This week’s parsha (Torah chapter) is from the first book of the Torah, Genesis or Bereishit which is usually translated as, “In the Beginning.” It involves the famous story of Noah’s Ark. The story says that Noah was the only righteous man in a corrupted world. He is told by G-d to make an ark because there will be a flood that is going to destroy everything on earth except Noah and his family. Noah is then commanded to bring two members of each animal species (a male and female) into the ark.

After 365 days, a year of living on the ark, the water subsides and Noah is commanded to go onto dry land, G-d establishes a covenant with every living creature that there will never again be a flood to destroy the earth. A sign was sent to symbolize this covenant: “and it shall come to pass, when a cloud is brought over the earth…the rainbow shall be in the cloud.”

I’d like to take a moment to reflect on that idea, because there is a very special message here that resonated for me: the power of finding the beauty within the storm. Sometimes you may feel like the world as you know it is ending, or everything that you have been working towards is suddenly destroyed right before your eyes. For example, a career path or a personal relationship that you’ve been working towards suddenly crashes and burns. But instead of allowing that destruction to overcome you, the message here is to find the beauty within the storm. Meaning to use the storm as a real opportunity to check in with yourself and maybe find new direction.

I know for me, I often feel devastated when things don’t go my way. The example that comes up for me is when all of my efforts towards living and surfing in LA while studying to become an attorney were destroyed after I failed the California bar exam. However, after being devastated, I realized that it really wasn’t the direction I wanted to be going in, and I was free to pursue something else that I was passionate about like teaching yoga.

The Hebrew word for ark is tevah, also means “word.”  According to the Baal Shem Tov, G-d’s commandment to Noah to build and enter the ark can also be interpreted as “enter within the words of prayer and Torah study. Here you will find a sanctuary of wisdom, meaning and holiness amidst the raging floodwaters of life.”

Another rabbi describes the flood as a cleansing process where the waters spiritually cleanse the waste that tends to accumulate throughout our life’s endeavors. Here with the flood, the world received a spiritual cleansing or redirection. In all adversity there is both opportunity and positivity. It may not always be apparent – even when we look for it. But it is there.

Every moment is a doorway for entry; a chance to let go of things that are no longer serving us, to release stagnant energy, to stop and just breathe. When we find ourselves confused by feelings or overwhelmed by a “flood” of negative thoughts, perhaps we can shift our perspective and instead use the frustration or storminess as an opportunity to “enter our own ark” and let the turbulent waters of everyday life settle so that we can see with more clarity and feel calmer moving forward.

This is what the practice of meditation is all about for me – creating a sacred space to just feel whatever it is I am feeling without any judgment or criticism. Noticing what the quality of my breath is, not trying so hard to fight it or change it all the time but just observe the breath, listen to the flow of the breath – dive into that ocean that exists inside of us and practice being fully present in the moment. It is such a gift to give yourself the space to just be and breathe into whatever it is that you are feeling in the moment and know that it is okay.

This week, in honor of the story of Noah, take some time to explore what it might mean to you to “enter your ark.” What is standing in your way of creating that space for yourself? What do you need to make it happen?

In this week’s parsha, Bo, we read about the last three plagues the Egyptian people endured, and the hurried leaving from our stations of slavery with our unleavened breads in our bags and our worries on our shoulders as we entered the desert and new possibilities.  And we also read about the first mitzvah (commandment) that Hashem (God) gives to the Jewish people.

And G-d spoke to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt, saying: This month shall be to you the head of months — the first of the months of your year.  (Exodus 12:1-2)

The Jewish nation’s first commandment: to make the Hebrew month of Nissan the “Head of Months.”  But don’t we celebrate the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashana on the first day of the month of Tishrei?  Rosh Hashana is in the fall, and Passover is in the spring.  So, what’s going on here?  Why are there two heads?

The New Year that begins on the first of Tishrei is considered to be when the universe began.  From this one moment in time, everything began to unfold.  It represents a natural progression, order, and a linear history to our reality.  In contrast, the New Year that begins on the first of Nissan came at a time in our people’s narrative that was very supra-natural: fire raining from the sky, water turning into blood, seas splitting in two.  The story of the Exodus was a time of unnatural, divine, and miraculous occurrences.

What do these two very different heads of a yearly cycle teach us?  And why do we celebrate both?  They point to an understanding that we, too, have more than one “head.”  And we begin to see this when we practice meditation.

Most of our lives are spent in our “thinking minds.”  The plans we make, the memories we retell ourselves, the narratives we spin around in our heads that define us:  “I don’t like taking the subway on the weekend,” or “I really wish I was better at meeting people.”  Thoughts and voices are constantly chattering away in our heads, creating and reinforcing our reality and sense of self.  This is natural.  It is how we function in society today and maneuver within a world of rules, schedules, and planning.  This is our “Tishrei Head.”

However, there is another quality of mind that we are often not as aware of.  It is the space in between the lines of our internal monologue, the moments where we look at a piece of art and we feel it, where our hearts connect with another person without words, or when we are on top of a mountain and our awareness is so full with everything around us the only thought that pops up in our heads is “wow!”  This other aspect of mind is always there, but often is overshadowed by the predominant “thinking mind.”  Meditation trains us in calming the “Tishrei Head” in order to tune into that other, less “rational” way of being in the world, the “Nissan Head.”  It trains us to recognize and celebrate the wondrous and miraculous reality that we are always in, but often too busy thinking about to see.

In the Torah, we cannot get to the point of miracles in Nissan without nature starting “In the Beginning” of the month of Tishrei.  So, too, we cannot get to come to see the miraculous “Nissan Mind” without first using our calculating “Tishrei Mind” to tell us to look deeper.  So, here’s to both of our New Years… and both of our heads.  May we learn to see and honor them both.

Last night a room full of seventh graders sat silently, followed their breath, contemplated the Sh’ma, practiced listening, and asked lots of insightful and deep questions. Usually these classes are small- five to ten students, but last night the entire 7th grade class decided they wanted to learn Jewish meditation. I tried to get half of them to do something else, but they were adamant, and I told them that if they wanted to stay, they had to take out their cell phones, turn them off, and put them in the front of the room, and each person had to agree that they were going to take this class seriously, be respectful to each other, and participate fully. Everyone agreed. Everyone sat down. Not everyone really practiced meditation, but that’s okay if two out of forty kids didn’t play along, as long as the few resisters didn’t disrupt anyone else, they were welcome to stay.

Spending a lot of time teaching this age group (at one workshop a few weeks ago, one of the 12 year old girls told me that she doesn’t even know what to call herself, whether she’s a “tween” or a “pre-teen” or a kid or what, and how it’s just confusing) has taught me a lot about fear and vulnerability. I realized last night that the kids who had the most trouble staying with their breath or keeping still had the most fear. One boy raised his hand and asked, “what if it’s too difficult for me to keep my eyes closed? If I hear a sound or just feel uncomfortable, I want to open my eyes. It’s kind of scary to not open your eyes.”

We spent some time, as a group, talking about this idea. The thing is, it IS scary to sit with your eyes closed in a group. Most adults don’t even think about it, but in seventh grade, I think we’re probably at our most judgmental, our most critical about ourselves and others. It’s at this exact moment where I think meditation and inclusive spirituality and community is the most important. I was very strict when we all sat down- taking away the phones, telling them that if anyone was disruptive I would ask them to leave and there would be no conversation about it, telling them to be silent, sit so that they would not be touching the person next to them, and I explained that this was all in an effort to protect the students who were serious about practicing meditation. Limiting distractions and interactions, at least during this one hour period, gave the kids a space to relax, close their eyes, breathe, and notice those judgments and thoughts and critical voices, observe them, and let them go.

One of the regular teachers commented that they’ve never seen this group of rowdy, always loud, sometimes obnoxious group of kids so quiet, calm, and sharing feelings, and I was shocked too. It seems like they just needed a space to step into themselves and community where they could sit down, rest, and share their thoughts about listening, compassion, prayer.

Rabbi Alan Lew used to talk about how in the Mishnah, it says that the ancient pious ones sat for an hour before prayer every day. This sort of preparatory time was essential to direct their minds toward God, to be ready to pray. We talked about this idea in the class last night. One of the girls said after doing a few different meditation practices, “I don’t know if I was just tired before, but now I feel different- I feel more awake and at the same time more calm.” And I think that’s probably the point. We sit upright, but comfortable, uplifted. We calm our minds, but wake up. Our discussion last night included the idea that being receptive, listening to ourselves and each other and the world, can be scary. Using our meditation practice to practice sitting with that fear, to being aware of our vulnerability, is a way to shift our reactions to the fear itself. This experience started when I told them to turn their phones off and leave them in the front of the room, pure fear. And for me, realizing that I was completely overwhelmed and scared to teach such a large group of seventh graders how to meditate was a moment of fear.

By the end of the class, I hope that everyone was able to see what it felt like to feel that fully, to place that sensation and just sit with it, letting it come and go, and hopefully remembering that wherever we are and whatever we’re doing, this practice is always possible, always accessible, and, I think, always helpful.

This year’s Rosh Hashana was great- I was with family who I love and miss, caught up with cousins I definitely don’t see enough, and spent as much time as humanly possible with the cutest 16-month old on the planet. I also went to synagogue and took long walks up and down hills. My cousins go to a big, conservative shul, but it felt pretty progressive to me. There were handouts that said “prayer is prayer is prayer” with instructions on how to find meaning during services when the siddur isn’t doing it for you, and on Sunday morning there was a meditation session led by a congregant.

Of course, I went to the meditation class. I thought I would just go alone and catch up to my cousins later at “regular” services, but my Aunt and Uncle told me that they wanted to come, too. So, the three of us went, sat in a circle of about 15 people, and meditated. Afterwards, my Aunt said “Ali, can I ask you something? Is the point to clear your mind? Because if that’s the goal, I definitely can’t do it.”

This question comes up a lot (so much so, that it’s in our FAQs), and it’s a great question. My answer is that unless you’re dead, you’re not going to be able to empty your mind. Sorry, it’s part of being human. We have thoughts. We also have this amazing potential to train our minds and hearts to not get so caught up in the mundane, to not let our anxiety and regret pull us into narratives that are unhelpful and distressing. Meditation is the best way I’ve found to still my mind, to calm down, find peace, and not feel like I’m falling apart.

Not to be a broken record, but here’s how you do it: don’t worry about stopping thinking. It’s impossible. Pick a focus- I like the breath. It’s always there (again, if you’re alive), it’s reliable, consistent, and endlessly interesting (really, it is, just spend some time noticing the moment that your inhale transforms into an exhale- go ahead, try it). If you don’t feel like concentrating on the sensation of breathing, pick anything- listening, smelling, images, prayers, love, a lover, even thinking itself. Just pick something and use that as your homebase. Close your eyes or soften your gaze and start paying attention. When you realize that you’re not concentrating on whatever you’ve chosen and you’re off in a daydream or a memory or worrying about something you said earlier today or what you’re going to wear tomorrow, gently bring yourself back to your point of focus.

That returning, reminding and going back, that’s where your practice starts. Every time you usher your mind back to what you’ve chosen to meditate on, you’re strengthening your mindfulness. The more you practice this, the easier it gets. And, not only does the practice itself get easier, but you’ll probably find that you have a greater awareness of your own thoughts, maybe a softer ease with your self, a gentleness that sometimes even spills over and allows you to be kinder to other people without even trying. At least, this is what I’ve noticed in my own practice and in my own life.

I read somewhere that meditation practice is a lot like training a puppy. The difference I think, is that it’s so easy to love a puppy- cute, innocent, loving- and it seems like it would be difficult to find a person who would describe themselves and their interior monologue this way. So, sure the discipline, the gentle but firm instruction, but maybe we have to take an extra leap and recognize that even in the places that we dislike the most in ourselves, there exists an innocence and a realization that it’s hard to be a person, and we’ve done the best we could do given our individual circumstances, and that the handout at my cousins’ synagogue is true. “Prayer is prayer is prayer,” and we are all trying to figure what makes us feel connected and strong and alleviate our fear and pain. Contemplation, meditation, breathing, being, finding what works for us and sitting with it. It’s also about trying something else if that doesn’t work and shifting our focus to see what makes us feel like we don’t have to empty our minds. And sometimes, nothing works, but if you have a solid practice, you can sit with that, too.

My name is Alex Davidson and I’m a meditator.

Even though it’s only been three days, I consider myself a believer in meditation. I’ve been reading Jon Kabat-Zinn’s “Full Catastrophe Living” and it’s insights are what have propelled me to wake up at 6:30am, meditate for 45 minutes, then start my day.

What I’ve found so far is that my head is clearer during the day. Yes, I still have thoughts, concerns, worries and fears, but they seem to more easily slide out of my head than even just a week ago. I figure this is is like exercise: you feel immediate benefits but once you’ve done something for awhile you really need to work to maintain what you’ve achieved.

Some of my initial observations about meditation are quite quirky. First, the position one maintains while meditating is really important. So far I’ve been on both the floor and couch and I have to say I prefer couch. What would be ideal for me would be a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean, but that’s not happening any time soon. So in the absence of a swank sitting site, I’m going to stick with the couch and cross my legs.

Second, it’s amazing to me how much meditating is like running, or just exercise in general. What I’ve found is that I’ll start out fine, then hit a rut at about 22 minutes, or halfway through my practice. It then takes determination and focus for me to reengage and, frankly, plod through the remaining 23 minutes. This is just like when I used to run, I’d start out with a burst of energy but get bored about halfway through. But what kept me going was knowing how good I’d feel once done with my exercise. Same rings true for meditation.

My last observation is how much the calmness my breath gives me sticks with me during the rest of the day. What I’ve found is during a subway ride, gym visit or even just walking, I’m able to tap into my breath and center myself. That’s a nice feeling to know that I’m starting to get some power of how much I let my mind/thoughts dictate how I feel during the day.

So far, that’s my greatest realization: that my thoughts are just that, thoughts. They’re not reality, they don’t determine anything more than the power I give them. I am the one who has the power to determine my reality and that’s really empowering.

Now that we’ve started the JMC, a lot of people have been asking a lot of questions about meditation, which is great. We included a quick summary of how we define Jewish meditation on the site, Yael wrote a brilliant post about the reasons for meditation, and I’ve been answering the questions in conversations with a pretty clinical description of what meditation is, the history of meditation in Judaism and, well, I think I’d rather give a more personal answer. Here’s my story of Jewish meditation:

I first started meditating with the instruction and guidance of a Buddhist monk. He visited my college a few times to offer classes on meditation and mindfulness.  I was struggling at the time with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which came with every symptom in the psychology textbook: anxiety, daymares, insomnia, panic attacks, etc. To put it mildly, school was a challenge, and to put it honestly, so was life.

And then I meet this sweet, older, Tibetan monk in long robes and the softest, gentlest voice I had ever heard. He explained simple techniques about watching your breath, and offered a lesson on how we don’t have to be attached to our thoughts- that we can simply observe them, validate them, and then move back to our breath. Over and over again, get distracted, observe, don’t judge, move back to your breath. We practiced this for a few seconds at a time, then a few minutes at a time, and at some point I realized that for the first time in months, my mind cleared. Even though it was only for a few seconds, I felt like I had found a respite, or, even better, some sort of nirvana. All of the scary memories, sad and painful thoughts, along with the extremely self-critical dialogue that had been filling my head 24 hours a day for months took a break.

So that’s where I started. I fell in love with Buddhist meditation. And, as I studied and practiced more, my healing process sped up.  Along the way, I worked with western and eastern healing practitioners and found an integration that worked for me.  It was the most difficult time of my life, and also the experiences that I’m most grateful for. Don’t worry, the Jewish part is coming up.

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