September, 2024 Megillah
RABBI’S NOTES
I’m having one of those days—I hope you have no idea what I’m talking about, but I think you might—when problems keep flying at me faster than I can catch them, and I have no idea what to do about most of them, and I’m tired and cranky and flummoxed. I’m usually pretty good when things go sideways, but once in a while not so much. Sometimes things are just unfixable, unsolvable, maybe for an hour or two, maybe for months, maybe for the rest of life. What then?
When there is a problem with a solution, the path is usually pretty clear; you decide if it is in fact fixable and, if so, how. You decide whether to take it on. If you do decide to fix the problem, you begin mustering whatever it takes. It might take skill or patience or help or tools or money or time or strength or counsel. You set out to travel the path between problem and solution. There is momentum.
But when something is unfixable, it takes you into a different kind of time and space. This afternoon, as I’m reflecting on the challenges of the day (and week and month and year and…), I find myself contemplating what it is like to inhabit the land of unfixability. There is a lot in that space. I’m thinking of it like layers of earth. There is the emotional surface layer: sorrow, frustration, maybe anger, maybe fear, maybe some punch-drunk hilarity. There is a layer of thought: perhaps confusion, judgment, self-doubt, maybe some what-ifs, maybe some woulda coulda shoulda. There is probably a layer of past experience, memory, trauma, dreams, story, myth, the collective unconscious, cellular memory that rises up both to inspire and to confound. Below that there might be some sense of limitation and finitude, how fragile it all is, how tentative our power. And below that, perhaps, an intuition that problems and their solutions are not ours alone to either create or solve, that we are part of a greater web or metabolism or mycelium, or in the Divine Hand. Maybe this is where the kindness of friends and neighbors resides, the beauty of the night sky. And maybe below it all, at the very core, a faint intuition of unchangeability, timelessness, All, echad.
I think I used to believe, with Rabbi Nachman, that “that which is broken can be fixed.” If I worked hard enough, organized tirelessly enough, found the right experts, the right resources, if I was willing to extend myself enough, I, in company with all of you, could fix what was broken, or at least patch it together into better shape than it had been when it came my way.
After Mickey died, I got schooled in the territory of the unfixable. My life with him had all the complexities of a real relationship, but it was fundamentally joyful. When it ended, I was torn open. And in that unfixable space for the first time in my life I began to use the word “surrender.” I surrendered to how sad I was, how unmoored I was, how hard it was to focus, to plan, to enjoy. I just let it be how it was. It was new for me not to struggle to feel better. But I was deep in the irreparable, and to surrender to it made sense. Grief had and has a life of its own. I felt like kelp in the surf. There was something amazing in it all, in just being carried by the tide, down and up, backward and forward. I felt like I had no muscles. Over time, the churning has lessened. Over time, things in and around me have knit themselves together in new ways, with no plan or volition on my part. I have time on the sand, in the sun; I’m okay. But I’ve learned some things in those years of tossing and turning. Unfixability is not an empty space, not a free-fall. There is much in that territory, and not all of it is bitter.
The issues flying at me these days are mostly the crises and disasters and sorrows of other people that I love, not so much my own. But when I hear news of illness or loss or disintegration or helplessness, I enter that vortex with a different sense about things than I might have had before. Sometimes things can be fixed or at least improved. Sometimes there are possible steps forward. Sometimes what I can offer when someone else is suffering or stumped is to try to find that bit of momentum towards solution. Sometimes I can point to a possibility and say, “What about this?” Sometimes, often, people do it for me.
At other times, there are no possible steps forward. Or the forward motion doesn’t take you very far. Then we are in the vortex of the unfixable. It’s easy to freak out in there (just ask me about earlier today). I no longer think it’s all about surrender, though it’s not a bad plan to just go soft and let the surf have its way. Today I think about those layers of emotion, thought, story, fragility, connectedness and the still core. All of that is present in those “helpless” places. Even as I sit with the things that have troubled my day, I can feel that it’s not just about being mad or scared or sad. It’s not just about having a plan or not having one. There is an encounter with the fragility and tenderness of it all and the love that makes it matter in the first place.
I love the last verse of “Adon Olam,” the hymn often sung at the end of Shabbat services:
Into God’s hand I place my soul
When I am asleep and when awake
And if my soul should ascend from me
God is with me, I shall not fear
Once I had my freakout, called in my beloveds to help me, and cooled out, I began to remember “B’yado afkid ruchi.” I place my soul in the Divine Hand. And it takes me where it takes me. And doesn’t let me free-fall.
PAIGE NOTES
As the sun begins to set on 5784, we reflect on our past revolution around the sun. In order to be ready for this upcoming Hebrew year of 5785, arriving on the next new moon in four weeks, we engage in Cheshbon HaNefesh, taking stock of the soul. I imagine walking down the aisles of Harvest Market in Mendocino, surveying what fills my shelves. The aisles of my soul, rather than being labeled as “canned vegetables” or “granola,” read “relationship dynamics,” “prayer & spiritual practices,” “ambitions & dreams,” and more. Most of the year I behave like a grocery shopper, focusing on the day-to-day of what resources or flavors I might want to bring into my life in that moment. Once a year though, for this whole moon cycle of Elul, we behave more like the inventory clerk at Harvest, observing what aisles need to be restocked more often, what products have past-due expiration dates, what aisles need to be completely reorganized, and products discontinued. We take stock of our soul.
This of course might be easier said than done. Some people infer this to mean to think about all the people in their life, wondering if any relationship repairs might be needed or wanted. Others dive into spiritual books, reminding themselves of the deeper meanings of our upcoming holidays. One might, every single day, blow the shofar and recite Psalm 27, or take on other daily personal practices. It can change every year or it can be an annual Elul tradition. Whatever resonates with each individual, whatever uplifts their spirit and nourishes their heart.
The High Holidays come “late” this year, not until October, since 5784 has been a leap year with two months of Adar. This extra bit of late summer/early fall feels like a gift, a little extra time to walk slower down the aisles of Harvest. May Elul be a time to linger in each aisle, mindfully pushing your cart towards this Chagim season, Cheshbon HaNefesh, taking stock of your soul.
with warm blessings, rabbi paige
