This week’s parsha, Chayei Sarah, begins with the death of Sarah, at age 127. Abraham, her husband, purchases a burial property for her, and later marries another woman, Keturah,  who bears him six more children. He also sends his most senior servant to his birth land to find a wife for his son Isaac, and most of the parsha details this servant’s journey and discovery of Isaac’s bride, Rebecca.

The servant travels to the city of Nachor and begins his search for a wife for Isaac among the women gathering water from the well. Feeling unsure of how he will recognize the right woman, he prays to G-d for help, saying, “If I say to a girl, ‘Tip over your jug and let me have a drink,’ and she  replies, ‘Drink, and I will also water your camels,’ she will be the one whom You have designated for Your servant Isaac.” The first woman he approaches is Rebecca; when she offers him and his camels a drink, he knows he has found Isaac’s bride.

In the servant’s journey and his prayer to G-d, I saw a reflection of something I often think about: when we’re searching for something – be it a romantic partner, a new job, a new house, a new community – we can put ourselves out there and look, but at the end of the day, there is a lot of luck involved in us finding what we’re seeking. Accepting this reality can often be a struggle for me, and at times I grow discouraged and think, If so much of life is random and out of my control, why bother trying? I risk shutting down and shutting myself off from new connections and new opportunities.

There was a second part of the parsha that seemed to offer some inspiration for this struggle: as the servant is bringing Rebecca to meet Isaac, the Torah reads that he “went out to meditate in the field toward evening. He raised his eyes, and  saw camels approaching.” With the camels came Rebecca, who he not only wed but loved. I love this image, of Isaac sitting still in a lush field as, unbeknownst to him, his bride and future love is riding toward him. In this picture I see what meditation does for me: it stills the fear inside of me – of being hurt and disappointed, of things being out of my control – and helps me live with the fact that much of life is uncertain, and see that sometimes uncertainty can lead to positive outcomes.

So my kavanah (or intention) for this week is the following: let our meditation practice help us open our eyes to whatever life is bringing our way, and let us recognize that sometimes those things might be just what we’ve been looking for.

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

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

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

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

The parsha deals with the offerings and sacrifices that G-d has deemed necessary for Aaron and his sons to become holy and prove their worth as priests to the Israelites.

Moses receives and delivers the message of G-d, an intermediary.  When Moses was born and cast into the Nile, he was retrieved by Pharaoh’s daughter and presented to Pharaoh.  He was given a test to see if he was of royal blood; two trays were placed before him, one with hot coals and another with gleaming jewels.  The test was to observe which objects Moses reached for; he began to move his hand to the jewels  – a sign of royal blood -and an angel thwarted his reach by pushing his hand to the hot coals.  Upon touching the hot coals, he burnt his hand and immediately placed his hot hand in his mouth thus causing his palate to be burnt and therefore disfiguring him and causing him difficulty in speaking clearly.

Aaron, Moses’s brother, became an eloquent speaker and assisted Moses in communicating verbally.  This situation, the division of thought and speech, begs the question of how thought and speech are so fundamentally interrelated.  Aaron Copeland, the great C20 composer, wrote an opera in three acts, Moses und Aaron, interestingly enough, the opera has only two acts and it has been a source of speculation whether Copeland intended the last act to be silent or he never completed the full opera.

Today, I read an obituary in The New York Times for Moacyr Scliar, the Brazilian writer who wrote of his identity as a Jew living in the Diaspora and found this quote appropriate: “I owe to my Jewish origins, the permanent feeling of wonderment that is inherent to the immigrant and the cruel, bitter and sad humor that through the centuries has served to protect the Jews against despair, it is the level of language, however, that these impulses are able to produce their effects.  It is in language that I have faith, as a vehicle for aesthetic expression and also – and above all else – as an insturment for changing the world in which we live.”

Prayer and meditation are similar practices in that they both offer us a connection to the divine, but they differ significantly.  I see prayer as using language to express our innermost thoughts and feelings to a higher power.  Sometimes, we plumb the depths within ourselves and allow whatever comes to the surface to flow out in our prayer; we often pray to words that were written by someone else but express what we want to say.  To me, prayer is reaching out to the universe with questions, gratitude and praise and often, pleas for help.

Meditation has a silent quality that honors the art of receptivity.  When I meditate, I cease movement and allow the activity of my mind and hearts to go on without control. Eventually, in meditation, we fall into a deep stillness that underlies all the noise and fray of our daily existence and it becomes possible for us to hear the universe as it speaks for itself, responds to our questions or allows us to sit with us silently.

Both prayer and meditation are indispensable tools for navigating our relationship with the universe and ourselves; they are natural complements to one another.  One makes way for the other just as the crest of a wave gives way to its hollow.  When we do only one, we may find that we are out of balance and we might benefit from exploring the missing form of communication.

There are times when we need to reach out and express ourselves, fully exorcising our inner thoughts and times when we are empty, ready to rest in quiet receiving.  When we allow ourselves to do both, we begin to have a true conversation with the universe.

Parsha Re’eh – ראה – Deuteronomy 11:26-16:17

This week’s parsha, Re’eh, begins with the line “See (re’eh), I place before you today a blessing and a curse.” Basically, Moses is offering the Israelites two options: follow the rules and be blessed; abandon God and be cursed. Moses instructs the people on the laws of the Temple, Kashrut, tithing, the Sabbatical year, and the three pilgrim festivals of Sukkot, Pesach, and Shavuot.

I love the idea of holding blessings and curses together. There’s a not so subtle directive that in order to discern between the two and choose a direction, we have to truly see what is placed before us. Through meditation we allow ourselves to create space in our lives to check in with our mind and heart. Sitting with and holding our deepest truths, fears, desires, we often find that it’s complicated. Blessings and curses, good and bad, pleasant and unpleasant- the longer we sit with something, the more our judgments and preconceptions shift and blend. We all know of someone who got exactly what they wished for and they still weren’t happy. Many times, we sit with physical pain and find that it’s a gateway to insight.

For most of my childhood, I took painting classes. One of the most important lessons was that if you were going to paint an apple (for example), you have to erase the idea of an apple from your brain and simply paint what you see. Painting an apple based on an established or even subconscious image of what an apple is supposed to look like will hold back your creative process and your resulting work won’t be very good. The art teachers who impacted me the most taught me to draw the space between objects, paint things upside down, and train my brain to see things as they are and not how I remember them or want them to be. When reading this week’s parsha, which starts with the instruction to “see,” these lessons came immediately to mind.

Meditation practice is a way to retrain our minds to see our thoughts, our lives, our histories, as they really are. Following Moshe’s instruction to see before us a blessing and a curse, we see that it’s rarely either/or and often both at the same time. We can mindfully use our Jewish practices, that Moses expounds upon in Re’eh, to know that our seeing and our understanding allows us to find our own path to blessings. As we sit in meditation, we may also find that the path itself is blessed.

A quick kavanah, intention, to guide practice: As you sit, follow your breath. Whenever you find that your mind has wandered, gently return to the present moment. Check in with your breath, your posture, and see what has drawn your attention from your intended focus. Allow yourself to see what you identify as a blessing and a curse and whether these designations shift as you watch them. Remind yourself that this is your task: to see before you blessings and curses and to learn to see them clearly.

Some time ago, I posted a review of Rodger Kamenetz’s The Jew in the Lotus on Amazon. The book, a favorite among Jewish meditators, is partly about a Jewish delegation’s visit to the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala, India. The delegation traveled there to share the strategies that Jews have used to survive as a people during our nearly 2000 years in exile.

After reading the book, I remember thinking that the most important lesson we should have shared with the Tibetans was about the very positive value of attachment.

Why is attachment something we should share? In my opinion, attachments are the keys to Jewish survival. For example, God promised Abraham that his descendants would inherit the land of Israel. If we had not been spiritually attached to the land as a result of God’s promise, we never would have had the desire to survive and return. This attachment, a great yearning, has had great value.

In Hebrew there are a few different words for attachment. Each expresses a different sense of what attachment means.

One is hit-dahb-koot, which means “to cause oneself to cling to” or “to cause oneself to adhere to.” It’s a deep and serious attachment, in love and in awe/fear. It’s rooted in the word d’veikoot (or d’veikoos), and implies a constant awareness and mindfulness that we are always in God’s presence.  Being there, our desire to do God’s will, which values compassion, justice and surrender, completely supersedes the self-centered desires of our own egos. With perfect d’veikoos we will not, even for a moment, lose our connection to God. This kind of attachment can be very positive.

Another word for attachment is hit-kash-root. It means “causing oneself to be connected to” or “causing oneself to be tied to.” Jewish mysticism teaches that each of us is a soul consisting of many parts. One part is attached to its root in the highest spiritual world, a spark of God’s “light.” It also attaches us to each other.  We want that attachment.

A third word for attachment is hit-khab-root, which could be translated as “drawing oneself into a very close relationship.” Its root means “friend” or “joined together.” It’s God’s relationship with the world that allows the infinite light of existence to enter, which is what allows for tikoon, repair. Without that relationship, the world would revert to chaos in an instant.

All three of these kinds of attachment can connect us to the everlasting, infinite One.

The same word d’veikoos is also used in the Torah for when two people get married.  It describes how they “cling to each other and become one flesh.” Jewish mystical teachings say that our entire reason for being is to elevate the physical via the spiritual, especially in our relationships. Instead of offering a celibate, monastic life to reach the pinnacle of spirit as some religions do, Judaism asserts that some of the highest levels of spirituality are found in the attached state of marriage.  The relationship between God and Israel is even likened to a marriage, and the giving of the Torah at Sinai, a wedding.

It’s clear that Judaism considers some kinds of attachment, including the very deeply attached relationship of marriage, to be very positive.

But not all attachments are positive. Some attachments are negative. Judaism’s Mussar movement is about cultivating mindfulness to become aware of and then change our bad habits and negative character traits.

What does attachment have to do with Jewish meditation? We usually think about meditation as a way to free ourselves from attachments; but, in Jewish meditation, attachment is a goal. Almost all of the classic Jewish meditation texts teach that meditation is about attaching ourselves to God. The practical forms of Jewish meditation foster that attachment. It may take the form of cultivating inner silence or compassion or equanimity. It may require us to work on mindfulness and self improvement, as in the Mussar approach. It may be in the form of prayer or visualizations. Or it may require social action.

Silence, compassion, equanimity, prayer, visualizations and social action are important, but according to traditional sources, we have to make sure that we don’t mistake (to use a Zen metaphor) the finger pointing at the moon for the moon, or the road for the destination. In the end, the reality is attachment to God.

keep it short and sweet (or bitter. but not too bitter.)

One of my core spiritual beliefs is the power of “faking it ’til you make it.” I was on a silent retreat recently, where I dropped out of the “advanced” class, because it felt too academic and intellectual for what I wanted at that moment. People in that class were debating about nondualism versus dualism, and I just didn’t care. The way I understand my world, there is no “versus,” just “and.” In my version of nonduality, dualism has a place. Even if it’s pretend.

A teacher of mine says that we need to have a personal god to relate to because we’re persons. That makes sense to me, even as a I push back against pronouns. I like the mystery and the incomprehensibility of a nondual relationship with God. Sometimes, though, it’s just not helpful. It doesn’t make any sense- I don’t feel anything. I met someone once who said that she really envied people who could rely on God, who felt free and comfortable to talk to God, to feel comforted by God, and that she never felt that and couldn’t imagine it.

First, I think it’s important to recognize this desire to connect, this ache to feel God in our lives, whatever that means. Second, it’s just as important to realize the depth of this disconnection, the pain of not feeling comforted, this lack of God in our lives. This is where pretending works for me. Imagining what it would feel like to be in a relationship with God as a parent, friend, lover is a profound practice. Sometimes during meditation or prayer, I pretend I’m being held by God, and I try to really see what that would feel like.

In the practice of hitbodedut, taught by Rebbe Nachman, one talks to God, out loud, in a private place, and doesn’t stop talking- even if you begin by saying, “I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t even believe in you!” The idea is to be in relationship with God, to pour your heart out and/or talk about whatever comes to mind. It’s possible at some point that it becomes unclear who exactly is talking and who is listening, and the search for clarity itself falls away.

It’s in these small moments, of pretending or praying or meditation, that we can get a taste of deep connection. To me, there’s no distinction between what’s “real” and what’s “fake.” It’s all truth. If we find meaning or are touched in any way, we’ve made it. Who cares if the path to getting there  isn’t the way we thought or were taught it should be. When I was a kid I used to pretend to be sleeping, to trick my parents, but every single time, I’d wind up falling asleep. This feels like the same thing. Pretending can be practicing. Practicing to be holy, to be kind, to be honest, that leads us to a place where we’re no longer practicing, no long pretending, we just inhabit those qualities. And if we know that works, let’s all start pretending to be mindful, content, safe, strong, and see what happens.

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.