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Riding Uphill, part II

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By Leon Adato

(Originally posted at www.torahdinner.com)

One of the comments I got back from the post “Riding Uphill” was from my friend Phil, who said, “Davening is hard, although it gets easier after the first, oh, five or seven years.  Then it gets hard again because you’ll have become so fluent at it that you will need to consciously slow down and focus on Kavana.”

I started to think about how long it might take to get “good” and what “good” looked like? Was “good” the people who led services at my synagogue?

Seth Godin wrote once about expertise in “The Myth of Preparation“. In it, he described 3 basic levels and the amount of effort to go from one to the other. The first phase – “beginner” is characterized by a steep rise in learning. The middle “novice” phase is mostly just repetition and practice with small incremental improvements, until you hit “expert” level.

All of this is pretty simplistic and the analyst part of me would love to see the supporting data. But that’s not the point. The point is that Seth’s description is close enough for his final premise:

“Here’s the myth: The novice stage is useful.

If all you’re going to do is go through the novice stage before you ship, don’t bother. If you’re not prepared to put in the grinding work of the expert stage, just do the beginner stuff and stop screwing around. Make it good enough and ship it and move on.

Go, give a speech. Go, start a blog. Go, ship that thing that you’ve been hiding. Begin, begin, begin and then improve. Being a novice is way overrated.”

Seth talks about “shipping” but what he really is talking about is making something public – going ahead and DOING instead of PREPARING TO DO.

This morning, instead of self-consciously whispering through my morning blessings – trying to hide what I was skipping, or what I was reading in English instead of Hebrew – I said them aloud. Sang a few of ‘em, when I could remember the tune.

As Seth would put it, I “shipped”.

It was rough. It was “not ready for prime time”. It was definitely not easy.

It might, as Phil said, take me another 4 years before it gets easier. But you know what?

For today, for the beginner that I am, it was Good Enough.

Riding Uphill

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(By our friend Leon Adato of EdibleTorah. Originally posted at www.torahdinner.com.)

When I find I’m in a competition with someone who is dead-set on winning, I will often play to lose just to get things over with and not see the other person hurt; When I come up against a challenge that seems insurmountable, I look for ways around under or over the problem rather than barreling straight through. As an IT professional, I ascribe to the ideal of Larry Wall (inventor of the Perl programming language): that the three great virtues of a programmer are impatience, hubris and laziness.

So you can imagine my dismay when I realized that davening is hard. What’s more, the entire world seems to be fighting against my best efforts to makeit part of my day.

When I decided to try my hand at daily prayer rather than limiting it to a once-a-week experience, I expected to face internal challenges – not feeling confident or competent with the material, overcoming feelings of awkwardness,  making prayer an experience which is not just personally engaging but also links me into the inherent meanings which exist whether I recognize and appreciate them or not. (David Wilensky of “The Reform Shuckle“  does a fantastic job explaining that idea here.)

And yet, most mornings, it is NOT these things which hold me back. Most mornings it is the phone call, the important email, the essay I left last night but is now calling to be finished, the choice between taking personal time and spending another few minutes at the breakfast table with the family before everyone runs in separate directions.

It is heartbreaking to walk past my tallit and tefillin, knowing that I must move on to my next task; that my chance to develop this new habit – not to mention take a moment for myself and God – has passed by yet another morning. I know that there Judaism affords me opportunities for structured prayer two more times each day, and that unstructured moments abound, and that tomorrow is another day, but I regret that yet another today has passed. I am afraid that when I look back, I won’t like the trail I’ve left.

Which is why I deeply appreciated a piece of wisdom I received when in Israel (a reasonable hope, if not a downright expectation), from the Ori, owner of the hip and trendy t-shirt and apparel store “Shkalim” (an unexpected place for such wisdom, although not unreasonable once you get to know him).

“I decided to take a Talmud class, which met Mondays at 6pm,” he told me, “It’s not normally a busy night so I figured I could close early. My  father warned me, ‘You know that every week there will be a reason you can’t go. Business will be booming, something will require your attention. Wait and see’.”

“Of course he was right,” Ori continued, “and I mentioned it to the Rabbi teaching class. What he told me was that, if it was hard, it meant I was on the right track. Only for true tzaddikim are new mitzvot easy. For the rest of us, the way that we know we are on to something important is by how difficult it is.”

“It’s like riding your bike uphill – it’s difficult, but you know that you will be stronger when you reach the top.” Then he laughed, “You may be exhausted and collapse on the ground, but you will also be stronger.”

Recently, at 7am on the morning of a day that started at 3 and wouldn’t end until 10pm that night, I walked past the tallit and tefillin sitting on the table. Instead of hiking upstairs toward the bed calling my name, I continued my journey uphill.

D’var Torah For Sukkot: Let My People Camp!

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A retro repost from last year.

Yea! It’s time for Sukkot, or “The Feast Of Booths” or “Tabernacles”.

What the heck does that mean? It means “Go Camping!”

Seriously though, Sukkot is the holiday where we remember when we were traveling in the desert after fleeing Mitzrayim (Egypt), and we had to live in portable, fragile huts, or booths. In the time of the Temple it was one of the biggest pilgrimage holidays where Jews would come from all over to celebrate together as a people.

So why huts? What do they symbolize?

The sukkah, or booth, is a reminder of the booths that our ancestors lived in. We take this time to remember that we left Egypt with almost nothing and with nowhere to live, and we depended on G-d to provide and protect us.

They are also a symbol of the protective clouds, the Clouds of Glory, that hovered over our ancestors after we left Egypt and protected them through the wanderings. The Sages tell us about how the Clouds of Glory disappeared after the first Yom Kippur, and one of the things we celebrate is that the clouds returned on the 15th of Tishrei, symbolizing that G-d had truly forgiven us.

Observing Sukkot is usually done by building a sukkah following some specific Halachic rules, and spending the night and eating your meals there. Here is a fantastic link from a great resource for building a sukkah. While this is a great thing to do, and a really great experience for families, it may not be practical. So I would suggest some alternatives that, while maybe not Halachically “correct”, will allow you to explore and appreciate this wonderful Holy time:

  • Take a walk outside with your family.
  • Look at nature.
  • Reflect on your connection to the Earth and to G-d.
  • Go camping.
  • Get out of the house and feel the reality of the world around you.

Sukkot is a time when we take a look at what usually makes us happy. We’ve just asked for and (presumably) been forgiven for our transgressions from the past year. Sukkot is one of the agricultural holidays; it takes place during the reaping time where the Israelites would fill their storehouses with their produce grown during the summer. So we sit, forgiven and happy that we have so much. But what is the real source of happiness? Our connection to the Infinite. On Sukkot we take the opportunity to celebrate what was only days before a somber event. We now move outside and leave behind those things that may make us happy on the materialistic level, and bask in the connection to the Essence that was formed over the High Holidays. Seeing how fragile the physical world is, spending time out of doors in nature, and appreciating the basis of our reality is a gift that we are given as Jews, and one that I invite you to partake in.

Who Needs A Siddur Anyways?

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A prayerbook is an interesting thing. It begs the question, how well can someone else’s words describe your inner feelings, your deepest needs and desires? Why do we even need a siddur anyways? Isn’t the point of prayer to talk to G-d, or whatever we call that awe-some power that is larger than ourselves?

If we allow ourselves to look at things from a different point of view we can see how we can benefit from a written liturgy.

While we have invited the members of our community to contribute new interpretations of standard liturgical pieces, new understandings of traditional blessings and prayers, we have attempted to maintain a particular sense of order in the creation of the daily service. The reason for this is because the daily services are crafted for a very specific purpose, to create a distinct experience that is a stark reflection of our spiritual journey throughout the day. The services are, in fact, both the map and the territory of a journey into the deepest realms of the spirit.

The order of the service was crafted by the sages to guide us through an experience that reflects the importance of communicating with the Source of Life. Taking us by the hand, the order of service walks with us, laying out a clear pathway to elevate our souls, to describe the madness and miracles we see everyday, and to give us words when our own fail us.

Starting at the beginning, the opening psalms energize us, they prime the pump of spirit, and help to fuel the engines of prayer that we need to journey deeper into the presence of the Holy One. Each successive prayer gives us new insight into our experience and draws us closer to the heights, symbolically ushering us through the sefirot, guiding our minds and hearts. We reach the apex of our journey, our approach to the Throne of Glory in the Shema and the Amida, the Standing Prayer. We have worked our way upwards the highest heights, reflecting on the oneness of the Universe and the relationship of a people and their essence, the liturgy giving us the words to express the inexpressible inside of us. The Aleinu gives us time to reflect and express our gratitude as we slowly descend in a meditative state, slowly backing down the ladder, en-wrapped in the Shekhinah, enmeshed in the ultimate and miraculous Oneness of Reality. Reciting psalms allow us to de-compress and release excessive spiritual energy, and to rest in reflection of the transformative nature of the prayers.

Does this mean we have to pray exactly as the Sages have written? No. We keep the map, but we need to discover the territory ourselves. This is why we have a community siddur. No one person can express what is in another person’s heart, but they can sometimes come close. If you feel drawn to some prayers in this or any other siddur, use them! If you feel that you need to use your own words, use them! I encourage you to write your own! But do not discard the resources from those who have been there before you.

Does this mean that we are always going to have a “magical” prayer experience? No, absolutely not. The order of the service is there to make sure we make the journey; it does the heavy lifting for us. All we have to do is to commit to the going. It is the doing that makes the difference. Judaism is a spiritual practice and not a “creedal” religion; it’s not about what you believe, it’s about what you do. Take a step, keep moving forward. Allow yourself to be changed, and you can change the world.

Lesson of the Tribe: Cheshvan (Oct. 7 – Nov. 7)

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Check out Ketzirah at PeelAPom!

Lesson of the Tribe
The tribe of Cheshvan is Menasheh (מְנַשֶׁה), the first-born but officially second son of Joseph.  That means the first two months of the spiritual year (Tishrei and Cheshvan) make up the “House of Joseph” in the Jewish Wheel of the Year.  Joseph is generally not counted in the listing of the tribes, because his birthright was passed to his sons with their adoption by Jacob.  The name Menasheh, according to many, means “Who Makes to Forget.”  I found this really interesing since his brother Ephraim’s name means “doublely fruitful.”  The idea that the House of Joseph is both doublely fruitful and able to forget seems telling, especially since Cheshvan is often called “Mar Cheshvan” or “Bitter Cheshvan.”

During the time in the desert, the tribe of Menasheh was positioned with Benjamin to the West of Tabernacle.  Menasheh was on the side of the setting sun.  Sunset is a time of endings and beginnings.  In Jewish tradition our day begins when the sun goes down.  So Menasheh was the one on the side of the new day.  Maybe another lesson from Menasheh is to forget our anger as the sun sets in the West.

According to Inner.org, “the name Menasheh (מְנַשֶׁה) permutes to spell “soul” (נְשָׁמָה). Menasheh represents the sense to reveal the Divine soul in Israel.”  Considering the “soul scrub” that is the high holidays, it does seem appropriate that Cheshvan would be associated with Menasheh.  It’s a month where we should still have a soul that is still holding the glow of the Days of Awe.  As the year moves on it can get harder and harder to hold that feeling, but in Cheshvan we are still so fresh.

In recent years, we’ve learned that we forgot the Tribe of Menasheh — not that they forgot us or what it means to be Jew.  The tribe was thought to be assimiliated in the lands it lived in and fully adopted the ways of those people (Jewish Encyclopedia).  Of course I don’t think the Tanach says it quite so nicely.  But then in one sentence it will condem and in another it, or the Talmud, will praise. In 2005, Bnei Menashe was officially welcomed back into the fold and was recognized by the State of Israel.  These Jews from an area in North East India are considered to be one of the Lost Tribes of Israel.  They, like the Jews of Ethiopia, offer an alternative view of what it means to be Jewish.  They are Jews who split off from the rest of the Tribe before the Rabbinic era, so their traditions evolved directly out of the Biblical era.

As we move into Cheshvan it’s time to stop looking inward. We cannot grow and be fruitful (Ephraim), if we forget (Menasheh) the outside world and live in a state of constant self-examination — or celebration. The literal meaning of Menasheh is “to leap up and away.” Maybe the lesson of Menasheh is that after a month of deep self-reflection and celebration in Tishrei — it’s time to leap up and get on with the business of living.

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