Re'eh: Reaping Blessing Through Letting Go

When you do set [your slave] free, do not feel aggrieved; for in the six years s/he has given you double the service of a hired man. Moreover, the Lord your God will bless you in all you do. 
(Deut. 15:18)

I don't keep human slaves, and I don't believe in such keeping, but I do keep material slaves. Beyond the things I have in my life that I put to good use on a daily, weekly, or even annual basis, I keep things far beyond their function to me.

When we moved across the country last summer, I gave away an incredible amount of what my mother taught me to call "junque" when I was a kid, a term she placed on the box of things that didn't fit in any good category but which I refused to part with. Apparently, I have accumulated a lot of junque. Last year I finally got rid of piles of books about topics I have no longer study or work with, furniture and clothing that I rarely or never used, tchatchkes (trinkets - pick your word) that my inner child had forced me to hold onto, and many broken things I kept promising myself I would fix.

I kept a desk. It's a perfectly good desk - a solid top over four sturdy legs, with a single small drawer big enough for a few pencils, a small stapler, and a packet of stamps.

I acquired this desk one summer when someone paid me to clean out and paint their basement. "Get rid of the desk." I brought it home. After all, I was a poor college student, applying at the time for graduate school, and sure to both be poverty stricken and in need of a desk for years to come. 

The irony -- which came to me as an epiphany the other day when I read Stephen King's words On Writing, "It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room" -- is that I don't use a desk.  King uses a desk, and his belongs in the corner, not the middle or the room (he also had an epiphany). My writing space, my working space, is a chair or a couch or often enough sitting up in bed. I use a desk when I have to - at work - but not on my own time.

I didn't know this, though, and I moved the desk from my Ohio undergraduate apartment to my Indiana grad student house, then on to Pennsylvania for rabbinical school. I cannot remember where the desk was in our Philly apartment -- it's possible I stored it those years, because there I acquired an IKEA desk with more drawer space. I took both desks with me to New Hampshire, and the old one had an honored spot in our sunroom, where it rarely accumulated too many stacks, and where my husband frequently sat. I sat next to it in the chaise, as I had the other desk in Philly. And then I moved both desks to Connecticut, where the newer one became a desk I sat at a handful of times, and the old one became my son's changing table. When we moved to Seattle, the IKEA desk went to the curb in the great purge, but this old desk came with, still sturdy and, I thought, functional.

Currently, this desk sits in my living room gathering stacks of things. I have sat at it maybe twice in the year we have been here. At Hanukkah it held our various menorahs. But mostly it has stacks of things that get put there, then buried, deeper and deeper until I am forced into an archaeological dig either by avalanche or by a need to find something.

Still, I haven't decided if or how to get it out of my house. We don't have storage space, and besides, storing it for some theoretical use in some unknown time in the future feels absurd. I know if I put it out on the curb or put a note up on my local "buy-nothing" page, it will be gone in short order, and to someone who will surely put it to good use.

Why is it so hard? This week's Parasha reminds us that the difficulty of letting go is common, but that to do so honors the place that thing, idea, or yes, person, has had in our lives. I am also convinced that letting go makes room in our lives for things, ideas, and people we can't anticipate. 

Yep, the desk I have held onto for more than twenty years, still with names and phone numbers penned on it by the previous owner, is all but gone.

Devarim: Shaking Up Routines

וַנֵּפֶן וַנִּסַּע הַמִּדְבָּרָה
"And we turned and journeyed to the wilderness"
(Deut. 2:1)

This morning I parked in a different place, took the wrong elevator up, then a different (but right) elevator down, got off at the wrong floor, walked back up, used a different restroom, then missed my usual turn. All of which led me to a hug from my dad. And in the end I needed to sit and process, so I stopped at a favorite coffee house I don't ordinarily pass.

In this week's Parashah, Devarim, Moses begins to recount for the Israelites where they have been and what they have done. They have arrived at the border of the Promised Land a second time, nearly 40 years after the first time, and in truth the people who were there, and the actions Moses is referring to, all occurred when those present were either children or not yet born - all except Caleb, Joshua, and Moses himself.

What strikes me here is not so much the place or the people, or even the history lecture from Moses, but the quick recount of the wandering itself. A map of the wandering looks a little like a maze that crosses in and over itself. And the return to the edge of promise comes not after a relatively direct journey from Mitzrayim by way of Sinai, but rather from this loopy roundabout journey.

Just as I have seen my day differently, my mind jogged by my unusual morning route, I am sure this new generation of Israelite adults must have seen their approach to the promise of what lay beyond the Jordan differently than their parents and grandparents had.

Being fully aware sometimes requires a little interruption of routine. My routine this one morning a week has been quite comfortable, in its way, for nearly a year, now - I leave the house early, drive in usually quiet traffic, park in the garage, have breakfast with my mother, read out loud to her, then leave to go to work. Never mind that I have changed jobs, and maybe twice have had to skip a breakfast, it has been very regular routine. This morning, I got a hug from my dad, whom I don't ordinarily see on these early mornings. This morning, I learned a couple of things I didn't know, and I am now thinking of possible support for something. This morning, my transition from breakfast to work was more mindful.

Whether or not the Israelites that stood on the precipice in Deuteronomy were literally a new generation, I can only imagine that they stood there with new eyes, with a new perspective, because of their circuitous journey through the wilderness. Perhaps more than that they would no longer remember slavery personally, which might be a valuable difference, their journey had given them something valuable - had set them up for positive interactions with their neighbors by giving them a tour of the area as a free people.

I am grateful for the periodic diversion from the direct route, for the jog to my mindfulness that comes from shaking up--or being shaken from--my routines. Although I admit - forty years of such diversions might have me throwing up my hands and begging to set down roots. Indeed, while I have traveled across our country, lived in many states, and journeyed internationally - I am so very ready to stay in one place for a very long time. And the timing of this could not be more apt, as we near the first anniversary of my having returned to my "homeland," the city in which I was born and raised, after 24 years of wandering.

Matot-Masei: On Vows and Vowing

Oh, how we try to wriggle out of vows.

I do it as a parent: "If you don't stop, I'm going to take away x." And then I feel guilty, or like it was a harsh punishment, and I find myself backing off. Another parent recently reminded me, "the trick is never to promise or threaten anything you don't intend to follow through on."

I do it as a partner: "I promise I will be better about a." And then I try to narrow the circumstances where a actually applies.

I do it to myself: "I promise to give my body the chance at a full night's sleep." And here I am staying up past my bedtime to write a blog post.

This week's Parashah, the combined Matot-Masei, opens with "If a man makes a vow to God...he shall not break his pledge." (Never mind that it then diminishes a woman's vow, saying her father or husband can negate it, or allow it to stand. I'm going to assume we all agree that men and women are equal, and thus nobody owns the vow of another.)

Torah has plenty to say about vows. Indeed, it is pretty serious about them, especially those in which we obligate ourselves to actions directed at God or in God's name, but also those in which we obligate ourselves to our neighbors, our planet, even ourselves.

Later Jewish custom wriggles, just like we (I) do in everyday life.

Kol nidre (All Vows) - the title prayer of the service that kicks off Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement) - asks that our vows be annulled, that every serious oath we have taken be wiped out, that we not be held accountable.

No, Judaism doesn't say we can get out of our obligations so simply. Indeed, there were early concerns about the notion of annulling vows. The Jewish Encyclopedia discusses a medieval change in the prayer:

"An important alteration in the wording of the "Kol Nidre" was made by Rashi's son-in-law, Meïr ben Samuel, who changed the original phrase "from the last Day of Atonement until this one" to "from this Day of Atonement until the next." 

The implication in this change is that we shouldn't be making vows to God in the first place, because we are sure to falter. But while this might be a relief (since we might make vows in the heat of a situation), it does effectively wriggle us out ahead of any actual vow-making. And we might therefore think that we can go ahead and make those heat-of-the-moment vows, and other vows, and not really worry about the consequences.

What I fear (and I am not alone in this fear) is that we lose the meaning of vows, and even smaller promises - to God and to people - when we assume we are free because of a prayer recited months ago.

I see this diminishing vow-lue -- in the person who goes into a marriage saying, "well, if it doesn't work out, we can always get a divorce," and in my own practices of self-care, be it what I feed myself or my lack of exercise. 

The Kol Nidre prayer does not, in fact, ensure us freedom from our vows. Even with the prayer, we must still be careful with our promises, and we must nonetheless atone for our failures before we can expect forgiveness.

A vow is a weighty thing - and it should be. Whether we are promising something to a friend or to God, we should feel the obligation of the relationship. We should not enter in expecting that we can simply wriggle out from under that weight easily, lightly. Still, it's nice to know that, if we make a promise and cannot fulfill it, we can be forgiven, even if it takes some emotional, spiritual, even physical work on our part to get there.

WSP: Writing as Spiritual Practice (1)

Something happens when I write. Actually, a lot of things happen when I write - to varying degrees depending on what, when, even how I am writing.

There are so many categories of writing, and categories within categories. Journal or diary writing varies based on time-of-day as well as what intention (processing, projecting, reporting, etc.) I put into it. Then there is expository writing with the purpose of showing or teaching others about what I am thinking, reading, focused on in life - taking a variety of forms depending on topic and intended audience (call this blog post that sort of writing). And there are all the little bits of writing - email queries and responses, marketing materials, lists, reminders, notes to self or spouse or coworker. And, on the side, I do a little creative, spiritual fiction.

Writing in the morning or evening is very different, in ways partly but not entirely specific to the of the type of writing I am doing. I am very definitely a morning person - I am at my most creative, typically, when the day is barely begun. In the evening, I'm more likely to reflect backwards - and if I'm writing fiction, just as when I'm writing in my journal, that produces a different voice than my morning writing. I can force myself to process in the morning, or to think creatively forward in the evening, but it's far less natural.

Writing by hand is by far my preferred mode. I use it for journaling, for first drafts of sermons and other expository writing, for fiction and creative nonfiction, and still sometimes for letters (I miss formal letter writing - and receiving). I think differently - more slowly (by force), but also in ways I can't quite describe - when I am writing by hand rather than typing. Interestingly, most of my blog posts are written strictly on the computer, and I wonder about that sometimes.

All of these - the what I write, the when I write, and the how I write - move me. Whether journaling in the morning about something I hope to have happen, or creating a fictional scene, writing transforms me in much the same way that reading transports me - I find myself experiencing the world differently than when I don't write. I connect with the world outside of myself, I see myself in the larger picture, I discover how relationships connect or divide.

Writing is a spiritual practice for me, no matter what I am writing. Over the past couple of years, writing has been essential in my journey, offering a place to process and engage change as it has come my way, and providing inspiration to make meaningful transitions - mindfully.

Father's Day Isn't All Happy (but it isn't all sad, either): A Personal Story

Happy Father's Day!
It's all over ads in my email inbox - it's impossible to get away from. My Facebook status update even says, "It's Father's Day, what's on your mind?" and wants me to add a cute little handholding graphic to my update.

And I don't say I want to get away from it. But maybe, a little bit, I do...and if you do, too, I hope you will read through the happy beginning that comes next. Because:

I wish a very Happy Father's Day to my stepfather, who has truly been a Dad to me, throughout most of my life, through thick and think. He has indulged in all the right fatherly moments, and he has been fiercely loving when I needed it - and always. He has stood by my mom in sickness and in health - his love for her is steadfast, and has taught me how I want, how I deserve to be loved in this world. He has loved her, and me, through both storm and sunshine.

I wish a very Happy Father's Day to my husband. It is awesome watching him be Dad to our son, even (or maybe especially) in the moments where we aren't completely on the same page about parenting styles. I am glad for him and for our son that he has had the flexibility in these first few years of parenting to really be available throughout the week, to pick him up after school and take him to the park or other play places. I see father and son learning the world together, teaching each other, playing and reading and snuggling - and it is more beautiful than I could imagine.

And then.

And then, on Father's Day, I inevitably think about my father, the man whose DNA is in mine, who was married to my mother the first handful of years of my life, who lived within spitting distance my entire childhood, whom I saw in the old-fashioned custody arrangement of every other weekend (and who seemed at other hours of the week to be unapproachable).

Somehow, in my childhood, he made me uncomfortable growing into a woman. He left me with vulnerabilities I am still patching over. As an adult, I tried reconciling a couple of times, and each time he, unintentionally I am (fairly) certain, ripped open wounds I thought I had healed, leaving me feeling stupid and insecure. During one of these reconciliation periods he seemed really to want to get to know me - so much that I felt others in my life weren't listening as well as he. And then.

And then.

And then, I forgive and I move on with my life. But I do so without him in it.

And then, I think maybe I should wish him a Happy Father's Day. After all, I really don't think he ever intended to alienate me. I don't think he set out to hurt me or to open up those vulnerabilities that are so fragile in me to this day. I don't think he ever wanted me to feel uncomfortable being a woman in this world, though his actions contributed greatly to my awareness of and distaste for the deep-rooted misogyny in our society.

And then, I wonder how on earth I can wish this man a Happy Father's Day. How could it possibly be happy, even to hear from me? Perhaps he can go on blindly, and not wonder about a possible relationship with me, his daughter, or not grieve my brother, z"l, dead now nearly twenty years, who would have been 48 tomorrow. Perhaps his stepdaughters will wish him a happy father's day, as I will to my stepfather - and perhaps that will bring him joy; I really don't know his relationship with them, as I have had none for more than 30 years. Perhaps. And it really isn't fair for me to imagine him dwelling on what could have been, though I inevitably return to it year after year.

Would it make him happy to hear from me, even if I don't intend more than three words? Does it even make sense to send those three words - "Happy Father's Day" - in an email to a man I don't even know anymore (if I ever did)?

And so - if you, the man I called Dad through my childhood, are reading this - I do think of you, and I sometimes wonder how things could be different. I don't know, after all these years, if it is possible to change the way things are, given the way things have been. As I know you wished me no harm, even when you managed to say and do things that left me very hurt - I wish you no harm, no pain, even though I know simply by not being in your life I must leave you with vulnerabilities. For that, I am sorry.

And so - to all out there who have stories that make Father's Day (or Mother's Day, or any other days like this) difficult, or not particularly "happy" (thanks, Hallmark, for telling us we ought to feel a particular way) - I hope you find strength and support.

And also - to all who have read this all the way through despite having wonderful and deep relationships with your fathers and stepfathers - or despite being incredible fathers or stepfathers who are making your children feel safe and secure - thank you for reading, and most of all, Happy Father's Day.

And to everyone - a very happy Solstice - may this day of long daylight shine light and love and healing throughout our imperfect and sometimes awfully broken world.

Reflections on My Love for Israel

My Grandma Jean, z"l, at Kibbutz 

Gadot with a calf suckling her fingers.  

Also in the picture: my parents, brother, 

and our host Victor, a cousin of sorts.

In 1993, I traveled to Israel for the first time - a young adult - with my brother, parents, and grandmother. It was a wonderful trip, with some of the typical tourist experiences (though I have yet, in many trips since, to make it to the Negev or the Dead Sea), and a handful of the typical "visiting family" experiences. Our most relaxing days were in Haifa and at Kibbutz Gadot in the northern Galilee - precisely because those were moments visiting people rather than places.

A particular event stands out as part of how I, personally, connect with Israel - with the land, with the history, with the state (aside from coming home and declaring my final undergraduate major, in archaeology).

My favorite part of Israel, instantly from the moment we landed that December and to this day, is the sense of history and culture all around. There is energy, flow, emitting from the old walled city of Jerusalem to the tools of war rusting by the roadside; from the great abandoned ruins of Caesaria to the living ancient city of Akko; from Jewish religious sites to the mosques and minarets to the Baha'i gardens of Haifa; from the bustle of the old-style shuk to the more modern Diezengoff of Tel Aviv with its shopping and night clubs.

During our stay at Gadot, we went on a day trip to see local notable places. Just a short distance from the kibbutz, on a hill overlooking the northern Jordan valley and across to the Golan, we stopped for the view. On the hill was a building in ruins, and behind it was a clearly marked mine field. Like all other places with ruins, I felt a strong pull to the building, little more than an outlining foundation with a few wall sections rising angularly. I wanted to spend some time in what shadow it had left to offer.

"It's a recent building," said our host, "nothing interesting." Recent, as in from 1967, when Israel captured the land and occupied the Golan for security purposes. At that time, the hill we were standing on - and the kibbutz behind it - were besieged by weapon fire from the Golan.

We moved on. We saw the view, we noted the trickling Jordan below, recognized the archaeological site alongside it, and moved on.

But the next day, when everyone else climbed into the van to see yet more, I walked back over to that hill, despite a fierce wind. I sat in the shadow of that ruined building. I sat, and I thought, and I let the energy of the past sweep over me.

More than twenty years and multiple trips back to Israel, including significant time spent at Kibbutz Gadot, and that building - its broken walls, its energy, perhaps its hidden and almost forbidden nature - remains a profound symbol of my connection to Israel.

I love the connection to places where things have happened - or where things are said to have happened. The archaeology along that water above Lake Kineret shows preCanaanite cultures - and our history rises up from there. Jewish access to these historical sites should by no means be exclusive - but everyone should have access to this history, to the experiences, to the feelings evoked by historical places and objects that have cultural and ritual significance.

This post, this story, emerged for me when I sat down to reflect on a recent post by Keith Dvorchik, in which he calls on us to Take Back the Words "Zionism" and "Zionist". I wondered, what makes me a Zionist? This is my answer, based on the dictionary definition offered in that post - "Political support for the creation and development of a Jewish homeland in Israel." 

I am a Zionist because I believe that Jews have a strong connection to the land - that a connection to land is a deep Jewish value (note the maintaining of rituals connected to the agricultural cycle of Israel even by people who electively remain in diaspora). I am a Zionist because full access to the land and its history should be available to the Jewish people - as well as to others who have similar connection (Utopianism is perhaps a higher value of mine, if less realizable). I am a Zionist because I love the land of Israel. So even, or especially, when I dissent with certain political moves or election results, I am a Zionist. After all, an election cannot be fair without the ability for people to have voted against the winner, and without the ability to continue to disagree and offer suggestions for change. I am a Zionist because I have a personal connection to the Land of Israel, and I desire the continued development and improvement of the State of Israel.




Note: I don't have a picture of that particular building - at least not accessible digitally at the moment (I took 18 rolls of 36-shot 35mm, some in B&W, that trip, but have only digitized one roll so far). Please enjoy the gratuitous picture of my grandmother, may her memory be a blessing, at Kibbutz Gadot.

To Sing With My Life: Short Thoughts

The Psalmist sang, I will sing to God with my life. My rabbinic classmate and colleague, Rabbi Me'irah Iliinsky, did a beautiful illumination of this verse, which I have framed - and has typically hung next to my rabbinic ordination certificate. I currently have no room for the latter, but have brought the former into my living room space. This morning I was pondering the words.

What does it mean to "sing out to God with my life"?

At first, I thought - well, it has to be a joyous song. I have to live my life in total positivity.

And the words from the Fiddler on the Roof song, To Life, came to me: "God would like us to be thankful even when our hearts lie panting on the floor. How much more could we be thankful when there's really something to be thankful for!"

Be grateful, is the message, no matter what. That's what I hear in the Psalmist's words.

As I think a little deeper, though, I realize that there are a variety of songs that I can sing out with, using my life:

• I can sing a protest song, actively trying to change the world. This may not be a joyous song - indeed, it might be a song that comes from anger about the brokenness. But it is a strong son.
• I can sing a punk song, in which I express my dissatisfaction with the behavior of some people in the world.
• I can sing a dirge, acknowledging the natural course of life as I sit with others at the end of their life, or remember with those who mourn.
• I can sing a children's rhyme, celebrating curiosity and silliness by playing with my son, with my family, or simply being playful.

I feel freed to sing as I make this beginning to the list of how to sing with my life. Yes, I can sing by being joyful and grateful. And I can sing my values and my hopes. The point is to live those values with passion.

What songs do you sing with your life?