That Happened.

So, remember how in my last post I talked about my fear that Donald Trump would get elected and I would have to explain that to my students? I didn't really think it would happen. It was just a "what if" scenario--a scary one, but not one that I thought would actually come to pass.

Well, it happened. And I had to have that conversation. Here was one of their questions:

"Is Donald Trump really going to do all those things he said he'd do to Black people and Mexicans and everyone?"

Dear G-d, I thought, help me.

So I answered that student with some ideas I'd gleaned from my early morning reading of an article in the Huffington Post about how to talk to children about the results of this election. I told my students something about the Democratic process and how no one person truly dictates how the country actually runs; I said something about how our country as a whole doesn't share those values and wouldn't allow such things to happen. But even as I was saying those things in my most convincing, reassuring teacher voice, there was a voice inside me saying, "Well, really? Because what we thought would never happen, JUST HAPPENED. So how do I know we would never let his threats become reality?" I wanted my students to feel safe, protected from the sense that their country was sliding out from underneath them. But I was also keenly aware that I couldn't say, with certainty, that their fears were unfounded.

On my Instagram feed yesterday, Elizabeth Gilbert posted the following photo:

She also wrote a corresponding post on her Facebook page in which she outlined the qualities she wanted to possess during this crisis: Calm. Strong. Open-hearted. Curious. Generous. Wise. Brave. Humorous. Patient.

If she can do that, I thought, she is far more highly evolved than I. I do not know how anyone is living any of those attributes right now. I do know that yesterday I was exactly zero of those things. No one has ever accused me of handling crises gracefully, and I certainly did not see fit to start now. Yesterday morning, when I checked Instagram, I found my feed full of photos saying versions of the theme, "Love always wins." THAT IS TOTAL BULLSHIT, I thought. LOVE DOES NOT ALWAYS WIN. SOMETIMES HATE WINS. HATE WON THIS ELECTION. My anger was palpable and near to boiling. I was furious at the people who had voted Trump into office, and I was also mad at the people who were telling me to think positively. There might be a place for that in the future, I reasoned, but not now. Now I get to be angry. And I was, all day. 

The only feeling that overpowered my fury was despair. Complete and overwhelming despair. I didn't know my country anymore. It was not a place I recognized and I feared it would not be again. As a nation, we had brought upon ourselves the most devastating self-inflicted wound in at least fifty years. Trump was a disaster. Congress was a disaster. The Supreme Court would become a disaster. I couldn't even begin to contemplate the impending doom on a global scale. All day, I had one thought: I do not even want to exist in the world right now. It seemed broken beyond repair. 

Today I woke up feeling the same way. Trump was still President elect, and the world was still broken in more places than I could even begin to count. But at some point during the morning, I realized that my 100% Doom perspective was not a sustainable operating principle. I would not be able to function if I didn't shift my mentality at least a little bit out of the anger-and-depression zone. 

The thing that has helped the most so far has been finding out that Hillary did win the popular vote, so at least a little more than half the country truly doesn't agree with Trump's misogynist, racist, and xenophobic views. Of course, we have our antiquated and eternally puzzling Electoral College to thank for Trump still getting elected, but at least it's comforting to know that the country hasn't gone entirely off the rails. Maybe love did win a little bit, even if it didn't actually win win.

Also right up there is venting. I spent from 6:30-6:40 this morning commiserating with another teacher at my school, and there was something so validating about hearing him say, "Yesterday was the hardest day I've ever had as a teacher." We talked about our continued shock and our sense of not knowing what to do. I left that conversation not feeling as though anything had been resolved, but still feeling a bit lighter because I had shared my heavy feelings with another person who understood. We all need to do that. Air that sh*t out. 

And finally, finally, I am starting to think about action. One thing I noticed about myself this election cycle is that while I had strong views on the candidates and the issues, I did not voice them loudly or often because I was afraid of offending or alienating people. In retrospect, I appreciate my sensitivity but also wish that I had been brave enough to be more authentic about my views. Now, I am never going to be an activist and I am probably never going to go to rallies. I am not a campaigner, or a canvasser, or even a phone-banker. I'm not putting bumper stickers on my car, and I will probably continue to avoid engaging in political debates on social media. But. There are social causes I believe in, and groups I want to defend, that might be threatened over the next four years. If I can find ways to lend my support that do not fly in the face of my confrontation-averse nature, I want to lend my time and energy to those causes. I'm ready to think about this now. And while I don't know that I'm ready to completely buy into the idea that "love always wins" on a large scale, I do think it can win on a small one...and in the end, that's all I can control. The world is too complicated and its problems are too overwhelming for me to solve. The outcome of this election and the damage that might follow are out of my hands. All I can do is what I can do in my own little corner of life. Guide and nurture my students. Empathize with my friends and family. Actively support causes that connect with my passions. Write. It's all I can do. It's enough and not enough at the same time. But that's where we're at.

I don't know how I'll feel when I wake up tomorrow, or how the country will feel. I think we just have to take it day by day. Or hour by hour. Most importantly, we need to be there for each other. This was a viciously ugly election cycle with a traumatic outcome and aftermath. We're all going to need some comfort, no matter whom we voted for. I know I'm sending love out to you all.

Getting Political

Unless you have been blissfully living under a rock, you know that there is a national election coming up (this week!) in the U.S. Personally, I have had a stomach ache for about 72 hours straight just thinking about it, and that's just the Presidential election. There's also the matter of Congress, and there is no collective body in the United States for which I currently have more disdain than Congress. But the Presidential election clearly steals the show in the absurdity department. I feel like where we are today as Americans is kind of like the experience of waking up one morning, taking a look at your life, and thinking, "How did I get here?" If you do a careful and, honestly, not-so-difficult analysis, you can easily see how you did get to where you are. But it still seems so impossible. That is the United States right now. This situation was an impossible joke until we realized we made it happen, and now here we are.

As a teacher, I often worry about how I will explain disturbing current events to my young students. Thankfully, most of the time my kids exist in a state of age-appropriate unawareness. Every year, 9/11 comes and goes without more than a peep of recognition. After the Sandy Hook massacre, only one student seemed to know what had happened. The Boston Marathon bombing also seemed to pass in and out of my students' consciousness with minimal disturbance. So I was hoping, perhaps irrationally, that maybe my kids would also be unaware of the complete mess that is this Presidential race. But then two weeks ago we were on a school bus, coming home from a field trip, and I heard one of my boys in the back of the bus yell, clear as day, "TRUMP TOUCHED UP HER SKIRT!" And then I knew, there was going to be no avoiding it.

I told this story to my best friend in Israel last week, and I asked her, "G-d forbid he gets elected--how am I going to explain to my third graders that the man who brags about basically committing sexual assault is now our President?!" She paused, and then replied, "Yeah...I wish I could say that was my biggest problem with him."

I think that about sums it up.

And so, I have been a puddle of anxiety for the past few days. Right before Shabbat I had to take a Xanax, because OH MY G-D. Then I thought, how am I actually going to survive Tuesday? Or Wednesday, for that matter? I can't just keep taking Xanax. I mean, I can, but I'm going to need an actual strategy. So (and here's the Jewish connection I know you've been waiting for), I decided to see what Jewish tradition has to say about managing acute anxiety. Here's what I found.

There is a verse in Proverbs (12:25) which says:

דאגה בלב איש ישחנה ודבר טוב ישמחנה

Anxiety in the heart of man bows it down, but a good word makes it glad.

As is so often the case in Hebrew, the word for, "bows it down," ישחנה, can have other meanings, depending on how one reads the word in context: 1)  to suppress; 2) to ignore; 3) to articulate. These meanings also correspond to three strategies (or stages) for managing anxiety.

STAGE ONE: Suppress/Minimize

In this stage, we can make our anxiety bearable by making it smaller, often by telling ourselves that the problem isn't really as big as it seems. Regarding this election, I definitely did this for quite a while when I told myself, "Americans would never let Trump get elected." Since the possibility seemed too awful to even begin to deal with, I just told myself it wouldn't happen. But that only worked for so long. Which brings me to...

STAGE TWO: Ignore

This is when we separate ourselves from the source of our anxiety. Personally, I have spent a lot of time in this stage lately. I stopped watching the news, I didn't read any articles on politics, and pretty much just stuck my head in the sand without apology. I figured this was the only viable option because whenever I came across any non-comedic election coverage, I felt my anxiety shoot up almost instantly. I'll be the first to say, avoidance is one of my favorite strategies. But now the election is two days away and I'm finding myself checking in with Nate Silver at fivethirtyeight several times a day, so it's time to move on to the next phase of the plan:

STAGE THREE: Articulate

This stage, my lovelies, is where we talk about it. 

I did this at shul yesterday with a friend of mine during Kiddush--we spent the entire time processing the current political situation, and every ten minutes or so we would say, "I can't even talk about this anymore"--at which point we would continue to talk about it. While it didn't solve anything, it was so helpful to just talk about it with someone who could commiserate. And while this was shared anxiety that we both were feeling, I think this strategy works even when the anxiety is all yours--talking about it takes some of the power away. 

I don't know about you, but I am going to need all of these stages over the next few days. I suspect 

that, regardless of where you fall on the political spectrum, you are going to need them, as well. So use them as often as necessary to combat the stress of the current situation and its aftermath. And if it all works out well, I, for one, will be bentching gomel. Feel free to join me!

The Blessing of Rain

You guys, we made it. Cheshvan starts tomorrow night! I have never looked forward to a month so much. Actually, I think we should start a movement to remove "Mar" from "Marcheshvan." Cheshvan is not a bitter month. Cheshvan is the best month. NO HOLIDAYS--an introverted routine-lover's paradise.

So, yes, the chaggim were a bit...much. More to the point, this entire fall has been a bit much, which is why I haven't been writing. I've been too busy trying to navigate my brain chemistry, which has been a little temperamental due to a shift in medications. It is not an exaggeration when I say that there were some days when managing my mood felt like such a monumental task that taking a shower seemed a cruel and unreasonable additional chore.  Oh, you want me to enter assessment data into a spreadsheet? You want me to make travel arrangements? You want me to go to a social event? I'm busy SURVIVING here, people. I'm in full canary mode, sensitive to everything and feeling all the feels.

I don't think it's a coincidence that my mood started to stabilize right as the chaggim were winding down. Cheshvan and a neutral mood--quiet on all fronts. I'll take it.

Since I'm feeling more even-keeled, I've been able to actually stop and think about items that catch my attention. One thing I noticed recently is that we just had a change in one of the parts of the Amidah. Beginning on Simchat Torah, we add the following phrase to Blessing #2, which focuses on Divine might:

משיב הרוח ומוריד הגשם

He makes the wind blow and the rain fall

Taken in geographical context, it makes total sense why we need that addition. We say it during the winter, which is the rainy season in Israel, while during the rest of the year there is basically no rain there at all. So we really need that rain during the winter in order for things to grow and bloom. If the rain doesn't come, the land dies. 

But let's be honest, rain is kind of a pain. You need special boots. You need a raincoat and an umbrella. It makes driving difficult. Streets can flood. It makes everything grey, which is kind of depressing. So it's easy to forget, on your third consecutive day of rain, why rain is such a blessing. It's easy to forget that rain makes things new.

For the past two months, I've been in rainy mode. There were a few peeks of sun, but mostly clouds and rain. I fear that place and when I'm in it, I worry that I will never get out. But I did get out, because the storm passed. That was Lesson #1: The Storm Always Passes. And on the first day I finally felt the sun come out, I was so excited that I actually emailed my psychiatrist and said, "I felt like a normal version of me today! It was AMAZING!" So that was Lesson #2: Rain Brings Gratitude. Probably the best part of that story is that my psychiatrist replied and basically said that she was really glad I had a good day, but there would probably be more bad ones to follow because that's how recovery from depression goes, which I thought was a great dose of realism. There will always be more rain, and for those of us who roll this way, the storms may be extreme. But then...there is the washing clean, and the growing, and the blooming. During my most recent dark time, I learned a few things. I learned how to trust my friends more and accept their love. I became a better observer of my own emotions and reactions without judging them. I also gained confidence in my ability to hang tight and wait it out, without using self-destructive behaviors. Those were all things I needed to learn, and I couldn't have learned them without the dark time, so G-d sent me some rain. It was painful and messy, but it was what I needed.

Come to think of it, my entire eating disorder--the rainiest years of my life thus far, for sure--may have been a complete emotional washout, but it was also where my best growing came from. I am absolutely certain I would not have become the person I am today without my journey through recovery, which would not have happened had the eating disorder never occurred. Once again, G-d gave me the rain I needed in order to bloom. I am NOT saying that, "everything happens for a reason," or some other platitude to brush over the very real and very damaging pain that I went through, or that others have endured. I'm not suggesting that we just put on our rose-colored glasses and thank G-d for all our suffering. What I am saying is that if we're going to go through a rainy season, we might as well reap the benefits. And I do believe that from every flood, every collapse, every breakdown, something new can grow up from the center of the destruction, if only we allow it--and it might be even stronger and more beautiful than what was there before.

When we add the phrase about rain into our prayers, we are acknowledging that we need G-d to send us this weather that is sometimes quite inconvenient, because it is vital to our survival and growth. Rain is what allows us to thrive in the sun. Emotional rain works the same way, and that's what I'm taking away from this holiday season. Rain comes and then it goes, and leaves us with a new beginning. 

Elul...It's On.

Well...seeing as Erev Rosh Hashanah is exactly one week away, I guess I can't continue ignoring the fact that we're in the month of Elul. Okay, I haven't been ignoring it--I just haven't put quite as much energy into it as I would ideally like to. I think that pretty much sums up my relationship with Elul: in theory, I'm a fan; in reality, I'm overwhelmed. And when I get overwhelmed, I avoid.

But I hate walking into the High Holidays totally unprepared, so I needed to do something. I knew, given my current energy level and mental stamina for Things That Are Huge, that I would not be able to deeply examine all major aspects of my life this year. Not happening. But then I found some inspiration courtesy of Laura McKowen, whose blog and Instagram feed I absolutely LOVE. She wrote a post called, "16 Ways to Remember Who You Are When You Forget," and #16 is:

PICK A WORD AND OWN IT.

The idea is to choose a word that you want to be your focus or mantra for the year, or whatever period of time, and channel your energy towards that. I decided right away that I loved this idea and that I would adopt it as my personal Elul practice this year. In the end, I chose a word and a sentence. Here is my word for 5777:

I have always hated risks. In clinical terms, I am considered "highly risk averse." Probably for that very reason, I think this is where I need to put my energy this year. For several years I've felt safe in my life, though not particularly happy...and I'm at the point where "safe" just isn't enough by itself anymore. 

My "safe" approach to relationships has been to show people what I think they want to know/can handle knowing, and to keep the rest private. The upside to that strategy is that I don't give people much material for gossip or weird feelings; the downside is that very few people really know me. And that's lonely. So, very recently I've started taking some risks and being more honest with certain people in my life--people whose friendship is important to me and who have earned a chance to know me. And here's the thing: it's going really well! So THAT feels great, and makes me want to continue being authentic. It's kind of like a relationship positive feedback loop (yep, in another lifetime I was a biology nerd).

And then there are other life questions, like where I want to live, what other people I want to bring into my life, and what kind of lifestyle I want us to have. I have zero answers to any of those questions, but finding them is undoubtedly going to require some risk. A wise friend of mine from treatment once said, "You have to be willing to risk being unhappy in order to be happy." I've never been willing to take that risk...until now. Maybe.

And now, for the 5777 sentence:

I don't know about you, but I am very concerned with everyone else's path. Specifically, I'm concerned with how "everyone" seems to be following one path, and I'm doing something different. I am a conformer and my deepest desire has always been to be a "normal person." I'm not positive, but I think what that means (right now, at least) is that I want to move through life in the same way my friends do, hitting the same milestones and having the same life goals. They just seem so happy, living the way they do. But it's just not for me. I want different things, or at least a different version of things, and it is very, very hard for me to accept being different and to believe that I'm still okay. Sometimes I actually can't go on social media because it is just too painful to look at all my normal, happy friends with their normal, happy lives. Laura McKowen tackles this "Facebook envy" in an absolutely amazing blog post that everyone should read , and her ultimate advice is this:

"Keep going, beauty. Let the Pictured point you to your longing. Consider the Not Pictured and adjust your perspective. Build your own wall and stand on top of it."

And that, I think, is the essence of where my work is: to allow the pain I feel when I compare my friends' paths with mine to guide me toward what I truly want for myself--and then to build my own life proudly. This year, I hope to make decisions that will lead me down the path that is right for me, and to do it knowing that my life also deserves to be celebrated, even if it looks different from other people's. I can make my path into one worth traveling.

Best wishes to all of you as we start the new year. May 5777 be a year of growth for us all!

Being Holey

You guys. I just finished the most AMAZING book:

www.goodreads.com

Not "amazing" as in, best writing I've ever seen, but "amazing" as in, Oh my G-d, this book understands me. I feel held by this book.

The plot lines of Glennon's life and my life don't really have much in common, but the subtexts sure do. Though I can't relate to being a wife and mother, I absolutely can relate to being mired in self-destruction and having to claw oneself out, only to discover that, Hey, adulting is hard. Life is hard. But life is also beautiful.

In one essay, Glennon writes about how we all live our lives searching for something. We each have an "unquenchable thirst," what author Anne Lamott calls our "God-sized hole." The struggle of life is trying to find things to fill this hole. Some people choose, perhaps obviously, to fill it with G-d. Other people fill it with work or relationships. And still other people, like Glennon and I, fill it with eating disorders and addiction. It all goes to the same purpose: feeling full. It's just that some people seek fullness from the wrong things.

When I think back to my eating disorder years, the word that first comes to mind is, hunger. There was physical hunger for sure, but there was also a deeper, more agonizing emotional hunger. I could satisfy my physical hunger, but the emotional hunger was never, ever satisfied. It just kept burning, and the hole kept growing, and I kept trying to fill it with more of the same things that weren't working: more starving, more exercising, more studying. In recovery, I've had to find different hole-fillers. My favorites are: work, nature, reading, writing, family, and friends. Those work much better. For me, recovery has been about finding positive hole-fillers, and using them regularly.

I don't think it's any coincidence that I became religious soon after letting go of my eating disorder. I had a huge hole to fill, and observant Judaism is a great hole-filler. It has given me structure and rules, a context within which to meet people, and a basis from which to define my values. And, it has given me a deeper connection to G-d, one of my greatest comforts (and challenges). I have known for a long time that my attraction to the religious life isn't purely a desire to live a "holy life"--it's a desire to fill the hole, albeit with something meaningful and nourishing. I don't think that's such a bad thing.

To an extent, it has worked, though I can't honestly say that Judaism and G-d fill me completely. They don't, though sometimes I feel like they should. I daven every day, I observe Shabbat, I keep kosher, I say dozens of brachot daily, and G-d and I have a chat every night before bed. It's soulful and lovely. But here's the thing: the hole is still there. I am still hungry, still seeking. You'd think that G-d would perfectly fill a "God-sized hole," but, at least in my case, it hasn't really worked out that way. And I think it's because, with very rare exceptions, we need other people. A person cannot subsist on G-d alone. And so when I feel hungry these days, in spite of the davening and the chatting with Hashem, I have a more honest assessment of what I need: more connection and more belonging. That is my work right now in recovery--getting myself those things. 

Glennon explains it this way:

"Some people of faith swear that their God-shaped hole was filled when they found God, or Jesus, or meditation, or whatever else. I believe them, but that's not been my experience. My experience has been that even with God, life is hard. It's hard just because it's hard being holey."

I couldn't agree more.

And what I've learned from Glennon through her writing is that everyone is holey. We all are.  While our instinct might be to stay quiet about our holes, we really should be doing the opposite, because being holey is something we can connect over. I know that when my friends come to me with their holes, when they say, I'm so lonely, or, I don't feel like I'm doing anything meaningful with my time, etc., I feel honored to meet them in their vulnerability, AND I feel energized because those holes are things we can talk about. Connection is a beautiful byproduct of our emptiness.

So if you, too, ever feel like you have a hunger that will never be satisfied, know that you're not alone. It's God-sized, which explains why it feels so big. And we all have one, even the people who hide it well. The secret is that the more we give voice to it, the more we use it to connect to nourishing people and life practices, the more it fills. Little by little. 

Adult Aloneness

Yup, I know. I've been away for a while...readjusting. "Coming down" from being in Israel is always an interesting process and it seems appropriate that it took me pretty much the entire month of Av to work through it. It might have taken longer, but...Starbucks Cold Brew. Secret weapon of champions.

There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.

When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:

"So...did you meet anyone?"

That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.

I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"

At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!

And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:

There is something really wrong with me.

Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.

And yet.

Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.

But maybe I'm not the only one.

I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:

The temple of my adult aloneness. 

YES.

I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.

I think I could make that house into something beautiful.

The Fall and the Comfort

And so, here we are. My last full day in Israel; I leave for the airport motza'ei Shabbat. To be honest, the primary emotion right now is exhaustion...there have been so many feelings during this time of transition that I don't really have the energy to endure any more. The grief and loneliness that come with leaving, the comfort of anticipating being back in an environment that I know like the back of my hand, the anxiety about travel and the pressure to reconnect with people back home...I'm feeling all of it. All the time. And it is so, so tiring.

Today is also Rosh Chodesh Av, the first day of the saddest month in the Jewish calendar and the beginning of the Nine Days, a period of mourning leading up to the 9th of Av. On 9 Av (Tisha B'Av in Hebrew), both the First and Second Temples were destroyed (there are also other calamities in Jewish history that are attributed to that date). It is a day of fasting and personal affliction, a day on which we are even prohibited to learn Torah. Unlike Yom Kippur, which is also a major fast day but brings with it the promise of teshuva and a fresh start, there is nothing uplifting about Tisha B'Av. It's all sad, all the time.

But then, there's a turning. The name of the month, Av, means "father." The custom is to add to it the word, menachem, which means, "comforter." So the full name of the month is often given as "Menachem Av," or, "Father the Comforter." In other words, in this month where there is so much sadness leading up to Tisha B'Av, Hashem (our Father, if you don't mind the gendered language) is there to console us.

I really like this idea, especially because I'm about to leave Israel and go back into the Diaspora, where holiness and connectedness sometimes feel very far away. But G-d is never far from me, no matter where I am. When I feel lonely and can't get in touch with anyone, I can remember that G-d is there to keep me company and comfort me. To some people, that idea might seem a little silly...I mean, G-d is not a person, so how can G-d really keep you company? I don't really have a good answer other than faith...and I'm glad I have that, because G-d is the One I can call on at any hour, on any day and in any place, whenever I feel lost and alone.

So, as I prepare to leave this place, I feel comforted by the knowledge that G-d is coming with me. And I also feel profoundly grateful for the past month that I have had here in Israel. I'm grateful to the staff and faculty at the Pardes Institute, who always make me feel like I've come home the minute I step into the building.  I'm grateful to my fellow students for challenging me and drawing me out of my shell in order to get to know me and connect. I'm grateful to my Israeli friends who went out of their way to see me while I was here. And I'm profoundly grateful to my teachers past and present, who continue to nurture me and serve as my surrogate family while I'm here. They take me into their homes, offer life advice and emotional support, and make sure I am safe and cared for in all ways. None of that can be replicated, but the warmth and security it generates can come with me. And believe me, I'm taking it all the way across the Atlantic.

So, I'm just about ready to go, or at least as ready as one can ever be to leave one's Favorite Place On Earth. But I think I'm leaving a little stronger and braver than I was when I got here. There's the fall, and then there's the comfort. Menachem Av.