In nine days we will begin our celebration of Shavuot, the commemoration of the day when Hashem gave the Torah to the Jewish people. I really love this holiday and its theme of recommitment...I even love staying awake all night learning Torah, despite my usually strict adherence to an early bedtime as mandated by the teaching profession. There is something about listening to the Ten Commandments being read aloud at the break of dawn that gives me goosebumps every time.
I came across an article by intellectual giant Adin Steinsaltz that (I think) beautifully captures the important distinction between Hashem's giving of the Torah, and the Jewish people's receiving of it. Although they clearly go together, they are not the same event. Steinsaltz points out that while the giving of the Torah was a one-time, top-down event, the receiving of the Torah was--is--an ongoing process that occurs from the bottom up. Although the Jewish people were willing to accept Torah right away, evident by their declaration of, "All the words that Hashem has spoken, we will do and we will hear!" (Shemot 24:7), it actually took a long time for them to be able to commit to living out the words of Torah. The Jews always knew they wanted it, but they just weren't ready right out of the gate. It took time for them to truly absorb what they had been given. Steinsaltz explains:
"The receiving itself is not just a matter of passively listening to the message of Torah; it is an act of committing oneself to absorbing the poetry and the principles, and carrying out the commandments all the days of one's life. To begin with, there had to be a certain receptive state of mind--'We shall do and we shall hear'--in order for the Torah to be given. On the other hand, the inner meaning of this formulation of readiness only became evident later, as expressed by the words of Moses forty years later when, in taking leave of the people, he said, 'And G-d did not give you a heart to know and eyes to see and ears to hear until this very day' (Deuteronomy 29:3). And indeed, only many generations later could it be said that the people of Israel had developed a heart able to know the Torah designated for them."
Now, while I would never fully equate recovery with receiving Torah, I do think there are some genuine parallels we can draw in the sense that both are drawn-out processes that depend on a gradual increase in readiness. In recovery, we might know what we need to do long before we are ready to actually do it. Although our treatment team gives us the tools, it might take an extended period of time for us to muster up the fortitude to use them.
For most of my recovery I worked with one outstanding nutrition therapist. There was a period of time many years ago in which I became frustrated with my compulsive need to measure everything I ate. Each time I brought it up, my nutritionist would suggest stopping the measuring. Although intellectually I knew it was a great idea, my response was always, "Mmmm...nah, I don't think so." This went on for months, until finally I entered a session with her and said, "I want to stop measuring!" Even then, we both knew I wouldn't be able to go cold turkey--so, she coached me through letting go of measuring one food item at a time. My nutritionist was ready to hand me Freedom From Measuring long before I was ready to receive it...but she understood that, and was patient with me throughout the entire process.
I really wanted to be able to recover immediately, just like the Jewish people had every intention of fully accepting Torah. But the reality is that recovery is not a linear process, and neither is receiving Torah--both are ongoing and challenges do pop up along the way, requiring us to shift and reaffirm our commitments. However, just as Hashem was--is--patient with the Jewish people throughout the evolution of our ability to receive, so too should we be patient with ourselves as we find our ways through recovery. It isn't only the end result that matters--it's the entire process of getting there. As Shavuot draws near, I invite all of us to assess honestly the progress we've made over the past year, and to recommit to the journey!
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Shabbat Shalom?
Last week I had the privilege of co-facilitating a discussion on eating disorders in the observant Jewish community. We initially thought only a few people would voluntarily come to something like that...were we ever surprised when over twenty women showed up! The discussion was passionate and thought provoking, and one topic that rose to the surface time and time again was: Shabbat. How, exactly, does an individual with an eating disorder navigate that "island in time"?
The Jewish year is dotted with festivals, but they each happen only once: there is only one Pesach, one Yom Kippur, to get through each year. Shabbat, however, comes EVERY WEEK. This is supposed to be a blessing, a weekly opportunity for pleasure via food and rest. But, what if you find neither food nor rest pleasurable? For a person struggling with an eating disorder, Shabbat easily turns into 25 hours a week of facing head-on that which is most stressful.
I suppose it's not a stretch for people to understand why the lavish meals and seemingly constant presence of food can be so threatening to a person with an eating disorder. The challenge posed by rest, however, is perhaps more difficult to parse out. For me, physical rest is satisfying only if my brain is also able to quiet down...and, when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, my brain was never, ever quiet. I've always compared the endless stream of anxious, obsessive thoughts to the ticker tape that runs constantly across the bottom of the screen on CNN. It felt like there was never a moment when my brain wasn't broadcasting some worry, and the way I dealt with the anxiety (and with any uncomfortable feeling, really) was to exercise. Aside from the obvious "benefit" of burning calories, physical activity was my outlet for feelings and my way of coping with sensations that were unpleasant and scary. For many people with eating disorders, exercise serves that dual purpose. It's understandable, then, that to be faced with a day that is full of food AND devoid of physical exercise might feel like too much to bear.
So, the challenges are clear. What can we do? Well, some aspects of Shabbat are probably not going to change. There are always going to be meals, and it's probably never going to be considered "shabbosdik" to go for a long, sweaty run. However, there are ways to work within the system that can make the Shabbat experience, if not actually pleasurable, at least bearable to someone with an eating disorder.
Regarding food: My discussion co-facilitator made the brilliant suggestion of simply not keeping platters of food on the table where people are eating. If possible, put the food on a separate table or ledge so that it's not constantly staring people right in the face. This also helps people focus on whom they're eating with, not just what they're eating. To give the struggling individual some sense of control over the food, allow that person to serve him or herself, and ask ahead of time if he or she would like to be involved in the menu planning.
Regarding rest: "Rest" does not have to equal, "sitting around doing nothing." It is perfectly permissible to do leisurely activities such as taking a walk, playing board games (may I suggest Bananagrams?), or going to the park. Weather permitting, I personally go for a walk in nature EVERY Shabbat, and I also try to do something intellectually stimulating such as learning Torah or having a meaningful conversation. But, really, people are encouraged to engage in any pleasurable activity (within the bounds of halacha). For someone with an eating disorder, "distress tolerance" skills will be especially important on Shabbat and that person should be permitted to do whatever he or she finds soothing, no matter how "unusual" the choice might seem to others.
For people working on recovery, know this: there are going to be tough Shabbats...and that's okay. You are NOT a "bad Jew" because you fail to enjoy Shabbat, or because you can't freely partake of what everyone else seems to find pleasurable. You are doing the best you can. Beating yourself up for all the Shabbats that you "should have" enjoyed serves no purpose other than to make you feel badly about yourself. I was a big-time self-berator until I finally realized that punishing myself for missed opportunities did not bring back those chances, nor did it do anything to help me take advantage of future ones. That said, knowing I was unhappy was a major motivator for me to get well. And, now when I actually enjoy sitting at a Shabbat table with friends and good food, the experience is so much sweeter because it is a prize I've won. I wish for all of you that you find your own paths to future Shabbats full of pleasure and satisfaction--one small step at a time.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
The Need for Dialogue
For many months, I've had the beginnings of this blog post brewing in my mind, and this week's parshiot of Acharei Mot-Kedoshim provide me with the perfect jumping-off point. But then, Monday happened, and my city of Boston was irrevocably altered by tragedy. In the wake of that, writing about anything else seemed a bit superfluous. To be honest, it still does, in a way...but since many others (such as this guy) have already written far more eloquent, poignant pieces about Monday's events than I ever could, I suppose I'll just get back to what I can write about...which brings me to this week's Torah portion and the always relevant, ever controversial topic of sex.
I must begin by defining my parameters, here. I am acutely aware that some of the psukim in Acharei Mot and Kedoshim are often referred to in many ongoing, painful battles around various issues of sexuality. In the interest of keeping this an open forum for all, I am not going to get into any of those specific arguments here. This should in no way be interpreted as me ignoring these issues--on the contrary, I find them personally relevant and quite emotional. But, I'm aware that not everyone does, and I'm just trying to keep this blog something to which as many people as possible can relate.
And let's be honest: no matter who you are, or where you fall on whatever spectrum, we all can relate to sex.
So what does the book of Vayikra have to say about sexual relations? Well, in Acharei Mot alone, I count 17 psukim that lay out the laws governing sexual relationships, and nearly every single one contains the phrase, "You shall not". There is not a lot of discussion regarding any of these prohibitions; they are simply listed matter-of-factly and then are re-stated in Kedoshim, where each one is also given its corresponding punishment.
What I'd like to focus on here is not so much the specific content of the prohibitions, but rather the issue of a cultural sexual ethic being based primarily on unequivocal and harshly punished you shall nots. Interestingly, much of the basis for the practice of shomer negiah (refraining from physical contact with members of the opposite sex) is derived from Chapter 18 of Vayikra. Essentially, we are telling young people not to think of themselves or others as sexual beings, lest they fall into the trap of committing one of these sexual sins. This abstention from all manner of sexual thought and action should continue until the moment when they are expected to fulfill our very first commandment: be fruitful and multiply.
How often does that transition actually go seamlessly?
Again, I want to stress that I'm not intending to use this forum to debate the nature of the traditional Jewish sexual ethic. What I do want to challenge is the barrier against questioning and dialogue that a long list of you shall nots puts up. It's no secret that young adults have questions and concerns about sex, about their own bodies, thoughts, and feelings. And, since we've all been young adults, we've all had these questions. It is therefore our responsibility to do more than simply begin and end the discussion with "You shall not ____." Nothing shuts down conversation faster than an absolute negative. And, few things cause more inner turmoil for young people than the misperception that something wrong with them sexually. The relationship between sexuality and eating disorders is well documented. When people feel out of sync with what is culturally expected of them sexually, many respond by taking this confusion and fear out on their own bodies. For a girl who is expected to marry and have children before she is ready, this might mean starving herself to avoid maturing into a "woman." For an individual who is ready to explore sexuality before it is culturally permitted or in a way the community frowns upon, it might look like bingeing and purging to relieve some of those built-up emotions and anxieties. One way to support young people around issues of sexuality is to invite them to air their concerns and questions with trusted adults who won't just tell them what is and is not a sin, but who will respond with compassion and understanding. It is possible to maintain a cultural sexual ethic while also making room for dialogue about it. But the absence of dialogue certainly breeds fear, confusion, and self-hatred--all of which are key ingredients for an eating disorder.
So after all that, with what can I leave you? I suppose I am hoping that if you are a young person with concerns about sexuality, you will get the message that no matter how it seems, you are not the first person on earth to wonder about whatever it is you're wondering about. I'm also hoping that if you're an adult in a position to offer counsel to a young person about these matters, that you will open the doors of conversation instead of closing them. Listen to the person talking to you; find out where he or she is at. If we can support our young people and receive their questions gently, maybe we can make the journey a little less bumpy--so that sexual development doesn't lead to inner pain, but instead can be a healthy part of a full, recovered life.
I must begin by defining my parameters, here. I am acutely aware that some of the psukim in Acharei Mot and Kedoshim are often referred to in many ongoing, painful battles around various issues of sexuality. In the interest of keeping this an open forum for all, I am not going to get into any of those specific arguments here. This should in no way be interpreted as me ignoring these issues--on the contrary, I find them personally relevant and quite emotional. But, I'm aware that not everyone does, and I'm just trying to keep this blog something to which as many people as possible can relate.
And let's be honest: no matter who you are, or where you fall on whatever spectrum, we all can relate to sex.
So what does the book of Vayikra have to say about sexual relations? Well, in Acharei Mot alone, I count 17 psukim that lay out the laws governing sexual relationships, and nearly every single one contains the phrase, "You shall not". There is not a lot of discussion regarding any of these prohibitions; they are simply listed matter-of-factly and then are re-stated in Kedoshim, where each one is also given its corresponding punishment.
What I'd like to focus on here is not so much the specific content of the prohibitions, but rather the issue of a cultural sexual ethic being based primarily on unequivocal and harshly punished you shall nots. Interestingly, much of the basis for the practice of shomer negiah (refraining from physical contact with members of the opposite sex) is derived from Chapter 18 of Vayikra. Essentially, we are telling young people not to think of themselves or others as sexual beings, lest they fall into the trap of committing one of these sexual sins. This abstention from all manner of sexual thought and action should continue until the moment when they are expected to fulfill our very first commandment: be fruitful and multiply.
How often does that transition actually go seamlessly?
Again, I want to stress that I'm not intending to use this forum to debate the nature of the traditional Jewish sexual ethic. What I do want to challenge is the barrier against questioning and dialogue that a long list of you shall nots puts up. It's no secret that young adults have questions and concerns about sex, about their own bodies, thoughts, and feelings. And, since we've all been young adults, we've all had these questions. It is therefore our responsibility to do more than simply begin and end the discussion with "You shall not ____." Nothing shuts down conversation faster than an absolute negative. And, few things cause more inner turmoil for young people than the misperception that something wrong with them sexually. The relationship between sexuality and eating disorders is well documented. When people feel out of sync with what is culturally expected of them sexually, many respond by taking this confusion and fear out on their own bodies. For a girl who is expected to marry and have children before she is ready, this might mean starving herself to avoid maturing into a "woman." For an individual who is ready to explore sexuality before it is culturally permitted or in a way the community frowns upon, it might look like bingeing and purging to relieve some of those built-up emotions and anxieties. One way to support young people around issues of sexuality is to invite them to air their concerns and questions with trusted adults who won't just tell them what is and is not a sin, but who will respond with compassion and understanding. It is possible to maintain a cultural sexual ethic while also making room for dialogue about it. But the absence of dialogue certainly breeds fear, confusion, and self-hatred--all of which are key ingredients for an eating disorder.
So after all that, with what can I leave you? I suppose I am hoping that if you are a young person with concerns about sexuality, you will get the message that no matter how it seems, you are not the first person on earth to wonder about whatever it is you're wondering about. I'm also hoping that if you're an adult in a position to offer counsel to a young person about these matters, that you will open the doors of conversation instead of closing them. Listen to the person talking to you; find out where he or she is at. If we can support our young people and receive their questions gently, maybe we can make the journey a little less bumpy--so that sexual development doesn't lead to inner pain, but instead can be a healthy part of a full, recovered life.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Recovery Wisdom from the Fathers
Spring is definitely in the air! It's hard to believe Pesach has come and gone, and we're now counting the days until Shavuot...woah. This means it's time for two of my favorite seasonal rituals:
1) Feeding the leftover matzah, in small doses, to the geese and ducks at the pond
2) Reading Pirkei Avot
Both bring me a lot of joy in completely different ways, but for the sake of thematic consistency, I'll focus here on #2.
To be honest, I read Pirkei Avot in snippets throughout the year, but it excites me that the weeks between Pesach and Shavuot are earmarked for reading this tractate of the Talmud in earnest. Yesterday, during the closing hours of Shabbat, I studied the first chapter with my friend (and chevruta par excellence), and then when I got home I couldn't resist looking ahead. Toward the end of Chapter 2, I came across one of my favorite quotes, from Pirkei Avot 2:16:
"He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say: You are not expected to complete the work and yet you are not free to evade it."
In its original context, this quote relates to the immense tasks of acquiring Torah wisdom and working to repair the world. However, I think it can be generalized to other realms of life and applied to any situation in which a person faces a daunting yet necessary task. Certainly, then, it speaks to the work of recovery.
In the beginning of my recovery, I often got overwhelmed when I stared down the road ahead, seeing the end result that I sincerely wanted but having no idea how--or if--I would get myself there. One of the most supportive things my treatment team did was to communicate to me that I did not have to do everything at once, and none of it would have to be done alone--but they were not going to let me avoid the work, either. Baby steps, they accepted and encouraged; inertia, they did not. To be honest, this balance served me well. I needed someone to acknowledge that what I was doing was hard and scary, and to reassure me that "slow and steady" would get me there, in the end. But at the same time, I needed to be held accountable and to be reminded that it was my responsibility to take myself as far down the recovery road as I possibly could. Rabbi Tarfon understood this principle and the truth of his words reaches out to us today: We do not have to do everything, yet we must do something.
Which brings me to an excerpt from one of my other favorite quotes, taken from the famous words of Rabbi Hillel:
"And if not now, when?" (Pirkei Avot 1:14)
Let's face it: There is never going to be a time that actually feels like a convenient time to work on recovery. There's always something in the way: work, school, family obligations, vacations, etc. Few of us believe we have the luxury of "taking time off from life" to focus on getting well...but the truth is, it's not so much a luxury as it is a necessity. Life, after all, is more than just going through the motions. If anything we do is going to have any meaning for us, we will have to be fully present to experience it. I would argue that time invested in recovery--even when it initially feels like a loss or concession--is ultimately going to result in a life that is richer and more satisfying than anything you could experience through the haze of an eating disorder. It's as Hillel said...there is never a good time, so the best time is now.
I hope you can take the words of Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Hillel with you into the coming weeks as you work on your respective journeys: Take small steps, but take steps...and take them now!
1) Feeding the leftover matzah, in small doses, to the geese and ducks at the pond
2) Reading Pirkei Avot
Both bring me a lot of joy in completely different ways, but for the sake of thematic consistency, I'll focus here on #2.
To be honest, I read Pirkei Avot in snippets throughout the year, but it excites me that the weeks between Pesach and Shavuot are earmarked for reading this tractate of the Talmud in earnest. Yesterday, during the closing hours of Shabbat, I studied the first chapter with my friend (and chevruta par excellence), and then when I got home I couldn't resist looking ahead. Toward the end of Chapter 2, I came across one of my favorite quotes, from Pirkei Avot 2:16:
"He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say: You are not expected to complete the work and yet you are not free to evade it."
In its original context, this quote relates to the immense tasks of acquiring Torah wisdom and working to repair the world. However, I think it can be generalized to other realms of life and applied to any situation in which a person faces a daunting yet necessary task. Certainly, then, it speaks to the work of recovery.
In the beginning of my recovery, I often got overwhelmed when I stared down the road ahead, seeing the end result that I sincerely wanted but having no idea how--or if--I would get myself there. One of the most supportive things my treatment team did was to communicate to me that I did not have to do everything at once, and none of it would have to be done alone--but they were not going to let me avoid the work, either. Baby steps, they accepted and encouraged; inertia, they did not. To be honest, this balance served me well. I needed someone to acknowledge that what I was doing was hard and scary, and to reassure me that "slow and steady" would get me there, in the end. But at the same time, I needed to be held accountable and to be reminded that it was my responsibility to take myself as far down the recovery road as I possibly could. Rabbi Tarfon understood this principle and the truth of his words reaches out to us today: We do not have to do everything, yet we must do something.
Which brings me to an excerpt from one of my other favorite quotes, taken from the famous words of Rabbi Hillel:
"And if not now, when?" (Pirkei Avot 1:14)
Let's face it: There is never going to be a time that actually feels like a convenient time to work on recovery. There's always something in the way: work, school, family obligations, vacations, etc. Few of us believe we have the luxury of "taking time off from life" to focus on getting well...but the truth is, it's not so much a luxury as it is a necessity. Life, after all, is more than just going through the motions. If anything we do is going to have any meaning for us, we will have to be fully present to experience it. I would argue that time invested in recovery--even when it initially feels like a loss or concession--is ultimately going to result in a life that is richer and more satisfying than anything you could experience through the haze of an eating disorder. It's as Hillel said...there is never a good time, so the best time is now.
I hope you can take the words of Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Hillel with you into the coming weeks as you work on your respective journeys: Take small steps, but take steps...and take them now!
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Challenge of Freedom
Yesterday my good friend and chevruta introduced me to my new favorite haggadah: A Night To Remember by Mishael Zion and Noam Zion. It has the full traditional text accompanied by contemporary insights, spectacularly clever artwork, and commentary from a wide range of contributors (Rav Soloveitchik, Aviva Zornberg, Yehuda Amichai, and Amos Oz to name but a few). I loved it so much that this morning I had to rush out and get my own copy. If you've never been to the haggadah section of a Jewish bookstore on the day before Erev Pesach, put it on your to-do list for next year.
In a section discussing the meaning of freedom, the haggadah quotes 20th century French author Andre Gide:
"To be liberated--that is easy. To be a free person--that is very hard."
I think this is a critical yet often unspoken aspect of freedom: the challenge of maintaining it after it has been won. In fact, the responsibilities of living as a free human being can be so daunting that sometimes people find themselves missing the predictability and security of slavery. The ancient Israelites certainly experienced this--not even two months into their liberation from Egypt, the Jews began to whine about their new living conditions. What would they eat? Where would the food come from? Oh, if only they had stayed in Egypt where they had their fill of meat and bread! But, the Jews weren't being simply ungrateful complainers. Rather, they were experiencing the fear that comes from understanding the responsibility of being self-sufficient. When they were slaves, the Jews didn't have to worry about their own upkeep--they ate what was given to them and had their basic needs met by their masters. Once the novelty of freedom wore off, the Jews woke up to the knowledge that life was no longer predictable and security could no longer be counted on. Crossing the sea was a scary but finite event; in contrast, freedom stretched before them as a continuous stretch of fending for themselves. Through those infamous rose-colored glasses, the Jews forgot about the backbreaking labor and crushing oppression that had been their lot as slaves, and saw only one thing: the comfort of a lifestyle that had been familiar to them.
Andre Gide's quote resonates for me personally as well. I remember that when I first went into intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I felt relieved that I would no longer be allowed to be a slave to my anorexia. I was scared, of course, but I was also exhausted and tired of having every day be a battle between my mind and body. Treatment provided me with a kind of scaffolded freedom--it taught me how to make more liberated choices around food and exercise but also provided me with a supportive framework in which to practice those skills. A nutritionist watched over my meal plan, a staff of therapists and counselors tended to my emotional needs, and my case manager handled most of the major decisions around my treatment. I had my hands full just trying to assimilate all the new knowledge and emotions, but I definitely didn't have any big "life responsibilities" during that time.
When I left treatment and began to live as a "free person," all of that changed. I still had the skills that I learned in the program, but now I was fully responsible for using them. I had an outpatient team that coached me along, but the major legwork was on me: the responsibilities of shopping for food, following my meal plan, monitoring my own exercise, and providing my own in-the-moment distress tolerance fell squarely on my shoulders. It was very, very hard. There were many times when I wished I could go back to treatment...not because I wanted to be sick again, but because I just wanted to be taken care of. Never mind that intensive treatment had been hard in a completely different way; when I was newly into "independent recovery" all I could remember was that it had been safe and secure. Learning to take ownership of my own life of freedom from my eating disorder was a challenging yet critical step in my process of attaining recovery.
Years later, I still have all the "real world" obligations that come with living an adult life: I have a full-time job, pay my own bills, and cook and clean for myself. I am responsible for continuing to make recovery-oriented choices and for keeping myself physically and emotionally healthy. There are times of overwhelm, but really, these "burdens" don't seem unbearable anymore--they just feel like life. Recovered life. And, although they bring their share of stress, these responsibilities also bring me lots of joy and a sense of accomplishment. I remember what it felt like to be enslaved to an eating disorder, and I am proud that I now have what it takes to sustain my own recovery.
This Pesach, I hope we can all validate for ourselves that freedom is hard, and it is normal to miss the familiarity and security of whatever oppression we've left behind. But, I hope we can also remind ourselves that what freedom brings is infinitely more gratifying than anything we could expect in slavery. Remember--the Jews didn't go back to Egypt. They trusted Hashem, they persevered, and they became a stronger people because of it. If our ancestors could do it, we can do it, too.
חג כשר ושמח!
In a section discussing the meaning of freedom, the haggadah quotes 20th century French author Andre Gide:
"To be liberated--that is easy. To be a free person--that is very hard."
I think this is a critical yet often unspoken aspect of freedom: the challenge of maintaining it after it has been won. In fact, the responsibilities of living as a free human being can be so daunting that sometimes people find themselves missing the predictability and security of slavery. The ancient Israelites certainly experienced this--not even two months into their liberation from Egypt, the Jews began to whine about their new living conditions. What would they eat? Where would the food come from? Oh, if only they had stayed in Egypt where they had their fill of meat and bread! But, the Jews weren't being simply ungrateful complainers. Rather, they were experiencing the fear that comes from understanding the responsibility of being self-sufficient. When they were slaves, the Jews didn't have to worry about their own upkeep--they ate what was given to them and had their basic needs met by their masters. Once the novelty of freedom wore off, the Jews woke up to the knowledge that life was no longer predictable and security could no longer be counted on. Crossing the sea was a scary but finite event; in contrast, freedom stretched before them as a continuous stretch of fending for themselves. Through those infamous rose-colored glasses, the Jews forgot about the backbreaking labor and crushing oppression that had been their lot as slaves, and saw only one thing: the comfort of a lifestyle that had been familiar to them.
Andre Gide's quote resonates for me personally as well. I remember that when I first went into intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I felt relieved that I would no longer be allowed to be a slave to my anorexia. I was scared, of course, but I was also exhausted and tired of having every day be a battle between my mind and body. Treatment provided me with a kind of scaffolded freedom--it taught me how to make more liberated choices around food and exercise but also provided me with a supportive framework in which to practice those skills. A nutritionist watched over my meal plan, a staff of therapists and counselors tended to my emotional needs, and my case manager handled most of the major decisions around my treatment. I had my hands full just trying to assimilate all the new knowledge and emotions, but I definitely didn't have any big "life responsibilities" during that time.
When I left treatment and began to live as a "free person," all of that changed. I still had the skills that I learned in the program, but now I was fully responsible for using them. I had an outpatient team that coached me along, but the major legwork was on me: the responsibilities of shopping for food, following my meal plan, monitoring my own exercise, and providing my own in-the-moment distress tolerance fell squarely on my shoulders. It was very, very hard. There were many times when I wished I could go back to treatment...not because I wanted to be sick again, but because I just wanted to be taken care of. Never mind that intensive treatment had been hard in a completely different way; when I was newly into "independent recovery" all I could remember was that it had been safe and secure. Learning to take ownership of my own life of freedom from my eating disorder was a challenging yet critical step in my process of attaining recovery.
Years later, I still have all the "real world" obligations that come with living an adult life: I have a full-time job, pay my own bills, and cook and clean for myself. I am responsible for continuing to make recovery-oriented choices and for keeping myself physically and emotionally healthy. There are times of overwhelm, but really, these "burdens" don't seem unbearable anymore--they just feel like life. Recovered life. And, although they bring their share of stress, these responsibilities also bring me lots of joy and a sense of accomplishment. I remember what it felt like to be enslaved to an eating disorder, and I am proud that I now have what it takes to sustain my own recovery.
This Pesach, I hope we can all validate for ourselves that freedom is hard, and it is normal to miss the familiarity and security of whatever oppression we've left behind. But, I hope we can also remind ourselves that what freedom brings is infinitely more gratifying than anything we could expect in slavery. Remember--the Jews didn't go back to Egypt. They trusted Hashem, they persevered, and they became a stronger people because of it. If our ancestors could do it, we can do it, too.
חג כשר ושמח!
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Small Yet Mighty!
The past two weeks have been unusually trying ones, headlined by a major crisis at work and filled in with the more-mundane-yet-still-stressful demands of my professional and personal lives. I've had to pull out all my tricks in the name of maintaining some semblance of emotional equilibrium, and what I've discovered is that learning Torah makes for some great distress tolerance. Text study exercises my intellectual powers and allows me to shelve my feelings for a bit, permitting me to operate in a realm that is dominated by the analytical--not the emotional. Over the past ten days, when I've needed to ground myself in something I've often found myself turning to my chumash.
If you like cubits and animal sacrifices, the past two weeks' worth of parshiot would be right up your alley. Personally, I don't find either of those topics overly compelling, but this week in particular I found something in the parasha that grabbed me. It's small (I like small things), it's mysterious (fun!)...it's...
A little aleph.
Yep, a little aleph, right there at the end of the first word of the parasha: vayikra. Why the tiny letter, in a text written painstakingly and precisely by hand?
The word, vayikra (ויקרא), can be translated as, "and He called" (as in, Hashem called to Moshe). The Sages explain that the word, called, indicates a degree of closeness and affection that Hashem felt for Moshe. Without the aleph, however, the word becomes, vayikar (ויקר), which means, "He happened upon." Vayikar denotes a coincidental or accidental relationship, and in comparison with the implied meaning of vayikra, is indicative of an inferior connection. It is also used to describe Hashem's interaction with Bilaam, the gentile prophet known for being haughty and indifferent to the power of Hashem in the world. In contrast, Hashem calls to Moshe, a man who is the epitome of humility and sensitivity to the Divine presence.
That distinction seems to make solid sense...but why is the aleph at the end of vayikra so tiny? The Sages teach that it is because Moshe was so humble that he didn't believe he deserved for Hashem to call to him; he thought the word, vayikar, was prestigious enough for him. Hashem, on the other hand, wanted to express His affection and love for Moshe through the use of the word, vayikra. Because Moshe was so uncomfortable with the idea that he merited that supreme honor, Hashem compromised with him and allowed Moshe to write vayikra with a little aleph.
What I take from this is that humility is an important virtue...but so is recognizing one's significance. It's almost as if Hashem said to Moshe, "I know you think you're not special, but *I* know that you are. I won't force you to publicly acknowledge that you are exemplary, but neither will I let you forget that you are precious in My eyes."
Jewish tradition makes it clear that Moshe Rabbenu was one of the greatest men our people has ever known; yet, this man with so many gifts was also plagued by self-doubt. Part of what (I think) makes Moshe such an inspiring personality is that he was able to find balance between recognizing his uniquely prestigious role among the Jewish people, and believing that he was completely ordinary. Moshe found a way to acknowledge and honor his value without letting it consume him or alienate him from other people or from Hashem. This balance is what the little aleph symbolizes.
We all need the little aleph in our lives. We need to believe that although we are not everything, we are something. We might not be the most important person in the entire world, but we are uniquely created and loved by Hashem. And, we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that at times when we're not able to believe that we have value, Hashem will keep the little aleph handy as a way to call to us and remind us of our specialness and importance to this world.
If you like cubits and animal sacrifices, the past two weeks' worth of parshiot would be right up your alley. Personally, I don't find either of those topics overly compelling, but this week in particular I found something in the parasha that grabbed me. It's small (I like small things), it's mysterious (fun!)...it's...
A little aleph.
Yep, a little aleph, right there at the end of the first word of the parasha: vayikra. Why the tiny letter, in a text written painstakingly and precisely by hand?
The word, vayikra (ויקרא), can be translated as, "and He called" (as in, Hashem called to Moshe). The Sages explain that the word, called, indicates a degree of closeness and affection that Hashem felt for Moshe. Without the aleph, however, the word becomes, vayikar (ויקר), which means, "He happened upon." Vayikar denotes a coincidental or accidental relationship, and in comparison with the implied meaning of vayikra, is indicative of an inferior connection. It is also used to describe Hashem's interaction with Bilaam, the gentile prophet known for being haughty and indifferent to the power of Hashem in the world. In contrast, Hashem calls to Moshe, a man who is the epitome of humility and sensitivity to the Divine presence.
That distinction seems to make solid sense...but why is the aleph at the end of vayikra so tiny? The Sages teach that it is because Moshe was so humble that he didn't believe he deserved for Hashem to call to him; he thought the word, vayikar, was prestigious enough for him. Hashem, on the other hand, wanted to express His affection and love for Moshe through the use of the word, vayikra. Because Moshe was so uncomfortable with the idea that he merited that supreme honor, Hashem compromised with him and allowed Moshe to write vayikra with a little aleph.
What I take from this is that humility is an important virtue...but so is recognizing one's significance. It's almost as if Hashem said to Moshe, "I know you think you're not special, but *I* know that you are. I won't force you to publicly acknowledge that you are exemplary, but neither will I let you forget that you are precious in My eyes."
Jewish tradition makes it clear that Moshe Rabbenu was one of the greatest men our people has ever known; yet, this man with so many gifts was also plagued by self-doubt. Part of what (I think) makes Moshe such an inspiring personality is that he was able to find balance between recognizing his uniquely prestigious role among the Jewish people, and believing that he was completely ordinary. Moshe found a way to acknowledge and honor his value without letting it consume him or alienate him from other people or from Hashem. This balance is what the little aleph symbolizes.
We all need the little aleph in our lives. We need to believe that although we are not everything, we are something. We might not be the most important person in the entire world, but we are uniquely created and loved by Hashem. And, we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that at times when we're not able to believe that we have value, Hashem will keep the little aleph handy as a way to call to us and remind us of our specialness and importance to this world.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Esther vs. Vashti? Really?
I know Purim has come and gone, and I know I've said (twice now) that I don't even really enjoy that holiday very much, but I've decided to dedicate yet another blog post to it, and here's why: I've spent the past week stewing over the Purim story, and now I need to vent. Hopefully, it will be somewhat organized.
Every year, I read the story of Purim and then hear it filtered through various people's perspectives. Most interpretations I hear fall into two main categories:
1) Vashti is an evil and dangerous woman who defies Hashem's rules for how women should behave. Because she dared to refuse to dance in front of her husband and his friends, one can only assume that she must have been covered with some unsightly rash or perhaps had suddenly sprouted a tail. She deserved every bit of the punishment she got. Esther, on the other hand, is pure, virtuous, and beautiful. She was chosen to be queen for her grace and obedience. Not only does she save the Jewish people, but she represents the quintessential Jewish woman.
2) Vashti is a strong, independent woman who refuses to let any man dictate what she should do. She was a victim of the sexist culture of her time and had she lived today, she probably would have been a valiant feminist. She was wrongly punished and she deserves to be admired by women everywhere for her fierce self-determination. Esther, however, is simple and vain. She plays on her good looks and depends on her sexuality to get what she wants. Unlike Vashti, she is not particularly independent-minded and doesn't model positive assertiveness for girls and women today.
I don't agree with either one of these stories.
That said, I do find them both interesting, mostly because it is striking to me how each of these interpretations relies so heavily on the "good girl/bad girl" dichotomy. If Esther is going to be the heroine, then Vashti must be the villain. On the other hand, if Vashti is the admirable and charismatic one, then Esther must be contemptible and bland. It's almost as if these women gain validity in their respective roles only by being compared to each other. The danger here is that we end up pigeonholing both Vashti and Esther, and we don't allow either of them to be the dynamic women that they probably actually were. Looking beyond the Purim story, how often do we do this to people in our own lives? How often do people do this to us? I think we can probably agree that no one is a completely monochromatic character. Contrary to popular belief, the female species is not divided into "good girls" and "bad girls." We should give ourselves credit for being far more complex than that. We each make thousands of choices in our lives; some will be positive and some will not. Sometimes we will conform with the majority, and sometimes we won't. Our nuances are what make us interesting. Although forcing everyone into the "good girl/bad girl" binary might make life less complicated, when we do this we squeeze the life out of all of us.
My teacher in Israel helped me tease out the "real" women underneath the simplistic images depicted in both of the above versions of the Purim story. Vashti, it seems, is neither the dangerous vixen of the first story nor the radical feminist of the second. Instead, she is a woman who preserved her morality by refusing to attend a party full of drinking men and dancing girls--and, incidentally, it was considered inappropriate in ancient Persia for wives of rulers to be present at such parties. Vashti deserves credit for standing her ground even in the face of harsh consequences. However, she isn't really a feminist because she doesn't demand equality--she just wants to be treated in the manner befitting the wife of a ruler in her society. Because Esther enters the picture only as a result of Vashti's departure, one can only assume that she is aware of the circumstances surrounding the fall of her predecessor. She understands that blatant defiance of the king leads to disaster, so she knows she needs to take a more subtle approach. Yes, Esther is more demure than Vashti, and although this can be considered a virtue it is also the trait that nearly led her to pass up the opportunity to save her people. Some people profess that Esther's beauty and docility are what made her the ideal queen; I would argue that these characteristics merely make her the ideal ornament for a powerful king. When Esther truly becomes a queen is when she taps into the fire in her spirit and steps up to be a leader.
I don't think it's a stretch to see that both Esther and Vashti are admirable women who are also flawed, and that neither one of them exemplifies the "ideal woman"--instead, we need a little bit of both of them inside ourselves. A virtuous woman is not necessarily someone who is submissive, dainty, and conformist; nor is she necessarily a bold, fearless rebel. A woman can possess all of these qualities in varying proportions and still be just as worthy of respect and belonging as the woman standing next to her. Girls do not need to strive to be like Esther and scorn Vashti; nor do they need to emulate Vashti at the expense of Esther. Rather, they should be encouraged to evaluate honestly the choices of both women and to find ways in which they can identify with both Esther and Vashti. Perhaps, if we can respect these two characters of long ago, we will begin to be more compassionate with our own complex, multifaceted selves.
Every year, I read the story of Purim and then hear it filtered through various people's perspectives. Most interpretations I hear fall into two main categories:
1) Vashti is an evil and dangerous woman who defies Hashem's rules for how women should behave. Because she dared to refuse to dance in front of her husband and his friends, one can only assume that she must have been covered with some unsightly rash or perhaps had suddenly sprouted a tail. She deserved every bit of the punishment she got. Esther, on the other hand, is pure, virtuous, and beautiful. She was chosen to be queen for her grace and obedience. Not only does she save the Jewish people, but she represents the quintessential Jewish woman.
2) Vashti is a strong, independent woman who refuses to let any man dictate what she should do. She was a victim of the sexist culture of her time and had she lived today, she probably would have been a valiant feminist. She was wrongly punished and she deserves to be admired by women everywhere for her fierce self-determination. Esther, however, is simple and vain. She plays on her good looks and depends on her sexuality to get what she wants. Unlike Vashti, she is not particularly independent-minded and doesn't model positive assertiveness for girls and women today.
I don't agree with either one of these stories.
That said, I do find them both interesting, mostly because it is striking to me how each of these interpretations relies so heavily on the "good girl/bad girl" dichotomy. If Esther is going to be the heroine, then Vashti must be the villain. On the other hand, if Vashti is the admirable and charismatic one, then Esther must be contemptible and bland. It's almost as if these women gain validity in their respective roles only by being compared to each other. The danger here is that we end up pigeonholing both Vashti and Esther, and we don't allow either of them to be the dynamic women that they probably actually were. Looking beyond the Purim story, how often do we do this to people in our own lives? How often do people do this to us? I think we can probably agree that no one is a completely monochromatic character. Contrary to popular belief, the female species is not divided into "good girls" and "bad girls." We should give ourselves credit for being far more complex than that. We each make thousands of choices in our lives; some will be positive and some will not. Sometimes we will conform with the majority, and sometimes we won't. Our nuances are what make us interesting. Although forcing everyone into the "good girl/bad girl" binary might make life less complicated, when we do this we squeeze the life out of all of us.
My teacher in Israel helped me tease out the "real" women underneath the simplistic images depicted in both of the above versions of the Purim story. Vashti, it seems, is neither the dangerous vixen of the first story nor the radical feminist of the second. Instead, she is a woman who preserved her morality by refusing to attend a party full of drinking men and dancing girls--and, incidentally, it was considered inappropriate in ancient Persia for wives of rulers to be present at such parties. Vashti deserves credit for standing her ground even in the face of harsh consequences. However, she isn't really a feminist because she doesn't demand equality--she just wants to be treated in the manner befitting the wife of a ruler in her society. Because Esther enters the picture only as a result of Vashti's departure, one can only assume that she is aware of the circumstances surrounding the fall of her predecessor. She understands that blatant defiance of the king leads to disaster, so she knows she needs to take a more subtle approach. Yes, Esther is more demure than Vashti, and although this can be considered a virtue it is also the trait that nearly led her to pass up the opportunity to save her people. Some people profess that Esther's beauty and docility are what made her the ideal queen; I would argue that these characteristics merely make her the ideal ornament for a powerful king. When Esther truly becomes a queen is when she taps into the fire in her spirit and steps up to be a leader.
I don't think it's a stretch to see that both Esther and Vashti are admirable women who are also flawed, and that neither one of them exemplifies the "ideal woman"--instead, we need a little bit of both of them inside ourselves. A virtuous woman is not necessarily someone who is submissive, dainty, and conformist; nor is she necessarily a bold, fearless rebel. A woman can possess all of these qualities in varying proportions and still be just as worthy of respect and belonging as the woman standing next to her. Girls do not need to strive to be like Esther and scorn Vashti; nor do they need to emulate Vashti at the expense of Esther. Rather, they should be encouraged to evaluate honestly the choices of both women and to find ways in which they can identify with both Esther and Vashti. Perhaps, if we can respect these two characters of long ago, we will begin to be more compassionate with our own complex, multifaceted selves.
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