This week’s parsha, from the book of Exodus, is Yitro, or Jethro, so named for Moses’ father-in-law. In this reading, Jethro visits Moses in the desert near Mount Sinai, where he now lives with the Israelites. Upon arriving, he discovers that Moses spends all day surrounded by the Israelites, who come to him morning and night so that he can judge their problems. Says the Torah, “Moses tells Jethro, ‘Whenever they have a problem, they come to me. I judge between man and his neighbor, and I teach G-d’s decrees and laws.’ ”

Jethro responds, “ ‘What you are doing is not good. You are going to wear yourself out, along with this nation that is with you. Your responsibility is too great. You cannot do it all alone.’ ” And so he helps Moses appoint a system of judges who can deal with the Israelites’ lesser problems, freeing Moses to solve only the most difficult cases.

This parsha resonated with me since I’ve recently been thinking a lot about delegating — and how it’s so easy not to, for a variety of reasons. It’s easier just to do it myself, I think. I don’t want to hurt his feelings by pointing out what he did wrong, so I’ll just fix it myself. I can do this better than anyone else so there’s no point in asking for help.

At work, I’ve been on both ends of the delegation spectrum. I know I have a tendency to micromanage when I get stressed, thinking it’s faster or easier if I just do the task myself. I know it also gives me a false sense of control over a situation very much out of my control (and it’s usually this feeling of being out of control that makes me stressed in the first place). And sometimes I micromanage simply because I feel bad about asking someone to do something I think I should be doing myself.

When I catch myself taking over someone else’s work, I remember how I feel when someone does that to me — and also how I feel when they give me autonomy over my own tasks. I realize that when I feel someone is constantly looking over my shoulder, double-checking my work or telling me how to do it, I start to feel resentful and often make more mistakes. But when someone steps back and gives me responsibility over my own work, I rise to the occasion and usually do a better job.

So these days, when I’m stressed and catch myself micromanaging, I take a few deep breaths and remind myself that by asking someone to do something instead of doing it myself, I’m not slacking or burdening someone else. Instead, I’m giving them the gift of trust — that they too are smart and and capable of doing a good job.

So my kavanah, or intention, for this week is that we ask ourselves: Are there times when we could ask someone to do something for us but don’t, simply because we’re afraid to ask? What would it feel like if we did ask, both for ourselves and for the person we’re asking?

This week’s parsha, Shemot (“Names”), might be a familiar one, as it’s the beginning not only of the book of Exodus but of the story we tell every year at Passover. A lot happens in this parsha; the Israelites are enslaved in Egypt by a fearful Pharaoh who orders all newborn Hebrew boys thrown into the Nile. One mother, defying these orders, instead sets her son adrift in a papyrus box on the river; he’s discovered and later raised by the Pharaoh’s own daughter. This boy, once grown, sees an Egyptian slavemaster kill an Israelite and, in anger, kills the slavemaster. He then flees to the land of Midian, where he marries, has a son, and becomes a shepherd. One day, while tending his flock, he comes upon a bush that burns without burning up, through which G-d speaks to him and instructs him to return to Egypt and bring the Israelites, G-d’s people, out of Egypt.

This man is Moses, who is one of the most revered figures in Jewish history. Since most of this parsha is about him, I assumed that’s who I’d base my kavanah (or intention) on. But the more I thought about it, the more I noticed how fascinated I was by a completely different person: the Pharaoh.

The Torah says, “[The Pharaoh] announced to his people, ‘The Israelites are becoming too numerous and strong for us. We must deal wisely with them. Otherwise, they may increase so much, that if there is war, they will join our enemies and fight against us, driving us from the land.’ ”

What leapt out at me when I read this passage was the line: We must deal wisely with them, because it strikes me that, if you want to instill loyalty in a group of people, turning them into slaves is perhaps not the wisest way to achieve that goal.

But the Pharaoh was afraid. Afraid there were too many Israelites, afraid they’d turn against him. He was so afraid he couldn’t see any future aside from the one he feared. And this fear led him to treat the Israelites harshly, to oppress and control them. But they continued to flourish nonetheless – and eventually the misery he inflicted caused them to call out for relief from G-d, who heeded their cries and sent Moses to free them. So the Pharaoh lost his control over them all the same.

And so I wondered, what if the Pharaoh had been less afraid? What if that absence of fear had allowed him to treat these people with kindness and compassion instead? Could it have been possible that, instead of giving them the power to overthrow him, as the Pharaoh feared, he would have instilled in them a sense of gratitude and, in turn, loyalty – thereby giving him what he’d been seeking in the first place?

For me, it’s much easier to envision negative outcomes to situations than positive ones, because fear and self-doubt can create such loud and convincing voices within me sometimes. But I know that meditation can help me quiet those voices, so that I can picture positive outcomes instead. And sometimes that makes all the difference in terms of the decisions I make and the ways I interact with others: I’m more open, kinder, and friendlier, and I believe that I can actually make my life more the way I want it to be.

So my kavanah is that we use our meditation practice to help drive out our own fears and self-doubt, so that we have more space for kindness and compassion, both for others and for ourselves.

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?

September 11, 2011

Ten years ago today I was a college student and lived in the East Village. After the first plane hit the World Trade Center, a friend called and told me to look outside. Then my TV and phone lines went out. Running to school, the only place I thought felt safe, I heard people in their apartments and cars screaming. Another plane hit the second tower. Then the towers started falling. I spent the day talking with NYPD who set up a headquarters in our building. I waited for hours to use a payphone to call my parents, and I sat, under that clear blue sky, with friends, watching what felt like thousands of people covered in white dust running uptown.

I remember thinking that this must be what it feels like to be at war— to have your city bombed and to feel completely powerless and scared. I felt connected to everyone who has experienced war, knowing that my experience, although scary, was nothing compared to what most people have been through. I thought, this is what fear feels like.

A few months ago, my father died. It was sudden. It’s been painful. Before this, I had never experienced grief in such an intense way. I was shocked by the physicality.  My eyes stung and my throat hurt and my blood felt watery. My lungs didn’t seem to be working well, and breathing was a serious effort. I felt like my body shut down. My heart hurt. It still hurts. And that’s just the physical. Emotionally, I felt like a sad zombie. I wasn’t sleeping. I was constantly bursting into tears. At some point, I was reminded that people die at every moment, and their loved ones feel just like this. I thought this is what it feels like to mourn.

Ten years later, we are commemorating September 11^th in New York City. Where I lived at the time, all of the bus shelters, street lamp poles, any wall space was covered with signs of missing people. I remember for months, staring at those signs–  so many different faces of every color, age, background, all missing, most dead.  When I thought about our losses on September 11^th, I thought about those pictures. I felt sadness for all of those lost lives. This year, I’m thinking about them and all of their loved ones who have felt what I’ve been feeling in mourning and in grief. If this is what grieving feels like, I wonder how the world continues to turn, how anything gets done. If millions of people all over the world are going through this same, involuntary process of grief, how is it possible that we continue to make wars, consciously killing, if anyone with any power has ever felt like this?

After my father died, I was struck with this sticky, painful grief, but I was also faced with a caring and kindness and love that I didn’t realize was possible. And that made me remember the coming together of communities and the love that New Yorkers and the entire world extended to each other after September 11^th.  I remember visiting St. Paul’s church downtown where people came each day to offer rescue and recovery workers food and supplies. The pews were used as beds and the walls were covered with children’s art. Musicians came each day to play music. It was beautiful. And this is what it feels like to love and be loved. This is what it feels like to connect and care.

It’s in my meditation practice that I cultivate my own capacity to hold both love and fear. Sitting with both, holding both, is impossible and necessary, and this is what it feels like to be human, to be alive. Today at By Love Alone: A Day of Meditation on the 10th Anniversary of the World Trade Center Attacks, at the Shambhala Meditation Center of NYC, I offered the chesed, lovingkindness, practice where we blessed our loved ones, all those affected directly and indirectly by the attacks of September 11^th, those who we may know or not know who are difficult for us to love, ourselves, and the entire world with peace (shalom), joy (simcha), lovingkindness (chesed), and compassion (rachamim).

If you’re reading this, please take a moment to do this practice or at least just the last part: breathing in, you can say in your mind or out loud “May we be blessed,” and with an exhale, “with peace.” Breathing in: “May we be blessed,” and breathing out, “with joy.” “May we be blessed… with loving kindness.” “May we be blessed… with compassion.” It’s my hope that through this blessing practice we can remind ourselves that this is what it feels like to love. This is what it feels like to know peace.

May our practice of sitting with love and kindness let us know peace. May this peace not stay only with us, but radiate out in to the world through our thoughts and words and actions, and may we be of blessing. May everyone know peace.

This weeks Torah portion, Beshalach, conveys some wonderful insights into the contemplative practices that we have been exploring together at the JMC.

The story opens as the Israelites have embarked on the exodus from Egypt following a long and painful process of liberation. The text tells us that Pharaoh expressed regret for allowing the nation to flee and spearheaded a military effort to re-enslave the nation. As Israel is encamped along the sea of reeds they turn their gaze and behold the Egyptian armies chasing after them. The people go into a panic, they are afraid and many start crying out to God for assistance. Some even begin to accuse Moses of wrongdoing: “Are there not graves in Egypt that you had to bring us to the desert to die? What have you done to us by taking us out from the land of Egypt.” Reinforcing their earlier argument when Moses first came to speak on Israel’s behalf they said, “this is exactly what we told you in the beginning. It would better for us to work in Egypt than to die in the desert!”

Moses answered the people: “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance God will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today, you will never see again. God will fight for you; you need only to be still.”

Moses basically tells the people, “you’re all over the place! You’re afraid, you’re crying, you’re praying, you’re accusing, and you’re complaining. How can you forget all that has happened until this point? We have been enslaved for over 200 years. We have almost completely lost our identity in that place, and you want to go back!?  Right now we are here, and we are about to embark on a life-altering journey. Stand firm. Be aware of the change that is taking place. These Egyptians that you see before you – you won’t see them ever again, that part of your life is over.“

The Israelites are standing on a precipice, they are blinded by their inability to be aware of the events that have been unfolding before their eyes. The Torah says that they turned their gaze and saw the Egyptian armies approaching. With the turning of their gaze, it’s as if they had allowed themselves to be distracted from the true reality of the transformative experience at hand.

Moses had to remind them to be still.

Through the stillness of contemplation and meditation we can allow ourselves to be present with the events of our lives. It ensures that we can be there for the unfolding of our journey. In moments that we may feel lost or confused, we can envision a path that opens for us amidst the mighty waters of our lives. However, our practice has to be about more than our own personal journeys.

The sea was opened for Israel in order to bring them to Sinai- to bring them into a covenantal relationship with the Divine and to bring awareness to humanity of our responsibility to the universe. We will not see these Egyptians again. We will no longer allow the existence of a world that can have enslavement in it. After our experience of injustice in Egypt, we cannot afford to let that happen again. It is through being still that we can learn to be present in all of our relationships. This is the way to heal our world through acts of goodness and loving-kindness.

In response to the events in Tucson last week, President Obama conveyed these beautiful words that reflect the ideas of contemplation and gaining perspective on the unfolding of our lives:

“We are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this earth what matters is not wealth, or status, or power or fame, but how well we have loved, and what small part we have played in making the lives of other people better.”

Let us never turn our gaze away from the task at hand, and may our community create a space that will be for the betterment of the lives of others throughout the world.

Shabbat Shalom.

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.

Tonight (7pm, meet us on the Manhattan side of the Bridge) we’re walking, mindfully and meditatively, across the Brooklyn Bridge with the Brooklyn Zen Center. The Brooklyn Bridge, iconic and beautiful and fun to walk across, is sort of a perfect physical metaphor. Bridging traditions, connecting mindfulness to daily life, and if you haven’t been outside today, it’s pretty much the perfect autumn afternoon.

There’s something profound about walking meditation- really feeling the sensation of walking and breathing and paying attention to each step and sort of expanding your awareness as you walk to not just your own steps and breath and thoughts but everything around you. John Muir said, “I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out until sundown: for going out, I found, was really going in.” There are different types and levels of silence and stillness. Sitting in meditation is one way to connect with our breath and divinity. Just as chanting, prayer, creating art, dancing offer different ways and forms to connect, walking is a profound practice. Thinking about walking immediately calls to my mind the Abraham Joshua Heschel teaching: when asked why he marched in Selma instead of staying in New York and teaching and praying, Heschel replied “when I march in Selma, my feet are praying.” Tonight we’re not going on a protest march, we’re not even marching. We’re simply walking together, with community members, friends, and people we haven’t met yet. We’re taking a little bit of time, some of our daily commute from work to home, and transforming it into a spiritual practice. By paying attention as we walk, we come together to the present moment, where regrets and anxiety don’t have a place, where we can practice the peacefulness and joy that we want to create in the world. This walking meditation across the Brooklyn Bridge is a reminder to ourselves that we can always walk with mindfulness, we always have access to peace and the present tense, we just have to step into it.

There’s a song that I was recently reminded of that is a standard Jewish camp song, and I never knew what it meant. The song is simple. It starts with “kol ha’olam kulo, gesher tsar me’od, gesher tsar me’od, gesher tsar me’od.” The translation is “the whole world, is a very narrow bridge, a very narrow bridge, a very narrow bridge.” The song ends with “veha’ikar, lo lefached klal (and the main thing to remember is to not be afraid at all).” The song is attributed to Rebbe Nachman of Breslov and stems from his teachings that life is a very narrow bridge. It’s hard to navigate through this world, feeling danger on all sides and a deep precariousness in everything we do. The bright side is that from this bridge, this life, we have the most amazing views, and also, it’s the only way to get somewhere.

I love that the song doesn’t say “don’t be afraid.” Instead we sing that the most important thing is the remember not to be afraid. It’s softer, more doable; the instruction lets not being afraid become a practice instead of a destination. A lot like walking, don’t you think? Tonight, as we walk over the Bridge, we know where we’re going to end up, geographically. That’s not the point. It doesn’t matter, really, where we’re going or where we think we’re going. Wherever we’re supposed to be, we’ll end up there somehow. Let’s, instead of being afraid and worrying about our destinations, allow ourselves to pay attention to the walk itself. We might as well enjoy the journey- there’s no other way across.

In That’s Funny, You Don’t Look Buddhist: On Being a Faithful Jew and Passionate Buddhist, by Sylvia Boorstein, there’s a part about how when first teaching meditation for Rabbis, Sylvia was really concerned about having Buddha statues in the meditation room and spent a lot of time and energy figuring out how to cover or hide them. At one point, she realizes that it’s really her own trip, that most people don’t care, and her anguish about what to do with the buddhas is kind of unfounded. When we began sharing space with the Brooklyn Zen Center, hosting weekly Jewish meditation sits and events, and welcoming guest teachers, I thought a lot about this section in the book.

My initial response to the question of what to do with the buddhas was that if people are annoyed, uncomfortable, or frustrated by their presence, then that could be part of their practice- inquiring within themselves what it is that is sparking those feelings, where they come from, and how to sit with them. It’s like when we talk about how you sit in meditation when your leg hurts: there are different ways of dealing with pain- for example, using the pain, itself, as your practice, but you could also just stretch your leg and not have pain in that moment. One of the Zen Center Directors suggested we go with the latter route and just put up a shoji screen to cover the big Buddha, which is a much more sensitive approach than what I was thinking, so that’s what we did.

This worked fine for a while, but then we realized that on Tuesday mornings, it was almost painful to block the sun streaming in from the windows with the screen up, so we stopped using the screen, and instead moved the big Buddha. Problem solved! (We thought). Then it was brought to my attention that there might be some discomfort about not covering the altar that the Buddha was sitting on (without the Buddha statue, there is a vase of flowers, a candle, incense, etc). Here’s what I think: objects hold the power that we ascribe to them. Not all sculptures are idols, not all tables are altars. Sometimes idols are just statues and altars are just tables. To me, the buddhas are statues that represent, not necessarily the Buddha, himself, but the idea of buddhanature, our own capacity to be a buddha, enlightened, awake, a mensch in the present moment, really.

My neighborhood in Brooklyn is full of statues of saints, Jesus, and Mary; statues are all over the place, and I kind of like it. No one is worshipping these statues, I certainly am not, they might spark strong feelings and evoke emotions about Catholicism and Christianity, but I just consider them neighbors and representatives of qualities that I think are good reminders to be kind, loving, supportive, and helpful. I view the buddhas in the same way, but I know it’s different to be walking around outside with these statues compared to sitting near them in meditation or prayer. I hope that if the stray buddha statues in the meditation room are a source of discomfort, that frustration can be transformed into questioning- a little less messy and fueled by fear or anger, and can then become a source of great insight and introspection, helping each of us on our way to waking up, “enlightening up,” and opening our hearts and minds.

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.

Sunday morning we sat with an amazing group to “Get in the Mood” for the Days of Awe. In our exploration of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur themes, we spent a lot of time contemplating and meditating (literally) on forgiveness. It’s a touchy subject, forgiveness. I think because it’s scary- it can be unbearable to feel responsible for the suffering of others, and it’s also frightening to allow yourself to be vulnerable enough to open your heart and forgive someone who has hurt you. I think this is true for forgiving yourself and even God, too.

This morning, I realized that asking for forgiveness and offering forgiveness is kind of the same thing. What I mean is that acting unskillfully, hurting someone, whether directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously, usually stems from a place of fear and hurt inside ourselves. In order to inhabit our full culpability and truly ask for forgiveness, we have to see our own pain, hold our own broken hearts- which is exactly what we’re doing when we offer our own forgiveness to someone that has hurt us.

In this time leading up to the High Holidays, it’s a common practice to go to our loved ones and not-so-loved ones and ask for forgiveness for any misdeeds or mistakes we might have made in the past year. It’s a beautiful practice, humbling and powerful. I’d like to add on that we do the same practice with ourselves.

Here, it will only take a few seconds:

As you sit at your computer, deepen your breath. Imagine a time in the past year that you acted unskillfully. Allow yourself to feel that weight of responsibility. Think to yourself, “if I in any way was a cause of suffering, whether consciously or unconsciously, I ask for forgiveness.” Now, call up a time in the past year where you have felt hurt. Again, allow yourself to inhabit this feeling. Say to yourself, “if I have been harmed, whether consciously or unconsciously, I offer my forgiveness.” With your next inhale, focus on receiving forgiveness, and on your exhale offer your forgiveness, completing each cycle of breath with your own cycle of forgiveness. Offering and receiving, breathing in and breathing out.

With each breath, embrace the possibilities of forgiveness, returning, and the inevitable transformation that will happen because it just can’t not.