A Very Narrow Bridge

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

Category: Yoga

July 28, 2014

It’s a Good Thing I’m Here

When Elly is scared by something I always say the same thing. I’ve said it for as long as he’s been talking. It goes like this:

Elly: This is scary.
Harry: Well, it’s a good thing I’m here.

It always works. Just pointing out that I’m with him makes him feel better. It’s a good reminder.

I need to remind myself sometimes.

I need to remind myself because I play roles. And I don’t like some of the roles I play, so I need to remind myself that it’s me who’s playing those roles and it’s me who can stop playing them. And the way to remember this is to look for myself within those roles. Because I’m there.

It’s easy to find myself in some roles.

I am a father. That’s just how it is. Like the color of my eyes. Like my height. Like my birthday. It will be true for as long as this life lasts, and probably longer. It’s just a fact of who I am at this point. So it’s easy to find myself.

I’m also the guy who laughs in some of my yoga classes. I laugh and I make smartass comments because I love those classes.

There are other roles I play that aren’t so helpful. Roles I play that make me bitter. Or angry. Or just make me feel sorry for myself.

And I’m in those roles too. The same person.

Right there.

Same guy.

But they are distortions. I am covered up by malas, or encased in klippot (husks or shells that cover up the Light within us and in the world–you have to look it up yourself because I couldn’t find a good link. Maybe this will help. I dunno. It starts out about trees, but I didn’t listen to the whole thing. Sue me.)

Being a father or the guy who laughs while I practice yoga are openings into myself. They are connections. To myself and Everything Else. To the moment. To my path forward. They are exactly the opposite of the malas and klippot.

The roles that I play that make me upset are external. They are there to try to please someone else because, in effect, they are just being a Harry-shaped aspect of someone else.  They are based on me, but they aren’t who I am. I can only be who I am if I remember I am here.

And, yeah, I can’t like every role I play as much as I like being a father or the guy laughing in yoga class. I have to go to work and be the guy who does my job and all that, and the guy who does the dishes and takes out the garbage. But those are responsibilities in which I can be completely present.

We all put roles on other people. All the time. We do it because we’re afraid.

We are afraid of so much. And it’s important to remind each other that we’re here.

Us.

Not our hopes and dreams about each other.

Us. Together.

Thich Nhat Hanh teaches four mantras to help us remind each other of this:

My Beloved, I am here for you.
My Beloved, I know you are there and it makes me happy.
My Beloved, I know you suffer and I am here for you.
My Beloved, I am suffering and I need your help.

It’s a good thing we’re here.

 

 

 

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June 26, 2014

The Shape of Silence

I am drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book.

It’s silent.

It’s early in the morning and it’s quiet—my favorite time of day.  But what I’m experiencing is silence, not quiet. It’s the silence I only feel when my son is waiting for me to wake him up. A defining silence. A silence with a shape.

Once I was in a yoga class and we were chanting with the teacher. It was a small class, but it was a small room and it was crowded. And here’s the thing: I couldn’t hear the people next to me.

I couldn’t hear their voices.

It’s hard to pick out a single voice in a room with a lot of people chanting together.  I tried listening to the person next to me.

Nothing.

Then I noticed the silence around her voice.

Not her voice. The silence. And I got it. We were chanting because of that silence. That silence in between our voices. The silence that connects us.

Our voices move into that silence and the silence makes room for them. It doesn’t resist. It can’t because without our voices in that room the silence couldn’t exist. And without the silence we would never hear our voices. They would be mixed together. Competing.

We need that silence because silence creates humility. I could hear because of the silence around me. If I had only been listening  to the sound of my own voice, I would have missed the beauty of other voices and I would have been worse off for it.

This week we read Parshat Hukkat (Bamidbar [Numbers]: 19:1-22:1). The Israelites are in the desert and there is no water. Miriam has died and her well, which had provided water until that point, has disappeared. God tells Moshe and Aharon to assemble the people and speak to a rock in their presence and it will provide water for them to drink. It doesn’t work out that way. The story goes that Moshe hits the rock with his staff and, because of this, he’s not allowed to enter the promised land. Because he hit it instead of speaking to it.

Actually, he does speak. Just not to the rock.

… וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם שִׁמְעוּ נָא הַמֹּרִים הֲמִן הַסֶּלַע הַזֶּה נוֹצִיא לָכֶם מָיִם…
He said to them, “Now listen, rebels, can we get you water from this rock?” (20:10)

Then he hits the rock.

I’m not sure it’s the hitting that’s the real problem. I think it’s the speaking to the people, rather than the rock. To me it sounds like he’s speaking to hear the sound of his own voice. He’s not speaking to the silence of the rock or, even more to the point, to the silence of the water. He’s talking to the people. To the rebels. He’s talking in opposition. About how great he is.

He should have spoken to the water. The water would have given him more shape than just talking did.

Water is yielding, it makes room for us. It moves out of the way to accommodate our shape, the same way silence gives our voice its shape.

It’s time to wake my son, so I open the door to his room. He’s awake. Reading a book. And the silence between us is a connection. It gives shape to our relationship: A son-shaped silence and a father-shaped silence.

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March 8, 2014

Sinking In

I’m in the shower.

I’m being very thorough.

Not that I’m not always very thorough—I am.

Shut up.

As I wash between my toes, I realize that I am silently narrating what I am doing. I used to do this when I would give Elly a bath. When he was tiny. “Now we’re washing your feet, we’re getting them super clean…”

I’m washing between the toes of the left foot and I’m relaxing my right foot on the floor of the shower—standing on all four corners. Then I switch feet and balance on my left while I clean the right.

This mindful shower takes a long time. And it gives me a chance to pay attention to my body. To trace meridians, to feel energy moving up and down my spine, to notice the muscles, and bones. And scars.

When Elly was a baby and I would give him a bath I was always amazed that he had no scars. Every night I wondered how long he would go with no scars. How long could the boy last without getting hurt? How long could I protect him?

I’m in the shower to wash off anything that can come between me and the water I’m about to sink into. The dirt. The oil. The dust. But also the distraction. It’s preparation—realization before I stop for a while. Before I pause.

I have scars. I have muscles. I am aware of my own energy. This body is a nice place to live. It has history. Power. Holiness. I need to remember that.

Out of the shower, I walk down the seven steps and into the pool of rainwater. I stand still for a moment, getting used to it.

There’s something different about this water. It’s not quite clear, and not quite cloudy. It’s holding the light from the fixtures overhead, rather than reflecting it. There’s a closeness to this water. It is as if I am not so much in it, as it is around me. Mikvah water is called mayim hayyim. Living water. And it feels like that.

Exhaling, I empty out my lungs and let myself go under completely. Opening my eyes, I see that the warmth of the light I noticed on the surface is even more pronounced down here. I lift my feet up and I’m suspended underwater. I’m not floating and I’m not sinking. I am neutral and it is silent.

I break the surface, inhale deeply and recite the blessing for this experience. This completely weird experience. This unlikely moment. And everything that went into it.

Another exhalation and another sinking. I watch the air leave my lungs through my nose and bubble to the surface.

My yoga teachers taught me that the pause between the exhalation and the inhalation is the gateway to our deepest Self. I break the surface and inhale again. Pause. Exhale underwater. Pause. And break the surface for the last time today. Pause.

This past Shabbat we read Vayikra (Vayikra [Leviticus] 1:1-5:26) It’s all about sacrifices and it’s pretty boring. I think Rashi must have been bored too. But the name of the parasha (and the name of the book of Leviticus in Hebrew) is וַיִּקְרָא. It means “And He called.”

Rashi notes that every topical section starts out with some description of God speaking, calling, saying…something to Moshe. But there are also subsections. He wonders why there are subsections. Why bother? The subsections are about the same topic after all.

The answer is so that Moshe will have a chance to pause and take it all in. God is teaching Moshe some very specific things that need to be done. Maybe unpleasant things. Difficult things. But necessary things. Best pause for a minute and let them sink in.

I came to the mikvah this morning to mark the beginning of a change in my life. I am going to change what I do for a living. Completely.  It will involve going back to school. And learning. A lot of learning. Some of it will be boring. Some of it will piss me off.

And it will involve sacrifice. A lot of sacrifice, probably. But it’s what I need to do.

Best pause and let it sink in.

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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 6, 2013

What’s Happened So Far.

I’ve been given an assignment; I need to write a spiritual autobiography.

I’ve decided to share this outline with you .

I probably won’t share the completed one with you. Sorry.

Here’s what’s happened so far:

It all started with the people.

With the visit from The Rabbi to my house when I was three; I fled in stark terror and hid in my room.

Then Sunday school and “God is One” and the bronze doors on the ark in the sanctuary and trips to the choir loft.

With camp and laughter and boats and swims across the lake and Cat Stevens songs around campfires. With my best friend, whose house was filled with Jewish art and whose parents actually sang whole prayers at Shabbat dinner.

And then it moved to the unplanned-for Bar Mitzvah I demanded.

And confirmation, and studying Buber and Heschel with the rabbi and my friends in his office. To college and helping to take the entire Hillel budget and spend it on a colloquium about peace between Palestinians and Israelis.

To disappointment and anger and running very far away. To a gentle tap on my shoulder and the clear message: “I am still here.”

Then to studying Mishna in my professor’s office. To Israel. To the huppah. To sandwiches and beer and text study in Philadelphia. To youth programming in Baltimore. To Israel again. To blessing my son Friday nights before he was born:

 היה אשר תהיה והיה ברוך באשר תהיה
“Be who you will be, and be blessed in who you will be.”

Then to a bris and another blessing:

“Be like your namesake and listen for the קוֹל דְּמָמָה דַקָּה. The thin voice of silence. The still, small voice.”

Then heartbreak. And to the beit din.

To a gentle tap on my shoulder and the clear message: “I am still here.”

Then to potluck minyanim in apartments around New York for Kabbalat Shabbat and Maariv. And holidays and Hebrew study.

To Washington DC. To traditional synagogues where I didn’t feel quite at home.

To someone telling me: “You know all this yoga and mindfulness and meditation is just going to bring you back to Judaism, right?” To “Yes, but not just now.”

To a gentle tap on the shoulder and the clear message: “I am still here.”

To a Rosh Hashanah potluck. And then my tallit wrapped around me at Kol Nidrei.

To my mother’s funeral. To shacharit every morning. To latkes and shabbat candles and holidays.

To studying with a havruta. To kashrut. To Shabbat. To Rashi. To piyyutim.

And then to this week: Parshat Vayigash (Bereishit [Genesis] 44:18 – 47:27)  and this line. This one simple line.

לֹא-אַתֶּם שְׁלַחְתֶּם אֹתִי הֵנָּה, כִּי, הָאֱלֹהִים
“It was not you who sent me here, it was God.”

I was mistaken. It wasn’t the people who got me to this week. The people were helping. Just, I really hope, as I have been helping them.

What has gotten us all here? You, me, the people who made everything in this post happen,  the cocker spaniel down the street—all of us?

It’s the thin voice of silence saying:  “I am still here. There is nowhere else but Me.”

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June 19, 2012

Eleven Months, Part 4: Clinging to Egypt

“You’ve worked harder [at feeling the presence of  Grace] than pretty much anyone I know…” She said.

Yeah, and sometimes I completely miss it. And, honestly, it’s much easier for me to miss it than it is to feel it. But Grace is there for the taking. That’s how it is—it’s just there. It’s everywhere. And when you open yourself up to it, you end up sharing it.

That’s just how it works.

And yet, believing this as firmly as I do, I still miss it. I still decide, at times, to stay in a place where I will never notice it. Even if it’s a place makes that me miserable. A place where I find myself thinking things like “Don’t love me like that, love me like this.”

It’s a place where my expectations are not based on reality because I’m not paying any attention to reality. It’s my own private Egypt. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Everyone I know who works on this stuff feels that way at times: “Don’t love me like that love me like this.”

This week the Torah portion is Korach (Numbers 16:1 – 18:32) Korach is the second of two portions that are pretty hard to take.

Last week in Sh’lakh L’kha (Numbers 13:1 – 15:41), we read about how the majority of the spies that Moses sent into the new land, the land where the Israelites would truly no longer be slaves, came back and said. “Forget it—there’s no way we can defeat the people who live there. They’re just to strong. Too frightening. We saw giants.” For this lack of faith, the entire generation that left Egypt is forbidden to enter the new land. Then, as if to top it off, a guy is stoned to death for gathering firewood on Shabbat.

This week, Korach and 250 others, all of them important people, speak out against Moses and Aaron saying “Why are you so special, everyone here is holy—God is with everyone.” So, Korach seemed to get that Grace is everywhere. But later, he missed the point. Moses calls some of Korach’s people over to discuss things, asking “What has Aaron ever done to you?” but they respond “Isn’t it bad enough that you took us out of ‘a land flowing with milk and honey?’ Are you going to lord it over us, too? And even if you’d have brought us to a really great place, you’ve still pulled the wool over our eyes (because you’ve got all the power and you don’t appreciate us)?”

In effect, “Don’t love us like that, love us like this.”

Egypt as a land of milk and honey? Seriously, those guys are forgetting what slavery was like. But we can get used to anything I guess, and it’s hard to let go.

In the end, Korach is buried alive. The Earth opens up and swallows him and everyone who follows him. A pretty strong metaphor for absolute isolation.

Letting go of old habits is pretty hard. It’s pretty easy to think back fondly on Egypt. But it always ends up making us feel isolated, cut off.

“Don’t love me like that, love me like this, Mom.” Egypt.

“Don’t love me like that, love me like this, Ex-Wife.” Egypt.

“Don’t love me like that, love me like this, because I’m feeling alone, and I deserve it, and because I want it.” Egypt.

Lately, I’ve been clinging to Egypt. Feeling the same things I felt as a kid. The same isolation. The same expectations that have no  real basis in reality. Feeling like this makes me want to be alone—to rebel against everything I know will make me more aware of Grace. I need to remember that the giants are a matter of perspective, and that rebellion is just going to make me feel buried alive.

The way out of Egypt may need to take me through the desert, but the heat, and the fear, and the heartbreak are just part of the journey.  So I’ll be back on the mat, back on the meditation cushion, back to the pause to open to Grace. It’s there, waiting for me to notice.

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January 10, 2012

Eleven Months, Part 2: Yoga and Tefillin

My arm hurts a little. Probably because the small box of Torah verses strapped there is digging into it as I pray.

“Bind them (mitzvot) as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a frontlet (totafot) between your eyes” (D’varim [Deuteronomy] 6:8)

Jewish mindfulness is pretty literal.  Those words are bound to my arm and to my head with leather straps. Why actually do this?  Isn’t it much better to take the verse from Deuteronomy as a metaphor? The teachings of the Torah are to be treasured, “like a piece of jewelry.”

Nice, right?

Nice, but not quite enough, at least for me. I like putting tefillin on. I like the fact that when I enter the synagogue each morning, I have to pause, to concentrate on wrapping the straps around my arm. I can’t just walk in with my mind on something else. I have to be where I am. I like the slight discomfort reminding me that I am bound to something much bigger than myself, like this teaching, or the people with whom I am praying.

Fast forward to a yoga class. The teacher is giving us a lot of instruction for Ardha Chandrasana, the pose we are in:

“Be aware of your foot planted on the ground, the rotation of your lower leg, your femur should be moving back toward the wall, settling into your hamstrings. Are your shoulders equally open? Your upper foot should be engaged, as if it’s also planted on the ground. Is your upper leg working as hard as the lower leg? How is its rotation affecting your groins?  Stretch out through your side body to lengthen your spine. Now, keeping your hips even, try to dial your sacrum to move your tailbone towards your thigh, like we did in Trikonasana….”

“Wow,” I say, laughing, “You gave us like fourteen different things to think about during that pose.”

“Yeah,” comes the reply, “But you’re not thinking about anything else, are you?”

In another class, the teacher “invites us to enjoy Eka Pada Rajakapotasana.” There is no enjoying this asana for me. Being true to my smartass self, I ask the teacher “Ever notice how when you ‘invite us to enjoy’ something, it’s going to suck?”

Sometimes yoga asanas involve some discomfort. Sometimes exploring our connection to something bigger hurts, maybe just a little, like having a box strapped to your arm. But concentrating on all the various parts of an action keep us in the moment.  The word yoga literally means “yoke.” Yoga binds us to existence. Putting on tefillin is another reminder of that.

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