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In this week’s parsha, Jacob leaves his hometown of Beer Sheva. He has just received a blessing that was intended for his brother Esau by impersonating him and deceiving their father. Jacob must forever leave behind everything and everyone familiar to him.

The story of Jacob is not a simple story of struggle and salvation. Hardship continues to pummel him over the next twenty years, beginning subtly during his first night alone, when he must use a stone as his pillow. The next day, his uncle Laban harbors him in a neighboring town. Although at first Laban seems friendly and hospitable, he deceives Jacob again and again. Laban tricks Jacob into marrying his oldest daughter Leah, when Jacob really wants to marry the younger Rachel, and he tricks repeatedly him in their business dealings. The level of distrust is so high that Jacob takes his household and flees in secret, for fear that Laban will renege on every promise he’s made.

Is this a Jewish lesson in karma? Maybe. But there’s another insight I take from this story. Throughout this chapter, we see Jacob’s troubles punctuated by moments of clarity, elation, and success. He does not let his troubles get him down; instead he accepts the situation he is in and remains open to spiritual signs, emotions, and opportunities. In his dream that first night, with his cheek against the rock, he sees angels moving up and down a ladder to heaven and feels the presence of G-d. His openness allows him to experiences love so profound that he lifts an enormous stone off a well with superhuman strength, and 7 years of labor feels to him like just a few days. He uses his time working for Laban to build his own wealth through some cunning sheep breeding practices. He meets angels again after reconciling with his uncle, and they escort Jacob and his family back to the holy land he had fled. He sires 12 sons – the population boost required to truly form the Jewish nation promised in the birthright he took from Esau.

It can be comforting to fit ourselves into the typical hero archetype – climb the mountain, slay the dragon, live happily ever after – life experience often tells a different story. I find that no matter how many times I rise to meet life’s many challenges, there is always another one coming down the pike. At times, it can be discouraging. Is life really just a series of struggles and disappointments? The story of Jacob tells us that it’s not. Though he labors in the physical world, he remains open to the emotion of love and to spiritual signs that make him feel at peace in the world. Jacob is a master of accepting the things he cannot change. It’s because of his acceptance that he is able to change the things that he can.

My kavannah for this week is the principle demonstrated by Jacob’s acceptance. It was only when he accepted sleeping on a pillow of stone that he glimpsed angels. When we accept the unchangeable, uncomfortable circumstances in our own lives, we become free to focus on all the positive things around us. Meditation is a time for all the complaints and disappointments in our minds to quiet down so that when we open our eyes, we are better able to navigate the challenges life brings us.

My Heart by Kim Addonizio

That Mississippi chicken shack.
That initial-scarred tabletop,
that tiny little dance floor to the left of the band.
That kiosk at the mall selling caramels and kitsch.
That tollbooth with its white-plastic-gloved worker
handing you your change.
That phone booth with the receiver ripped out.
That dressing room in the fetish boutique,
those curtains and mirrors.
That funhouse, that horror, that soundtrack of screams.
That putti-filled heaven raining gilt from the ceiling.
That haven for truckers, that bottomless cup.
That biome. That wilderness preserve.
That landing strip with no runway lights
where you are aiming your plane,
imagining a voice in the tower,
imagining a tower.

Any Morning by William Stafford

Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.

People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can’t
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People wont even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.

Last night we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, slowly and silently. There’s something so radical about paying attention, not just going through the motions. In that awareness, something shifts. One person said, last night, “how could I not come walk across the Brooklyn Bridge in silence. It’s the greatest idea!” And it’s a good reminder, too. We can stop at any point in our day and remind ourselves to pay attention, to take a breath, to quiet down and really check in to our outside and inside worlds.

I realized during the walk last night that when I started operating automatically, my pace quickened and I almost crashed into the person in front of me. It was a good realization. When we are on automatic, when we are reacting and not responding, we crash. It’s just what happens. A meditation practice allows us to cultivate that ability to pause (even for a microsecond) and feel the spaciousness necessary to realize we’re off track and step in the right direction.

When we all stepped off the bridge, crossed the street, and gathered around in a big circle on the sidewalk, we were asked to take a breath together. Moshe then said a few words to close (by request, printed below):

May our practice tonight be a source of inspiration so that we may continue to cross the narrow bridge of this world… unafraid, with confidence, kindness and presence.

May we continue to be a link in the chain of those who’ve come before us to bring us to this point, and those who will follow us throughout life’s journey.

Read the kavanah (intention) offered before the walk last night based on last year’s Walking Meditation Across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Check out pictures from last night on Facebook and video coming soon…

Chanukah starts next week, and JMC is “Getting in the Mood” with a workshop this Thursday night (7:45pm – 9pm at BZC). In preparation for the workshop, I’ve been thinking a lot about miracles, bringing light into darkness, and dedication. The word chanukah means dedication, and in the story of the holiday the holy Temple is desecrated and after being retaken by the Maccabees, it is rededicated, made holy again. As the days get colder and darker, the festival of lights is coming up, when we light candles and are reminded how even a tiny flame can illuminate the darkest night. Each night of the holiday we increase the number of candles, increasing the light, dispelling the darkness. It’s a good reminder (as all holidays are reminders) of the power of light, the beauty of kindling a flame, and that we all have the ability to shine light in dark places. I hope you’ll join us as we prepare for Chanukah, finding miraculous sparks and our own divine light as we rededicate ourselves, bringing holiness and meaning to the holiday through contemplative practice, teachings, discussion, and meditation.

Click here and here for more details about the Getting in the Mood for Chanukah workshop!

Prayers: I by Kadya Molodowsky, translated by Kathryn Hellerstein

Don’t let me fall
As a stone falls upon the hard ground.
And don’t let my hands become dry
As the twigs of a tree
When the wind beats down the last leaves.
And when the storm raises dust from the earth
With anger and howling,
Don’t let me become the last fly
Trembling terrified on a window pane.
Don’t let me fall.
I have asked for so much,
But as a blade of your grass in a distant wild field
Lets drop a seed in the lap of the earth
And dies away,
Sow in me your living breath,
As you sow a seed in the earth.

Words by Shinkichi Takahashi

I don’t take your words
Merely as words
Far from it.

I listen
To what makes you talk -
Whatever that is -
And me listen.

I was recently on vacation with my sister, friend and aunt when they asked me to explain exactly WHAT meditation is. My sister, an artist, was most interested in the ways it makes you feel deeply sensitized to the world, rather than “transcending” outside it. I think I agree with her – that is my favorite type as well. Of course, “inside” and “outside” all become a little meaningless when you are on a long meditation retreat, but as a daily practice,  say- walking to the train, sitting at my desk at work – eating breakfast – I do find it deeply rewarding to slow down and try and be as mindful as possible. I focus on feeling the chair beneath me, noticing how each step feels on my foot, tasting the food I am eating – slowly and deliberately.

Warning! If you try this approach, you might notice that slowing down brings you face-to-face with something that is bothering you that you are desperately trying to avoid. It happens to me all the time. I try to breath,  slow down, and see if I can just be with whatever feelings arise in that moment, instead of trying to analyze or explain them, or RUN away. I physically ask myself, where is this feeling in my body? In the chest? In the stomach? Wherever it is, i focus on it, and breath into it – I do NOT ask questions about it. Its very hard for someone who loves talk therapy and analysis in general!  I try and stick to this technique though, and it almost always becomes very very useful for getting through thick clouds of bad feelings that may not even be fully articulate-able into language.

We created a survey to help us better serve the Jewish meditation community in Brooklyn and beyond. Please take a minute (seriously, it’s short) to fill out our survey.  Not only will you be helping us to create the best mix of programming and plans, you can win a $25 gift certificate to Powell’s Books (powells.com)!

Please share this request with any interested family, friends, frenemies who you think might be at all interested in JMC Brooklyn.  Thanks!

Momentum by Catherine Doty

Your friends won’t try to talk you out of the barrel,
or your brag to go first, which has nothing to do with bravery.
And you’re so hungry to earn their love you forget
to claim first your, perhaps, last look at this mountain—
crab apples hanging sour in the sun, abandoned Buick,
a favorite place to play, dismantled and weathered
and delicate as a voting booth. Instead you dive straight away
and headfirst into darkness, the steel drum that dusts you,
like a chicken part, with rust. Looking out, there’s nothing
to see of your friends but their calves, which are scabby,
and below them the filthy sneakers, shifting, shifting,
every foot aching to kick you off this cliff.
Their faces, you know, are blank with anticipation,
the look you see when they watch TV eating popcorn.
They’re already talking about you as if you’re gone,
as if you boarded a bus and roared out of earshot,
when one foot flashes forward and launches you.

You know as you feel that first solid slam you are lost.
The barrel changes shape with each crash to earth,
as you will later, assuming and losing lives, but this
is so true now: ankles flayed to the bone, cracked ribs
and crushed mint, the brittle, pissy sumac. Right now
the pin oaks are popping in their sockets, the hillside
wears your shoes, clouds pleat and buck. You know, of course,
that no one’s going second, and friends who tell this story
will use the word idiot, rolling their hands in the air,
but you know you know what your life is for now and rise up,
and just about scalp yourself on that tree limb above you,
another thing you couldn’t possibly know was coming,
another which, like your first breath, was not your idea.