Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Conscientious Connecting

This Dvar Torah was written as part of a group that says Tehillim/Psalms together during the month of Elul (through Yom Kippur).

It is almost Yom Kippur, and I am worried. I would love to say that I am sensing the awe of the season and experiencing the trepidation of these days so beautifully described in the sefarim (Jewish books) - but my worry is that I am not. (To be honest, this same difficulty occurs to me annually.) I worry because I can’t remember what I did last week that might have hurt someone, let alone six months ago. I worry because so many of my transgressions are the one’s that are considerably awkward to apologize for - a nasty response, impatience, a thoughtless comment, being a bad role model, a judgement made in jealousy, and etc. I worry that I did no spiritual work in Elul. (I didn’t even have time to read the emails of this group until Rosh Hashana!)

On the morning of Shabbas Shuva, the Shabbas after Rosh Hashana, after I miraculously davened all of Shacharit and Mussaf (with no interruptions!), I was granted an insight into myself that I did not wish to have: I have been stuck. I’ve been standing still. I’ve used a thousand reasons to let my spiritual growth plateau - kids, full time job, travelling husband - but these were all excuses for myself.

As I thought about the time of year we are in, I decided to make this Dvar Torah personal rather than "scholarly" and write about the hardest words (according to the Ziz in the children’s book): "I’m sorry."

We have among our children, one child who has had an issue with anger management. For a few months, life was a series of ceaseless, somewhat violent, tantrum. They were triggered by random issues - such as the cruel act of serving chicken for dinner. At one point, after being particularly aggressive, the child sullenly blurted out, "I’m sorry." Very honestly, I replied, "No you are not. Don’t tell me you are sorry unless you mean it."

These were words I would live to regret. The child understood me perfectly, but, a few days later, after yet another meltdown, when I said that an apology was appropriate, I was told "No." The child then declared that I myself had said that I didn’t want apologies. The first few times the child said this (in different instances), it was said in anger. Each time I explained to the child that I had meant that apologies had to have at least some level of sincerity to them. Then I noticed that the anger had changed to sadness and longing. Over time, the child had begun to feel trapped in their own refusal. This child wanted desperately to apologize and didn’t know how to back down from the refusal to dos so. (Baruch Hashem, we’ve worked through this.)

As I sat on Shabbas Shuva thinking about the Dvar Torah I wanted to write, my mind kept coming back to this situation and how appropriate it is for this time of year. When I read essays on Teshuva (repentance), I am reminded all about the necessary steps (recognize, confess, regret and not repeat), and I always falter when I think of the commitment not to repeat the act. If I had stolen something, I believe I could honestly say I would never do it again, but so many of my transgressions are the results of thoughtlessness. (Let’s take an easy one - nail-biting on Shabbas, which I do completely without realizing I am doing it.)

Suddenly, from my parental experience, I have a new insight. I never expected this child to offer me a fully, clear and sincere apology and a promise not to have another tantrum or to never hit a sibling again. What I did expect was a conscientious apology, an apology that recognized that something wrong had been done and that there was something for which to be sorry. Similarly, this is why the first step of teshuva is basic recognition. Even if I can’t guarantee I won’t repeat a wrong action, if I never recognize that it was wrong I will never move forward.

As I mentioned, I’ve been at a bit of standing still in my spiritual growth. Oddly enough, writing about Judaism on a daily basis for JewishTreats.org makes it harder to always be charged to learn. On the other hand, like so many others, my davening increased immensely this past summer (which means I actually davened more than once a month) due to the situation in Israel. I tried to carry this momentum into Elul, but by the second half of the month I would find the sun setting and I still hadn’t found my siddur.

The last few days, however, I have been making a true effort. I want to connect. I yearn to connect, and yet it is so hard. Even when I have the siddur before me, I am often only saying words rather than having a conversation. I think that this happens to a lot of people and this often makes it harder for us to follow through on daily davening when we have so many other commitments pressing upon us.

Here too, however, it is about conscientious efforts. After a tantrum, the child mentioned above, would often just stand in the room I was in, wanting comfort but not knowing how to undo the damage. Little did this child know that just showing me a pleasant countenance was healing the wounds of our balance.

Last week, heading into Rosh Hashana, I was cooking with my eldest. He was making the salmon for Rosh Hashana. I told him about the first time I ever made salmon and the person who guided me through (for those who don’t know me or don’t recall - I do not eat fish, I think it is gross, but I prepare it for my family). On the spur of the moment, we decided I should call this person and ask her if she remembered the recipe. This friend and I haven’t spoken in several years as I am lousy at keeping in touch. When we spoke, when I heard her voice, I felt instantly connected right back to her as I had been years ago.

I share this because this is made me think about davening. When I do make the connection to the Divine, it’s a warm, wonderful and familiar feeling. If I don’t take the steps to get there, trying to daven, trying to do teshuva, trying to grow spiritually, I will forever be missing the connection.

Last night, after most of this Dvar Torah had been composed, I went to a class and the first verse that was quoted by the speaker was: "Seek out Hashem while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near" (Isaiah 55:6), and I thought, the more we call upon Him now, while He is near, the more we can carry that connection through the rest of the year.