Tevet: Settling Amidst the Storm

Tevet: Settling Amidst the Storm

While Kislev brought us into the darkest time of year and the holiday of Hanukkah, Tevet brings us out of Hanukkah, and moves us again towards longer, lighter days.

The month of Tevet was originally named while the Jewish people were living in exile in Babylonia. “Tevet,” meaning “sinking” or “immersing,”¹, perhaps references the muddy swamp-like conditions that arose from heavy rains during the winter season. 

It must have been quite stormy for the whole month to be named for the aftermath, and we could honor its significance by taking the name at face value. After all, during such a rainy month, it might be nice to allow ourselves to hibernate until the sun comes out again. And there’s no harm in doing so. However, if we have capacity to go deeper, there is a rich metaphor awaiting us here, and it invites us directly into practice. 

If you’ve been around in the wake of stormy weather, you might have noticed that grassy areas and dirt roads become messy, creating an obstacle-course like effect for those trying to navigate. Our traversing the path might even add to the disarray, deepening tire tracks in the mud or, worse yet, getting bogged and stuck.

Indeed there are some times when we have little choice but to go where we need to go, even if it means adding to the mess. However, another thing that you may have noticed is that, once the rain stops, if left alone, the silt will settle to the ground, making for clear water in the various puddles.

As it is written, “as within, so without”; we recognize that so much of our internal world is a reflection of what’s happening externally, and vice versa. According to Kabbalah, the state of the earth (covered in muck and mud) and the waters (stirred up from the storm), correspond to the state of the body and heart. As such, we might use this month to explore what “muck” or muddy waters are stirred up in us – body and heart – and how might we be agitating or quelling them? In this inquiry alone, we might become aware of the distinction between what we can control and what is beyond us. 

For example, we might realize that our stirred emotional state is made worse by rumination, and eased by journaling or sharing with a trusted confidante. This new awareness bring us to a bechira point² where we can choose whether to continue to process the emotions internally, or whether to engage in journaling, therapy, or even a conversation with a loved one, as a means to lessen the swirl of emotions that we’ve been carrying internally.

And, of course, we can bring our practice to bear, noticing what’s stirring and swirling in us, and allowing mindfulness to invite settling. It might mean coming to stillness to allow for thoughts and sensations to settle, or it might mean engaging mindful breathing or movement, as a way to focus our energy and induce relaxation in the nervous system. Whatever practice we choose, allowing the body, heart, and mind to settle, may help us to notice that, like the water once swirling with sediment, we too, become more clear – in thought, in breathe, in our senses, in our very being.

May this month of Tevet see only gentleness in its storms and our practice support us in allowing the aftermath to settle towards greater ease and clarity.

 

 

¹Posner, Menachem. 11 Facts About the Month of Tevet that Every Jew Should Know.
²A term from Mussar, the system of applied Jewish ethics, which means “choice point”.

Josh in Conversation with Joshua Leifer

Josh in Conversation with Joshua Leifer

We are grateful to Joshua Leifer for sharing his insights with us. Please enjoy the conversation recording.

Joshua Leifer is a journalist, editor, and translator. His essays and reporting have appeared widely in international publications, including The New York Times, The New York Review of Books, The Atlantic, The Guardian, The New Statesman, Haaretz, The

Nation, and elsewhere. A member of the Dissent editorial board, he previously worked as an editor at Jewish Currents and at +972 Magazine. He is currently pursuing a PhD at Yale University, where he studies the history of modern moral and social thought.

Tablets Shattered is now available for purchase.

At Home in the Darkness

At Home in the Darkness

At this time of year, where I live in Toronto, the trees have shed almost all of their leaves and their branches stand bare against the grey sky. Day by day, the hours of sunlight shorten while darkness holds on longer to the mornings and rolls in earlier and earlier in the evenings. Overhead, skeins of Canada geese honk their way south, and I almost take their leaving personally, abandoning me along with the snow and cold. With the loss of light and warmth, I find myself habitually focused on what I am losing, fighting against the changing season and its natural impact on me. When I face these outer and inner changes unmindfully, I fall into habits of either pushing myself to resist rest, forcing myself to be busy and social, or collapsing into fatigue as thoughts of loneliness and lack curl in next to me on the couch. 

To respond to the depletion and sense of lack that many of us feel at this time of year, there are abundant Jewish teachings for Chanukah and the whole Hebrew month of Kislev about bringing light into the darkness. But I want to invite us to linger in this month’s long nights, to explore making ourselves spiritually at home in the darkness and to learn from its gifts. 

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, the great Hasidic sage of the late 18th century, teaches that the medicine for this season is a practice of sighing. He quotes the famous verse from Zekhariah (4:6), from the Haftarah we read on the Shabbat of Chanukah -“Not by might and not by power, ki im be’ruchi – but only by My ruach (spirit/ wind/ breath)”. The repair for what is lacking cannot be found through force or fighting. Instead, we consciously, gently, engage with ruach

Rebbe Nachman explains that because everything that exists has come into being through Divine ruach, vital lifebreath, and because the secret of renewal lives in that same enlivening ruach, when there is lack, it is because there is a lack of ruach. Healing, therefore, needs an infusion of flowing, vitalizing ruach. While the winter earth becomes dormant and many animals hibernate, drawing their ruach inward until they are renewed in the spring, we humans, teaches Rebbe Nachman, can meet the lack or depletion of ruach within us with a conscious and soft flow of breath.

He teaches:

“See how precious is the sigh and groan {the krekhtz } of a Jewish person. It provides wholeness [in place] of the lack…And sighing is the extension of the breath. It corresponds to erekh apayim (patience)—i.e., extended ruach. Therefore, when a person sighs over the lack and extends their ruach, they draw ruach-of-life to that which they are lacking… Therefore, through the sigh, the lack is made whole” (Likutei Moharan, Torah 8:1).

We might think that the practice that is called for in response to the lack of light and lows of this season would be to generate strong and powerful breath, bracing against the cold, or quick and activating breath to overcome the darkness and our impulses to collapse under the covers. But the quality of ruach that we nurture in the month of Kislev, preparing for Chanukah, needs to be distinct – different from the fresh aliveness of spring or the luscious vitality of summer. For this time of year, Rebbe Nachman prescribes long, extended ruach-of-life breaths that share the qualities of the darkness outside – slow, heavy, spilling and spacious with soft and blurred boundaries. Between the poles of fighting and collapsing, we access this clear and gentle ruach-aliveness. 

Let yourself sigh a few times. Notice what the release feels like in your body. Feel how air tumbles out of your body, uncontrolled, unmeasured. The chest softens and falls, in and down. With the palms of your hands resting heavily against your chest, a sigh can partner with gravity to move stagnant ruach out of your body. Sighing is assisted by an open mouth and open throat so the fluff and flow of breath can pour out, unhindered. 

And of course, each sigh is fed by the inhalation that fills the body before and after it. The deeper and fuller the inhalation, the more fluid and restorative the sigh can become. Instead of pulling the next breath in, you can allow your belly to expand softly, patiently, allowing fresh air to fill and expand your lungs, to widen your ribcage, to let your mouth fall open, expanding from the inside out, becoming more available to release the next sigh. As you continue this sighing practice (and as some yawning might unfurl with the same qualities of soft expansion, quieting and release), you might notice a gentle increase of energy that is restful and warm but not sleepy or forced. 

You can let your vocal cords vibrate so that some sound rides on the flow of breath, just enough to give voice to what is felt within – sadness or ache, relief or pleasure. Rather than opening into big emotional catharsis, this is a practice of permission and presence so that feeling can move through us, supported and comforted by the movement of air through our whole bodies. With each holy sigh, ruach and emotion roll from the dark cave within to the darkness that surrounds. And from the darkness outside, enlivening ruach expands and fills the dark and wondrous galaxies within. Tehom el tehom koreh – Deep calls to deep (Psalm 42:8).  

Just as the small, flickering Chanukah candles enable us to be present with the stretch of night outside our windows, the practice of sighing embodies spiritual wisdom gleaned from the darkness. It doesn’t alter the weather or the slant of the sun but it fosters a sense of wholeness within us, breath by divine breath, so that we are increasingly at home in the darkness, lacking nothing.

Extracting the Hidden Light

Extracting the Hidden Light

As we enter the darkest season of the year, Jewish tradition teaches of the or haganuz, a hidden light revealed through presence and righteous acts. Legend says 36 hidden righteous ones—the Lamed Vavnikim—sustain the world. This Hanukkah, as we light 36 candles, we’re called to embody their spirit, revealing the light within ourselves and the world.

Josh in Conversation with Rabbi Adina Allen

Josh in Conversation with Rabbi Adina Allen

We are grateful to Rabbi Adina Allen for sharing her insights with us. Please enjoy the conversation recording.

Rabbi Adina Allen is a spiritual leader, author, and educator who grew up in an art studio where she learned firsthand the power of creativity for connecting to self and to the Sacred. She is cofounder and creative director of Jewish Studio Project (JSP), an organization that is seeding a future in which every person is connected to their creativity as a force for healing, liberation and social transformation. Adina’s first book, The Place of All Possibility: Cultivating Creativity Through Ancient Jewish Wisdom, was published in July 2024 (Ayin Press). She is also a national media contributor, popular speaker, and workshop leader, and her writing can be found in scholarly as well as mainstream publications. Based on the work of her mother, renowned art therapist Pat B. Allen, Adina developed the Jewish Studio Process, a methodology for unlocking creativity, which she has brought to thousands of activists, educators, artists, and clergy across the country. Adina was ordained by Hebrew College in 2014 where she was a Wexner Graduate Fellow. Adina is the recipient of the Covenant Foundation’s 2018 Pomegranate Prize for emerging educational leaders. She and her family live in Berkeley, California.

The Place of All Possibility: Cultivating Creativity Through Ancient Jewish Wisdom is now available for purchase.