Motherhood

He awakens
To a glimmer of something
More vast than his eyes can hold
A sunbeam dusts the windowsill
And it is morning

His eyes widen,
His smile curls
To befriend the day.
Hands outstretched
Nothing is out of reach.

He inches forward, bounds and falls
Grasping the floor with his toes
Wholeheartedly trusting
Any surface he hugs to support him

I envy him lovingly.
For his world is surely bigger than mine
The colors brighter
The borders flimsier
And all he hears are songs.

My baby, my world.
A gurgling well of life
Tenderly nourished by his source
He knows no want.

I breathe in his contentment
And it fills me.

But sometimes
When the hum of the radiator
And warm milk
Lull him into a satisfied slumber, 

I meet my own world
Waiting, wanting.

Like a shadow that silently accompanies me
Lingering at the heels of each moment
Yearning to slip back into step with me

My world, my self
The person I was before him
And maybe still am
Slighted by my hands so eager to give
Intimidated by my full heart 

And righteous mission
Drowned out by the pitter patter of my slippers
As I chase his adventures
and not my own.

Is this what it means to be a mother?
When the tears of my child shake me awake
But I sleep through my own,
I wonder where I have gone.

They say motherhood changes you. 

That you grow
To house a deeper reserve of patience
And a heart brimming with selfless drive.
You coat your words in sweetness and wisdom
You are pressed to your limits
But then your limits dissolve
And you realize you are more powerful than you ever imagined.

His day begins with the sun
And my day begins with him.

What would I find
If I were to rise before dawn?

There might be wishes and dreams of my own to be found
Drifting among the shadows in the nursery
Pining for a mother to cradle them
And bring them to life.

But then, in a blink
At the first glint of morning
A soft cry will beckon me
And my inner space will slip through my delicate grasp
To invite my precious baby into my arms.
My big boy, 

My world,

Sturdier and more self-sufficient by the day.

Have I grown?
He surely has.

A Birthday

Each year on my birthday, I feel like I’m in two places at once. The past taps at my heels as tomorrow hovers over my eyes, and I don’t know which way to look. On the threshold of Elul, I glance back at the past 365 days that were entrusted into my care. Did I imbue them with light, are they vibrant and full? Or do they stand shriveled, betrayed, imploring me to turn around and give more?

I hesitate as year 28 greets me with a broad smile. I am strangely suspicious of it. How can I advance if I am indebted to the past? But the warmth and newness of Elul softens the weight on my shoulders and invites all of me in. When the King is in the field, the most important thing is to show up. Baggage and all. So I lug all those days with me, the ones that shine brilliantly and the ones with dark empty spaces. Because I can't just leave the past behind without fixing it. Maybe if I journey out to welcome the King, He'll help me do just that.

This year, I'll find a way to transform all those days and make them effervescent.

We Don't Need Galus Anymore

I am a horrible procrastinator.

Let me restate that. I am actually an excellent procrastinator.

Which is precisely the problem. Procrastination is a trap that self-perpetuates because it works so well. The pressure is mobilizing. Hours before a project is due, each tick of the clock releases a surge of adrenaline that injects acute awareness, precision, and unwavering commitment into the task at hand.

A rabbi once told me that I procrastinate to preserve my self-image. Last-minute success is seemingly more impressive than planned, deliberate progress in which time is on your side. When you procrastinate and succeed, you triumph over the constrictive forces of time, sleep deprivation, and lack of resources. Success in the face of so many enemies is much more self-satisfying than the alternative. It's proof that you can not only succeed under convenient circumstances, but even under the most challenging ones.

The best part is that if you fail, you have an excuse. The circumstances didn't allow for success. Not enough time, not enough sleep. You can convincingly attribute failure to circumstance instead of to personal factors.

Unfortunately, when one relies on the circumstances created through procrastination, the necessity to draw on internal motivation disappears.

I think this phenomenon can teach us something about galus.

We ask when Moshiach will come. When will we want Moshiach enough for him to come?

But for us to really want Moshiach, we need to stop needing galus.

If we're really honest with ourselves, galus only continues because we're dependent on it. It squeezes out the best in us. Darkness and pain blinds us to our differences, unifying us. God gives us tribulations to force us to stretch beyond our natural abilities and raise us to our highest selves. We have a strange codependent relationship with galus in which we elevate it, and it elevates us.

Galus is difficult. God is challenging us to rise to the occasion- but if we only rise when there is an occasion, what's so impressive about that? Of course people come together in difficult times. Of course we will enter into fight-or-flight mode and conquer our natural inhibitions to tackle crisis situations. In a state of darkness and confusion, our light antennae instinctually perk up and we detect more opportunities to bring goodness into the world than we would if we were living in comfortable, peaceful conditions. It's simply our nature.

It's as though we need the challenging circumstances of galus to make us great. In a sense, we do. The purpose of creation cannot be actualized without our descent into galus. It's part of the plan. But galus is simply a means to an end.

The final test of galus is being able to say we don't need the darkness anymore.

We don't need the fear, the despair, the feeling of not belonging in this world. Historically, these were all necessary parts of our progress as a people, but now it's time to let go. We can be great without all of that. We can yearn for geula simply because it is God's deepest desire, and that alone gives it inherent worth. Any reason besides this is external, a symptom of the hardship of galus.

"L'chathila ariber: At the outset, go above!" This well-known chassidic melody proclaims that we shouldn't wait for a challenge to force out the best versions of ourselves. Instead of approaching life reactively- responding to challenges by acting in a heroic fashion- we must live proactively- be extraordinary at the outset, even when circumstances are ordinary.

We need to find the courage to tell galus we don't need it anymore. We need not the force of darkness and finality of rock bottom to propel us upward. We can live looking upward, even when we're comfortable. Sometimes I think it's my nature to be wired to fall deeply before I can ascend. Maybe this is true, but I just keep telling myself: Nature can't compete with the soul.

The essence of procrastination is a reliance on external circumstances to motivate success and excuse failure. We use the challenges of galus in the same way. Galus creates a sense of desperation that motivates us to be our best- and when we fail, it gives us an excuse. Our concern for self-preservation keeps us stuck here, and we confuse stagnation with progress.

Self-actualization does not come from perpetuating hardship. It sounds cliché, but dislodging ourselves from the vicious cycle of galus starts with believing in ourselves and having faith in the innate abilities that God gave us.

The Rebbe told us that Moshiach can only come from us. We need to do the work- not let circumstance do the work for us.

Leaving Chicago

I decided to move to Crown Heights a month and a half ago. 

After a lifetime of relishing in the small-town familiarity of the midwest, I felt it was time to make a change. A number of circumstances aligned in such a way that a window of opportunity swung open unexpectedly. I felt like God was practically shoving me out the door, mobilizing me with a firm resolve that quickly rendered itself immune to any attempt at negotiation. Within a matter of weeks, I managed to reduce my three years in Chicago to three suitcases bulging with bare essentials. 

I had many reasons for leaving Chicago- and my choice surprised no one. Most would agree that I didn't fit in there. The combination of my age, marital status, and spiritual outlook made me feel like an anomaly in that particular community. People frequently asked why I lived in Chicago when my peers were all in Crown Heights.

But as I sifted the non-essentials from my most important belongings, I felt the wholeness of knowing that I was carrying much more than the items on my packing list. Everything I couldn't transport in my bags, I carried inside me. The skeleton that remained of my material life was counterbalanced by a feeling of abundance, for I recognized the rich spiritual life flourishing inside of me per the nurturing hands of the Chicago community. Despite sometimes feeling like the odd one out, I can't deny how deeply I was touched by the numerous genuine, devoted community members.

I felt it was important to establish closure by expressing my immense appreciation to these special individuals in my life, so I made several arrangements to meet friends and mentors to say goodbye. But in these meetings, I couldn't hear their words and I floundered for my own. The fullness I felt overwhelmed me. I couldn't let anything in, and if I let anything out it would all tumble away. I was like a swollen suitcase, overpacked with bittersweet memories and fresh thoughts of the future that rippled with anticipation.

I tried to soften the potentially awkward silences with appreciative smiles. I repeatedly escorted my guests to the door too soon, as though I were fearful that every second spent together was another second that would later be missed. I curled away from each final moment, keeping it at arms length, banishing it to the periphery of my experience.

Maybe the reason Chasidim never say goodbye is because they can't. They can't help but shrink backwards and swallow their words at the prospect of goodbye, lost in deep admiration for their fellow Jew. A community of Chasidim has the potential to make an imprint on the core of a person, speaking to a place beyond the level of articulation. Maybe words would cheapen those parting moments, and my silence unwittingly honored the transcendent nature of those relationships.

I came to Crown Heights in search of something. I hope to reap the benefits of my new community, to find a comfortable social and spiritual home. But as I journeyed away from all that was familiar, I also became aware of my own potential to be a giver by virtue of the vast gift I had already received: A sense of wholeness and conviction cultivated by a community of passionate, truth seeking Jews. 

I realized that as much as there is to be gained here, there is even more to give. Now it's my turn to release those lessons of kindness and truth so they may flow into another crevice of the world and fill up someone else.

The Day We Went off the Deep End

“Are you sure we’re doing this right?”

My friend Arielle glanced at me skeptically. We were laying on the dock overlooking lake Mendota, its splintery edge pressing into our stomachs. I was holding a frying pan. Today was the day we were to toivel our dishes, and we had decided to do it in the lake.

I shrugged, squinting into the afternoon sun. I had no idea what we were doing. I just knew I wanted a kosher kitchen, and from what I had learned, immersing new dishes in a body of fresh water was a required step in that process.

From across the shore, the inebriated chants of a fraternity party rang through the Sunday stillness. Arielle and I watched as one fellow guzzled the contents of a red plastic cup before bounding toward the water, where he cannon-balled into a pocket of lake that couldn’t have been more than a foot deep. He emerged wincing in pain, meanwhile earning the wild applause of his fraternity brothers.

“They’re crazy.” Arielle rolled her eyes. I chuckled in agreement, then shifted my attention to the large basket of dining ware at my side. “Let’s get to work.”

I surveyed the situation, assessing the distance between the dock and the surface of the water. Frying pan in hand, I inched my torso past the edge of the dock and stretched toward the water. To my dismay, the pan’s buoyant nature fought my attempts to submerge it under the surface, resulting in a five-minute splashing battle between me and the frying pan before I sourly admitted defeat.

I hoisted myself back onto the dock. I slid off my water-speckled glasses and clumsily tried to dry them with my shirt sleeve, which was also soaking wet. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Agreed. But not as hard as explaining to my family how I spent my Sunday afternoon," Arielle chimed.

Arielle was right. What we were doing made no sense. The spiritual purity of our dishes would be achieved at the expense of cleanliness, and we would need to wash and sanitize everything before using it. Moreover, we were college students. We were supposed to be exploiting our newfound freedom! We should have been at the fraternity party two buildings down, venturing into the lake for sheer drunken entertainment- not because we were involved in some cryptic ancient ritual.

When I first began growing in my Jewish observance, the shifts in my outlook and lifestyle were largely propelled by a desire to make sense out of my life. I wanted to understand the truth about existence in order to find myself, to achieve the ultimate level of contentment and self-awareness.

But more often than not, my motivation worked against me. Judaism wasn't always comfortable and I didn't always understand. I often felt constricted and weighed down by my desire to understand, and I became frustrated when Judaism wasn't as fulfilling as I thought it should be.

This moment could have devolved into one of frustration. But as I sat there despondently, sighing over the ridiculous heap of kitchenware, something clicked. I realized the only way we were going to be able to accomplish our mission was if we stopped being so self-aware and started being more God-aware. This wasn't about fulfilling our needs, this was about fulfilling His. And God's desires are beyond logic, so the only way we could succeed at our task was to first surrender our own emotional attachment to the rational mind.

We needed to be willing to do something crazy.

That's what college is for anyway, right?

So Arielle threw off her sneakers and trekked into lake Mendota. Rather than tiptoeing around the mitzvah, we dove into it with full force. I cheered Arielle on from the dock, assisting her by trading out the completed dishes for those in need of toiveling.

She looked pretty crazy out there, standing waist deep in the lake while fully clothed, steeping our brand new utensils in smelly green water. But it was a good kind of crazy. A kind that made me smile inwardly, that inspired me to commit to a cause bigger than myself. She was embodying the kind of crazy the world needs, that will run to do good no matter the cost, that can wriggle free from nature's grasp and be whatever God needs you to be.

A few minutes later, Arielle waded back to shore, beaming. "I think that's the last of it!" she announced proudly. Satisfied, I retrieved the basket of freshly immersed dishes and accompanied her back toward our apartment building.

An unfamiliar calm set in as our mission came to a close. I felt like I had washed away a part of myself with those dishes. That heavy part of me, bound down by self-concern and a stubborn devotion to my own comfort, had started to thin away. Strangely, as we trudged back to the apartment, weighed down by soaking wet skirts and the heat of the Sunday sun, I felt a little lighter.

My Name is Ettel and I Have a Double Identity

They told us to write down our names.

They gave us those Hello! My name is _______ stickers. You know, the name tags you slap onto your freshly pressed blouse as you smile clumsily at strangers in an unfamiliar room. Those stickers mean it’s the beginning of something, an encounter with a bright empty space waiting to be etched with experiences.

Today is the first day of graduate school. They want me to introduce myself and tell my story, to provide a colorful explanation of why I chose to be here when I could have been anywhere else in the universe. I care about making a good impression. But my story is still under construction and there’s no distinct theme, and sometimes I feel like I’m a character in a never-ending prologue with no Chapter 1 in sight.

A dozen other twenty-somethings are seated on either side of me in a semi-circle. They’re all fidgety and tentative, nervously shuffling through their welcome packets and staring alternately at the floor and the doorway.

Maybe the facilitator knows that everyone’s stomach is in their throat and their palms are sopping wet, so he’s trying to do us a kindness by simply letting us jot down our names and become acquainted with each other. A very non-threatening first assignment as graduate students. After all, everyone knows that a name is a given. A reflex. The safest possible starting point. But I have this habit of complicating everything, my name not excluded.

What is my name?

My fingers clenched around my pencil, I braced myself for the impending confrontation with the Hello sticker. Self-conscious that the rest of the room would observe my hesitation, I pretended to be intrigued by the course list in my welcome packet.

For everyone else, the instruction to write down our names brought a moment of relief. A meaningless space sandwiched between the important things on the agenda. Their calm only made me more flustered. My thoughts darted wildly in every direction and I was positive the entire room could hear my heart thumping frantically against my ribcage.

But somehow my inner voice expanded to fill that tiny space. It demanded that I decide right then and there who I wanted to be.

HELLO! My name is Ettel.

There it was. My scribbled identity, born of impulse or intuition or maybe something more.

The name felt awkward as its syllables escaped my lips, jerkily and one at a time. They all looked uncertain saying it back to me.

Your name’s not on the list, the facilitator said. I explained that I have two names. It’s kind of confusing…it’s a little complicated, I stammered.

Who I am is complicated.

I’m one of many in this semi-circle. I’m a student breathing in the freshness of a new start; shrinking in moments of self-doubt; wondering what is to come. Will this place unearth all my inadequacies and challenge all my truths? Will it strengthen me or will I stagnate here? There’s the part of me that’s scared of what this new beginning will bring.

But then there’s the part of me that knows my existence is stabilized by more than the sturdiness of this chair, the comfort of this space, the security of this educational path. My identity is connected to something beyond all of this. It’s something that doesn’t care about first impressions or A pluses or being “successful.” That part of me knows that everything is as it is meant to be and the story will start and end where it’s supposed to.

That's what Ettel represents. Every time others address me, that name will remind me that who I am is not so simple. I have layers and dimensions and unrevealed depths that spiral from an infinite source. The name channels my spiritual self and engages it in my daily interactions with the mundane world. By uttering "Ettel", the very people I fear will challenge my identity will be the ones to offer the most poignant reminder of it.

"Ettel." Repeated the facilitator gingerly. "Welcome to the program."

I feigned indifference as my peers studied me. My alternative name, my long sleeves in August, my bagged lunch in place of the free breakfast buffet. I could tell that I was, in some ways, a mystery to them. But I'm okay with that, because I don't entirely understand myself yet either.

What I do know is that my name is Ettel, and I think that's a pretty solid beginning.

Saying Goodbye to my Inspiration

I’ve only had my heart broken once.

It happened on an adventure. My companion grabbed my hand like a trusty friend and told me to close my eyes. He led me to a sunny field where the air smelled fresh and the birches donned a silvery glow. We stood there squinting at the sky as our faces flushed with warmth, then he clutched my shoulder and drilled his gaze into my soul. “Stay here forever,” he urged. He whispered promises of progress and transformation if I would make this place my home. Then he released his grip and fled.

His name is Inspiration.

We’ve all known him. He’s the one whose first appearance happens when we are most in need. His arrival is spontaneous. He’s the sudden surge of momentum that enlivens our cumbersome journeys, he's the headlight that clarifies clouded paths. He makes us fearless. We travel to far-off places without a blink, we shed the safety of our snugly worn identities and start anew.

But Inspiration takes off just as quickly as he comes.

No parting words, no drawn out goodbyes. Just a deafening silence and the stark awareness of betrayal. I remember the day he left. Externally my life remained unchanged, but my faith deflated and my movements forgot their meanings.

And then it was just me. Just me and God, residing in that faraway meadow, its once hopeful song of promise flattened by the dense, formidable night.

I sat there in the darkness, retracing memories of Inspiration in my mind’s eye. I recalled his flickering smile and his soft, encouraging words, I replayed his poignant pronouncements of all that was Good and True. Those words made me do what was right. Infatuated with his eloquent tale of an embracing and visible God, my own will fell listless in the wake of a newly-infused thrust to serve only Him. With each righteous act, Inspiration would nod approvingly and my heart would swell with a deep satisfaction.

I had regarded myself as an earnest servant of God, but a glimpse into the sinews of my memory revealed that God only loomed in the backdrop of each recollection, overtaken by the dramatic love story that blazed between Inspiration and me. The light of our love was so bright and the sounds so melodious that I couldn’t help but do all that Inspiration said was right- but I grew to love the light more than its source and the entity I bowed to was named Self-Satisfaction.

Now, for the first time since Inspiration fled, the lightless sky seemed a more fitting conduit for Truth than the light I once cherished. I realized that my fling with Inspiration was just a story God spun to lift me out from my constrictions and lead me toward Him. God knew that without Inspiration- without my freewill folding beneath the weight of my certainty- I never would have approached Him.

God’s hushed orchestration culminated in a moment of growth charading as tragedy. With Inspiration’s release from his mission, God invited me to share in a more inward relationship with him, one that proved impossible against the blinding light of Inspiration: A bond founded on the choice to commit.

I still reside in that field. Sometimes I think I spot my long-ago friend darting through the underbrush, but his outline is blurry and his face is always turned away. Those moments make me pine for my Inspiration, longing to see the world through his eyes once more.

I know he’ll return. I know God wants him to return, to sweep me up in a tangle of new questions and insights and longings, to rescue me from this shadowy place and catapult me to the next phase of my journey. 

But in the meantime, I know I have the opportunity for something even more valuable. I can connect to God Himself, in darkness and in light, in doubt and in certainty. It’s finally just the two of us.

Now the real love story can begin.

***

"I want nothing at all! I don't want Your gan eden, I don't want Your olam haba... I want nothing but You alone." (Hayom Yom Kislev 18)

G-d is Irrational and Emotional and We Should All Start Respecting Him for That

G-d is often characterized as a self-sustaining entity who sits upon his lofty transcendent throne, existing in a spiritual vacuum immune to the world and its failings. He tends to be defined as a state of being that affects but isn’t affected, gives but doesn’t receive, and never falls victim to the anguish of human emotion. When we think of G-d, we think of “beyondness.” The mere suggestion that G-d may experience needs or desires or pleasure seems downright laughable- maybe even heretical. Those are uniquely human qualities- right? So how dare we limit our perception of G-d to our physical human experience and thereby detract from his incomprehensible awesomeness.

But the detached, transcendent G-d character just doesn't seem impressive to me. Something about it seems…natural. Obvious. Intuitively speaking, if a spiritual force such as G-d exists, it’s home would be in the heavens. There is nothing novel about the notion that a spiritual entity would naturally be found in a spiritual (as opposed to a physical) environment. Just as the nature of our physical bodies is to abide in the physical world and perceive a physical reality, the “nature” of a spiritual G-d should axiomatically be within the spiritual world. In general, creation sways in the direction of it’s nature. Fish thrive under water, birds roam the sky, foliage sprouts in the climate suited to its species. A G-d who has been defined as “spiritual” and exists only in a transcendent state would be existing according the rules of its predetermined nature, just like the rest of creation.

But G-d isn’t a creation. G-d is the Creator. He’s beyond the rules, and they don’t have to apply to Him if He doesn’t want them to. By defining G-d as "spiritual," we are limiting Him. By viewing Him as existing only beyond and not within, we are failing to recognize His infinity.

In my opinion, an awe-inspiring G-d is one with no nature. He can reconcile seemingly dichotomous realities: That of heaven and that of earth, that perceivable by G-d and that known to humankind. He is a G-d whose being extends infinitely beyond the scope of our imagination, but within whom burns a deep desire for a dwelling place in the lowest and darkest of worlds. A G-d who loves us and needs us so much that He’s willing to recreate us at every moment, when let’s be honest- He could be doing a zillion other things up in heaven. My G-d intimately knows every sinew of the human experience, feeling our joy and agony more intensely than any created being could. His deep empathy is a testimony to- not a detraction from- His greatness. My G-d existed before existence itself, yet cares about the minute details of what we do during our puny lifespan. My G-d is all-powerful, but depends on me to fulfill the purpose of creation. My G-d is emotionally invested in me. My G-d believes in me.

He is a G-d who clearly doesn’t make any sense at all. He contradicts Himself left and right; He lives in countless worlds at once. But it is precisely G-d’s ability to exist unconfined by nature that makes His epicness so unprecedented. This is an awe-inspiring G-d. This is the G-d I choose as my King.

Why Farbrengens Belong on the Couch

My fondest moments during seminary took place in what my friends and I termed the “couch room.”

Our cherished space was a musty little corner on the top floor of the school building. Adorned with two couches and a chair wide enough for two, the room begged us to abandon our beds late at night and relish in the air of comfort and camaraderie provided by that haven-like space. We would pile onto the weathered blue cushions and sink beneath a heap of blankets, munching on stale dinner leftovers and that terrible Israeli chocolate spread. The room was a cold-blooded entity: Freezing in the winter and sweltering in the spring. It absorbed the temperature of its visitors, wholeheartedly swallowing our joyful laughter and succumbing to corrosion at the exchange of sharp words and unexpected emotional outpours.

We most often found ourselves migrating to the couch room on Thursday nights, after our weekly public farbrengen had quieted. Those farbrengens were held in the main classroom on the first floor. We’d gather around the table on wobbly plastic chairs as we anticipated our special guest. A rabbi would usually lead the gathering as a guest speaker, awakening our minds with riveting, impassioned storytelling or by publicly reflecting on and clarifying a little-understood concept. By the end, our minds buzzed with excited comprehension of new ideas in Jewish mysticism, our hearts uplifted by chassidic tunes and the giddy aftertaste of sweet wine.

After the rabbi concluded his presentation, we’d ascend to our respective dorm rooms to strip ourselves of stiff pleated skirts in exchange for sweatshirts and slippers. Sleep was out of the question, for a storm of new ideas had just jolted us awake, beckoning us to engage with them.

When you’re hit with the initial primitive spark of an epiphany, you don’t automatically process it right away. It just kind of hangs over your head and follows you everywhere like a homeless puppy pining for attention, until you finally stretch out your hands and give it a comfortable home in your thought, speech, and action. You have to develop those epiphanies and endow them with a life and a voice. Without us to absorb those realizations into our lives, they’ll ascend beyond the world of action into a state of limbo, losing their potency and their relevance until some other fiery farbrengener seizes them again and releases them back into our world.

That’s why a farbrengen should begin at a table and end on a couch. The couch is where general concepts turn personal, intellectual ideas solidify into emotional convictions, and abstractions become applicable. It's where we learn how to form self-reflective responses to our daily experiences as Jews, housing a spiritual consciousness not restricted to a shul or a classroom. We need a comfort zone where we can explore our spirituality honestly.  The farbrengens in the couch room taught me to relate to G-d with vulnerability, and to do so actively rather than just be a passive recipient of a concept. They taught me what it means to not only commune with ideas, but to commune with my fellow in a raw, genuine way. 

The world “farbrengen” literally means “passing time.” It’s meant to be an exploration of reality in real-time, not isolated as a fancy community function that removes us from our natural way of being. A formal community gathering is only the beginning- not an event in and of itself, but rather an invitation to explore new conceptual frontiers on our own terms, on our own time, in our own space....and on our own couch. 

Israel

Lately, all I can think about is the current situation in Israel. A clamor of convictions about the conflict lives in the back of my mind, interrupting my internal dialogue with fiery claims as I go about my day. Thoughts of innocent lives stolen too soon, of soldiers who have given up everything to protect their people. I think about this world- this world that contains infinite capacity for kindness and truth is the same world that lives with eyes half shut and hearts desensitized to unfathomable acts of violence. Over and over, I silently assert myself to an imaginary audience: Israel has a right to defend itself. Hamas is a terrorist organization. Israel wants peace. We are ready for peace, but the world isn’t ready for truth.

Those words don't comfort me. Instead, they plague me like a broken record. They pain me because the world isn't willing to listen to them. The same words that I hear in my mind I hear on the news, on the radio, in dinner table conversations. Everything that can be said has been said. Arguments in defense of Israel’s actions have been delivered with eloquence and intellectual honesty, each one culminating with the satisfying blow of cold, hard facts. And it seems that every time, the words ricochet off the globe’s hardened consciousness, their message absorbed by no one and nothing, their conviction now but a homeless echo discerned only by those responsible for its conception.

So I don’t really know what to say. I just feel like I need to acknowledge the gravity of the situation and voice the concern I feel for my friends and family in Israel.

I do believe things will get better. For weeks, I’ve been trying to trying to decipher G-d’s cryptic ways and translate the puzzling stories He tells through His creations. There has to be a message here, some uplifting conclusion that will ease our minds. You may have noticed that my writing almost always follows a question or inconsistency to its final reconciliation, because I truly believe that from darkness and evil sprout light and goodness.

But in this case, I haven't quite figured out yet how to appreciate that hidden light. G-d is speaking a language that we’re struggling to understand, and no real consolation can be offered until the ultimate war between Truth and falsehood has reached its end.

I really wish G-d would be more transparent.

Reflections on Gimmel Tammuz

Today is the 20th yartzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. I never had the privilege of meeting the Rebbe, but what I have had is the precious opportunity to study a portion of his mystical teachings. Chassidus is a philosophy of depth, complexity, and honesty, but it's also so much more than that.

Chassidus forces you to meet the soul that you are. It balks at the constraints of nature and challenges you to reassess the limitations of a seemingly finite existence. It banishes the notion of a one-dimensional G-d figure, replacing every answer about G-d with a question. It introduces you to a G-d who needs you, a G-d who gives you a purpose simply by desiring you. It speaks of a G-d who transcends all created experiences, yet intimately knows your joys and sorrows even more profoundly than you do. Chabad Chassidus bridges the chasm between physical and spiritual, body and soul, G-d and Jew.

It is the study of Torah through the prism of Chassidus that has kept my personal Judaism alive, and it is due to the Rebbe’s influence that world Jewry has thrived to such an astonishing extent. Words cannot capture the magnitude of the Rebbe’s impact or the gratitude that I feel for having found a path guided by his philosophy.

This day may be the yartzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, but the Rebbe is by no means removed from the advances of world. Since his passing, new sparks of his influence enlighten the world every day: A revitalized connection to G-d, a more nuanced appreciation for Torah wisdom, a purer love of one’s fellow.

This day is not a commemoration of that which was. Gimmel Tammuz is a recognition of what is if we simply peer beneath the surface, and what can be if we embrace that hidden truth and live it.

Spirituality and the Job Search

I recently completed my Master’s degree and began looking for full-time work.

I knew it would be a difficult process- networking is not my forte and I have little prior work experience.

It would only seem natural that I would reach out to Hashem at a time like this. After all, material blessings are just as much in His control as spiritual ones. Although it may seem that my destiny lay in the whims of HR personnel, G-d’s will is the only true determinant of where I end up. 

But instead of pleading to G-d to redeem me from my “broke graduate student living off dwindling student loans” status, I buried my face in job applications told Him to leave me alone.

I began devoting my energies to overly-enthusiastic application essays at the expense of recognizing G-d’s role in all of this. I called everyone I knew who could potentially get me a job, but I never asked G-d to get me one. I quickly became a slave to nature, focused only on my efforts in the natural world rather than the reality that G-d will ultimately be the one to grant me what I need. 

In this world, you have to follow a specific process if you want to be able to live. Go to school, win over your professors, get good grades, fill out job applications, sound super competent and professional at job interviews. You have to abide by the rules to a certain extent to get what you need materially. But those rules contain no intrinsic power- they just happen to be the channels G-d has chosen for distribution of those brachos. If He wanted to bypass nature in order to sustain us, He totally could.

I just chose not to acknowledge this. I resisted praying to G-d, even though I knew that I should.

At the time, I didn’t know why. I chose not to take the time to think about the emotions underlying my avoidance. But at a certain point, the dissonance between what I knew I should be doing and how I was actually going about it became uncomfortable enough that I finally relented. I reluctantly invited G-d to have a heart-to-heart with me. 

Although my one-on-one’s with G-d usually start out rather cerebral, it didn’t take long for a stampede of uncomfortable feelings to invade the conversation. 

Everything was exposed. My fears, my anticipations, my absolute certainty that I would fail in the wake of a new experience. I meditated on my ambivalence toward change. I had always been successful in the past because I knew how to play the game. But the game of work- of the “real world”- is bound by different rules than those of academia.  What if I can’t learn the rules? Or what if those rules swallow me up entirely, and I cower into a decrepit pleaser of people and society with no moral backbone or spiritual consciousness? Or worse- what if I’m just not cut out for what I’ve always believed to be my calling?

It occurred to me that part of me didn’t want to get a job. And the part of me that did was paralyzed by fear of the unknown. So I had shuffled along all these roundabout paths, half-heartedly going through the motions of playing a “vessel” while circumventing the true source of my destiny. I was scared of Hashem’s brachos. And I knew if I prayed to Him, He’d probably give them to me. 

It was then that I realized: Maybe I believe in G-d more than I thought. Maybe I know deep down that all these rules are phony and G-d is the real deal. Maybe all of us possess a fundamental faith that is misconstrued as fear, a subconscious certainty in G-d’s intervention that clashes with the comfort of that which is familiar. 

Maybe I believe in G-d so much that I'm intimidated by the power of prayer. 

It's often speculated that Moshiach isn’t here yet because we don't want him enough. We’re too afraid to believe in him because we're unsettled by the prospect of the rules changing, even though it would bring fulfillment of the world’s ultimate mission. 

What we need to remember is that faith not only entails belief in our creator. It requires conviction that what He provides for us is wholly good, and that we will experience it as such. Releasing control is difficult- but we must believe we have the capacity to handle whatever He gives us. 

I haven’t found a job yet. But when I do, it won’t be because I talked to the right people or wrote a good essay. I’ll land wherever G-d wants me. 

Maybe I'll even get up the nerve to ask Him for one.

The Truth About Exteriors

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

This cliche may as well be the anthem of galus.

Here in exile, we’ve learned to take nothing at face value. G-d formed our physical world with an adulterous flair and fluid loyalties, an unstable plane of existence that either reveals the truth within or commits the ultimate betrayal. Because in this world, the vessel and its contents behave as two disparate entities, coexisting without true partnership.

Regarding ourselves as wise and and discerning, we cross-examine everything until it chokes out a confession. We squint at the pages of books so not to be led astray by the covers; we second-guess our allies and withdraw our trusting smiles.

Because this is galus, and what is true often hides.

But as we dissect the prose and proclaim “Aha!” with new unseen perspectives, the book and its cover still contend with a feverish aggression. The tension is enough to burst the stitches of their binding.

We like the game. We get a rush from the searching, the intellectual toil, the digging beneath the surface. We can call ourselves deep, say we are servants of G-d. We’ve found meaning in an apparently meaningless existence.

But Moshiach isn’t here yet. How can we feel satisfied if G-d isn’t?? The cover is still unsuited to the words on the pages.

We need to get down on the linoleum floor, scissors and glue in hand, and tear off the book bindings. We need to paste on new transparent covers that tell the real, unfiltered story. Our clothes might get dirty and we’ll get dust in our eyes, and we’ll often wonder if we’ve regressed to mindless childhood projects without rhyme or reason. But the job needs to get done.

It’s not enough to identify the inner layer. G-d wants the outer and inner layers to fall in sync with each other, an alignment of spiritual and physical that can only result from doing mitzvos. Both layers need to to commit to each other, and we are officiating the supernal wedding! The revealed world will vow to the hidden one, “If you give yourself to me, I’ll express your truth.”

Think we can’t judge a book by its cover? Just wait till Moshaich comes.

Reconstruction

Home is a constant. It fills you like a joyful breath, an unbroken inhale from a bottomless source. It’s where you reflexively return, without even a flickering thought that without it you’d have no place that is wholly yours, no palpable bridge between your past and future self. But then life takes its wandering course, and what you’ve always known is bribed away by time, mortality, choices made in the name of convenience. You went away for a while and your home slipped into someone else’s story without so much as a wave. Didn’t it know you were merely pausing mid-sentence, that you would surely return if it would only have waited a little longer? Soon there is a hollowness in your voice and a restlessness in your feet, and you run toward nothing in particular trying to find that comfortable place.

It’s inhabitants will find each other again. Maybe you’ll reconvene one summer evening by circumstance- or rather, destiny dressed as circumstance. You’ll accuse the humid air of making you lazy, rationalizing that your hasty “hello” melted into a nostalgic four-hour visit only by virtue of your skin sticking to the lawn chairs. But it’s the aura of something unfinished that holds you captive in your seats, like the itch of a half-told story or a door left ajar.

You’re wildly different from each other. You’re creators, dreamers, executives. Inventors who toy with guitars and electronics and relationships. You ran away to find yourselves and start anew, because the ceilings were too low and the childhood photos obsolete. You were just too different from one another.

And yet now, your thoughts all sound the same. Buzzing, panicking, grappling with the notion that all that was is no more, that your collective future may be fragmented into individual ones. You’ll gaze at the dim sky and make vapid remarks until your thoughts drown out your words, and the unspoken will finally pry its way out into the tense air.

“I can’t believe they sold the house.”

You want those words to fix you. To console you in your homelessness, to remind you that you’re a somebody. You want them to heal you on release like a stifled sigh, as though having held your breath was the only mistake.

But they don’t. Instead, they coldly insist that this isn’t about you. Those words glare at you, accusingly: This is about something that was that is no more, a lost artifact that longs for rebuilding. It’s about a home that needs you. The values imparted in that space ache for expression; the love that was sewn there must extend itself to a new generation. Instead you’ve built yourselves up, defined yourselves with grandiose titles and radical works of art. You pinned on a name tag to forget yourself- to forget that where you are and where you came from are fundamentally connected. Those words are a reminder.

As you meet each other’s gaze, a succession of emotions slaps you like a sudden wind- shame, forgiveness, a resolve for reconciliation. The moment wraps itself around you- tightly, so your ego can’t breathe. The walls of the sky seem to arch forward, as though the world were created for the sole sake of this reunion.

A wordless pact rises from your circle of lawn chairs.

It’s time to start building.

Proud to Be an Idealist

I remember the day I found out I was naive.

I was at a Bat Mitzvah party. The event was held at some ritzy hotel downtown, its pristine interior infested with a gaggle of 40 seventh graders. There were glowsticks and a DJ, but if you were really cool you didn't dance. You were above that. Literally, in fact. The "cool kids" stormed the elevators, punched the buttons for every floor and helped themselves to an unguided tour of the premises.

I wanted to join them. I could be adventurous, right?

So I dashed between two open elevator doors just as a group of my peers entered.

As if on cue, every last one of them spun around and exited the elevator, convening in the foyer with their backs to me. A girl I knew from Spanish class turned around and latched her gaze onto mine. Smirking, she took the opportunity to enlighten me. "You can't come with us. You're too naive to partake in adult activites like this."

The doors rang shut just as she spit out her parting words. You're too naive. I stood paralyzed on the elevator, baffled. I didn't even know what the word naive meant.

As I silently ascended to floor 14, I somehow understood that in the eyes of my peers, I had been downgraded.

~ ~ ~

Now that I'm 24 and no longer tormented by the social traumas of middle school, I've given myself permission revisit this topic. What does it mean to be naive? More importantly, what's so wrong with it?

Well, maybe less than we think.

Take a look at Chumash, in the parshas dealing with Yaakov and Esav. Yaakov was the "man of the tent," immersed in study of Torah and oblivious to the tribulations of the "real world." He was gentle and innocent- a mama's boy. His brother Esav, in contrast, spent his days in the wildnerness. Weathered by the cold and energized by the adrenaline of the hunt, he was no stranger to the perils of the world. Esav was street smart, yet Yaakov was the one ultimately entrusted by G-d to leave the security of his tent and father the Jewish people. He was required to enter the "real world" to serve as an emissary of truth, despite having had no prior experience with the evil and deception that he would encounter. All he had was knowledge of G-d and a childlike idealism.

To understand the inner workings of an idealist, we must first distinguish between Truth and Fact. As Rabbi Manis Friedman elucidates, Truth is the world as it should be. Fact is the world as it is. Truth is G-d's reality, fact is ours. While some people might be pleasantly surprised when the ideal and actual are in harmony, a naive person is genuinely shocked when they're not. The mind of a naive person does not presume a chasm between theory and actuality, internals and externals. Because if truth is really true, it should persist across time, space, and context. Why shouldn't it survive the constraints of the world?

Because of this inherent (and often subconscious) assumption that the outer world must reflect the soul within, naive people are easily deceived. Personally, I can't possibly understand why one would intentionally decieve another. Why would you want to create tension between your inner and outer self? Lying to yourself and lying to others must be so....uncomfortable. Unnatural. No one would want to do that. That's crazy.

Injustice and corruption are not viewed as inevitable realities of society. They're believed to be exceptions to the norm. One time, I learned that one of my old high school teachers had been fired because an influential parent accused her of making the schoolwork too challenging. This woman had been teaching at my high school for 30+ years. She wrote my college recommendations. I was shocked and appalled that such a decision could be made without so much as a simple tap on the shoulder to ask her to adjust her expectations before cutting her ties with the school. I insisted that there must have been another reason- a more just or valid reason. A family member, who is a teacher herself and understands the corruption in school administrations, gave me a harsh word of rebuke for my "ignorance": Of course they're going to unfairly fire someone. How dare you be surprised after all the injustice I've suffered as a teacher. You should know by now how corrupt the educational system is.

The thing is, I did know. I've heard the frustrated narratives of countless teachers, exhausted and hurt by their treatment from administrators. I really do empathize with them. But I'm still just as shocked every time I hear a story like this. I guess I just have too much faith in humanity not to be shocked.

As much flack as I get for this quality, I think it's really a beautiful thing to believe in the world's potential for justice. To have an image of the best possible version of the world permanently etched into your mind. When it becomes apparent that the world hasn't yet actualized its potential, it's those stubborn people who are going to work hard to create change because they know it's possible.

This is why Yaakov was able to work 14 years in order to marry his soulmate Rachel without going insane. It didn't matter that he was essentially held hostage by Lavan and used for his manual labor. Failing to marry the woman he was truly intended to be with was not even an option in his mind. Truth leaves no room for compromise.

As Yaakov demonstrated, naivete is not just for children. As an adult, I was most recently reminded of my own idealistic tendencies when I returned home after a year in seminary. I expected the intensity of religious life that I had experienced in Israel to be just as vibrant at home. Why shouldn't it be? We're all following the same Torah and learning the same Chassidus as I did in Israel. I quickly realized, however, that that the philosophical roadmap I had constructed inside my "tent" contained different guidelines than those adhered to by the community.The ways of the community felt not only diluted, but foreign. The new application of all I had learned was but a murky reflection of what I perceived as "truth." I felt the way Yaakov might have felt, suddenly plucked from my tent and tossed into the exotic wildnerness.

Pop Chassid recently published an article in which he proposed the institution of a "Community class" in baal teshuva yeshivas and seminaries. The purpose of the class would be to make BT's aware of how a frum community functions in order to ease the transition from an outreach or yeshiva setting to a community. I would have been the perfect candidate for a class like this. My transition from seminary to a community was incredibly confusing, to say the least. This class could have given me the Facts before I went into the real world. Maybe if someone had told me what to expect, I could have mentally prepared myself.

But after thinking about this idea at length, I realized the following: As difficult as that adjustment was, I wouldn't sacrifice that naivete for the world. There's something really special about connecting to Judaism through a philosophy- one that has yet to be tainted by human interpretation or culture. There's something pure and beautiful and true about previewing Judaism as it's "supposed" to be, without even the slightest inkling of the compromises made by the "real" world. 

G-d created man to be naive. In the garden of Eden, Adam and Chava had no conception of anything outside G-d's will, possessing no desires contrary to His. Unadulterated G-dliness was all they knew. At first, that's what G-d wanted. Those first few moments in Gan Eden contained unmatched purity and clarity.

But then, Adam and Chava were tricked by the snake. At the mercy of a con artist, their naivete got the better of them and their innocence was snatched away in an instant. The simplicity of Gan Eden became a memory that only grew fainter with each subsequent generation.

However, that consciousness was not permanently lost. With the arrival of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, that memory of G-dliness gradually became sharper, closer, and more accessible. The coming of Moshiach will be the ultimate return of Divine Consciousness, when Fact and Truth will no longer be at odds, but rather one will be entirely reflective of the other in a way even more powerful than the original revelation of Gan Eden.

There is a time for innocence and a time to "face the real world." G-d weaved both into his plan for creation. First, one must appreciate Truth for what it is. One must take ample time to discover G-d's intentions, G-d's will and His wisdom without interference from cultural or community norms. Marinate in those ideas until they become a part of you.

When you're in a deep sleep, your dreams never take into consideration that your alarm will ring in 5 minutes. Your imagination never says, "Wait, dandelions can't talk in the real world, so I better rewrite that dream so it fits into the constraints of reality." That's what makes a dream so powerful. It is a pure recognition of what could be.

Eventually, you wake up. When the time is right, you take the plunge into a community where you'll experience a rude awakening. But that's good. It's not a problem. That discomfort means you know what's true. You're disturbed by the disparity between how things are and how things should be because your time in the tent helped you mold a vision for a better future- one where Truth is not filtered. Now, you have the ability to look at all those wordly constraints and bring G-d into them.

So don't be embarrassed if you're a dreamer. If you always see the best in people and are perplexed by injustice. Your peers may have excluded you from their "real world" adventures on the elevator, but I think it is specifically you who won't lose sight of the world's potential for elevation outside the tent.

After all, where would Judaism be without Yaakov?

Don't Compliment My Writing

Writing is nothing more than an impulse.

It's like gasping for air after holding your breath for too long, or running to the grocery store at 11 pm to satisfy a craving for pickles. I can't tell you how many times I've arrived late to appointments because I start writing and I just can't switch off the flow of ideas. My judgment is overpowered by the sense of urgency that underlies everything I create.

I acknowledge the value in the fact that I've found a way for my natural drives to vest themselves in spiritual expression. I thank G-d every day that I need not turn to the unwholesome comic strips and corny song lyrics I used to come up with to let off steam during high school study hall (although some of my friends might miss the entertainment).

But my writing only wears a costume of holiness. Yeah, the contents of this blog relate to my life as a Jew, composed through the lens of the Torah I've learned and the community I've experienced. But I'm propelled by a lust for thought and expression that often controls me more than I control it. Which makes writing about spiritual matters just a glorified game of dress-up.

I don't mean to self-demean. I just think it's important to come clean about why I'm doing what I'm doing. This is just the way we were created. We engage in holy pursuits with animalistic motivations, endowed by G-d with the mission of purifying those motives.

So don't compliment my writing. I write because I can't help it.

Instead, compliment me when I tell my brain to shut up and I get up to do someone a favor. Compliment me when I decide to postpone outlining an essay because I know I'm being disrespectful by showing up late to class. When I do something that I'm really not good at but I know it's the right thing to do- that's when your praise and encouragement will really mean something.

I believe every artist is presented with the challenge of transforming artistic needs into wants and turning instincts into choices. To create should not be a submission to desire but an assertion of purpose in this world.

The Reckoning

I told you a story.

You listened with greedy ears 

and hands outstretched, 

probing 

violating. 

You poked and prodded at my words 

until their edges flaked away, 

Their syllables disjointed 

and crushed 

In the stifling grip of your intellect. 

You displayed them on your 

trophy shelf, 

glistening next to your smug smile, 

Their meanings 

contorted to please your 

hungry heart. 

I told you a story, 

But you told me yours 

Instead of hearing mine. 

So I retreated, 

Leaving you in the company of your pride 

And your internal applause 

And you didn't even see me slip away. 

A sharp inhale, 

A pensive silence. 

Why say anything more? 

I reconsider my self-disclosure, 

Longing for your partnership 

But knowing I could do without it. 

In truth, 

I'd have more space to breathe 

and to be me 

My love could soar in an endless stream 

Without a worry of whether you'd be there to 

receive it. 

You, on the contrary 

Need me more than you know. 

For without me 

Your heart would betray you, 

Pumping life into limbs 

that will sweep you into a frigid sea. 

The sun will grow dim 

And you'll lose your breath, 

Your raspy cries just a note in the droning wind. 

What do you want? 

You stand, unfeeling, 

your hands coiled around the elegant trophy 

That used to be mine. 

Your knuckles are white. 

If only you knew that 

Smothering my story 

Is denying your own 

And even more than you are bound up 

in your own sophistication 

I am bound to you. 

And what you do with clenched fists 

And a staunch stare 

I can bring you to effortlessly. 

Because all that you know 

Resides in simplicity too. 

You'll sense the sameness in our souls, 

our interlocking journeys 

And the triumphant surrender 

of letting go. 

Because to hear my words 

Is to find yourself. 

We want the same thing, 

To reach the same end. 

Our story 

My story 

Will direct you there. 

I think all this 

But say nothing 

Waiting for you to turn around 

in a fit of love 

and remorse, 

pining for a reunion. 

But you don't, and that's okay. 

It's all part of the story. 

Maybe me just wanting this is enough for you. 

My love will swell through the silence 

Rippling through your lovely mind 

Until your knowledge 

relinquishes its solitary reign 

And merges with mine. 

I'll tell you my story 

and you won't even need to 

listen 

because 

You'll just know.

One day.

For now, I'll feign distance

And let the silence do its work.

From Potential to Actuality

A few months ago, I lost my mailbox key. I put off requesting a new one from the apartment management office out of fear that I'd be charged an unreasonable fee (and any fee is unreasonable for a grad student). Instead, I opted to temporarily go without my paycheck, magazine subscriptions, and wedding and birthday invitations, hoping I'd magically discover the key poking out of the couch cushions someday.

One afternoon, I happened to be exiting the building as the postal worker was sorting mail into the appropriate boxes. My mailbox door hung open, its bulging contents gleaming like exposed treasure. Most notably was my subscription of Chayenu, a weekly Torah study magazine that I relied on to enliven my 45 minute commute to work. Lately I had felt disconnected and unreflective without Torah study as part of this routine, going through the motions of the daily grind without infusing a fresh spiritual consciousness into it.

This was my chance! With a brash "Excuse me," I impulsively reached past the postal worker for my mail.

She glared at me disapprovingly. "Uh-uh. You can't just take your mail, honey. You need to open your mailbox with your key."

I wasn't in the mood to try to explain myself. With a defeated sigh, I hurried outside to catch my dreaded train to the city.

During my commute, I mentally reviewed the mailbox incident. How did that just happen? Everything I needed was plainly visible, inches away from falling into my possession. But I couldn't have any of it. I needed to open my mailbox myself- with my own key. It wasn't good enough that someone opened it for me.

Until I took initiative to acquire a key- regardless of the financial sacrifice involved- my precious Torah magazines were worthless. They were trapped in a box, powerless and unbreathing. They couldn't affect me.

That's how a lot of Judaism is. We look to others to "open our mailbox." We go to shiurim and try to surround ourselves with positive influences, looking to the wisdom and conviction of our community leaders, schools, and mentors. They open the door to inspiration. But that's all inspiration is: An open door. We're shown what's there- a preview of what could be- and then it's left to us to internalize those teachings and integrate them into our lives.

It's crucial to know what exists in potential. Catching that initial glimpse of our beautiful heritage through another's guidance is what gives us both focus and motivation. But that can't be the end. It's only a beginning. And moving forward requires a lot of effort, and maybe even self-sacrifice. Only you can create real change within yourself.

It took a while, but I eventually got a new key and I didn't even have to pay for it. I emptied my mailbox and sifted through a month's worth of letters. The next day, the postal worker loyally returned with a new series of items addressed to me. Now, I was ready to receive them.

In life, our incoming flow of spiritual inspiration comes with responsibility: We must latch onto it, study its contents, and figure out how it can better the world. Only through our own efforts can we actualize the potential that awaits in our "spiritual mailbox."

I Drank the Kool-Aid (and I'm Not Ashamed of It)

I was recently at a shabbos meal when a teenage girl, raised in the Orthodox community, asked me "Who made you frum?"

I was pretty taken aback at the question. I didn't know how to respond at first. What did she mean, who made me frum? I made myself frum, thank you very much. Do I look like a product of brainwashing? After I stuttered for an answer, she rephrased the question in a less derogatory way.

Later, I thought about this interaction and my defensive response. Why did I feel this question was so derogatory? Why was I ashamed about the fact that a well-intentioned Jewish organization helped me become closer to my heritage?

It probably had a lot to do with the attitudes circulating around me.

Attitudes like:

"My Judaism is more real because I didn't come to it through some sort of contrived outreach program."

On the flip side, those who do become connected through a Chabad house or outreach center often struggle with others' appraisal of their observance. "Beware of the the Kool-Aid! Stop being naive. Don't let them control you." As a result, these baal teshuvas might later choose to disassociate with that community, organization, or individuals involved as a way to assert their independence. They maintain an observant lifestyle, but intentionally distance themselves from their starting line to prove they aren't simply a product of others' efforts.

I can certainly see this quality in myself. If I'm being painfully honest, there is something very self-satisfying about parading my independent thinking to those who offered me support in the beginning of my journey, showing them I've risen above their Kool-Aid.

What is "Kool-Aid," anyway? I was always a bit unclear about the intended meaning of this term. People refer to this metaphor and laugh cynically about it, their sarcasm laced with resentment toward their outreach communities.

Kool-Aid is not G-d or Torah or living an observant lifestyle, assuming these are all rooted in Truth. What I think is that when people accuse you of drinking the Kool-Aid, they're accusing you of buying into others' justifications for becoming frum. What people have labeled Kool-Aid can be defined as the body of reasoning that people employ to demonstrate the value of observance. Some of this reasoning is valid, some is misinformed. In many cases, criticism stems from others' interpretations of why you became frum- not the mere fact that you did so. If it appears that you are simply absorbing others' messages like a porous sponge without really thinking about anything, that's when people start accusing you of being brainwashed. They refuse to respect your choices when you can't substantiate them with conclusions you've drawn on your own.

I admit it. I drank the Kool-Aid. I marveled at all the new perspectives I was ingesting, gaping with wonder like a starry-eyed child. I initially found no reason to disagree with anything I heard. But the thing about Kool-Aid is that it didn't really quench my thirst. Yeah, it's marked "beverage," but it's mostly preservatives and food coloring. So it just bubbled inside me, compelling me to make some very pivotal choices but never becoming fully absorbed into my system.

At a certain point, my opinions and feelings began to stealthily creep out from under the woodwork. Suddenly, they wanted a say in everything I was doing! They didn't want to take a back seat to the foreign influence temporarily inhabiting me. So they rose up and protested the slimy red substance that had conquered their terrain, upon which an explosive chemical reaction occurred. The result was a new flavor of Kool-Aid: One that I had created through my own flesh, blood, heart and mind. But it couldn't have developed without first ingesting something from the outside.

Kool-Aid doesn't kill. It's simply meant to be an instigator. It's when you misuse it that the problems begin. If you don't integrate everything you've learned into YOUR mind, and you delude yourself into thinking that Kool-Aid is water, that's when you start being unhealthy.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that G-d guided you in a certain direction because He knew that's what you'd be responsive to. He orchestrated your contact with Jewish Outreach, or Chabad, or whatever channel "made you frum." Don't be ashamed of your journey. Don't disown the experiences G-d gave you. Remember that it's all hashgacha pratis- even the part where you "drank the Kool-Aid." It's not like some alien force came out of nowhere and force-fed you some perversion of Truth. Sure, Torah is sometimes distorted when people try to present it in a way that will be meaningful to you. But G-d led you toward those distortions too, because He trusted you could turn them into something real.

Chai Elul: Embrace the Details

Today I was sitting in one of my graduate courses, bored out of my mind. I had learned the majority of the content in a previous class, allbeit in a very general sense, and I saw no reason to fixate on the multitude of "fascinating" details my professor was drooling about. I knew my basic familiarity with the concepts would still permit an A on the final. But the teacher insisted on gnawing each detail to shreds, the original concept now fragmented into a hundred entities that bore no resemblance to their original singular form.

So rather than listen to my teacher drone on for the next two hours and forty minutes, I decided to buy time (and stay awake) by preparing a Dvar Torah for the coming shabbos. I quickly became engrossed in a sicha (a speech) I found online (thank G-d for the internet!) about Chai Elul, the date on which both the Baal Shem Tov and Alter Rebbe were born. These leaders founded revolutionary movements in Judaism: The Baal Shem Tov revealed the deeper, mystical dimension underlying Torah, and from that grew the Alter Rebbe's Chabad movement, a more intellectual application of the former.

The sicha quoted the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, who gave over two versions of an aphorism: "Chai Elul is the day which infuses vitality into Elul" and "Chai Elul is the day which infuses vitality into the Divine service of 'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.'"

There are layers of meaning embedded in these phrases. What I'd like to focus on is the fact that the first aphorism speaks about Chai Elul energizing our Divine service in a general sense, accounting for any and every aspect of human-G-d interaction that occurs during Elul. In contrast, the second version specifies that Chai Elul enlivens our Divine service in a particular way, arousing us to approach G-d in the specific manner of "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine."

The mode of Divine service specified in the second aphorism is by default included within the first. The energy of Chai Elul is equally diffused throughout all aspects of avodah, naturally including "I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine." So why the repetition? Why emphasize a detail that is already so obvious it should require no explanation?

In truth, details are more than just details. Their value extends beyond the fact that they are included within a significant main idea. Take Torah study, for example. Diving into the particulars of a topic not only substantiates one's understanding of the original idea, but it actually generates new knowledge. The process of exerting your intellect to understand the inner workings of an idea churns up a new experience inside you. New ideas are born, new feelings arise, a new perspective on G-d consolidates inside the psyche. Your new outlook motivates action. You commit to G-d and serve Him with sincerity. These developments must be preceded by a certain complexity of understanding.

The apparent repetition in the second version of the aphorism reminds us that feeling connected to G-d in a general sense is not enough. Divine service isn't only about acknowledging that vague, mysterious feeling that G-d is guiding your life. It's about understanding why you have that feeling, where it comes from, and what you're supposed to do with it. It means changing yourself so that you can change the world and change G-d's presence in the world. And in order to do all that, you have to REALLY understand G-d and REALLY understand His world. Only by knowing Him intimately through intellectual exertion can change flourish.

Sitting in class at that moment, I realized that I have a choice. I can go about life in one of two ways: I can seek the minimum knowledge necessary to get by. I can ace my counseling practicum without ever opening a textbook, without investing an ounce more effort than absolutely necessary. But will I really be able to help people? Will my expertise dwindle to mere "expertise," a bullet-point understanding of how things should be but with no real tools to make them that way?

Or, I can invest in a mission. I can formulate meaningful conclusions about how to transform the world using the detailed information I've absorbed.

Rather than letting yourself become "bored out of your mind," delve into your mind for a change. Details are only boring until you really think about them.