What is the nature of teshuva (often translated as repentance or return)? How does this process begin?  How do we ourselves take steps towards being our best selves, and how do we create the space for others to do so?

One immediate response might be that which Maimonides, the Rambam, suggests in his Laws of Teshuva: to identify all those things that we did ‘wrong,’ to articulate and enumerate them, to confess to them (vidui).  From there, the Rambam says, we can begin to do the work of not repeating such actions and behaviors.  We can begin to do the work of return–returning from ‘wrong’ behavior to our best and highest selves.

In his work Likkutei Moharan, Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav offers an alternative approach.  Rather than beginning from the ‘wrong,’ he suggests, the seeds of teshuva begin with an identification and acknowledgement of what is right and good.

‘Know!’  he writes ‘You must judge all people favorably.  Even if you have reason to think that a person is completely wicked, you must search until you seek out some bit of goodness, some place in that person where he is not evil.  When you find that bit of goodness and judge the person that way, you may really raise him up to goodness.  Treating people this way allows them to be restored, to come to teshuva…‘

Here, Rabbi Nachman offers a gift for those of us who struggle to let go of grudges, to see beyond the frustrated personality traits of relatives, to open our hearts to people who have hurt us in the past.  Sometimes, Rabbi Nachman acknowledges, full forgiveness is too hard to achieve in one go. And yet, this does not need to discourage us entirely.  Even taking one step, seeing one good element in another human being, is a worthy exercise, because our small step will help enable that person to change.

This is an amazing claim!  The very opening of our heart towards another human being helps create the space for that person to move forward in teshuva, in return towards her best self!  The process of teshuva, therefore, is not one sided, it is not solely about me doing my best to make amends, do teshuva, seek forgiveness from people I have hurt, work towards my better self.  Nor is it reciprocal, with one person seeking forgiveness and another granting it.  Rather, the process of teshuva is dialectical and dialogical: it happens through the steps forward of the one who wants to change, and the belief on the part of another that the person has the potential to do so.

Rabbi Nachman does not stop with this tremendous idea.  He goes on to encourage us to do something even more challenging: to extend this position of open heartedness, of kindness, of belief in the goodness of a human being to ourselves:

“You have to search until you find some point of good in yourself to restore your inner vitality and attain joy.  And by searching for and finding some little bit of good that still remains inside of you, you genuinely move from the scale of guilt into the scale of merit.”

For those of us–including myself–who can be our own worst enemies, Rabbi Nachman’s words ring loudly.  Many times, we fail to acknowledge the goodness in our own work, our own capabilities, our own choices. Rabbi Nachman offers a beautiful practice—the practice of identifying one small good thing about ourselves—as a tool for releasing these patterns, which painfully prevent us from granting ourselves forgiveness, from becoming our best and highest selves

Rabbi Nachman then beautifully suggests that this behavior, the identification of the good in ourselves and in our souls, sends our unique melody out in to the world, blending the notes of our individual music into the symphony of humanity.

With wishes for a new year that is full of seeing the good–in our world, in our friends, families and colleagues, and in ourselves.  And may this goodness lead to renewal, return, and joyful songs.

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.

I don’t know about you, but I often find the High Holidays very daunting. I mean, we’re supposed to take stock of our entire selves, turn our lives around, and inspire G!d to grant us another year of life! Stakes can’t get much higher.

Part of it, too, is that t’shuvah, the process of reconnecting with our deepest selves, can bring on a feeling of powerful catharsis and clarity. Once you’ve experienced that, it’s hard not to want to experience it again, hard not to try to recreate that “perfect combination” of practice and circumstance.

I’ve experienced the same thing with my meditation practice. Paradoxically, it’s when meditation has been extremely powerful for me that I have trouble sustaining my routine—because I’ve developed an expectation of how it “should” be, and I get wrapped up in feelings of failure when I can’t recreate that experience every time I sit.

One of the teachings in my meditation community (Art of Living) is that meditation is the art of doing absolutely nothing. While it takes effort to control the body, it takes effortlessness to “control” the mind. The more we aim for a certain emotional or spiritual experience, the farther we are from it. The more we are able to surrender, the more we are transformed.

I think that’s what Moses means (in Parashat Nitzavim, which we read shortly before Rosh Hashanah): “For this commandment which I command thee this day, it is not hidden from thee, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven….Neither is it beyond the sea….But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it” (D’varim 30:11-14).

In a sense, t’shuvah is beyond us. Like many things divine, it’s even beyond anything we can imagine. That’s why, when it happens, we feel like we are overflowing with blessing—we are literally taking in something larger than we are. In that sense, t’shuvah is a miracle—it’s something that is given to us, not something we produce. Instead of fighting for a particular experience of t’shuvah, I find it more useful to focus on cultivating openness—which is just a fancy way of saying that I actively practice doing nothing. To me, this year at least, t’shuvah isn’t about doing the impossible—it’s about doing the thing that’s very near to me. I can’t create the miracle, but I can show up to witness it.

As I have mentioned in some of the sits, I’ve always struggled with some of the traditional ways T’shuva and repentance were taught to me – the guilt-inducing, chest-beating, “I’ve-been-so-bad-but-next-year-I-will-be-better” variety. As a kid during the High Holidays, I was racked with guilt about how “bad” I was, and how badly I wanted to be better. Once I told my little sister that every time I was mean to her, she should say the words, “Rosh Hashana!” and I would stop.  A few weeks later, I yelled at her about something and she cried,  “Rosh Hashana! Rosh Hashana!” I repressed an enormous urge to punch her in the face. I stopped yelling at her, but my anger did not go away – it simmered right beneath the surface until the next time she, or someone else, crossed my path, when I would lash out again.

The same thing happens when I tell myself  I’m going to be “better” these days. It never hurts to set a Kavannah (intention) to try and change habit patterns- like when I tell myself to get serious about flossing or removing my make-up before going to sleep. But telling myself to be nicer to people, to forgive hurts, to open my heart or to be more compassionate – for me, it doesn’t work.

For me, it works better to bring the gentle light of awareness to WHY I am not nice to people, to WHY I can’t forgive someone, to WHY my heart feels closed. Usually, the reasons are shrouded in hurts and shame that are really old, or deeply repressed. When I honor those feelings – even feelings that have led to lots of suffering – they come loose and fall away on their own. In a class I once took with Rabbi David Ingber, he called this the “T’shuva of love.”

I know that everybody’s path to T’shuva is different, and different things work better or worse for different people. If you are like me, however, I want to offer you this:

Those ways you were “bad” this year – those things you are ashamed of -those things are little voices from within you crying out for your attention and healing. They are a huge gift – points on a map calling for you to sit with them, and hear what they have to say. I know I’m mixing mad metaphors here, but you get the idea. Our bodies are beautiful, miraculous machines that are continually trying to move us closer to healing and wholeness, even when we act unskillfully.

Finally, here is a poem that speaks to this point for me, although I have no idea what the poet, Norman Fischer, was thinking when he wrote it:

RESPONSIBILITY

Tonight it’s quiet or in the quiet
Or, at least, the quiet
Is all around us. What is it
I’m worried about when I
Worry about anything? What is it
I tangle up in, wanting to go home?
From down here I look up at myself
In the little bright square of window
Staring down at me in bemusement
Querying what’s it worth. But that’s
A question snaps shut on itself
Thoughts with teeth or claws
To scrape away to the very core. What
Cares contains its value, a half life,
Mixed, no doubt, yet fair.
It’s always fair or anyway
It’s always what’s there…
And it’s not our fault.

(c) Norman Fischer, from Slowly but Dearly , 2004.