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 Such is a struggle with many seemingly outdated traditions and Jewish customs.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

Passover starts next week… Click below to get in the mood for the Passover holiday:

JMC’s 2011 Passover Haggadah Insert is here!
Download it, print it, and use it at your seder. Please share it with your friends and family!
Click here for instructions and download (and you can access last year’s insert, too)

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.

I’ve been reading a lot about the mitzvah (commandment/good deed) of “counting the omer.” The word “omer” translates to “measure,” and the practice began with the measuring of grain to be offered at the ancient Temple. Now, we’re not counting grain, but we’re counting days- from the second night of Passover to Shavuot, when the Israelites are given the Torah at Mount Sinai. Seven weeks, forty-nine days from Exodus to Revelation. The mystical practice of counting the omer is based on the bottom seven of the ten sephirot, divine emanations, Kabbalah‘s Tree of Life. The Kabalists taught that each week and each day is represented by one divine quality. I’ll break it down (with Rabbi Simon Jacobson‘s definitions):

1. Chesed – lovingkindness/benevolence
2. Gevorah – justice/discipline/restraint/awe
   
3. Tiferet – beauty/harmony/compassion
4. Netzach: endurance/fortitude/ambition
   
5. Hod – humility/splendor
6. Yesod – bonding/foundation
   
7. Malchut – nobility/sovereignty/leadership

So, the first week is focused on chesed. The first day of the first week is a time to meditate on “chesed she’b'chesed” or “lovingkindness within lovingkindness.” What does this mean? I’m not sure. I’ve seen a few descriptions that don’t make any sense, but I think it’s an opportunity to to look deeply at our capacity to love, generosity of love, and expression of love. The second day of the first week is focused on gevurah of chesed- discipline in lovingkindness. This day can look at boundaries, respect, and sensitivity. Zooming ahead, the sixth day of the third week would be yesod of tiferet- bonding in compassion. This is a time to concentrate on the foundation of compassion, what is motivating and sustaining harmony in your life? Etc, etc, etc. Hopefully that all made sense.

It’s a beautiful structure, and I have a handy little calendar that I flip each day to be reminded of what to think about. At the top of the calendar is the counting part “Today is eight days, which are one week and one day, of the Omer.” That might be my favorite part. The simple reminder of counting, of having a timeline, is comforting. I like calendars; I like planning. Even if the plans change, especially when the plans change, it’s somehow freeing to have a a whole net below of goals, flowcharts, step-by-steps.

When I first learned how to meditate, I spent a lot of time counting my breath. I learned to count each cycle of inhalation and exhalation, up to “nine,” and then start again at “one.” For a long time, I probably never made it past four. I would start counting on each exhale, “one… two… three…” and then my mind would wander. At some point, I’d bring my attention back to counting, starting again at “one.” Once in a while, I would count up to nine, start again, back to nine, start again, but not often. Realizing that it didn’t matter how many times I was able to correctly do this counting exercise was a great moment. I wasn’t being graded, failure wasn’t a possibility, enlightenment wasn’t waiting behind nine breaths, it was just a practice. And knowing that I could always start over at “one,” was like a backup plan. It was hard for me to understand that it was okay to daydream, to wander away from my concentration practice. Now I believe that the wandering is actually part of learning discipline.

In these forty-nine days between Passover and Shavuot, we’re mimicking the Israelites wandering; through the sea, through the desert, to the mountain. We need this time of accounting, counting, and preparing for revelation. We just celebrated, at the Passover seders, freedom from slavery. As we meditate on each day, counting the omer, we are examining our lives and our own divine attributes. The idea is that, through this practice, we can see how to keep moving towards liberation and not slip back into whatever may enslave us. We’re measuring ourselves and counting down (or up) to a time when we can defy our own limitations, be receptive, and feel free.

Now, go count from the second night of Passover, figure out which week and day you’re at, and take a moment to see which quality of which attribute you’re supposed to be meditating on. Whether you’re at home or work or somewhere else entirely, allow yourself a moment to take a breath and meditate on this particular day of the counting of the omer.

This year, my reflections on Pesach took me back to some learning I did last year, with Rabbi David Silber at the Drisha Institute for Jewish Education. A piece of his analysis of the biblical text inspired me to prepare a class on this topic last Shavuot; over the course of the past year, the themes and ideas have been particularly live for me as I transitioned to a new home, a new relationship, and new learning and growth in the mountains of North Carolina, far away from my usual spiritual contexts. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it is that inspires us to change our lives for the better, to pursue paths of spiritual growth, to work for our own personal redemption from challenging periods in our lives.

A close reading of the Exodus narrative generates insights into the psychology of redemption. Reading the text attentive to the particularities of language, we find that the redemptive process does not begin until three specific words appear: inui (suffering), avdut (servitude), and gerut (alienation). This language parallels that which God uses when foretelling the destiny that awaits Abraham’s descendents in Egypt (Genesis 15:13-14). Strikingly, the language of inui and avdut appears multiple times early in the first two chapters of Exodus; the language of gerut appears only once (Exodus 2:22). Yet it is the appearance of gerut that marks the turning point in the narrative: only at this moment does God hear the cries of the Israelites, recall the covenant with the patriarchs, and then reveal Godself to Moshe—finally setting the redemption in motion.

Thus the Torah sees gerut—alienation—as central to our experience in Egypt, and as a necessary precondition for leaving Egypt. The question is why? Why does God originally specify, in Genesis, that the people will experience gerut? And in Exodus, why do we need to see this term appear in the text before God steps in to begin the process of redemption? What role does gerut play?

To explain its necessity, Rabbi Silber suggests that while avdut and inui can be objectively identified by an outside observer, gerut is a subjective condition, requiring a degree of self-awareness. It is only when B’nai Yisrael become aware of their relationship to their environment, and feel alienated from it, that they are ready to change their reality; indeed, they cry out to God only after the language of gerut appears. Thus the mental discomfort of alienation signals a psychological readiness for change and redemption, for freedom from their oppressive condition of slavery.

What does this mean for our own lives? To my mind, this reading is a profound statement on those periods in our lives when we experience alienation and confinement. It means that these painful experiences signal a more highly evolved state of self-awareness and consciousness—one that is ready for change. In this way, our anxiety and uneasiness in our environment can be a catalyst for spiritual growth and personal redemption. Feeling alienated, we can look at our surroundings and ask the hard questions of what we need to do to change, where we need to go, what we need to aspire to in order to become redeemed. Then, if we are ready to respond to that experience of gerut, we cry out, taking the initial steps forward to partner with God in redemption, becoming agents in our own spiritual destinies.

May this Passover be one of personal, national and global awakening, where we use moments of pain to spur our steps forward in our own evolution, and towards a redeemed world.

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.