friend of mine and vented about how frustrated I was with myself for not being successful right away, etc. etc. In response, this friend gave me validation and compassion, but more than that, she gave me...a Jewish source. Yep. Because I have friends like that.
"For a righteous man can fall seven times and rise, but the wicked shall stumble upon evil."
-Proverbs 24:16
My friend pointed out that not only does this mean that even the righteous experience failure (and often!), but also that the defining characteristic of a "righteous" person is that he or she rises after falling...and keeps trying. A wicked person fails and gives up, but a righteous person experiences setbacks and continues to fight.
But then, my friend told me something that I thought was even more interesting: she said, it is taught that the worst aspect of the Yetzer HaRa (the "evil inclination" that we all have), is not hatred or anger or cruelty...it's despair. Why? Because when one falls into despair, one stops trying, and then failure is inevitable--not because one never had a chance, but because one stopped believing in that chance.
For me, that really resonates--the idea that the worst thing we can do is to give up on ourselves, to believe that we can never change. When I realized that I hadn't met my goal right away, one of my first thoughts was, "This always happens!" It's natural to follow that thought with, "Well, then why keep trying?" I have often had that thought when I try to implement change, and then I do stop trying, and then, no surprise, I don't change. And that is what the Yetzer HaRa wants: for me to stay stuck in a low place, where I am more likely to slip back into negative thoughts and behaviors.
What would it mean, then, to say, "NO," to discouragement, to rise after falling? It would mean abandoning the easy way out--giving up--in favor of the tougher, but more rewarding, pursuit of the life we want and deserve to have. I have often thought, and heard others say, "I know what I need to do, but I can't make myself do it." That, right there, is the Yetzer HaRa talking. That's the voice of resignation and despair. But we can choose to listen to a different voice, the righteous voice that says, "Keep trying! You'll get it!"
It's hard to switch voices, and it's also hard to take ownership of the fact that we CAN change and therefore need to work to make it happen. But it's so, so worth it. It helps to remember that righteousness means not perfection, but perseverance, and that's something we can all do. Failure is uncomfortable, but it's only permanent if we give up. Instead, we have to listen to the voice deep inside us that says, "Keep going! You can do it! And you're worth it."
Because you are.
Friday, January 1, 2016
To Disagree, or Not to Disagree?
First blog post of 2016! To be honest (and this may come as no surprise), I'm not a big New Year's Eve/Day person. I don't really do massive displays of collective celebration. I mean, am I the only one who, while watching the confetti fall on Times Square, thinks, "Wow...that's a lot to clean up"?
It follows, then, that I'm also not big on New Year's Resolutions. But lately I have been doing a lot of reflecting about my own process and things I want/need to work on. As we know, the truth is that eating disorders aren't really about food at all, so once the behaviors are under control, there is still a lot of "stuff" to work out. Recently, due to a series of unintentionally confrontational interactions, I became aware of one of my "underlying issues:"
I hate disagreeing with people.
I don't use the word, "hate," often, but this is for real. I hate confrontation of any kind; it actually makes me physically squirm to just think about it. Also, as a recovering people pleaser, I have a hard time separating, "I don't like your idea," from, "I don't like you." When I disagree with someone, my M.O. is to mumble something neutral and keep my real feelings to myself. In situations when I let my guard down and actually do respond and then find myself in the awkward and uncomfortable place of being in conflict with another person, I nearly always leave those situations feeling a combination of: shame (for having my opinion in the first place); guilt (for not agreeing with the other person); and fear (that the other person is angry with me).
This is problematic for several reasons; first, because that level of discomfort around disagreement is probably unwarranted; second, because it renders me nearly incapable of openly stating my opinion about anything even remotely controversial and standing by that opinion. While I don't want to be someone who bulldozes others with her beliefs, I do want to feel like I have principles that I am strong enough to defend--even if it means disagreeing with someone I care about. I want to believe--to know--that the relationships I have built with other people can withstand a bit of conflict without crumbling.
I was thinking about this the other day, after a disagreement that ended with me wanting to call the other person and make sure we were still friends (note: I resisted the urge, and we are still friends). As I reflected on my extreme aversion to conflict, I remembered a great piece of aggadah (a Talmudic story) that I learned with one of my teachers this past summer. It's a long story, but hang in there...it's a good one!
There are two key players:
It follows, then, that I'm also not big on New Year's Resolutions. But lately I have been doing a lot of reflecting about my own process and things I want/need to work on. As we know, the truth is that eating disorders aren't really about food at all, so once the behaviors are under control, there is still a lot of "stuff" to work out. Recently, due to a series of unintentionally confrontational interactions, I became aware of one of my "underlying issues:"
I hate disagreeing with people.
I don't use the word, "hate," often, but this is for real. I hate confrontation of any kind; it actually makes me physically squirm to just think about it. Also, as a recovering people pleaser, I have a hard time separating, "I don't like your idea," from, "I don't like you." When I disagree with someone, my M.O. is to mumble something neutral and keep my real feelings to myself. In situations when I let my guard down and actually do respond and then find myself in the awkward and uncomfortable place of being in conflict with another person, I nearly always leave those situations feeling a combination of: shame (for having my opinion in the first place); guilt (for not agreeing with the other person); and fear (that the other person is angry with me).
This is problematic for several reasons; first, because that level of discomfort around disagreement is probably unwarranted; second, because it renders me nearly incapable of openly stating my opinion about anything even remotely controversial and standing by that opinion. While I don't want to be someone who bulldozes others with her beliefs, I do want to feel like I have principles that I am strong enough to defend--even if it means disagreeing with someone I care about. I want to believe--to know--that the relationships I have built with other people can withstand a bit of conflict without crumbling.
I was thinking about this the other day, after a disagreement that ended with me wanting to call the other person and make sure we were still friends (note: I resisted the urge, and we are still friends). As I reflected on my extreme aversion to conflict, I remembered a great piece of aggadah (a Talmudic story) that I learned with one of my teachers this past summer. It's a long story, but hang in there...it's a good one!
There are two key players:
- Rabbi Yohanan: head of a major 3rd century rabbinic academy
- Resh Lakish: robber-turned-Torah scholar who became the student and havruta of R. Yohanan
The text:
One day there was a dispute in the schoolhouse [with respect to the following], a sword, knife, dagger, spear, hand-saw, and a scythe--at what stage can they become unclean? When their manufacture is finished. And when is their manufacture finished? -- R. Yohanan ruled: When they are tempered in a furnace. Resh Lakish maintained: When they have been furbished in water.
Said he [R. Yohanan] to him [Resh Lakish]: "A robber understands his trade."
Said he [Resh Lakish] to him [R. Yohanan]: "And wherewith have you benefited me: there [as a robber] I was called Master, and here I am called Master."
"By bringing you under the wings of the Shekhinah," he [R. Yohanan] retorted.
R. Yohanan therefore felt himself deeply hurt, [as a result of which] Resh Lakish fell ill...[and] died, and R. Yohanan was plunged into deep grief. Said the Rabbis, "Who shall go to ease his mind? Let R. Eleazar b. Pedath go, whose disquisitions are very subtle."
So he [R. Eleazar] went and sat before him; and on every dictum uttered by R. Yohanan he observed, "There is a Baraita which supports you."
"Are you as the son of Lakisha?" he [R. Yohanan] complained: "When I stated a law, the son of Lakisha used to raise twenty-four objections, to which I gave twenty-four answers, which consequently led to a fuller comprehension of the law; whilst you say, 'A Baraita has been taught which supports you.' Do I not know myself that my dicta are right?" Thus he went on rending his garments and weeping, "Where are you, O son of Lakisha, where are you, O son of Lakisha?" and he cried thus until his mind was turned. Thereupon the Rabbis prayed for him, and he died. -- Bava Metzia 84a (emphasis added)
Despite its rather tragic ending, I love this story because of what it teaches about the value of disagreement. In the traditional way of Jewish study, it's a benefit to learn with a partner who challenges your ideas so that you might both arrive at a fuller understanding of the text. The Rabbis thought that R. Yohanan would be comforted by having a havruta who always agreed with him, but in fact, he missed the constant challenging and disagreeing that Resh Lakish used to bring to their studies. To R. Yohanan, Resh Lakish was a dear friend and valued study partner because they could disagree openly, thereby forcing them both to grow.
As I reread this story, I found myself doing a lot of wondering: "What if I'm selling my friends short by assuming that our relationship can't handle disagreement?" "What if people I care about actually want to know what I truly think?" "What would happen if I said what I thought, without apology?" Maybe we would both grow.
In the end, I don't think I will ever be someone who brazenly declares her opinion with disregard for the consequences; I am hard-wired to be conflict-averse and I think that will always be my tendency. However, I do think I can--and should--inch the needle more towards the middle. This will require a bit of a paradigm shift away from thinking that conflict is always bad; it will also necessitate a bit of bravery and risk-taking on my part...and it's probably something I will try out with a one person at a time, slowly. But it excites me to think that perhaps my relationships which I hold so dear will actually be strengthened, not threatened, by a bit of healthy disagreement. The way I'm doing it now isn't working for me or for my connections...so it's time to try a new way.
I'm not making a New Year's Resolution or anything, but I am making a goal to be more authentic in my expression of opinion with my friends. If this resonates for you, I encourage you to try it, as well. There's no need to make ourselves and our beliefs invisible so that we don't upset other people. We deserve to be seen and heard, and our friends deserve our authenticity. So, here's to 2016--the year of productive disagreement. I think we can make it a great one.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
The Besht Knows Best
Sometimes when I want to blog, it is hard for me to think of what to write...nothing feels quite right. But then there are other times when something hits me and begs to be written. That's how I felt when I recently came across a particular quote attributed to the Baal Shem Tov (the "BeSHT"). I wanted to write about it right away, but first I wanted to find the original source...and that's where I ran into trouble. Nowhere could I track down the name of the work in which the Besht wrote/said this, so I dispatched my "research team," (aka, friends who know a lot more than I do) but to no avail. However, my research team DID feel pretty confident that it was at least a paraphrase of what the Besht actually said, so I am just going to go with that. And if anyone out there does know the original source, please end the mystery and tell me! But for now, we'll just call it a slightly modernized paraphrase of the Besht, and I think we can agree that it's still pretty awesome.
"There are times when G-d hides His face. But then there are times when G-d hides His face and we don't even realize that His face is hidden; we dwell in darkness, and think it is light. This is a double galut [exile], a concealment within a concealment."
When I read this quote, I was immediately transported back to my sophomore year in college (which was, I think it's safe to say, pretty much a disaster, thanks to my eating disorder). I remembered a particular phone call with my parents, in which I stood in the hallway of my dorm, looking out the window, while my parents told me that if I didn't gain weight I would have to leave college and come home. I could not believe the audacity of that suggestion, partly because leaving college might have been an option for other people, but definitely not for me...but mostly because I firmly believed that my eating disorder was what made my life bearable, and how could no one else see that?! Incidentally, at that time I wouldn't even admit that I had an eating disorder. So I exercised a lot--so what? It gave me endorphins. So I kept losing weight--so what? It was cool to watch the number on the scale go down. Those things kept me going. Why did everyone else think it was such a big problem?
My perception of reality was so warped that I had exactly zero appreciation of how much trouble I was actually in. I lived enveloped in the darkness of an eating disorder, and thought it was light. I have never, before or since, been so completely wrong about anything.
Unfortunately, I think this is a pretty common phenomenon among people actively engaging in eating disorder behaviors--the belief that the behaviors are making life better, when they are actually doing the opposite. Just recently I was talking with a high schooler who is working on recovery, and she admitted that she felt if she could just be skinnier or prettier, she would have more friends. Now, this is a truly amazing girl with whom I would totally want to be friends if I was back in high school, and she is making herself sick and miserable because in her mind, using behaviors will lead to more friends. There it is again--darkness masquerading as light.
Part of the "G-d paradox" is that He gives us opportunities to feel His presence, but because of His greatness we can never truly know Him. If one believes that we are all, in a sense, in a state of exile from a G-d with whom we can never fully connect, then an eating disorder is absolutely a "double exile"--we become estranged not only from G-d, but also from ourselves. And because we believe that the eating disorder will bring us out of darkness, we don't realize that it actually is the darkness, that it is making it harder for us to connect with ourselves, with others, and with G-d.
Sometimes, a reality check is needed. The euphoria that comes with starving and over-exercising is not the same thing as happiness. The numbness that follows purging is not the same thing as contentment. The clinical relationships we have with our treatment providers are not actual friendships. The eating disorder might be a shiny distraction from our problems, but it is not actually solving anything--and it is absolutely, positively, not light. Don't be fooled.
I will be the first one to say that life in recovery is not, as the saying goes, all sunshine and roses. But it is so, so beautiful. I truly believe that, and I am not exactly someone who oozes positivity. I'm a realist. And I really know that all the "light" promised by the eating disorder is actually just exile in disguise. The light comes in recovery, and it is better than any of the fake "highs" I felt when I was using behaviors. You deserve to live in the light, too. Once you really experience it, you'll never be fooled again!
"There are times when G-d hides His face. But then there are times when G-d hides His face and we don't even realize that His face is hidden; we dwell in darkness, and think it is light. This is a double galut [exile], a concealment within a concealment."
When I read this quote, I was immediately transported back to my sophomore year in college (which was, I think it's safe to say, pretty much a disaster, thanks to my eating disorder). I remembered a particular phone call with my parents, in which I stood in the hallway of my dorm, looking out the window, while my parents told me that if I didn't gain weight I would have to leave college and come home. I could not believe the audacity of that suggestion, partly because leaving college might have been an option for other people, but definitely not for me...but mostly because I firmly believed that my eating disorder was what made my life bearable, and how could no one else see that?! Incidentally, at that time I wouldn't even admit that I had an eating disorder. So I exercised a lot--so what? It gave me endorphins. So I kept losing weight--so what? It was cool to watch the number on the scale go down. Those things kept me going. Why did everyone else think it was such a big problem?
My perception of reality was so warped that I had exactly zero appreciation of how much trouble I was actually in. I lived enveloped in the darkness of an eating disorder, and thought it was light. I have never, before or since, been so completely wrong about anything.
Unfortunately, I think this is a pretty common phenomenon among people actively engaging in eating disorder behaviors--the belief that the behaviors are making life better, when they are actually doing the opposite. Just recently I was talking with a high schooler who is working on recovery, and she admitted that she felt if she could just be skinnier or prettier, she would have more friends. Now, this is a truly amazing girl with whom I would totally want to be friends if I was back in high school, and she is making herself sick and miserable because in her mind, using behaviors will lead to more friends. There it is again--darkness masquerading as light.
Part of the "G-d paradox" is that He gives us opportunities to feel His presence, but because of His greatness we can never truly know Him. If one believes that we are all, in a sense, in a state of exile from a G-d with whom we can never fully connect, then an eating disorder is absolutely a "double exile"--we become estranged not only from G-d, but also from ourselves. And because we believe that the eating disorder will bring us out of darkness, we don't realize that it actually is the darkness, that it is making it harder for us to connect with ourselves, with others, and with G-d.
Sometimes, a reality check is needed. The euphoria that comes with starving and over-exercising is not the same thing as happiness. The numbness that follows purging is not the same thing as contentment. The clinical relationships we have with our treatment providers are not actual friendships. The eating disorder might be a shiny distraction from our problems, but it is not actually solving anything--and it is absolutely, positively, not light. Don't be fooled.
I will be the first one to say that life in recovery is not, as the saying goes, all sunshine and roses. But it is so, so beautiful. I truly believe that, and I am not exactly someone who oozes positivity. I'm a realist. And I really know that all the "light" promised by the eating disorder is actually just exile in disguise. The light comes in recovery, and it is better than any of the fake "highs" I felt when I was using behaviors. You deserve to live in the light, too. Once you really experience it, you'll never be fooled again!
Sunday, December 6, 2015
The Great (Chanukah) Debate
Note to self: Erev Chanukah is not the best time to go to the Kosher market, unless you want to be packed amongst the entire Jewish population of the neighborhood, all of whom are waiting in line to buy sufganiyot. Live and learn. But, hey, it's Erev Chanukah! The kids are excited, the adults are in good spirits, and everyone is ready to cast some light into the darkness. What's not to love about that?
Recently, I was doing a little pre-Chanukah reading, and I came across the old machloket (disagreement) between Hillel and Shammai regarding how to light the menorah. According to the House of Shammai, one should light all eight candles on the first night and decrease by one each night thereafter. The House of Hillel, on the other hand, rules that one should light just one candle on the first night, and increase by one each night that follows (halacha follows Hillel's ruling). There are a couple of explanations for their positions: one suggests that Shammai lights for the days still to come, while Hillel lights for the days that are gone. Another explanation is that Shammai lights in accordance with the bulls offered on the altar for Sukkot, while Hillel asserts that we ascend--not descend--in matters of holiness. It's an interesting debate, and as I was learning about it I came across an article by Menachem Feldman of the Chabad in Greenwich, CT, in which he draws a parallel between the different philosophies around lighting the menorah, and different ways to enact change in one's life.
By starting out with a full menorah, Shammai is saying that one has to combat the darkness with all of one's strength, right out of the gate. If we go at it a bit at a time, our efforts will fail to take hold--positive change requires our complete commitment and 100% effort right from the beginning. The good news is that every day thereafter becomes a little bit easier; since we've weakened the darkness so dramatically on the first night, on each night that follows we need a little less energy to fight it.
Hillel, on the other hand, is saying that this isn't a realistic strategy. Now that there's no more Temple and we're in exile, it's hard to muster up the energy and bravery needed to just plunge right in with everything we've got. We need a new approach, and that approach is: little by little. By building on positive change one step at a time, our efforts accumulate until we are at our full strength. To start, all we need is one candle. But by the end, all of our light will be burning.
Recovering from an eating disorder requires a lot of positive change, both behaviorally and mentally. The truth is that there is room for the approaches of both Shammai and Hillel--sometimes it works to commit 100% right from the start; other times it makes more sense to gradually build up to change. Personally, I found that being in intensive treatment was very "Shammai-esque": a lot of change all at once, because ripping off the proverbial bandaid is sometimes easier than peeling it off a tiny bit at a time. But when I was at the liberty to go at my own pace, I was always someone who enacted changes very, very slowly. Like, I didn't just stop measuring all my food cold-turkey--I stopped measuring one food at a time. As you can imagine, it took months to phase out measuring, but I did it. And, in the end, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got there, just that I arrived.
When we're going through recovery, we need to be aware of whether we lean more toward Shammai's or Hillel's style of change and respect our own preferences, but we also need to acknowledge that there is a time and a place for both. Sometimes, we just need to dive in and take that leap of faith. Other times, we might choose to do it more gradually. What I think is so cool about the Hillel-Shammai debate is that even though we have ruled in favor of Hillel, Jewish tradition has preserved Shammai's argument because it is still valuable, even if we don't follow it. There is much to learn from both approaches, so we need to keep them both in our consciousness. So, as you gather the strength to combat your personal darkness, I wish you the wisdom to know which approach will work for you, and to go with it--knowing that either way, in the end, the darkness will surely give way to light.
Recently, I was doing a little pre-Chanukah reading, and I came across the old machloket (disagreement) between Hillel and Shammai regarding how to light the menorah. According to the House of Shammai, one should light all eight candles on the first night and decrease by one each night thereafter. The House of Hillel, on the other hand, rules that one should light just one candle on the first night, and increase by one each night that follows (halacha follows Hillel's ruling). There are a couple of explanations for their positions: one suggests that Shammai lights for the days still to come, while Hillel lights for the days that are gone. Another explanation is that Shammai lights in accordance with the bulls offered on the altar for Sukkot, while Hillel asserts that we ascend--not descend--in matters of holiness. It's an interesting debate, and as I was learning about it I came across an article by Menachem Feldman of the Chabad in Greenwich, CT, in which he draws a parallel between the different philosophies around lighting the menorah, and different ways to enact change in one's life.
By starting out with a full menorah, Shammai is saying that one has to combat the darkness with all of one's strength, right out of the gate. If we go at it a bit at a time, our efforts will fail to take hold--positive change requires our complete commitment and 100% effort right from the beginning. The good news is that every day thereafter becomes a little bit easier; since we've weakened the darkness so dramatically on the first night, on each night that follows we need a little less energy to fight it.
Hillel, on the other hand, is saying that this isn't a realistic strategy. Now that there's no more Temple and we're in exile, it's hard to muster up the energy and bravery needed to just plunge right in with everything we've got. We need a new approach, and that approach is: little by little. By building on positive change one step at a time, our efforts accumulate until we are at our full strength. To start, all we need is one candle. But by the end, all of our light will be burning.
Recovering from an eating disorder requires a lot of positive change, both behaviorally and mentally. The truth is that there is room for the approaches of both Shammai and Hillel--sometimes it works to commit 100% right from the start; other times it makes more sense to gradually build up to change. Personally, I found that being in intensive treatment was very "Shammai-esque": a lot of change all at once, because ripping off the proverbial bandaid is sometimes easier than peeling it off a tiny bit at a time. But when I was at the liberty to go at my own pace, I was always someone who enacted changes very, very slowly. Like, I didn't just stop measuring all my food cold-turkey--I stopped measuring one food at a time. As you can imagine, it took months to phase out measuring, but I did it. And, in the end, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got there, just that I arrived.
When we're going through recovery, we need to be aware of whether we lean more toward Shammai's or Hillel's style of change and respect our own preferences, but we also need to acknowledge that there is a time and a place for both. Sometimes, we just need to dive in and take that leap of faith. Other times, we might choose to do it more gradually. What I think is so cool about the Hillel-Shammai debate is that even though we have ruled in favor of Hillel, Jewish tradition has preserved Shammai's argument because it is still valuable, even if we don't follow it. There is much to learn from both approaches, so we need to keep them both in our consciousness. So, as you gather the strength to combat your personal darkness, I wish you the wisdom to know which approach will work for you, and to go with it--knowing that either way, in the end, the darkness will surely give way to light.
!חנוכה שמח
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)