This Shabbat, we’ll read Terumah (“gift”), which details what’s necessary for the building of the mishkan. The mishkan, or tabernacle, is the Israelite’s traveling sanctuary, dwelling place for God, as they travel through the desert post-Egypt, post-slavery.

More than 13 chapters of Torah are devoted to mishkan details (so many details!), compared to one chapter on the creation of the world and three to revelation on Mount Sinai, which is kind of astounding. One of the interpretations or explanations of this parsha that I read said that the creation of the mishkan, that people could create space on Earth for holiness and divinity to have a place, is the whole reason for creation, hence the importance.

The line from this parsha that gets all the songs and featured text studies is this one (Exodus 25:8): “They shall make a sanctuary [mishkan] for Me – so that I may dwell among them.” This line is awesome, because logically, it should read “so that I may dwell in it,” but it doesn’t. In this line, God says that the people need to build a sanctuary so that God may dwell with the people. So, what about the sanctuary? It just stays empty?

There are so many details (13 chapters worth!) about how to build the mishkan, what kinds of materials, how many decorative goblets, how many cubits long each panel should be, layers on layers on layers, all surrounding and protecting this empty space.

If our lives are mishkans, what are the layers and what is the empty space?

Parsha Terumah begins with Moses calling on the community and asking everyone with an open and willing heart to bring gifts to build the mishkan. People donated materials and skills. The text is super clear that the gifts were not to be given out of obligation but from an open heart.

As I read this parsha, I kept thinking about the time, empty space, that I carve out of each day for my meditation practice. I think a lot about how just making time for spiritual practice is a practice in itself. Sometimes just showing up is enough. But, to bring a willing heart to my practice and to my life, that feels inspired.

My kavanah for this week: as we build our own lives and communities as mishkans, as sanctuaries in time and space for holiness, let’s open and bring our willing hearts.

A quick exercise that you can try right now (really, just try): with an inhale, say “open” or “p’tach” and with an exhale, “my heart” or “libi. Breathing in, “p’tach” and breathing out, “libi.” Open my heart, so that I may be a mishkan. Open your heart to create space for divinity to dwell, to make time for peace, so that you can be a source of blessings for the world.

For the past fifteen years, I have sat in meditation daily (with a few days off for various flus and whatnot). I have been davening with talit and tefillin for much longer than that but soon after a dear friend taught me to meditate under an Israeli berry tree, I added the intentional I sit to my practice. I do so for several reasons.

1. Sitting in meditation is the only answer I have found to remedy my human forgetfulness that there is nothing other than God (“ain od milvado” in traditional Hebrew; “leit atar panui mineh” in the Aramaic, etc.). God consciousness is my responsibility as a Jew, and as I am a bit of a slacker and sometimes forget God for minutes or even hours at a time in my daily life, having a practice of a closed-eye sitting meditation, I am able to remedy that forgetfulness.

2. Sometimes I think that the world is a movie with me at the center – my emotions are large, my judgments are deep, my attention span narrow but still all about me. Sitting in meditation reconfigures my sense of the screen. It might still be all about me, but me (in there) is so vast that it includes everything else. I configure myself as part of the Divine creation, and there is relief in that.

3. Meditating is the only place I am free. Free to be angry, to be pithy, to be sappy, to be glorious, to be selfish. And as those me’s flit across the screen, I am reminded daily that me is truly freer than I thought before I sat.

4. At times, in the day, my vision sometimes narrows and I fail to see options in relationships, in work, in anything. Sitting offers vastness. Vastness offers more options than I was ever able to find when I still narrow visioned.

5. I sit because I choose identify and participate with those in my tradition that did this before me. The “first righteous ones would pause for an hour before prayer” (“Hasidim rishonim hayu shohim sha’a ahat lifnei hatefilla” – Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Brakhot). In echo and continuation of their elongated pause as preparation to be present, I do so too.

6. I have a meditation practice because like many humans, I am a creature of habit (“sanskaars” in Sanskrit). And I am working to access good habits. And like one who has entered a bakery and tasted its most delicious product, only to return daily to that place, I return to my daily sitting practice because it is simply that delicious.

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.

This morning was our second morning sit (thanks for your dedication, early birds!), and last night was our second evening sit (this is where I remind you that “Brownstone Enlightenment,” our weekly sitting meditation, is every Monday evening at 8pm and Tuesday morning at 7:30am; the first Monday of each month is geared specifically for beginners, and we meet at the lovely Brooklyn Zen Center).

The creation of the Jewish Meditation Center of Brooklyn grew out of a desire to have a neighborhood space for Jewish contemplative practice, to have a regular sitting group grounded in the practice and teachings that we have been doing on our own. There’s something so special and beautiful and inspiring about practicing together. It’s unique, I think, to find spiritual community. I know it happens constantly, and has happened throughout all time, but when you feel connected, through practice, through silence, through your own spiritual path, it doesn’t feel so commonplace. Maybe that’s the nature of it, it’s banal and mind-blowing at the same exact moment.

Sitting together, in silence, in a group allows each of us to evolve and grow into ourselves in ways that just are not possible when you are alone. Rabbi Alan Lew used to say that a benefit of sitting together in a group is that you’d be too humiliated to get up and stop practicing after 10 minutes, because you’re bored… that by feeling that your presence is a necessary part of everyone else’s practice, just by showing up, your own practice grows roots. Not wanting to let other’s down, recognizing our personal responsibility in supporting community, works. It makes sense, but Rabbi Lew and many other teachers also point out that it goes much deeper.

Practicing as a community reminds us that we are all connected. When you sit together, breathe together, fill a silent room together, there is a palpable exchange of something- spirit, energy, intention, aspirations. When we connect deeply in this way, we are also connecting to every other being- knowing and acknowledging that others’ suffering is our suffering, our happiness is everyone else’s happiness, too. Not feeling the isolation that goes along with being a person, or maybe, more importantly, sitting with it fully, without fear, and feeling it together, as a community.

Since starting a daily practice (although in the past few weeks, it’s been more like weekly), I’ve been thinking a lot about the benefits of just showing up.  After months of meditating regularly, there were no lightening bolts, no miraculous epiphanies, very few fireworks. I’ve had those sorts of ecstatic experiences in the past, and at the time they were more scary and weird than helpful. But now, nothing. Or so it seems. Instead, what I think is happening is a deepening of my practice, like I’m settling into my self.

For months, I was feeling overwhelmed. Whenever I’m extremely busy and lots of things are happening, I think “it’s just life, life’s busy,” but at that moment it was just a lot of life. Personal life, career, spiritual practice, health, happiness, it’s a lot of work! Add in being kind, love, learning, growing, and it’s even harder. “It’s hard to be a person,” I say a lot. Not in a negative way. I’m with the Buddha in the first Noble Truth that “life is suffering,” and I don’t think the Buddha was a pessimist. It’s not good or bad. It just is. Suffering exists. The way I see it, the point is to ease the suffering of others, and that practice eases your own suffering.

It’s called practice for a reason. You don’t start meditating and instantly get a halo, wings, and a black amex. Life is still hard, there’s still suffering, but you’re so much better equipped to deal with it. To find a balance and not get overwhelmed.

So, still no fireworks, no light-filled realizations of enlightenment, just more of an integration. At some point, in some subtle way, I realized that life doesn’t feel as hard. There are moments, of course, that are challenging and difficult, but they’re fleeting. Mostly, I feel grounded and have faith (miracle of miracles) that everything’s unfolding perfectly, whether it makes sense at the time or not. And it feels like this is because of my morning practice.

Somehow, just showing up does something. Making that committment to yourself, to your practice, setting aside time for your intentions and aspirations, is magical. Not at the time, usually- most of my morning sits are sleepy. I’ve  spent weeks  each morning imagining how I want to redecorate the living room, going over a recent project for work, daydreaming. Some mornings it’s easy to concentrate, and I start the day with a clear mind and a full heart. And, when it’s difficult, I try other meditation techniques, or sometimes I just let myself mentally rearrange the living room furniture. I’m starting to believe that it doesn’t really matter how vigilant I am. As long as I show up and practice.