The Ideal and the Real

It all began with a thread.

As I was walking to shul this past Shabbat morning, I happened to glance down and I noticed a thread dangling from the hem of my skirt.  It was a long thread--the skirt was knee-length and the thread hung to the lower part of my shin.  I tried to shove it back up the inside of the skirt, but to no avail--I would take a few steps and it would fall down again, hanging there obtrusively.  Going home to change didn't seem like a good option, which left me with two choices:  a) leave it; b) tear it off.  I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, debating.  On the one hand, "tearing" is a form of work that is prohibited on Shabbat.  Did this include ripping a dangling thread off of a piece of clothing?  I wasn't sure.  On the other hand was the possibility of going to shul with this awkward, easy-to-spot thread hanging off the bottom of my skirt, and I'd like to say that I'm part of a community that either wouldn't notice something like that or, if they did, wouldn't care, but let's be real.  So...I would either do something that probably was a violation of Shabbat but might not be, or, I would be stuck with this stupid thread distracting me and making me self-conscious for all of shul.  In the end, I made my choice:  I ripped off the thread.

I felt okay about it for about three seconds, and then the guilt set in.  How could I put my own insecurity/vanity above the sanctity of Shabbat?  I say that my relationship with G-d is paramount, but then how could I act in a way that disregards His wishes?  I told myself, "This is why I'm a bad observant Jew." Around and around the mental hamster wheel I went, aware that this line of thinking was not helpful since the deed was done, but I was in it...and I felt I deserved it.

So, I sat in shul feeling guilty and ashamed, trying to daven with extra kavanah so that maybe Hashem would know I was sorry and regretted my choice.  And then came the dvar Torah, given by a rabbi in the community who happens to also be a friend and mentor of mine.  Since it was parashat Noach, he said, he wanted to talk about the nature of the covenantal relationship between Hashem and the Jewish people.  Why did G-d destroy humanity through the flood?  Because He was deeply disappointed with their shortcomings, and He wanted to start fresh.  In this way, Hashem was like an artist who was willing to destroy His creation over and over until He gets it "just right."  But ultimately, G-d realized that He had become invested in His creation, despite its imperfections, and He vowed never to destroy it again.  What we can learn from this, taught the rabbi, is that it's not perfection that matters, it's investment.  The nature of our covenantal relationship with Hashem is that we are invested enough to continue to strive for the ideal, and Hashem is invested enough to be accepting of what is real:  the mess and the imperfection.

It's not about perfection--it's about investment.

As I pondered that, my guilt and shame started to lift because I understood that I had ripped the thread in a moment of imperfection, but I was still deeply and passionately invested in my relationship to G-d and my commitment to Judaism.  Hashem wants me to strive for His ideal, but He is willing to meet me at my "real."

This seems to be a message that is also easily applied to recovery.  In recovery, the "ideal" is Zero Eating Disorder Behaviors or Thoughts, but the "real" is, every now and then a slip happens.  Personally, whenever I would make a choice that was not recovery-oriented, the aftermath would always be guilt and a litany of shaming thoughts:  You always do this.  You're weak.  You are bad at recovery. Even today, though I am secure in my recovery, my self-talk often turns negative and critical when I feel I have made a choice that doesn't reflect all the hard work I have done.  But...what if I look at recovery as a covenantal relationship with myself?  Can I say that while I remain firmly invested in striving for my ideal self, I also accept myself in reality and love myself anyway?  100% yes.

That's not to say that slips are "okay," just as it's not technically "okay" that I tore the thread off my skirt on Shabbat.  But neither Judaism nor recovery operates on the "three strikes, you're out" policy.  Instead, they are committed, intimate relationships in which investment--not perfection--is the most important thing.  May we all keep that in mind as we journey on, continuing to strike a balance as best we can between the ideal and the real.

Cheshvan Meets Scaredy Squirrel

Well.

In the past month, we've been through seven full days of Yom Tov plus four days of chol hamoed, we've eaten festive meals, we've fasted, we've davened, we've eaten in the sukkah, and we've danced with the Torah.  It's been beautiful.  It's been exhausting.

And now...it's time for Cheshvan.

I love Cheshvan.

Cheshvan is the only month in the Jewish calendar with no holidays and no special mitzvot.  It comes in sharp contrast to Tishrei, the month immediately preceding it that is packed full of chagim.  The "official" name for Cheshvan is Marcheshvan, which many people interpret to mean that it is a "bitter" month (mar is Hebrew for "bitter") because of its lack of holidays.  But there's no mar in MY Cheshvan, and to explain why, I turn to a wise and trusted source:  Scaredy Squirrel.

Scaredy Squirrel is the brilliant creation of children's book author Mélanie Watt.  He is also the mascot of my recovery.  Scaredy is a routine-bound, safety-loving squirrel who never leaves his nut tree because he is afraid of The Unknown, with all of its associated dangers.  But one day, a rogue killer bee forces Scaredy to leap out of his nut tree...at which point he learns that he is actually a flying squirrel!  He glides through the air and ends up crashing in a bush, where he plays dead for a few hours until he is satisfied that nothing terrible is actually happening in The Unknown.  This realization leads Scaredy to amend his daily routine:

From Scaredy Squirrel, I learned one of the most important lessons of my recovery:  sometimes, you just have to leap into the unknown....and then, you might need to play dead for a while, which is okay.  And that, my friends, is why I love Cheshvan.  It's time set aside to play dead.

Let's be real:  the chagim are wonderful, but ohmygod the overstimulation.  There are the MANY hours of energetic (loud) davening in shul, hours-long meals, and seemingly endless socializing.  As a supreme introvert, I really have to push myself to make it through.  Every year, I look forward to Tishrei with a mix of excitement and anxiety because I welcome the chance to jump into the holiday whirlwind but I also know how stressful it is going to be for me.  And when it's all over, I need some major alone time...in other words, I need to play dead.  

Playing dead is not escapism, and it's not regression.  It's rejuvenation.  It's how we take care of ourselves so we can get ready to jump back into the unknown.  Cheshvan is historically the month in which the Great Flood began, and also the month when it ended a year later.  The flood was intended to cleanse the world and give it a fresh start, and that's what I think Cheshvan is all about.  Play dead, refresh yourself, and then when you're ready, get back out there into the unknown.  After all, Chanukah is right around the corner!

  

(Im)patience

Does anyone else find this time of year totally overwhelming?  Don't get me wrong--I think there's a lot of beauty in the chaggim.  But (and I'm not sure if this will make sense)...to me, the sheer magnitude of what these days represent actually precludes me from being completely present to experience them.  The idea that these ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the days in which Hashem will decide, based on our merit, whether we will live or die in the coming year is simply too vast and profound for me to digest.  So, I don't go it alone--I try to dedicate time each day to read the works of other people who are, to put it plainly, more spiritually erudite than I.  And one of my favorite books for this time of year is Erica Brown's Return:  Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe.

In chapter 1 of her book, Brown explores the significance of the Torah reading for the first day of Rosh Hashanah:  the story of Hagar.  At first glance, it seems odd that this would be the story chosen for one of the holiest days of the year.  But actually, it comes to teach us an important lesson about faith, especially when juxtaposed against the Torah reading for Day 2:  the Akeida.

Abraham and Hagar both receive the same blessing from Hashem:  that they will give birth to nations.  Hagar's promise of multitudes will be realized through her son, Ishmael; Abraham's will come through his second son, Isaac.  But when Hagar comes up against a significant obstacle--she and Ishmael run out of water while lost in the desert--she gives up too quickly.  She places Ishmael under a bush so she doesn't have to watch him die, and then she bursts into tears.  Despite what Hashem had promised her, Hagar can't manage to find a way out of her situation or wait until one becomes apparent. Only when an angel comes and opens Hagar's eyes does she notice the well of water right near where she sits.

On the other hand is Abraham.  G-d promised Abraham a nation through Isaac, but then commands Abraham to slaughter Isaac as an offering on an altar.  The stark contradiction must have been confusing for Abraham, but he didn't waver in his faith.  He made all the preparations for the sacrifice but at the same time believed that, "G-d will provide the lamb for the burnt offering."  Indeed, as Abraham raised his knife to kill his son, an angel stopped him and at that moment Abraham saw a ram caught in a thicket.  Abraham's situation paralleled that of Hagar:  both were given promises but came up against serious obstacles.  The difference is that Hagar lost her faith and didn't have the patience to see her situation through, while Abraham patiently hunted for a solution with his faith intact.

Regarding the differences in the faith of Hagar and Abraham, Erica Brown writes:

"Faith demands patience in the face of a future that we cannot see and the determination to make good things happen.  If we could know the future with certainty, we would not need faith. But because we cannot know, we have to trust in powers greater than ours to guide us.  Our faith is not the passive faith of Hagar's tears but the active joy of Abraham's laugh. We admire his propulsion forward, his drive to create an ambitious, dream-worthy vision even if all of the particulars comprising that future were beyond his immediate understanding.  Faith demands that we engage in a delicate balance of both relinquishing control to an authority above us and acting within our full human capacity to realize our dreams."

In other words, what is needed is a balance of patience and impatience.  Patience to trust that a path toward our dreams will become apparent; impatience to force ourselves to shape our own futures.

During my first few years in recovery, I fully believed that I would be completely recovered "one day," but did not take the steps necessary to make it actually happen.  It is no surprise, then, that many years went by in which I made only the teensiest bit of incremental progress toward this goal.  I was content to drift along and keep wishing, but I wasn't impatient enough to push myself.  And then, of course, I felt incredibly guilty and ashamed of "wasting" all those years.  I developed a concept of myself as someone who says she has goals, but doesn't actually do anything to reach them.  It wasn't until relatively recently that I understood that although patience is supremely important in recovery, impatience also has its place.  If I want something in my life, I have to both actively seek it out and have faith that I will be shown the way to reach my goals.

I think this lesson from Abraham and Hagar is a critical one to carry into the new year.  It is so easy to let a whole year go by without doing much to move toward our goals, and then we end up back at Rosh Hashanah wondering how it is that we are in exactly the same place as we were last year.  In the coming year, may we have Abraham's faith that we can realize our dreams for our best life, and may we have the balance of patience and impatience needed to make those dreams become reality.

!גמר חתימה טובה

Write a New Ending

DISCLOSURE:  I, the quintessential rule-follower, am about to stray from my pattern of bringing traditional Jewish sources.  This week, I want to highlight a new blog I've discovered:  Momastery (note:  you do not need to be a mom to appreciate this site).  Momastery's blogger is a woman named Glennon Doyle Melton.  She is a recovering bulimic, alcoholic, and drug user, and believe me, she has what to teach us about living with authenticity and showing up despite our imperfections.  And, it just so happens that her message is pretty much perfect (I think) for Elul.  So, hang in there with me, and it will all come together!

My introduction to Momastery was the post, "Rising Strong:  This is My New Ending."  One of the main purposes of this post was to promote Brené Brown's latest book, which I definitely plan to read, but that's not the point.  What is the point is the way Glennon tackles the theme of how we experience "failure"--and how, as adults, we get the chance to rewrite our own stories.  In case you don't want to read the whole post, here is my favorite excerpt:

As I read this, I kept thinking, Yes! Yesyesyesyes.  Not to the cheerleading bit specifically (that actually would have been my worst nightmare), but to the broader theme of receiving the message from the world that we are not worthy, how we carry that message with us into adulthood, and how maybe--no, definitely--it is time to write a new ending to our defining moments of "failure."

From age 6 until college, I never had a best friend.  I had good friends, but no best friend, and what kid doesn't want a best friend?  So, I tried really hard--I did whatever I thought might win someone's allegiance--but at the end of the day, I was always passed over in favor of someone else.  The lesson I extracted from this whole experience was:  There is something wrong with me.  I stopped expecting I would ever have a best friend, and settled on what I considered the next best thing:  having people need me.  If people need you, I reasoned, they keep you around.  And what I knew, in that adolescent brain of mine, was that it was better to be used than ignored.  I remember very clearly how, when I was in my high school biology class, all the "Cool Girls" would suddenly become "friends" with me before every exam.  I knew exactly what they were doing--using me for study help--but I let it happen; in fact, I looked forward to it because in those moments of usefulness I had a taste of what it felt like to be "in."

As an adult, I can look back on that and shake my head and say, That was so ridiculous to let myself be used by girls I didn't even LIKE, but the truth is that even as an adult, I am still vulnerable to this dynamic.  I want people to like me.  But the Core Belief that I've carried around since those childhood rejections is:  People will only like me if I please them and do things for them.  This belief led me straight into anorexia ("Oh, let me just be small and unobjectionable!") and is something that I've had to work very hard to reframe in recovery.

But Glennon gives me an idea.  Why not rewrite the ending to that story?  If I could go back in time and talk to high-school me, here is what I would tell her:

I know it has been hard for you.  I know that.  But you have to hang in there.  One day, you WILL have a best friend.  And in the meantime, know that you are 100% worthy of love and belonging regardless of what you can "do" for other people.  Respect yourself--don't sell yourself just to win someone's approval.  You don't need it.  Not everyone is going to like you, and you're not going to like everyone, and that's okay.  But you don't need to change who you are, or let people use you, just to win friends.  You are awesome,  just as you are.  

The truth is, that's a message I could still use.  And so I am going to carry it with me into the end of Elul as I prepare for the new year--the knowledge that I can rewrite that story and live out a different ending in the present.  From now on, I am going to remind myself of how much I've grown since I was that teenager.  Recovery Headline:  I do not have to buy my worthiness.  I get to be myself--authentically imperfect--and know that I am worthy of connection without changing myself or selling myself out to suit someone else's whims.

I think we all probably have stories like that, stories that we wish we could rewrite...and the thing I learned from Glennon is that in recovery, we CAN.  And there is no better time to do it than right now, at the turning point into a new year.  So:  for what story do you want to write a new ending?  Recognize old narratives that aren't working for you anymore, toss them to the curb, and write a new ending!  You deserve nothing less.

שנה טובה ומתוקה!

The Protective Fence

Elul is the month that, in my mind, walks the very fine line between motivating and frustrating.  Motivating, because all the reflection and self-examination can energize us to better ourselves; frustrating, because all the reflection and self-examination leaves us painfully aware that we are having the exact same conversation with ourselves that we had last year at this time (or is that just me?)  Wait a minute, I find myself thinking, aren't these flaws and weaknesses the same flaws and weaknesses I said I was going to work on last year?  And the year before that?  Yes...yes, they are.  Which then begs the question, Why am I not following through?  I recently read a dvar Torah by Rabbi Eliyahu Hoffman that suggests an answer based on this week's parasha, Ki Teitzei.

This parasha contains 74 mitzvot, and one of them is the mitzvah of the "protective fence":

"If you build a new house, you shall make a fence for your roof, so that you will not place blood in your house if a fallen one falls from it."  (Devarim 22:8)

This certainly makes sense on a literal level as far as liability goes, but as is so often the case with Torah, there's a deeper meaning, as well.  The Ben Ish Chai, a renowned Torah scholar and kabbalist from the 1800s, suggests that "building a new house" refers to the process of making a clean start for oneself after a period of introspection and self-evaluation.  The "protective fence," therefore, is the boundaries one puts in place to make sure that one doesn't fall off the proverbial roof and slip back into one's old ways.  And why does the Torah say, "a fallen one falls from it"?  Isn't that redundant?  If we follow the metaphor of the Ben Ish Chai, a "fallen one" is a person who has fallen before and is likely to fall again--hence the need for a strong protective fence.

The idea of a protective fence really resonates with me, particularly in the context of recovery.  Recovering from an eating disorder is enormously challenging, especially when one has to simultaneously exist in the wider cultural milieu.  It's impossible to completely escape food, and it's also impossible to isolate ourselves from other people who have their own issues with food and body.  If we're going to be successful, we need a pretty tough fence.

I started to build my fence when I was in residential treatment twelve years ago, and it has been evolving ever since.  In treatment, one of the big protective measures was eliminating food labels--I never saw the nutrition information of anything I was eating.  We also never talked about weight or specific eating disorder behaviors.  Today, I don't need those protections anymore, but I have put in place others that still serve me well.  Here are some things that are Not Allowed inside the fence that protects my recovery:

• The gym.  The gym and I are divorced.  It's simple, really:  when I exercise, I do it in ways that feel good and are actually enjoyable, and going to the gym neither feels good nor is enjoyable.  Buh-bye, gym.
• "Health" magazines.  Nope, I'm actually not interested in the latest 5-minute workout or which "superfoods" I should be eating this month.  Also, who fact-checks these things?  There's a whole lot of nonsense in those pages.  
• Reality T.V.  I don't object to the concept of reality T.V., but I definitely object to "Extreme Weight Loss" and "Extreme Makeover" and anything of that nature.  Absolutely no, thank you!

Now, none of us can live in a bubble, and we do live in a rather "non-recovery-oriented" culture, so it's unrealistic to think that we can cut out every unhelpful cultural influence.  But I've found that by setting those three things firmly outside the boundary of my protective fence, I'm happier, healthier, and a whole lot more grounded than I was when I had any of those elements in my life.  

But, it's not just what's outside the fence that matters, it's what the fence is actually made of.  And here is where self-talk and support systems come in.  For me, I know that although food and body issues aren't central to my life anymore, I am still vulnerable to anxiety, self-judgment, shame, and loneliness...and when I'm in the midst of any of those, that's when old, unhelpful thoughts and patterns start to creep in. In these situations, the protective fence is key.  I often use self-talk, and one of my favorite mantras is, "I don't have to _____; I get to _____." (Example:  "I don't have to exercise just because other people are; I get to read my book.")  And, when I feel myself going down an old, familiar, unhelpful path that I've gone down in the past, I tell myself, "Rachel, you can do it differently now."  Those phrases help a lot in the moment.  My fence is also strengthened by the many supportive people in my life--therapists, friends, teachers, and family--who provide comfort, encouragement, and connection along the way.

So, as we work our way through Elul this year, let's take time to examine our protective fences and see if there are any holes that need mending.  What do we want to keep outside our boundaries?  What will help our fences stay strong?  May we all find the tools we need to keep ourselves healthy, connected, and growing in the year to come.   

The G-d Connection

I've been back from Israel for two weeks now, and I've more or less readjusted.  There are some features of life in the States that I definitely missed while I was away; namely, listening to Pandora Radio, using self-checkout lines at the supermarket, and drinking Starbucks iced coffee (cold brew...yes).  But in other areas, my heart misses Israel, and what I long for most of all are the connections with my Israeli friends and "family."  I have a very comfortable, predictable life here in the U.S., and I love comfort and predictability...but those features don't help me when I feel lonely.  And there are times, even as I'm enjoying the routine of my life at home, when the sense of my separation from my friends in Israel leaves me keenly aware of a raw, deep hunger for connection.  Complicating matters further is the fact that my BFA (Best Friend in America) has moved out of state.  Lately, loneliness and I have gotten to know each other quite well.

Still, it's not all bleak.  I have had some lovely interactions with people here at home and have enjoyed reconnecting with them.  But there's one relationship that has comforted me more than any other, one friend who consistently reminds me that I am not alone, and that friend is...G-d.

I was inspired to actively invest in this "G-d connection" by a dear friend of mine in Israel, who has graciously fielded a few "Help, I'm really lonely!" emails from me and whose sage advice, if distilled, comes down to this: keep reaching out, keep making friends, and keep talking to G-d.  She explained to me that she views spirituality as one's relationship with Hashem, and everything we do in that context is all about that relationship.  In any intimate relationship, we do things that we think will make our partner happy; in the case of G-d, that includes rituals of observance.  We also talk with our partner, not just as a means to get our needs met, but as a way to deepen the connection between us.  Similarly, we have davening as a formal way of communicating with G-d, but it's also important to engage Him/Her in casual, intimate conversation.  If we invest enough time and energy into this relationship with Hashem, it can become one of the most important relationships we have.

Jewish tradition strongly endorses "talking to Hashem" in this way.  I learned from one of my teachers about the practice of hitbodedut, a concept developed by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov.  Hitbodedut is an unstructured, spontaneous form of prayer in which one talks to G-d about anything on one's mind.  In his work, Likutei Moharan, Rebbe Nachman explains how to do hitbodedut:

"Hitbodedut is the highest and most exalted experience...To pour out our thoughts between ourselves and G-d--in complaints or frustrations, in words of kindness or agreement, and to request and beseech G-d that we will be able to approach closer to G-d in our true behaviors and desires.

Everything in our heart we should discuss before G-d:  Regrets and changes I have made concerning the past...Desires and yearnings for the future...And if I am feeling alienated from G-d--about all of this I should talk with G-d."

I like knowing that I can talk to G-d at any time, in any place, about anything.  And, since it's important in any relationship to listen as well as talk, I can listen to G-d, too, and try to hear what He/She is telling me.

Of course, G-d is not the same as a human friend.  I can't rely only on my relationship with G-d; I need to work on developing more friendships, as well.  My friend and my teacher both emphasized that Hashem is not a substitute for human relationships; however, if I put effort into cultivating my relationship with G-d, it can sustain me and comfort me in times when I feel lonely and in need of connection.

The truth is, I've been "talking to G-d" for a long time.  Growing up without a best friend, I figured out pretty early that a friendship with G-d was one that would never fail me.  And when I was in college, struggling mightily with my eating disorder and the worst depression I've ever experienced, sometimes I used to just lie on my bed, close my eyes, and imagine that G-d was holding me.  But I always felt like I could never tell anyone about this; it seemed a little like having an "imaginary friend"--not something you would want anyone else to know about!  Imagine my surprise (and delight!) when I learned that a) other people do this, too; and b) our tradition supports it.

And so, as I've readjusted to life in the States, I've tried to connect to G-d in a friendly way on a daily basis.  Last Friday I got inspired to clean for Shabbat by imagining that Hashem was coming to visit me in my apartment.  The other day, I went for a walk in a park and told G-d how beautiful I thought everything was.  When I'm bored or lonely, I try to do some Jewish learning.  And every night, after saying Shema but before going to sleep, I take a minute to thank Hashem for all the good things that happened during the day.  None of this has completely fixed the loneliness problem, but it has definitely made me feel more connected and has reassured me that even when I am lonely, I'm never truly alone.

So, if I may offer one suggestion to anyone suffering from loneliness, depression, or isolation, it would be the advice my friend gave to me:  talk to G-d.  Share your worries, your joys, your sadness.  Do things to make G-d happy (they'll probably make you happier, too).  And, as my teacher says:  when we pray the Amidah, one of the reasons why we whisper is because G-d is right in front of us.

The Unlived Life

It is officially my last full day in Israel (for now, I keep reminding myself).  Tomorrow morning I have to get on a plane and leave one home, the place where my soul lives, and go to another home, the place where I actually live and have lived for my entire life.  There are people and places in both homes that I love dearly, but I think this actually makes the transition harder, not easier.  Transitions...I hate them...and this one is a doozy.

I hadn't planned to write another blog post until I got home, but I've been thinking about a source I read on Tisha B'Av as part of a shiur on alienation, exile, and redemption.  Full disclosure:  this shiur was in the middle of the afternoon on Tisha B'Av, and due to my caffeine and glucose deficit, I *might* have dozed of a teeny bit.  Consequently, I am not exactly sure what the broader context was for this source...but I think it stands well on its own.  It comes from the book, Missing Out, by the Jewish psychotherapist and essayist Adam Phillips.  In this book, Phillips explores the concept that we all have two lives:  our actual lives, and the lives we wish we had.  He writes:

"Our unlived lives--the lives we live in fantasy, the wished-for lives--are often more important to us than our so-called lived lives...What we fantasize about, what we long for, are the experiences, the things and the people that are absent...We learn to live somewhere between the lives we have and the lives we would like...There is always what will turn out to be the life we led, and the life that accompanied it, the parallel life (or lives) that never actually happened...the risks untaken and the opportunities avoided or unprovided.  We refer to them as our unlived lives because somewhere we believe that they were open to us; but for some reason they were not possible.  And what was not possible all too easily becomes the story of our lives."

Boom.

When I read this, it felt like an indictment.  It felt as though Phillips had peered into my brain and seen the thoughts that I bury in there and try to avoid thinking about.  Lately, my mind has been churning around the gap between my "unlived life" and my "lived life."  I am keenly aware that I am heading back to a life that has many strengths--practicality, predictability, security, comfort--but that also falls short, in some ways, of what I wish I could have for myself. This has been brewing in my mind lately not because I am naive enough to think that moving to Israel would be the gateway to living my fantasy life.  It's  because the people I am connected to in Israel never fail to remind me that the things they want for me--connection, love, family, community, learning--are actually the things I deeply want for myself but usually try to convince myself that I don't need.

In a way, sensing the gap between my lived and unlived lives is a step in the right direction.  When I was engaged in the struggle with my eating disorder, I didn't have a fantasy life.  I couldn't see beyond where I was to imagine what could be.  I hated my life, but I felt no sense of agency and didn't believe I had the power to make it any better.  In recovery, I do have the ability to visualize what I really want.  I also understand that whether or not I end up actually living that life is up to me. The sense of possibility is exciting but comes with the weight of being responsible for making it happen.

At the end of the shiur, the lecturer left us with this question to ask ourselves:

"How can I bridge the gap between the life I an preoccupied with in my mind, and the life I'm actually living?"

That is the question I'm wrestling with as I prepare to leave Israel and reenter my "real life."  I don't know the answer, but I do know that actively seeking one is the next step for me in my process.  I feel lucky to be in a place where I am able to envision more for myself and believe that it is possible.  I've worked hard to get to this point, and now it's time for me to push ahead.

Thank you to everyone in my "Israeli family" who has reminded me to keep my eyes on the prize of a wholly fulfilling, nourishing life.  B"H I will make some progress toward that this year, and I'll report back to you next summer!