Oct 23, 2013 | Uncategorized
By Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg
This transition in my life from full time to part time work and toward retirement and old age is reflected in the season. It is a dappled time. It is a golden time.
Golden sunshine
Bright golden leaves
Nearly blinding
I move toward acceptance and wisdom, deeply wanting to give myself away, but in a different way. I want to enjoy life, feel nurtured, and truly embrace the love in my life.
Dappled dry leaves
Crunching under my foot
As I kiss the ground
I want the spiritual awareness that I have unearthed to be realized fully so it can serve as a beacon, a witness to God and others – a witness to my purpose and my legacy.
The oldest tree in Pennsylvania
Embraces me;
We have one mother.
And there are challenges – like strength and energy and especially balance. Also just remembering. And getting so tired. And habitual striving. Habitual good girl. And the pain in my face, my jaw. Frustration and fear are still here.
Amazing standing log
Upright on three legs,
A face but no roots.
Dreaming again
Wanting solace,
There’s only change.
Roots, yes, I have them. Some are crumbling, being questioned. Still I have Torah, Jewish community, the world of mysticism, wisdom literature, poetry, music. There is so much to draw upon. NO reason to despair.
Many trees with split trunks
Divided in two,
How well I know.
In many ways less divided now, clearer, knowing when to say yes and no, not needing a face anymore, not wanting to appear as anything or anyone. The time is urgent. The tasks are immense. I want to recall to call upon the Source of All.
Every leaf and nut
Knows it is the season
To return in love.
Returning to the Source of faith and love. What else gave birth to everything and what else awaits us at the end? Miracle of miracles. No matter who you are.
Super large magnolia leaves
Fallen, dried and brown,
Size no safe haven.
Neither size nor accomplishment, brilliance, cleverness, wit, not even friendliness, lovability.
We all return to the earth like the leaves in autumn.
And there still is plenty to unfold, perhaps. Who knows? Staying open. New teachers, new friends, new students, children, learning, all blessings. New struggles, new campaigns, losses and victories – who knows?
Delicate mini oak leaves
Still perfectly green
This time of year.
Sep 12, 2013 | Uncategorized
Yom Iyyun is currently SOLD OUT!
Sep 4, 2013 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
So much of our spiritual life is about remembering to remember, trying to really wake up and live our precious lives.
It is so easy to be lulled into sleepiness: the sleepiness of busyness, of mindless technology, of the closed heart and the superficial.
We know those things are hevel, meaningless, but we keep falling asleep anyway.
Nachman points out that “hevel” also means “quickly evaporating breath”.
On Rosh Hashanah the shofar plays a miraculous role: it transforms this meaningless, quickly forgettable breath into that primal cry that inspires trembling and being riveted wide awake.
The shofar then is actually the medium of transformation, the renewal of creativity and possibility.
May the shofar blast on Rosh Hashanah reawaken the possibility of transformation for all of us.
And may our practice make us into living shofarot, human alchemists who can change spiritual sleepiness into vibrant attention.
And with a new burst of creative possibility, perhaps the New Year might yet bring peace and lasting blessings to all the world.
Ken yehi ratzon.
May it be so.
Sep 3, 2013 | Uncategorized
Larry Yermack
5773
I am privileged to lead two meditations during the High Holidays this year at my synagogue. One will be during the Shofarot section of Mussaf on Rosh Hashanah and the other during the Avodah Service on Yom Kippur. This is largely a result of my participation in Jewish Mindfulness Meditation Teacher Training II, and the good work of my teachers Jeff Roth and Sheila Weinberg in preparing me to teach.
Each meditation will start with a discussion of mindfulness but for this article let me get to the heart of the matter. Imagine that you are sitting in services on Yom Kippur in the early afternoon:
Our tradition teaches that in the time of the Temple, on Yom Kippur the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest, would enter the Holy of Hollies to pray on behalf of the people of Israel and seek forgiveness. He would prepare himself for this moment through prayer and fasting. We are told that The Ark of the Covenant was originally inside the Holy of Hollies, but by the time of the second temple, the space inside was empty. Holy space. He would enter into the space in silence but when inside, would utter the ineffable and secret name of God, that only he knew.
We have no record of that name from any of the High Priests We only have an image of a holy man entering a holy space in silence to connect with the divine. However, I like imagining a different scenario.
The High Priest prepared himself with fasting and prayer, both spoken and silent. He was prepared to connect with the divine on his own behalf and that of the people of Israel. It was an awesome responsibility and perhaps the sound of a voice would have taken him out of his concentration and the holiness of the moment. Imagine instead that the High Priest entered in silence and stayed in silence. Imagine that his connection to the Divine was just his breath, his essential ruach.
I invite you now to enter into your personal holy of holies. So just sit up, in a dignified posture and gently let your eyes close.
Notice your breath as it enters and leaves the body. You don’t have to do anything special, just notice the breath either at the nostril or in the chest or in the diaphragm. As you follow your breath, let it lead you inward. Your fasting, prayer and song have brought you to this holy moment. Allow your breath to usher you into this holy space.
As you notice a thought cross your mind, gently return your attention to the breath. This is not about clearing your mind of thoughts. Minds don’t work that way. This is about noticing our thoughts and directing our attention to this holy moment, to this holy breath.
Aug 6, 2013 | Uncategorized
Elul 5773
Rabbi Jonathan Slater
A profound shift in human consciousness took place when someone imagined that God spoke and the world came into being. Previously the cycles of nature were the basis on which people conceived of time: fixed in a pattern of birth and death, decay and renewal where nothing truly new or innovative could take place. Now, time stretched in a linear fashion from a point of beginning forward. Every day brought something new; innovation and transformation were necessary to adapt to changing conditions and contexts. This shift had moral implications: acts have consequences, and we are responsible for our deeds.
The past, as it recedes in our mind’s rear-view mirror, can become foggy, vague. We forget what we’ve done; major mistakes become smaller the farther away they get in time. We can trick ourselves into thinking that with time we have changed, that we are not who we were in the past. Our tradition, wisely, retained something of the ancient cyclical mind-set, and so at this time of year we are coming round again to “the beginning”. We are being brought face-to-face with our past, as if it were today. That which we wished to ignore comes into view and demands our attention.
That is the gift of the month of Elul, which so often coincides with our season of vacation, of spaciousness and openness. Rather than waiting until Rosh Hashanah to take stock, under pressure of the Day of Judgment, we are invited to allow our past to come into view now. In the spaciousness of long, languid days, we can allow our hearts and minds to open to the truth of our lives, to see clearly who we have been, how we have been in the past. We can meet it fully, without judgment, held in the capaciousness of free time, and self-acceptance. We can do the work of personal assessment and change before the rush and tumble return to school, business and busyness.
The mystical tradition holds that each month in the year can be identified with one permutation of the four letters in God’s name Y-H-V-H. A phrase in which the letters appear in that particular order – either as the first or last letters of words – is attached to each permutation. For the month of Elul, the phrase is connected to the verse “And righteous-merit will it be for us when we take-care to observe all this commandment before YHVH our God, as He has commanded us” (Deut. 6:25), particularly on the first few words: utzedakaH tehiyeH lanU kY, the last letters of which are H-H-V-Y. The spirit of this month is that God is waiting to credit us with righteous-merit (tzedakah), to find the good in us. But, we have to do some work. We have to “take-care”, pay attention, look out for what is true in our lives, and begin the process of change.
We have the time and space now, and the spirit of the season welcomes our efforts. Why wait?
Aug 6, 2013 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
I recently learned the Yiddish phrase: “Iz geht schon auf Elul.” It’s just about Elul. Even though the sun feels like the height of summer, the soul’s season is moving steadily towards teshuvah, towards turning back to the way we know things ought to be.
One of the advantages of the holidays beginning so unusually early is that we have different metaphors from the natural world to inspire this work of teshuvah. For example, look at Queen Anne ’s lace, the common summer wildflower. As you can see from the photo, the flower is actually a fractal, a series of the same pattern on an ever smaller scale. The whole circular structure of the flower is made up of smaller clusters, arranged the same way as the entire flower. These smaller clusters, in turn, are made up of circular clusters of petals, also in the same pattern.
Spiritual practice works in this same fractal pattern. Working on an intimate level is a different manifestation of working on a more public level, but it is in fact the same work. When we consider teshuvah and turning back towards the way we know things ought to be, it can be overwhelming.
How do we take on the big issues, the long-held doubts and angers and pain?
How do we in fact forgive ourselves and others?
How do we realign ourselves to be truer to our soul’s desire?
How do we even allow ourselves to glimpse what our soul’s desire actually is?
Spiritual practice reminds us to start small. Set an intention. Maybe it’s to say a blessing before eating with real gratitude and humility. Maybe it’s to act more generously today. Maybe it’s to pay attention to one breath. Then, in the course of our day, we will forget. Our attention will wander. We will act according to old habits. We will get tired and discouraged. And yet – that is the opportunity to practice teshuvah!
This is the cluster of petals level. In these small moments, we can wake up and remember: Oh yes, my intention was to do this thing, but I forgot. But now I remember and so I can return and act according to my intention. I can return non-judgmentally. I am not a bad person because I forgot. People forget. It’s part of the human condition. That’s why we have Elul – to help us remember to remember.
Returning to our intention with compassion in the context of spiritual practice is actually practice for returning to the bigger intentions of how we live in the world. Perhaps we could say that if the petal level is analogous to the personal arena, the small clusters made up of the many petals are analogous to the interpersonal arena of our lives. The more we are able to gently forgive ourselves and return to our intention, the more we are able to forgive others in our lives and return to our intentions regarding those relationships. And then the whole flower could be analogous to our whole world.
Elul reminds us:
Start small.
Start practicing.
Let’s go.
Jul 23, 2013 | Uncategorized
“The JMTT program created a context for me to access and expand my knowledge of Jewish text and traditions from a perspective of mindfulness. This perspective brought Torah into my daily life on an on-going basis. The JMTT program created a context for me to begin to read and understand Torah from a Mindfulness perspective.”
“The combination of Jewish and Buddhist texts were excellent. I was introduced to Buddhist practices and teachings that I never knew.”
“The Hevruta study was incredible and invaluable. I learned so much from my Hevruta partners. It showed me again the value of having spiritual friends.”
Jun 20, 2013 | Email Newsletter Full Article
Myriam Klotz
6/20/2013
Just as the moon has cycles of growing fuller and then empty, so too our bodies move through cycles of filling and emptying. This Saturday and Sunday (June 22-23), the moon is at its fullest, and closer to the earth, than it will be at any other time of the year. Some commentators use the Hebrew word keseh to refer to the full moon. Keseh echoes the word kos, which means “cup”. The full moon is like a cup filled with abundance.
Here’s a movement practice you can enjoy outdoors this weekend as you bathe in this full moon’s brimming light:
Stand comfortably outdoors and if possible with bare feet on the earth. Feel the sensations of the earth against your feet.
Take your arms out to the sides of your body and send all ten fingers spread wide apart.
Root your feet into the earth, and take a deep full breath in through your nose.
As you inhale, stretch your arms out to the sides and let them extend wide, creating a circle as the hands meet above your head, fingers stretching up towards the big full moon. Lift your heart up towards the sky and lengthen through your neck.
Next, tilt your head up and lift your eyes to gaze at this full moon, this keseh. As you exhale, keep your arms extending up to the moon and your eyes gazing there as your focal point.
On your next inhale, draw the moon’s light down through your fingers and arms and into your body and let it fill you fully with its warm lunar glow. Slowly release your arms back out wide to the sides as you exhale and lower them slowly, mirroring the shape of this full moon.
You can repeat this simple movement several times, and you might recite the following blessing:
Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melekh ha olam, oseh maaseh bereshit.
Blessed are You, Eternal One, Sovereign of the Universe, who makes the work of creation.
Jun 19, 2013 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Summertime – the great annual habit-breaker. If we are lucky, we have the opportunity to look up from our usual routine and try something new. Often that newness involves travel. And it’s curious: some of us sit still to try to reconnect with clarity and insight. But there are some insights that are easier to come to through motion. It’s like when we stand in front of a wooden fence. When we stand still in front of it, all we see are the slats, blocking what is on the other side. But when we walk by it, we can often glimpse the garden through the cracks between the slats.
And yet, the moving itself is often the least pleasant part of the traveling. We like to arrive at our destination, but dealing with traffic, lines, security and all the rest of it is a whole different story. It can feel more like the fence, slowing us down, herding us along, keeping us out.
Reciting tefillat haderech, the traveler’s prayer, can serve as an intention to help us transform the often harried experience of traveling. The traditional Hebrew asks God to guide us in peace, to let us take each step in peace and to help us reach our desired destination alive, joyful and in peace. It asks that we be kept safe from any kind of danger along the way and that we encounter only kindness and graciousness from those we meet. Here is a link to the prayer: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tefilat_HaDerech
Imagine if we took this on as a blessing practice. If we began each journey with this blessing, evoking that sense of peacefulness and security for ourselves, then, from an inner place of joyfulness and peace, we might be able to bless all those people with us in those endless lines and crowds – perhaps even the really annoying ones – with the same blessing. May you be guided in peace! May you reach your destination safely! May you encounter only kindness and graciousness! May your prayer be heard!
That kind of inner spaciousness can transform the burden of travel into an opportunity to enjoy each encounter. It can tear down the fence around the heart altogether. (And of course, the summer traveling– the moving from place to place, the crowds, the aggravation, the pleasure, all of it – is nothing less than a facet of – and practice for – our life journey, in which we can only pray to reach our destination in peace.)
May 8, 2013 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
I have a very exciting announcement to make.
But first, let me set the stage. We have long believed that cultivating mindful Jewish leaders could have a profound and even transformational impact on Jewish communal life. However, one of the persistent questions we have struggled with has been how to help alumni of our cohort programs transmit the practices that we have found so personally meaningful to their communities who are also seeking. The obstacles are many: overwhelming busy-ness, a lack of confidence in teaching the practices, Jewish organizational culture, lack of support, just to name a few.
Over the years, we have developed various tools to help address these obstacles. Starting this fall, we will have a new one to add to our repertoire.
The John Templeton Foundation has given us a major grant to support an innovative, national program to promote character development through mindfulness and tikkun middot practice in targeted Jewish communities led by Institute-trained rabbis, cantors, educators, mindfulness teachers, and community leaders. Over the next three years, we will work with 28 Jewish communities to bring a mindful approach to cultivating desirable behaviors or character traits (such as generosity, patience, truth-telling and humility) into the culture of these communities.
There are three significant innovations to this program. The first is that we will be providing training to help leaders bring a specific practice to their communities in a way that reflects the unique culture and realities of that particular community. Participants in the program will be given curricula, in-person trainings, regular webinar support and targeted consultations, all with the support of the other members of the cohort. Secondly, we will be exploring what happens when we make a systemic connection between strengthening individual character development and communal norms and culture. This will give us the opportunity to learn more about how transformation works along the spectrum of change within an individual, in interpersonal relationships, in institutions and in society at large. And thirdly, we will be pioneering a new approach to mussar that is grounded in mindfulness practice.
Rabbi Marc Margolius will be the director of the program. For more information, please visit the program page.
That a non-Jewish foundation with the clout of the Templeton Foundation has decided to invest in our exploration is just thrilling. We are hopeful that this will significantly improve the tools we can offer our alumni in helping to revitalize Jewish life.
For more information on the Templeton Foundation’s work, please click here.
May 1, 2013 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Recently, I had the opportunity to test out a pet theory of mine and to see if it held any water. I was excited and nervous: what if this whole idea just sounded nice in my head but didn’t have any traction on the ground?
For the past three years or so, I have been interested in the juxtaposition of justice work and contemplative practices. I had been leading a variety of service-learning trips, mostly with college students in the Global South, and also doing local volunteer work, helping a family of refugees from Burma start to make a new life for themselves in the US. I had also been teaching meditation. I wondered: could there be a connection between these two worlds?
Perhaps combining social justice with contemplative practice could help make sure that meditation and prayer and learning don’t turn into self-indulgent, self-satisfied activities that are only about personal fulfillment. And perhaps bringing contemplative practices to justice work could help ensure that activism is more creative, more sustainable and more grounded in the values it endeavors to hold.
At our Jewish Meditation Teacher Training retreat in November, I had the first opportunity to share some of my ideas and I was pleased with the positive reception. But in some ways, I felt like I was preaching to the proverbial choir. Many of the participants in the program are already involved in various forms of social change and all of them have a strong meditation practice. All I had to do was connect the dots.
But this winter I had the opportunity to be the scholar in residence for Repair the World’s Fellow program. This training was for twelve outstanding professionals who are leading service learning programs across the country. They came to the training without any a priori interest in contemplative practices. They were looking for tools to be more effective teachers, activists and organizers.
To my great delight, they got it right away. They understood that, in the words of Paul Auster, “the inner and the outer could not be separated except by doing great damage to the truth.” Paying attention to our inner lives – to what is difficult, to our own inner shadow, to the process of reflection – is the same thing as paying attention to the areas that need fixing out in the world, just on a different level. And bringing a loving, gentle awareness to the areas of brokenness, both inner and outer, can open possibilities of healing and transformation in beautiful and surprising ways.
This is just the beginning. Stay tuned for more…
Feb 26, 2013 | Email Newsletter Full Article
When I was in rabbinical school, our mentors would tell us that we each had one sermon to give, and that we would have to figure out how to give that sermon in various ways throughout our lives. At the time, I found the instruction comforting, for I understood it to mean that our essential work was to be true to our own souls and our unique insight, and labor creatively to share that teaching over and again through our Torah.
What our mentors didn’t tell us is that we might find one, single verse through which we would strive to give that message in new ways, over and over again. I would have found that instruction to be frighteningly limiting, overwhelmingly challenging, and confusing. How could one verse yield new aspects of my one teaching, endlessly?
And yet, that is exactly what I am learning this year through my study and teaching* of the Birkat Avraham, Rabbi Avraham Weinberg (the third), as part of the Institute’s “Torah Study for the Soul,” created by Rabbi Jonathan Slater. Through his own study, Rabbi Slater discovered that every week, likely during the Seudah Shleesheet (the third meal on Shabbat afternoon – a special, tender time for study and prayer), Rabbi Weinberg would give a drash on the coming week’s sedra (Torah portion), through the lens of one particular verse: Psalm 69:14. “Va’ani tefilati Adonai et ratzon; Elohim b’rov hasdechah aneini b’emet yisheicha. As for me, may my prayer come to You, O YHVH, at a favorable moment; Elohim, in your abundant love, answer me with Your sure deliverance.” Psalm 69, verse 14 was for the Birkat Avraham a never-ending fountain of inspiration, truth and delight.
So what is the message, endlessly given, through a reading of these twelve words, turned over again and again, deconstructed, reimagined and variously emphasized, to yield an ever new presentation of the central insight at the core of Rabbi Weinberg’s soul?
Well, in truth there are a few core teachings that Rabbi Weinberg shares through the lens of this verse, but one of them is this: We have the power to work with our minds in such a way as to see God unfolding through all events that happen to us. We pray for the entrance into that awareness. Any time our prayer reveals to us the fundamental and overriding reality of hesed (love) is indeed, a favorable moment; and it is this that delivers us from suffering and delusion.
Now, this is not likely to be a message one hears once and “gets,” even through the brilliant investigation and serious Torah play of Rabbi Weinberg. Rather, it is a message one might hear and perhaps be inspired to try embodying through contemplative, devotional practice. But then, inevitably, the clarity of the teaching will slip away, and one will need to hear it yet again from the mouth of one whose life embodies it. Such reinforcement, such refinement is necessary for the constant deconditioning and reconditioning of our habits of perception. Which may be one reason Rabbi Weinberg, in his wisdom, comes back to share this teaching in so many different ways.
I am grateful for Rabbi Slater’s inspired translation and commentary of the Birkat Avraham, and am delighted to hear the echoes of Rabbi Slater’s one sermon through this Torah, as well. Curious? Subscribe! (email [email protected]).
* I, like others in the Institute network, am teaching Birkat Avraham this year every week. That nearly twenty people show up every Tuesday morning at 8 am from far and wide, even through a New England winter, tells me that this year’s “Torah Study for the Soul” is truly inspired.
– Nancy Flam
Email newsletter February 2013
Feb 26, 2013 | Email Newsletter Full Article
If you were to ask the Jewish person in the street if Jews prayed, you would likely be told that we do. If pressed further about what Jews do, you would likely be told that Jews recite the words of the siddur, or that they say blessings.
If you pressed further, to ask if Jews pray directly to God, with their own words, outside of the synagogue or recognized ritual moment, you would likely get a negative response. “We don’t do that! That’s how ‘they’ pray”. But, there is a long history of Jewish personal prayer, expressed directly to God. These are prayers of joy and thanksgiving, of sorrow and hopelessness, of need and anticipation. Some of these prayers include petitions – “please help me” – but some are simply a statement of the truth – “this is how I feel. Are You there?” Despite this history, Jewish personal prayer as spiritual practice is hardly known, and even less engaged in (or at least unreported!).
The absence of such prayer in Jewish life undermines the potential for communal and liturgical prayer to be meaningful. It is very hard to bring up the energy to pray – even if using someone else’s words – if one has no experience in prayer. Its absence also drains much of Jewish religious life of its vital energy. We may mouth words of prayer, but they will have no direction, no expectation of being received, no sense that they mean anything beyond a connection to tradition.
The Institute – under Rabbi Nancy Flams’s leadership – has begun an ambitious project: to make prayer a recognized, accepted and popular Jewish practice within our community in the next ten years (ambitious indeed!). One step toward that goal is to identify practices – Jewish practices – of personal prayer that we believe might be accessible and meaningful for contemporary Jews. Another step is to work together, practicing in community, experimenting with the traditional liturgy, to plumb its potential as a transformative prayer practice. A small group of participants in the project (all leaders in the field of personal and communal prayer and prayer-leadership) is now taking on those practices to “test drive” them, to learn about them. Our goal is to map out a number of prayer practices – traditional and contemporary, liturgical and personal – in the hopes of making it easier to teach them and to support individuals as they seek to deepen their experience in making prayer a spiritual practice.
In mapping these prayer practices, we are investigating first our own experiences: what was it like; what happened; what did it feel like; what happened afterward; what impediments to engaging in the practice did I experience, and what facilitated it, what was the impact on my life in the world, my relationships with others, my awareness of the needs of others, etc. Slowly, over time and practice, we expect to be able to formulate clearly what the practice is, why one might engage in this practice, what might be an expected outcome, and how to work with the practice over time.
Each prayer practice may have a different goal: one might be to draw closer to God, another to expand consciousness, another to open the heart to suffering and inspire compassion and action, yet another for liturgical prayer to be a transformative, contemplative experience. And, all of the practices may include all of the different elements. We are just beginning to look, to investigate and map the practices.
What is clear, at least so far, is that in deepening our own personal prayer-lives in these ways, we are becoming even more deeply connected to the tradition, awake to its potential and inspired in our spiritual lives. Making prayer a practice that is regular, focused, with goals against which one can clarify one’s intention and sense inner growth, can revive the spiritual life of the Jewish people. That is surely something worth praying for.
– Jonathan Slater
February 2013 email newsletter
Feb 26, 2013 | Email Newsletter Full Article
One of the things I greatly value about the Institute for Jewish Spirituality is that we are a learning organization. We are constantly exploring how we can more skillfully nurture mindful leaders who can work with us to revitalize Jewish life. One way we do that is by evaluating our programs to investigate their effectiveness and challenge their assumptions.
As a result of this analysis, we are delighted to announce that our next clergy cohort, which will begin in January 2014, will be open to both cantors and rabbis. This brand new program will build on the foundation of previous rabbinic and cantorial cohorts, grounded in mindfulness practice and neo-Hasidic spirituality.
We will explore all five of the Institute’s core practices (prayer, Talmud Torah, mindfulness meditation, tikkun middot and embodied awareness through yoga,) with a special focus on prayer, both as a personal practice and as a practice of leading others. We will also consider how all these practices
can strengthen our leadership more generally within our communities.
At the Institute, we envision synagogues as sacred communities in which communal prayer and other aspects of traditional Jewish life are vibrant and spiritually engaging. We believe that Jewish leaders can lead with greater awareness, authenticity, courage and presence, with less burnout and greater satisfaction in their work. We have seen that spiritual practices can help leaders be more open and more resilient.
We are hopeful that this combined cohort will advance this vision by addressing the real needs of synagogues in creating more meaningful spiritual experiences, the changing role of the cantor in Jewish communal life and even the sometimes complicated relationships between clergy members. We are very excited to take this step in the ongoing evolution of the Institute as the pre-eminent venue for deep, transformative change in Jewish spiritual life.
Applications for the program will be available in the spring of 2013. For more information please contact Rabbi Jonathan Slater, at
[email protected].
[February 2013 email newsletter]
Feb 13, 2013 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
It is interesting that it took a snowstorm to turn New York City into Jerusalem on a Friday evening.
Like many people who have spent time in Jerusalem, one of things I love the most is the way Friday afternoons come into the Jewish parts of the city. Bit by bit, the stores close and the roads empty out. The sounds of the usual bustle begin to subside and a calm begins to pervade the squares and streets. By the time the sun sets over the plain below, it can feel like the whole city has taken a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Last Friday, with the approach of Snowstorm Nemo, New York City could have been Jerusalem. Sleet was falling in the afternoon and people began leaving, getting to where they would stay for the duration of the storm. Even in Midtown, where our office is, bit by bit, there were fewer cars, less honking and sirens. We closed the office a little early. And by the time the snow began to fall in earnest, later in the evening, as I was on my way to Shabbat dinner, there was a magical hush everywhere. The streets were mostly empty except for people walking, some with their dogs. The glow from the strings of left-over holiday lights caught the softly falling snow. The usually frantic city felt soothed and quiet.
One of the things I love about New York City is the wonderful energy and astonishing abundance of people and buildings and things to do and see and eat and explore. There is usually no stopping it or even any desire to stop it. But on this Erev Shabbat, it seemed like the city shavat vayinafash – stopped and took a breath.
By Shabbat morning the sun was shining and the sky was blue. I made my way to Central Park to explore the snowy woods and to watch the kids (of all ages!) playing in the snow. New York was returning to itself: noisy, colorful, vibrant. Yet, the magic of the snow stayed all through Shabbat. It wasn’t until Sunday that there was more gray slush than pristine fields of snow – just in time for a new workaday beginning to the week.
Dec 13, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
As I walk through New York City these days, particularly in the evening, I am conscious of a desire to hold on to this magical time of year and not to let it pass. The city is filled with lights and decorations and people in beautiful clothes; the sidewalks are crowded with Christmas trees and holiday shoppers. It seems like everyone is heading out to a party and the darkness is warm and cozy, not cold and lonely. Wouldn’t it be great if it were like this all winter long until spring comes? And come to think of it, why stop just because the days are longer?
One could argue that the story of Chanukah is also about holding on. The second blessing reminds us of the miracles that were performed on our behalf at this time of year – this very same time of year. Now it’s just like it was back then! We want to remember the miracles and the deliverances, to keep the power of memory, to bring back traditions of our real or mythical ancestors – the specific latke technique, the Yiddish or Ladino melodies.
How profound, however, that the candles we use to make known the miracles are small, thin candles that go out in less than an hour! They are not like Shabbat candles that last through dinner or like yahrzeit candles that burn 24 hours. In fact, one of my family’s traditions is betting on which candle will go out last and watching intently as the flames flare and gutter and go out, releasing its twisting ribbon of smoke.
We know that everything passes – the candles, the holidays, the winter, life itself. Even the miracles come and go; the siddur reminds us that new miracles are constantly with us, morning, noon and night. The ephemeral candles remind us that light is beautiful, even when it’s fleeting – perhaps even because it is fleeting. They remind us that joy and gratitude in and of themselves are miracles of the spirit.
Wishing you and your loved ones a Chanukah filled with light and all kinds of miracles.
Nov 8, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
I find it so difficult to get up in the dark morning as we head into winter. And of course, although going back to standard time gives me a temporary reprieve, soon it will just be a fact of winter: dark mornings and dark evenings.
Some people experience a depression of spirit in the face of so much darkness. For me, the most difficult part is the accompanying sleepiness. I must have a very strong circadian clock in my system! My instinct is to hibernate; I want to curl up in the blankets and dive back into dreaming.
I have learned a lot about sleepiness from my practice. I can’t tell you how many times I have felt sleepiness overwhelm me in the midst of meditating or learning or praying. At first, I would berate myself, but over time, I have learned that sleepiness requires subtle discernment. Sometimes sleepiness is just a fact. I am tired right now. That is part of the human condition. I can bring a sense of curiosity to it: What IS this sleepiness? I notice the heaviness in my body, the fuzziness in my thinking, the dream states as they arise. My awareness ebbs and flows and I notice that too.
But sometimes the sleepiness is something I can address as a hindrance that can be overcome. The truth is I don’t want to allow sleepiness to take over my practice. I have my bag of tricks to help me. I begin counting, paying careful attention to the beginning and end of each breath. Or in a word-based practice I seek one word in each line that might hold special meaning or intention. These things can wake me up.
Ultimately, waking up is the purpose of all this practice. Sleepiness is not confined to the winter months. As the shofar blasts from last month’s holidays remind us, it is so easy to lead sleepy lives. Cultivating curiosity and the ability to remember to wake up can help us shake off the heavy slumber and prepare us to face the darkness – and the light – more wide awake and more alive.
Oct 31, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
As Psalm 94 so succinctly puts it: God knows that human plans are futile. Instead of spending this week learning with Art Green and other teachers on retreat, we came back home to witness the overwhelming destruction swept in by the hurricane. I and the other Institute staff were very, very lucky; we experienced very little of the direct fury of the storm and a great deal of concern and love from so many people from all over the world.
In the midst of the tremendous losses all around, I am noticing the role of waiting. Beginning on Shabbat afternoon before the storm, there was a eerie stillness all around. The air felt heavy, foreboding. I came back to the city on Sunday and had to stock up on food and emergency supplies since I had not expected to be home. The line at the grocery store snaked all around the entire building. The anxiety was palpable, even though it was more than 24 hours before the storm arrived. The stores closed and we all went home to wait.
And now that the winds and rain have stopped, we are still waiting: waiting for the trains to start again, waiting for the roads to be cleared and for airports, schools and businesses to reopen. Some are waiting for electricity and water to be restored and to get back into their damaged homes. There will be waiting for insurance companies and rebuilding.
And there will be waiting for the terrible pain of grief to subside. This must be the most difficult waiting of all.
In his book, “Sailing Home,” Norman Fischer writes, “We all know a crisis when we see it. … But after the dust of frenzied activity settles, and we are finally able to feel our way into what we have been through, we realize just how unhinged we have become. We can’t go back to business as usual, for we sense that we no longer fit into our former life. We need a new life. But we don’t know how to find it. There is nothing else to do right now but stay where we are and wait.”
Sometimes waiting is not simply passivity or wasting time. Sometimes, even though it is frustrating, painful or anxiety-producing, it just takes time to let the things we have experienced work their way through our souls. Waiting too can be holy work.
Of course, there are things to do while we are waiting: reaching out to loved ones and neighbors, contributing money and effort towards taking care of those in need and rebuilding, not to mention voting next week and thinking again about climate change. But those are all human plans. We have an opportunity to remember that sometimes the deep transformation can begin to emerge not from impulsive action, but rather precisely from the slow, difficult work of waiting.
Oct 16, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
I find it so curious that the Jewish year begins with almost an entire month’s worth of holidays, each one with its own flavor, building upon the one before. We have the sweet awe of Rosh Hashanah, the intense internality of Yom Kippur, the joy and vulnerability of Sukkot, the ecstatic connection to learning on Simchat Torah. It is quite a spiritual journey – and can be exhausting! I hear many people expressing relief that the holidays are “finally” behind us.
Which brings us to that seemingly flat time of “after the holidays.” Life is back to normal (whatever that means). We return to the routine and the steadily increasing darkness of the Northern Hemisphere’s approaching winter. Next week we begin the new month of Heshvan, the famous month of no holidays. Sometimes it is known as “Marheshvan,” with a connotation of mar or bitterness. There is no external reason to celebrate; there is nothing obviously interesting or intriguing about it. In some ways, the whole month is the continuation of Shemini Atzeret, the eighth day of Sukkot, which has only one unique feature in the Diaspora: the prayer for rain for the Land of Israel.
And yet, in some ways, these weeks are actually the fruitful time of the year, not the dramatic holiday season just ended. We get to begin living out what we thought, embodying the insights, intentions and hopes for the new year. We get to begin translating the lofty visions into messy, ever-surprising life. It may be dark; it may be rainy; it may be unexciting. But moving from the potential to the actual is filled with power and possibility.
This is precisely where spiritual practice has the most to offer, in offering perspective and wisdom when confronted with difficulty and in guiding us towards more kindness, responsibility, gratitude and integrity. It can even help us find the unexpected shining in ordinary things. There is nothing bitter about that!
Wishing everyone a mindful transition back to the everyday!
Sep 14, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Elul is coming to an end with the grandeur and mystery of the High Holy Days about to begin. In New York the weather shifted this week too; the sun is still warm, but the wind is fresh and even chilly, signs of colder days approaching.
Last week I mentioned the new building that is being constructed outside our windows. I have been watching the workers, climbing, moving and hammering, seemingly without a care, on the drop-off edge of a concrete slab 20 stories above the street. As I write, one man in a neon green vest is clinging to the outside of a plywood ladder, nothing underneath him but a net two floors below, whacking at something with a tool. He is clipped on with a harness, but from here, it looks pretty terrifying.
Fear. I remember studying once with Gabe Goldman, a naturalist and Jewish educator. He told of having led a hands-on workshop about how to handle very, very sharp knives, so sharp that you wouldn’t even feel it if you cut off your finger. He taught his students how to hold them, work with them, and respect them. He then followed the workshop with a lesson about yirah, “fearing” or being “in awe” of God.
After the sweet, mellow days of Elul, these High Holy Days, Days of Awe, give us a glimpse of something stronger and a little more fearful. They encourage us to consider the mystery of the unknown days ahead, days that may hold great blessings and great suffering, and probably a little of both. They give us the forum to come face to face with our limits and the reality of our mortality. They challenge us to confront our own vulnerability in the face of the colder days that are coming.
But, like the men outside who are building a new building, a structure that will provide shelter for hundreds of people and stand witness to their labors for many years, the High Holy Days also give us the opportunity to take satisfaction in the work of our hands and to find joy in living this life, in company with fellow travelers, step by dangerous step, even when we feel we are dangling over the abyss.
May 5773 bring all of us more blessings than suffering, more expansiveness than constriction, more peace than conflict, and more joy than sorrow. May our practices give us tools for wisdom, gratitude and compassion. And may we find good companions (or a good Companion) for the journey who can support us with courage, love and guidance.
Sep 7, 2012 | Blog
No, that’s not a typo. Just before Labor Day, the staff at the Institute’s national offices packed up all our books and files and equipment and on Tuesday, under the expert guidance of David Cavill, our Associate Director, and Vito Marzano, our Executive Assistant, we moved into our new space. The rumors are apparently true: everything is indeed impermanent.
Our new office is a big, open space with high ceilings, wood floors and a row of huge windows facing north. From my desk, I can turn my head to look across the relatively low police station over to 31th St where construction on a brand new building is underway. It is 21 stories so far and they have labeled each floor on the outward facing concrete with huge fluorescent orange numbers. I can also see the decorative design of sphinxes and winged horses on the building directly across the street.
I am excited to set up our new space, to think about how the external can reflect the internal. What does an office that is committed to supporting the cultivation of spiritual practice look like? It’s pretty simple at this point. We have some plants and a big blue balancing ball; we have a refrigerator, a tea and coffee corner, a common table and enough floor space for meditation or yoga. We have some bookshelves. We have windows that open and show us both the sky and the people hard at work in the city around us. And we have extraordinary people, most of whom are mostly anonymous to you who participate in our programs, whose personal practice and commitment to this common work of integrity and expanded awareness are inspiring to me every day.
If you are in the neighborhood, come by and say hello! Our new address is 135 W 29th St, Ste 1103, New York, NY 10001.
Aug 29, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Earlier in the summer, I went to Roosevelt Island. There is a red tram that takes you from the east side of Manhattan, up, over the Queensboro Bridge and the East River and then down to the island. It’s great fun.
I was early to meet my friend and so I waited at the tram depot on the Manhattan side for a while. The little plaza by the station was one of those strange places that for some reason attracts pigeons by the hundreds. My eye was caught by a sign that the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation posted on a fence: “Feed a Pigeon. Breed a Rat.” (And just for the record, I did indeed spy a rat, roughly the size of a pigeon, scurrying beneath the rose bushes.)
The sign reminded me of a classic teaching story that I first heard from Sheila Weinberg. A Native American elder is teaching a group of children, sitting at his feet. He says, “There are two wolves. One is filled with rage and hatred and blame and fear. The other is filled with compassion and forgiveness and peacefulness and faith. These two wolves are fighting. And they are inside me.”
One of the children asks anxiously, “Which wolf will win?”
The elder solemnly replies, “Whichever one I feed.”
In my experience, my more negative thought patterns are very similar to feeding rats and pigeons. I have no desire to feed the rats. But pigeons are innocuous. I find them 
dirty and slightly menacing in a weird way, but they’re certainly not on the same level as rats. In the same way, I don’t intend to hold on to things that make me angry, hateful, fearful or judgmental. But I certainly can find myself nursing small grudges or injustices that seem innocuous.
But in fact, they are not. The New York City Department of Parks and Recreation is exactly right. Feed a pigeon, breed a rat. Cling to that grievance and it inadvertently may shape my thoughts towards something much darker and unwanted.
Of course, there is a place in the world for all kinds of animals, even those we call pests, and anger, fear and hatred are unavoidable – and occasionally even useful – human experiences. It’s a question of appropriateness and discernment. Perhaps the first place we can stop “feeding the pigeons” is with ourselves – by bringing compassion, forgiveness and faith to our mind’s endless capacity for holding on when we might let go.
Aug 16, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Summer is winding down. Elul begins on Saturday night. The beginning of Elul reminds me of a story I heard from Rabbi Sholom Rivkin (of blessed memory), a kind and learned man who was the Chief Rabbi of St. Louis for many years.
Rabbi Rivkin told that in the old days, if you wanted to go talk to the king, you had to think about who could help you get invited to the palace. You had to wear your best clothes and learn the court etiquette – how to enter the throne room, when to bow, what to say, where to look. It was all very complicated and very serious. But sometimes, the king just went for a walk in the fields. And at those times, anyone could just start walking along next to the king and share whatever was on their heart.
Elul is the season when the King goes walking in the fields.
I love this story – the imagery, the intimacy, the hope it conveys for coming close to the Divine. I feel my heart leap up: Yes! I too want to go for a walk with the King! (or the Queen – pick your metaphor of royalty.) I want that immediate access, the instant connection. So often I focus on learning the court ritual, or, as we say, “preparing the vessel” – committing to the form of the ritual, dragging my attention back over and over. I know that the practice is a tool that can create the possibility for those moments of awareness. Yet I yearn for those moments of grace.
I also love this story because the High Holy Days themselves are like the throne room, not like the open fields. They are arguably the most formal, complicated and serious days of our whole year. We (especially we clergy) could get seduced into thinking that the preparation for these Days of Awe is mostly involved with liturgy and choreography. But this is precisely when God invites greater accessibility of a very different kind.
And so part of my preparation for the Holy Days includes imagining:
- What would it be like if I could join God for that walk in the fields?
- How would I say hello?
- What would I share about my life?
- What would I ask for?
- What questions would I be asked?
- How would I answer?
- How would I take my leave?
Wishing you an inspiring, heart-opening beginning to these most holy of days!
Aug 8, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Last week was a big week for me. I left my sublet and moved into my very own New York apartment! Even though my new home is not that far from the apartment I was renting, I have to find a new grocery store, a new dry cleaner, a new pharmacy. I also have to figure out how to get to work. I used to live on an express stop on the subway, whereas now I am on the local train. Do I walk down to the express stop? Do I take the local and change trains? Do I ride the local all the way? And most important of all: How long does each of these options take?
As I puzzled over the train schedules, I came across this video from the New York Times: The Subway Shuffle
I had to laugh. Ruefully. There is something undeniably funny about the New Yorkers rushing from platform to platform, trying to shave off a few seconds here and there. (And to be honest, when I lived in California, I used to shift from lane to lane, trying to advance a few yards on the freeway.)
But the truth is that there is a cost to rushing all the time.
The cost is both inner and outer. The inner cost is that when we hurry, we often fail to notice the truth of experience. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira described in his book Conscious Community how important it is to learn how to observe our own inner life because it opens us to being able to sense even more. He said, “Perhaps in your looking you will uncover God’s subtle presence; you may sense God’s holiness.” How do we do that? His answer: “You must clearly, consistently and diligently slow down.” (And he wrote that over 70 years ago!)
And the outer cost is that when we hurry, we often fail to notice the truth of other people’s experiences. The famous “Good Samaritan experiment” at Princeton showed that the most important factor in determining whether a seminary student would stop to help someone in need was not how much they thought about helping others or the nature of their religious commitment. Instead the main factor was how late the students thought they were. In fact, only 10% of those who were hurrying paused to help a man slumped on the street, as compared to 63% of those who were not in a hurry.
It is so easy to forget and get swept away by the busyness of our culture. It is so important to keep remembering to take our time.
Jul 25, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
The July retreat season flew quickly by. For me, the hidden jewel of the season was the silent contemplative Shabbat. It combined two things that I treasure as part of my spiritual life: Shabbat and silence.
Shabbat and silence can be surprisingly similar. To the uninitiated, Shabbat can seem like a bunch of rules, mostly involving things you can’t do. But those who regularly observe Shabbat know that the structure of the tradition allows for something magical to happen. By temporarily turning away from the demands of work, entertainment and acquisition, we can make space for experiences of true meaning.
Silence works in a similar way. By temporarily not engaging in social conversation, I make space to find deeper meaning in my own life. My habitual thoughts can rest a little. I give myself time to notice how I am really doing, not just how I want to be doing. What is going on in my heart underneath all the distractions of life? What wisdom can emerge from that knowledge? How does the Divine move through it all?
Some of that I can also do in conversation with someone I trust. But in silence, I don’t have to explain or justify anything to anyone. No one will demand an answer or offer a solution. If I am feeling sad, I can feel sad. If I am feeling alive and grateful, that’s fine. I don’t have to define it or describe it or analyze it. I can just feel it and be it – until it shifts and becomes something else. There is a comfort and a safety in the silence. I can lean into it, knowing it will support me and lead me where I need to go.
It may seem counterintuitive that being quiet with a group of other people who are also in silence is much more powerful than silence alone. And yet, that is true. (At least, that is true for me.) I often feel a strange intimacy and affection for fellow meditators, even when I don’t know any biographical information about them. The silence allows me to remember the fundamentals of being a human being: the longing for love and meaning, the pain of suffering, the inevitable passing of time. The realization that I share those things with every other person becomes a lived experience in silence, not just a beautiful thing to think about.
A silent Shabbat – most coveted of days!
Jul 11, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
Our July retreat season is underway and what a pleasure it is to gather together in person with our far-flung community at the Trinity Conference Center in beautiful West Cornwall, Connecticut! Our first retreat, which was an open retreat, focused on cultivating gratitude, and our second retreat, which is happening now, is for our seventh cohort of rabbis. Here are a few highlights of the retreat on gratitude:
- An early morning walk by the Housatonic River with banks of orange lilies, sightings of herons and a beaver waddling between the rocks at the river edge.
- Observing how the process of asking questions about the Torah portion – and not answering them – transformed a strange fairy tale with a talking donkey and things happening in threes into profound insights about experiencing Divine guidance and skillful responses to obstacles and ambivalence.
- Watching a whole roomful of people from a wide range of Jewish backgrounds open their hearts in song.
- Exploring real obstacles to gratitude, such as being uncomfortable with receiving from others or confronting challenging situations, and how we and Jews in ages past have tried to overcome these obstacles.
- Savoring trout that was caught that same morning, along with cold mint pea soup, fresh local tomatoes with pesto, salad with raspberries and walnuts, seitan with a ginger sauce, roasted carrots and “white chocolate blackberry dream” (which is exactly what it sounds like).
- Welcoming our beloved Shabbat with radiance and joy.
- Learning that the Hebrew work for “thanking” (lehodot) can also mean “acknowledging” and practicing saying “thank you” or “Yes, this too” to whatever arises, through prayer, yoga, meditation and traditional texts.
- Using freshly picked rosemary, thyme and sage as the spices for Havdallah.
If you were at this retreat (or if you have been at other retreats at Trinity), what have been some of your highlights?
Jul 5, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
It was cool and drizzly when I left my apartment one morning last week, wearing my spring raincoat, but by mid-afternoon, it was sunny and warm. At the end of the day, I walked out of the office, leaving my coat on the rack outside my office door. I rode the crowded subway to my stop, dropped in at the grocery story to pick up a couple of things, and as I started to cross the street to my apartment, all of a sudden, I knew.
The keys to my apartment were not in my bag. They were in the pocket of my raincoat, hanging on the coat rack outside my office door.
I know that moment so well, that mental click from forgetting to remembering. It’s a cold, jarring sensation. It’s the jolt that accompanies waking up in meditation or suddenly knowing the right word for the crossword puzzle. In American Sign Language, it’s the popping up of the index finger in the sign for “understanding.” I think it must be related to the burst of the sephirah chochmah, the flash of creative insight that wasn’t there a moment ago.
The stories that accompany remembering can vary. It can be the exasperation and self-judgment that focuses on the forgetting. (“I am such an idiot! Now I have to get back on the subway, go all the way back to the office and then retrace my steps again!”) Or it can be marveling at the mind’s ability to wake up, even when it used to be asleep. (“How amazing that I remembered before I actually reached into my bag to find my keys!”) It can even be compassion. (“Our poor brains! Think of all the things that bombard us day in and day out! No wonder we forget so much. How else would we survive?”)
For me, the small, inconvenient act of forgetting and remembering spurred me to consider: what else have I forgotten? Have I remembered to be grateful for owning a key and a raincoat, for having the physical strength to get back on the subway, for having an office and a job, for walking through the early evening light in New York City with the thousands of other people, each with their own hopes and disappointments and stories?
So much of spiritual practice is about remembering to remember.
Jun 27, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
photo credit: Beyond My Ken
One of my favorite places to bring friends and family who come to visit me in New York is The High Line. The High Line is a former elevated railroad track that ran between the meat packing district and 34th Street. Thanks to the efforts of a handful of visionary citizens, the track is now an elevated park with beautiful gardens, intriguing art pieces, inviting gathering places and unusual third-floor views of the surrounding architecture.
I recently noticed a new art installation by the Israeli-born artist Uri Aran. It is easy to miss at first. But around 25th St, if you listen carefully, you can hear from among dense leaves a voice listing animals. Soon it is apparent that it is listing “good” animals, such as a cat or a platypus, and “bad” animals, such as a spider or shark. The voice is flat and has a slightly pompous tone.
At first, I was nonplused. What exactly makes a platypus a good animal? And why are spiders on the “bad” list? Didn’t Aran read
Charlotte’s Web?? Then I laughed: I was dividing the good and bad list into my own list of good and bad, and in a way that is every bit as arbitrary as the original list. And of course I do that all the time, about the strangers I see on the subway, the things I see in shop windows, the ideas that come into my head: Good. Bad. Good. Bad.
In fact, one of the things I most love about the High Line is that the people who created it were able to see the good in something that the city thought was bad. Here was a rusted, dilapidated eyesore, ready to be demolished. But a few neighbors had the imagination to consider what it could become – a place of wildflowers and gelato, a little urban beach and public art.
It’s a great reminder.
Jun 20, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality
I just returned from vacation, where I went hiking from village to village in the Atlas Mountains. The Atlas Mountains are very steep and rugged, but people have lived there for as long as anyone can remember. The villages cling to the sides of narrow valleys in neat, terraced rows of mud and stone houses, walnut and cherry orchards and small plots of barley and peas. The trails between the villages are narrow and rocky, created by goats and shepherds over centuries.
As we walked along these ageless paths, I found myself remembering a story I heard as a child, one of those stories that kept me awake wondering at night. There is a huge mountain a mile high. Once every hundred years, an eagle flies low over the mountain and brushes off one grain of sand from the top with the tip of its wing. Think of how long it would take to wear away the entire mountain! And yet, that is only the first second of infinity.
We often think of mountains as the symbol of solidness and durability. One of the teachings of mindfulness, however, is the experience of impermanence, as we observe how the breath moves in and out, how sensation changes, how thoughts arise and pass. And as we hiked, I was struck by how the mountains too are changing all the time due to the rivers washing down rocks and sand, the ice and snow carving the stone, the huge boulders that fall down to the valleys, the footsteps of hundreds of people and animals pressing down, even the alpine flowers that push up through the rocks. These mountains are in fact wearing slowly down. It is just a matter of time and scale.
Of course, if I stop to think about it, I know in my head that not even the mountains are exempt from the law of change. But to look up the valley and experience that fact took me aback for a moment. Then I thought of the blessing for seeing tall and lofty mountains: Blessed are You, God, who performs the work of creation. Who continues to perform, over long and short periods of time.
And I realized again: It is such a blessing to be small and ephemeral, to see the beauty of the world inside us and around us, to glimpse the preciousness of this life, its fragility and glory, and to share it with joy with those around us.
May 30, 2012 | by Rabbi Lisa Goldstein, Former Executive Director, Institute for Jewish Spirituality, Meditation
I hate shopping. I get overwhelmed very easily by the competing demands of all the products, prices, and salespeople. When I can’t find what I’m looking for right away, I tend to get discouraged and walk away, often intending to make do without. So when I went to the neighborhood camera store to buy a replacement battery and they didn’t stock the kind I needed, I took a deep breath and girded my loins to plunge into what must be the world’s most bustling, enormous camera and video superstore.
It was an astonishing experience. I was directed to the second floor where I waited in a short line. The clerk typed my request into his computer and within seconds, a little bin shot up along a conveyor belt straight from the warehouse. The clerk put the battery in another bin and sent it along; I received a receipt, and went downstairs to pay. After paying, I was directed to a third station where my battery was already packaged into a little bag and was ready to be picked up and taken home. The whole thing took less than ten minutes and each person I interacted with was friendly and helpful.
This experience brought me a completely new sense of awareness and appreciation. In truth, every time I go to the grocery store or to the bookstore or to buy a new pair of hiking boots, there are steps of the process that are usually completely invisible to me. I pick the product off the shelf and take it to the cashier and carry it home. But someone keeps the books and pays the invoices for the merchandise. Someone put the product on the shelf. Someone ordered it. Someone transported it to the store. Someone packaged it. Someone made or took care of or grew it. There are entire systems at play that enable me to buy an object. And this is not even to mention the fact that some of these systems are fair and others cause untold suffering to those who are part of it and to the earth itself.
How would shopping be different if I stopped to remember the chain of people, places and events that enabled each thing I wanted to buy? Instead of being largely an experience of desire, ignorance, and gratification, could it be an experience of appreciation, awareness and responsibility? And how might that ripple out into the world?
