I would be remiss in my exploration of Elul themes if I did not venture into the realm of teshuva--certainly a central focus of this month preceding the High Holidays. Teshuva (תשובה) is often translated as "repentance" or "penitence,"but there's more to it than that. The Hebrew root of תשובה is שוב, which means, "return." When a person does teshuva, he or she repents for his or her sins, turns away from destructive patterns and actions, and returns to a life in harmony with Hashem. Teshuva also signals new beginnings and a restoration of balance within oneself. For years, the focus of my High Holiday teshuva was always apologizing to Hashem for yet another year spent engaging in eating disorder behaviors, a year in which I had, once again, fallen short of my "best self" in what felt like so many ways. So, I prayed fervently for forgiveness and promised that in the year to come, I would really try to "do better" in recovery. This happened year after year after year...and each time, I fully intended to follow through on my promise. So, why didn't I?
I was a classic case of ambivalent teshuva. I yearned to change, and yet I didn't. It was puzzling and endlessly frustrating...and yet, it seems, not uncommon to the experience of many people who undergo teshuva for a variety of reasons. In his brilliant work, Orot HaTeshuva, Rav Kook deeply examines the concept of teshuva. (For more of Rav Kook's ideas, see this blog post.) This past Tuesday was 3 Elul, Rav Kook's yahrzeit, and I set aside some time that day to explore Orot HaTeshuva. As I read, I came upon a passage that, I believe, gets right to the heart of why it was so hard for me to turn away from my eating disorder, even though I wanted to. (Note: instead of reading this text and making a direct inference that your eating disorder is "evil" or "sinful," perhaps think about it more generally as a negative force in your life.)
"The pain felt in the initial inspiration to penitence is due to the severance of the evil layers of the self, which cannot be mended as long as they are attached to and remain part of the person, and cause deterioration of the whole spirit. Through penitence they are severed from the basic essence of the self. Every severance causes pain, like the pain felt at the amputation of deteriorated organs for medical reasons. This is the most inward kind of pain, through which a person is liberated from the dark servitude to his sins and his lowly inclinations and their bitter aftereffects." (Orot HaTeshuva)
Rav Kook hits the nail on the head: I clung to my eating disorder for so long, despite genuinely wanting to change, because separating from it was too painful. Even though I knew anorexia was harming me, it had become so enmeshed in who I was that detaching it became a labor intensive, often excruciating process of pushing, pulling, and probing. My eating disorder was killing me; yet, it felt integral to my being. Letting go of it did, at times, feel as agonizing as if I was chopping off a limb.
But, Rav Kook is also correct about something else: the necessity of distance to the process of repair. When we are entrenched in a problem, it's often hard for us to see it clearly for what it is and figure out how to untangle it. The same is true of eating disorder behaviors--when we're in the middle of using one, we're hardly in a position to view it objectively and make a plan to get rid of it. For me, the magic of therapy was that it gave me a safe place to detach from my behaviors and observe, with the help of my clinicians, what function each behavior served and how I could begin to chip away at them one by one. Being willing and able to separate from my anorexia in that context was what allowed me to internalize the tools that I needed in order to dismantle it.
So, for any of you who find yourselves wondering this month why you spent another year engaging in your eating disorder despite having had a genuine desire to kick it to the curb, remember what Rav Kook says: it hurts to separate from part of yourself, even from a part that is negative. And, like most people, you do your best to avoid pain. But, remember also Rav Kook's message that separation is the key to repair. If you allow yourself some distance from your eating disorder, you will be able to see it more clearly for what it is. This year, may you be able to tolerate the pain of this separation, and may it lead you to lasting recovery, once and for all!
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Chodesh Tov...it's Elul!
This past Shabbat, we also celebrated Rosh Chodesh Elul. Elul is the month preceding the High Holidays and is traditionally a time dedicated to introspection, self-evaluation, and spiritual preparation to get us ready for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. In keeping with this practice, during this month I will aim to center each of my weekly posts around a different theme of Elul and how it relates to recovery.
One traditional Elul practice is to recite Psalm 27 twice a day throughout the month. Below is a translation of this psalm:
The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?
When evil men assail me to devour my flesh it is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.
Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear; should war beset me, still would I be confident.
One thing I ask of the Lord, only that do I seek: to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord, to frequent His temple.
He will shelter me in His pavilion on an evil day, grant me the protection of His tent, raise me high upon a rock.
Now is my head high over my enemies roundabout; I sacrifice in His tent with shouts of joy, singing and chanting a hymn to the Lord.
Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud; have mercy on me, answer me. In Your behalf my heart says: "Seek My face!"
O Lord, I seek Your face.
Do not hide from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger; You have ever been my help.
Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O G-d, my deliverer.
Though my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will take me in.
Show me Your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my watchful foes.
Do not subject me to the will of my foes, for false witnesses and unjust accusers have appeared against me.
Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living...
Look to the Lord; be strong and of good courage!
O look to the Lord!
When I read the first half of the psalm, I am struck by the strong faith of the speaker and the confidence that no matter what obstacles rise up, Hashem will offer protection and safety. The psalmist recognizes that to have such unshakable faith is to know security, peace, and the joy of victory. This reminds me of the mindset that we often need to spur us into recovery. Because giving up the eating disorder essentially requires a huge leap of faith, we need to feel confident that Hashem is looking out for us and will help us along the journey. When we feel this way, we often feel empowered, motivated, and confident that we can do the hard work recovery demands--this is what propels our momentum and inspires us to take risks and grow. I know that when I have an experience that shows me how far I have come in recovery, I enjoy a delicious sense of accomplishment and power as well as deep gratitude to Hashem for getting me to that point.
The second half of the psalm, however, carries a decidedly different tune. All of a sudden, the psalmist speaks of fear, of doubt, of loneliness. He begs Hashem not to abandon him in his time of danger and need, and implores G-d to show him the path to a righteous and holy life. In my mind, this conjures up times when my resolve has weakened, when I've had setbacks, or when the challenges of living a healthy life seemed far, far too demanding--in short, every time I've ever doubted my ability to "make it" in recovery. The psalmist expresses the intense fear and anguish that can arise at such a time--it's enough to make a person doubt whether he or she has the strength to keep going. When we are in such a state of despair, remembering that Hashem's love for us is everlasting can give us the courage to keep engaging with life. The psalmist recognizes an essential truth: Hashem never gives up on us and never stops wanting us to connect with Him. In fact, G-d begs us to seek Him out. And so, even when his faith is weakened, the psalmist hangs onto his determination to feel Hashem's love...and through this, he finds renewed courage.
Psalm 27 is about oneness--unity between the individual and Hashem, and also the joining inside ourselves of our faith and our insecurities. Elul is a time to bring ourselves closer to G-d, and is also a time to evaluate that relationship...and, like any relationship, our connection with Hashem sometimes feels strong and other times feels hazy. But, what I take from this psalm is that this is normal--holding the positive with the negative is part of how life works. Recovery is not a linear path into sunshine and roses; it is full of the ups and downs of real life in this world. We need to be able to use the strength that we gather in times of security to help us sit with the uncertainties that are also bound to arise--because we know that if we gather our faith and hang on, we will feel safe and strong once again.
So, as we begin our journey through Elul, I wish for you that you do as the psalmist instructs: Look to Hashem, and be brave! You can do it!
One traditional Elul practice is to recite Psalm 27 twice a day throughout the month. Below is a translation of this psalm:
The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?
When evil men assail me to devour my flesh it is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.
Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear; should war beset me, still would I be confident.
One thing I ask of the Lord, only that do I seek: to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord, to frequent His temple.
He will shelter me in His pavilion on an evil day, grant me the protection of His tent, raise me high upon a rock.
Now is my head high over my enemies roundabout; I sacrifice in His tent with shouts of joy, singing and chanting a hymn to the Lord.
Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud; have mercy on me, answer me. In Your behalf my heart says: "Seek My face!"
O Lord, I seek Your face.
Do not hide from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger; You have ever been my help.
Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O G-d, my deliverer.
Though my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will take me in.
Show me Your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my watchful foes.
Do not subject me to the will of my foes, for false witnesses and unjust accusers have appeared against me.
Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living...
Look to the Lord; be strong and of good courage!
O look to the Lord!
When I read the first half of the psalm, I am struck by the strong faith of the speaker and the confidence that no matter what obstacles rise up, Hashem will offer protection and safety. The psalmist recognizes that to have such unshakable faith is to know security, peace, and the joy of victory. This reminds me of the mindset that we often need to spur us into recovery. Because giving up the eating disorder essentially requires a huge leap of faith, we need to feel confident that Hashem is looking out for us and will help us along the journey. When we feel this way, we often feel empowered, motivated, and confident that we can do the hard work recovery demands--this is what propels our momentum and inspires us to take risks and grow. I know that when I have an experience that shows me how far I have come in recovery, I enjoy a delicious sense of accomplishment and power as well as deep gratitude to Hashem for getting me to that point.
The second half of the psalm, however, carries a decidedly different tune. All of a sudden, the psalmist speaks of fear, of doubt, of loneliness. He begs Hashem not to abandon him in his time of danger and need, and implores G-d to show him the path to a righteous and holy life. In my mind, this conjures up times when my resolve has weakened, when I've had setbacks, or when the challenges of living a healthy life seemed far, far too demanding--in short, every time I've ever doubted my ability to "make it" in recovery. The psalmist expresses the intense fear and anguish that can arise at such a time--it's enough to make a person doubt whether he or she has the strength to keep going. When we are in such a state of despair, remembering that Hashem's love for us is everlasting can give us the courage to keep engaging with life. The psalmist recognizes an essential truth: Hashem never gives up on us and never stops wanting us to connect with Him. In fact, G-d begs us to seek Him out. And so, even when his faith is weakened, the psalmist hangs onto his determination to feel Hashem's love...and through this, he finds renewed courage.
Psalm 27 is about oneness--unity between the individual and Hashem, and also the joining inside ourselves of our faith and our insecurities. Elul is a time to bring ourselves closer to G-d, and is also a time to evaluate that relationship...and, like any relationship, our connection with Hashem sometimes feels strong and other times feels hazy. But, what I take from this psalm is that this is normal--holding the positive with the negative is part of how life works. Recovery is not a linear path into sunshine and roses; it is full of the ups and downs of real life in this world. We need to be able to use the strength that we gather in times of security to help us sit with the uncertainties that are also bound to arise--because we know that if we gather our faith and hang on, we will feel safe and strong once again.
So, as we begin our journey through Elul, I wish for you that you do as the psalmist instructs: Look to Hashem, and be brave! You can do it!
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Circumcise...the Heart?
This past Shabbat was my first back at home after a summer in Jerusalem, and I was a little worried that it wouldn't feel as holy and nourishing as Shabbat always does in Israel. It was a bit of an adjustment, but turned out to be pretty enjoyable thanks to some great company and yummy food...and some thought-provoking Torah.
In last week's parsha (Eikev), Moshe speaks to the Israelites and basically outlines for them all the ways in which they had been stubborn and difficult, and reminds them of all the ways in which Hashem took care of them in spite of their obstinacy. He emphasizes that Hashem chose the Israelites from among all the nations because of His tremendous love for them. Moshe then implores the people to, "Cut away, therefore, the thickening about your hearts and stiffen your necks no more." (Devarim 10:16). Literally translated, Moshe is asking the people to "circumcise the foreskin of your heart." This is some dramatic language and certainly conjures up some strong mental images...but what does it mean?
The "foreskin of your heart" is often interpreted as that which blocks the heart from being open to Hashem's teachings. Circumcising the heart, therefore, implies making oneself open and available to receive the Divine. Moshe recognizes that the Jewish people's stubbornness has prevented them from truly being able to access Hashem's love for them, and he is instructing them to let down their defenses so that they might be able to open their minds.
This idea really resonates with me when I think about the process of recovery. For a long time in my own journey, I had a bit of a control issue--namely, I liked to be in control of everything, at all times. I was also fiercely self-protective and terrified that if I let my guard down at all, I would be endangered or harmed. Combine the need for control with the mission to never be hurt, and you get a maddening, defensive stubbornness, which is exactly what I extended to anyone who tried to get me to loosen my grip on my eating disorder. It wasn't until I was ready to open my tightly clenched fists to the fresh air of flexible thinking that I really began to make some progress on recovery.
I think that the first step is to recognize that the "foreskin of our hearts" is there in the first place, to acknowledge that we are resisting change and avoiding vulnerability...and this isn't necessarily bad, but it does prevent growth. Once we are able to admit to our stubbornness, we can then begin to think of ways to chip away at it, little by little. As someone who clings firmly to the safety of the status quo, I fully recognize how scary it can be to open oneself up to the world. However, I also know that when I am willing to try new experiences or make myself vulnerable to another individual, I am rarely disappointed--in fact, I usually come away feeling as though my world has been made brighter because of what I was willing to let in.
During our weekly parsha discussion, my chevruta pointed out to me that there is a parallel pasuk in parshat Nitzavim, in which Moshe promises that if the Israelites follow Hashem's commandments with all their being, "Then the Lord G-d will circumcise your heart and the hearts of your offspring to love the Lord your G-d with all your heart and soul, in order that you may live." (Devarim 30:6) In Eikev, Moshe instructs the Jewish people to circumcise their own hearts, but in Nitzavim he tells them that Hashem will open up their hearts for them. The way I understand this is, first we have to remove the barriers from our own hearts--and then, Hashem will open us up to His love. In other words, if we're willing to get the process started, Hashem will take us the whole way.
To those of you who sense that your hearts are a bit closed off, I would say this: remember that you're not being difficult for difficulty's sake--chances are, you're doing the best you can to protect yourself. But, remember also that the eating disorder is a covering around the heart--not the heart itself. It isn't what you are, it's what's preventing you from being fully yourself. There's no need to rip the covering off all at once--yikes!--but maybe there's a way to get the process started, a step you could take to give yourself a taste of what your life could be like without that barrier. I bet it could be brilliant!
In last week's parsha (Eikev), Moshe speaks to the Israelites and basically outlines for them all the ways in which they had been stubborn and difficult, and reminds them of all the ways in which Hashem took care of them in spite of their obstinacy. He emphasizes that Hashem chose the Israelites from among all the nations because of His tremendous love for them. Moshe then implores the people to, "Cut away, therefore, the thickening about your hearts and stiffen your necks no more." (Devarim 10:16). Literally translated, Moshe is asking the people to "circumcise the foreskin of your heart." This is some dramatic language and certainly conjures up some strong mental images...but what does it mean?
The "foreskin of your heart" is often interpreted as that which blocks the heart from being open to Hashem's teachings. Circumcising the heart, therefore, implies making oneself open and available to receive the Divine. Moshe recognizes that the Jewish people's stubbornness has prevented them from truly being able to access Hashem's love for them, and he is instructing them to let down their defenses so that they might be able to open their minds.
This idea really resonates with me when I think about the process of recovery. For a long time in my own journey, I had a bit of a control issue--namely, I liked to be in control of everything, at all times. I was also fiercely self-protective and terrified that if I let my guard down at all, I would be endangered or harmed. Combine the need for control with the mission to never be hurt, and you get a maddening, defensive stubbornness, which is exactly what I extended to anyone who tried to get me to loosen my grip on my eating disorder. It wasn't until I was ready to open my tightly clenched fists to the fresh air of flexible thinking that I really began to make some progress on recovery.
I think that the first step is to recognize that the "foreskin of our hearts" is there in the first place, to acknowledge that we are resisting change and avoiding vulnerability...and this isn't necessarily bad, but it does prevent growth. Once we are able to admit to our stubbornness, we can then begin to think of ways to chip away at it, little by little. As someone who clings firmly to the safety of the status quo, I fully recognize how scary it can be to open oneself up to the world. However, I also know that when I am willing to try new experiences or make myself vulnerable to another individual, I am rarely disappointed--in fact, I usually come away feeling as though my world has been made brighter because of what I was willing to let in.
During our weekly parsha discussion, my chevruta pointed out to me that there is a parallel pasuk in parshat Nitzavim, in which Moshe promises that if the Israelites follow Hashem's commandments with all their being, "Then the Lord G-d will circumcise your heart and the hearts of your offspring to love the Lord your G-d with all your heart and soul, in order that you may live." (Devarim 30:6) In Eikev, Moshe instructs the Jewish people to circumcise their own hearts, but in Nitzavim he tells them that Hashem will open up their hearts for them. The way I understand this is, first we have to remove the barriers from our own hearts--and then, Hashem will open us up to His love. In other words, if we're willing to get the process started, Hashem will take us the whole way.
To those of you who sense that your hearts are a bit closed off, I would say this: remember that you're not being difficult for difficulty's sake--chances are, you're doing the best you can to protect yourself. But, remember also that the eating disorder is a covering around the heart--not the heart itself. It isn't what you are, it's what's preventing you from being fully yourself. There's no need to rip the covering off all at once--yikes!--but maybe there's a way to get the process started, a step you could take to give yourself a taste of what your life could be like without that barrier. I bet it could be brilliant!
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Holding onto Growth
It's hard for me to believe, but in a few days I will be saying goodbye to Israel. My program at Pardes has finished and I am now in that nebulous transition phase, trying to be present to enjoy my remaining time here while also preparing for departure. While I'm looking forward to reconnecting with the people and places of home, I also feel like I am leaving home, because that is what Israel has become for me: a home for my soul.
Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings: plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing. If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others: fear. As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here: someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open. I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers. In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self. Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?
One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:
"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself. This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)
What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings. I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment. Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world. He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others. I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress. In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery. I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own. I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel: other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.
So...
...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...
...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...
...תודה רבה B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!
Bidding farewell to such an incredible experience conjures up in me a whole range of feelings: plenty of gratitude and contentment, but also a healthy dose of sadness and longing. If I dig a bit deeper, I bump up against another emotion that is buried way down but also pervades all the others: fear. As I prepare to say goodbye to Israel, I am afraid that I am also saying goodbye to the person I've grown into while I've been here: someone who is an explorer, who can go with the flow, and who connects to others with her heart wide open. I am afraid I will stagnate in my spiritual growth when I can no longer fill my lungs with the air of Eretz Yisrael and my head with the wisdom of my teachers. In many ways, I feel that this summer has given me a taste of my better self. Will I be able to hold onto that when I return to my life in the States?
One of my teachers introduced me to the works of Reb Zadok HaKohen Milublin and shared with me a quote of his that resonates with me strongly as I wrestle with this fear:
"Just as one must believe in G-d, so too must one afterwards believe in him or herself. This is to say that G-d has direct dealings with him/her and he/she is not an insignifcant being who is here at one moment and gone the next..." (Tzidkat Hatzaddik #154)
What I take from this is a reminder that who I am is not wholly dependent on others or my surroundings. I do not need to fear that I will disappear or whither away simply because I leave a nurturing environment. Hashem created me with purpose because I have something to offer the world. He gifted me with the experiences of this summer so that I could grow and have more light to share with others. I used to think I was only in recovery because of the support of my clinical team, that without them I wouldn't be able to hold onto my progress. In truth, my team did help me get to where I am, but I am the one who sustains my recovery. I've internalized their support and now can initiate and maintain progress on my own. I think the same is true of my fears about leaving Israel: other people may have filled me up this summer, but I am the vessel and I do not automatically crumble and lose my contents just because I move away from the source.
So...
...to my teachers, who challenged and enlightened me intellectually and also nurtured and supported me personally, who shared with me the energy and beauty of Talmud Torah and also made me excited about possibilities for my own life...
...to my friends, who reminded me of what it means to be truly seen, who shared their radiance with me and also reflected my own light back onto me with love and caring...
...תודה רבה B'ezrat Hashem we should continue to learn and grow together!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Our Two Souls
One of the classic teachings of Judaism comes from Deuteronomy 6:5:
And you shall love the Lord, your G-d, with all your heart and with all your soul...
I've recited this piece of text hundreds of times in my life, but rarely thought deeply about its wording. In a recent class at Pardes, my teacher introduced me to how the Midrash Rabba explains this text:
"What do all your heart and all your soul mean? With each different soul that He created in you."
My teacher then explained that Hashem placed within each of us two souls. One is the נפש בהמי, the animal soul; the other is the נשמה טהורה, the pure soul. The animal soul is considered to be "lower" and is concerned mainly with ME and NOW--in other words, survival. The pure soul is the "higher" soul and is more mature and reflective; it is concerned with both me and others, now and later. Sometimes our two souls are on the same wavelength, but other times they may send us conflicting messages, and we have to tease them apart.
There is a lot in this idea that resonates with me, but one thing that strikes me in particular is how the two souls are compared to each other via their classification as either "higher" or "lower." The lower soul is the one that speaks to us about our basic needs: food, rest, safety, etc., while the higher soul encourages us to think beyond just ourselves in the present moment. I think many of us would not have much trouble jumping to the conclusion that we should use our higher soul to override our lower soul and that our animal impulses should be subjugated. This seems to be the message that we often get from society: "Stop thinking about yourself. Push your body past its limits--you don't really need to sleep, or to eat. Do more with less." This mentality is the fuel that often feeds eating disorders...but, I would argue that this is not at all what is at the core of this Jewish teaching.
This Midrash tells us that Hashem gave us both souls on purpose. Why would Hashem bother giving us an animal soul in the first place, if we are just supposed to suppress it all the time? That "lower soul" is our survival instinct. It is how we assess immediate danger and how we ensure that our basic human needs are met. This soul is our voice of self-preservation, and I would suggest that unless we honor our lower soul, the higher soul won't be able to do its job. Part of what I've learned over the years is that if I don't take care of myself, I can't take care of others at the level at which I'd like to. If I don't get enough rest, I'm cranky with my friends and have no energy to spend on those relationships. If I deny my hunger and don't eat enough, I can't focus on teaching my students because part of my mind is stuck on my empty stomach. Basically, if I don't make sure there is enough in my cup, nothing will be able to spill over into anyone else's. Now, does this mean I should be concerned only with myself or that I should immediately get everything I want? Of course not...but, neither should I ignore my basic needs under the false premise that prioritizing the well-being of others is a more worthy pursuit than caring for myself. Hashem gave me both souls because He understands that by ensuring that my basic needs are securely met, I become available to connect with--and genuinely care for--others. Both souls are essential, and neither should be dismissed as less valuable than the other.
Take some time to tune into your two souls. What are they saying? Are you listening? I wish for you the ability to hear what the two voices of your truth are telling you, and the courage to take steps toward honoring both essential pieces of yourself.
And you shall love the Lord, your G-d, with all your heart and with all your soul...
I've recited this piece of text hundreds of times in my life, but rarely thought deeply about its wording. In a recent class at Pardes, my teacher introduced me to how the Midrash Rabba explains this text:
"What do all your heart and all your soul mean? With each different soul that He created in you."
My teacher then explained that Hashem placed within each of us two souls. One is the נפש בהמי, the animal soul; the other is the נשמה טהורה, the pure soul. The animal soul is considered to be "lower" and is concerned mainly with ME and NOW--in other words, survival. The pure soul is the "higher" soul and is more mature and reflective; it is concerned with both me and others, now and later. Sometimes our two souls are on the same wavelength, but other times they may send us conflicting messages, and we have to tease them apart.
There is a lot in this idea that resonates with me, but one thing that strikes me in particular is how the two souls are compared to each other via their classification as either "higher" or "lower." The lower soul is the one that speaks to us about our basic needs: food, rest, safety, etc., while the higher soul encourages us to think beyond just ourselves in the present moment. I think many of us would not have much trouble jumping to the conclusion that we should use our higher soul to override our lower soul and that our animal impulses should be subjugated. This seems to be the message that we often get from society: "Stop thinking about yourself. Push your body past its limits--you don't really need to sleep, or to eat. Do more with less." This mentality is the fuel that often feeds eating disorders...but, I would argue that this is not at all what is at the core of this Jewish teaching.
This Midrash tells us that Hashem gave us both souls on purpose. Why would Hashem bother giving us an animal soul in the first place, if we are just supposed to suppress it all the time? That "lower soul" is our survival instinct. It is how we assess immediate danger and how we ensure that our basic human needs are met. This soul is our voice of self-preservation, and I would suggest that unless we honor our lower soul, the higher soul won't be able to do its job. Part of what I've learned over the years is that if I don't take care of myself, I can't take care of others at the level at which I'd like to. If I don't get enough rest, I'm cranky with my friends and have no energy to spend on those relationships. If I deny my hunger and don't eat enough, I can't focus on teaching my students because part of my mind is stuck on my empty stomach. Basically, if I don't make sure there is enough in my cup, nothing will be able to spill over into anyone else's. Now, does this mean I should be concerned only with myself or that I should immediately get everything I want? Of course not...but, neither should I ignore my basic needs under the false premise that prioritizing the well-being of others is a more worthy pursuit than caring for myself. Hashem gave me both souls because He understands that by ensuring that my basic needs are securely met, I become available to connect with--and genuinely care for--others. Both souls are essential, and neither should be dismissed as less valuable than the other.
Take some time to tune into your two souls. What are they saying? Are you listening? I wish for you the ability to hear what the two voices of your truth are telling you, and the courage to take steps toward honoring both essential pieces of yourself.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Victory...In Meal Form
Shavua tov! I hope we're all emerging from Shabbat rested and energized for a new week. I was fortunate to enjoy a beautiful Shabbat in Jerusalem and want to share a bit of the experience with you.
On Saturday I had Shabbat lunch at the home of one of my Pardes teachers, along with five other students from my program. Walking into large groups of people tends to really stress me out, so I arrived a little early to give myself time to settle in before everyone else came. (It helped that my teacher has two adorable children under age 5, and I was more than happy to keep them occupied while she and her husband finished preparing the meal!) By the time we sat down for kiddush, I felt comfortable and ready to be present for the experience of the lunch, which turned out to be one of the best Shabbat experiences I've had thus far in Israel.
What made this Shabbat lunch so amazing? Well, many significant things happened: 1) I arrived at the table hungry, and I was okay with that; 2) I ate foods that I did not cook myself and whose ingredients were at least partially unknown to me; 3) I made conversation; 4) I listened to what other people said; 5) I ate dessert, not because I was particularly hungry but because it looked delicious; 6) I left the table feeling full, and I was okay with that. Even as I write this, I am aware of how mundane those things seem...it sounds like any ordinary meal. And yet, for me the beauty of this experience was its sheer simplicity and the knowledge that the basic act of enjoying a leisurely meal with friends was something I could taste for myself.
There were whole years full of Shabbats when none of this would have been possible. If I made it to the table at all, it was in body only--my mind was frantically calculating, measuring, comparing, and worrying--leaving no room for being present. This past Saturday, the victory was in being able to take full delight in an experience I used to be able to only watch others enjoy.
Despite having spent all morning in shul, I believe my most spiritual moment of the day occurred as I sat around that table, surrounded by delicious food and delightful company. I felt intense thankfulness to Hashem for seeing me through recovery to that day, that meal. I'm glad Hashem knows what's in my heart even when I can't express it in words, because there's no way I could truly verbalize the gratitude I feel as I reflect on what I was able to be present for this past Shabbat. It was, as I like to say, a total "Baruch Hashem moment." It was also not the first time in recovery when I've had such a moment at a meal, but part of the gift is that it is exciting every time. For me, recovery means being in a perpetual state of shehecheyanu, because I never take for granted being able to enjoy eating freely in the company of others.
I share this anecdote not because it contains some deep Torah insight or profound spiritual teaching. Rather, I share it because there was a time when I did not believe such an experience would ever be within my reach, and this past Shabbat I found the prize firmly in my grasp. I want to say that it is possible to trek through the arduous process of recovery and emerge on the other side, able to engage fully with the delights of this world. If it can happen for me, it can happen for you, too.
On Saturday I had Shabbat lunch at the home of one of my Pardes teachers, along with five other students from my program. Walking into large groups of people tends to really stress me out, so I arrived a little early to give myself time to settle in before everyone else came. (It helped that my teacher has two adorable children under age 5, and I was more than happy to keep them occupied while she and her husband finished preparing the meal!) By the time we sat down for kiddush, I felt comfortable and ready to be present for the experience of the lunch, which turned out to be one of the best Shabbat experiences I've had thus far in Israel.
What made this Shabbat lunch so amazing? Well, many significant things happened: 1) I arrived at the table hungry, and I was okay with that; 2) I ate foods that I did not cook myself and whose ingredients were at least partially unknown to me; 3) I made conversation; 4) I listened to what other people said; 5) I ate dessert, not because I was particularly hungry but because it looked delicious; 6) I left the table feeling full, and I was okay with that. Even as I write this, I am aware of how mundane those things seem...it sounds like any ordinary meal. And yet, for me the beauty of this experience was its sheer simplicity and the knowledge that the basic act of enjoying a leisurely meal with friends was something I could taste for myself.
There were whole years full of Shabbats when none of this would have been possible. If I made it to the table at all, it was in body only--my mind was frantically calculating, measuring, comparing, and worrying--leaving no room for being present. This past Saturday, the victory was in being able to take full delight in an experience I used to be able to only watch others enjoy.
Despite having spent all morning in shul, I believe my most spiritual moment of the day occurred as I sat around that table, surrounded by delicious food and delightful company. I felt intense thankfulness to Hashem for seeing me through recovery to that day, that meal. I'm glad Hashem knows what's in my heart even when I can't express it in words, because there's no way I could truly verbalize the gratitude I feel as I reflect on what I was able to be present for this past Shabbat. It was, as I like to say, a total "Baruch Hashem moment." It was also not the first time in recovery when I've had such a moment at a meal, but part of the gift is that it is exciting every time. For me, recovery means being in a perpetual state of shehecheyanu, because I never take for granted being able to enjoy eating freely in the company of others.
I share this anecdote not because it contains some deep Torah insight or profound spiritual teaching. Rather, I share it because there was a time when I did not believe such an experience would ever be within my reach, and this past Shabbat I found the prize firmly in my grasp. I want to say that it is possible to trek through the arduous process of recovery and emerge on the other side, able to engage fully with the delights of this world. If it can happen for me, it can happen for you, too.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Find Truth in the Return
Being in Israel always opens me up to parts of myself that are less accessible in other places. Consequently, I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to feel centered within oneself and in tune with one's inner voice. A teacher of mine at Pardes introduced me to the work of Rav Kook (rhymes with, "look"), a brilliant Jewish scholar who also happened to be the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Palestine under the British Mandate. Here is what Rav Kook has to say about clarity within the soul:
"When one forgets the essence of one's own soul, when one distracts his mind from attending to the substantive content of his own inner life, everything becomes confused and uncertain. The primary step, which immediately sheds light on a darkened zone, is for the person to return to himself, to the root of his soul, and from there to the Soul of all souls..." (Orot HaTeshuva 15:10)
I may be just a fledgling Torah student, but I believe I understand what Rav Kook is saying. When I lose sight of what is important in my life and instead become too focused on peripheral matters, I become ungrounded and insecure inside myself. For a long time, the realities of my life seemed too painful to face. Instead of dealing with the sources of my unhappiness, I latched onto the shiny distractions of weight and body. As I became more and more certain that food and exercise were all that mattered, the rest of my life fell away until it was nearly gone, until I was all but unrecognizable even to myself.
Recovery has been a process of returning, of coming home to myself. Many things have helped: therapy, writing, and being with people who knew me prior to the eating disorder and could remind me of who I was "before." The healthier my body became, the more I began to reconnect emotionally with the parts of myself I had forgotten, and to remember what was truly important to me. Recovery has allowed me to become a teacher and construct a professional identity of which I am proud and through which I find deep fulfillment. It has made possible my trips to Israel, where I've been able to prioritize my spiritual and religious growth in ways that feel vital to me. And, it has made me available to connect with some special people who have become my closest friends and who can mirror back to me who I really am, in case I forget.
When I am in touch with my inner truth, I feel a greater sense of security about my place in the world. I also feel more able to connect with Hashem because when I talk to Him, there is more conviction in my own voice. I believe Rav Kook is correct--returning to oneself is key. It doesn't solve every problem, but it allows one to be more present to develop solutions and to experience the journey on the way.
This week, give yourself some quiet space in which to think about your true self, your real priorities and your bottom lines. Are you living in a way that honors who you are at your core? Try to identify one way in which you could move closer to your center...and when you are ready, take the first step.
"When one forgets the essence of one's own soul, when one distracts his mind from attending to the substantive content of his own inner life, everything becomes confused and uncertain. The primary step, which immediately sheds light on a darkened zone, is for the person to return to himself, to the root of his soul, and from there to the Soul of all souls..." (Orot HaTeshuva 15:10)
I may be just a fledgling Torah student, but I believe I understand what Rav Kook is saying. When I lose sight of what is important in my life and instead become too focused on peripheral matters, I become ungrounded and insecure inside myself. For a long time, the realities of my life seemed too painful to face. Instead of dealing with the sources of my unhappiness, I latched onto the shiny distractions of weight and body. As I became more and more certain that food and exercise were all that mattered, the rest of my life fell away until it was nearly gone, until I was all but unrecognizable even to myself.
Recovery has been a process of returning, of coming home to myself. Many things have helped: therapy, writing, and being with people who knew me prior to the eating disorder and could remind me of who I was "before." The healthier my body became, the more I began to reconnect emotionally with the parts of myself I had forgotten, and to remember what was truly important to me. Recovery has allowed me to become a teacher and construct a professional identity of which I am proud and through which I find deep fulfillment. It has made possible my trips to Israel, where I've been able to prioritize my spiritual and religious growth in ways that feel vital to me. And, it has made me available to connect with some special people who have become my closest friends and who can mirror back to me who I really am, in case I forget.
When I am in touch with my inner truth, I feel a greater sense of security about my place in the world. I also feel more able to connect with Hashem because when I talk to Him, there is more conviction in my own voice. I believe Rav Kook is correct--returning to oneself is key. It doesn't solve every problem, but it allows one to be more present to develop solutions and to experience the journey on the way.
This week, give yourself some quiet space in which to think about your true self, your real priorities and your bottom lines. Are you living in a way that honors who you are at your core? Try to identify one way in which you could move closer to your center...and when you are ready, take the first step.
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