In this week’s parsha (Torah portion), Shemini (Eighth), Aaron and his sons begin to officiate as kohanim (priests) for the people of Israel after 7 days of inaugural training.

According to the parsha, Aaron and his sons conduct various sacrifices on the altar, and these sacrifices are consumed in fire by G-d. Everything seems to be going according to plan and in accordance with the how-to-sacrifice instructions that they recently learned. Then, Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s two eldest priestly sons, come to the altar and offer a “strange fire before G-d,” one which “[G-d] had not commanded them” to bring. So what happens next? There was again fire… but this time, it consumed Nadav and Avihu and they died.

Like many other instances in the Torah, there are varied explanations of why this happened. Interpretations span from their flaming deaths representing punishment for sacrificing while drunk (an S.U.I.?) to the reward of a “holy-kiss” from above (beware of “first-base” with G-d) for being so eager in their worship, with many explanations in between.

Despite this passage already being loaded with potential interpretive meaning, it is what comes next that stopped me in my tracks. In response to this event, the Torah tells us that Aaron, the High Priest, the father of these two taken in flame by the very One they are all honoring through sacrifices, is silent. A father watches his sons die in front of him and his response is silence?! This gave me pause.

How can a father witness his sons’ deaths, whether as punishment or reward, and not say or do anything? How can we understand this image that seems to go so counter to human emotions and reactions?

It was in this questioning that I considered how easily and often I react to things that happen during my day. Most of the time, I am reacting to stimuli in my environment, not being fully conscious of the thoughts, memories, and emotions that are all contributing to what I do next. My meditation practice is an avenue to become more aware of the various voices and impulses in my consciousness that lead me to take a certain course of action. By making the space to be with whatever comes up, I am practicing not reacting. I am practicing being mindful of what is happening in the moment so I can better choose how best to act next.  I am pausing, I am breathing, I am silently witnessing.

For me, Aaron’s silence after this tragedy is like the breath I take to bring me back to my focus when I become distracted during my meditation. It is like the moment I try to take to ground myself in the present moment before reacting to an overwhelming situation. It is the pause between the stilumus and my impulse. It is the space that can transform reacting to responding.

Reading this story, I have no doubt that Aaron must have felt many strong emotions when he watched his sons die, but he chose to remain silent, possibly breathing with the swell of thoughts and feelings that were kicked up by this event. And in this, I am inspired to strive towards Aaron’s example: when faced with difficulties, whether on or off the meditation cushion, let us have the kavanah (intention) to take a silent breath, pause for a moment before we react, and witness what is coming up. Maybe then, we will wisely choose our next move.

This week’s parsha (torah portion) is actually composed of two portions, Vayakhel (meaning “and he assembled”) and Pekudei (meaning “accounts”), which are combined when there is no additional month of Adar in the Jewish calendar. Over the past few weeks the torah has been telling us of G-d’s detailed instructions for the building of the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the portable dwelling place for G-d. The first parsha, Vayakhel, starts with a very brief disclaimer regarding the regulations of Shabbat and explains that no work pertaining to the Mishkan or otherwise will be done on the Sabbath. Moses then “assembled” the people of Israel to solicit G-d’s request for a free-will contribution of supplies to build the Mishkan which was met with an outpouring of generosity. Next, those craftspeople with G-d-given skills were called upon to begin the design and construction using the donated materials. The body of the parsha meticulously details the construction of the tabernacle (right down to the curtains made of goat hair) and the making of its various components such as the ark, the table, the lampstand, the altar of incense, the altar of burnt offering, the bronze basin, and the court. Pekudei then continues with an account of the precise amount of talent and shekels (money) used for the materials, and continues further to detail the making of the priestly garments and the process of erecting the Mishkan. Finally, only in the last four verses is the goal of the Mishkan achieved and G-d’s inhabitance of the dwelling place declared.

I find the extensive depiction of the process of building the Mishkan to be a striking mindfulness practice as well as an interesting contrast to the very brief discussion of the final product. As I’m sitting in a very goal-oriented culture, this portion of the torah refreshingly celebrates the process itself rather than solely revering the final accomplishment. It makes me wonder how we can utilize a similar shift in focus, or rather disbursement of attention, to bring authenticity to our experiences.

As in building a Mishkan, planning a wedding takes community involvement and includes many steps. My cousin recently got married and I had the honor of being involved in many of the preparations and pre-wedding activities. For me, much of the beauty of the wedding occurred even prior to the main event. I had the chance to meet some of her friends and become good friends with them myself; I learned about the evolution of her friendships; and I had the opportunity to hear touching family stories from the parent and elder generations about marriage. Making place cards was not just a task to complete, it was a glimpse into the relationships that form my cousin’s network and new family. And for the couple themselves, the preparation process is not just for the wedding, but seems to be for the marriage as well. With the wording of the ketubah (marriage document) to agreeing on the style of ceremony, the steps to plan a wedding can set much of the tone of the beginning of a marriage. Similarly, building the tabernacle is not just to provide G-d with a dwelling place, but to lay the groundwork for a sacred space for the people of Israel.

My kavannah (intention) for this week is to take some time to celebrate and bring attention to our own processes. How can we bring greater awareness to the “making of” our craft, our work, our day, our selves, and our lives? And what potential benefit could that mindfulness to our processes bring us?

This week’s parsha, torah portion, is Tetzaveh, which means “and you shall command.” Last week, G-d provided instructions on how to build the tabernacle. This week, G-d tells Moshe what the priests should wear and how to perform certain rituals there. I am most interested in the first line of this parsha: And you shall command the children of Israel, and they shall take to you pure olive oil, crushed for lighting, to kindle the lamps continually (Exodus 27:20). To keep these lamps, the menorah, burning without end, they must be tended to every day.

Tetzaveh is the only Torah portion in Exodus and Leviticus that does not contain Moshe’s name.  Why might this be? When I think of Moshe, I think about a very intense, direct experience of G-d. Moshe encounters G-d in a burning bush, in G-d’s miraculous acts of wonder, in hearing G-d’s voice atop Mount Sinai. Moshe’s experience reminds me of the moments in my life when I have felt most connected to something greater than myself. I think of the times hiking alone in the Himalayas, with more weight on my back than I could carry, reaching the point of physical duress where I could not take one step more, and then I did. I think of the meditation retreats where, after tracing every edge of my physical form with my mind’s eye nearly every minute of every day, I felt those boundaries dissolve and my self disappear. I think of myself suspended in air, having left my bicycle behind along with the car that hit me, realizing the profound uncertainty of my future upon my landing, and being consumed by an overwhelming peace. These are the Moshe moments of my life.

There have been times when I felt that life would be great if it were only composed of Moshe moments. But it’s not. These are the moments we need, every now and then, to inspire transition, just as the Israelites needed Moshe to inspire a move from Egypt to the Promised Land. But life in the Promised Land is not about signs and wonders. It’s about the day-to-day. Only by participating in the mundane activities of daily life can we shift from experiencing something greater than ourselves to actively contributing to the ecological fabric that surrounds us.  The conundrum is that in doing so, we can get distracted by the common concerns of our tiny little minds and lose the perspective that gives life meaning. I think parsha Tetzaveh teaches a lesson about how to elevate our experience of daily life. It commands us that each day, no matter what else is going on, we should take some time to do whatever is needed to keep the eternal flame alive.

My kavannah, or intention, for this week is to identify how we can enhance our experience and performance in daily life by punctuating each day with a tiny Moshe moment. What triggers remind you that you are more than the voice in your mind that guides you through the day? What keeps your eternal flame burning, and what can you do to keep it well-fed?

This week’s parsha, or weekly Torah portion, Va’era, is the second parsha in Exodus, the book detailing the Israelites’ exodus from slavery under Pharaoh to freedom. “Va’era” means “I appeared” or “I let Myself be seen.”  God says “Va’era” to Moses, as in, “I let Myself be seen by Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” and by this, God means something along the lines of: “I revealed Myself to them so they know I am the real deal.” God explains that the distress of the Israelites who are living in bondage under Pharaoh led God to remember the covenant God had made with the patriarchs to give their descendants the land of Canaan.  According to God, it is now also time for the Israelites to fully understand the limitlessness of God’s power.

God tells Moses, the recently-appointed leader of the Israelites (who has a speech impediment), that he and his brother Aaron, who has been speaking to the Israelites on Moses’s and therefore God’s behalf, should get ready for a hard fight with Pharaoh regarding the Israelites’ freedom.  God also decides to “harden Pharaoh’s heart” so that God will get to have several opportunities to show off divine strength and power.  God decides that if Pharaoh doesn’t relent, the best plan of action will be plagues that afflict the Egyptians and not the Israelites.  Of course, Pharaoh puts up a fight, and the plagues of the Passover story begin.  Then Pharaoh tells Moses that the Israelites can at the very least go on a brief journey to sacrifice to God, but quickly changes his mind.  More plagues to come next week.

So much happens in this parsha, and I felt overwhelmed as I read it.  But ultimately I found myself coming back to the age-old question of why not just select Aaron instead of Moses?  Why this game of telephone?  What could be the benefit of a leader with a speech impediment?

Thinking about this reminded me of completely losing my voice.  This would not have been such a problem except that I am a high school teacher, and 99% of my job, or so I thought, involves talking.  At school, all I could was whisper. I whispered my instructions to a student who would repeat them to the class.  “Please take out your homework,” translated to “Yo!  Homework out now or Ms. Cohen won’t be happy.”  I did my best to say as few words as possible, and this meant that I had to keep instructions clear and to the point.  Minor infractions had to be ignored or handled using the infamous teacher look. I had to pick my words, and battles, carefully, because someone else was going to repeat them and I didn’t want to be misinterpreted, and because I had a limited capacity for speech and needed to conserve energy.  Amazingly, my classes ran smoothly.

According to one commentator, Moses’ “slow tongue” was his strength. Because speaking was a challenge, he would mindfully select his words, and what Aaron was told to repeat to the Israelites would be the true essence of what God wanted conveyed.

What would it mean if we could only say one-fourth or one-fifth of the words we say daily? What would we decide was superfluous?  Would we become better listeners?  How often have I thought to myself, I wish I had not said that, right after speaking quickly and mindlessly?  In an era of fast-talking and multi-tasking, how would our interactions change if we said less and, in doing so, said more?

Though I was thrilled to get my voice back, I realized that losing it had been a kind of blessing.  If you had no choice but to cut out a chunk of your daily words, phrases, or communication, what would you select to let go of and why?  These could be words you say to yourself or to others.  On the other hand, which speech would you come to view as essential? My kavanah, or intention, for this week is to ask ourselves how mindful awareness of our speech can help us improve the quality of our lives and the lives of others.

This week’s Torah portion, Tazria, explains that during specific periods in a person’s life,
she or he must spend time in physical seclusion, truly alone, in order to return physically and
spiritually to a balanced state of being; once a person returns to this place of balance, she is
then ready to return to the welcoming arms of the community. Tazria begins with a discussion
of the seclusion and purification period that women were required to go through after giving
birth. Yet the majority of the portion discusses the mandated period of isolation that had to be
undertaken by a person stricken with tzara’at, a disease usually translated as leprosy. People
who developed physical symptoms associated with this disease, such as patches of white hair and
scaly discolored skin, had to report to the Priest, Aaron, or to one of his sons, and if the diagnosis
of tzara’at was confirmed, the prescribed treatment was immediate isolation. Yet interestingly,
according to many commentators, tzara’at was not leprosy at all, but actually a kind of spiritual
disorder or confusion, and one of the ways in which this spiritual disordering manifested was as
physical symptoms.

When I first started reading Tazria, I initially felt disappointed- what did leprosy have to do
with my life in 2011 and the lives of the people I know? But the commentaries, in describing
tzara’at in spiritual terms, provided me with an entry point, a way to connect. Commentary after
commentary discussed spiritual affliction and the ways in which seclusion, silence, time alone,
can and do provide an essential part of the answer to healing oneself and one’s soul. I started
to think, what helps me when I feel confused, conflicted, in a state of imbalance? In our day-to-
day lives, we speak and interact constantly, and often, in auto-pilot mode, I immediately turn to
friends and family when I am in need of support. But then, at some point, I realize that it is time
once again to turn to myself for answers, or at least for more specific questions. Basically, it is
time to sit again, to do the inner work that only I can do for myself.

And why do I do it? When something is not quite right internally and I am not tending to
myself, I find that my interactions are often not quite right as well. Maybe this is why the Torah
mandated such periods of seclusion. A state of spiritual confusion that goes undiagnosed and
untended often harms more than just the afflicted person; members of the community may suffer
as well, a kind of spiritual second-hand smoke. So I attempt to return to my breath and see what
arises, because sitting here is about much more than I initially understood: it is about offering up
my own attempts at inner healing in an effort to bring more balance to my interactions and to the
lives with which my own life is intertwined.

Those afflicted with tzara’at were required to seclude themselves in order to heal themselves,
but those who meditate are, admirably, choosing to do so through meditation. When you are
about to meditate or during a meditation session, you might consider why have you chosen the
silence and internal seclusion of meditation at and in that moment. How does the seclusion heal
you or re-balance you?

This week’s Torah portion, Sh’mini, begins on the eighth day of the consecration of
the tabernacle (or mishkan) which is the traveling dwelling place for God’s presence.
Moses summons Aaron, his sons, and the elders of Israel and instructs them on the varied
offerings they will be bringing before God with the hope of God revealing him/herself.
Once the sacrifices were complete to the precise order of God, the people were then
bestowed with the sight of “God’s glory.” After the offering, God tells Moses and Aaron
to inform the children of Israel of the laws of kashrut or being kosher. The requirements
for edible mammals include having split hooves and being able to chew their own cud.
Animals who have just one of the two requirements are deemed non-kosher such as
the pig, which is clearly the one that gets the most non-kosher attention in the Jewish
community. The pig is also the only one indicated in the torah who has the split hooves
but does not chew its own cud. From the outside the pig can pass as a seemingly kosher
animal; however, its inner process does not match what is visible to the world. This
concept reminds me of discussions had around Purim and the concept of going through
life wearing masks or presenting a face to the world that may not match our own inner
being.

Perhaps you had a day at work that required you to put on a persona that you do not feel
matches who you really are. Or maybe you had to schmooze with people that required
a lot of external focus and you have yet to check in with yourself and your breath today.
Wherever you are, I invite you to center yourself by bringing your attention back to
the very thing that sustains you; your breath. For the first sit I would like to offer the
kavannah, or intention, of using your breath as a vehicle to leave the masks aside and
draw your attention to your inner self.

The parsha goes on to talk about the laws of ritual purity which include the purifying
power of the mikvah or pool of water. Rabbi David Cooper says in his book God is
a Verb, “Mastery in purity comes through contemplation.” Rabbi Cooper goes on
to describe the goal of purity within spiritual or contemplative practice as being “to
minimize or eliminate thoughts that cause inner conflict.”

Reduction in inner conflict has been one of the greatest benefits I have found for myself
within my own meditation practice. Friends of mine will often hear me talk about making
a big decision and say “I need to meditate on it”. Meditation has been a source of quiet
and calm in my own thinking and has helped purify my opinions, feelings and desires and
weed out external factors that can muddle my decision-making ability. There are many
factors we take into account when making decisions or determining our own feelings,
some of which are largely unimportant to the matter at hand. We often get swept away in
the “coulds”, “shoulds” and “woulds” of our mind’s dialogue which often contributes to
our impurity of thought thus bringing us distress.

I would like to invite you to take a step in bringing this “purity” to your own practice.

Bring your attention to your breath, and when your mind inevitably wanders, observe
your thoughts or feelings (however “pure” or “unpure”) without judging them. Gently
bring your attention back to your breath. In the first sit, I offered the intention of
using the breath to tune in to your inner self. In this next sit try and let the “coulds”
and “shoulds” be replaced with the practice of returning to the breath so as to breathe
purity into your inner process.

In the parsha, Pekudai, we read about the details of the construction and completion of the mishkan, or tabernacle, that the Israelites construct as a dwelling place for God while they wander through the desert. In fact, we read a whole lot of details. The Torah, usually sparing in words, spends 13 chapters discussing all the details that make up the mishkan and the training of the priests who would officiate there. To put this in perspective, the story of the creation of the universe took up one chapter. The revelation at Mt. Sinai took up a whole three chapters. The mishkan: thirteen. So why so much detail, description, and even repetition?

It certainly seems to impart to us that the building of the mishkan is very important: the first lesson in creating a vessel to bring down the holy presence to dwell among the people. But, why do we need to spend all these chapters looking at each component and how they fit together? It seems to imply that there is something meaningful about taking into account all of the minutae… something important in the process.

In a meditation practice, we spend a lot of time trying to gain awareness of the minutiae.  By training our minds to sit still with whatever comes up, we begin to see just how many different thoughts, feelings, and sensations are passing through our consciousness all the time. Some of these we’d prefer to dwell on while others we’d rather avoid altogether. By training our minds to be with every little thing that arises without attaching a judgment to it, we train ourselves to be with all parts of ourselves. This allows us to make space for a dwelling space within where we can rest fully with who we are in every moment.

While we are given detailed instructions on how to build the mishkan from the ground up, we don’t have the blueprints to our own makeup. And (being human) our insecurities, fears, and expectations too often lead to mistaken notions of who we are. By looking at each thought as it arises without judging, we learn to see that each individual is constructed in a unique and miraculous way. When we have the foundation to hold every part of ourselves, then we are truly making a home within.

Make for me a holy place that I might dwell within you,
that I might dwell among you. 
shemot 25:8

Chanukah — A time to for us to remember ourselves as the Mishkan, the dwelling place of the Divine Presence. To remember that all of us are sacred vessels, formed and shaped as we are so our unique light can shine through into the world.

Over the course of the year our vessels become clogged, cracked, torn, and on Chanukah we dedicate ourselves to purifying, cleansing these vessels. The cleansing is not about searching for perfection.  It is about peering into the darkness and seeing what is. Lighting small lights that help us see our vulnerabilities, our fears, our strengths, our joys, our love, our beauty and our pain. Letting the light illuminate whatever is present with gentleness and compassion. The noticing of whatever is the work of purification. We remind ourselves our vessels are whole in their brokenness. And it is the cracks that allow the light to shine through.

We dedicate ourselves to this holy work not just for ourselves but for the sake of the world. We purify our vessels so we are better able to make our lives our offerings— so the work of our hands and the expressions of our hearts can bring forth blessing, healing and love.
Each night and day of Chanukah can offer its own practice. Ideally these practices are done as we sit with the lit candles.

Day 1.  Opening to the mystery. Beyond anything I can know or understand is the mystery of all being. At the heart of all is oneness. 
Sit in silence with the first light. Close your eyes and breath into the light, feel it within your body, reach it with your breath. As the mind wanders we bring our attention gently back to the sensation of light in our body. Nourished by each breath this light fills us and the world.
 
Day 2. Spirit coming into form. The One entering into the many.
Creation. Distinction. Relationship. 
Creating the spaciousness inside ourselves to hold contradiction and paradox with compassion. Sit and aligned with the breath offer the prayer: “I take refuge in the unfolding.”
 
Day 3. The (gesher) bridge that reaches across differences. The way to connection and relationship is  gemilut hasadim, acts of loving kindness. Blessing practice: Sit with the candles and pray for peace, love well being for yourself and 9 other people creating a minyan of blessing.

Day 4. The door of possibilities: Standing on the threshold—looking out, noticing the possibilities, noticing what is opening. Listening for the calls that beckon us forward. Sit with the image of an open door.  Notice what arises on the threshold. Notice the emotions, the thoughts, the images that pass through. Be with the open door.
 
Day 5. The breath, taking in and letting go. Constant change.
Being awake to the moment. Being awake to the movement. Opening to all that passes through, to all that changes from moment to moment.
Sit with the lights and notice your breath. Be present to the movement with each breath, the movement from moment to moment. Let the attention rest gently on each breath, notice the receiving and letting go. The 5th light calls us forward with discernment and patience. Take a breath and consider, what are wise and compassionate choices that I can make?  
 
Day 6. Rosh Hodesh: Connection. Joining. Alignment. Standing as a connective channel between heaven and earth. While the candles are lit do a silent standing meditation. Feet together-arms facing out by our sides. Feel our feet connected to the depths of the earth, our crown open to the heavens. Imagine the light coming through you.  Radiant, warm, glowing light coming through your crown down into your feet. Radiant, warm, glowing light coming up from your feet, filling your body. Light radiating out from your hands and breath into the world.
 
Day 7. Rosh Hodesh: Zeman. Time. The holiest moment is now.
Wonder with gentleness, compassion and curiosity: What do I do with my time? What do I give my hours, days and weeks to? How can I use my time for good? How can I use my time to bring forth well being and joy? Take some time for a practice that opens you to joy and beauty.

Day 8. Chanukah- Rededication: On the eighth night we gaze at the brilliance of the flames and ask ourselves how can I best be of service? What are my gifts, my blessings, my challenges, my passions? And how can I best offer myself for the benefit and well being of all? 

We practice listening, noticing with curiosity and wonder. Sit with the candles and feel yourself in all your glory—in your brokenness, fragility and absolute beauty. With gentleness and love keep bringing you attention back to the breath moving through and within the sacred vessel of your body. We close the sit by giving thanks.
 
Each of us is a dwelling for the sacred. We ask that we recognize the sacred in ourselves and each other and do our best to act from this place of knowing the holiness in ourselves and all creation.  

“Help me make my life a sanctuary in which God dwells with ease and from which my light shines forth for good and blessing for all beings.”

The views expressed by guestbloggers do not necessarily reflect the Jewish Meditation Center of Brooklyn’s positions, interests, strategies or opinions. But that’s what keeps it interesting.

keep it short and sweet (aim for 500 words)

What is the nature of teshuva (often translated as repentance or return)? How does this process begin?  How do we ourselves take steps towards being our best selves, and how do we create the space for others to do so?

One immediate response might be that which Maimonides, the Rambam, suggests in his Laws of Teshuva: to identify all those things that we did ‘wrong,’ to articulate and enumerate them, to confess to them (vidui).  From there, the Rambam says, we can begin to do the work of not repeating such actions and behaviors.  We can begin to do the work of return–returning from ‘wrong’ behavior to our best and highest selves.

In his work Likkutei Moharan, Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav offers an alternative approach.  Rather than beginning from the ‘wrong,’ he suggests, the seeds of teshuva begin with an identification and acknowledgement of what is right and good.

‘Know!’  he writes ‘You must judge all people favorably.  Even if you have reason to think that a person is completely wicked, you must search until you seek out some bit of goodness, some place in that person where he is not evil.  When you find that bit of goodness and judge the person that way, you may really raise him up to goodness.  Treating people this way allows them to be restored, to come to teshuva…‘

Here, Rabbi Nachman offers a gift for those of us who struggle to let go of grudges, to see beyond the frustrated personality traits of relatives, to open our hearts to people who have hurt us in the past.  Sometimes, Rabbi Nachman acknowledges, full forgiveness is too hard to achieve in one go. And yet, this does not need to discourage us entirely.  Even taking one step, seeing one good element in another human being, is a worthy exercise, because our small step will help enable that person to change.

This is an amazing claim!  The very opening of our heart towards another human being helps create the space for that person to move forward in teshuva, in return towards her best self!  The process of teshuva, therefore, is not one sided, it is not solely about me doing my best to make amends, do teshuva, seek forgiveness from people I have hurt, work towards my better self.  Nor is it reciprocal, with one person seeking forgiveness and another granting it.  Rather, the process of teshuva is dialectical and dialogical: it happens through the steps forward of the one who wants to change, and the belief on the part of another that the person has the potential to do so.

Rabbi Nachman does not stop with this tremendous idea.  He goes on to encourage us to do something even more challenging: to extend this position of open heartedness, of kindness, of belief in the goodness of a human being to ourselves:

“You have to search until you find some point of good in yourself to restore your inner vitality and attain joy.  And by searching for and finding some little bit of good that still remains inside of you, you genuinely move from the scale of guilt into the scale of merit.”

For those of us–including myself–who can be our own worst enemies, Rabbi Nachman’s words ring loudly.  Many times, we fail to acknowledge the goodness in our own work, our own capabilities, our own choices. Rabbi Nachman offers a beautiful practice—the practice of identifying one small good thing about ourselves—as a tool for releasing these patterns, which painfully prevent us from granting ourselves forgiveness, from becoming our best and highest selves

Rabbi Nachman then beautifully suggests that this behavior, the identification of the good in ourselves and in our souls, sends our unique melody out in to the world, blending the notes of our individual music into the symphony of humanity.

With wishes for a new year that is full of seeing the good–in our world, in our friends, families and colleagues, and in ourselves.  And may this goodness lead to renewal, return, and joyful songs.