I find going back to Sefer Bereishit to be quite satisfying--you just can't beat the narratives, and reuniting with some of the key figures in the collective history of the Jewish people is very sweet, indeed. This week's parasha, Lech Lecha, has SO much packed into it that it's hard to know where to start. In the spirit of finding something new with each read of the Torah, this week I'm going to explore an angle of Lech Lecha that I previously often passed by: The Covenant Between the Parts. In this covenant, Hashem promises Abraham that the Jewish people will inherit the Land of Israel, but first they will go through a painful period of exile and slavery.
"And He said to Abram, 'Know with certainty that your offspring shall be aliens in a land not their own--and they will serve them, and they will oppress them--four hundred years...and afterwards they will leave with great wealth." (Bereishit 15:13-14)
The Talmud teaches that the Jewish people were exiled and scattered throughout the world only so that converts might join them. On one level, this could be referring to the many people throughout history who were born non-Jewish but chose to convert to Judaism. But there is a Chassidic interpretation that I like even better: that the "converts" are actually sparks of holiness that have been dispersed far and wide. The idea is that every soul has its own sparks strewn about the world, and it is only by traveling through life--a journey that is often rocky--that one gathers up all of one's sparks. All the struggles and challenges we face, which might feel like random bad luck, are actually given to us with the purpose of allowing us to extract from those experiences the sparks that complete our souls.
Developing an eating disorder is like going into exile from one's true self and entering a harsh world of isolation, desperation, and fear. When one is in that state, it is difficult to imagine that anything good could come out of it. "I'll be lucky to get out of this alive," you might think, "Forget about leaving with riches." But, Chassidut teaches that perhaps the eating disorder isn't random bad luck, at all; rather, it is an experience given to a person in order to grant him or her sparks of insight and strength upon emerging from it.
Personally, I would not wish an eating disorder on anyone, but I also would not trade for anything the blessings I've gained in recovery. Because I struggled with an eating disorder, I am more thoughtful, courageous, and resilient than I would have been had I not had that painful experience. Recovery has given me the ability to go beyond the food and body obsessions that plague so much of the general population--I see that for what it is, and I'm not falling for it. I am able to name my feelings and sit with them, rather than numbing myself with distraction after distraction. Years of therapy have allowed me to understand myself and my own strengths and weaknesses much more clearly than I ever would have otherwise. And, along the way I have connected with many special people--friends, mentors, and clinicians--who have brought much love, light, and truth to my life. Was life in the eating disorder miserable? For sure. But I truly believe I have emerged with great wealth.
For all of us who are in exile in one form or another, I wish for us the ability to appreciate the riches we're accumulating as we go through our experiences. Persevere through struggle, and gather your sparks--it's wealth you can't get any other way, and it's 100% worth it.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Monday, October 13, 2014
The Challenge of Vows
Two three-day yom tovs down, one to go...Cheshvan is around the corner!
It's this time of year when the "religious/secular dichotomy" in my life feels most pronounced. On the one hand, this is the marathon holiday season full of rituals and observances designed to mark sacred time. On the other hand, I live and work in a completely secular environment that is not particularly attuned to the rhythms of the Jewish calendar. In order to keep my head at least partly in the realm of the chaggim, I need to make an effort to find some outside inspiration. As I've mentioned, this year's source has been the book, This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared by Rabbi Alan Lew. I particularly connected with his chapter on Kol Nidre, and I've been wanting to write about it ever since Yom Kippur but haven't had time because of all the holidays! Sigh.
While discussing the nature of vows and what happens when we inevitably make a vow that we are unable to keep, Lew cites parasha Mattot, which deals with a woman who makes a vow and then can't keep it because she is living under the control of a man (husband, father) who won't let her follow through. When this happens, the Torah's stance is to forgive the woman for not keeping her vow. Lew notes that the Torah pushes for the ideal situation in which one would always be free to keep one's vows. However, as a historical document, the Torah came about in a time when women did not have that freedom, and the Torah recognized this and made an allowance for it. The Torah doesn't compromise on its values, but it does leave room for people to operate in an imperfect system, with the idea being that over time, the values would win out and the system would change.
Lew then turns to the commentaries of the medieval Spanish kabbalist Ibn Gikatilla, who interprets this story on another level. Gikatilla sees the woman in the above situation as not an actual woman, but as the neshama, or soul, inside each person. The domineering man who won't let the woman keep her vow is not actually a man, but the yetzer hara, the evil inclination. In other words, the neshama is the Divine spark inside each of us that represents the will of Hashem, and the yetzer hara is the negative impulse we have that often leads us to act counter to that will. Our innermost voice, the voice of our core, always comes from the neshama, from Hashem. However, because we live in a world full of stimuli that bring out our negative impulses and dysfunctional behaviors, we often can't follow through on what we know we should do.
Gikatilla says that in such a case, we are not to be blamed, for we are just like the woman who can't fulfill a vow because she is overpowered by someone else. We don't need to be punished (or punish ourselves), because in that moment there may be nothing we can do about it. However, Gikatilla continues, what we can do is build up the neshama so it can become strong enough to resist the yetzer hara. How do we do this? There are many options: prayer, meditation, performing acts of kindness--whatever keeps us aligned with our core. If we do enough of those things, our neshamas will be strong enough to resist negative impulses and we will be able to act in alignment with our souls and with Hashem.
This perspective resonates with me deeply because it offers another paradigm through which to view the inevitable "slips" in recovery. Speaking from personal experience, I can say that on my long journey through recovery there have been many, many bumps in the road, many times when I've known the right thing to do but haven't done it. Every time that happened, I would be frustrated and angry with myself and would try to discipline myself through negative self-talk. I would also worry that Hashem was disappointed in me because I had failed, yet again, to stay the course of recovery. Needless to say, all that self-castigating and worrying helped not a whit; it felt "right" because I believed I deserved it, but it never helped me make different choices in the future. I know many, many people in various stages of recovery who, from time to time, act out of sync with their recovery core values, and not one of them would say that self-punishment brought them lasting positive change. Instead, a more productive approach would be Gikatilla's: recognize that we are not to blame because in the moment we are overpowered; but at the same time, actively work to strengthen ourselves so that in the future we will be able to resist negative influences. Personally, I find this a much more compassionate and empowering operating system than the endless cycle of, "try, fail, frustrate."
So, in this new year, wherever we are in our journeys, let's all work to strengthen our neshamas so that we can withstand the negative forces in our lives, in whatever form they come, so that we can live true to our vows and our commitments to a positive life.
Chag sameach and shana tovah umetukah!
It's this time of year when the "religious/secular dichotomy" in my life feels most pronounced. On the one hand, this is the marathon holiday season full of rituals and observances designed to mark sacred time. On the other hand, I live and work in a completely secular environment that is not particularly attuned to the rhythms of the Jewish calendar. In order to keep my head at least partly in the realm of the chaggim, I need to make an effort to find some outside inspiration. As I've mentioned, this year's source has been the book, This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared by Rabbi Alan Lew. I particularly connected with his chapter on Kol Nidre, and I've been wanting to write about it ever since Yom Kippur but haven't had time because of all the holidays! Sigh.
While discussing the nature of vows and what happens when we inevitably make a vow that we are unable to keep, Lew cites parasha Mattot, which deals with a woman who makes a vow and then can't keep it because she is living under the control of a man (husband, father) who won't let her follow through. When this happens, the Torah's stance is to forgive the woman for not keeping her vow. Lew notes that the Torah pushes for the ideal situation in which one would always be free to keep one's vows. However, as a historical document, the Torah came about in a time when women did not have that freedom, and the Torah recognized this and made an allowance for it. The Torah doesn't compromise on its values, but it does leave room for people to operate in an imperfect system, with the idea being that over time, the values would win out and the system would change.
Lew then turns to the commentaries of the medieval Spanish kabbalist Ibn Gikatilla, who interprets this story on another level. Gikatilla sees the woman in the above situation as not an actual woman, but as the neshama, or soul, inside each person. The domineering man who won't let the woman keep her vow is not actually a man, but the yetzer hara, the evil inclination. In other words, the neshama is the Divine spark inside each of us that represents the will of Hashem, and the yetzer hara is the negative impulse we have that often leads us to act counter to that will. Our innermost voice, the voice of our core, always comes from the neshama, from Hashem. However, because we live in a world full of stimuli that bring out our negative impulses and dysfunctional behaviors, we often can't follow through on what we know we should do.
Gikatilla says that in such a case, we are not to be blamed, for we are just like the woman who can't fulfill a vow because she is overpowered by someone else. We don't need to be punished (or punish ourselves), because in that moment there may be nothing we can do about it. However, Gikatilla continues, what we can do is build up the neshama so it can become strong enough to resist the yetzer hara. How do we do this? There are many options: prayer, meditation, performing acts of kindness--whatever keeps us aligned with our core. If we do enough of those things, our neshamas will be strong enough to resist negative impulses and we will be able to act in alignment with our souls and with Hashem.
This perspective resonates with me deeply because it offers another paradigm through which to view the inevitable "slips" in recovery. Speaking from personal experience, I can say that on my long journey through recovery there have been many, many bumps in the road, many times when I've known the right thing to do but haven't done it. Every time that happened, I would be frustrated and angry with myself and would try to discipline myself through negative self-talk. I would also worry that Hashem was disappointed in me because I had failed, yet again, to stay the course of recovery. Needless to say, all that self-castigating and worrying helped not a whit; it felt "right" because I believed I deserved it, but it never helped me make different choices in the future. I know many, many people in various stages of recovery who, from time to time, act out of sync with their recovery core values, and not one of them would say that self-punishment brought them lasting positive change. Instead, a more productive approach would be Gikatilla's: recognize that we are not to blame because in the moment we are overpowered; but at the same time, actively work to strengthen ourselves so that in the future we will be able to resist negative influences. Personally, I find this a much more compassionate and empowering operating system than the endless cycle of, "try, fail, frustrate."
So, in this new year, wherever we are in our journeys, let's all work to strengthen our neshamas so that we can withstand the negative forces in our lives, in whatever form they come, so that we can live true to our vows and our commitments to a positive life.
Chag sameach and shana tovah umetukah!
Sunday, September 21, 2014
The hand that blocks the sun
I can't express how grateful I am to the Jewish calendar that the High Holidays this year are not in the first week of school. Instead, I've had a full three weeks to get back into the flow of teaching and have been able to keep holiday prep on the back burner. Not anymore! This week we celebrate Rosh Hashanah, then embark on the Ten Days of Awe, and proceed from there directly to Yom Kippur. If you have a high level of spiritual discipline, you've probably spent the entire month of Elul engaged in self-reflection in preparation for these days. If you're more like me, you've squeezed it in here and there and only now are realizing, "Oh...that's happening." In the words of my new favorite High Holiday literary companion, "This is real and you are completely unprepared."
But, all is not lost. Yesterday I was fortunate to attend a Shabbat afternoon shiur given by a local Jewish scholar and expert on Rav Kook. I have mentioned my attraction to the teachings of Rav Kook several times on this blog, particularly in regards to teshuvah, a common theme at this time of year. The speaker brought a number of inspiring sources; I will share one with you here. (Rav Kook's language is a bit dense and philosophical, but hang in there.)
"Sin blackens the illumination of the higher wisdom that is manifest when the soul is in edifying harmony with all existence and its divine source...Every sinful act disrupts this ideal unity and places the orbit of life outside it. The illumination that flows like a clear spring will not resume its influence on the will that has been profaned unless the person will turn back and be remorseful. Then will the light of teshuvah, to the degree of its clarity in perception and depth of acceptance, restore the original harmony. O return to me the joy of your deliverance, and a generous spirit sustain me (Ps. 51:14)" (Orot Ha-Teshuvah 9:6)
I love this passage as is, but what really resonated with me was the way the speaker boiled it down: "Sin is the hand that blocks the sun."
It is our natural state to be in the sun--Rav Kook's "illumination of the higher Wisdom." When we act in ways that are destructive or unhealthy, we block out the sun and put ourselves in darkness. I'm not comfortable using the word, "sin," to define eating disorders, but the behaviors that go along with eating disorders are certainly destructive and unhealthy. If one's natural state is to live in the light of a life free from an eating disorder, then engaging in behaviors definitely shuts out that light.
But, here's the thing: sometimes, the sun feels threatening. It hurts the eyes, and too much exposure can burn the skin. When there is no shade, the sun can overwhelm us...and sometimes it feels like "real life" in recovery can, too. The world of an eating disorder is narrow, focused, and controlled, with little room for outside stimuli. A full, healthy life, on the other hand, has more noise, more speed, and more (perceived) dangers. It's not surprising, then, that when venturing into that healthy life, one might be tempted to put up her hand to block the sun. The trick is to invest in healthy sun protection, like sunglasses and a beach umbrella, rather than seal oneself into a dark, windowless room. The recovery versions of shades and an umbrella might be forms of "quiet time," such as taking a nature walk or reading a book, or methods of preventing "stimulus overload," such as committing oneself to a limited number of social events--especially those involving food--per month, instead of feeling pressure to attend everything. In recovery, you learn that it's possible to get temporary relief from the sun without having to block it out entirely...and you can get right back to enjoying its rays as soon as you're ready.
As we prepare to enter the Yamim Noraim, I wish for all of us to live in the light of the sun, as we are meant to do...and when we need a break, to choose a healthy one. Don't block the sun entirely; just grab a pair of shades and get back into the world.
But, all is not lost. Yesterday I was fortunate to attend a Shabbat afternoon shiur given by a local Jewish scholar and expert on Rav Kook. I have mentioned my attraction to the teachings of Rav Kook several times on this blog, particularly in regards to teshuvah, a common theme at this time of year. The speaker brought a number of inspiring sources; I will share one with you here. (Rav Kook's language is a bit dense and philosophical, but hang in there.)
"Sin blackens the illumination of the higher wisdom that is manifest when the soul is in edifying harmony with all existence and its divine source...Every sinful act disrupts this ideal unity and places the orbit of life outside it. The illumination that flows like a clear spring will not resume its influence on the will that has been profaned unless the person will turn back and be remorseful. Then will the light of teshuvah, to the degree of its clarity in perception and depth of acceptance, restore the original harmony. O return to me the joy of your deliverance, and a generous spirit sustain me (Ps. 51:14)" (Orot Ha-Teshuvah 9:6)
I love this passage as is, but what really resonated with me was the way the speaker boiled it down: "Sin is the hand that blocks the sun."
It is our natural state to be in the sun--Rav Kook's "illumination of the higher Wisdom." When we act in ways that are destructive or unhealthy, we block out the sun and put ourselves in darkness. I'm not comfortable using the word, "sin," to define eating disorders, but the behaviors that go along with eating disorders are certainly destructive and unhealthy. If one's natural state is to live in the light of a life free from an eating disorder, then engaging in behaviors definitely shuts out that light.
But, here's the thing: sometimes, the sun feels threatening. It hurts the eyes, and too much exposure can burn the skin. When there is no shade, the sun can overwhelm us...and sometimes it feels like "real life" in recovery can, too. The world of an eating disorder is narrow, focused, and controlled, with little room for outside stimuli. A full, healthy life, on the other hand, has more noise, more speed, and more (perceived) dangers. It's not surprising, then, that when venturing into that healthy life, one might be tempted to put up her hand to block the sun. The trick is to invest in healthy sun protection, like sunglasses and a beach umbrella, rather than seal oneself into a dark, windowless room. The recovery versions of shades and an umbrella might be forms of "quiet time," such as taking a nature walk or reading a book, or methods of preventing "stimulus overload," such as committing oneself to a limited number of social events--especially those involving food--per month, instead of feeling pressure to attend everything. In recovery, you learn that it's possible to get temporary relief from the sun without having to block it out entirely...and you can get right back to enjoying its rays as soon as you're ready.
As we prepare to enter the Yamim Noraim, I wish for all of us to live in the light of the sun, as we are meant to do...and when we need a break, to choose a healthy one. Don't block the sun entirely; just grab a pair of shades and get back into the world.
Monday, September 1, 2014
Breaking Down the Walls
It seems I have, once again, been shirking my posting duties. It's a transitional time of year, which is SO not my thing, and I've spent the past few weeks both reacclimatizing to my life in the States, and preparing my classroom for a new crop of eight-year-olds who are scheduled to arrive tomorrow (yikes!). Blog entries require a certain degree of contemplative thought, and the truth is that lately I just haven't had it in me. But I have been reading a fabulous book called, This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared by Alan Lew (come on--how awesome is that title?). Meant to be read in the weeks between Tisha B'Av and Sukkot, the book takes the reader on a journey through teshuvah and the process of self-evaluation that this time of year requires.
When writing about Tisha B'Av, Lew frequently uses the image of the walls of your house crumbling down around you, leaving you exposed and disoriented. This alludes to the literal destruction of the walls of the Temple in Jerusalem, but also to the metaphorical walls we all have around our own lives--the routines and material items that protect us and allow us to ignore the true issues that lie beneath the surface. The month of Elul is our opportunity to remember who we are, where we are, and where we are going. Lew describes this as a journey of "self-discovery, spiritual discipline, self-forgiveness, and spiritual evolution. It is the snapshot the Jewish people pull out every autumn of the great journey all human beings must make across this world: the journey from Tisha B'Av to Sukkot, from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, from birth to death and back to renewal again" (8-9).
I tend to be ambivalent about Elul; I love it conceptually but feel overwhelmed by it practically. The idea of reflective self-assessment and teshuvah is beautiful, but actually doing it usually leads me to feel self-critical, frustrated, and sad. Why? Because no matter what improvements I've made over the year, inevitably there are still those few ways in which I have not changed or grown. These stumbling blocks tend to be the same from year to year, and although every year I resolve to "do better," I don't follow through because doing so is just too hard. Elul brings me face to face, once again, with the truth that if I want these things to change, then I have to change. This is a problem because, as I've mentioned, I hate change. So, you can see why this is a perpetual struggle.
Lew suggests that a critical first step in getting out of points of "stuckness" is acknowledging that we play an active role in keeping ourselves there. He explains that, "spiritually, the only question worth asking about any conflict, any recurring catastrophe, is this: What is my responsibility for it? How am I complicit in it? How can I prevent it from happening again?" (45) In other words, I don't end up in the same struggle year after year because the world is against me. I end up there because I allow myself to stay stuck. So, I need to ask myself, "In what unproductive ways am I engaging in this conflict? How could I do things differently in order to get out of it?" Asking and answering these questions honestly requires that we allow our walls to come down, so that we can see what is truly underneath.
This isn't easy, but personally I think it's worth trying. When I'm old, I don't want to look back on my life and see pockets of aborted growth and missed opportunities in places where I chose inertia over action. While this approach to Elul and the High Holy Days will require a lot of effort, I think my life deserves that investment of time and energy. We all deserve to give that gift of growth to ourselves.
Here are some key questions from Alan Lew to get us started:
When writing about Tisha B'Av, Lew frequently uses the image of the walls of your house crumbling down around you, leaving you exposed and disoriented. This alludes to the literal destruction of the walls of the Temple in Jerusalem, but also to the metaphorical walls we all have around our own lives--the routines and material items that protect us and allow us to ignore the true issues that lie beneath the surface. The month of Elul is our opportunity to remember who we are, where we are, and where we are going. Lew describes this as a journey of "self-discovery, spiritual discipline, self-forgiveness, and spiritual evolution. It is the snapshot the Jewish people pull out every autumn of the great journey all human beings must make across this world: the journey from Tisha B'Av to Sukkot, from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, from birth to death and back to renewal again" (8-9).
I tend to be ambivalent about Elul; I love it conceptually but feel overwhelmed by it practically. The idea of reflective self-assessment and teshuvah is beautiful, but actually doing it usually leads me to feel self-critical, frustrated, and sad. Why? Because no matter what improvements I've made over the year, inevitably there are still those few ways in which I have not changed or grown. These stumbling blocks tend to be the same from year to year, and although every year I resolve to "do better," I don't follow through because doing so is just too hard. Elul brings me face to face, once again, with the truth that if I want these things to change, then I have to change. This is a problem because, as I've mentioned, I hate change. So, you can see why this is a perpetual struggle.
Lew suggests that a critical first step in getting out of points of "stuckness" is acknowledging that we play an active role in keeping ourselves there. He explains that, "spiritually, the only question worth asking about any conflict, any recurring catastrophe, is this: What is my responsibility for it? How am I complicit in it? How can I prevent it from happening again?" (45) In other words, I don't end up in the same struggle year after year because the world is against me. I end up there because I allow myself to stay stuck. So, I need to ask myself, "In what unproductive ways am I engaging in this conflict? How could I do things differently in order to get out of it?" Asking and answering these questions honestly requires that we allow our walls to come down, so that we can see what is truly underneath.
This isn't easy, but personally I think it's worth trying. When I'm old, I don't want to look back on my life and see pockets of aborted growth and missed opportunities in places where I chose inertia over action. While this approach to Elul and the High Holy Days will require a lot of effort, I think my life deserves that investment of time and energy. We all deserve to give that gift of growth to ourselves.
Here are some key questions from Alan Lew to get us started:
"Where are we?
What transition point are we standing at?
What is causing sharp feeling in us, disturbing us, knocking us a little off balance? Where is our suffering?
What is making us feel bad?
What is making us feel at all?
How long will we keep the walls up?
How long will we furiously defend against what we know deep down to be the truth of our lives?"
(62)
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Gardening in Exile
I've been back from Israel for four days, and by now I've had a chance to savor those quintessentially American experiences that I just can't get across the pond: iced coffee from Starbucks, listening to Pandora radio on my iPhone, waiting in orderly lines, and hugging Mom and Dad. Also, my body more or less knows what time it is now, which is an added bonus. But I'll be honest--it's tough to get reacclimatized, as it is every year at this time. I see in myself all the symptoms of readjustment: getting teary-eyed at random moments when a loved one in Israel pops into my mind; scouring Israeli online news sources and struggling with feeling 7 hours behind the ball; checking Facebook over and over again, hoping to connect with one of my Israeli friends and feeling at loose ends when it doesn't happen.
I know this feeling: it's hunger. Hunger for Israel itself, and for the feelings of connectedness and nourishment I experience there. And as anyone who has ever suffered from an eating disorder can tell you, there are few sensations worse than hunger. It is persistent and pervasive, taking over any crevice of the mind not actively occupied by something else. When I check Facebook and Google Chat every five minutes with a sense of growing yearning bubbling up inside, I am reminded of the countless times I forced myself to sit through physical hunger as I watched the clock tick toward Time to Eat, thinking, "Is it time to eat yet? Is it time to eat yet?" Then, the beeline toward food, the careful rationing, and the speedy consumption, followed by a period of borderline calm paired with the understanding that I was actually still hungry, and in a few hours the whole cycle will repeat itself again. That's hunger, and even when it's emotional and not physical, the pangs are just as sharp.
My return date from Israel this year seemed particularly apropos, since I arrived back Stateside on Erev Tisha B'Av. Tisha B'Av is the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, a time when we mourn the losses of both the First and Second Temples as well as several other tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people throughout history. For the past several years I have spent this holiday in Israel, but because of the leap year, this year I got to commemorate the Jewish people's historical exile from Jerusalem while actually being in exile from Jerusalem.
It could have been an emotional disaster, but as is often the case, I got some relief from a book. My literary companion for the Three Weeks was, In the Narrow Places by Erica Brown. In the final chapter, Brown addresses the issue of how one is supposed to behave in exile, which she defines as physically being in one place while your heart and mind are in another. Brown acknowledges the agony of feeling that one is not where one should be, and offers as advice the words of the prophet Jeremiah:
"Jeremiah, perhaps realizing the crippling impact of dislocation on the soul of a people, advised against this kind of thinking:
'This said the Lord of Hosts, the G-d of Israel, to the whole community which I exiled from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them, plant gardens and eat their fruit. Take wives and beget sons and daughters; and take wives for your sons, and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters. Multiply there, do not decrease. And seek the welfare of the city to which I have exiled you and pray to the Lord in its behalf; for in its prosperity you shall prosper.' (Jeremiah 29:4-7)"
Brown notes that although building a house is a relatively immediate act, cultivating a garden implies an investment of time and energy into the place where one currently lives. A shelter can be put up anywhere, but planting a garden encourages the individual to take advantage of the richness that can be found wherever he or she is, and to build a sustainable life in that place--even in exile.
Brown also cites a midrash on Psalm 137 in which the Levites in exile cut off their own thumbs so that they couldn't be forced to play their instruments for King Nebuchadnezzar. It's a strong statement of resistance, but ultimately backfires, as Brown explains, "...by cutting off their thumbs, they made themselves ritually unsuitable for serving G-d in the Temple precincts after their exile. Signs of mourning that are permanent can show profound loss but may also reveal a lack of faith in the future."
So, it seems that I have two main options for how to deal with the sensation of "being in exile:" 1) cut off my proverbial thumbs and wallow in despair; or, 2) acknowledge the pain but simultaneously go about investing in my life here, right where I am. The truth is, my life in the States is ripe for gardening (metaphorically speaking, of course; I live in the city and don't even have a window box). I've worked hard to cultivate a satisfying professional life for myself and am working on putting down more secure "community roots." Although life outside Israel doesn't contain everything I want, it does have a lot of beautiful elements that I would miss if I had to give them up, and I should continue to honor my life here by cultivating them...and I should not discount the possibility that, one day in the future, I might be living a life in which I will feel more wholly satisfied.
It's hard to have my heart be in two places at once, when my body can be in only one. But perhaps, out of this situation comes the potential to have two gardens instead of just one, and to draw on nutrients from more than one source. That seems like the most productive way to handle the issue of exile and the best way to make the most of the situation I'm in. Here's to another year of fruitful gardening...and, b"H, to next summer in Jerusalem!
I know this feeling: it's hunger. Hunger for Israel itself, and for the feelings of connectedness and nourishment I experience there. And as anyone who has ever suffered from an eating disorder can tell you, there are few sensations worse than hunger. It is persistent and pervasive, taking over any crevice of the mind not actively occupied by something else. When I check Facebook and Google Chat every five minutes with a sense of growing yearning bubbling up inside, I am reminded of the countless times I forced myself to sit through physical hunger as I watched the clock tick toward Time to Eat, thinking, "Is it time to eat yet? Is it time to eat yet?" Then, the beeline toward food, the careful rationing, and the speedy consumption, followed by a period of borderline calm paired with the understanding that I was actually still hungry, and in a few hours the whole cycle will repeat itself again. That's hunger, and even when it's emotional and not physical, the pangs are just as sharp.
My return date from Israel this year seemed particularly apropos, since I arrived back Stateside on Erev Tisha B'Av. Tisha B'Av is the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, a time when we mourn the losses of both the First and Second Temples as well as several other tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people throughout history. For the past several years I have spent this holiday in Israel, but because of the leap year, this year I got to commemorate the Jewish people's historical exile from Jerusalem while actually being in exile from Jerusalem.
It could have been an emotional disaster, but as is often the case, I got some relief from a book. My literary companion for the Three Weeks was, In the Narrow Places by Erica Brown. In the final chapter, Brown addresses the issue of how one is supposed to behave in exile, which she defines as physically being in one place while your heart and mind are in another. Brown acknowledges the agony of feeling that one is not where one should be, and offers as advice the words of the prophet Jeremiah:
"Jeremiah, perhaps realizing the crippling impact of dislocation on the soul of a people, advised against this kind of thinking:
'This said the Lord of Hosts, the G-d of Israel, to the whole community which I exiled from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them, plant gardens and eat their fruit. Take wives and beget sons and daughters; and take wives for your sons, and give your daughters to husbands, that they may bear sons and daughters. Multiply there, do not decrease. And seek the welfare of the city to which I have exiled you and pray to the Lord in its behalf; for in its prosperity you shall prosper.' (Jeremiah 29:4-7)"
Brown notes that although building a house is a relatively immediate act, cultivating a garden implies an investment of time and energy into the place where one currently lives. A shelter can be put up anywhere, but planting a garden encourages the individual to take advantage of the richness that can be found wherever he or she is, and to build a sustainable life in that place--even in exile.
Brown also cites a midrash on Psalm 137 in which the Levites in exile cut off their own thumbs so that they couldn't be forced to play their instruments for King Nebuchadnezzar. It's a strong statement of resistance, but ultimately backfires, as Brown explains, "...by cutting off their thumbs, they made themselves ritually unsuitable for serving G-d in the Temple precincts after their exile. Signs of mourning that are permanent can show profound loss but may also reveal a lack of faith in the future."
So, it seems that I have two main options for how to deal with the sensation of "being in exile:" 1) cut off my proverbial thumbs and wallow in despair; or, 2) acknowledge the pain but simultaneously go about investing in my life here, right where I am. The truth is, my life in the States is ripe for gardening (metaphorically speaking, of course; I live in the city and don't even have a window box). I've worked hard to cultivate a satisfying professional life for myself and am working on putting down more secure "community roots." Although life outside Israel doesn't contain everything I want, it does have a lot of beautiful elements that I would miss if I had to give them up, and I should continue to honor my life here by cultivating them...and I should not discount the possibility that, one day in the future, I might be living a life in which I will feel more wholly satisfied.
It's hard to have my heart be in two places at once, when my body can be in only one. But perhaps, out of this situation comes the potential to have two gardens instead of just one, and to draw on nutrients from more than one source. That seems like the most productive way to handle the issue of exile and the best way to make the most of the situation I'm in. Here's to another year of fruitful gardening...and, b"H, to next summer in Jerusalem!
Friday, July 25, 2014
Putting Strategies to Work
Another week in Jerusalem...and what a week it has been! Unless you've been actively avoiding the news, you're probably at least somewhat aware of what people in Israel call, "the Situation." Communities in southern Israel continue to be under rocket fire from Hamas; Palestinian civilians continue to be caught in the crossfire (after basically being put there by their own leadership), and Israeli combat soldiers continue to carry out their ground operation in Gaza, which, tragically, has cost many of them their lives. In a country where everybody knows somebody who is fighting in Gaza, the mood here is tense and anxious as people keep tabs on the news, hoping there will be no more fatalities but knowing that, most likely, there will be.
Personally, I do not have any relatives in the Israeli army, but I do have several good friends whose husbands, brothers, and sons are currently in combat units in Gaza. I cannot even imagine the emotional roller coasters that these friends of mine are on; I don't know how they can successfully focus on activities of daily living while worrying about the safety of their loved ones. But, they do, and for that they have my total admiration. I don't know how I would handle being in their shoes. The truth is, being a watcher has been stressful and painful enough.
Fortunately, after many years of therapy I have learned quite a few "distress tolerance" skills, and during the past couple of weeks I have had many occasions to use them. I'll be honest and admit that, often, the path of least resistance seems to be just immersing myself in the anxiety and sadness, watching the news unfold and worrying about the people I know who are in harm's way...but if I did that, I would be miserable all the time. So, I've turned to my arsenal of distress tolerance strategies, out of which have emerged three favorites:
1) Distraction. For this, I have two main sources to thank: My ulpan program at the Conservative Yeshiva of Jerusalem, and the summer learning program at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies. Between these two programs, I have spent seven hours a day, five days a week, actively engaged in learning both conversational Hebrew and traditional Jewish texts. And, even when I felt like I could not possibly focus on anything other than the Situation, inevitably I would get wrapped up in my studies and would be able to shelve my anxiety, at least temporarily. It helped immensely to know that all of my classmates were experiencing feelings similar to mine. During our breaks or over lunch, we would often talk about our worries and reactions to the news. But, we also talked about other things, giving ourselves the time and space to think about life outside the current war. In times of stress, there really is nothing quite like being connected to people who "get it."
2) Prayer. I'll be totally up front and say that before this summer, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd said tehillim. I didn't really understand how that whole routine worked, and it was just Not My Thing. But, at my therapist's suggestion, I talked to a wonderful teacher of mine about how to use prayer as a way to calm my mind when anxious, obsessive thoughts start to take over. My teacher suggested choosing a favorite passuk or piece of tehillim and repeating it to myself slowly when I started to feel my mind careen out of control. I happened to know exactly one chapter of tehillim (luckily it's a great one!), and over the past week I've tried to recite it both during formal davening and at any time when I start to feel particularly worried about what's going on in Israel and the safety of my friends. It has been especially helpful to think of the names of the soldiers for whose safety I'm praying, and to recite tehillim with them in mind. While I have no conclusive answer as to whether or not this practice works cosmically, I will say that it has helped me a lot in the moment, which is good enough for me!
3) Getting Involved. What I hear Israelis saying over and over (and what I'm also saying) is, "I wish I could do something to help." Thinking positive thoughts is great, but sometimes you just want to roll up your sleeves and physically do something productive to make a tough situation a little bit better. Israelis, I have found, are experts at this. Kids in youth groups are out on the street, getting strangers to donate money and supplies to the soldiers; civilians are collecting food and personally driving it down to the soldiers in Gaza; thousands of people are turning out at the funerals and shivas of soldiers they didn't even know, just so the families feel the love of the entire Jewish community. This morning, I went with a few of my friends to an event at a private home in Jerusalem, where dozens of people had come together to assemble care packages for soldiers in units that have suffered casualties. As we all worked together to pack up army-issue socks and underwear, granola bars, books of tehillim, and t-shirts, people kept commenting on how good it felt to finally be doing something to help. Taking action, it seems, is a remarkably effective way to combat feelings of helplessness and anxiety.
There have been many times over the past few weeks when I've felt almost overcome with sadness, or fear, or worry. But now, as I reflect on the skills I've used, the connections I've made, and the courage I've witnessed, what I feel most of all is love. The news is still heartbreaking, and loved ones are still in danger. But being part of a larger community that works to support each other has made the tough moments easier to bear, and has replaced a lot of the anxiety with feelings of warmth and connection. My heart is full of gratitude to Am Yisrael, and I wish us all a truly peaceful, quiet, Shabbat Shalom.
Personally, I do not have any relatives in the Israeli army, but I do have several good friends whose husbands, brothers, and sons are currently in combat units in Gaza. I cannot even imagine the emotional roller coasters that these friends of mine are on; I don't know how they can successfully focus on activities of daily living while worrying about the safety of their loved ones. But, they do, and for that they have my total admiration. I don't know how I would handle being in their shoes. The truth is, being a watcher has been stressful and painful enough.
Fortunately, after many years of therapy I have learned quite a few "distress tolerance" skills, and during the past couple of weeks I have had many occasions to use them. I'll be honest and admit that, often, the path of least resistance seems to be just immersing myself in the anxiety and sadness, watching the news unfold and worrying about the people I know who are in harm's way...but if I did that, I would be miserable all the time. So, I've turned to my arsenal of distress tolerance strategies, out of which have emerged three favorites:
1) Distraction. For this, I have two main sources to thank: My ulpan program at the Conservative Yeshiva of Jerusalem, and the summer learning program at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies. Between these two programs, I have spent seven hours a day, five days a week, actively engaged in learning both conversational Hebrew and traditional Jewish texts. And, even when I felt like I could not possibly focus on anything other than the Situation, inevitably I would get wrapped up in my studies and would be able to shelve my anxiety, at least temporarily. It helped immensely to know that all of my classmates were experiencing feelings similar to mine. During our breaks or over lunch, we would often talk about our worries and reactions to the news. But, we also talked about other things, giving ourselves the time and space to think about life outside the current war. In times of stress, there really is nothing quite like being connected to people who "get it."
2) Prayer. I'll be totally up front and say that before this summer, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I'd said tehillim. I didn't really understand how that whole routine worked, and it was just Not My Thing. But, at my therapist's suggestion, I talked to a wonderful teacher of mine about how to use prayer as a way to calm my mind when anxious, obsessive thoughts start to take over. My teacher suggested choosing a favorite passuk or piece of tehillim and repeating it to myself slowly when I started to feel my mind careen out of control. I happened to know exactly one chapter of tehillim (luckily it's a great one!), and over the past week I've tried to recite it both during formal davening and at any time when I start to feel particularly worried about what's going on in Israel and the safety of my friends. It has been especially helpful to think of the names of the soldiers for whose safety I'm praying, and to recite tehillim with them in mind. While I have no conclusive answer as to whether or not this practice works cosmically, I will say that it has helped me a lot in the moment, which is good enough for me!
3) Getting Involved. What I hear Israelis saying over and over (and what I'm also saying) is, "I wish I could do something to help." Thinking positive thoughts is great, but sometimes you just want to roll up your sleeves and physically do something productive to make a tough situation a little bit better. Israelis, I have found, are experts at this. Kids in youth groups are out on the street, getting strangers to donate money and supplies to the soldiers; civilians are collecting food and personally driving it down to the soldiers in Gaza; thousands of people are turning out at the funerals and shivas of soldiers they didn't even know, just so the families feel the love of the entire Jewish community. This morning, I went with a few of my friends to an event at a private home in Jerusalem, where dozens of people had come together to assemble care packages for soldiers in units that have suffered casualties. As we all worked together to pack up army-issue socks and underwear, granola bars, books of tehillim, and t-shirts, people kept commenting on how good it felt to finally be doing something to help. Taking action, it seems, is a remarkably effective way to combat feelings of helplessness and anxiety.
There have been many times over the past few weeks when I've felt almost overcome with sadness, or fear, or worry. But now, as I reflect on the skills I've used, the connections I've made, and the courage I've witnessed, what I feel most of all is love. The news is still heartbreaking, and loved ones are still in danger. But being part of a larger community that works to support each other has made the tough moments easier to bear, and has replaced a lot of the anxiety with feelings of warmth and connection. My heart is full of gratitude to Am Yisrael, and I wish us all a truly peaceful, quiet, Shabbat Shalom.
Friday, July 18, 2014
For the Watchers
Shabbat shalom from Jerusalem!
It has been a beautiful week in many ways. I've continued exploring and debating texts in my classes at the Pardes Institute, and I also began an ulpan program that has empowered me to feel ever so slightly more proficient in Hebrew. I spent some quality time with some special teachers of mine, got to snuggle a baby, and had a glorious reunion with two friends I hadn't seen in a year or more. Also, the weather has been close to perfect. So, that's all wonderful.
And yet.
As I write this, Israeli troops are waging a ground operation in Gaza; one IDF soldier has already been killed and several more have been injured. Nearly every time I've checked my phone in the past week and a half, I have seen a notification that another rocket was launched from Gaza into Israel. I've seen and read reports of the suffering of the Palestinians in Gaza who are trapped, largely by their own leadership, in what seems to be a hopeless situation. And, I've watched as a ceasefire agreement failed and took with it the possibility of peace and quiet for civilians on both sides of the conflict. Added to all of this has been the seemingly endless stream of status updates on Facebook and other media posted by people who, most of the time, have very strong opinions despite not having many facts. Although my life has gone on relatively uninterrupted in Jerusalem (thank G-d!), there is a part of my brain that is always occupied with the larger struggle in which Israel is enveloped.
It is painful to watch, all the more so because I know there isn't really anything I can do to help as an American citizen who is only here for five weeks. I'm not in the army, nor do I have any other skills which would potentially be useful in this conflict. I can't bring aid to soldiers, nor can I offer shelter to families who are under near constant fire in southern Israel. My contributions have basically been limited to donating food to the Pina Chama, a soldiers' rest stop in the West Bank, and trying to daven with a little more kavannah aimed at the current situation. While I know that "every little bit helps," it still feels like a small drop in a very large bucket. I have realized, over the past two weeks, how emotionally challenging it is to be relegated to the role of a bystander while people (and a place) you love are suffering.
As I've struggled with the task of watching a problem unfold in front of me without being able to do anything to "fix it," I've thought over and over again about the parallels between that situation and that of parents who are watching their child struggle with an eating disorder. In the work that I do as a co-facilitator of a support group for parents and loved ones of individuals with eating disorders, I hear on a weekly basis about the sense of powerlessness, fear, anger, and anxiety that these parents feel. How excruciating it must be to watch the suffering of your child, the person whom you love most in this world! Parents, despite their purest positive intentions, cannot fix eating disorders. They can't eat for their children, provide "quick fix" therapy, or relieve the problem with any manner of rational discourse. All they can really do is love their children, provide support whenever possible...and watch, as their children do battle on the front lines. As I reflect on the many years in which my parents were stuck being witnesses to my struggle against anorexia, I can honestly say that although my work was grueling, painful, and exhausting, I think their role was just as agonizing. Although bystanders are held back from the actual combat, they are forced to watch the suffering of those they love...and being a watcher comes with a pain all its own.
Going into this Shabbat, I am going to continue to try my best to support this country I love from the sidelines. I will pray for the safety and security of the Israeli soldiers, as well as for the protection of civilians, Israeli and Palestinian alike. I will also take this opportunity to publicly thank my parents for enduring the challenge of watching for so many years, and for never once wavering in their support. And, for all the parents out there who wish they could do more to move their children along toward recovery...sometimes, the best you can do is let your children know you are in it with them for the long haul, that you love them and won't give up on them, and that you stand ready to do whatever you can to support them. I wish that you and your children find some peace in the process of recovery and that you can resume your full lives with energy and joy.
May this be a peaceful and quiet Shabbat for all.
It has been a beautiful week in many ways. I've continued exploring and debating texts in my classes at the Pardes Institute, and I also began an ulpan program that has empowered me to feel ever so slightly more proficient in Hebrew. I spent some quality time with some special teachers of mine, got to snuggle a baby, and had a glorious reunion with two friends I hadn't seen in a year or more. Also, the weather has been close to perfect. So, that's all wonderful.
And yet.
As I write this, Israeli troops are waging a ground operation in Gaza; one IDF soldier has already been killed and several more have been injured. Nearly every time I've checked my phone in the past week and a half, I have seen a notification that another rocket was launched from Gaza into Israel. I've seen and read reports of the suffering of the Palestinians in Gaza who are trapped, largely by their own leadership, in what seems to be a hopeless situation. And, I've watched as a ceasefire agreement failed and took with it the possibility of peace and quiet for civilians on both sides of the conflict. Added to all of this has been the seemingly endless stream of status updates on Facebook and other media posted by people who, most of the time, have very strong opinions despite not having many facts. Although my life has gone on relatively uninterrupted in Jerusalem (thank G-d!), there is a part of my brain that is always occupied with the larger struggle in which Israel is enveloped.
It is painful to watch, all the more so because I know there isn't really anything I can do to help as an American citizen who is only here for five weeks. I'm not in the army, nor do I have any other skills which would potentially be useful in this conflict. I can't bring aid to soldiers, nor can I offer shelter to families who are under near constant fire in southern Israel. My contributions have basically been limited to donating food to the Pina Chama, a soldiers' rest stop in the West Bank, and trying to daven with a little more kavannah aimed at the current situation. While I know that "every little bit helps," it still feels like a small drop in a very large bucket. I have realized, over the past two weeks, how emotionally challenging it is to be relegated to the role of a bystander while people (and a place) you love are suffering.
As I've struggled with the task of watching a problem unfold in front of me without being able to do anything to "fix it," I've thought over and over again about the parallels between that situation and that of parents who are watching their child struggle with an eating disorder. In the work that I do as a co-facilitator of a support group for parents and loved ones of individuals with eating disorders, I hear on a weekly basis about the sense of powerlessness, fear, anger, and anxiety that these parents feel. How excruciating it must be to watch the suffering of your child, the person whom you love most in this world! Parents, despite their purest positive intentions, cannot fix eating disorders. They can't eat for their children, provide "quick fix" therapy, or relieve the problem with any manner of rational discourse. All they can really do is love their children, provide support whenever possible...and watch, as their children do battle on the front lines. As I reflect on the many years in which my parents were stuck being witnesses to my struggle against anorexia, I can honestly say that although my work was grueling, painful, and exhausting, I think their role was just as agonizing. Although bystanders are held back from the actual combat, they are forced to watch the suffering of those they love...and being a watcher comes with a pain all its own.
Going into this Shabbat, I am going to continue to try my best to support this country I love from the sidelines. I will pray for the safety and security of the Israeli soldiers, as well as for the protection of civilians, Israeli and Palestinian alike. I will also take this opportunity to publicly thank my parents for enduring the challenge of watching for so many years, and for never once wavering in their support. And, for all the parents out there who wish they could do more to move their children along toward recovery...sometimes, the best you can do is let your children know you are in it with them for the long haul, that you love them and won't give up on them, and that you stand ready to do whatever you can to support them. I wish that you and your children find some peace in the process of recovery and that you can resume your full lives with energy and joy.
May this be a peaceful and quiet Shabbat for all.
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