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.

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.

All these years I’ve meditated and been committed to a truly noble path, supported by extraordinary teachers and spiritual community, I kept waiting to calm down. Not to get so worked up– to have my big emotions and wild mind gently subside. I think I’ve finally stopped expecting that to happen, and started believing in what I’ve read and been taught over and over– that I’m fine just as I am.

Why now? The other night around 1am, after a stressful grant application process, I read a poorly composed email and got really angry. However, while quite expertly pitching a fit, with audience, at the surface, the rest of me rested in a sort of calm clarity that wasn’t reacting, or judging. Awareness prevailed, emotion subsided, and I was shocked.

We’ve all heard the cute admonishment, “You are what you eat.” From a meditation standpoint, “You are what you think” is a sound statement that after a few years of steady meditation, interlaced with bouts of mood-itation, I believe in from experience. Change how you think, check your motivation and amp up your positive aspirations, and you begin to change who and what you are at a very deep level.

“You are what you feel:” is this as true a statement? In the tradition that guides my life, Tibetan Buddhism, the Tibetan word for feelings or emotions often translates as afflictive emotions, while the word for thoughts, or concepts, usually translates as discursive thoughts. So am I afflicted by my emotions, or afflicting others, and merely led astray or burdened with non-essential stuff (one definition of discursive) in terms of my thoughts? One thing I’m sure of: stringing thoughts together like a train, constantly anticipating the future and retracing the past, only leads to more confusion, because I cannot be certain that every thought I have is altruistic and mindful. And even if I was, having tasted the open space that really is available when thinking subsides, when thoughts are just allowed to dissolve like the wispy, insubstantial things they are, I wouldn’t trade that glimpse into the non-dual expanse for a truck-load of shiny, happy, thoughts that still involve me taking myself seriously.

As for emotions, letting oneself be run by emotions is both exhausting and potentially dangerous. (Sometimes I read the news to remind myself of this.) Emotions are regarded differently than thoughts though. Of course, emotional responses, however grandiose or subtle, fuel thoughts and then actions, if things go that far. But within emotional reaction is a unique opportunity to watch on mind, as one of my teachers advises. And within big emotions–strong reactions and assertions of “how I feel”–is a unique opportunity to maintain awareness and even equanimity, while experiencing genuine and natural emotions. The tricky things is that these opportunities arise and dissolve in a heartbeat.

And for so long, I’ve slept through that heartbeat. I’ve thrown my fit, had my emotional response, and come through the other end feeling bashful and utterly lacking in awareness and grace. How many times have I heard or read from reliable sources that emotions don’t go away, and they don’t need to. Whatever our emotional constitution may be-angry, jealous, full of desire, inclined to dullness, proud as a rooster–are the tools we have to work with on and off the cushion to foster awareness and truly awaken to our in-dwelling divinity. Every moment on the cushion does inform our whole existence. It’s these moments when clarity and awareness prevail in a tough situation that affirms this. More practice needed? Definitely. Can I accept myself for what I am and have confidence within that? Now, I think so.

Why Meditate?
People meditate seeking a wide range of outcomes, from clarity of mind to profound religious ecstasy. The following represents a partial list of the benefits meditation can offer – if you meditate, please add your own!

1. Relaxation.
The need to relax is more than a luxury in New York – it is a necessity. The everyday tenseness and constriction that accompany life in this City can be debilitating to our mental and physical health. I first began meditating because I suffered from unrelenting, stomach-churning anxiety that did not subside even when I went to sleep. I can’t tell you exactly where this came from – I’m guessing a mix of nature and nurture. All I know is that the more I meditate, the less anxiety has a grip on my everyday existence. Whether you are in such a state of daily anxiety or you merely feel harried from the pace of life, meditation can offer a place to come home to yourself. At its most basic level, meditation teaches us how to become aware of our breath and our bodily sensations, helping us to find the infinite peace available to us in the present moment.

2. Attunement.
I’ve noticed that very often, I walk through life recognizing that a tree is beautiful, or food tastes good, but feeling that there is a barrier between me and the experience. There is a strange feeling of alienation that contributes to me feeling meaningless and lonely. I believe this alienation comes about because my ideas about the material world get in the way of my experience of the world. When I meditate and come back to the breath in a repeated, gentle manner, I begin to see the deviations between my ideas of how things are and how they actually are. I begin to see the way my mind takes raw materials and constructs imaginary realities, and how I live in those imaginary places and spin countless stories that I believe are real. Meditating enriches my everyday experience with the vividness of reality. I often tell people that sustained meditation is like doing drugs (or so I’ve heard…) – food tastes better, colors are more vivid, and even bodily sensations are more sensitive.

3. Healing.
When we sit in meditation, we do an incredibly brave act. We commit, for that period of time, to not run away. We sit with ourselves, as we are now, and pay attention. Although we pay attention to one point of focus – the breath, heartbeat, or an instruction – the thinking mind repeatedly comes back into the frame and tries to steal the show. One of the first lessons I learned meditating was how cruel the voices in my head were. Every time my mind started wandering, I could hear, in the quiet of the sit, a harsh and brutal voice berating myself for not being a “better” meditator. Sitting with that cruel voice – bringing love to all the brutality we carry around within us – is an incredibly healing act. Sitting becomes a way to build up a deep and abiding friendship and love with the person you will be with your whole life – yourself!

4. Insight
When our minds become quiet – when we hook into the depth of this moment and practice just being with our breath, a miraculous thing begins to happen. We start to notice the pattern of our thoughts without getting too attached to them. We start to hear with remarkable clarity the many voices in our heads – voices of parents, of society, of the stories we have made up. These thoughts, voices, and stories – and our growing ability to separate them from who we are at our core – yields tremendous insights. It helps us not get caught in repetitive behavior. It helps us to develop and grow open and forgiving hearts for ourselves and others.

5. Equanimity
I learned the meaning of this word in connection with mediation from one of my teachers, Shoshana Cooper. She frequently talks about the virtue of equanimity as a direct byproduct of meditation. Meditation allows the container of the self to grow bigger and wider – able to hold the ups and downs of life without breaking, or coming apart. The way I like to think about it is exemplified by this Rumi poem:

The Guest House
This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture,
Still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark though, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing,
And invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each ahs been sent
As a guide from beyond.
(Rumi)

Why do YOU meditate?