In Your Light, Miraculous Courage

A version of this article was published on Kveller.com on Friday Dec 20.

Honor the True Meaning of Hanukkah and Flaunt Your Jewishness

כִּֽי־עִ֖מְּךָ מְק֣וֹר חַיִּ֑ים בְּ֜אֽוֹרְךָ֗ נִרְאֶה־אֽוֹר

Ki imcha m’kor chayyim, b’orcha nirei or

For with You is the source of life, in Your light we see light

(Psalm 36:9)

When I was a child, I loved going with my family to the special Shabbat-Hanukkah service at our synagogue. All the families would line up their menorahs on a long table in the sanctuary in front of the bimah (platform) and light their candles. With the sanctuary lights dimmed, the lights from the menorahs looked like a small glimmering city. The service ended once all the candles had burned down, which generally was about the length of a typical Reform family service, about 45 minutes to an hour.

But one year, my parents accidentally brought long-lasting candles to the service, the no-drip kind that burn for hours. I’ll never forget the sight of all the other candles having long melted away, our menorah with its candles not even half way down, and all the families waiting to charge down to the banquet hall for donuts and coffee, glaring at the menorah with the lights that just would not go out. My parents’ disastrous misjudgment mortified me, and I pretended I did not know them.

Looking back, this image has a different resonance for me now.

Most people are familiar with the miracle of Hanukkah, which doesn’t appear in the Torah but in later writings: The Temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed, and there was only enough oil to light the ner tamid (teternal flame) for one day, but the oil lasted eight days until the Maccabees procured more oil. That is why we light the menorah and enjoy its radiance for eight days, that’s why we eat things fried in oil like latkes (potato pancakes) or sufganiyot (jelly donuts) or bimuelos (fried sweet dough balls).

But the full legend of Hanukkah, which I learned when I was older, tells of the Syrian King, Antiochus, sending his soldiers to Jerusalem to take over the Temple and dedicate it to Zeus. Antiochus made it illegal to be Jewish. Antiochus ordered the Jews to convert and assimilate to the dominant culture, or they would be killed. A small group of Jewish rebels, the Maccabees, rose up against Antiochus, took back the Temple, and the Jewish people were able to worship freely once again.

I cannot hear the story of Hanukkah today without thinking of the times we are living in now. Our government and its policies, and even our culture, tells so many groups of marginalized people that they cannot be who they are, or who they are is not OK, not valid, not legal.

As a Jewish person living under Trump’s presidency, I have often felt this way. I’ve heard people shouting, “Kill all the Jews!” on the streets of my neighborhood in Queens; grieved over the horrific, recent synagogue shootings; watched the media coverage of anti-Semitic sentiments at Trump rallies. At times, all of this, and more, has made me want to hide my Jewishness and use my white privilege to blend in — to wear my beloved shema (one of the central Jewish prayers) necklace tucked inside my shirt, keep quiet about Jewish topics in public, even look into moving to Canada (good thing I married a Canadian! How lucky is that?). I was worried that we were experiencing something akin to the rise of Nazi Germany here in the U.S.

But then, one day I saw photos of my rabbi being arrested with eighteen other rabbis at a protest against Trump’s Muslim travel ban. She was wearing her colorful tallit (prayer shawl), her arms in plastic ties. She bore a defiant, triumphant smile on her face as they escorted her into the police van and, seeing the pictures, I felt a surge of energy, inspiration, and hope.

Her light gave me light. Seeing my rabbi being so proudly, defiantly Jewish made me realize that if I hid my Jewishness, I would be perpetuating exactly what those who hate us wanted: that we should hide, that we should cower, that we shouldn’t be visible. I didn’t want to promote this kind of suffering in myself or in others any more. So I decided to try being more openly Jewish in small, personal ways. I started wearing my shema necklace outside my shirt. When my coworkers asked me what I did over the weekend, I would tell them about the Shabbat service and potluck I attended, instead of just vaguely saying, “I saw some friends.” I began studying Hebrew and leading parts of prayer services for my Jewish community, and I went to Jewish events that took place in outdoor, public spaces.

None of this has been comfortable or easy, but the joy and connection that I’ve felt as a result has made it all worth it. My rabbi’s bravery, and the bravery of many others I’m lucky to know — my friend who is trans and is raising funds online for her surgery, the artist in my neighborhood who creates work about her relationship to mental illness, a college friend who recently lost his mother who openly shares about his journey with grief — gives me the courage to connect more fully with and rejoice in all the parts of myself.

In the story of Hanukkah, the real miracle wasn’t that the oil lasted for eight days. That part of the legend was written even later than the story of the Jewish uprising. The true miracle was the bravery of the people who stood up to the aggression and judgment of their oppressors. The Maccabees didn’t let their response to threat default to flight mode; they didn’t just pick up and move to Canada. It would be so much easier to run away, to hide, to avoid, to decide it’s all too hard and just go binge watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (OK. I’m also doing that, too. Everyone needs an escape sometimes.) But it’s important to remember that those who bravely shine their light make it possible for others to access their own.

The word Hanukkah means “dedication,” referring to the re-dedication of the Temple to its original intention: a place for Jews to openly and joyfully express their faith. This Hanukkah, as I light the candles on the menorah, I will also re-dedicate myself — to the values I care about, to the qualities that make me who I am, to my wisdom and my suffering, to living in my body. I will dedicate myself to inhabiting my aliveness as fully as possible, as an offering towards others who also struggle to be who they are.

Living Jewishly in public may look different for every Jewish person, and it may not be the right choice for everyone. That’s fine; I’m still exploring what this means for me. But living outwardly as a Jew is a strong intention I have, because at this point I can’t imagine stuffing my joy at being Jewish back inside the tight box in my chest it was crammed into all these years.

Whatever your holiday traditions, whether you celebrate holidays this time of year or not, I invite you to take a few moments right now to pause in whatever you are doing. Close or rest your eyes, take a few deep, centering breaths, and then ask yourself: 

How do I want to dedicate myself at this time? How can I be more fully myself? How can I offer my unique gifts for the benefit of others who struggle as I do, for the repair of the world? 

Give yourself a couple of minutes, see what comes up, and notice where in your body you feel the energy of this response. Then when you’re ready, open your eyes, and write a few key words down somewhere where you will encounter them often, where they won’t be so easy to forget.

Here is my Hanukkah blessing for all of us: Go ahead, you brave, wonderful candles. Shine your light. Shine brighter and longer than is convenient for other people, for our society, for whomever. It might make some people uncomfortable. Great. That’s how people grow. So keep on going. Keep on being you. Keep on glowing your wisdom and compassion. In your light, we see light.

MRI Meditation, And The Wisdom of Ducking

Last week I had my first MRI. I’ve been having back and neck pain since December and had tried a number of treatments to no significant avail, so this was the next course of action in finding out the cause.

Leading up to the MRI, I wasn’t thinking about it very much. People had been telling me about their experiences--MRIs are stressful, loud, you can’t move. (Though I have heard that some people find MRIs relaxing and can fall asleep--if this describes you please email me and tell me how.) I shrugged it off. Whatever, I thought. I’m a meditator. I know how to stay still for 20 minutes, I know how to be with unwanted sounds, I know how to deal with anxiety. No problem.

As soon as I walked in that room and actually saw the MRI machine, it hit me. This is more intense than I expected. I felt my anxiety spike. I felt vulnerable in the beige hospital gown, my glasses removed, lying down with my head locked in a plastic cage. I was told not to cough or swallow because it could mess up the image. I never realized how much I do those things until someone told me not to. I also never realized how much I move, even just micromovements--I probably move in meditation more than I’m even aware of.

But the thing that helped me get through the MRI was not an ability to stay completely still, or to stay completely calm, or to do nothing, or to feel nothing. It was the ability to be with my experience and know what was happening, so I could respond with awareness, so I could know what to do. So I could, from moment to moment, place my attention where it would benefit me, where it would bring me the most ease.

Last week I heard a talk by Sylvia Boorstein, and she defined mindfulness as “the cultivated ability to know what is happening, to hold what is happening in a nonreactive way, in order to have clear comprehension of purpose, of what to do.”

You might not think there’s not much to do if you’re lying in an MRI machine, but there’s TONS to do:

Pay attention to the sounds, or not pay attention to the sounds.

Pay attention to the table vibrating, or not pay attention to the table vibrating.

Open eyes, or close eyes.

Pay attention to sensations of anxiety in the body, or not pay attention to sensations of anxiety in the body.

Widen the attention to notice the whole body. Place attention with breath. With the feet. With the legs.

Be with the specific thoughts arising, or not. Be in conversation with them, or not.

Offer lovingkindess to myself, or not.

From one moment to the next, in order to work with the situation and make it through that experience without being consumed by anxiety, I had to be aware of what was happening in my mind and body, and what would help me find some amount of ease in a divinely uneasy situation.

So I noticed what was happening, and responded from there. What was happening changed, and so what was needed changed.

In one moment, pushing away the sound was too much effort, so I opened to it. In another moment, the sound became too distressing, so I shifted to the feeling of distress and sending myself lovingkindess. The vibration of the table became prominent, so I let that be the focus. The breath, then sound. Anxiety causing thoughts to spiral--zooming in on the specific thoughts themselves and talking to them:

“I’m in danger.”

--No, sweetheart you’re not, this is totally safe, it’s just unpleasant.

“If I move they’ll have to do it all over again.”

--So they’ll have to do it all over again, it’s okay, no big deal. It will just take a little longer.

It was kind of amazing, and probably the most mindful I had ever been in a 25-minute period of time. And that was what allowed me to get through it, and to even walk out of there feeling amazed and grateful for this technology. (And I now have a diagnosis for the cause of the back pain and the beginning of an appropriate treatment plan, which is another kind of relief.)

The experience made me think about how, in practice, the usual instruction is to stay with one anchor--breath, body, sound--and come back to that anchor whenever we drift. And in our formal practice, this is generally helpful, and allows us to have a more conscious shifting of attention when needed. But in our daily life, and sometimes in our formal practice, the most skillful thing is not to stay with one thing, but to make a conscious choice to shift.

Meditation teacher and Rabbi Jeff Roth writes,

“I learned a teaching phrase from Sylvia Boorstein that summarizes the practice of being in the present moment: ‘Whatever arises, don’t duck.’ When you practice you might remember this phrase. But I mention this here to make a counterpoint: sometimes the wisest thing to do is to temporarily ‘duck.’ Sometimes, being with unpleasant states is counterproductive. When the mind is tired out or when the energy is strong and challenging, keeping your attention directly on the challenging energy can cause your mind to wilt or further contract. In this state it becomes more difficult to see clearly, and expending further effort just makes things worse. At such times it can be more helpful to change practices....

“The intention behind our movement away from difficult experiences is of great importance. If we move away in the spirit of aversion, our mind may cultivate the aversive response. If we temporarily leave the difficult mind states for uplifting practices, we need to be honest and aware that we are making this choice. Stating the following intention to ourselves can be extremely helpful and self-accepting: ‘I am switching my practice right now in the service of being better able to deal with this difficult mind state. When I am ready, I will return to it.’” (Jewish Meditation Practices for Everyday Life, page 92.)

Whether it’s an overwhelming emotion, a strong unpleasant physical sensation, an interaction with another person, or whatever, it has been helpful for me to learn to notice the difference between “I don’t like this and would rather this moment be different” and “This is exceeding my resources at this moment, and it would be wiser to take a break or a step back so that I can be better able to deal with this.”

We can check this out when it arises in meditation. Just yesterday during a meditation session, I noticed this arise. I had chosen my whole body as my anchor. At some point I noticed the sound of birds chirping. That’s so nice, I thought, as I noticed my attention start to shift to the sound of the birds. Here I paused: do I need to make this shift, or do I just want to? Is there something overwhelming or unsafe about being with my body right now? If yes, I should shift to the sound. If not, the kind thing is to stay with my body. So I let go of the pleasant sound, and returned my attention to my body. I watched a little wave of disappointment arise and pass.

In the MRI, it wouldn’t have been skillful to white-knuckle it through paying attention to the sound when it became distressing. A high level of distress would not help me get through that time. One could say I ducked from the distress, but it be more accurate to say what I didn’t duck from was the insight that in that moment I needed to duck.

If we can infuse our meditation practice with a prevailing sense of love and kindness, with an intention to care about our suffering, I think the wisdom to know when to duck and when to stay becomes more readily available. It takes practice and feeling our way into it, and probably several instances of staying when it might have been more skillful to have ducked, and ducking when it might have been more skillful to stay. But that’s practice. That’s how we learn to love ourselves, even inside the clanging spaceship of an MRI.

(Image source Wikimedia commons.)

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