Being cared for. Inhale.
Nurturing others. Exhale.
The tight, warm embraces from two female rabbis who inspire me. Inhale.
Creating religious space for others. Exhale.
Praying. Inhale.
Leading Prayer. Exhale.
Friday night services in an unfamiliar place with a community that felt familiar. Inhale.
Schmoozing at Shabbat Dinner. Exhale.
Therapy. Inhale.
Helping. Exhale.
The kind words of friends who remind me I'm loved. Inhale.
Counseling a friend. Exhale.
Learning. Inhale.
Teaching. Exhale.
Learning Aggadah at midnight (due to a time difference) from the teacher who helped me to fall in love with Talmud. Inhale.
Teaching about the history of Reform Judaism. Exhale.
Journaling. Inhale.
Blogging. Exhale.
The breath gives us life, and as such, can serve as an excellent metaphor for the input and output of our lives even though not all of the "inhales" above are actual input and not all of the "exhales" are actual output. The most important thing to remember about the metaphor of the breath is that both parts, the inhale and the exhale are equally as necessary. We must breathe in to bring oxygen into our body and breathe out to release the carbon dioxide. The things that help me to inhale are not any more (or less) valuable than those that help me to exhale.
This is a hard time of year. We forget to pay attention to what is helping us "inhale" or "exhale" let alone actually make sure we have both in our lives. We forget to breathe. But we need to breathe; it's how we stay alive. We need a balance of the "inhale" and "exhale": If we have too much "inhale," we may become lonely and isolated because humans are meant to share, but if we have too much of the "exhale," we may get burnt out to the extent that it becomes detrimental to our well-being to continue to "exhale" until we are able to "inhale" once more.
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Healing and Judgement: Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5779
This summer, I spent a chunk of my time compiling a Prayer book for Neilah, the closing service of Yom Kippur for the nursing home in which I worked. Writing creative translations and liturgical poems, as well as typing out pretty much every prayer in the service, got me thinking a lot about judgement, the idea of begging for our sins to be pardoned. In the same internship,I watched the magic of chaplaincy: how much a kind conversation or sitting by someone’s side can really make a difference. This, got me thinking about healing.
The High Holiday season, which we have been approaching since Rosh Chodesh Elul in August, is intended to be one of renewal and healing through self reflection and judgement. We are instructed to better ourselves and heal ourselves for the coming year, but at the same time, we fast, we exact penance on ourselves for the sins that we have committed in the past year. But how do we heal ourselves in this time of judgement? We have lots of instruction and liturgy on how to repent, how to judge ourselves. But if we judge ourselves too harshly, there will be nothing left of us to live into the coming year so we need to heal as well.
There are two stories from our tradition that I think can help us address this relationship,. The first is about meeting ourselves where we are and allowing the same kindness to those around us. Let me explain. In Genesis 21, the Torah portion which many communities will read tomorrow morning, we read of Hagar, the slave woman who had a child with Abraham at Sarah’s bequest, and her son Ishmael being exiled by Sarah after the birth of Isaac. While Abraham and Sarah leave them out to dry, God does not exact the same judgement. We are told that God hears Ishmael’s cries, b’asher hu sham, “where he is.” Ishmael is not forced to seek God’s grace or kindness, instead God comes to him and provides him and his mother with a well. Bereshit Rabbah says that God defends His choice to provide a well to Ishmael by saying, “I judge people as they are when they are being judged.” This can teach us a powerful lesson: God meets us where we are, and so should we. As we reflect, we need to see ourselves and judge ourselves as we are in this moment, not in the moments of last week or last year. And when it comes to healing, we need to meet each other where we are with openness and honesty and love.
Second, There is a common idea that while we are judged every year around this time, ultimate judgement will come when we face death. A number of the rabbis, particularly in the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Ketubot are fascinated by this moment, and their supposed conversations with the Angel of Death are chronicled. Many of these conversations are interesting but there is one that I feel is especially pertinent to this juxtaposition of healing and judgement that we’ve been discussing, and that is the idea of “attaching oneself” to the sick. We are told in Bavli Ketubot 77b that R. Yehoshua B. Levi “attached himself” to the raatan, the person with a certain kind of illness, leper, and then later on the page, the Angel of Death asks R. Hanina b. Papa if he has done so and he is told that not attaching himself to the leper is what is keeping him out of heaven.
From this, we can assume that, at the time of judgement, one of the qualifications of getting into heaven is whether we “attached ourselves” to the sick, the “other.” Illness and suffering can be unbelievably isolating, an experience I know firsthand as someone who has been both the healer and the one in need of healing. But it is important that even though the sick, the broken, may scare us, we must stand by them in any way that we can. And I would argue that In a world where anyone who is seen as an “other”, or different is ostracized and isolated, “attaching ourselves” in any way possible to them is even more important.
Interestingly enough, in Ketubot, there is no qualification that we heal the raatan, the sick, just that we must stand by them. Surely, it would be ideal to heal but I find the absence of a direct instruction to heal profound. While we must stand and bear witness to the pain, the Talmud, at least indirectly, recognizes that there is pain that cannot be “solved.” The unfortunate reality of the world is that there is illnesses that cannot be cured and problems that cannot be fixed and transgressions that can’t be forgiven. There are some moments that are filled with such suffering that it is hard for us to even speak--I invoke the words of Les Mis, “There’s a grief that can’t be spoken, there’s a pain goes on and on… “ In those moments, binding ourselves to the people that are suffering and being empathetic and supportive and kind is all that we can do. Even though we are doing our best to make ourselves better for the coming year, the process doesn’t have to involve complete, forced healing. Because we will only be judged on our effort and our openness to healing.
These stories can teach us a little about what’s important at the end of the day, or in this case, at the end of the year. We must meet our souls where they are and bear witness to the pain and suffering in our messy world as God and the rabbis prompt us to do. We must keep the ideas of healing and judgement in balance with one another. At the end of the day, perhaps the questions of how can I heal and how will I be judged may be close to the same: we will be judged, perhaps, on many things, but one of the most important is our ability to be resilient, to keep pushing through and holding hope in our hearts when life is difficult. With that, I wish you a Shana Tova, and hope that your high holiday season is one of meaningful reflection and deep connection.
Sunday, May 27, 2018
Something Gold Can Stay: The Power Of Literature
"When I stepped into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I only had two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."
One of my clearest memories of the year I turned 12 was sitting in the corner of my sixth grade classroom on the day that my little sister was having surgery reading the Outsiders by S.E Hinton. I remember clutching that book like it was a safety blanket, a reality that I could get lost in that made me forget about the fear. In the coming weeks, I read the Outsiders over and over, but eventually I put it down.
Fast forward to a day a few weeks ago in 2018, approximately nine years after I first picked up the book, and on an impulse, I bought the audiobook of the Outsiders. Over the last few weeks I have listened to it, and this book has taught me some lessons that I would like to share with you as well as allowed me to travel back in time through my own life.
The Outsiders, published in 1967 by an 18 year old S. E. Hinton, tells the story of two gangs, divided by socioeconomic status, focusing on a member of the Greasers, the lower class gang, Ponyboy Curtis. The story is told in first person from the perspective of Ponyboy. By the way, I will try to keep this blog post spoiler-free, but if you're worried about spoilers, just go read the book. It's worth it. You can also watch the movie, but it's substantially worse than the book.
1. "Things are rough all over."
In the beginning of the book, Ponyboy and his friend Dally go to the movies, and they happen upon two girls from the other gang, the Socs, Cherry and Marcia. During this encounter, Ponyboy and Cherry have a conversation about the problems that they experience on their respective sides of town, and when Ponyboy tries to say that the problems of the Greasers are worse than those of the Socs, she counters with the phrase, "things are rough all over." It takes Ponyboy only a few weeks to learn this lesson, but it's taken me years.
So often, we think of our own problems as the worst things in the world, and we look at someone else's Facebook or Instagram feed and say, "hey, that's not fair. I'm struggling, and they're out there having brunch." Now I don't want to invalidate your pain (or my own pain) because whatever you are feeling is real and valid, but we need, especially in the age of social media, to remind ourselves that what you see on the screen is not the complete picture. Everyone has struggled in some way at some point. Every person, as Walt Whitman says in his poem, Song of Myself, "contains multitudes." Every picture, every post, every interaction is more complex than we usually realize (Come to think of it, this also applies to Talmudic texts, but blog post on that coming later). We need to remember this. The grass may seem to always be greener, but in reality, "things are rough all over."
2. "Nothing gold can stay."
Note: this is not an original quote from the Outsiders. It's from a poem by Robert Frost that you can find here.
This line is quoted a number of times throughout the novel. Ponyboy quotes the whole poem to Johnny at one point. Johnny says to Ponyboy that he thinks the poem is about childhood and the passing of time. Somehow, I both agree and disagree with this line. We can't stay in that golden age of innocence. We can't ignore reality forever. And that's okay. We need to make peace with the fact that everything will change over time, but that doesn't mean it won't stay "gold." There are beautiful things that can be found even in the roughest of times.
When I first opened this book, I was 11 years old, three years younger than Ponyboy. Now I am 21 years old, making me older than almost every character in the novel. My life has changed a lot since I first sat with this book. I went through high school, made it to college, acquired an iPhone, spent a full semester (almost) in Israel. Heck, Claire, my little sister, who was 8 at the time, is now going to be a senior in high school. So I guess I disagree with the poem, as Johnny interpreted it. Sitting here in my apartment in Jerusalem, overlooking the Old City, my life feels pretty "golden," even though I no longer consider myself a child. The gold has stayed in some ways and hasn't in others.
Before I started listening to the audiobook, I hesitated, wondering what I would do if the book didn't hold up. I had been saying that the Outsiders was one of my favorite books for so many years, but what if I didn't like it anymore? But it held up. As I was listening to the words that I had read so long ago, they evoked exactly the same feelings as I felt back then. I still sobbed at the sad parts (if you have read the book, you should know exactly what I'm talking about), and I still laughed at the jokes. I now noticed more of the themes and subtleties throughout the book, but if anything, it made the reading/listening experience better--and I didn't flinch every time that a character swore. And I guess that's the power of literature. It allows you to travel through time in a way nothing else can. And it stays constant, a friend on your bookshelf, just waiting for you to take it on an adventure again. So maybe, at the end of the day, something gold CAN stay (if you want it to).
One of my clearest memories of the year I turned 12 was sitting in the corner of my sixth grade classroom on the day that my little sister was having surgery reading the Outsiders by S.E Hinton. I remember clutching that book like it was a safety blanket, a reality that I could get lost in that made me forget about the fear. In the coming weeks, I read the Outsiders over and over, but eventually I put it down.
Fast forward to a day a few weeks ago in 2018, approximately nine years after I first picked up the book, and on an impulse, I bought the audiobook of the Outsiders. Over the last few weeks I have listened to it, and this book has taught me some lessons that I would like to share with you as well as allowed me to travel back in time through my own life.
The Outsiders, published in 1967 by an 18 year old S. E. Hinton, tells the story of two gangs, divided by socioeconomic status, focusing on a member of the Greasers, the lower class gang, Ponyboy Curtis. The story is told in first person from the perspective of Ponyboy. By the way, I will try to keep this blog post spoiler-free, but if you're worried about spoilers, just go read the book. It's worth it. You can also watch the movie, but it's substantially worse than the book.
1. "Things are rough all over."
In the beginning of the book, Ponyboy and his friend Dally go to the movies, and they happen upon two girls from the other gang, the Socs, Cherry and Marcia. During this encounter, Ponyboy and Cherry have a conversation about the problems that they experience on their respective sides of town, and when Ponyboy tries to say that the problems of the Greasers are worse than those of the Socs, she counters with the phrase, "things are rough all over." It takes Ponyboy only a few weeks to learn this lesson, but it's taken me years.
So often, we think of our own problems as the worst things in the world, and we look at someone else's Facebook or Instagram feed and say, "hey, that's not fair. I'm struggling, and they're out there having brunch." Now I don't want to invalidate your pain (or my own pain) because whatever you are feeling is real and valid, but we need, especially in the age of social media, to remind ourselves that what you see on the screen is not the complete picture. Everyone has struggled in some way at some point. Every person, as Walt Whitman says in his poem, Song of Myself, "contains multitudes." Every picture, every post, every interaction is more complex than we usually realize (Come to think of it, this also applies to Talmudic texts, but blog post on that coming later). We need to remember this. The grass may seem to always be greener, but in reality, "things are rough all over."
2. "Nothing gold can stay."
Note: this is not an original quote from the Outsiders. It's from a poem by Robert Frost that you can find here.
This line is quoted a number of times throughout the novel. Ponyboy quotes the whole poem to Johnny at one point. Johnny says to Ponyboy that he thinks the poem is about childhood and the passing of time. Somehow, I both agree and disagree with this line. We can't stay in that golden age of innocence. We can't ignore reality forever. And that's okay. We need to make peace with the fact that everything will change over time, but that doesn't mean it won't stay "gold." There are beautiful things that can be found even in the roughest of times.
When I first opened this book, I was 11 years old, three years younger than Ponyboy. Now I am 21 years old, making me older than almost every character in the novel. My life has changed a lot since I first sat with this book. I went through high school, made it to college, acquired an iPhone, spent a full semester (almost) in Israel. Heck, Claire, my little sister, who was 8 at the time, is now going to be a senior in high school. So I guess I disagree with the poem, as Johnny interpreted it. Sitting here in my apartment in Jerusalem, overlooking the Old City, my life feels pretty "golden," even though I no longer consider myself a child. The gold has stayed in some ways and hasn't in others.
Before I started listening to the audiobook, I hesitated, wondering what I would do if the book didn't hold up. I had been saying that the Outsiders was one of my favorite books for so many years, but what if I didn't like it anymore? But it held up. As I was listening to the words that I had read so long ago, they evoked exactly the same feelings as I felt back then. I still sobbed at the sad parts (if you have read the book, you should know exactly what I'm talking about), and I still laughed at the jokes. I now noticed more of the themes and subtleties throughout the book, but if anything, it made the reading/listening experience better--and I didn't flinch every time that a character swore. And I guess that's the power of literature. It allows you to travel through time in a way nothing else can. And it stays constant, a friend on your bookshelf, just waiting for you to take it on an adventure again. So maybe, at the end of the day, something gold CAN stay (if you want it to).
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
Everything Is Awful And I Am Not Okay: How to Survive A Flare
A note before I begin:
Thank you so much to every single person who has helped me to work through this flare. You know who you are. Thank you for calling, texting, and having patience with me while I was very, very stubborn about taking your help. It is impossible to create a list of suggestions that will apply to everyone who is struggling with chronic illness. I just hope that my words can be helpful to somebody who is reading them. Also, these are in no particular order, and I didn't come up with most of them myself.
1. Let yourself wallow (but not forever).
It's important to grieve the temporary (or permanent) loss of your health. Noone ever teaches us that we can grieve for things other than the dead, and the grief that you may be feeling in this case is valid and natural and complicated just like all grief is. It's okay to be sad and eat ice cream (or rugelach in my case) in bed and feel sorry for yourself. Some days are just going to be hard, and at the end of the day, you are going to have to just take the loss and crawl into bed with the dignity and health you've got.
2. Be gentle with yourself.
This is hard, and I am not good at it. This being said, when the world seems to be against us, it is our time to help ourselves. The more situational factors or outside issues that we are experience, the more physical symptoms that we are dealing with, the more we MUST try to be kind to ourselves. This means not pushing ourselves beyond our limits or doing things that make our lives harder just because we want to be seem in a certain way. Use a mobility aid if it will make your life easier. Don't torture yourself over missing a class because your whole body is hurting. Don't make your life harder than it has to be.
3. Try to be grateful for the people who have stayed in your life through the flare instead of focusing on those who haven't.
Going through a flare or a crisis situation of any kind can show you who your true allies are. Some people will be with you at the beginning (at the acute stage), but a few days or weeks later they are nowhere to be found. Some people will come in and out throughout the flare. Some will drop off the face of the earth the first time you talk about a single symptom. But some will be with you every step of the way (sometimes literally when the elevator breaks and you have to walk up 3.5 flights of stairs). And those are the important ones who we must be grateful for. Those are the people who you'll remember in years when you look back at this difficult times. Even though going through a flare can drive many of the people who were previously close to you away, there is a big difference between having one or two people by your side and being alone. You are never completely alone, no matter how much it feels like you are. Try your hardest (and I know how hard it is) to focus on your gratitude for those who have stayed as opposed to focusing on your disappointment and frustration over those who haven't.
4. Do your best to do one thing that you love every day.
Justifying doing something that seems "stupid" or "silly" is difficult when you are at the point at which normal life is already incredibly difficult. But when our bodies or minds are not cooperating, we have to also remember to take care of our souls because every part of ourselves is connected. This can be getting your favorite drink at the coffee shop on your way to work or school, listening to a favorite podcast, or coloring in a coloring book. I, myself, have found listening to music from when I was in middle school to be very comforting to get my mind off of how my body is feeling even if I can't get up and dance to it like I used to.
5. Check in with yourself.
I can be in a ton of pain and not notice. I can be starving and not notice. Because I am used to feeling pain most of the time, I tend to ignore it and just push through the day like everything is normal. This doesn't work during a flare because you end up stuck somewhere because you didn't check in with yourself to determine how much energy you had left before you left. I am told that this is a common experience of others who experience chronic illness and chronic pain as well. Checking in with yourself can just involve taking a deep breath and doing a quick body scan to figure out your energy and pain levels. I find it helpful to do this at the beginning and end of each day. Knowing how you are feeling also will help you to determine what you need whether that be medicine, a cup of coffee or a nap.
6. Make a list.
Make a list of either everything that needs to be done or literally just everything that's in your mind. Somebody suggested this to me at the beginning of my most recent flare, and I hadn't thought about it before. Often the reason that things are overwhelming is because they are all bouncing around in your head with no way to get out, and if you have brain fog like I do, you'll remember one thing that needs to be done, promptly forget it, and then remember another thing that needs to be done and go through exactly the same process with every thing that's bothering you. Writing everything down, whether in a note on your phone or just on a piece of paper, can help you to get your thoughts in order and recognize what you can control and what is just happening. It clears your mind so that you can focus on eating or sleeping or bathing, things that are absolutely necessary to your survival.
7. Take the help that's being offered if it will be helpful.
This is another one that I happen to be terrible at. For some reason, even though it would definitely make it easier for me to walk, I refuse to let anyone carry my backpack. I don't know why I do this. It's just stupid, so do as I say, not as I do. Some help will not be helpful. The person means well, but they don't know how to help you, and that's okay. But if the help will be helpful to you, please take it. If it will help you to talk to someone, please pick up the phone. If it will help you to have someone come over to help do your laundry, ask them. Don't let your pride get in the way of you getting better. Being vulnerable is the only way that we can form strong relationships with one another at the end of the day. Yes, sometimes if you are vulnerable, you can get hurt, but sometimes, when the right person is sitting across the table from you, vulnerability can truly pay off, and you can get exactly the help that you need.
Thank you for reading, and as usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts or additions.
Thank you so much to every single person who has helped me to work through this flare. You know who you are. Thank you for calling, texting, and having patience with me while I was very, very stubborn about taking your help. It is impossible to create a list of suggestions that will apply to everyone who is struggling with chronic illness. I just hope that my words can be helpful to somebody who is reading them. Also, these are in no particular order, and I didn't come up with most of them myself.
1. Let yourself wallow (but not forever).
It's important to grieve the temporary (or permanent) loss of your health. Noone ever teaches us that we can grieve for things other than the dead, and the grief that you may be feeling in this case is valid and natural and complicated just like all grief is. It's okay to be sad and eat ice cream (or rugelach in my case) in bed and feel sorry for yourself. Some days are just going to be hard, and at the end of the day, you are going to have to just take the loss and crawl into bed with the dignity and health you've got.
2. Be gentle with yourself.
This is hard, and I am not good at it. This being said, when the world seems to be against us, it is our time to help ourselves. The more situational factors or outside issues that we are experience, the more physical symptoms that we are dealing with, the more we MUST try to be kind to ourselves. This means not pushing ourselves beyond our limits or doing things that make our lives harder just because we want to be seem in a certain way. Use a mobility aid if it will make your life easier. Don't torture yourself over missing a class because your whole body is hurting. Don't make your life harder than it has to be.
3. Try to be grateful for the people who have stayed in your life through the flare instead of focusing on those who haven't.
Going through a flare or a crisis situation of any kind can show you who your true allies are. Some people will be with you at the beginning (at the acute stage), but a few days or weeks later they are nowhere to be found. Some people will come in and out throughout the flare. Some will drop off the face of the earth the first time you talk about a single symptom. But some will be with you every step of the way (sometimes literally when the elevator breaks and you have to walk up 3.5 flights of stairs). And those are the important ones who we must be grateful for. Those are the people who you'll remember in years when you look back at this difficult times. Even though going through a flare can drive many of the people who were previously close to you away, there is a big difference between having one or two people by your side and being alone. You are never completely alone, no matter how much it feels like you are. Try your hardest (and I know how hard it is) to focus on your gratitude for those who have stayed as opposed to focusing on your disappointment and frustration over those who haven't.
4. Do your best to do one thing that you love every day.
Justifying doing something that seems "stupid" or "silly" is difficult when you are at the point at which normal life is already incredibly difficult. But when our bodies or minds are not cooperating, we have to also remember to take care of our souls because every part of ourselves is connected. This can be getting your favorite drink at the coffee shop on your way to work or school, listening to a favorite podcast, or coloring in a coloring book. I, myself, have found listening to music from when I was in middle school to be very comforting to get my mind off of how my body is feeling even if I can't get up and dance to it like I used to.
5. Check in with yourself.
I can be in a ton of pain and not notice. I can be starving and not notice. Because I am used to feeling pain most of the time, I tend to ignore it and just push through the day like everything is normal. This doesn't work during a flare because you end up stuck somewhere because you didn't check in with yourself to determine how much energy you had left before you left. I am told that this is a common experience of others who experience chronic illness and chronic pain as well. Checking in with yourself can just involve taking a deep breath and doing a quick body scan to figure out your energy and pain levels. I find it helpful to do this at the beginning and end of each day. Knowing how you are feeling also will help you to determine what you need whether that be medicine, a cup of coffee or a nap.
6. Make a list.
Make a list of either everything that needs to be done or literally just everything that's in your mind. Somebody suggested this to me at the beginning of my most recent flare, and I hadn't thought about it before. Often the reason that things are overwhelming is because they are all bouncing around in your head with no way to get out, and if you have brain fog like I do, you'll remember one thing that needs to be done, promptly forget it, and then remember another thing that needs to be done and go through exactly the same process with every thing that's bothering you. Writing everything down, whether in a note on your phone or just on a piece of paper, can help you to get your thoughts in order and recognize what you can control and what is just happening. It clears your mind so that you can focus on eating or sleeping or bathing, things that are absolutely necessary to your survival.
7. Take the help that's being offered if it will be helpful.
This is another one that I happen to be terrible at. For some reason, even though it would definitely make it easier for me to walk, I refuse to let anyone carry my backpack. I don't know why I do this. It's just stupid, so do as I say, not as I do. Some help will not be helpful. The person means well, but they don't know how to help you, and that's okay. But if the help will be helpful to you, please take it. If it will help you to talk to someone, please pick up the phone. If it will help you to have someone come over to help do your laundry, ask them. Don't let your pride get in the way of you getting better. Being vulnerable is the only way that we can form strong relationships with one another at the end of the day. Yes, sometimes if you are vulnerable, you can get hurt, but sometimes, when the right person is sitting across the table from you, vulnerability can truly pay off, and you can get exactly the help that you need.
Thank you for reading, and as usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts or additions.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Dear Spent Gladiator: It's OK not to be OK
Dear Spent Gladiator,
You are a fighter.
With the spears of your words and the nets of your wit, I see you fighting.
I see the drive in your eyes
And your desire to wipe off the blood and stitch up your wounds and live to fight another day.
And you will fight another day.
And you will fight another day.
It may not be tomorrow or this week.
It may even take months.
But you'll keep showing up
And playing the game through the pain as best you can.
It's okay to be hurt.
To sit in the tunnels this round.
No matter what they tell you
You are strong.
You are brave.
Your fans, if they really care will stay.
Your loyal comrades who trained with you
will stay with you because they too know what it's like to be knocked down
For now, spent gladiator, your job is just to stay alive.
Keep living.
Be gentle with yourself.
Tend to your broken parts.
Allow yourself to be jealous while you watch your friends fight in the arena
Allow yourself to feel.
My dearest gladiator, it's OK not to talk to people or to parade in your armor.
It's OK not to tell people what happened if they didn't see.
It's OK to take a break.
It's OK not to be OK.
Note: This poem is based on the Mountain Goats' song Spent Gladiator 2.
You are a fighter.
With the spears of your words and the nets of your wit, I see you fighting.
I see the drive in your eyes
And your desire to wipe off the blood and stitch up your wounds and live to fight another day.
And you will fight another day.
And you will fight another day.
It may not be tomorrow or this week.
It may even take months.
But you'll keep showing up
And playing the game through the pain as best you can.
It's okay to be hurt.
To sit in the tunnels this round.
No matter what they tell you
You are strong.
You are brave.
Your fans, if they really care will stay.
Your loyal comrades who trained with you
will stay with you because they too know what it's like to be knocked down
For now, spent gladiator, your job is just to stay alive.
Keep living.
Be gentle with yourself.
Tend to your broken parts.
Allow yourself to be jealous while you watch your friends fight in the arena
Allow yourself to feel.
My dearest gladiator, it's OK not to talk to people or to parade in your armor.
It's OK not to tell people what happened if they didn't see.
It's OK to take a break.
It's OK not to be OK.
Note: This poem is based on the Mountain Goats' song Spent Gladiator 2.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
A Doubt With Every Dance: Yom HaZikaron and Yom Haatzmaut in Jerusalem
A note before you yell at me in the comments: I believe in the right of Israel to exist, and it is because I love Israel so much that I criticize it. I love spending time here, but I don't claim to know everything, and I'm happy to have a discussion with anyone who would like to have a civil conversation. Also, I don't support BDS.
"Am Yisrael Chai, Am Yisrael Chai, Am Yisrael, Am Yisrael, Am Yisrael Chai"
As we walked down Yafo street, one of the main roads in Jerusalem at around 10:30 pm last Wednesday night, dodging crowds of drunk people covered in blue and white face paint, we heard this song, "the people of Israel live." As we stood next to City Hall, listening to live music coming from two different stages, I felt someone grab my hand and pull me into a circle dance to whatever song was playing. We were all strangers to one another, and considering the fact that my Hebrew is not excellent, I don't know if we would have been able to communicate through words, but we were dancing together, all on the same stone in the same city.
The unity of the Jewish people of Israel during Yom Hazikaron, the Israeli Memorial Day and Yom Haatzmaut, Israeli Independence Day is truly an incredible thing to witness and be a part of. Standing together, frozen in time during the sirens sounded to commemorate the fallen soldiers, singing Hatikvah with thousands of people, watching Jerusalem switch from mourning to celebrating in the span of an hour were all very powerful experiences. Hundreds of people barbecuing on a sunny Independence Day in the park is lovely. I felt proud to be here, proud of Israel's accomplishments and proud to be a Jew who supports Israel.
When one experiences these days from the perspective of a Jew, it truly feels like the country stands as one people, united. But then, you start to think more deeply about it, or at least I did. Between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea, there are currently about the same number of Jews and Palestinians. Palestinians are not included in the vision of a Jewish homeland, but they are people, living in this land. Last weekend, I spent Shabbat in the West Bank, and on our way home, we stopped at Shorashim, an Israeli-Palestinian dialogue center, where we heard from a Palestinian man about his experience living in the occupied West Bank. This opened my eyes to the fact that there really are two sides to the story of Yom Haatzmaut which Palestinians call the Nakhba, the disaster. Palestinians identify the creation of a Jewish state, partly on land that was formerly Palestinian, as a disaster. This brought up a lot of questions. What price is being paid for a Jewish state? Are our actions consistent with our Jewish values? And what about the refugees that are being deported or about to be deported from Israel? I don't have answers to these questions, but they need to be talked about. I hope that we look at these issues more complexly and question the media we consume.
Friday, April 20, 2018
Talmudic Heroines: How I Fell in Love with Aggada
Gemara. Shiur. Halakha. Mishmar.
These were not words I understood or even heard before I got to college. I grew up with what I still think was an amazing Jewish education, but this education did not include learning what these words mean (I'm still not entirely clear on what Gemara is so if someone could clear that up for me, that would be great, thanks). Instead we learned about Judaism's relationship with social justice and how to live practically as Jews in the world. We explored big philosophical questions, and I got the best relationship/sex education that I've ever had. But those things didn't help me when I couldn't understand the announcements at Hillel dinner or what my friends were talking about going to on Thursday nights (by the way, that one is Mishmar, a celebration to get ready for shabbat often involving singing and cholent, a sort of stew).
Talmud especially, even though I didn't include it on that list, was a scary entity with too many words in Hebrew or Aramaic on a page for me to even begin to understand. I felt like Talmud was for "real Jewish scholars," and that I was not one of them, despite the fact that I am a Judaic Studies major who wants to be a rabbi. Bible was comfortable. Bible I could read in English and no-one would judge me. Even Mishnah was made accessible by our former Jewish Chaplain through reading of "Strange Stories in the Mishnah." But I never touched Talmud. I didn't dare register for a Talmud class or God-forbid show up to a Talmud shiur (class).
But that all changed when I got to Israel. Through my program, we had to option to choose between four different classes to take on Tuesday afternoons. The options were an advanced Talmud class, a class based on the Tanakh (the Jewish Bible), a class about Jewish philosophical questions, and a class about Talmudic heroines. Each of the teachers stood up for about a minute to talk about their classes so that we could choose, and I listened to each of them, sort of passively, exhausted from the five hours of Hebrew that preceded our trip to our Beit Midrash program. But then Gila Fine, the editor-in-chief of Koren Publishers stood up to introduce her class, Talmudic Heroines. Now at this point, I had decided that I was going to take the Tanakh class. I don't remember what Gila said, but I remember how it made me feel. It made me feel like I was capable of understanding this text that I had put aside for so long. I told myself I would try it for one day, and if I didn't like it, I could switch.
The Talmud had always been presented to me as one thing, an authoritative text that was filled with laws and rabbis disagreeing with each other. And it is that. But then I learned about Aggada. According to Shmuel Hanagid, "Aggada is every interpretation that appears in the Talmud about any matter that is not a commandment," that is to say, it's all of the stories that come between the pieces of Jewish law. Aggada is substantially more accessible to the inexperienced reader than the maze of halakha, Jewish Law, especially when you get to learn about it through the lens of different female archetypes. I knew I wanted to stay in the class the first time Classical texts (which I am ironically more familiar with) were introduced to learn about the female archetypes: Circe as the femme fatale, Medea as the shrew. We learned about Yalta, who seems to be a shrew when you first look at the story, but when you examine the story more deeply, you can see the complexities of her character and she can be redeemed. I continued to show up to Beit Midrash each Tuesday, enjoying learning about these women and the fact that they were engrossing enough to distract me from my chronic pain, but I didn't think much of it. I did, however, sign up for a Talmud class at Hebrew University.
Fast forward to two weeks ago when we returned to Beit Midrash after Passover break and I still remembered all of the steps that one is supposed to take to successfully look at a piece of aggada: close reading, context, hypotheses (with subcategories under each of those that I'm happy to share if you're interested). During my Talmud class on the same day, I felt like I could actually compare two texts that we had read. And I realized that Aggada, and to some extent Talmud in general were no longer so out of reach. I have a lot more to learn, but the hardest part was taking the first step.
I owe so much to both Gila Fine and Jason Rogoff for putting up with my ridiculous number of questions and for making Talmud accessible and exciting.
These were not words I understood or even heard before I got to college. I grew up with what I still think was an amazing Jewish education, but this education did not include learning what these words mean (I'm still not entirely clear on what Gemara is so if someone could clear that up for me, that would be great, thanks). Instead we learned about Judaism's relationship with social justice and how to live practically as Jews in the world. We explored big philosophical questions, and I got the best relationship/sex education that I've ever had. But those things didn't help me when I couldn't understand the announcements at Hillel dinner or what my friends were talking about going to on Thursday nights (by the way, that one is Mishmar, a celebration to get ready for shabbat often involving singing and cholent, a sort of stew).
Talmud especially, even though I didn't include it on that list, was a scary entity with too many words in Hebrew or Aramaic on a page for me to even begin to understand. I felt like Talmud was for "real Jewish scholars," and that I was not one of them, despite the fact that I am a Judaic Studies major who wants to be a rabbi. Bible was comfortable. Bible I could read in English and no-one would judge me. Even Mishnah was made accessible by our former Jewish Chaplain through reading of "Strange Stories in the Mishnah." But I never touched Talmud. I didn't dare register for a Talmud class or God-forbid show up to a Talmud shiur (class).
But that all changed when I got to Israel. Through my program, we had to option to choose between four different classes to take on Tuesday afternoons. The options were an advanced Talmud class, a class based on the Tanakh (the Jewish Bible), a class about Jewish philosophical questions, and a class about Talmudic heroines. Each of the teachers stood up for about a minute to talk about their classes so that we could choose, and I listened to each of them, sort of passively, exhausted from the five hours of Hebrew that preceded our trip to our Beit Midrash program. But then Gila Fine, the editor-in-chief of Koren Publishers stood up to introduce her class, Talmudic Heroines. Now at this point, I had decided that I was going to take the Tanakh class. I don't remember what Gila said, but I remember how it made me feel. It made me feel like I was capable of understanding this text that I had put aside for so long. I told myself I would try it for one day, and if I didn't like it, I could switch.
The Talmud had always been presented to me as one thing, an authoritative text that was filled with laws and rabbis disagreeing with each other. And it is that. But then I learned about Aggada. According to Shmuel Hanagid, "Aggada is every interpretation that appears in the Talmud about any matter that is not a commandment," that is to say, it's all of the stories that come between the pieces of Jewish law. Aggada is substantially more accessible to the inexperienced reader than the maze of halakha, Jewish Law, especially when you get to learn about it through the lens of different female archetypes. I knew I wanted to stay in the class the first time Classical texts (which I am ironically more familiar with) were introduced to learn about the female archetypes: Circe as the femme fatale, Medea as the shrew. We learned about Yalta, who seems to be a shrew when you first look at the story, but when you examine the story more deeply, you can see the complexities of her character and she can be redeemed. I continued to show up to Beit Midrash each Tuesday, enjoying learning about these women and the fact that they were engrossing enough to distract me from my chronic pain, but I didn't think much of it. I did, however, sign up for a Talmud class at Hebrew University.
Fast forward to two weeks ago when we returned to Beit Midrash after Passover break and I still remembered all of the steps that one is supposed to take to successfully look at a piece of aggada: close reading, context, hypotheses (with subcategories under each of those that I'm happy to share if you're interested). During my Talmud class on the same day, I felt like I could actually compare two texts that we had read. And I realized that Aggada, and to some extent Talmud in general were no longer so out of reach. I have a lot more to learn, but the hardest part was taking the first step.
I owe so much to both Gila Fine and Jason Rogoff for putting up with my ridiculous number of questions and for making Talmud accessible and exciting.
Friday, March 30, 2018
21 Things I've Learned in 21 Years (Or the last three months)
In no particular order, categorical or otherwise, here are 21 things I've learned:
1. Sometimes it's okay to say, "I can't be here." People are bound to forgive you, and you're doing a good job taking care of yourself.
2. External phone chargers are the best thing on earth. Why didn't you own one before January?
3. It's okay to not educate some days. It's okay to not talk about things that you usually love talking about.
4. Walking out of a room when you feel broken and overwhelmed is not rude or selfish; it's self care.
5. Trusting people is hard but necessary especially when the people you usually talk to are at least an ocean and a 7 hour time difference away from you.
6. You will learn to cook. Slowly. But somedays you will say, hell, I'm making breakfast and dinner today; I'm going to pay for the darn 22 shekel (about $6.50) salad for lunch.
7. If you attend enough Jewish events, you can get a lot of free meals.
8. Anti-itch cream and lactaid are hard to find in Israel(although there is a lot of great goat and sheep cheese). Bring some with you next time. Also ziplock bags(although, if you're looking for those, you can find them in the shuk, supposedly).
9. Public transportation is not nearly as scary as you think it is. Also, smartphones help.
10. You should have listened many years ago when some of your role models told you that tomorrow is a latter day.
11. You will meet people who make your intellectual heart sing. Musicians, talmud scholars, etc. Listen to them and learn from them.
12. Don't be ashamed of taking medicine. Your body needs it.
13. Sweet potatoes are delicious. Why did you choose to stop eating them so many years ago?
14. Don't try to speak another language while you're exhausted. You will not be successful. Instead, you will be standing in the middle of Super Pharm(the Walgreens/CVS of Israel) crying because you can't remember the word for eyeliner.
15. Wine is a great host/hostess gift. Keep a few decent bottles around for that purpose.
16. Sometimes you will be acutely aware of your gender. Acknowledge that, let yourself feel it and move on.
17. Sharing your food will help you connect to people. Also hungry college students seem to like dried pineapple, so keep some of that in your bag.
18. While food does bring people together, so does dietary restrictions. Go figure.
19. Some people will be assholes to you when you talk about being sick. Well meaning assholes are still assholes. You can walk away from them.
20. Throw away the empty Gatorade bottles on your floor. Otherwise, you will in fact trip over them in the middle of the night and end up with bruises on both knees.
21. You are always learning and growing. It's about the journey, not the destination.
1. Sometimes it's okay to say, "I can't be here." People are bound to forgive you, and you're doing a good job taking care of yourself.
2. External phone chargers are the best thing on earth. Why didn't you own one before January?
3. It's okay to not educate some days. It's okay to not talk about things that you usually love talking about.
4. Walking out of a room when you feel broken and overwhelmed is not rude or selfish; it's self care.
5. Trusting people is hard but necessary especially when the people you usually talk to are at least an ocean and a 7 hour time difference away from you.
6. You will learn to cook. Slowly. But somedays you will say, hell, I'm making breakfast and dinner today; I'm going to pay for the darn 22 shekel (about $6.50) salad for lunch.
7. If you attend enough Jewish events, you can get a lot of free meals.
8. Anti-itch cream and lactaid are hard to find in Israel(although there is a lot of great goat and sheep cheese). Bring some with you next time. Also ziplock bags(although, if you're looking for those, you can find them in the shuk, supposedly).
9. Public transportation is not nearly as scary as you think it is. Also, smartphones help.
10. You should have listened many years ago when some of your role models told you that tomorrow is a latter day.
11. You will meet people who make your intellectual heart sing. Musicians, talmud scholars, etc. Listen to them and learn from them.
12. Don't be ashamed of taking medicine. Your body needs it.
13. Sweet potatoes are delicious. Why did you choose to stop eating them so many years ago?
14. Don't try to speak another language while you're exhausted. You will not be successful. Instead, you will be standing in the middle of Super Pharm(the Walgreens/CVS of Israel) crying because you can't remember the word for eyeliner.
15. Wine is a great host/hostess gift. Keep a few decent bottles around for that purpose.
16. Sometimes you will be acutely aware of your gender. Acknowledge that, let yourself feel it and move on.
17. Sharing your food will help you connect to people. Also hungry college students seem to like dried pineapple, so keep some of that in your bag.
18. While food does bring people together, so does dietary restrictions. Go figure.
19. Some people will be assholes to you when you talk about being sick. Well meaning assholes are still assholes. You can walk away from them.
20. Throw away the empty Gatorade bottles on your floor. Otherwise, you will in fact trip over them in the middle of the night and end up with bruises on both knees.
21. You are always learning and growing. It's about the journey, not the destination.
Monday, March 12, 2018
Let Them In, Let It Show: An Open Letter To Those Who Have Helped Me
Dear Kind Teacher/Youth Advisor/Rabbi/Professor/Mentor/Friend/Whatever else I forgot,
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Whether I had one conversation with you or 200,
Whether I trusted you with my whole self or just let you in a little bit,
Whether you offered advice that I decided to take(or not take) or not,
Whether you comforted me when I was afflicted or afflicted me when I was too comfortable,
Some of you knew me through the worst parts of my life so far, and some of you have only met me since I've started to come out the other side. Although there will still always be things I struggle with.
Some of you have watched me grow over many years, and some of you only interacted with me for a few weeks or days or months.
Some of you know me now that I identify as being sick, and some of you only interacted with me pre-diagnosis.
Some of you know/knew me in a professional capacity, others in a personal capacity, some in both.
Some of you I talked to a few hours ago, and some of you I haven't talked to in a number of years.
We've connected over religion, shared favorite texts, poetry, language, movies, and books.
No matter which of these categories you fall into. You have helped me in some way. Sometimes it was a text or email to check in, sometimes it was a slightly mocking joke.
So thank you again.
But it was hard for me to ask for your help. My heart sped up when I waited for your email or text back when I asked to talk or for an extension or apologized for leaving class. My hands shook as i walked up (or down) the stairs to your office or as I waited for the phone to ring.
And this blog post was hard to write. But it's important for two reasons. The first is that too often people who do so much are recognized so little in a world of text messages and facebook posts, and I think it's important to express my gratitude.
The second reason is that vulnerability is scary. But over my almost 21 years on this earth, I have learned that it is important. Open up the broken parts of yourself and trusting others can do everything from improving a hard day to building a relationship to saving a life in an number of ways. Crying in front of someone is terrifying.
We, including myself, spend so much time tying to appear like we "have it all together " But I am here to tell you that no person that you meet actually "has it all together" whatever that means. We all have parts of ourselves that we don't like to talk about, parts that are hard to trust other people with, parts of ourselves that are scary. We all have that in common, no matter how old we are or what kind of family we come from. And we all need help sometimes, even if we feel like we are all grown up. We are all human, after all. No-one deserves to walk alone.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Whether I had one conversation with you or 200,
Whether I trusted you with my whole self or just let you in a little bit,
Whether you offered advice that I decided to take(or not take) or not,
Whether you comforted me when I was afflicted or afflicted me when I was too comfortable,
Some of you knew me through the worst parts of my life so far, and some of you have only met me since I've started to come out the other side. Although there will still always be things I struggle with.
Some of you have watched me grow over many years, and some of you only interacted with me for a few weeks or days or months.
Some of you know me now that I identify as being sick, and some of you only interacted with me pre-diagnosis.
Some of you know/knew me in a professional capacity, others in a personal capacity, some in both.
Some of you I talked to a few hours ago, and some of you I haven't talked to in a number of years.
We've connected over religion, shared favorite texts, poetry, language, movies, and books.
No matter which of these categories you fall into. You have helped me in some way. Sometimes it was a text or email to check in, sometimes it was a slightly mocking joke.
So thank you again.
But it was hard for me to ask for your help. My heart sped up when I waited for your email or text back when I asked to talk or for an extension or apologized for leaving class. My hands shook as i walked up (or down) the stairs to your office or as I waited for the phone to ring.
And this blog post was hard to write. But it's important for two reasons. The first is that too often people who do so much are recognized so little in a world of text messages and facebook posts, and I think it's important to express my gratitude.
The second reason is that vulnerability is scary. But over my almost 21 years on this earth, I have learned that it is important. Open up the broken parts of yourself and trusting others can do everything from improving a hard day to building a relationship to saving a life in an number of ways. Crying in front of someone is terrifying.
We, including myself, spend so much time tying to appear like we "have it all together " But I am here to tell you that no person that you meet actually "has it all together" whatever that means. We all have parts of ourselves that we don't like to talk about, parts that are hard to trust other people with, parts of ourselves that are scary. We all have that in common, no matter how old we are or what kind of family we come from. And we all need help sometimes, even if we feel like we are all grown up. We are all human, after all. No-one deserves to walk alone.
Monday, February 19, 2018
Why I'm So Open About Being Sick (And Why It's Important)
At the Debbie Friedman Memorial Concert at Hebrew Union College Jewish Institute of Religion, Cantor Evan Kent introduced the performance of Debbie Friedman's Mi Shebeirach (the prayer for healing) by discussing the fact that for many years before Debbie wrote this melody, the Mi Shebeirach had been absent from Reform liturgy. Today, this version of the prayer is sung at almost every service in almost every reform synagogue in the USA. The reintroduction of this prayer made it okay to talk about the need for healing of not only our bodies, but our minds, spirits, and souls as well.
As the familiar words of the Mi Shebeirach floated through the room, I wondered what Debbie's intention was behind this song--maybe she wanted to normalize talking about illness because she was sick? Maybe she just thought the words were beautiful? Those are questions we will probably never know the answers to. This being said, deliberating on Debbie's intentions, her kavanah, if you will (the Hebrew word for the spirit or intention behind something), got me considering why I choose to talk about having a chronic illness--or more often write about it as you can see if you have read any of my other blog posts. I came up with two reasons why I talk about being sick, and why it's important to do so.
One night, in a room full of friends whom I had been close with and known for years and one person I didn't, I experienced something I hadn't ever experienced before. This woman, whom I had never met, and at that point, I don't think I even knew her name, introduced herself as a "spoonie" (If you don't know what that is, see this wikipedia article). In that moment, I both high-fived her while the rest of the room looked at us with bamboozled looks on their faces, and I no longer felt alone in being sick--even before I actually had a conversation with her. That night, at least to an extent, changed my life because I had met someone who was also open about being sick, and I no longer had to feel alone, a feeling I had been experiencing pretty much 24/7 over the previous two weeks. She inspired me to start talking about being sick even more openly in my everyday life, not only online, and since then, I have had many of those experiences of camaraderie or anti-loneliness often in the other direction as well with people whom I didn't even know were sick coming up to me and telling me that my writing about chronic illness made them feel less alone.
Loneliness is one of the least talked about and yet most significant "symptoms" of having a chronic illness. Pain itself is isolating; Elaine Scarry wrote, in her book, The Body in Pain, that "to have great pain is to have certainty; to hear that another person has pain is to have doubt." In our social media filled world, we don't talk about our personal struggles that much. Chronic nausea or back pain is not something that one would usually post about on Snapchat or Facebook, or something that I would divulge in an interview for a study abroad program (Shout out to the whole staff at the Nachshon Project for being so supportive and helpful when it comes to me being sick). The lack of media about chronic illness and the lack of conversation about it in general circles causes extreme loneliness and often even depression in people who struggle with chronic illness.
Sharing my story may be scary because I can never truly know how people will react (It feels a heck of a lot like "coming out," an experience I wrote about in this blog post), but talking about it lets other people in. One of the things that I regret is not talking about being sick right after my diagnosis because while it would have been the hardest time to talk about it, I was also incredibly lonely during that time. Talking about being sick helps me, or any other person with chronic illness to feel less alone. Since that night this past summer, I have had way more conversations with other chronic illness warriors and joined a lot of facebook groups for people with chronic illnesses, and those experiences have made me feel so much less alone. Being chronically ill, whether you identify with the spoon theory or not, puts you in a sort of club that you don't want to be in, but you can still be grateful for the other people fighting besides you. And my openness has allowed me to provide the experience that the night last summer provided for me: it has allowed me to help people learn how to help me, and it has aided me in making others feel less alone.
The second reason that I talk so openly about being sick is because I hate the way that we talk about illness, and I want to help people get better at talking about illness. There is no Hallmark cards for people who won't be "getting well soon.". There are very few movies or TV shows out there that accurately depict people with chronic illness. And because there's so little information out there (there is quite a bit on The Mighty if you're interested), when my friend hears that I am chronically ill, they don't know what to say. And that's okay. No one taught them how to help people with chronic illness, so I try to. Most people don't even have the vocabulary to talk about chronic illness. Since I wrote my most popular blog post about what not to say to people with chronic illness, I have actually had people correct themselves in front of me based on the suggestions I provided in that blog post, and I have also had people, sometimes people I didn't even know that well who are friends with me on Facebook, come up to me and thank me because my suggestions have helped them or helped them to talk to their friend with chronic illness. Those conversations are what makes talking about being sick worth it. If I can help one person, I have succeeded in my goal.
The bottom line is this: I am open about being sick because it allows me to send the message to people who are struggling that they are not alone, and it allows me to help those who do not struggle with chronic illness learn how to help. Before that Debbie Friedman Memorial Concert, I had never considered the inclusion of the Mi Shebeirach in the service to be much like my first blog posts about being chronically ill, but the two things both have the intention, or perceived intention, of making it okay to talk about being sick and of making us all feel a little less alone in our prayer for healing.
As the familiar words of the Mi Shebeirach floated through the room, I wondered what Debbie's intention was behind this song--maybe she wanted to normalize talking about illness because she was sick? Maybe she just thought the words were beautiful? Those are questions we will probably never know the answers to. This being said, deliberating on Debbie's intentions, her kavanah, if you will (the Hebrew word for the spirit or intention behind something), got me considering why I choose to talk about having a chronic illness--or more often write about it as you can see if you have read any of my other blog posts. I came up with two reasons why I talk about being sick, and why it's important to do so.
One night, in a room full of friends whom I had been close with and known for years and one person I didn't, I experienced something I hadn't ever experienced before. This woman, whom I had never met, and at that point, I don't think I even knew her name, introduced herself as a "spoonie" (If you don't know what that is, see this wikipedia article). In that moment, I both high-fived her while the rest of the room looked at us with bamboozled looks on their faces, and I no longer felt alone in being sick--even before I actually had a conversation with her. That night, at least to an extent, changed my life because I had met someone who was also open about being sick, and I no longer had to feel alone, a feeling I had been experiencing pretty much 24/7 over the previous two weeks. She inspired me to start talking about being sick even more openly in my everyday life, not only online, and since then, I have had many of those experiences of camaraderie or anti-loneliness often in the other direction as well with people whom I didn't even know were sick coming up to me and telling me that my writing about chronic illness made them feel less alone.
Loneliness is one of the least talked about and yet most significant "symptoms" of having a chronic illness. Pain itself is isolating; Elaine Scarry wrote, in her book, The Body in Pain, that "to have great pain is to have certainty; to hear that another person has pain is to have doubt." In our social media filled world, we don't talk about our personal struggles that much. Chronic nausea or back pain is not something that one would usually post about on Snapchat or Facebook, or something that I would divulge in an interview for a study abroad program (Shout out to the whole staff at the Nachshon Project for being so supportive and helpful when it comes to me being sick). The lack of media about chronic illness and the lack of conversation about it in general circles causes extreme loneliness and often even depression in people who struggle with chronic illness.
Sharing my story may be scary because I can never truly know how people will react (It feels a heck of a lot like "coming out," an experience I wrote about in this blog post), but talking about it lets other people in. One of the things that I regret is not talking about being sick right after my diagnosis because while it would have been the hardest time to talk about it, I was also incredibly lonely during that time. Talking about being sick helps me, or any other person with chronic illness to feel less alone. Since that night this past summer, I have had way more conversations with other chronic illness warriors and joined a lot of facebook groups for people with chronic illnesses, and those experiences have made me feel so much less alone. Being chronically ill, whether you identify with the spoon theory or not, puts you in a sort of club that you don't want to be in, but you can still be grateful for the other people fighting besides you. And my openness has allowed me to provide the experience that the night last summer provided for me: it has allowed me to help people learn how to help me, and it has aided me in making others feel less alone.
The second reason that I talk so openly about being sick is because I hate the way that we talk about illness, and I want to help people get better at talking about illness. There is no Hallmark cards for people who won't be "getting well soon.". There are very few movies or TV shows out there that accurately depict people with chronic illness. And because there's so little information out there (there is quite a bit on The Mighty if you're interested), when my friend hears that I am chronically ill, they don't know what to say. And that's okay. No one taught them how to help people with chronic illness, so I try to. Most people don't even have the vocabulary to talk about chronic illness. Since I wrote my most popular blog post about what not to say to people with chronic illness, I have actually had people correct themselves in front of me based on the suggestions I provided in that blog post, and I have also had people, sometimes people I didn't even know that well who are friends with me on Facebook, come up to me and thank me because my suggestions have helped them or helped them to talk to their friend with chronic illness. Those conversations are what makes talking about being sick worth it. If I can help one person, I have succeeded in my goal.
The bottom line is this: I am open about being sick because it allows me to send the message to people who are struggling that they are not alone, and it allows me to help those who do not struggle with chronic illness learn how to help. Before that Debbie Friedman Memorial Concert, I had never considered the inclusion of the Mi Shebeirach in the service to be much like my first blog posts about being chronically ill, but the two things both have the intention, or perceived intention, of making it okay to talk about being sick and of making us all feel a little less alone in our prayer for healing.
Saturday, February 10, 2018
Busses, Mechitzot, and Cabbage: Finding Moments of Comfort in the Uncomfortable
Last night, for Kabbalat Shabbat, I sat in an Orthodox synagogue, a place where I would usually be very uncomfortable, and walking into the room and seeing the mechitza(the curtain that separates men and women) and sitting down in a room full of people speaking a language that I don't know all that well, I was quite uncomfortable. I felt like I didn't belong there, but then they started singing one of the first psalms of Kabbalat Shabbat, and I recognized the tune--this experience partly just shows the universality of Shalom Carlebach's music--it was a niggun (a song without words) that we had been singing at camp for my whole life. In that moment, I felt just a little bit more comfortable in that uncomfortable moment.
My time in Israel in general has been filled with lots of things that make me uncomfortable and anxious. Sometimes these are things I see: some Chasidic Jews trying to block off the main road that I was walking along last Shabbat. Sometimes these are things that I hear: one of the people who was head of the creation of the security fence along Israel's borders. But more often it seems, it's the little things that are different about this place that make me uncomfortable. This may sound silly, but one of the things that has made me the most uncomfortable since I've been here is the Israeli eating schedule--people eat a small breakfast, then a sandwich at 10, and then lunch at 2, and yet another one has been the fact that the work week here is Sunday-Thursday.
Yesterday I had many experiences, big and small, that made me anxious and uncomfortable, yet I am so glad that I had the strength to push through those experiences and find the joy that came from the results of them. One of these experiences was going to the aforementioned Kabbalat Shabbat service. But let me give you a few more examples: I love going to the shuk (the outdoor market in Jerusalem), but no-one wanted to go with me at 8 AM on a Friday morning, so I decided that I was going to fight my anxiety and go by myself. And it was a profound, almost spiritual experience, pushing through the people with their carts, smelling the fresh baked challah, and taking in the bright colors of all of the fruits and vegetables. In that process, I managed to find my favorite restaurant in the shuk (which is a true miracle because I have no sense of direction whatsoever), and eat the same thing that I got on my Birthright trip last year, providing me a little bit of comfort in a sea of discomfort and people yelling in Hebrew.
Let me preface this next experience: one of the things in this world that makes me more anxious than anything is public transportation. I didn't grow up taking it, and I still have barely ever taken it alone (with the exception of the Metra in Chicago which really does not count). But yesterday, to get where I was going for Shabbat, I needed to, with the help of my smart phone, take two buses and walk three blocks. This was scary to me, partly because unlike in the States, I don't know the language all that well, so even if I did get up the courage to ask someone for directions, there is a possibility that I wouldn't be able to understand them--also I am terrible at keeping my balance on buses. This made me uncomfortable, so I put my headphones in and played some of my favorite nerdy songs, providing me a little bit of comfort.
This last miniature experience of uncomfortability may seem the most ridiculous to you, but I think it may have taught me the most. I had never eaten cabbage before. Don't ask me why; perhaps my mom doesn't like it? But at dinner last night, when the roasted cabbage got passed to me, I took some because the smell reminded me of my mom's brussels sprouts and that made me feel comfortable with this unfamiliar food. And I ended up liking it.
This is what I've learned: sometimes, you have to push through the resistance and anxiety in your mind and do new things because, like the two buses, they may lead to an incredible Shabbat experience, or like the cabbage, they may lead to a new food that you like, or like the prayer service, they may lead to a realization that people aren't as different from one another as you thought they were. Life is about learning to sit in the feeling of being uncomfortable and taking risks, and maybe you will find a moment of comfort in it all.
My time in Israel in general has been filled with lots of things that make me uncomfortable and anxious. Sometimes these are things I see: some Chasidic Jews trying to block off the main road that I was walking along last Shabbat. Sometimes these are things that I hear: one of the people who was head of the creation of the security fence along Israel's borders. But more often it seems, it's the little things that are different about this place that make me uncomfortable. This may sound silly, but one of the things that has made me the most uncomfortable since I've been here is the Israeli eating schedule--people eat a small breakfast, then a sandwich at 10, and then lunch at 2, and yet another one has been the fact that the work week here is Sunday-Thursday.
Yesterday I had many experiences, big and small, that made me anxious and uncomfortable, yet I am so glad that I had the strength to push through those experiences and find the joy that came from the results of them. One of these experiences was going to the aforementioned Kabbalat Shabbat service. But let me give you a few more examples: I love going to the shuk (the outdoor market in Jerusalem), but no-one wanted to go with me at 8 AM on a Friday morning, so I decided that I was going to fight my anxiety and go by myself. And it was a profound, almost spiritual experience, pushing through the people with their carts, smelling the fresh baked challah, and taking in the bright colors of all of the fruits and vegetables. In that process, I managed to find my favorite restaurant in the shuk (which is a true miracle because I have no sense of direction whatsoever), and eat the same thing that I got on my Birthright trip last year, providing me a little bit of comfort in a sea of discomfort and people yelling in Hebrew.
Let me preface this next experience: one of the things in this world that makes me more anxious than anything is public transportation. I didn't grow up taking it, and I still have barely ever taken it alone (with the exception of the Metra in Chicago which really does not count). But yesterday, to get where I was going for Shabbat, I needed to, with the help of my smart phone, take two buses and walk three blocks. This was scary to me, partly because unlike in the States, I don't know the language all that well, so even if I did get up the courage to ask someone for directions, there is a possibility that I wouldn't be able to understand them--also I am terrible at keeping my balance on buses. This made me uncomfortable, so I put my headphones in and played some of my favorite nerdy songs, providing me a little bit of comfort.
This last miniature experience of uncomfortability may seem the most ridiculous to you, but I think it may have taught me the most. I had never eaten cabbage before. Don't ask me why; perhaps my mom doesn't like it? But at dinner last night, when the roasted cabbage got passed to me, I took some because the smell reminded me of my mom's brussels sprouts and that made me feel comfortable with this unfamiliar food. And I ended up liking it.
This is what I've learned: sometimes, you have to push through the resistance and anxiety in your mind and do new things because, like the two buses, they may lead to an incredible Shabbat experience, or like the cabbage, they may lead to a new food that you like, or like the prayer service, they may lead to a realization that people aren't as different from one another as you thought they were. Life is about learning to sit in the feeling of being uncomfortable and taking risks, and maybe you will find a moment of comfort in it all.
Monday, January 29, 2018
Pain in the Present: Living History In Israel
The sun was shining in Tel Aviv, and the hard granite of the Trumpeldor cemetery was pressing into my bottom, but at that moment, every joint in my body ached, and my spine felt like someone was scalding it with a hot poker. We sat there, by the tomb of Arik Einstein, one of the most influential Israeli musicians in history, listening to one of his most famous songs, Uf Gozal, and I found myself crying behind my dark sunglasses. Here was a conflict between the past and the present.
The unfortunate truth about pain is that it requires in itself, a presence. When something hurts, it's like a notification on your phone that won't go away no matter how many times you press the clear button. You try to breathe through it, but it doesn't do anything. The worst part of pain like this is that you wonder whether you'll ever feel better again, but that's talking about the future, and I'll get there in a second.
Uf Gozal, which is about a bird leaving the nest, a metaphor for Israeli teenagers leaving home to serve in the army, is a song of the past and a song from my past. When I was in high school, I listened to this song over and over again. It wasn't because I resonated with the words; I don't think I knew what they meant. I resonated with the emotion contained within them. There's so much more to be said about the power of music and memory, but that's a different story. In that moment, feelings from the past and present overwhelmed me in that moment.
Half of me wanted so badly to focus on the melody of the song and the words of our tour guide, but every few seconds, the pain would reassert itself, essentially saying, "pay attention to me. I don't care abut what you're supposed to be thinking about; I am your present."
Israel is a place of living history. It's a place that combines past, present, and future, and so did that moment. Israel is a place where you can stroll down the streets of Jerusalem wearing Beats headphones. The present in that moment in the cemetery was a profoundly isolating experience, and the future was terrifying, but the past, at least in that moment, was comforting. The past can teach us something even with pain in the present, and even looking in retrospect. And I'm excited to keep on learning from it because I know that there is a future for me even when I don't feel like it.
The unfortunate truth about pain is that it requires in itself, a presence. When something hurts, it's like a notification on your phone that won't go away no matter how many times you press the clear button. You try to breathe through it, but it doesn't do anything. The worst part of pain like this is that you wonder whether you'll ever feel better again, but that's talking about the future, and I'll get there in a second.
Uf Gozal, which is about a bird leaving the nest, a metaphor for Israeli teenagers leaving home to serve in the army, is a song of the past and a song from my past. When I was in high school, I listened to this song over and over again. It wasn't because I resonated with the words; I don't think I knew what they meant. I resonated with the emotion contained within them. There's so much more to be said about the power of music and memory, but that's a different story. In that moment, feelings from the past and present overwhelmed me in that moment.
Half of me wanted so badly to focus on the melody of the song and the words of our tour guide, but every few seconds, the pain would reassert itself, essentially saying, "pay attention to me. I don't care abut what you're supposed to be thinking about; I am your present."
Israel is a place of living history. It's a place that combines past, present, and future, and so did that moment. Israel is a place where you can stroll down the streets of Jerusalem wearing Beats headphones. The present in that moment in the cemetery was a profoundly isolating experience, and the future was terrifying, but the past, at least in that moment, was comforting. The past can teach us something even with pain in the present, and even looking in retrospect. And I'm excited to keep on learning from it because I know that there is a future for me even when I don't feel like it.
Sunday, January 14, 2018
By Holding Hands and Marching Together: A Jewish Case For Fighting For Justice
"What happened to this world? We just don't know anymore. What happened to this world? We just don't love anymore. Who gon' do it, if we don't do it?"
-Muddy Magnolias
Sitting in the sanctuary of my home synagogue listening to my cantor and an incredible guest singer belt out these words, I felt a strong call to action. It was something almost visceral. And I was reminded of the famous quote from Rabbi Hillel, "If I am not for myself who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when?" and yet another quote from Pirkei Avot, "You are not obligated to complete the work, but nor are you free to desist from it." So what does that mean for all of us on January 14th of 2018? These quotes call us to recognize the urgency of the time we are living in, to stand up for one another, and to fight for justice.
In his speech at Beth Emet Synagogue in Evanston, IL (my home synagogue) on January 13, 1958, five years before the I Have A Dream speech, citing to a common psychological principle of the day, MLK Jr. discussed the need to be "maladapted" to our surroundings. He said that we should not just go along with injustice, bigotry, hate, and hostility, but we should be uncomfortable with it. That's a call that still rings true today. I have generally been avoiding the news, but from the little I do hear, Trump has said something outrageously racist again, Kellyanne Conway is denying that the new tax plan disproportionately affects people in the lower tax brackets, and it is still common for employers to pay disabled workers or female workers less than one would pay a male worker. We cannot see these circumstances as normal, even though news like this comes out every single day.
You may be saying, but the problems going on in the current political climate aren't directly affecting me; why would I take time out of my Saturday to go to this march? And to you I say this, Deuteronomy 10:19 reads, "You must love the stranger because you were strangers in the land of Egypt." Even if every person who is affected by the new tax code or the comments of our president is a stranger to you, as Jews, we still have a duty to protect and love. We still have a duty to stand up for the values that we were commanded to hold close to ourselves.
So what does this have to with the Women's March Boston: The People Persist? This march is a way to answer the calls to action from Hillel and Pirkei Avot. It is a way to "love the stranger" and to "love our neighbors," both of which are core Jewish values. It is a tangible thing that many of us can do. It is a way to honor the Jewish value of Tikkun Olam, repairing the world, and the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I wish I could be at the march, but I will be in Israel for a semester abroad (keep an eye on this blog for updates), and I'll be marching with you in spirit.
A Note on Shabbat: I cannot make a Jewish argument for going to the Women's March without recognizing that it is on Shabbat. From my perspective, participating in the march does not in itself violate the spirit of Shabbat, but I acknowledge that some Jews may feel differently. If this is you, the issues are still yours. Even if you choose to go to the next protest that falls on a Wednesday or support the cause with your dollars, you are still fulfilling all of the same values as those who are able to go to the march (The same goes for if you are not physically able to get to the march or you have a conflict on that day).
I leave you with a reading from the Miskan T'filah, the official prayerbook of the Reform movement:
"Standing on the parted shores of history
We still believe what we were taught
Before ever we stood at Sinai's foot,
That wherever we go, it is eternally Egypt
There is a better place, a Promised Land
And the winding way to that promise passes through the wilderness
And there's no way to get from here to there
Except by joining hands and marching together."
Sunday, January 7, 2018
New Years Resolutions 2018
I know it's been a long time since I updated this blog, and for that, I sincerely apologize, but the good news is, in the coming year, I will be publishing much much more, especially because I will be attempting to publish every week while I am in Israel this coming semester. These blog posts will be about anything I have found interesting in the week or really anything else, and I hope you will continue to read.
Now, onto my New Years Resolutions. I have a hard time with New Years Resolutions. I often feel like they are empty promises to myself that I never end up keeping, so this year, I'm going to make them public with the hope that being accountable to other people will help me to achieve my goals.
1. Drink 2 Bottles of Water a Day
I've been harking on and on about drinking water without doing it myself, so I figured, I might as well make a change. Water can help with headaches, muscle pain, and pretty much any physical ailment that you can think of, so why wouldn't I try to drink more of it. I'm also tracking this on habitica.com with the hope that it will make me more effective.
2. Write Something Every Day.
I've written about journaling before, and I just want to reiterate how much better it makes me feel. It's like having a friend to come home to at the end of the day, but that friend is always there and never judgmental.
3. Read 12 Books in 2018
I read maybe 2 books in 2017 that weren't for school, and I want to change that because I used to be someone who read a book a week. Now, I don't think I'm going to be able to read that much, but I am making my goal one book a month.
4. Practice Gratitude Every Day
There's been studies done that show that writing down three things that you're grateful for every day can make you happier. I'm trying that in 2018.
5. Cut Down on Using the Social Internet
Scrolling through social media makes me happy for about the first fifteen minutes that I'm doing it, but after that, it just makes me anxious and encourages me to compare myself to others, something that is definitely unhealthy, so I'm trying to cut back on that in 2018. We'll see how it goes.
What are your resolutions? Drop me a comment and let me know! Happy New Year!
Now, onto my New Years Resolutions. I have a hard time with New Years Resolutions. I often feel like they are empty promises to myself that I never end up keeping, so this year, I'm going to make them public with the hope that being accountable to other people will help me to achieve my goals.
1. Drink 2 Bottles of Water a Day
I've been harking on and on about drinking water without doing it myself, so I figured, I might as well make a change. Water can help with headaches, muscle pain, and pretty much any physical ailment that you can think of, so why wouldn't I try to drink more of it. I'm also tracking this on habitica.com with the hope that it will make me more effective.
2. Write Something Every Day.
I've written about journaling before, and I just want to reiterate how much better it makes me feel. It's like having a friend to come home to at the end of the day, but that friend is always there and never judgmental.
3. Read 12 Books in 2018
I read maybe 2 books in 2017 that weren't for school, and I want to change that because I used to be someone who read a book a week. Now, I don't think I'm going to be able to read that much, but I am making my goal one book a month.
4. Practice Gratitude Every Day
There's been studies done that show that writing down three things that you're grateful for every day can make you happier. I'm trying that in 2018.
5. Cut Down on Using the Social Internet
Scrolling through social media makes me happy for about the first fifteen minutes that I'm doing it, but after that, it just makes me anxious and encourages me to compare myself to others, something that is definitely unhealthy, so I'm trying to cut back on that in 2018. We'll see how it goes.
What are your resolutions? Drop me a comment and let me know! Happy New Year!
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