As the moon arcs its cycle from new moon to full moon, we can notice our own cycles of darkness and light.  The moon has guided our ancestors in the planting, sowing and reaping of their crops and we can be inspired to observe and honor the same cycles which connect us to the natural ebb and flow of life energy.

During the period of a new moon, the sky is dark and we can meditate on emptiness and the fertile ground in which seeds take root; focus on new plans and write them down.  What seeds can you plant to begin the process of moving toward light?  We anticipate the coming of the full moon to see our seeds grow and blossom.  Full moons symbolize completion and fulfillment, the realization of the seed, and they are times of celebration.

The story of the Maccabee’s entering the destroyed Temple in Jerusalem and finding only one cruse of specially prepared olive oil, which would only burn for one day, was not long enough for the seven days required to make the weekly batch of purified oil.  Eager to rededicate (the word chanukah means “dedicate”) the Temple by lighting the menorah, they lighted the one cruse of oil and miraculously, the oil burnt for seven days, the necessary time to make more oil for keeping the menorah lighted.  We begin the holiday by lighting one candle and add an additional candle each night until we have eight candles glowing in the dark; this process is reminiscent of the cycles of the moon as it moves from new to full.  Each day of the holiday, strengthens us to have more light and clarity; similar to the ‘miracle’ of one cruse of oil lasting for seven days until a weeks worth of oil could be prepared,

Often, we believe that when confronted with darkness, we don’t have the resources to persevere through the darkness and reach light.  What darkness are we holding that prevents us from moving toward the light?  Write what you believe to be your obstacles to reaching the light you seek.  Just as the Maccabee’s were certain that the prepared oil would not last, begin to recognize that your ‘certainty’ that you may not have the resources to move through the ‘darkness’ toward the light may be your lack of faith in your abilities.  Similar to the moon moving from new to full, we can take the time of darkness to plant the seeds of commitment and change that we desire and know that as a new moon is followed by a full moon, we may discover that we do have the resources to move toward the light.

One of the beauties of light is that it unfolds to push the darkness away.  Through meditation we can cultivate our light to bring more to the world.  What light will you share with the world?

This week’s parsha (Torah chapter) is from the first book of the Torah, Genesis or Bereishit which is usually translated as, “In the Beginning.” It involves the famous story of Noah’s Ark. The story says that Noah was the only righteous man in a corrupted world. He is told by G-d to make an ark because there will be a flood that is going to destroy everything on earth except Noah and his family. Noah is then commanded to bring two members of each animal species (a male and female) into the ark.

After 365 days, a year of living on the ark, the water subsides and Noah is commanded to go onto dry land, G-d establishes a covenant with every living creature that there will never again be a flood to destroy the earth. A sign was sent to symbolize this covenant: “and it shall come to pass, when a cloud is brought over the earth…the rainbow shall be in the cloud.”

I’d like to take a moment to reflect on that idea, because there is a very special message here that resonated for me: the power of finding the beauty within the storm. Sometimes you may feel like the world as you know it is ending, or everything that you have been working towards is suddenly destroyed right before your eyes. For example, a career path or a personal relationship that you’ve been working towards suddenly crashes and burns. But instead of allowing that destruction to overcome you, the message here is to find the beauty within the storm. Meaning to use the storm as a real opportunity to check in with yourself and maybe find new direction.

I know for me, I often feel devastated when things don’t go my way. The example that comes up for me is when all of my efforts towards living and surfing in LA while studying to become an attorney were destroyed after I failed the California bar exam. However, after being devastated, I realized that it really wasn’t the direction I wanted to be going in, and I was free to pursue something else that I was passionate about like teaching yoga.

The Hebrew word for ark is tevah, also means “word.”  According to the Baal Shem Tov, G-d’s commandment to Noah to build and enter the ark can also be interpreted as “enter within the words of prayer and Torah study. Here you will find a sanctuary of wisdom, meaning and holiness amidst the raging floodwaters of life.”

Another rabbi describes the flood as a cleansing process where the waters spiritually cleanse the waste that tends to accumulate throughout our life’s endeavors. Here with the flood, the world received a spiritual cleansing or redirection. In all adversity there is both opportunity and positivity. It may not always be apparent – even when we look for it. But it is there.

Every moment is a doorway for entry; a chance to let go of things that are no longer serving us, to release stagnant energy, to stop and just breathe. When we find ourselves confused by feelings or overwhelmed by a “flood” of negative thoughts, perhaps we can shift our perspective and instead use the frustration or storminess as an opportunity to “enter our own ark” and let the turbulent waters of everyday life settle so that we can see with more clarity and feel calmer moving forward.

This is what the practice of meditation is all about for me – creating a sacred space to just feel whatever it is I am feeling without any judgment or criticism. Noticing what the quality of my breath is, not trying so hard to fight it or change it all the time but just observe the breath, listen to the flow of the breath – dive into that ocean that exists inside of us and practice being fully present in the moment. It is such a gift to give yourself the space to just be and breathe into whatever it is that you are feeling in the moment and know that it is okay.

This week, in honor of the story of Noah, take some time to explore what it might mean to you to “enter your ark.” What is standing in your way of creating that space for yourself? What do you need to make it happen?

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?

This week’s Torah portion, Sh’mini, begins on the eighth day of the consecration of
the tabernacle (or mishkan) which is the traveling dwelling place for God’s presence.
Moses summons Aaron, his sons, and the elders of Israel and instructs them on the varied
offerings they will be bringing before God with the hope of God revealing him/herself.
Once the sacrifices were complete to the precise order of God, the people were then
bestowed with the sight of “God’s glory.” After the offering, God tells Moses and Aaron
to inform the children of Israel of the laws of kashrut or being kosher. The requirements
for edible mammals include having split hooves and being able to chew their own cud.
Animals who have just one of the two requirements are deemed non-kosher such as
the pig, which is clearly the one that gets the most non-kosher attention in the Jewish
community. The pig is also the only one indicated in the torah who has the split hooves
but does not chew its own cud. From the outside the pig can pass as a seemingly kosher
animal; however, its inner process does not match what is visible to the world. This
concept reminds me of discussions had around Purim and the concept of going through
life wearing masks or presenting a face to the world that may not match our own inner
being.

Perhaps you had a day at work that required you to put on a persona that you do not feel
matches who you really are. Or maybe you had to schmooze with people that required
a lot of external focus and you have yet to check in with yourself and your breath today.
Wherever you are, I invite you to center yourself by bringing your attention back to
the very thing that sustains you; your breath. For the first sit I would like to offer the
kavannah, or intention, of using your breath as a vehicle to leave the masks aside and
draw your attention to your inner self.

The parsha goes on to talk about the laws of ritual purity which include the purifying
power of the mikvah or pool of water. Rabbi David Cooper says in his book God is
a Verb, “Mastery in purity comes through contemplation.” Rabbi Cooper goes on
to describe the goal of purity within spiritual or contemplative practice as being “to
minimize or eliminate thoughts that cause inner conflict.”

Reduction in inner conflict has been one of the greatest benefits I have found for myself
within my own meditation practice. Friends of mine will often hear me talk about making
a big decision and say “I need to meditate on it”. Meditation has been a source of quiet
and calm in my own thinking and has helped purify my opinions, feelings and desires and
weed out external factors that can muddle my decision-making ability. There are many
factors we take into account when making decisions or determining our own feelings,
some of which are largely unimportant to the matter at hand. We often get swept away in
the “coulds”, “shoulds” and “woulds” of our mind’s dialogue which often contributes to
our impurity of thought thus bringing us distress.

I would like to invite you to take a step in bringing this “purity” to your own practice.

Bring your attention to your breath, and when your mind inevitably wanders, observe
your thoughts or feelings (however “pure” or “unpure”) without judging them. Gently
bring your attention back to your breath. In the first sit, I offered the intention of
using the breath to tune in to your inner self. In this next sit try and let the “coulds”
and “shoulds” be replaced with the practice of returning to the breath so as to breathe
purity into your inner process.

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.

This afternoon, I met up with a friend at the Museum of Modern Art. The main attraction right now is the Marina Abramović retrospective, “The Artist Is Present.” The piece that everyone is lined up to watch and/or participate in is on the second floor, with big lights, and a simple table and two chairs. The artist sits in one chair and museum-goers take turns sitting silently across from her for however long they want. The two just gaze at each other. Looking, breathing, sitting.

When we approached the exhibit, my friend, a long-time meditator, asked aloud whether Abramović was actually looking at the person sitting across from her or just sort of glazed over and staring out into a void. We stepped closer and decided that she is really looking into the eyes of the person across from her, that she’s not zoned out. It feels serious.

The woman sitting across from her when we showed up seemed to have been there for a while. That could mean 20 minutes or 2 hours; I have no idea. We watched as they watched each other. Abramović in a long red dress, and this woman in a short purple dress. I wondered what Abramović is thinking. Is she thinking? Imagining that person’s life story? Studying their face? Just being with them? Art museums are good places for religious experiences, and that’s what this looked like. An individual and collective awakening. Just looking at each other. Being seen and seeing.

After the woman in purple got up and walked out of the exhibit, my friend went over to ask about the experience. “What was it like?” she said, and the woman in purple took a deep breath and asked “Do you have a meditation practice?” My friend said yes, she does, and the woman said “Then you can imagine that I need to sit down for a few minutes.” We walked away, gave her some space, and then looked over to Abramović, who was also taking some space. In between each participant, she closes her eyes, lowers her head, and take a few seconds to breathe.

I’m so curious about her process, which enables her to do this work. Sometimes, when I am having difficulty communicating with someone, I shift my focus away from their actual words and towards their breathing- matching their inhalation with my own and exhaling when they do. I don’t know how to explain or express it, but there is something amazing in that experience. I kept wondering if she does this with each person.

I read a few reviews of the exhibit, and one critic wrote about how a participant burst into tears at one point (I’m sure it’s happened more than once). Allowing ourselves to just sit and breathe, especially with another person, is an incredibly vulnerable act, and we rarely give ourselves that kind of freedom. I wonder if practicing meditation allows us to access that space, so that we can feel more comfortable and safe in the world.

Have you seen the exhibit? I’d love to hear others’ thoughts (tell us in the comments!).

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.

Last night a room full of seventh graders sat silently, followed their breath, contemplated the Sh’ma, practiced listening, and asked lots of insightful and deep questions. Usually these classes are small- five to ten students, but last night the entire 7th grade class decided they wanted to learn Jewish meditation. I tried to get half of them to do something else, but they were adamant, and I told them that if they wanted to stay, they had to take out their cell phones, turn them off, and put them in the front of the room, and each person had to agree that they were going to take this class seriously, be respectful to each other, and participate fully. Everyone agreed. Everyone sat down. Not everyone really practiced meditation, but that’s okay if two out of forty kids didn’t play along, as long as the few resisters didn’t disrupt anyone else, they were welcome to stay.

Spending a lot of time teaching this age group (at one workshop a few weeks ago, one of the 12 year old girls told me that she doesn’t even know what to call herself, whether she’s a “tween” or a “pre-teen” or a kid or what, and how it’s just confusing) has taught me a lot about fear and vulnerability. I realized last night that the kids who had the most trouble staying with their breath or keeping still had the most fear. One boy raised his hand and asked, “what if it’s too difficult for me to keep my eyes closed? If I hear a sound or just feel uncomfortable, I want to open my eyes. It’s kind of scary to not open your eyes.”

We spent some time, as a group, talking about this idea. The thing is, it IS scary to sit with your eyes closed in a group. Most adults don’t even think about it, but in seventh grade, I think we’re probably at our most judgmental, our most critical about ourselves and others. It’s at this exact moment where I think meditation and inclusive spirituality and community is the most important. I was very strict when we all sat down- taking away the phones, telling them that if anyone was disruptive I would ask them to leave and there would be no conversation about it, telling them to be silent, sit so that they would not be touching the person next to them, and I explained that this was all in an effort to protect the students who were serious about practicing meditation. Limiting distractions and interactions, at least during this one hour period, gave the kids a space to relax, close their eyes, breathe, and notice those judgments and thoughts and critical voices, observe them, and let them go.

One of the regular teachers commented that they’ve never seen this group of rowdy, always loud, sometimes obnoxious group of kids so quiet, calm, and sharing feelings, and I was shocked too. It seems like they just needed a space to step into themselves and community where they could sit down, rest, and share their thoughts about listening, compassion, prayer.

Rabbi Alan Lew used to talk about how in the Mishnah, it says that the ancient pious ones sat for an hour before prayer every day. This sort of preparatory time was essential to direct their minds toward God, to be ready to pray. We talked about this idea in the class last night. One of the girls said after doing a few different meditation practices, “I don’t know if I was just tired before, but now I feel different- I feel more awake and at the same time more calm.” And I think that’s probably the point. We sit upright, but comfortable, uplifted. We calm our minds, but wake up. Our discussion last night included the idea that being receptive, listening to ourselves and each other and the world, can be scary. Using our meditation practice to practice sitting with that fear, to being aware of our vulnerability, is a way to shift our reactions to the fear itself. This experience started when I told them to turn their phones off and leave them in the front of the room, pure fear. And for me, realizing that I was completely overwhelmed and scared to teach such a large group of seventh graders how to meditate was a moment of fear.

By the end of the class, I hope that everyone was able to see what it felt like to feel that fully, to place that sensation and just sit with it, letting it come and go, and hopefully remembering that wherever we are and whatever we’re doing, this practice is always possible, always accessible, and, I think, always helpful.

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.