From a Teacher's Heart

I hope you all will forgive me if I digress a bit from the usual themes of this blog, in order to focus on something that has been dominating my mind for the past several days.  In all likelihood, this deviation from the norm is harder for me than it will be for you--in my mind, I have "rules" for this blog (Must be recovery!  Must be Jewish!) and it is challenging for me to be flexible and acknowledge that this week, I have something else that I want--need--to write about.  But, never fear--I'll do my best to bring it all together at some point!

Last Friday afternoon, my students were reading quietly as they always do after lunch, and I took advantage of the quiet to check the news on my laptop.  Expecting the usual mix of political and entertainment headlines, I was shocked at what I found instead:  reports of a mass shooting at a Connecticut elementary school, details of which were still unfolding.  The rest of the afternoon passed in a surreal blur: I would teach a lesson, then check the news during a lull, then simply turn and watch my kids in all their vibrant vitality.  By the time I dismissed my class of third graders, I knew the gruesome outcome of the brutal assault on Sandy Hook Elementary School: 28 people dead, including 6 educators and 20 six- and seven-year-old children.

For the first few days after the shooting, my mind was consumed with thoughts about the tragedy.  Not being a parent myself, I couldn't really conceptualize the grief that the parents of the slain children were feeling.  But, as a third grade teacher, I felt complete empathy for the teachers at Sandy Hook.  I thought about what it would be like to lose colleagues and students in such a sudden, tragic way.  I worried about where I would hide 23 nine-year-olds in my own classroom if, G-d forbid, we ever faced a similar situation.  I watched and read interviews with teachers who had protected their students by hiding them in bathrooms, closets, and cabinets, teachers who had kept their kids calm by reading to them and telling them to "wait for the good guys."  As a teacher, I am deeply devoted to my students and feel fiercely protective of them...and the idea of NOT being able to shield them from such trauma is just about the worst thing I can imagine.  For me, thinking of what it must have been like for those teachers is absolutely devastating.

This week, I've had to give myself plenty of space to feel grief over what happened in Connecticut.  I'm also conscious of the fact that five years ago I probably would not have been capable of having such an intense emotional reaction to a story in the news--I had numbed myself into emotional flatline.  This week, however, I've felt the full force of sadness as I've tried to wrap my mind around the deaths of so many children and the adults who cared for them.  Years ago, I would have run from such strong feelings as quickly as possible.  Now, however, I am able to recognize that being able to have emotions is also what helps me be connected to other people who are going through a similar experience.

It has been a tough week to be an elementary school teacher...but, it has also been a special one.  On Monday morning, my colleagues and I met for an emergency staff meeting to discuss what we might face during the day.  We expressed our fears, we cried, we hugged each other...and then we went to meet our students, who came through the doors full of precious energy and reminded us of why, exactly, we do the work that we do.  I have never felt more privileged to be a teacher than I have this week.  My heart is with the teachers from Sandy Hook, and I pray that they will find the strength to guide themselves and their students through this dark time--emerging, once more, into the light.

"I have learned two lessons in my life:  first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones.  Second, just as despair can come to one another only from human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by human beings."  --Elie Wiesel

This Little Light of Mine...

A few moments ago, I lit the menorah for the third night of Chanukah.  As I write this post, the candles stand upright and proud in their holders, casting small yet hardy flames into the air above them.  True, Chanukah isn't considered among the holiest of days in the Jewish calendar, but it does carry powerful messages for us to consider as we try to find our path in a world that often seems cast in darkness and shadows.

One of the central themes of Chanukah is the victory of the small band of Hasmoneans against the much larger Syrian-Greek army.  As a classic culture, the Greeks had a lot to offer, and they were eager to share their Hellenist rituals and beliefs with the Jews--but the Jews weren't interested.  Simply put, the Jews didn't want what the Greeks were selling.  They appreciated many things about Greek culture--in fact, Judaism has often praised the ancient Greeks for their linguistic and philosophical contributions to the world.  But although they were able to see the virtues of the Greeks, the Jews didn't want to be Greek--they wanted to be Jews, and they had to fight for their right to remain true to themselves.

This is a predicament that continues to face us today.  As we grow and develop into ourselves, there is no shortage of people who are waiting to give us advice and tell us how they think we should live our lives.  Sometimes, outside influence comes in the form of family or close friends who tell us what we should consider, what we should prioritize, what we should value.  Other times, input comes from our surrounding culture that informs us, in no uncertain terms, of how we should dress, how we should speak, how we should behave.  It is easy to be intimidated and confused in the face of all those "shoulds," and when we let those "shoulds" dictate our choices, that's when we start to lose ourselves.  As a person who tries hard to avoid confrontation, I fully appreciate the challenge and scariness of bucking the trend.  But, I also know that I spent many years of my life believing there were only two options--conform, or disappear--and neither of those was entirely successful (or satisfying).  Slowly, I began to wonder if there might be a third option...and Chanukah teaches us that there is.

Chanukah is about the fight that we all must undertake to live by our own light.  It's about remaining true to ourselves in the face of intense cultural pressure and not losing sight of our own priorities and visions.  Chanukah reminds us that this is indeed a fight worth fighting, and that if we are willing to go through the struggle that growth entails, we will emerge stronger and more vital.

We light the Chanukah candles in accordance with the tradition of Beit Hillel:  one candle for the first night, two for the second, and so on in an increasing manner.  Hillel based his ruling on the principle of ma'alin ba'kodesh ve'ayn moridin--one increases in matters of holiness, and does not diminish.  So it is with ourselves--if we do the work of living authentically and speaking our truth, our strength and virtue will increase, as will the light that we are able to share with others.

This Chanukah season, may we all have the courage to use our own light to guide us out of whatever darkness in which we find ourselves.

!חג חנוכה שמח

A Mother's Love

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Rachel, our matriarch, whose story began in parasha Vayetzei and concluded last week with her tragic death during childbirth in Vayishlach.  I should admit to being just a teensy bit biased towards her, as we do share the same name...but in all seriousness, what I learn from Rachel extends far beyond that one point of connection.

When Rachel dies, Jacob buries her on the side of the road on the way to Efrat as his family makes their way back to their homeland.  Her tomb is solitary, separated from that of her husband and the other matriarchs and patriarchs who are buried in the Cave of Machpelah.  A Midrash reveals the critical significance of Rachel's burial "on the road" by explaining that centuries later, when the Jewish people were exiled after the destruction of the First Temple, they passed by her grave on their way out of their homeland...and Rachel wept for them, begging Hashem to be merciful toward her children.  In response to her heartfelt pleas, Hashem promised Rachel, "There is hope for your destiny...the children shall return to their borders."  (Pesikta Rabbati, piska 2)

But not only is Rachel the mother of children in exile, she herself also knows all too well the feeling of being stuck "in process," not yet at her desired destination. Much of Rachel's story chronicles the ways in which she is "on the way," close-but-not-quite-there.  First, she must become the second wife of Jacob, when she should have been the first.  Then, there are all the years in which she is barren, unable to conceive children while she watches Leah give birth to son after son.  When she finally does give birth to Joseph, her first son, Rachel is prays to Hashem to give her another baby...but she dies bringing that much-desired second child, Benjamin, into this world.  

I recently read an article about Rachel that describes her in this way:

"It seems that Rachel's entire existence symbolizes "the way," the process.  Her life is a story of constant grappling with processes, and it is from Rachel we learn the significance of process.  

Something that is attained easily is of lesser value in a person's eyes.  When a person lacks something, he has a better understanding of its value.  When he must work hard in order to attain something, he appreciates it more, and is more attached to it.  In addition, the very process that he undergoes--even if he never achieves his final objective--causes his personality to grow and develop."

Recovery is a colossal process, if ever there was one.  Although we're not exiled from our homelands anymore, we have endured the experience of being in exile from ourselves.  We've been lonely, confused, lost, and scared...in fact, we may be feeling those emotions right now, depending on where we are in our process and how far removed we feel from where we want to be.  Rachel is the quintessential comforter of people who feel stranded "on the road."  She watches over us, shining her light on the path that we follow to our destinations.  Rachel loves us unconditionally with a compassion that comes from having been through her own rocky process in the name of a greater vision.  By caring so deeply for us, Rachel teaches us to care for ourselves--to be gentle with ourselves as we navigate the twists and turns on the roads leading back to our cores.  

As we press forward on our journeys, may we be comforted by the wise, maternal love of Rachel Imenu...and may we use her tenderness to propel ourselves onward, out of exile and back to our true selves.  

The Struggle for Wholeness

Since I started learning Torah, my friends and teachers have been telling me that the power of Torah is that no matter how many times you read it, you can always find in it something new.  At this point, I haven't read the entire Torah enough times to really test that theory, but this week I'm getting the sense that it holds water.  Last year I blogged about the episode in this week's parasha, Vayishlach, where Jacob wrestles with the angel.  (A quick recap for those unfamiliar with the text:  After using deception to claim the birthright that was intended for his older brother, Esau, Jacob fled from his homeland and remained in exile for around 20 years.  Finally, he hears that Esau is coming to meet him and Jacob prepares for the reunion with a good amount of fear and anxiety.  The night before he is to see his brother, Jacob has a dream in which a mysterious being wrestles with him until the break of dawn.)  I really love this story, and as I started reading the parsha for the second time, I felt a little disappointed that I'd already written about that section of text...but then, I found it:  something new!

While reading the psukim about Jacob and the angel, I was drawn to the following midrashic commentary at the bottom of the page:

We can imagine Jacob saying to himself, "Until now, I have responded to difficult situations by lying and running.  I deceived my father.  I ran away from Esau.  I left Laban's house stealthily instead of confronting him.  I hate myself for being a person who lies and runs.  But I'm afraid of facing up to the situation."  By not defeating his conscience, Jacob wins.  He outgrows his Jacob identity as the trickster and becomes Israel, the one who contends with God and people instead of avoiding or manipulating them.  At the end of the struggle, he is physically wounded and emotionally depleted.  Nevertheless, the Torah describes him (in 33:18) as shalem, translated "safe" with connotations of "whole," at peace with himself (shalem is related to the word "shalom"), possessing an integrity he never had before (S'fat Emet).   --Etz Hayim chumash, page 201.

I often feel that part of the challenge of reading Torah is finding ways to connect with the central figures of the narrative--how can I relate to them and make their experiences applicable to my life?  Through this commentary, I discover a whole new way to relate to Jacob.  Like Jacob, I went through a period of my life when I was deceptive and untruthful.  When confronted with any type of uncomfortable situation, I chose the path of avoidance, which was usually paved with lies.  I hated how my eating disorder had turned me into someone sneaky and dishonest, but I was unable to find the strength to face confrontations or challenges head-on.  For me, recovery has meant growing into a person who is willing to bear discomfort.  It has meant finding a way to be honest even when it might upset someone else, because having a strong sense of integrity has become more important to me than insulating myself from the bumpy parts of real life.

Jacob's battle leaves him injured and exhausted, yet undeniably whole.  Recovery is similar, in that probably no one (at least no one I know) escapes it unscathed.  I have found it to be physically demanding and often painful, and it has pushed me to the outer limits of my capacity for handling tough emotions.  So, why have I put myself through all of that?  I've done it because the "me" who has emerged out the other side is a fuller, more authentic self than I ever would have been had I not engaged in the struggle.  Although recovery, in the moment, often seemed impossibly challenging, it has ended up being the process that brought me to a clearer, brighter existence.  The eating disorder gave me a false sense of protection, but recovery provides me with a path toward genuine wholeness.  I hope that each of us is able to internalize the courage and wisdom of Jacob and use this strength to further our own positive transformations--and that we emerge from it all as individuals who truly know the meaning of shalem.  

   

Anxiety Comes Calling...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outgrowing the Flower Pot

People who know me well could probably think of a variety of adjectives with which to describe me, but I'd be willing to bet that, "daring," would not be one of them.  (I base this assumption on the high frequency with which I have been described as, "risk-averse.")  In some ways, my cautiousness is an asset--it protects me from danger and unnecessarily risky situations.  However, lately I have been thinking that although it keeps me safe, it also undeniably keeps me stuck.

On the one hand, if I have to be stuck somewhere, the life I currently lead isn't a terrible place to be.  I have a job doing what I love to do; I live in a satisfactory apartment in a safe, clean neighborhood; I have amazing parents whom I get to see almost every weekend. I have in place many of the pieces that make up the picture of a functional, fulfilling adult life.  And, for nearly a decade, this has been enough for me.  In fact, for a long time this stable life of mine was all I wanted--as I worked my way through early recovery, I couldn't imagine that I would ever be able to do anything truly daring, nor did I want to.  Even once my recovery was more secure, I felt it would be foolish to uproot myself from the support system I'd put into place--surely, such a move would cause me to unravel.  So, I've stayed put, safe in my little flower pot of sorts, growing as tall as I've been able with roots that are limited in how far out they can extend.

But now...I think I might have outgrown the flower pot.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to just throw away everything I've worked so hard to build, but I can't deny that I feel constrained and restricted to a life that is just okay, as opposed to a life that is great.  But, herein lies the problem:  moving from okay to great requires change, uncertainty, and a willingness to take chances.  None of that dovetails so nicely with my lifelong history of risk aversion.  When I think of making dramatic life changes--moving, changing jobs, etc--part of me feels alive, excited, and smiley while another part yells things like, "It's stupid to leave a stable situation!"  And then, there is the quiet yet persistent voice that whispers, "What makes you think you deserve to be any happier than you are?"

My recent struggle with safety-vs-growth has led me to reexamine the Midrash about Nachshon, the Israelite who was brave enough to venture into the Red Sea before it split, thereby proving to Hashem that the Jews were a people of courage.  As risks go, that was about as significant as it gets, and the other Israelites probably thought Nachshon was crazy to leave dry land to plunge headlong into roiling, uninviting waters.  But in the end, it was Nachshon's courage that allowed the Jews to survive.

This doesn't mean that taking big chances is always a good idea.  For sure, some risk-takers are met with disappointment.  But it's also true that a life of positive growth requires a willingness to step into the unknown.  An article I read on the Midrash of Nachshon explains,

"Surely risks must be calculated and carefully planned, but without an element of uncertainty nothing can be accomplished.  There is no authentic life choice that is risk-free."

Recovery, for me, is about living an authentic life, about believing that I do deserve to feel more complete and satisfied than I do right now.  What have I done all this work for, if not to grow up and out as much as possible?  As I start to make plans for the future, I hope that I am able to channel some of Nachshon's courage to take risks (calculated and planned ones, of course).  As Rebbe Nachman said:

"The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge.  And the most important thing is not to be afraid."

The Best Laid Plans...

I really dislike curveballs...

...and yet, life seems to enjoy throwing them.

You know how it is...you have a plan, one that excites you and energizes you, one that you think will move your life in the direction you want it to go, and then...WHAM.  Curveball.  So much for the plan.

Very recently, I found myself in this situation--a plan that I had looked forward to with great hope and excitement suddenly fell apart and left me back at square one.  Now, it's true that I've been in therapy for over a decade, but let's be real--the demise of a Really Good Plan is still cause for some serious emotional crumbling.  First thought:  Now what will I do?  Second thought:  I can't do anything.  Third thought:  I don't want to eat.

Yep, that was the third thought, because even in recovery, I know that when I am vulnerable, that's where my mind goes.  But the amazing thing about recovery is that I can recognize such a thought as a red flag and can intervene before ever putting that thought into action.  So, instead of not eating, I did the following:  I cried; I reached out to someone I trusted; I distracted myself; I took a nap (all of which, it should be noted, ultimately were way more effective than going hungry).  And, I thought about the concept of bitachon.

Bitachon is translated as trust.  It is a way of applying the concept of "faith in Hashem" to one's everyday life.  If you have faith in Hashem, then you should trust Hashem.  But what does that mean?

On a simplistic level, it means understanding that Hashem would never make us go through something that wasn't ultimately for the greater good.  It also means acknowledging that we don't see the whole picture--only Hashem can do that.  Consequently, we might have plans that seem perfect to us, but maybe they won't ultimately get us where we need to go--and when that happens, Hashem intervenes and foils our plans.  This may seem devastating to us because we can't see where we are headed--all we can see are our ruined plans.  But, remembering that Hashem creates reality in a way that is for our benefit--and the world's--can help us trust that even that which seems bad, might lead us somewhere good.

However, it's important to understand that bitachon does NOT mean being complacent or believing that "everything will be fine if I just sit back and trust Hashem."  Rav Shimshon Pincus Zatzal explains that when we are confronted with adversity, it is misguided bitachon to convince ourselves that there is no problem and that Hashem will handle everything.  Rather, bitachon means acknowledging the severity of the challenges we face and using the tools Hashem has given us to lift ourselves out of problematic situations.  Bitachon is not passive--it is the active channeling of our trust in Hashem to propel ourselves forward.

Personally, I like this idea of bitachon much better than the notion that I just should be happy no matter what my circumstances, because Hashem is taking me where I need to go.  I mean, I have faith in Hashem, but I also believe in personal agency--and bitachon is the intersection of the two.  Perhaps that "great plan" of mine actually wasn't in sync with Hashem's big picture--I can accept that.  I can also use the skills and tools that Hashem has given me--determination, resourcefulness, thoughtfulness, patience--to find another option for myself that is better aligned with what Hashem ultimately wants for me.  Yes, life threw me a curveball...but, I don't need to throw up my hands and wait for the next pitch to smack me in the face.  I can pick up my glove, channel my fielding skills...and trust that Hashem will help me catch it.