Rosh Chodesh Kislev: Only Through Darkness Can Light Shine Victorious

Long before there were weblogs and Facebook, long before I knew how to turn on a computer at all, I kept track of all my memories and correspondence the old-fashioned way: a pen and paper. I began keeping a journal when I was eight years old. I wrote almost every day in a spiral notebook, followed by another spiral notebook and several dozen more spiral notebooks. One of my greatest pains years after moving across the country was finding out that in the many disasters that surrounded our life in and eventual sale of my family home in Massachusetts, ten years of my journals were destroyed and lost. Nonetheless, after I left home, I continued to write. Pen and paper were almost always my first choice, but eventually, computers took over, and two years ago I gave into the lure and luster of blogging-- of having a permanent, seemingly indestructible location for all of my thoughts. Now, after the recent and sudden death of my second laptop, even more of my writing is lost in the abyss of words said and forgotten. Yet, this blog remains...and more importantly, that which is real and truly important is never lost or forgotten!
This Thursday marks Rosh Chodesh Kislev, the beginning of the new month. Kislev is a month that falls during the darkest part of the year. At least here in the northern hemisphere, the days are short, the nights are long, and the darkness and cold can penetrate your very bones. And yet, Kislev is also the month in which the festival of Chanukah falls, one of the most joyous celebrations of our Jewish year. It is on that first night of Chanukah, the 25th of Kislev, that I celebrate my Jewish birthday. This year will mark my 28th year on this little blue planet, and I pray, please G-d, for many more!

As I was sifting this evening through a few of the spiral bound volumes that made the exclusive cut for what I was willing to ship 3,000 miles across country this past summer, I found a letter I wrote on my 23rd birthday to my former 13-year-old self. It's not necessary to share the entire thing, word for word. The gist was a message telling 13-year-old me that it would be OK. That I would be OK. At thirteen, I remember everything seemed so BIG. I felt so small in that, so powerless. Even at 23, telling that frightened 13 year old to 'keep her eye on the prize,' did I truly know what the prize was? I knew at 13 and at 23 that I lived in a world of darkness. I thought at 13 that I wanted some easier way out of that. I knew at 23 that what I'd really wanted was a way in. At 23, I could already tell my decade-younger self that things would get worse before they got better. What I did not know yet, was just how amazingly grand they would get. I had no awareness of how big that prize truly was and how very worth it in the end of the darkness it would be to finally, palpably feel the light shining upon my face. I did not know that there is great comfort in being so very small in the realm of something so much bigger.
Today, I am almost 28. I am wise enough to admit that I know very little. I am optimistic enough to say I have much yet to learn. I can flip through crumpled pages of faded words and mourn the verses that are long since forgotten. The Truth in it all remains regardless. It can be written in pencil, pen, or in typeface-- through blood, sweat and tears. That which I knew to be True at 13 and at 23 and still today and G-d willing tomorrow is what really matters.

First Night, 2010

Almost 28 years ago, two days before the darkest day of the year in the northern hemisphere, I was born. That same evening, Jews everywhere lit the first candle in their Chanukah menorahs. What is the significance? I believe now it is that we are all here to be a light in this world of darkness. I also believe that for a very long time, I went about that mission in an exhausting and ineffective way. You cannot light a room by taking away darkness. You must infuse that darkness with your light. 
Ten years ago, at 18, I boarded a plane headed to northern Idaho. Talk about darkness, this time of year the sun goes down there before 4:00PM! Ten years later, with G-d's help, I live a life of spiritual, bodily and emotional health. It's not effortless nor is it meant to be; it is, however, meaningful and no longer exhausting. I rest peacefully and wake full of vigor and a gratitude that would not be palpable were it not for the darkness I experienced. No longer do I struggle against the natural state of the world around me. More importantly, no longer do I struggle against my own natural state. For I am not a person who struggles with sadness or melancholy. I am not a person who hides beneath a shadow. I am a person of great joy and great light; the struggle ended as soon as I became unwilling to stifle that. The joy began when I allowed my light to emanate from within me, completely uninhibited by fear or doubt.
I've been learning from a Chassidic discourse , Victory of Light, given by the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson. In the introduction he highlights the following:

"...darkness has a purpose. It is an unnatural condition. It is an aberration that exists to awaken our infinite essence, which has the power to transform the darkness to light (page 18)."

When I think about it, even on my birthdays, my parents would always dim the lights as they carried in my cake with its candles all aglow. They, like all good parents, did not want me to ignore the darkness. They did not wish to shield me from its existence. They did want me to appreciate the light, and it is so much easier to appreciate those tiny little flames in a dark, dark room.
Whatever this time of year may symbolize for you, I pray that we all find warmth, light, and joy. May we all merit to shed a little light in a time of great darkness and to celebrate the many blessings we are fortunate enough to obtain.

Beloved of my Soul...

So here's the deal. This is it. G-d and I are in a relationship. We have been for quite some time, but it's complicated. So complicated, in fact, that Facebook can't begin to categorize it let alone describe it. Sure, it came with a proverbial owner's manual: you may have heard of it, it's called the Torah...
Texts upon texts have been written, studied and reviewed to try and better understand it. Men of great stature and minds of great capacity have sought to describe it. At best, when it comes to understanding and describing the one of a kind relationship we share with G-d, analogies must suffice. Rather than saying what it is, we must relate what it is like. 
My relationship with G-d is multifaceted and my service to Him is complex. It can at once be like the love a child feels toward her father and at the same time, like the reverence of a servant toward her master. I express my love through mitzvos; that is my service to G-d. That is my party-line connection straight to the Source of my purest joy, greatest comfort and overall serenity. And yet, my service is complex in and of itself. There are mitzvos I do out of desire and pleasure, like that child to her father. And there are mitzvos I do out of obligation and commitment, like that servant to her master. That does sound complicated indeed!

Av Harachaman: The Merciful Father

I will begin with a parable. The father carries his infant into the exam room. He holds this child close, gently in his arms. The child looks lovingly at the familiarity of his father's face and without realizing what is happening, or why, he feels a sharp and sudden pain. He has been given a vaccine. Instantaneously, those eyes just filled with love now well with tears and the infant begins to cry. Just as immediately, he looks to his father for comfort, and is soothed by the same loving arms that carried him into the exam room in the first place.

Wait a minute--was this compassionate father not the very man who knowingly carried the infant into the exam room where he would get a shot? Did he not know it would hurt? Did he not foresee that this helpless child could no more understand the reason for the pain he would endure than he could resist the urge to cry out so in that brief but shocking moment of agony?
And yet, the compassionate father brought his son to this place knowing he would experience the sting of the needle, knowing he would cry out, knowing full well that shots are scary and hurt--all because he wishes to protect the boy from something much more painful and severe. He cannot tell the child in a way that he could understand why he must endure this act. He cannot even prepare him for the pain he will experience. He cannot take the hurt away or even feel it for him. All he can do is continue to hold the boy gently and close; all he can do is be present in his moment of distress and draw him near in comfort. He can also have the clarity and understanding that this, too, is for the good--that even though it hurts in this moment, it is an act of genuine love and compassion.
The boy will not remember the pain of this shot nor will he likely remember many of the scrapes and stings of childhood. He will, however, remember for all time the feeling of running into his father's open arms. In that, he will have peace. In that, he will feel comfort.

Draw Your servant to Your Will

I've often loosely equated the difference between my relationship with G-d prior to becoming observant versus after becoming observant to the difference between dating to fall in lust versus dating for the loving commitment of marriage. In the former scenario, everything is hunky dory so long as the feelings are intense and positive at all times. In the latter, the reality that emotional intensity ebbs and flows is made tolerable by the realization that the reward is far greater than effort required to move gracefully through a gentle current or a tidal wave.  

Every relationship has its own unique character. That character is defined by and comprised of the two separate entities uniting now as one. That character is not measured by what you do in the moments of intense infatuation. It's not even necessarily measured by what you do in the moments of intense distress. It is, in fact, measured by what you do in all the seconds, all the minutes and the hours in between. It's what you do when maybe no one else is looking. It's what you do when you're tired or hurt or afraid. It's what you do when you actually don't feel like doing anything at all.

Likewise, my service to G-d is not consistently an act done out of joy and pleasure. There are times my soul feels as if it is on fire and I long for the depth of that connection. My prayers are heartfelt, my eyes are open and my intentions are holy and pure. There are times I am tired or busy or distracted. My soul feels like it is on the back burner and my prayers feel a bit detached and forced. My eyes wander to the pile of things I've decided are more pressing in that moment, but it is in those very moments, nonetheless, that I do pray. 

It is in those moments of distance, detachment and distraction that I know how much those prayers matter. It is like that brief conversation in which you put down what you're doing just to say, "I'm here. I'm thinking of You." You may really be thinking of the dirty dishes in your sink, but the fact of the matter is, you put the sponge aside, dried off your dishpan hands and picked up the phone to make the call. If there is meaning and value in a mitzvah done out of joy and desire, how much more so is there value in one done purely out of obligation and unfaltering commitment. In those moments, I almost always find that action precedes motivation. Just as seamlessly as my feelings seemed to waft away in the hustle and bustle of this material world we live in, the very act of slowing down to an utter halt and reaching out from so deep within seems to bring me right back to center. And once again, that fire is burning at full force; even scrubbing kugel off the bottom of a baking dish now takes on more meaning.

A Perfect Service

"Every Jew must serve G-d both as a son and as a servant." (Tanya of Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, chapter 41)

And so this relationship with G-d, in all its complexity, in all its depth, and in all its vital potential is, at the end of the day (and in every moment between) a glorious and graceful balancing act. It is a delicate dance of feet intertwined with the physical world we live in and the G-dliness we strive to infuse it with. We are the vessel; He is the abundance with which we overflow. We are the moon; He is the sun by which we are visible. Together, we have the power to illuminate the darkest nights and the most dismal days. With G-d, we are never alone. At times our very souls are on fire! Through mitzvos we connect--out of love, in joy, with pleasure and a burning desire. Sometimes, the flame burns so very low and can seem to all but extinguish. In those moments, through mitzvos, we connect--out of commitment, out of obligation, maybe out of habit. And in those moments, our longing is so real we cannot even detect its very presence. We are at once the child seeking the comfort of our loving Father's arms and the servant honorably fulfilling our Master's will.

Yedid Nefesh

Every Friday night, as we welcome the holiness and sanctity of the holy Shabbat, we sing a truly beautiful song, Y'did Nefesh, Beloved of my Soul. Shabbat is a time of intense holiness and strong connection to G-d. Many have the custom to sing this again toward the end of Shabbat during seudah shlishis, the Third Meal. As Shabbos comes in each week, our souls are very much alive with that longing for G-d. By Saturday afternoon, as the hours fade and the sun begins to set, we become acutely aware of the pending split between the holy and the mundane. It is in that crucial hour that we sing again, from the depths of our being, knowing full well that the Heavenly gates are wide open. We are comforted by the beauty and passion of these ancient words. And yet, for the many eons that have passed since these words first poured from praying lips, the meaning behind then remains truly timeless:
I cannot ask that I never feel pain, hurt or fear. I cannot ask to comprehend why and when I do. I trust that everything is from G-d, and everything from G-d is good. I merely ask in times of distress for the comfort of my Compassionate Father's arms.
I do not expect to always feel a joy, radiance and vivacity in my service to G-d. I do not expect that my emotions, intentions and actions will always coincide nor that my energy will always maintain the same  level of intensity. I trust that when I feel distant, He will draw me near. The essence of a true and complete love is inherently beautiful and surprisingly simple: companionship. And...
....to him  Your friendship will be sweeter than the dripping of the honeycomb and all taste.

Beloved of the soul, Compassionate Father, draw Your servant to Your will. Then Your servant will hurry like a hart to bow before Your majesty. To him Your friendship will be sweeter than the dripping of the honeycomb and all taste. Majestic, beautiful, radiance of the universe my soul is sick for your love. Please O G-d, heal her now by showing her the pleasantness of Your radiance. Then she will be strengthened and healed and eternal gladness will be hers. All worthy One -- may Your mercy be aroused and please take pity on the son of Your beloved, because it is so very long that I have yearned intensely to see the splendor of Your strength, only these my heart desired, so please take pity and do not conceal Yourself. Please be revealed and spread upon me, my Beloved, the shelter of Your peace that we may rejoice and be glad with You. Hasten, be loved, for the time has come, and show us grace as in days of old.

*English Translation of Yedid Nefesh taken from Chabad.org

Shabbos Schmooze: Parshas Vayeira--The Original Before & After Shot

This week's parsha is one of two parshios focused predominantly on the life of Avraham. According to an overview of this week's parsha in this week's Chayenu*, these portions distinctly divide the account of Avraham's life into two spiritual phases. It is the original 'before' and 'after' shot, if you will. The first, Lech Lecha, refers to the period of time prior to Avraham's circumcision. Lech lecha, if you will recall from this post, translates in English as "go, go to yourself." It as an account of Avraham's journey toward his true self and only in this week's parsha, Vayeira (meaning "G-d appeared to him") does Avraham begin his life as a Jew.

*Chayenu is an amazing weekly publication of Daily Torah Study that a friend and learning partner encouraged me to subscribe to--I have NOT regretted that investment at all and highly recommend this to anyone looking to rev up their level of learning and study.

I have shared often with many people that Lech Lecha is my favorite parsha and I would classify Vayeira as a close second. I think, as a ba'al teshuva, I am strongly drawn to the positive midos (character traits) that Avraham exemplifies as not only the first Jew, but in a sense, the original ba'al teshuva! To get technical, G-d actually appeared to Avraham three times in Parshas Lech Lecha, so to imply that He only appeared to him after his circumcision, beginning in Parshas Vayeira is not entirely accurate. What can be taken from this explicit distinction, however, is the idea that prior to undergoing circumcision, Avraham's journey toward discovering his true self was very much self-directed. Only after circumcision, only after for the first time fulfilling a commandment that was specifically directed from G-d, does Avraham reach this new level of spiritual connection in which "G-d appears to him and elevates him to a level of spiritual life beyond the reach of human effort (Chayenu, Week of Parshas Vayeira, October 28-November 2, 2012, page 5)." The very act of Avraham performing his own circumcision is exemplary of his entrance into this new relationship with G-d. There is a level of selflessness and faith I cannot even begin to comprehend in being able and willing to inflict that level of pain on oneself for the sake of fulfilling G-d's will.

I could never begin to compare myself to Avraham. I could pray, strive and toil to be a person even one billionth as holy. There are unique concepts in the story of Avraham, particularly in this parsha that I can loosely relate to, however. As a ba'al teshuva, I am often aware that my own life story could seemingly be divided into before and after, into lech lecha and vayeira. In some ways, the change is physically obvious. My daily life is different in palpable ways. Where I live, how I live, how I dress, how I eat, when and where I work and play are all distinctly affected by my choice to live, breathe and walk Orthodox Judaism. Some changes may be less obvious and more subtle. My relationships with others, my relationship toward myself and my relationship to G-d have all distinctly changed. The peace and contentment I feel within greatly enhances my ability to connect in a peaceful and content manner with others.

Much of the journey up until now would not have been possible without a leap of faith. Sometimes that meant facing a test or tribulation. Sometimes that meant sitting in some significant discomfort. Oftentimes, our comfort zone in and of itself is just a manifestation of what's familiar--not necessarily what's comfortable at all! There will, G-d willing, be many more miles of faith to leap, of trials to endure and discomforts to tolerate. However, I have crossed the threshold of life before finding my true self and entered into the times in which my path is clear, my hopes are strong and my actions and intent are backed by the solidarity of my connection to G-d. Many parts that were once a struggle are now blissfully effortless. It is very much that "level of spiritual life beyond the reach of human effort." If I were asked how and why that is, my answer would be very simple: Hashem li v'lo ira. G-d is with me, I shall not fear.

Good Shabbos!