A Very Narrow Bridge

The world is a very narrow bridge; the important thing is not to be afraid. ~Nachman of Breslov

Category: Unintended Consequences

January 19, 2014

While I Have Your Attention…

My havruta is laughing.

From across the table I want to know what’s so funny.

“This chapter is pretty appropriate—just read it.”

…Arrogant people think that since they have afflicted themselves and practiced self-mortification they they are tzaddikim, but the truth is not so…

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, Kitzur Likutey Moharan 10:5

Now I’m laughing too.

Tzaddikim are spiritual masters. Like Rebbe Nachman, for example.

On the face of it, what he’s saying is “Don’t think that a little fasting is going to make you capable of doing my job.” He later writes that it’s wrong not to bring one’s prayers to a true tzadik.

But first he goes into a whole bunch of stuff about how ordinary people carry around a bunch of shame and energetic baggage left over from their conception.

I know.

Okay. I took a couple of liberties with the text based on our conversation while we were studying, but that’s pretty much it. We are flawed and filled with shame, us ordinary people. We need spiritual masters to guide us.

And there’s a not-so-gentle tap on my shoulder and a very clear message:
“While I have your attention, don’t think that just because you know some stuff and study cool texts with your havruta that you’re immune. You are not lacking in shame and self-mortification.” 

But Tzadik is also a name of one of the sephirot. It’s associated with Yesod (foundation), which connects heaven and earth. I think of it as the Jewish Muladhara (Root) chakra, pretty much because it is the Jewish Muladhara.

Anyway, Rebbe Nachman could also be saying that unless we get to the root of things, to the place where the rubber hits the road, we’re going to be stuck with that shame and self-mortification. Stuck in a place where we forget how much we are loved.

And that would suck.

And that’s why I’m laughing.

Because there’s another tap on my shoulder. Quite a firm one, actually. And the very clear message:
“While I have your attention, I’d like to remind you of that casual conversation you had before moving into silence at your retreat. About shame being the worst thing there is. The most destructive thing there is. And remember how the person who told you that sat behind you in the mediation hall and laughed that amazing laugh for the rest of the week? And how it made you laugh? I want to remind you there was a reason for that.”

And I’m laughing because we’d just been talking about all of this. All of it. Before even opening the book.

And that’s funny.

And I’m laughing because these taps on the shoulder are so lacking in subtlety.

And that’s funny.

And I’m laughing because I’m so annoyed at Rebbe Nachman, and my havruta, and the Very Clear Messages because I know what they are all saying. And I know what they expect of me. They want me to open my heart, even if it breaks again. They want me to attach myself to a lost cause. And lose if I lose. And they want me to laugh as I do it.

And that’s really funny.

…

I’m at a yoga class.

It’s a very hard yoga class.

The teacher keeps saying “I’d love for you…” As in “I’d love for you to feel the relationship between the lower and upper frameworks of you body…”

And, the thing of it is, she really does “love for us.” She moves around the studio proving that. That’s why we come to this class once a month. That’s why we love learning from her. And why we’ve been together in her classes for years. Because she brings such incredible love to her teaching.

And that’s why we suffer through the really hard asanas. And why we brave the really frightening ones—like the one tonight requiring a partner to support us while we drop back from a standing position into a full backbend.

Because of that love.

I allow myself to drop back into Urdhva Dhanurasana, which I can do because I trust the person supporting me so much, and because I have my feet solidly rooted to the floor. And, upside down, I look around the studio and see people I truly love, and they are all upside down too.

And I feel a gentle tap on the shoulder. And a very clear message:
“As long as I have your attention, I’d like to remind you that they love you too. Very much.
Oh…and I’m still here.” 

And I’m laughing.

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December 21, 2013

Please be Quiet

My train is being held.

I’m on my way to a silent retreat.

And my train is being held.

Indefinitely.

At 4:30 this afternoon there was a fatal accident north of here. That train is still being held. They gave the passengers water and snacks.

Today is officially the worst day of someone’s life. They received the phone call that anyone who’s ever loved another human being lives in terror of receiving.

Or no one received that call.

Being human is hard.

It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. And I am so lucky that I don’t have to do it alone.

I got to hug my son today. When I woke up this morning I had no idea that would be the case. I didn’t know he’d be at my synagogue this morning with his mom and stepdad and little brother.

But there he was.

And seeing him made so many thoughts and mental fluctuations float away. He does that to me. He stops me dead in my tracks like that.

And I’m so lucky to have him. To have him to love like that.

Someone got that call today. That worst day of your life call. I hope.

To think that there might not have been anyone for the callers to call is so much worse.

And so I’m hoping.

I’m actually hoping that today is the worst day of someone’s life. Because being human is too hard to have to try alone day to day.

Because we aren’t alone, of course. None of us is. But it’s easy to forget that. It’s easy to fail to hear the זמרת יה. The Divine Song.

How much harder must it be on the worst day of someone’s life?

So here I am. On a train.

Thinking about the week of silence ahead of me.

And hoping.

Hoping that maybe that silence will help someone hear that they don’t have to believe they’re doing this alone.

Maybe me.

We’re moving now. The conductor says it will be slow going.

But we’re moving.

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November 25, 2013

Our Guy in the Field

Hey. I’m back.

If you missed me, I’m sorry. Actually, if you missed me I’m pretty happy about it.

It’s nice to be missed. Sometimes.

Sometimes it’s nice to miss. Sometimes it’s a waste of time.

So, you know, if I miss you it’s either nice or it’s a waste of my time. But, even if it is a waste of time, thanks for everything you taught me. And that fantastic experience we shared. And the book you gave me. And that amazing conversation we had until the next morning. Seriously, you added something to my life. I mean it.

Anyway, that’s not what I’m going to talk about. I’m going to talk about last week’s parsha: Vayeshev (Bereshit [Genesis] 37:1 – 40:23)

I know. It was last week. Sometimes we need to miss things though. I miss last week’s parsha. I mean I’m not clinging to it, but it’s nice to think about. Even this week. Probably next week too. It’s just a nice thing to bring along.

Because of the guy in the field.

In last week’s parsha, we met Yoseph: He received his special tunic (Rashi says it was made from nice wool, not many-colored), he dreams dreams, and his brothers hate him. Then, despite the fact that they hate him, Yaakov sends him off to see how these hateful brothers are doing with pasturing the family’s flock. So Yoseph heads out to find them, but something happens along the way:

 .וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ אִישׁ, וְהִנֵּה תֹעֶה בַּשָּׂדֶה; וַיִּשְׁאָלֵהוּ הָאִישׁ לֵאמֹר, מַה-תְּבַקֵּשׁ
A man found him; there he was, wandering in the field. And the man asked him “What are you looking for?” 

It’s just this guy. In the field.

What’s he even doing in the field? Is he looking for Yoseph? Does he even know what he’s doing there? Did he wake up that morning and think: “I should really head out to the field”? We don’t know his name or his job.

We don’t know anything about him except that he’s this guy in the field. And Yoseph tells him that he’s looking for his brothers, who are supposed to be there with the flock. And he tells Yoseph that he heard his brothers say that they were going to Dotan.

So Yoseph heads to Dotan where he finds his brothers and they throw him into a  pit and then sell him into slavery. He’s taken to Egypt and then there’s Potiphar and his wife; and the prison; and the baker and the butler and their dreams.

And all this moving towards really big things happening for Yoseph. For everyone.

All because of that guy. In the field. Who pointed Yoseph exactly where he needed to go. And we don’t even know his name.

The other day when I was waiting for the train, I was wearing my Twins hat and this guy asked if I’m from Minnesota. I am. Turns out he is too.

So we talked about all sorts of things. Driving on frozen lakes. Northern Lights Records Seeing bands at the Uptown Bar. The CC Club in general. The bad kids from the rich school district. Getting in to fights. Our kids. How our kids might not get to do the things we did because they aren’t growing up in Minnesota and also because the world is just different.

I know. I’m old, I guess.

Then, pretty much out of nowhere, this guy says this:

“You know when I think about it, as glad as I am that my kids won’t do the things I did, I’m happy I did them. Aren’t you? I mean, didn’t doing those things…even getting the shit kicked out of you…didn’t they make you less afraid? Isn’t being afraid the worst thing in the world?”

 I needed to hear that.

I needed to hear that because I miss you.

Really, I do. I miss you a lot and it’s not always nice. And that’s because I’m afraid.

I’m afraid I will never meet anyone else like you. Even though I have met someone since you. And since her. And since her. And even since her. And I’ll meet someone again. And I’m afraid when I do it will go all wrong. That I’ll screw it up with my fear. That I’ll get myself in a pit.

I’m afraid of a phantom. It’s just me deciding to be afraid of those things.

Because, having had the shit kicked out of me before, I know what it’s like and that I don’t really need to hold onto that fear. I can even turn missing you into something nice again.

And I know this because of the guy in the train station. Or the field. Or wherever.

Because he pointed me in the right direction. And I know this because Yoseph got out of the pit.

Eventually.

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November 1, 2011

Slow

Here I am in the bulk aisle of the grocery store. I have come here to impress a woman. I want her to know that I can actually cook, rather than simply apply heat to processed foods. I am completely okay with the possibility that she will find this sexy.

But cooking is slow. The black beans I buy need to soak for something like four hours before I can even cook them. Brown rice requires fifty minutes of planning ahead before it can be eaten. Tomatoes and onions, purchased fresh, will need to be chopped, and not dumped from a can. Ideally, fresh produce will be from a once-a-week farmer’s market and, though I believe in locally-grown food and supporting local businesses, this requires more scheduling than reading the sourcing information at the grocery store. The black beans and rice I crave need almost a week’s notice before they can become a dinner I can serve this woman to get her to reward me with a smile.

Compare this with a trip to the prepared section of the same grocery store, which uses some locally sourced, mostly sanely produced ingredients to make convenient items I can bring home and eat without any preparation and very little thought. Total time to the table: about twenty minutes, including joining my fellow DC residents in the snaking “15 items or fewer” express lines. But, you know, I really like this woman, so I continue with my shopping and avoid the delicious macaroni and cheese tempting me on the hot prepared food table.

Somehow, by the time I’ve gotten home, cooking to impress has taken on a life of its own and I’ve made a deal with myself that I will make almost all the meals I eat at home from actual ingredients—the basic building blocks that cooperate to become food. I will have to cooperate with them, too.

Now my kitchen, mostly bare for years, is more or less fully stocked and I have to think about what I eat. My refrigerator is filled with expensive fresh vegetables that I have to be diligent about using. I have to make time for cooking, too. Beans and rice wait in jars in my cupboards, but they are useless to me if I haven’t put some thought into when I will eat them, so I have to think about when I will cook. Getting home late, like from a yoga class ending at 9:30 or 10:00, means I have to start making dinner before I leave the house.

I find myself preparing things that I may want to eat much later. The salad I made the other night, for example, didn’t get eaten tonight. I made it because I wanted to use the cucumber and peppers I had and I figured I could bring it for lunch. I haven’t fermented anything yet, but it’s probably only a matter of time.

Slow food is mindful food. I catch myself appreciating the aesthetics of what I eat—the shapes and colors of vegetables, the texture of tofu, the patterns on fish. The chopping, pouring, boiling, frying, and baking. Mindful food is holy food and holy food is shared. I consider how I can feed people with what I make, rather than just grabbing something for myself. The very idea of sharing food makes me enjoy what I’m cooking more. The satisfaction starts when I look in the cupboard or the fridge and begin mixing things in my mind.

I am  eating less, and only in part because I am too lazy to cook more. Eating less means buying less and wasting less, which makes my food into a reminder of how much food we waste as a country.

None of this is earth-shattering. I have experienced much of this before (hence my ability to actually cook and understand what to buy in the bulk aisle), but it’s been a while, so it feels sort of like I’m returning to something I like about myself, starting something in the middle, which always feels good. I’m not sure if I’ve impressed the woman who revived this all in me. Maybe that will have to wait until I make pickles or something, but in the meantime she seems to like it when I go to the farmer’s market with her.

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