Spin Your Turkey Dreidel!

In case you haven't heard, two great holidays--Thanksgiving and Chanukah--are about to make an unlikely convergence.  The resulting, "Thanksgivukkah," has become quite a craze, producing hybrid treats such as butternut squash sweet potato latkes, and even inspiring Conan O'Brien to get in on the action with the Turkey Dreidel.  Personally, I feel like these two holidays are meant to be together--how else can you explain that the biblical Hebrew word for "give thanks," hodu (הודו), is ALSO the modern Hebrew word for, "turkey"?  Coincidence?  I think not.

The truth is that Thanksgiving and Chanukah also have some thematic similarities, chief among them being the shared emphasis on freedom, particularly cultural and religious freedom.  Most of the original "Pilgrims" came to the New World because they were unhappy with the Church of England's inflexible, dictatorial style.  In England, attendance at Anglican churches was mandatory and people didn't feel that it was safe to practice their religion openly in any other way.  Similarly, the Maccabees of the Chanukah story rebelled against the Greeks' attempts to forcibly Hellenize the Jewish people in the Holy Land.  Hellenic culture emphasized idol worship and focused on physical beauty--concepts that were deeply at odds with traditional Jewish values of monotheism and spiritual connection to Torah.

I find the common theme of freedom fascinating, particularly the Jewish resistance against a culture of materialism.  Recently I have been feeling quite frustrated with the cultural world I inhabit--it seems that I can't go anywhere without seeing or hearing something related to dieting, weight loss, exercise, or physical appearance.  Between television, radio, magazine covers, social media, and conversations overheard in just about any venue imaginable, there is no shortage of evidence that we live in a food-, body-, and weight-obsessed culture.

Recovering from an eating disorder while living in such an environment can be a maddeningly frustrating experience.  A clinician I know explains it this way:  "A person recovering from an eating disorder is recovering into a very disturbed world."  To recover means to land above and beyond where the vast majority of people are in terms of food and body.  Although it can be satisfying to have such an evolved perspective, it also can be challenging.  It's hard to feel forced out of all the bonding that happens over discussions about exercise routines, and it can be daunting to try to practice "normal eating" when you are surrounded by people eating diet foods.  Even though I know I should be proud of myself for doing what is healthy and supportive of a life in recovery, I sometimes experience shame around not complying with the prevailing cultural expectations.  In those moments when I feel like I will scream if one more person comments on how she supposes she can afford to eat dessert because she worked out that morning, I have to dig deep and remind myself that I actually don't want to fit into that cultural norm--I've worked too hard to raise myself above it.

It is hard to swim alone against the tide.  The Pilgrims and Maccabees knew this, which is why they each formed groups in order to defend and preserve their true values.  Similarly, we need to surround ourselves with other people who can reinforce our commitment to a life free of the food-and-body obsession.  This Thanksgivukkah season, I wish all of us the courage of our ancestors to keep our eyes and hearts trained on what is truly important and beautiful in this world.

 image from www.timesofisrael.com 

"Hashem is in this place..."

I think my favorite thing about Bereishit is the richness of the narratives.  Our Matriarchs and Patriarchs, complex and dynamic figures all, have so much to teach us about the human experience that I really do feel like I learn something new from them every year.

The parashiot of last week (Vayeitzei) and this week (Vayishlach) each center around Jacob as he experiences two of the defining moments of his life.  I recently read an insightful article by Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks that explores why Jacob--and not Abraham, Isaac, or Moses--is considered the true father of the Jewish people.  After all, we call ourselves "Am Yisrael"--the children of Israel (Jacob).  What is it about Jacob that earns him this status?  Chief Rabbi Sacks argues that it is Jacob's resiliency, his ability to flourish in the wake of struggle, that makes him the ultimate leader of the Jewish people.

In last week's parasha, Jacob runs from Esau's anger and goes to sleep outdoors with his head on a pile of stones.  While asleep, Jacob has one of his major spiritual epiphanies:  he dreams of G-d's angels going up and down a ladder reaching from the ground up to heaven.  When he wakes, he utters one of my favorite lines in the entire Torah:

"Surely Hashem is present in this place, and I did not know!" (Bereishit 28:16)

I connect deeply with the idea that Hashem truly is everywhere, even the most seemingly ordinary of places--if we don't see or feel Him, it's because we fail to notice, not because He's not there.  Chief Rabbi Sacks takes this a step further and points out that not only did Jacob find Hashem in the middle of an otherwise obscure field, but also this happened at a moment of intense personal vulnerability for Jacob.  Similarly, in this week's parasha, Jacob flees from Laban and is heading home to meet Esau (who he presumes is still angry with him), when, once again, he finds himself alone in the middle of the night.  Suddenly, an angel appears and wrestles with Jacob until daybreak, at which point he gives Jacob his new name:  Israel, "...for you have striven with the Divine and with man and have overcome" (Bereishit 32:29).  Just as in Vayeitzei, Jacob descends to a place of true vulnerability only to emerge stronger than he was before.  Explains Rabbi Sacks:

"These are the decisive spiritual encounters of Jacob's life, yet they happen in liminal space (the space that is neither starting point nor destination), at a time when Jacob was at risk in both directions, where he came from and where he was going to.  Yet it was at these points of maximal vulnerability that he encountered G-d and found the courage to continue despite all the hazards of the journey.

That is the strength Jacob bequeathed the Jewish people."

From Jacob, we learn that G-d is present not only in our moments of glory; rather, He can be found even when we are struggling and are unsure in which direction to turn.  If we are open to seeing Him, we can find Hashem even in our lowest, loneliest moments, and from those encounters we can gain the strength to move forward.  

The "liminal space" of recovery is a scary place to be.  It's a space in which we can no longer retreat into the obliviousness of the eating disorder, but we've also not yet reached secure footing on the other side.  When I was in the thick of that space, there were times when I felt profoundly weakened, frightened, and alone.  And yet...Hashem was there.

He was there in the constant, enveloping love of my family and the close friends who stuck by me the entire time.  He was there in the new friendships that sprang up during treatment and gave me the day-to-day encouragement and understanding I needed.  I found Hashem in my mentors, my clinicians, and others who challenged me and guided me along my path.  Hashem was in the natural world that always managed to ground and soothe me, no matter how distressed I was.  And the result was that I emerged from that vulnerable space, open for connections, more in touch with myself, and feeling a bit braver than I had been before.    Was I automatically "cured"? No.  But I knew that I was stronger for having gone through that struggle, and that I had within me the energy needed to keep going on the journey.  

Of Jacob, Chief Rabbi Sacks writes:

"He said to Pharaoh, 'Few and hard have been the years of my life' (Genesis 47:9).  Yet on the way he "encountered" angels, and whether they were wrestling with him or climbing the ladder to heaven, they lit the night with the aura of transcendence."  

May we all be open to the presence of Hashem in the darkness, and may we emerge from that place more whole than we were when we went in.  

The Tune of Ambivalence

If you listened to a public reading of this past week's parasha, Chayei Sarah, you might have noticed a rare treat:  the vocalization of the shalshelet, one of the rarest notes in Torah trope.  The shalshelet occurs only four times in the entire Torah:  Bereishit 19:16, 24:12 (which we read this past Shabbat), and 39:8, and Vayikra 8:23.  Appearing on the page as a tiny zigzag, the shalshelet looks exactly like what it was meant to represent:  a psychological state of uncertainty and ambivalence.  

Britain's Chief Rabbi Sir Jonathan Sacks explains the shalshelet as follows:

"The Torah does not have a word for ambivalence...it does, however, have a tune for it.  This is the rare note known as the shalshelet.  It appears three times in Bereishith, each time at a moment of crisis for the individual concerned...The agent is called on to make a choice, one on which his whole future will depend, but he finds that he cannot.  He is torn between two alternatives, both of which exercise a powerful sway on him.  He must resolve the dilemma one way or another, but either way will involve letting go of deeply felt temptations or deeply held aspirations.  It is a moment of high psychological drama." 

Two weeks ago we heard the shalshelet when Lot hesitated before fleeing Sodom, which was destined for destruction.  This past week, the shalshelet appeared when Abraham's servant, Eliezer, asked Hashem to provide him with a very specific sign regarding which woman would be the suitable wife for Isaac (one interpretation is that Eliezer secretly wanted his own daughter to marry Isaac, and so he was ambivalent about finding another woman to fill that role).   There is also a shalshelet in the Joseph narrative, when he refused the temptation to sleep with Potiphar's wife.  The final example of the shalshelet comes when Moshe inagurates his brother Aaron and Aaron's sons as the Kohanim (High Priests), roles he wished he and his own sons could fulfill.  In each of these instances, the person involved feels an intense pull between two conflicting options--what he thinks or wishes is, and what actually is.  The resulting cognitive dissonance leads each man to wrestle with his decision; it is this struggle that the shalshelet represents.  

The idea that ambivalence has always been a part of our collective history is something to which I really relate.  I honestly don't think I've ever been more ambivalent about anything than I was about recovery.  I really wanted to believe that the eating disorder was the glue holding me together, when the reality was that it was actually preventing me from being a fully functional human being.  On the one hand was the deeply ingrained and immediately satisfying pattern of restriction and self-punishment; on the other hand was the Big Picture Truth:  if I wanted to be able to truly experience life, to be open to joy and connection, then I had to get rid of anorexia.  Either way, I had to give up something and stood to gain something else.  The question was, which was the better bargain?

Through the shalshelet, the Torah teaches that ambivalence has always been part of even the greatest individuals (I mean, can I really hope to do better than Moshe Rabbeinu?).  However, although it might be tempting (and easy) to lean into our less-than-healthy patterns, the goal is for us to keep our eyes on the big picture and ask ourselves, "Is this really going to lead me to my best self?"  Feeling ambivalent is not inherently bad.  The key is to ultimately make choices that lead us in the direction that our core selves--and Hashem--want us to go.  

I always feel validated and reassured when I recognize in Biblical figures some of the same insecurities and struggles that I myself experience.  Rabbi Mois Navon beautifully sums this up when he says,

"There exists a tendency to take for granted the greatness of our exalted paragons, however in doing so we often lose what is really to be gained from having such noble models.  It is not from looking up to their perfection that we learn from their example, but in examining their path and their struggle to that perfection that we stand to gain the most.  And it is only by maintaining an ever attentive ear to every nuance of our heritage, as profoundly demonstrated by the shalshelet, that we stand to reap all of its didactic rewards."

I wish for all of us the awareness to recognize our own "choice points" and to consciously make decisions that lead us down the paths we are truly meant to take.

Worthy of Love

In this post, I want to tackle an issue that has been lurking around in my mind for a long time, and which recently has taken up a front-and-center section of my brain space.  It's a theme that I hear over and over again--from adults about their partners, from parents about their daughters, and from women themselves:  the lack of belief that a person with an eating disorder has in the inherent goodness of her being.  It's heartbreaking for loved ones, who have the often frustrating task of caring deeply about a person who feels unworthy of love and belonging.  For individuals with eating disorders, this lack of self-worth often takes the form of an insidious, nagging voice in the back (or front) of the mind that repeatedly says things like:

"You are a bad person."  "You'll never find anyone to love you."  "People would never like you if they really knew you." And on, and on.  Clearly, this is a voice that seriously undermines recovery...and it is one that far too many of us hear.

Where does it come from?  I can't claim to have done any formal research, but it seems to me a major source of these messages is a surrounding culture that communicates a need to earn your self-worth.  If we could only get that advanced degree, secure that promotion, lose those extra pounds, win that competition, have that attractive mate and those adorable children--then we would be good people.  In other words:  in order to be loved, we need to prove our worthiness--and if we ever stop proving it, we'll stop deserving love.  I'll be honest and admit that there are times when I, too, get sucked into the "I am inherently unworthy" vortex.  Case in point:  during my sophomore year in college, I actually sent a good friend of mine an email in which I asked her, "If I stop being pre-med, will you still think I'm a good person?" I believe her response was something along the lines of, "Are you serious?"  I was.

In recovery, I've had to do some serious "cognitive restructuring" around the concept of self-worth.  One thing that has helped tremendously has been exploring--and buying into--what Judaism has to say about the inherent goodness of a human being.  Every morning, I recite the blessing of Elohai neshama (for my favorite audio version by the group עלמא, click here).  In this prayer, I reaffirm that my soul, my essence, is pure and good.  Hashem placed it into me thoughtfully and lovingly, and it remains inside me, holy and intact.  There is nothing broken or bad about me at my core.  I might make mistakes and poor choices from time to time, but those are just behaviors that I can fix if I choose to do so.  No matter how far I feel I have "strayed," the purity of my soul is never in doubt.

In his work, Orot HaKodesh, Rav Kook offers a teaching that counters the notion that we need to earn our worthiness.  He writes:

"Know yourself, and your world; know the meditations of your heart...and of the life beyond you, around you, the glorious splendor of the life in which you have your being...

Look at the lights, in their inwardness.  Let not the names, the words, the idiom and the letters confine your soul.  They are under your control, you are not under theirs.

Ascend toward the heights, because you are of mighty prowess, you have wings to soar with, wings of mighty eagles...seek for them, and they will at once be ready for you." (Vol. I, pp. 83-84)

Put simply:  The beliefs, "I'll be a good person when _____," or, "I'll never be a good person," are false beliefs.  We might have absorbed the notion that we have to do, earn, or prove something in order to be people of any value, but the irony is that we actually don't have to do a thing.  We are good people simply by virtue of being.  When we came into the world as infants, we were pure at heart and already lovable--and we still are.  We might have changed the packaging and accessories a bit here and there, but the essence of our beings has remained the same Divine, precious light that it has always been.  Make no mistake--there are a lot of distractions out there, but nothing can take away from the pure soul that was put into each of us specially by Hashem.

So...to anyone who is anywhere in recovery and struggling to believe in her (or his) self-worth, here's the take-away:

If you never get a diploma...if you never climb the corporate ladder...if you never fit the media's definition of thin/fit/attractive...if you never are recognized as "the best" at anything...if you never get married...if you never have children...

...you will still be a good person who deserves to be loved.  And anyone who really knows you, knows that this is true.  Now YOU need to believe it.

And, if you're the loved one providing support to someone who feels unworthy and inherently flawed, remind that person that this is just a feeling--not reality.  Provide examples of why you love that person for who she or he is, not what she or he does or has.  It's a message that, when communicated authentically, can't be delivered enough times:

You will always be a good person. You will always be loved.

"Thou Mayest"

If you are reading this (and living outside of Israel), it means you have successfully made it through not one, not two, but THREE, three-day yom tovs.  Amazing!

Is anyone else ready for Cheshvan?!

In all seriousness, despite feeling a bit relieved to resume my normal life routine, I truly did enjoy the chaggim this year.  Simchat Torah gave me a much-needed energy boost at the end as we celebrated finishing, and restarting, the reading of the Torah.  I found myself eager to get back to the rich narrative of Bereishit, and excited by the possibility of discovering new teachings in the familiar text of the Torah.  This past Shabbat I heard a dvar Torah that reaffirmed my belief that there is always, always, something new to learn in Torah.

In his dvar, the speaker focused on the Hebrew word, timshol (תמשל), found in Bereishit 4:7.  Speaking to Cain, Hashem warns him that if he changes his ways and repents, he'll be forgiven, but if he doesn't, "sin rests at the door."  The verse concludes with the words, v'atah timshol-bo (ואתה תמשל–בו), which, depending on how the word תמשל is translated, can mean any of the following:

"thou shalt conquer [sin]"
"do thou conquer [sin]"
"thou can conquer [sin]"
"thou mayest conquer [sin]"

The speaker then referenced East of Eden, by John Steinbeck, as a means of exploring the subtle yet critical differences in these translations.  In that story, the characters come across two different translations for תמשל--thou shalt, and do thou.  Convinced that there must be a definitive ruling on the word, the characters investigate further and delve into the Hebrew language until arriving at the translation, thou mayest.  Regarding the implications of this, one character says the following:

"The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance.  The King James translation makes a promise in 'Thou shalt,' meaning that men will surely triumph over sin.  But the Hebrew word timshel--'Thou mayest'--that gives a choice.  It might be the most important word in the world.  That says the way is open.  That throws it right back on a man.  For if 'Thou mayest'--it is also true that 'Thou mayest not.'  Don't you see?"

This character goes on to argue that the ability to choose--"thou mayest"--is what makes human beings great.  When it is a sure thing ("thou shalt") or a command ("do thou"), neither one of those leaves any room for human agency.  But when doing the right thing is a choice, one that we must actively select and pursue, that makes us responsible for using our precious gift of free will--something that (arguably) no other creatures on earth can do.

This idea really resonates with me as it relates to recovery.  When I was in my first round of intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I heard a lot of, "You'll definitely recover," "You're going to beat this," and "You'll be fine."  These messages were reassuring, but also a bit confusing:  I certainly did not FEEL ready to recover, but here were all these people telling me that I WOULD, so maybe it was inevitable?  If I just hung in there long enough, maybe it would just...happen?

This is not to say that I didn't actively pursue recovery, but I do think there were times when I was lulled into complacency because I believed that, in the end, I would magically pull it together and full recovery would happen no matter what.  So what if I didn't exactly follow my meal plan, or if I skipped a snack here and there?  I was going to recover anyway.  It wasn't until years later that I realized...no.  Recovery is not a guarantee, nor is it a mandate.  If I wanted it, I had to choose it...and I had to do more than just choose it mentally.  I then had to make the actual behavior changes that would move me toward that choice.  Ironically, in order for me to make "I may recover" a reality, I had to understand that "I may not recover" was the equally viable alternative.  Was that scary, and less reassuring than a guarantee of success?  For sure.  But it was also empowering, because as I have accepted responsibility for my own recovery, the success has become mine--not something that happens to me, but something I make happen.

I believe that recovery can be ours, that Hashem does give us all the tools we need to reach it...but I also believe He gives us free will, which means that the decision to use those tools rests in our hands alone.  If we choose recovery, Hashem will support us every step of the way...but He can't make that choice for us, and neither can our family, friends, or doctors, no matter how much they might want to.

As Steinbeck says, "the way is open."  Thou mayest.  So...how will you choose recovery this year?     

In Your Back Pocket

There really is nothing quite like Sukkot.  All of a sudden, temporary dwellings pop up all over the neighborhood--in yards, in driveways, on balconies--and people forgo their standard kitchens and dining rooms in order to eat their meals out in the (somewhat) open air.  If the weather holds, it's nothing short of glorious; if it doesn't, you get some good stories.  And, this being New England, either outcome is equally possible.

One of the aspects of Sukkot that I find intriguing is the coming of the Ushpizin (Aramaic for "guests").  The Ushpizin are the souls of the seven great leaders of Israel--Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph, and King David--who are believed to visit with us in the sukkah during the festival.  Welcoming guests is an important part of any Jewish holiday, but it is especially integral to the observance of Sukkot, which is a celebration of Jewish unity.  Along with all of our run-of-the-mill "earthly" visitors, the seven Ushpizin enter the sukkah on each of the seven nights of the festival.  Each one takes a turn leading the rest, and each one represents one of the Kabbalistic sefirot and its corresponding character traits:

Abraham--chesed--lovingkindness
Isaac--gevurah--strength and discipline
Jacob--tiferet--truth and beauty
Moses--netzach--endurance and victory
Aaron--hod--humility and divine splendor
Joseph--yesod--spiritual foundation and connection
David--malchut--sovereignty

The idea is that the Ushpizin help us access the Divine within ourselves through the spiritual pathways they represent.  It's a beautiful concept--you can explore it in more detail here and here.

I really love the idea of these seven distinguished forefathers of mine coming to give me an extra dose of spiritual nourishment during Sukkot.  It actually reminds me of a concept that some of my "recovery buddies" and I developed early into our journeys--we called it, "keeping people in your back pocket."  When we knew we would be entering into a situation that posed a challenge, we'd imagine having tiny yet powerful versions of supportive people in our lives tucked into our pockets (since it's all metaphorical, this works even if you wear skirts).  I remember countless conversations with a friend of mine that inevitably involved one of us telling the other, "I'll have you in my back pocket!"  Somehow, having her in my pocket would give me comfort and courage to do whatever hard thing needed doing:  eating an extra snack, having a difficult conversation, going to an unfamiliar social event, etc.

I've traveled far on my road of recovery, but from time to time I still draw upon the people I've stashed in my back pocket.  Each person provides me with an extra dose of something different:  poise, assertiveness, bravery, flexibility, confidence--the list goes on.  Sometimes, I imagine one of my "pocket people" doing nothing more than squeezing my hand and saying, "You can do this!"  They may not have the illustrious status of the Ushpizin, but each mentor, teacher, and friend who has ever occupied space in my pocket has given my soul nourishment when I've needed it most.

We all need people in our back pockets...all year long, not just during Sukkot.  As we take our first steps into this new year, I invite you to think about who you could squeeze into your pocket for those moments when you need a little extra inspiration and courage.  Really pack them in--the more, the better--and allow them to strengthen you whenever you need it!

On the Battlefield

And...we're back.  Sincere apologies for my lack of posts for the past few weeks.  It's easy to explain, really--within one week, all of the following things occurred:  I moved to a new apartment, the new school year began, and the chaggim started.  I'm sure you can imagine the scene as I tried to prepare for all of those activities; needless to say, that great blog post I was envisioning about the shofar never materialized in time for Rosh Hashana.  Maybe next year...

But, never fear.  I'm back, albeit still a bit frazzled, and I happen to be reading a thought-provoking book called, Return:  Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe by Erica Brown.  Yesterday's topic was "discipline" and brought with it this corresponding quote from the liturgy:  "For the sin we have committed before You by eating and drinking."  I'll admit that I had a teensy whisper of the thought, "What does SHE think she's going to tell ME about discipline, eating, and drinking?!"  But, I was also curious, and I proceeded (warily) to read that day's installment...and I'm grateful that I did, because she actually presents a rather intriguing concept that I want to share here.

In her discussion of willpower and what happens for us internally when we have to make choices between positive and negative forces, Erica Brown integrates the work of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, who coined the phrase, "bechira point."  In Hebrew, bechira means "choice," and Rabbi Dessler explains a person's bechira point as the point at which an individual feels genuinely torn between two opposing choices, one positive and one negative.  He compares the bechira point to a battlefield:

"When two armies are locked in battle, fighting takes place only at the battlefront.  Territory behind the lines of one army is under that army's control and little or no resistance need be expected there.  A similar situation prevails in respect of territory behind the lines of the other army.  If one side gains a victory at the front and pushes the enemy back, the position of the battlefront will have changed.  In fact, therefore, fighting takes place only at one location."

Rabbi Dessler explains that the bechira point is only activated when one faces a decision that actually is a struggle.  For example, someone who is raised to eat only kosher food will not struggle internally with whether or not to eat a ham sandwich.  However, someone who ate ham sandwiches for lunch every day of his childhood and begins keeping kosher as an adult might very well feel conflicted over whether or not to give up that favorite food.  Rabbi Dessler articulates that the goal is for a person "not to remain in that confused state in which 'truth' and 'falsehood' seem equally valid alternatives.' "  If we exercise our willpower enough times in favor of a positive choice, we will then feel compelled to make that good decision because we will have integrated it into our way of life.  Rabbi Dessler calls this stage, "compulsion," and when we reach it, we've changed the battlefield.

I really love this "battlefield" image, partly because it conjures up memories of playing "Human Stratego" at overnight camp, but mostly because it is such an apt metaphor for recovery.  At every stage in the process, there are battles we fight between our inner strength and our eating disorder.  Whatever issue we're tackling at any given moment, that's our bechira point--and once that obstacle is mastered, we shift our battlefield to take on the next challenge.  This might seem discouraging because it implies a continuous fight--and, isn't "recovery" supposed to mean that the battle is over?  I would argue that "recovery" doesn't imply a complete lack of struggle; it just means that our choices evolve, becoming more nuanced and less stark.  For example, when I first began teaching many years ago, I would eat a small breakfast and then work the entire 7 hour day before allowing myself to have another meal; I was so paralyzed by the idea of eating lunch with other people.  At this point, I've been eating lunch with my colleagues for several years and it would honestly never occur to me to force myself to go an entire workday without eating; that is no longer where my battlefield lies.  However, I do sometimes struggle with whether or not to allow myself to relax when I get home from work, instead of pushing myself to do errands and "be productive."  There's still a battlefield, but the nature of the conflict has shifted considerably and I no longer feel held hostage by the choices I need to make.

Rabbi Dessler also speaks of the highest level on the battlefield, higher even than compulsion.  He explains that compulsion still requires an active choice, even if it IS a positive one.  The true aim is to be so committed to a healthy, virtuous way of life that we do good purely for its own sake--it's just natural.  This point is what Rabbi Dessler calls, "love."  Erica Brown explains,

"For those who are able with constancy and regularity to conquer the forces working against them through active choice, freedom [to choose the positive or negative] turns into compulsion.  That compulsion turns into love."  

Recovery involves all three stages, and we may experience more than one at a time as we tackle different issues.  But the truth is, all of these battles can be won.  We can use discipline and willpower to train ourselves to make supportive choices...and then, we get to experience the ultimate victory of not needing to make those "choices" at all, because doing what is right and healthy comes naturally with love.  Believe me:  it happens.  It might happen slowly or unevenly, but it does happen.  Going into 5774, I wish for us all a year filled with a little less battlefield and a lot more love.