Parsha Behar-Bechukotai has two sections. The first, Behar, deals primarily with the rules and regulations pertaining to the land of Israel. We read of the sabbatical (Shmitta) years, in which the land was to lie fallow one out of every seven years, and relate this to observing Shabbat each week. We also read that there was a Jubilee year every fifty years, which offered the opportunity for anyone who sold himself or herself into servitude, to redeem himself or herself. Leviticus concludes with a graphic vision of the desolation of the land of Israel and the dispersal of the people if, after entering the land, they failed to fulfill the Covenant obligations of the Torah. The land belongs to G-d, and must be respected in order to reap its bounty—though we own nothing, we must steward the gifts bequeathed to us.

The second section, Bechukotai, deals with the ways that we are required to treat other Jews and other people: we are commanded not to wrong each other, especially in financial transactions. Failure to abide these commands would result in exile and oppression, and are couched as a warning, where they are described in terrifying terms of suffering.

I often consider how I’d define Judaism. I’ve come to believe that our religion can be defined in one word: Shabbat. G-d commanded that we observe Shabbat above all other ‘holidays,’ and to remember and sanctify this day as a reminder that G-d rested after creating the heavens and the earth. Our labors are rewarded with rest in order to enjoy the fruits of our efforts and prepare ourselves to begin the cycle again.

The concept of a day of rest, where one is not required to perform the obligations of the other six days of the week, I see as a gift rather than a series of restrictions. We perform daily tasks and rituals to survive and we are blessed with a day of rest; similarly, we are commanded to allow the land bequeathed to us to also rest, so as to be nourished and re-fertilized before it must provide the bounty of grains, vegetables, and fruits that sustain us and all other beings on this planet.

My kavanah for this week is an invitation to look at our meditation practice as a little taste of Shabbat that we perform to center and restore ourselves in small measure before we enjoy Shabbat at weeks end. How will you use this opportunity to center and reflect on this day as you prepare for the next? What gifts come from this practice and ultimately, from the observance of a full day to enjoy the fruits of our labors?

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, we are stepping away from the weekly Torah portion to focus more closely on the Passover, or Pesach, holiday. As my connection to Judaism and spirituality has grown, changed, faded, and then evolved entirely, so has my understanding of Passover and how it relates to my modern day life. Such is a struggle with many seemingly outdated traditions and Jewish customs.

The story of Passover takes us to Egypt, where the Jews were enslaved by the Pharoah. After G-d inflicts ten horrific plagues on the people of Egypt, sparing the Jews in captivity, the Pharoah finally has no choice but to free the Jews, allowing them to return to their homeland. Naturally, the Jews were thrilled to be released from bondage, and they ran. Quickly. So quickly the dough they had prepared for bread didn’t have time to rise. Hence, matzah.

Passover is traditionally welcomed with a seder (or two for Jewish communities outside of Israel), which is the Hebrew word for “order.” The seder includes a very specific set of rituals performed in a very specific order, which all retell the story of the Jews’ struggle to free themselves from slavery in Egypt and return to the homeland. Personal liberation symbolism abounds.

One part of the seder mentions four children, all of whom, in one way or another, just want to know what’s going on and why they should care. There is the wise one, the wicked one, the simple one and the one who does not know how to ask. I want to focus on the simple child, as I have seen him described as simple and indifferent, implying that his simplicity is due to apathy.

However, I see it differently. I view this simplicity as a form of innocence and progress; a freedom from distraction. In our busy, hectic, hyper-stimulated lives, we tend to overanalyze, over think and over question everything.

Shortly after I graduated from college, I lived in Israel, where I spent some time in the Negev. This experience, years later, is still one I remember as pivotal. Prior to my first trip to the desert I was in Jerusalem, exploring Judaism with a closer eye than I ever had before. Almost everything in my life came into question: my relationship with and understanding of G-d, religion, the people around me, and myself.

Two days out of Jerusalem, I found myself sleeping in a tent in the middle of the Negev. No electricity, no city bustle, just pure silence. It was almost instantly that I felt myself at ease, free from the urban noise (both literal and metaphorical) that had so forcefully weighed down on me up until that point in my life. I was free from distraction. I was the simple one.

It was during this time that I connected deeply with people who would become very important to my personal growth during my journey through Israel. The connections were natural, as though they were just waiting to happen. Without the urban commotion I was used to, I was able to relate more honestly to my newfound friends and, perhaps most importantly, to myself. I began my personal work of finding out who I was and how I wanted to be in this world; doing so in a gentle and tolerant way. I was asking myself questions I had never asked before, and connecting with my surroundings in a way I had never experienced. The desert provided the perfect backdrop by which to simply exist.

So I offer up this kavanah, or intention, for this week of Passover. As we prepare to sit, may we focus on simplifying our thoughts, creating a more compassionate and tolerant self. How can this simplicity allow us to confront ourselves and others with the questions that we truly need to ask? How can these simple and unadorned thoughts bring us greater clarity and mindfulness in our meditation practice and in our daily lives? And how, despite the urban hustle and bustle by which we may be surrounded, can we use simplicity to bring us closer to ourselves?

I have to admit I’ve avoided writing this for a long time. Not because I didn’t want to write about it and not because I don’t love the topic – as a long-time meditator, longer-time Jew, Jewish Meditation Center Board member and sit leader in my local community, I’m pretty involved. It’s just that when it comes to my own process as a Jew, and (eek) writing as a Jew? Let’s say I’m pretty ambivalent.

But I’m also a mom and a birth doula, and when I was asked to write about Jewish meditation and birth, too many of my identities were wrapped up too neatly for me to say no.

So, why the ambivalence?  I’d trace it back to my beginnings; as the eldest daughter of a first generation New York Jew and a converted Presbyterian from the Midwest, identity was always a bit fuzzy for me.  My mother’s mother is a lifelong church-goer and card-carrying member of the Daughters of the American Revolution; my father’s mother is a Modern Orthodox Holocaust survivor.  We took the Christmas tree down and up at least three times one winter when both sets of grandparents happened to be visiting at the same time.  It’s not an unusual story these days.

When Jewishness is both of you and not of you, claiming it, speaking for it, is a strange process.  I began a meditation practice as a teenager, but have never felt as at home in it as I do in Jewish meditation sits.  Yet, even today as I lead JMC-style sits in my home town of Beacon, I don’t have a particularly great response to the persistent question: “So, what makes this meditation Jewish?”  Sylvia Boorstein has the best answer I’ve heard yet; at a retreat I attended she said folks would ask her, “Why Jewish meditation?  Why not just meditate?  Why complicate it with Jewishness?”  Her answer:  “Because I am complicated with Jewishness.”

So, I am complicated with Jewishness.  Complicated  being the operative word.  Jewishness, it seems, has that affect on many of us.

And what does this all have to do with birth?  Nothing?  Everything?  These are not rhetorical questions.  Some more thoughts:

When you’re as obsessed with birth as a person needs to be to work with laboring women, birth metaphors are everywhere.  And in many ways, the process of pregnancy, labor, and delivery are the ultimate metaphor, combining so many of humanity’s deepest tropes – the endless patience, sacrifice, and waiting of gestation, the utter lack of control and surrender of it all, the deep adventure into the unknown, the vulnerability.  The endurance, strength, power, and struggle of labor and the breakthrough of delivery.  The profound transformation of the woman as she becomes a mother, as her body, heart, and mind are changed forever, and the profound transformation of nothingness into everythingness: a new human life.

Because the Jewish calendar operates with the moon, many of our most important holidays fall on the full moon.  Many pregnant women also go into labor on the full moon.  At 37 weeks, I felt what I thought were my first labor pains on the second night of Passover.  As I drove to our community seder, I called my doula to let her know.  “Maybe I’ll name my child Moses,” I thought, as I sat through the seder, pretending nothing was happening.  I sat with the story of the final plague – the slaying of the first born – in a different way that night, and I giggled as we talked about freedom from mitzrayim: the narrow passage.

As it turned out, my daughter – who is not named Moses – waited for the NEXT full moon, and after a short labor and a long two hours pushing through our own little mitzrayim, she was born on the 31^st day of the Omer: Tiferet in Hod.  The simple translation of that day would be the inner balance in beauty and multiplicity.  Sound familiar?

And what does that have to do with meditation?  Nothing?  Everything?

At the last meditation sit I led, a participant asked, “What’s the goal here?”  We talked about the goals each of us bring to our practice, and I closed by reminding us that some meditation teachers would be horrified by the idea of having a goal at all.  I’m all about goals for pretty much everything, but it is incredibly important to have the right kind of goal.  This is the same advice I give to clients who are preparing for birth.  Don’t set yourself up for disappointment with a goal you very well might not achieve, whether it be enlightenment, forgiving a difficult person, or an epic vaginal delivery where all you feel is love in your heart.  One of the greatest lessons birth has taught me is that we are not in control of anything but the lens we use to see the world.  And one of the greatest lessons meditation has taught me is how to know and use that lens. I’ve always liked the idea of Passover as a birthing story: we labored, the water parted, we passed through, and were born as a people.

May we use this Passover as an invitation to bring the lens of birth and rebirth to the journey from mitzrayim and find liberation.

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 parsha deals with the detailed instructions G-d has established for the construction of the Tabernacle. G-d instructs Moses to gather the specific materials and intones, “They shall make a Sanctuary for me—so that I may dwell among them…Exactly as I show you, so shall you make it.”

The parsha is divided into three sections. The first outlines the materials and the measurements to construct the ark; the second describes the materials and measurements for the Tabernacle; and the third describes the materials and measurements for the altar and the enclosure of the Tabernacle.

Typically, the enclosure for a building is designed and erected first, and the interior items designed and installed last; this parsha reverses the standard order for design. As an architect named Bezalel, I find this order compelling to contemplate. (Bezalel is the chief artisan of the Tabernacle; he appears in Exodus 31:1and the name means “in the shadow of G-d”).

Another interesting aspect of the parsha is that it states that the Israelites “shall make a sanctuary so that I may dwell among them” rather than dwell in it—I take this to mean that G-d is dwelling within every person, not the Tabernacle itself, nor is G-d tied to a particular place. Therefore, G-d has set an example for us to create a sacred space and it is our responsibility to develop a personal set of instructions for the sacred space of our own lives, beginning from within.

Think of a time when you were truly at peace, when you were relaxed, refreshed and felt G-d dwelling within you. Building from that, what elements were most present that you can learn from to reinforce that space for yourself?

My kavannah for this week is to imagine how easy it might be to create a set of instructions and materials required for your inner sacred space. At times when we are feeling overwhelmed, overworked or underappreciated, we can remind ourselves how to put this ‘place’ together for ourselves. This contemplation could serve as a reminder that this sacred space is within reach and that each of us can be a “living tabernacle.”

This week’s parsha, or weekly Torah portion, is called Mishpatim, meaning “rules” or “ordinances.” The majority of the parsha consists of 53 commandments that G-d informs the Israelites they must follow if they are to truly be G-d’s people. Of these commandments, 23 are mitzvot, instructing the Israelites on how they should behave, and 30 of them prohibit certain actions. They cover an extraordinarily wide range of topics, from those that make logical sense to the modern ear, such as prohibitions against assault and the injunction to return lost property to its owner, to topics that many Jews today are unsure how to interpret, such as the Jewish dietary laws and the regulations about how certain holidays and festivals should be observed. Near the end of the parsha, after G-d lays out these 53 mitzvot, G-d commands Moses to leave the Israelites in the care of his brother Aaron and their friend Hur, and make his way up to the top of Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments. Moses makes the trek, waits for G-d, and then on his seventh day of waiting, G-d calls to him from inside a cloud. Moses joins G-d inside the cloud and then stays atop Mount Sinai for forty days and forty nights.

In Mishpatim, G-d sets forth punishments for committing various offenses. For example, in Exodus 21:12, G-d explains that, “He who fatally strikes a man shall be put to death.” But similar to the American legal system, a person’s intention matters. G-d continues, in Exodus 21: 13, “If he did not do it by design…I will assign you a place to which he can flee.” As I read these lines, I thought to myself, “at least G-d took a person’s motivation or lack thereof into account,” but ultimately the person still had to face consequences for his or her actions.

A few years ago, I went through a very difficult break-up. Though we loved each other, it was clear that it was time for our relationship to end. During the break-up, each of us behaved in hurtful ways, though that had not been either of our intentions. In the aftermath, friends and family told me, “Ali, you’re human. Forgive yourself. During stressful times, people sometimes act in ways that they’re later less than proud of.” Though I appreciated their reminder to not be too hard on myself, I also really wanted to hear something else, the same message that I think G-d was trying to send to the Israelites: a person must still be held accountable for his or her behavior, regardless of his or her intentions. Taking responsibility doesn’t mean I shouldn’t forgive myself, but it does mean that I must recognize the agency that I have, even when I’m under stress, and learn from my mistakes. By acknowledging responsibility, I’ll then be able to re-align myself to the high standards I set for my behavior.

Owning up, especially when we didn’t mean to hurt or harm someone else or ourselves, isn’t easy. We can always, and often do, make excuses, and frequently others make excuses for us. But sometimes, in order to truly let go or forgive oneself, it’s essential to stand tall and say, “Yes, that was me, but I’ll be more aware of the potential consequences of my actions next time.” My kavannah or intention for this week is for us to consider how “owning up” to certain behaviors or actions, especially those that we did not expect would lead to harm or hurt, may free us to move on with our lives.

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.