Releasing Joy One Light at a Time

The date on the Jewish calendar corresponding to my birthday is the 25th of Kislev, which also happens to be the first day of Chanukah. My 28th birthday and the beginning of Chanukah is exactly a week away, starting at sundown after next Shabbos. On that night, Jewish people near, far, and in every corner of the earth--people who identify as religious, secular and varying degrees of in between-- will light the first candle on their Chanukah Menorah. It is truly a beautiful vision in my mind to imagine this little bit of light illuminating such a vast and widespread darkness. In a time in which we are so far from--and yet so close to redemption, the mitzvah of lighting the Menorah is one that spans age, generation, level of observance, gender, socio-economic status, education, geographic location, you name it! It is a mitzvah that spans the very boundaries of time itself. In the instant that those candles begin to brightly burn, we say the same brachos that have been said for thousands upon thousands of years.

I've spent some time over the past weeks in study and reflection on the idea of Chanukah particularly in relation to my birth-date. One characteristic of Chanukah that has always fascinated me is this idea of light in darkness. Even in the darkest room, the flame of one tiny candle is totally unmistakable. It doesn't take away the darkness, it merely adds some light. However, in a true and total state of darkness--that one little light is completely invaluable. On the first night of Chanukah, the world is very much like that darkened room; we are surrounded by pitch black and this vast abyss we cannot even begin to decipher. We light only one candle, and together with the shamash, two flames rise in their humble flickering dance.

That room is still enveloped by darkness and yet, all of a sudden--through only the tiniest amount of light--we can begin to see. Over there is a door. And two windows. There's a bookshelf against the wall. There are pictures on that mantle. There's the sofa, and the table and two chairs. Now, all of a sudden, we recognize this room--this is our home. So, too, can the Chanukah candles illuminate the darkness masking that which might be familiar in ourselves.

Born into a world of darkness, it is ostensibly impossible that we make it through unscathed. We all carry the wounds and scars of battles past. In some areas, a new, thicker skin has developed. In others, a tenderness and vulnerability remains. Within us all is this flame that burns so very hot but sometimes burns quite low. We can get so immersed in the darkness--so hung up on what we cannot see--that we all but lose sight of the other ways in which we are able to perceive the world around us. We can forget that in this darkest hour when our eyes fail, our other senses heighten. We do not need to see where we are going, we only need to touch it, to hear it, to recognize the smell and taste and feeling of home--whatever and wherever that is for you. And then, out of desperation, or longing, or trust, or desire--or maybe all of the above--then we see that light.

At first it is a humble dancing flame in a room still engulfed in darkness. Then it becomes a song that pours from within our soul. Soon, we can smell the sweetness that is undoubtedly to follow--we are on the cusp of something so very big. And before we know it, we can even taste it on our lips that seemingly out of nowhere now call out a Name we thought we'd long forgotten. It is in that moment of self-recognition and G-d recognition that, at last, we are home. We carry the wounds and scars with pride and perseverance; we come to understand that we weren't put here to light up the world in one fell swoop--we were put here to light up one space, one room, one heart at a time.

And so, with renewed energy and a burning, unshakable faith, I hereby release the joy and light that for so long I held inside me. I smile--first with my eyes, then my mouth and before I know it, my soul is laughing. I light up this room, then the building, and then I move on to the neighborhood. The world is my playground and I am only 28 years young! There is something truly unique about being born on what is declared a Day of Joy. For many, it is natural to notice the darkness; for me it is impossible not to see the light. For this and the many other blessings G-d has bestowed upon me, I am truly and eternally grateful!

 "The lights of the Menorah have the power to heal our eyes, and to rectify and undo the damage of any negative sight or vision." --Rabbi Dovber Pinson, Eight Lights: 8 Meditations for Chanukah, page 24