Dear TBZ Community:
I write this Shabbat message from Western Massachusetts, where I am taking a few days off from work (with the exception of writing this message). As some of you know, it is my practice, one that I learned from my father z”l, to take a break after the High Holidays, right after Simchat Torah, to recharge myself after the very intense month of Tishrei and then come back to my work and our community ready for what the year brings. This year, as you can imagine, I was not able to do this after the Holidays and it has taken me time (and pressure from my friends) to finally take this very needed respite. I have often been proud of my self-care practices, and I often share them publicly, as I feel I can be a role model for others to put self-care at the center of our busy lives. So I am modeling this again, but this time it feels different.
First, though I am incredibly grateful for this opportunity and for a dear friend who facilitated this little escape, I also feel guilty. The sadness and pain that I carry, that we carry, is so heavy and deep that any spaces I create or experience that include relief or joy feel wrong to me. Yesterday, at a dance/yoga class, the teacher invited us to connect to our joy from within as a way to find resilience during these very hard times (the teacher was also Jewish and clearly struggling, as she shared with me after the class). My first reaction to her invitation was “no way” – I have no joy within myself, and even if I did have joy I can’t access that joy, all that I have within myself is sadness, pain, confusion, and fear. I even felt angry at such a request to access my joy. It is usually easy for me to access joy and beauty; as you know, it is part of my ongoing teachings and every Shabbat I speak about tapping into gratitude and blessings in our life. And now it feels so hard. But then, during this dance class, I took a deep breath and thought, I can try to tap into the joy within myself, and I need to. Accessing my joy does not mean I care less.
The layers of pain are too many; the thoughts a constant loop in my mind, starting as I wake each day, hug my children, and think of the parents of the hostages who have gone 33 days without hugging their children. Throughout the day the layers pile on as I continue to hear stories of the terrible massacre of October 7th perpetrated by Hamas; I am in disbelief that this is even possible. Sometimes I close my eyes, hoping it is all a nightmare, a really bad movie that will end when I open my eyes. But it doesn’t. Instead, as the layers build, it taps into my own history of loss and trauma (and I assume that this is true for many others). Then I think about everything that’s followed since October 7th: the war, the innocent people in Gaza that are caught in the middle of this tragedy, the children dying, the Israeli soldiers dying, the people in Israel living under fire, the people in Gaza living under fire…. all of it. Among all of these thoughts, news keeps coming in and adding to the pain. As I wrote last week, I try to digest the binary thinking, the black and white reading of reality, and remember that there are more than two sides to this conflict; I am also feeling the difficulty of holding the dichotomy that has been created – a narrative of division, as if our human experience is not capable of holding compassion both for the terrible fate of our people in Israel as well as for the children in Gaza. I feel the heaviness of people afraid to share and say what they think as it will be judged in a certain way, worried they will be put in a box and there won’t be room for nuance, complexity, questions, conversation, or dialogue. (I know I feel that what I say or don’t say will be judged, including here in these Shabbat messages.) I feel the anxiety of whether or not to put a sign up in your front yard – and the worry that you’ll be judged if you do and you’ll be judged if you don’t. And then I feel the fear as we experience and witness the increased antisemitism in our country and all around the world. A rise in antisemitism, which is scary and eye opening as we come to sadly realize and accept that it is far more prevalent on the far left, in communities and organizations that were partners in our justice work. I am shattered by this layer of pain. And then there is the intra-Jewish community division which is so painful to witness. To hear about parents and children not speaking, families distancing as generational gaps define their views of the war. Seeing communities expelled… To tell you the truth, I am afraid of the day after what will be, what will happen in our communities and what our role will be in it. Layers upon layers upon layers of pain…
Rabbi Ayelet Cohen, Dean of The Rabbinical School and Dean of the Division of Religious Leadership at JTS, spoke last week at a vigil in Manhattan and her words ring true to me. You can also hear her words in the Can We Talk podcast of the Jewish Women Archive.
We know that there is enough suffering and trauma and grief and rage to go around. We wonder if there is enough compassion or enough hope to carry us through this time.
We cling to our humanity in a time of dehumanizing violence and voices who would erase the value of these lives.
Those who would erase the truth: that every death of an innocent is a tragedy.
Here, across the ocean, we carry the grief and the fear close, every moment. We are afraid for ourselves, for our loved ones, we are afraid for the future.
Day after day, funeral after funeral.
And for the hostages and their loved ones every day is a nightmare in a landscape of nightmares. As the days turn into weeks our hope flickers like the flames of these candles, but it does not go out. We will not look away and we do not stop calling for their release.
Can we find our hope and our humanity amongst the ashes and the bloodstains and the terror and the trauma and the rage?
We ask ourselves, will our grief and rage and fear drown out our humanity and our empathy? Or will it awaken them?
Does the grief of another mother for her child cancel out my grief?
Or is the ocean of our tears deep enough for each of us to grieve all of those we have lost?
Will we turn on each other or will we turn towards each other?
“We wonder if there is enough compassion or enough hope to carry us through this time ( . . . ) Will we turn on each other or will we turn towards each other?” These two questions that Rabbi Cohen asks are now in my mind and heart.
Rabbi Amy Eilberg, who was the first woman ordained as a Conservative rabbi by JTS, wrote a beautiful and inspiring essay this week which I recommend reading in full. Below are some excerpts:
In this current moment of intense collective pain, I notice another element: how many of us (myself included) regularly “go to our heads,” reflexively wrestling with policy issues and attempts to predict the future, compulsively consuming more and more videos and webinars, and debating multiple organizational statements, rather than feeling the pain of what we have all witnessed and experienced. We live out the illusion that if we could just “figure it out,” find the “right” analysis or prognostication or land a fatal verbal blow on an objectionable post, then we would feel better.
But, as Rabbi Eilberg continues saying, perhaps what we most need right now is a practice of loving kindness.
What we need is a practice of lovingkindness towards others, meeting devastated people with the soothing quality of love. And we need to offer kindness to ourselves, to calm our own shattered nervous systems, to help ourselves cry, to enable us to feel loved by others and by ourselves. Nurtured with a bit more love, we can discern what is the next helpful thing we can do.
Maybe that is what the dance teacher meant yesterday, or perhaps that’s what I need to hear. It wasn’t about finding joy for the sake of caring less, but finding joy, or holding loving kindness, towards myself and towards others for the sake of caring more.
In this week’s parasha (Torah portion), Chayei Sarah, we read about the death of Sarah, our matriarch. The first thing we are told after her burial is that Abraham was blessed with everything:
וְאַבְרָהָם זָקֵן בָּא בַּיָּמִים וַיהֹוָה בֵּרַךְ אֶת־אַבְרָהָם בַּכֹּל
Abraham was now old, advanced in years, and God had blessed Abraham in all things.
As always, rabbinic interpretation has different ways of understanding what the blessings were that God bestowed upon Abraham. (The most interesting interpretation is the one that imagines Abraham having a daughter!) But what speaks to me most at this time is this framing of blessing after so much suffering. Abraham’s life, up to now, was not an easy one. There was a lot of suffering, a lot of complexity; his life was not a fairy tale, quite the opposite. But Torah frames his life as one of blessing and even more: the next act is for Abraham to find a wife for his son Isaac. Perhaps we can read this as the choice that Abraham makes after the death of his wife and in response to years of pain, suffering, injustice, and fear. His response to grief and to losing Sarah (and perhaps to all the grief that have experienced as a family) is the continuation of love.
In all the grief, Abraham blesses his son with love, with loving kindness. Perhaps like Rabbi Amy Eilberg suggests, this is a time to practice our loving kindness. It did not solve Abraham’s grief, nor will it solve the conflict and end the war (definitely not from this corner of the world), but perhaps it will guide us to know what our next step will be and perhaps it will brighten the path forward.
I might not be able to find my inner joy within my typical ease these days, but I am hoping that my practice of imperfect self-care is one that encourages me to find that loving kindness. Loving kindness towards myself and in the ways I am able to show up in the world.
Below is the practice that Rabbi Eilbeg offers and that I am hoping to embrace:
The classical Buddhist practice of metta meditation can be practiced “on the cushion” for extended periods of time each day. (I do this for 20 minutes before I daven Shakharit each morning.) One sits in silence and offers a series of phrases of well-being, such as: “May you be safe and protected from harm.” “May you be healthy and strong.” “May you be happy.” “May you be at peace.” First, we offer these wishes for well-being towards ourselves. Some days, it is clear that I am so hungry for this nourishment that I spend the whole 20 minutes sending kindness to myself, to help me soothe my own inner heartache and bring my best self to the day ahead. When I have the energy, I proceed to offer these blessings to other categories of beings: to loved ones, then to “familiar strangers (people I know superficially),” then to “difficult persons” in my life, then to “all beings.”
In these days, sometimes I focus on the families of the hostages or those who know their loved ones were killed or wounded on Oct. 7. Sometimes, I direct love to my friends and loved ones who have relatives serving in the army. I imagine my friends watching the progress of the war with terror in their hearts, knowing that their precious children are at dire risk. On some days, when I get to the “all beings” category, I send love to innocent people in Gaza, feeling my deep desire to lessen their fear, grief and anguish.
Two weeks ago, I shared the following words:
When my mother was killed in a terrorist attack in Argentina, I promised myself I would not let fear and anger guide my life, guide my choices. During these times, I find it hard to fulfill this promise. But I am not going to let the challenge, the pain, make me break that promise. Instead, at this time, I think there is no other answer for me than to recommit to this promise, to not let fear or anger guide me.
Today, I add to this one more layer, as I ask myself how I can avoid being guided by fear and anger – and how I can continue to choose humanity at this moment. Perhaps the answer is through the practice of loving kindness. Sounds simple but it is not. But I am willing to start there. And I hope you can join me.
May this Shabbat bring blessings and consolation to all of you and your loved ones.
May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity.
May all those who are ill find healing. And may we find joy in the midst of darkness.
May the hostages come home soon to their families and friends, and may we see peace.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia