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 Such is a struggle with many seemingly outdated traditions and Jewish customs.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?

This Shabbat, we begin the book of Leviticus, the center of the Torah. I love the idea that the first book, Genesis, is the story of beginnings and ends with enslavement in the narrow passages (mitzrayim, or Egypt). Next comes Exodus, the second book, the story of liberation. Exodus ends with the building of the mishkan, the holy traveling sanctuary, the dwelling space for divinity. We can understand the community’s elaborate process in creating the mishkan as an evolution of our connection with sacredness. Leviticus picks up here and gives a whole lot of rules about maintaining this connection… including sacrificing animals as worship.

Over time, our practices evolved and changed, and we now offer prayer instead of sacrifices. In fact, many of our prayer rituals are based on the rules of the burnt offerings. Parsha Vayikra, “and He called,” begins with G-d calling to Moses and going on and on about all of the rules associated with sacrificing animals, including different sacrifices to atone for different kinds of missteps. On first read, it’s difficult to see how these details could possibly be relevant to our lives… but that’s the beauty of Torah, right? When I started getting curious about this parsha, I learned something kind of exciting.

The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban. The root of korban means “to draw near.” When I think of the idea of sacrifice, I think of giving something up, and there’s a tension in the giving up or giving away. Korban flips that connotation and offers the idea of an act that allows us to approach G-d or holiness or whatever you want to call the ineffable. When I re-read the parsha with this concept in mind, something changed—maybe it was me.

In Leviticus, the very center, the heart, all of Torah radiates out from this central idea of what we do to get closer. In my meditation practice, I start each day with an intention. I go through phases, and my intentions shift and evolve, but for many years, I’ve watched them circle around the same three desires: an open heart, to be of service, and to be kind. It seems to me that the only way to have an open heart is to open my heart. The only way to be of service is to serve, and the way to be kind is to practice kindness at every opportunity. These actions, whether internal or external, can be seen as offerings, and as korban, drawing nearer and nearer.

My kavanah, or intention, for this week is to see our seats as our altars and to offer our whole selves up as korban. Practice sitting and breathing and feeling pulled closer and closer to something larger than ourselves and also nearer and nearer to our own hearts.

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, 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, 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

It is the morning before Passover and I stand in the rain watching so much go up in smoke. The time for chametz is over and the time for matzah slowly approaches, I am somewhere in between. We are about to celebrate the Jewish festival of freedom, our springtime celebration of renewal and rebirth. We will commemorate the Israelites embarking on their exodus from Egypt towards their new life in the Promised Land. We will celebrate their release from bondage and their long walk to freedom. Most importantly we will re-enact the process that they went through of leaving Egypt behind and embracing the hopefulness and optimism of a future with endless possibilities.

In Judaism it is rare to find celebration without accompanying ritual acts or mitzvot. Through the mitzvot the Torah helps to inform us how to celebrate and more importantly what we are really celebrating. At the Seder we re-enact the story of the exodus to draw parallels from our ancestors’ experiences to our own lives. In the exodus narrative the Israelites could only leave Egypt when Pharaoh finally released them from bondage. As we recreate the process of redemption when approaching the Seder night we need to do the same.

On Passover all leaven (chametz) must be searched out very meticulously and then eradicated (usually burned). Even the things that we can’t find have to be nullified from our ownership.  It is not a mere physical act rather it is a mitzvah in its deepest sense. I equate our release from bondage as essentially the removal of the chametz from our possession.  Removal of chametz is intended to be a mental & emotional cleaning house, an elimination of the shell around our hearts and the doubts and hindrances in the recesses of our souls. The chametz is a physical representation of the psychological or emotional enslavement that we all have to one thing or another. Through the act of searching for and destroying it from our possession, we have an avenue to explore the possibilities of freedom.

Once we have been released from bondage we can participate in the joyous feast of the Seder where freedom is explored through physical acts that are meant to make us feel like a liberated people. We drink four cups of wine, each relating to a different stage in redemption. We recline during the meal; we dip foods, sing songs and most importantly eat matzah (bread devoid of chametz, essentially the bread of someone free from enslavement). It’s important to think about and meditate on the meaning of the mitzvot we do during the Seder. This should help us internalize how to be free from the things that enslave us.

I spent Sunday cleaning out my chametz. I know there are crumbs left behind that lie in the dark corners of my home and the deep recesses of my soul. You just can’t reach everything at once. Maybe I’ll find them next year or the year after that. But as I watch my chametz go up in smoke the peaceful rain reminds me of the stillness I find in my practice. And I think eventually I’ll clean those things out too.

Passover is approaching. This weekend, during a picnic on a beautiful Spring day, I was explaining to a friend who doesn’t have much knowledge of Jewish holidays why Passover is my favorite: “It’s an easy metaphor. No need to invoke the mystics, you don’t need to get all hippie about it, it’s perfectly set up to remind you of your own personal journey…” Freedom, liberation, just the simple and uncontested translation of the Hebrew word for Egypt as a “narrow space,” how can you not get deep?

This weekend I did my own version of the hunt for chametz (leavened anything, in preparation for a house free of bread, crumbs, etc), spring cleaning, serious Passover prep- mostly because it just feels good. The weather in Brooklyn has changed. It seemed obvious: Spring is here, sandals are on, flowers are blooming, sun is shining, and now the floors are mopped, the bathtub is scrubbed, and the dresser drawers are full of warm weather clothes. Now that my home is prepared for Passover (and sunshine), I’m getting to work on my inner self.

This Thursday is the JMC “Getting in the Mood… for Passover” workshop, which is going to be fun (check the calendar for details!). Ben Ross and I are co-leading it and the focus will be on Pharaoh- the bad guy of the Pesach narrative. What can we learn from Pharaoh? How do we share qualities that Pharaoh exhibits in the story, and what can learn from that? We’ve also prepared a JMC Passover Haggadah Insert that you can email, print, bring to your Seder or use on your own– check it out on JMC Resources page!

Over the weekend, I was teaching first graders about the Passover holiday and besides spending a ridiculous amount of time trying to explain what “bitter” means (finally one little boy said “OH, like when you chew gum for a long time and then you get that bad taste in your mouth!” – insights of six-year-olds thrill me), we wound up talking a lot about Pharaoh. One part of the Exodus story that resonated with the kids is when Pharaoh changes his mind. He finally relents, probably with much suffering and sadness as Egyptian boys are killed by the tenth plague, and then when the Israelites are running toward freedom, he decides he doesn’t actually want to let them go. On my walk home from the first grade class, I kept coming back to this switch. Feeling forced to make a decision, not having time to really think, I can totally relate to this moment of changing your mind. Even though, to us, letting the Israelites go is obviously the right thing to do, this was not a clear direction for Pharaoh.

While cleaning and hunting for hidden chametz in my house, I mindfully created some space to think about what stuff might be muddling my mind. What is keeping me from being able to see clearly, to make the right choices that benefit the world? Passover is a perfect opportunity to reflect on these sorts of questions. Not being aware and considering our actions and reactions in relation to others can enslave us. With the goal of finding freedom, let’s use Passover to clean out our cabinets and mental compartments, let some sun into the darkest, narrowest places within, and let our own inner Pharaoh go.