My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Hello My Dear One,

LGBTQI+ Pride Month 2020 looked and felt different than any I've ever experienced. No parades, no flashy displays of rainbows, or even much coverage in the media. However, it did include the opportunity to share a part of my story with members of my faith community at Congregation Ner Shalom, in Cotati, CA.

Based on Genesis 1:27, the following is a poetic prayer that I composed for a Pride Shabbat Service on the 26th of June, 2020. It speaks to my love of Torah, my faith in G-d, and the struggles I have experienced as a transman. It is a reflection on how the body I have is a carefully created and shaped entity with the help of nature, science, and the Divine.

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Elohim, G-d, You said, “Let US make humans in OUR image.”

You crafted me a body, that never fit quite right
You gifted me a corporeal tote bag, that had crooked seams
You sculpted me a lumpy, squishy, and ungainly vessel, to hold the Divine Spark
And I was ungrateful.

In the beginning, I read how You crafted me in Your image
A cartoon of Adam and Eve printed on a canvas sack
A lump of clay thrown haphazardly on the wheel
And I was ungrateful.

I studied, and read, and translated each text letter by letter.
I punished and scarred my body in every way I could think of
I even asked You, Elohim, why did You create me wrong?
And I was ungrateful.

And all the texts, and commentaries, and conversations, lay lifeless around me.
And my mangled and mutilated body was sprawled across the floor.
And the Divine Spark began to flicker out.
And I was no longer capable of anything in any form.

And Elohim, G-d, You said, again, “Let US make YOU in OUR image.”

And there we were, all of us, reimagining and reimaging this creation
One shot in the thigh, one mustache hair, one new name
One literal seam after another stitched across my flesh
One kippah, tallit, and Alephbet making me a man
And I was grateful.

You and I, Elohim crafted us this transformed body
You and I, Elohim gifted us this resown backpack
You and I, Elohim sculpted us this vessel that now fully embodies Our Divine Spark
And I am grateful.


Thank you for being on this journey with me. I am grateful for your support, your love, and your transformation in this process as well.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.


- Ari

Losing My (Genetic) Identity

Hello My Dear One,

Last December I gave a sample of my DNA in a saliva filled tube to a popular company, and waited for some genetic answers to my ancestral past. I was hoping to learn more about my history, my ethnicities, and the other exciting things that came with the promises on the box. Like, does dark chocolate make me sneeze?

I guess I should've known that the testing was going to change things for me from the beginning. When I submitted the kit and filled out the online information, I checked the box that said male. But less than a week later I received an email that said I needed to go to my online profile and answer a question. The DNA sample submitted was from a female, and they needed to know if I had checked the wrong box, mixed up samples, or was it a gender identity issue?

So, I changed my profile to match my DNA, because I had to correct a purposeful lie. I'm not really a male of the species. I am a man, which describes my gender identity and expression, but not a male, because that has to do with my biological sex. And according to my DNA, I have 2 X chromosomes, and am for scientific classification purposes, female. I often identify as transsexual rather than transgender, due to medical interventions such as hormone therapy and surgical procedures. Yet, my DNA is forever encoded to produce a human whose first introduction to the world would be "It's a girl!" A thousand years from now if someone tested a single remaining cell of mine, they would never know that I had lived as a man.

A few weeks later when the test results came back, knowing a good portion of my family tree, I was not surprised to see the British Isles genomic markers, or the French/Germanic results. Learning that I have 306 traits of Neanderthal genetics, making me approximately 4% "caveman," wasn't all that odd either. But, it was the absence of some genes that was an issue.

According to my DNA, I am not (genetically) a Jew.

In all likelihood, it's a matter of an incorrect birth certificate several generations back. No, I don't want to do more digging, that information was not what I wanted in the first place.

Regardless, having been raised with a mix of Conservadox Judaism and Protestant Christianity, I've always felt like I'm in the middle of a religious road. Moreover, there is a G-d shaped 18 wheeler bearing down on me at a very high rate of speed.

Now, several months later, I find myself having gone through a wild ride of emotions and thoughts. How do I process this information in the first place? How do I reconcile my sense of self, with my genetic self? What does all of this mean to my faith and spiritual life? Does it make things easier or harder? How much do I actually have to reconcile anyway?

I learned all of this before Chanukah this year, and it shook me. It was so unsettling that I didn't retrieve my menorah from storage, and I never lit a single candle, though I frequently caught myself singing the blessings in my head. Although I try to live my life with no regrets, I decidedly regret not shining light into the darkness.

In the following weeks and months I continued to struggle with this new genetic understanding of myself. Oddly, it's been far more difficult to wrestle with this than with my gender identity genetics. You'd think that my biological sex being proven as the exact opposite of who I know myself to be would be far more traumatizing, or crushing, or painful. But it isn't. That biology doesn't really affect how I walk through the world. With hormones and surgeries I "look" male, and I feel male. Even my brain works and communicates differently than it did prior to transition, or at least that's what my wife tells me.

And, honestly, my gender identity and expression is not who I am at the end of the day. I've always known what my gender identity is, that I was a boy, and now a man. Even when the outside didn't match the inside, I still knew exactly who I was. Rather, it is how I act, how I speak, how I may have helped or harmed another, and how I reconciled that with G-d. Hormones and body parts don't change that reality. They are simply a part of the human packaging.

So if I'm able to make that immensely complicated genetic scramble into something so simple, why has it felt nearly impossible to do so with what could've been as little as 12.5% of my DNA? Who am I if not this flesh and most importantly blood self? How do I know myself as a Beloved Child of G-d, an "Un Homme de Dieu," and a thousand other names for a faith believer? And in the end will it really matter?

The answers to those questions are so massive that I cannot answer them all just yet. Maybe I can't even answer them at all. But, a telling thing happened to me and I guess it provides a hint of what may come.

I was introduced to a young man who is a practicing Muslim, and I immediately said, "Salaam Alaikum!" which is an Arabic greeting meaning peace to you. It is nearly identical to the Hebrew phrase "Shalom Aleichem," which also means peace to you. I happened to be cooking sausages and I shared that I didn't eat pork either since I was Jewish. I quickly pointed out that the people around us, the other members of the church, were not Jewish, but that I was. Yes, I am a member of a church, and apparently, when faced with with someone of a different faith in that setting, I find myself claiming my otherness. And, to be clear, I always greet someone I know to be Muslim with the words Salaam Alaikum, because I want them to know that a white person can be welcoming of who they are. And I do this during presentations as well. I see interfaith dialogue as the only way to truly living out G-d's Dream.

So, there's an answer to all of this. I am an interfaith Beloved Child of G-d, a muddled man of faith, un homme de dieu à plusieurs parties (a man of G-d with multiple parts,) and Heaven knows what else. And hopefully, without sounding too presumptuous, like G-d, I am who/what I am.

Thank you for being on this genetically scattered journey with me.



Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

Ari

Of At-One-Ment, of Being Enough

Hello My Dear One,
      Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, the new year [5775] ushered in, the shofar blown, and our sins sent out into the waters. Yom Kippur is over as well, and we have atoned for our wrongdoings and are sealed in the Book for another year. Sukkot, even if I do still have cabbages in the garden, with our celebrations of wandering, harvesting, and backyard huts is complete as well. There is a clean slate, an array of beautifully colored chalks, and an invitation to create anew. 
      But I do not feel it. I am uninspired. Instead I feel the weight of what is to come, burdened by the violence of the past year. I feel the fear. I taste it.  
      Why? Why do I choose to see the suffering, the sins, and the separations, especially after I have just atoned for all of them less than a month ago? Is there something more appealing about the negatives? Is it my Beast sniffing around, trying to prey on my weakness for a half empty glass? I don't know. 
      I do know that it happens every year. I know that I find the dark spots of myself almost delicious. It's as if I want to reveal how terrible I really am. Is it my doing or is it my Beast's? Is it a collaboration of the two of us? And how much of it will be shown to the rest of the world? How much do I actually want to be judged?
      I was just called to atone for my sins. Now, I personally define sin as: separation or the act of separating myself from G-d; to live outside of covenant; to choose an independent path, one that may or may not lead to a livable outcome. I performed a kind of spiritual surgery that dissects the comfortable, yet prickly habits of my mind, the downright dangerous grudges, and my failures to forgive. I broke apart the self-aggrandized acts of teshuvah that I congratulated myself for, from the real, and far less glamorous forgiveness I have experienced and have given.
      And I confessed all of the sins I committed this past year. I attempted to at-one-ment myself back into relationship, right-relatedness with G-d. I expelled the grudges. I offered forgiveness. I accepted that I had been forgiven by G-d. I moved out of the old year's agonies and into the new year's possibilities.
      But here I am, reveling in the evils that were, and making myself feel like a horrible person, not worthy of the forgiveness I've already been granted. And as I sit with this, I feel the realness of mental illness, the hardness of past abuses, and the deepest truth that I wrestle with each and every day.

I don't believe that I will ever be worthy enough. 

      In the face of therapy, medications, writing, praying, working, the assurances in Torah, and the tangible proof in my life, I still question my worthiness. 

In moments of true narcissism, I want to claim that I am the victim of some cosmic tragedy that has time and again left me with too few resources, be them financial, emotional, psychological, or spiritual. I want to believe that if something, anything had been different in my life, then I wouldn't be dealing with the perpetual disappointments of the everyday. I want to believe that my suffering entitles me to an extra helping of pity from the world. Most cruelly, I believe that others do not need to be forgiven, because of all the pain they have caused me.

      When I cannot see others, as my neighbors, I sin. When I fail to see the inherent worth of all of G-d's children, I fail to see my inherent worth as a child of G-d. If I am not worthy, then my neighbors are valueless as well, I whisper into the dark vastness I have placed between myself and G-d. 
      And I want G-d to whisper back, "Child. Why? Son, when will you accept My acceptance? When will you realize that you are truly worthy of love, respect, and safety? When will you finally let go of the pains of the past and come into the current? It is time child to accept forgiveness, and believe it. Trust Me. Every Child of G-d is forgiven. Every single one. And you are one. You are worthy. You are enough." 
      And when I listen with every fiber of my body, my mind, and my soul, right now, I can hear that whisper. I feel the sorrow, the compassion, and the release. I am present. And for a moment or two I am enough.
      Unlike G-d though, I am painfully human. I will take offense at perceived slights. I will feel insulted by offhanded remarks. I will lose my temper at my spouse, my children, the GPS on my smartphone, and probably many other people and inanimate objects. I will in all likelihood find a grudge, muckle onto it, and store it in the darkness of my own pettiness. I will forget that I am forgiven, that everyone is forgiven, and I will forget our collective worthiness as children of G-d.
     But for now, I can remember that I am whole, I am enough, I am more than I will ever know. Through this holy experience of welcoming a new year, seeking forgiveness and a page turn on the old year, I am assured that I am truly good enough for G-d.

Thank you for your forgiveness on my journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

Worthy

-Ari 

Of Red Geraniums, Orange Marmalade Cakes, and Yellow Towels; Of Mother's Day

Hello My Dear One,

It was Mother's Day recently here is the United States and instead of perseverating on the painful relationship I have with my own mother, I chose to focus instead on my wife and her journey as a mother.  This year was the 10th anniversary of the burial service for my wife's mother, Linda. She passed on Christmas Day, 2013 and because of the icy winters of the Northeast, we were unable to return her to the earth for nearly 5 months.  This is a painful reality for those of us who live in climates that render the ground beneath our feet frozen solid, immobilized against all manmade equipment.  So, we preserve the body, have the memorial or funeral service, and after the thaw we relive the pain of the loss as we part with our loved one again.  Although there is a sense of completion at this second service, it is often lost to the reopened wounds that have only just begun to heal and scar over.

In our case, the wounds ran deeper, as the burial took place the day before Mother's Day, 2004.  My young wife, not yet 30 years old, had lost her mother less than 5 months before.  And the next day, Mother's Day, would be her 1st as a mother herself with our then 10 month old son.  What an aching duality she must have felt at that moment.  To be watching the body of her mother leave her for the last time, while holding the gift of the new and unbridled joy of healthy, happy child who was loving her as she had loved her own mother.  I have not experienced this in my life, nor will I ever, yet I can feel her sadness a decade later as I recall that day.

But let me return to the burial itself.  Let me tell what can happen when one is open to the G-d that has more for us than just grief.  Often there is something special, extraordinary, and inexplicable that occurs at these "plantings," these burials of our already long gone friends and relatives.  There is something out of the ordinary that brings us a renewed sense of the continuation of our lives and the presence of the Holy within and around us.  In our case, it was a hawk.

I have a physical remembrance of standing near the graveside, hearing words, looking at my wife, and wondering what solace might be found there.  As I felt the air moving around us, heard the birds in the trees, smelled the fresh flowers, and saw the blue sky through the treetops, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and saw the smile of a friend as she pointed up to the sky.  There, circling in majestic arcs was a hawk, surveying us and all that was around.  As she spoke the word "look," my wife and I both looked up and saw the magnificent sight.  It was as if, in that moment, G-d had given us a a reprieve from the darkness of looking down into a grave.  Rather, we were compelled to look up and see the soaring hope of the life that was still ahead of us.  We gave meaning to presence.

When we ascribe meaning to parts of our life experiences, we create truths for our own comfort and resiliency.  Within the Jewish and Christian traditions, the physical reminders of our covenant(s) with G-d contain the ancient rituals of breaking bread and drinking wine while speaking prayers of blessing.  Every time we share in a meal where we give outward thanks, we create a truth about experiencing the Holy with our most basic physical needs of food and drink.  I believe that all of creation can be a witness to G-d and the blessings that can be had when one is open to them.  From bread and water to the most sacred of religious practices, we are in the presence of Holiness when we use the material gifts that G-d has supplied us with.  Like manna in the wilderness or fish for the multitudes G-d gives us tangibles to access a G-d that is too great to be comprehended by us.  In our family this Mother's Day there were 3 things of material existence that were given spiritual significance, and allowed us to access that Holiness, that enormous G-d.

Red geraniums, an orange marmalade cake, and a yellow hand towel.

Long before my mother-in-law passed she always said that if reincarnation was possible, she wanted to return as a red geranium.  I am sure I could delve into all the reasons for this, but frankly I enjoy the mystery of it more.  Every year I buy my beloved wife a red geranium, on or around Mother's Day, as a reminder of Mom's wish, and as a reminder of my shared memories of Linda.  This year I found a beautiful hanging basket filled with the bright red flowers and tons of buds waiting for their chance to bloom.  It was a remembrance of the gift of a human life and how love had the power to change so many lives.

Mom's Red Geranium

The orange marmalade cake has its roots, not in my mother-in-law, but in my wife's love of a series of books by the author Jan Karon, The Mitford series.  In it, there is a character who bakes this special cake for friends and family, often annoying her husband during the holidays due to the cost of the ingredients.  It is more than just a delicious treat, it is actually an expression of love and caring as the baking process requires many steps, attention to detail, special ingredients, and a lot of time and patience.  The cake was a gift of gratitude for the love that continues to change the lives of our sons as well as our own.

Orange Marmalade Cake

The yellow hand towel has a unique place in this trinity of everyday sacraments, reaching back over 20 years.  In the late summer of 1993 my wife was preparing to attend college, 2 hours away from home, and would be living in a dorm for the first time in her life.  As she collected the necessary items for her new journey, her mother also purchased things for her to bring.  Numerous toiletries, clothes, and bedding were secured for her future life in college, but there was a need that Linda provided with her unique pragmatic approach to life.  She bought a set of mustard yellow hand towels, high quality no less, that if one were being generous in describing them would say they were ugly at best.  The reason for this was intentional, because Linda believed that no one would steal these towels due to there color.  And sure enough she was right, because twenty plus years later, we still have those hideous towels.  They've never been stolen, no matter how much we would have wished them to be.

The "Still not Stolen" Yellow Hand Towel

And here I choose to ascribe one more bit of meaning to these three items, that their colors represent the relationships between mother and daughter.  The red geraniums and the yellow towels are primary colors that when combined create a secondary color, orange, in the form of the cake.  You see, the deeply imprinted devotion of a mother's love for her daughter was bonded with a promise of love that would transcend mortality.  And this has given new life to the daughter who is a mother herself.  The red of the future along with the yellow of the past blend into the orange of the present.  And although this interpretation could easily be called false, I believe that the sacred meaning is greater than the "truth."

In the end, we find our ability to have meaningful experiences with the Holy, with G-d, with our sacred truths where we are, not where we are supposed to be.  Through the process of living into these truths we can begin to see ourselves within the heart of G-d and the universe itself.  Whether it be through flowers, cakes, and towels, or bread, wine, and blessings, we are capable of entering into relationship with G-d.  And when we do that, we are able to enter into relationships with others.  And it is only then that we can witness the true, unique, and unconditional love of G-d. 

Thank you for continuing to seek the true love of G-d with me on this journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

Ari

Of Queen Esther and Of [Transgender] Passing

Hello My Dear One,

It was recently Purim, a festival of women's power over oppression, well one woman at least.  We celebrate the courage, character, and faith of Queen Esther as she bravely stood her ground and defeated the "evil" Haman and saved the Jewish people.  She also had a little help from her Uncle Mordecai, and most of all G-d was on her side.  It's kind of a recurring theme of course throughout the Torah, potential Jewish annihilation thwarted at the last possible moment through devout belief in the reality and power of the one true G-d.

We Jews, admittedly, and with good reason, frequently display a persecution/oppression complex.  It's been going on for millennia, and the most recent attack of the Shoah [Holocaust] where 6 million Jews were actually annihilated, makes a definitive case for fearing the loss of Jewish lives and culture.  It's true, being Jewish is often a liability, but I have observed many individuals for whom more traditional practice strengthens their Jewish identity, and protects the core of the Judaism, as they see it.

Now, I am not a particularly "observant" Jew.  I do not really keep kosher, however it is a part of my consciousness and I don't eat cheeseburgers, pork, or bacon, except when there is bacon and it looks too delicious not to consume.  And for the record, every time a crack an egg I look to see if it has been fertilized or not, and then proceed to use it regardless, because I'm too cheap to waste eggs.  I do not possess multiple sets of dishes, pots and pans, silverware, knives, or other kitchen needs.  And although I am fully fluent in the kashrut understandings of meat, dairy, and parve, I can't remember the last time I actually looked at a label to see if it was "appropriate" for the particular dining event.  You don't really need to when it comes to matzoh anyway.  Then again, I eat leavened bread during Pesach, and no, I am not Sephardic, I am Ashkenazic through and through.  I suppose one of the few remnants of food directives that I keep is guilt.

But wait, there's more.  I do not attend services very often, sometimes it's no more than twice a year.  I don't observe all the holy days, there have been many years I didn't even light candles during Chanukkah, and perhaps worst of all, I married a gentile.  Yep, I married goy.  And my sons are being raised in her faith tradition of liberal christianity.  And ultimately, I would rather they have a strong faith in essentially the same G-d that I believe in, even if it involves different rites and rituals.

And all of this brings me to Purim, to a story of the religious fortitude of an ancient character that continues to inspire millions of Jews.  Even a not-particularly-observant-Jew like myself feels a swell of pride and purpose as the Megillah is recited, if only in fragments in my mind.  The story of a woman who hides who she is from her husband, still maintains contact with her openly Jewish uncle, and ultimately foils a plan to eradicate her people by an "other" who seeks to blot out a faithful and reasonably peaceful group of people.  And maybe that's the special hook in the story, the way that Esther is able to conceal her Jewishness, even from the king.  Because, for all intents and purposes, even those of us who "look" Jewish, don't have some outward difference that marks us as Jews.  Note: I recognize that in the past, circumcision was an outward sign, however one wasn't usually walking around displaying this to the public, and nowadays, circumcision is a remarkably common practice in the United States for all newborn males.

You see, unless we go around wearing kippahs or yarmulkes, or fringe hanging out from under our shirts or some other accessory of Judaism, we can pass as non-Jews.  And this has happened throughout history.  Jews have shed their traditional clothing for the local culture's and assimilated into society.  And let's face it, assimilation is a lot easier than following hundreds of arcane rules and laws that were meant for people living thousands of years ago.  Laws keep people in line, and if you make sure that the dress code is a legal issue, then you can further ensure group unity.  But, when you take the uniforms away, the custodian and the principal cannot be told apart, or the priest from the beggar, or maybe even the man from the woman.

And that idea, that we can't tell who's who, or how we should treat them is scary.  Plain and simple, we want to know how to address someone because we have different rules for different people, and we don't want to insult a greater person or mistakenly elevate a lower one.  It's a sad truth I have learned as an intersex and transgender individual, particularly one with mental illness who happens to be Jewish.  Sometimes I think I should get a prize for having membership in so many minorities, but that would defeat the purpose.  Anyway, how we interact with another person is based on a myriad of assumptions, and when we can hide parts of ourselves, we are able to avoid some of the prejudices that we fear encountering.

But back to Queen Esther, back to how she and I actually meet in the middle of Judaism and gender identity.  She and I both occupy spaces that can be challenged when our "true" identities are discovered.  Queen Esther is passing as a non-Jew in a place where being a Jew is risky at best.  She has found a way to live in a situation that was not entirely of her choosing, and live well, even at the cost of an outward profession of her faith.

And so am I.  In my day to day life I pass as a "normal" heterosexual male, married, with two sons, living an average life in rural Maine.  I pass so completely that even my wife sometimes forgets that my transgender self could be a problem for other people.  She knows me, all of me, and yet sees me as totally male inside and out and even I marvel at this.  Frankly, I see myself the same way, as male inside and out, and I project this image to the world around me.

But I have chosen not to go "stealth," to live as though I was never female, as though I am not a transman, as though I do not have an intersex condition, as though I am a "normal" heterosexual male.  I have chosen to expose my past and my present realities in very public ways.  I have chosen to write, to speak, to share, and to confide in people my true identity, even if it could cost me all the stability I have in the world.  I choose to live my truth.

And that of course is where Queen Esther and I meet in the middle of faith and comfort.  We have both chosen to reveal our souls to those who might harm us for who we are.  And of course I do this with my own faith, not just my gender identity, as I share the duality of my religious experience in a rural community where diversity is non-normative.  I also share my battle with the Beasts of my mental illness, the quirks of my brain, the realities of who I am.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just keep my mouth shut and go stealth, maybe pack up and move the family to a whole new place and pretend that my past didn't happen the way it really did.  But
as my pastor recently reminded me, I am not someone who blends.  I am outspoken, opinionated, stubborn, and stuck firmly in the belief that all people deserve the right to live their lives as they choose.  So even if I moved, I would undoubtedly find ways to expose myself for who I am, giving lectures, writing, revealing, confiding, and sharing the truths of what it means to be a transman who refuses to hide.

Why would I do this?  Why would I stay as open as I am, when given a chance to pass as normative?  Because, although I cannot save all the transgender people in the world, I, like Queen Esther can save the ones around me.  I can help my transgender brothers and sisters free themselves from isolation, persecution, depression, and fear by showing that I can live out loud.  

I can live without fear of discrimination, because I know that someone else's dislike of me says more about them than it does about me.  I can live without fear, because I know that who I am, is the me that has been called into being.  I can live as myself, because I live in the presence of a G-d who loves me exactly as I am.  I can live, because I have chosen not to die, not to accept the hatred, not to accept the darkness that has surrounded me time and time again.  I choose to live life.  

Every day I offer to shed light on dark and hidden subjects that have repressed us all, as we all live in the shadows and on the margins of the potentials we can be.  By living as authentically as possible, I can show that regardless of biological sex, gender identity, and/or sexual orientation, we are all valuable and valued children of G-d.  We all need unconditional love.  We all need each other.  And with G-d's help, we are capable of creating and sharing that love with each and everyone of our neighbors.

Thank you for being light and love on my journey.


Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Weakness, Kindheartedness, and Tikkun Olam

Hello My Dear One,

It is the end of January, with February and March close at hand, granting us nearly three months of icy cold winter in New England.  Months filled with snowstorms, darkness, and introspection.  We have little else to do in this climate during this time of year but to examine what has been and what is to come.  We are insulated by the deep, deep snow outdoors, and the heavy handmade quilts inside.  There is an inherent hush in the spaces around us, and like the Roman god Janus whom we name that first month after, we too look both ways at the years before now, and the years that will be.  A deity whose sole purpose was of beginnings and transitions, over 2000 years ago, still leads us into each new year.  I am no more immune to this than anyone else, and I take this time for introspection with a sense of reverence for who I was and who I long to be.

Of course the Beasts of Mental Illness that I live with play huge roles in the process, most usually as embarrassing regrets about the years behind me, as well as prayers that they will be less intrusive in the coming ones.  They are pariahs, attached with a deadly grip, attempting to suck the healthy blood from my system, leaving me depleted of natural resources.  But I am still the host, and I can ignore them as long as I remember that their needs do not trump my own needs.  My mind is stronger than their fervent cries.  My body can withstand the physical side effects of their attacks, and of the medications I must take to help me fight them more consistently.  And at the end of the day I am the one who has the final word.

Yet, with all that said, sometimes I am weaker than I wish to be.  Sometimes the battle takes a greater toll than I can handle, and I must return to a smaller, quieter, safer space in order to reset myself, and center within my relationship with G-d.  Sometimes this can be a fairly easy task, achieved through meditation, prayer, sleep, and my pillow.  Sometimes this is a far deeper one that requires something as drastic as an inpatient stay at a mental health facility.  Thankfully, I have not needed this intensive therapy for over fifteen months, and I keep close watch that I will not need it any time soon.

Within this introspection of course I continue to work, play, and strive to be a true partner in my marriage, a strong role model for my sons, and a man of integrity in my career choices.  This means that often the time that I want to think about the deeper questions of the heart are instead filled with questions about laundry, dinner, bills, and homework.

But those are also the times that can bring revelations that I might not have otherwise seen.  By living as fully humanly as possible I find that the world engages me more than I can engage myself.  As much as I would love to be able to read, and write, and entertain myself, I cannot live within a vacuum when the world is forever pressing me to act in response to its needs.  And by "world" I mean not only the literal sphere, but the many realms of consciousness that surround us.  There are millions of  microcosms that we navigate daily, from our own bedroom to the latest tragedy in a country that is thousands of miles away.  We are a global community and this pushes us to see ourselves in new constructs, both exciting and terrifying.

So, about those revelations, I had a doozy of a one a week ago.  It happened when my sons had two neighborhood boys spend the night out our house.  It began with the premise of only one of the boys sleeping over, but the younger sibling cried at the thought that he couldn't come too.  And this is where the big softie comes in to the picture.

You see, I am a big softie, a sucker for a good kid who needs a little boost in life that will hopefully help them turn out to be better than his/her parent(s) who've made unhealthy choices.  Basically, I want to give kids whose moms and dads just can't give them the love and support they need to grow, those things, even if it means sacrificing resources of my own.  I want the kids whose home lives really stink to experience what a loving family can be.  I want them to know that they have intrinsic value and worth, they are beloved children of G-d, even if I never utter those words.  They are here, no matter how they got here, and now they have the opportunity to bring their gifts to the world.  I want to facilitate that process of discovery and self awareness within them.

So, I, in a moment of "weakness" decided to allow the second child to stay the night as well.  They were after all siblings, and home was right across the street, and I couldn't bear the thought of the youngest being left out.  Well, joyousness resounded through the land and two boys came back across the road, clothes in plastic shopping bags, smiling as though they had just won the lottery.  Even though I knew that my wife was not 100% behind me on this one, I felt confident that it would all be ok.

Naturally, the reality of 4 boys aged 8, 8, 9, and 10 on a Friday night, all in the house expecting food and fun was not as fantastic as I had hoped.  I too was hungry, tired from a long week, and a little cranky about my self-inflicted routine change.  Needless to say, at some point I got angry with my loving wife over something small, and it turned into something large for no reason.  That is so often the way of anger, a misunderstood hurt becomes a battle of wills instead of an opportunity to hear another person's viewpoint.  At any rate, I was hurt by her use of the word "weakness" and how I interpreted it.
I found myself in the fetal position in bed, crying over this perceived attack on my character.  At first I did what any good man would do in this situation, I wallowed in my own self pity until I felt even worse.  Then I remembered a technique given to me by my therapist to somatically deal with emotional pain.  And despite my desire to keep hiding, I did it.  And I had to work really hard through those burning tears as I thought about what it meant to be weak.  Or, to be seen as weak by the one person I trust most in the entire world.

With the tapping technique I have learned from my therapist, I separated out weakness from kindheartedness.  I discovered that weakness to me was a true failing because of the weakness my mother had when it came to my own safety.  What I was doing was an act of protecting and loving, it was not an act of weakness but rather an act of kindheartedness.  It was an act of Tikkun Olam, of repairing the world, two children at a time, or maybe four, as my own sons learned the value of loving your actual neighbors as you love yourself.

But there was another revelation that came, albeit a week later, with the word weakness.  Another of the word's meanings refers to a special desire or fondness for something.  I myself have a true weakness for homemade dark chocolate peanut butter cups.  And I'm sure that there are many others like me.  And that's where I can find a power within the word weakness itself, because children who are in need of extra love and support are my weakness.  Out of my own needs for love and support as a child, I have been able to transform that pain into a kindheartedness for the kids who are often the most unlovable.

Importantly, I have been able to do this primarily through the acts of Tikkun Olam I perform every day at work.  Each student I work with individually has a harder than average time getting their needs met, and for six hours a day I try to help them learn better ways to do that.  In the process they teach me how to love the world more fully.  They teach me that my old behaviors, the ones I let the Beast run wild with, can be shaped into something better.  Those horrors can be used as foundations for where I can continue to rise up from, lighting the darkness as I go.  And I can love the Beasts I live with as much as I love the children who challenge me the most.  

So, here I am preparing for the next rounds of battle with others' beasts and with my own as I try to repair the world with my own weakness, and my own kindheartedness.  I pray for the other children of G-d as we face ourselves, our beasts, and each other.  I pray that we can repair the world by repairing ourselves, one little bit at a time.

Thank you for helping to repair the world, and for having a kind heart for me.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

Of The Holiday Beast of Mental Illness, Of Dave and Steve, and Of New Years

Hello My Dear One,

Happy New Year.  Happy New Beginning.  Happy January.  Welcome 2014, welcome to the hope that comes with the replacement of the old calendar covered with marks, tears, and dirt, with an unblemished shiny twelve new months.  Say adieu to the old year and bonjour to the new one.  But let's make sure that we don't lose the lessons learned from the last year.  Let's remember what was, and envision what might be, but let's keep an eye on the short term before and after now, thinking of what has just been and what might come.

Ok, so I'm not really that optimistic and flowery, not to mention I celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a more accurate New Year for myself.  But still, I look forward to the upcoming months and the inherent belief in the possibilities for change, renewal, and rebirth.  It is Winter, and therefore, we must suffer the dark and the cold with the hope that Spring will eventually come.  But before those first tiny buds of growth appear we must suffer the holidays of December, the potholes, and the problems that come with Winter. 

Last month, much as it is every year for me, was a doozy.  It was once again the "Holiday Season," the time of year when a merchandising and marketing blitzkrieg of overpriced, unwanted, and unfairly produced stuff occurs, a bombardment of things that could have defeated the Third Reich itself.  It was a commercial assault that aimed to blanket us with the insidious belief that "wants" are really "needs," and that you may not survive if you don't get what you "need." Yes, it was December in the United States of America, a month devoted to obsessively and compulsively shopping at all hours of the day and night, both prior to Christmas, and afterward for the big sales that follow.  It was the time of year that can bring out the best and the worst in people, as the act of giving becomes a battle to profess one's love through the quantity of gifts that can be bestowed.  Often, it is a losing battle for both the givers and the receivers, as added debts of money and guilt are placed upon each person, like necklaces made of millstones rather than pearls.

It was near.  The neon lights within the darkness.  The hope that the ice would eventually melt.  The candles that are the prayers for renewal were about to burn.  The time was very near.

Yes, even within the monetary battle for supremacy there is still a glimmer of the root truths of the winter holidays.  For all the glittery trinkets that surround us, there is a need for marking the darkest day of the year and the light that will follow.  Chanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, Kwanzaa, New Year's Eve are all celebrations that incorporate light into the darkness, both literally and figuratively.

But what if one is overstimulated by too much light?  What if the promises of hope are greater than the possible realities?  What if the darkness can blot out the light?

Unfortunately for me, and for my family, the beast of my mental illness has a particular nearness and problem with the issues of light in the darkness.  The beast becomes so engrossed in the mania of the holiday season itself, that the complimentary anxiety, depression, stress, anger, and overall dis-regulation strengthen into an all encompassing break with reality.  That horrifying moment of collapse and meltdown comes pouring out of him, out of me, creating pools of dark, gooey, urine soaked, and blood filled nightmares across the wooden floors of the world around me.  The pools ooze out further, seeping into the cracks between the boards, and contaminating every surface they touch.  It is like watching my own soul bleed out, and lying helpless as it happens.  And as the pools continue to spread, my loved ones cannot help but be touched by the mess I am creating as it rushes around their feet, their ankles, and their own souls.  

This is what the Holiday season has so often been for me.

And over the years I have lived in the shame of my beast's behaviors.  I have lived in the shame of feeling out of control, unable to contain the madness as I damage the life around me.  I have lived in the shame of feeling as though beyond the obvious mental illness that is wrong with me, that I am a cultural failure as well, hating Christmas, not out of my faiths but out of some deeper darkness.

So, I decided to do two things about it.  First, I decided to get the professional psychological and medical attention that I needed to rebalance the neurochemical disaster in my brain.  Luckily, or perhaps divinely, I was able to schedule an appointment that happened within 24 hours with my trusted provider.  This gave me an almost immediate respite from the chaos that had been encircling my day to day life.  It also gave me the opportunity to explore some of my Christmas angst in a safe and supportive space.  I was able to gain new insights, and some of that led to a direct change in how I approached Christmas this year.

Secondly, I have decided to share a piece of myself that I have until now kept hidden within its own tomb of deconstruction.  For the first time, I am willing to share two of the names of my Beast.  I say two of the names, because there are other names I cannot speak, that cannot be spoken, that even I haven't discovered or yet myself named.  But as J.K. Rowling, through the character of Albus Dumbledore said, "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."*  And so, I must name the thing that has caused some of the greatest fear in my life.

Let me tell you about Dave and Steve.

One of the parts of my Beast is a mellow dude who brings the party with him wherever he goes.  He is a fun, relaxed, easygoing person who enjoys the unexpected happy moments of life.  He appreciates adventures, challenges, and travel.  This is the guy you want to go to the beach with, go out to eat with, watch a game with, frankly, do anything with that would be a stress free and delightful experience.  I like him. Heck, everybody likes him.  He's a great guy.

This is Dave.  Yep, Dave will attend events that I myself would rather spend hiding under a heavy rock than actually going to, graciously accepting invitations to things that I run screaming from.  Dave doesn't ramble about the elegance of ancient Hebrew scripture and how to parse each word apart to ascertain truer meaning of texts.  He can simply shoot the breeze, talk about cars, sports, and even "guy stuff."  Like I said, Dave is a great guy.

But for all the fun of Dave, there is another part of my Beast, and his name is Steve.  He is another of the anthropomorphic understandings that is my experience with Bipolar Disorder 1.  Steve is the screaming maniac who has the ability to traumatize, batter, break, destroy, and horrify anyone and anything in his rage driven path.  Steve has a darkness to him that can blanket out each candle of hope, each star shining down, each lamp along the way, and the sun itself shining its brightest on this floating sphere we call home.  Like Bipolar Disorder itself, the burning self-exaltation and the inkiest darkening of the world at large, these two identities of Dave, and Steve coexist in a state of constant competition for attention.  They battle a never ending game of Tug-O-War, where the losing side is always me, or the people around me.

And Steve has left a lasting mark on everyone in my family, my wife, my in-laws, and in particular on my sons.  Christmas this year brought out the worst of Steve, with a gory meltdown a few days before the 25th, filled with angst and angry words.  It was traumatizing for all of us and I myself was horrified by the magnitude of the psychological earthquake that rocked our home in a way that will need repairs both physical and emotional.  All I can say is that I am sorry for this and that I have been dealing with the fallout as best I can, combined with new medication and therapeutic sessions.

Dave and Steve originated over 35 years ago, and I suspect they were actually varying male identities of myself that I could name when I was a very young child.  And I could this while still being told how to act like a girl.  I needed to keep my split sense of self together by having inner male counterparts to exist even when the world around me attempted to make me conform to the body on the outside.

But the truth of the matter is, Steve is and was sexually open, fearless in conduct and behavior, and an alcoholic.  That guy is really an immature pit of illness made manifest as an excuse to relinquish personal accountability, and I regret most of my actions and behaviors while under the unmedicated influence of him.  And I'd like to atone and make right all that which I can. 

So, in this is the time of year, when we make resolutions, often to lose weight, exercise, quit smoking or drinking, have more money, or somehow be a "better" form of ourselves than we were last year, I am resolving to be less intimidated by Dave and Steve.  I have decided that in this new Western calendar year to stop and listen when I hear the low growls of Steve, or the all too exuberant musings of Dave.  I have decided this year to be a "better" version, not of Steve or Dave, but of myself.  I have come to learn that for all their chatter, I am a completely valuable and worthy human being.  Regardless of my past actions, and the sins - the separations from G-d and my fellow humans - that I have committed, I am a man of integrity, dignity, and honesty.  I cannot be anyone but myself, even when my Beast tries to tell me otherwise.

As I reflect over what I have experienced these past few years, I find myself in a new and different place.  The Beast that I was unable to acknowledge, has become the Beast that I can name.  An with his names comes my own ability to call him out directly, to say, "Dave, I'm good enough," or "Hey Steve, SHUT UP ALREADY!" And I will be able to say to them both that I am the one who runs the show, and when they try to, I will be ready for them.  

And this time, this time, I was more ready for them.  I was able to call them out for what they were, what they were trying to do, and even why they were trying to do it.  And instead of letting their madness overtake me, I ran to the professional help I needed, rather than running away and attempting something hurtful to those I love.

I know that I will always have to battle them.  I know that my Beast is a lifelong war that will never truly end.  I know there will be pain, suffering, and harm in all forms throughout the coming years.  And I know that as long as I have faith in G-d, faith in myself, and faith in the support that I receive, I will lessen the blows from my Beast.

Thank you for being there with me as I do battle.

Be well.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself.  And remember to actually to love yourself.

-Ari



*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Of "Little" Words; of Love and Want; or Why I am a Jew Who Frequently Attends a UCC Church

Hello My Dear One,

It has been awhile since I last wrote, and I apologize for the interruption in correspondence.  Forgive me as well if I write more than usual, because I have left so much unsaid these past days.  I feel as though I have a synaptic sort of gap in my creativity.  The ideas are there, but the ability to communicate them isn't firing correctly.  So, I've tried to bring together as much as I can, yet it's never exactly what I want.  And that's the heart of the matter right there, what I want.  It's true.  I want, I want, I want.  I always want more or less than what I have.  I want more stuff, less stress, more money, less debt.  I want security and safety, and I want excitement and fun.  I want to experience as much as I possibly can, yet I want the predictability and routine that is the backbone of my existence.  I want.

Some months back I spent a night with some dear friends, one old friend, "S"of 25 years, a new friend "T", my best friend my wife, and an old soul friend "IR" whom I have a "casual but deep" relationship with.  IR is a  man who shares a love for Jewish learning and reflection, for relationship with something larger than ourselves, and for serving the world in ways that are truly unexpected.  He is a lay Reb, a one time lawyer, a performer, a writer, a musician, a son, a husband, an uncle, a questioner, and all around mensch.   

That night we had all been together at one of IR's performances in the sleepy little resort town that S and I grew up in.   The show was hysterically funny, ridiculously relevant, and musically phenomenal, but one song in particular has always been a favorite of mine.  It deals with the desire to have, and to be something that will fulfill temporary earthly desire, but will ultimately lead to death when the emptiness of the want is met.  It is also set within a meticulously crafted four part a cappella song, sung by four talented male performers dressed in full drag.  Did I mention that some of my dear friends are enormously talented political satirists who perform biting attacks on current events, the human condition, and the implications of religion upon a theoretically secular world?  Did I mention that they are also known as The Kinsey Sicks?  Well, if I didn't, now you know.  And you should find them online www.kinseysicks.com, on Youtube, or live in concert, and then you should buy every one of their albums and listen to them as many times as you can.  Oh, and remember to buy a t-shirt and a magnet too.

At any rate, the The Kinsey Sicks' song that was performed, "I Want to be a Dead Princess"* was written shortly after the death of Princess Diana.  The song tells of a person's want to be a "dead princess," i.e. revered, cherished, idolized, and perhaps immortalized at the highest peak in their lifetime.  The verses ask for a fame that will encompass the neediness that is eating away at the core of the vocalist(s), while the chorus and the ending repeat the phrase "I want."  And that is the place of pain and brokenness that resonates most deeply for me.

My wants, my desires to be adored, even at the cost of the security of those around me, even my own life, seem to pour out of me when I least expect them.  And as I think about this message of exchanging life for human praise, I am reminded of the daily deaths that we all endure as we suffer injustice, human frailty, and human nature.  We choose to let our emotional and psychological neediness trump the needs of others.  When I buy something I want, something that has no inherent usefulness to my life, be it an original Da Vinci or a plastic thingy from the dollar store, I have made a statement to myself, my neighbors, and my G-d, that my wants are more important than anyone else's needs.  I want.  


As I think about that sentence, those two words, I want, my mind travels to another set of words, those "three little words," "I love you." Those words that can be too quickly blurted out or too infrequently breathed, into the ears and hearts of those around us. "I love you," three little words.  How intriguing it is that we label them as such, little.  There is nothing little about love.  There is nothing little about I, or you, or the relationship we create when those words are spoken.  Think even briefly of Martin Buber's seminal work, "I and Thou."  Yet, somehow we feel pressed to minimize them, their meaning, their value, their vulnerability.  We are afraid of not hearing them back.  We are afraid of what a relationship of love might actually mean.  We make small that which is too big for us to handle.  Much the way we do when we speak of G-d, or the relationships we are called into when we let G-d be within our hearts, our minds, and our souls.  We confine love to create the illusion that we are in control of forces that are uncontrollable.

I believe that this matter of control is a core issue for many people and their relationship with G-d.  It is hard enough to feel accepted by another human being, even one who truly loves and accepts you unconditionally, the way my wife does, let alone with a deity, force, creator, G-d who may be seen as judge, jury, and jailer all in one.  Relationship with G-d requires a level of vulnerability that can be so overwhelming that we never even attempt such a relationship.  Being open to a G-d that has promised to love unconditionally, and to drastically change your life if you are willing, is to strip down to your barest soul and expose the wounds of a lifetime of pain.  Being in relationship with G-d is that process of revealing the brokenness, to G-d and to yourself.  It is also the process of letting go of that pain as we allow G-d to be within the pain.

So, instead of revealing the brokenness and allowing G-d to repair and replace the emptiness of my core self, I attempt to fill the spaces with the things I want on my own.  I seek out that which will temporarily gratify my neediness and my emptiness, giving relief to the pain I cover as I walk through life.  I want. 

And what I really want is a religious community in which to travel this journey with.  Unfortunately I live an hour away from any synagogue, Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, "non-denominational" or otherwise, so my need for a physical Jewish community is largely unmet.  Yes, I know and have Jewish friends in the area, yes I have Jewish family members, and yes I celebrate most all of the Jewish holy-days.  But its not the same.  Being a Jew, means being a Jew in community.  As an Eastern European Jew in particular, it means returning to our shtetl our village, to live our faith as a group, most often in conflict with the secular world around us.  It is a culture in unto itself, and it defines a large piece of who we are.  It is about finding solidarity in our otherness especially in comparison to the culture(s) we live in.  It is a community of faith, one that promises that we will be suppoerted in our joys, our triumphs, our disappointments, our sorrows, and our persecutions, both real and imagined.  Community.

But here's the catch, I am in fact a part of a faith community right here where I live, and I have travelled millions of miles with them throughout the past 15 years of my strange and wondrous journey.  And they are not a Jewish community.  Rather, they are self defined as a United Church of Christ, a christian church.  It is a  place where there are weekly explorations of the life of Jesus of Nazareth, and his ministry in Israel over 2000 years ago.  Yep, there is a cross on the altar, an enormous stained glass window with a very white looking man with long hair, flowing white robes, and a sheep above the altar.  There is christian iconography throughout the building.  There are excerpts of scripture posted on the walls.  There is a common understanding in the community that Jesus of Nazareth was and is the promised messiah of the Jewish people living in the Promised Land millennia ago.   And yet, they are the faith community that I return to over and over again.

Why?  Because I want the love of my wife, who is truly, and honestly a believing and practicing christian in the UCC.  I was there when she was confirmed as a teen.  I was there as she explored other traditions, but always came back to her roots.  And I  have been there as she has brought our sons into this community, taught them, and raised them with a rock solid foundation of what it means to be a loving, forgiving, and growing person of faith.  She has provided for our family a common faith to live in. 

Why?  Because, we need and want the love that we receive from the people who form this community.  We want to experience the love that we can share as a community.  And I want to be a part of a faith community, even if by definition it is not my own tradition's.  

And why do I frequently attend this UCC Church? Because every Sunday morning as the service begins the following words are spoken:

     "Whoever you are, and wherever you are on life's journey, you are welcome here."

And the most remarkable part is that they do mean it.  There are lakeside residents who belong to synagogues back home, who attend services every summer, sometimes more faithfully than the locals who straggle in only on Christmas and Easter.  There are people who identify in all manner of spiritual ways who attend on any given Sunday morning.  And I am one of them.  I am accepted, exactly for who I am, and for where I am on life's journey. 

And in the end, that's what I really want.  To enter into relationship, to want, to love, and to know that for all the vulnerability I will share with others and with G-d, I will be accepted as I am. 

 Thank you for accepting me as I continue on my journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

_______________________________________________________________

*http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/kinseysicks2#

Of a Lump in My Throat

Hello My Dear One,

I began writing while still hospitalized for a virulent bacterial infection, and although I am now back home safe and sound, I want you to hear what my thoughts were at the time, and what they are now.

I have been sitting here for days, in hospital, battling through a PeriTonsillar Abscess caused by a virulent strain of Strep A that attacked me nearly 2 weeks ago.  I have been pumped full of meds, had 2 CT scans, a procedure done at 10:00pm on a Sunday night with only a few shots of Lidocaine, a needle, a knife, some clamps, and the warning "Don't Move."  I have been on a restricted diet, monitored day and night, and have learned that apparently I don't breathe all of the time while I sleep.  And all of this because of a lump in my throat, a puss filled abscess on the back side of my left tonsil, that grew from 1cm to 2.5cm in less than 48 hours.  I have been subjected to a battery of tests, all because of a lump in my throat.

And all of this has led to a different lump in my throat, not a physical one, but a figurative one that is often described as the way one feels when faced with a sadness that is too great for initial speech.  We even refer to it as "getting choked up" in the U.S., when we are overcome with emotion that might make us cry.  Because here is the U.S. we are not as quick to show our sadness, particularly as men, and more so when in public.  We say that we are "choked up" because we cannot speak the words, or cry the tears when faced with the flood of real emotion in times of sorrow.  This to me is in itself a sadness, however I am just of guilty as this as most of those around me.

Now all of this could well lead into an exploration of cultural norms and mores, how men and women react differently to emotions, and what it means to be a member of a society that prizes violence and heroism over intimacy and relationship.

But I want instead to talk about the lumps in my throat.  I want to explain what has brought me to this place of a physical lump, and to the figurative one as well.  I want to explore the feelings that got me into all of this and also out of this.

I got sick with Strep A nearly 2 weeks ago, and I started a course of antibiotics almost immediately.  I felt a little better, tired, but better, and thought I might even be able to return to work at the end of the week.  But all too quickly I was much sicker, and I was failing fast.  After 2 emergency room visits I was sent to a larger hospital and began a lengthy process of recovery.

But I wondered, why did I grow this crazy puss filled thing in my throat in the first place.  Why me?  I know I have amazing skills at growing cysts, this is at least the 5th in the last 15 years, but really?  An abscess on a tonsil?  One that was growing at an alarming rate, and slowly blocking my airway?  I was literally getting choked up by this growth in my throat.

I knew that from a medical standpoint it was a potential that comes whenever someone has strep throat, and it can happen especially if there is a history of tonsillitis, and/or a weakened immune system, such as mine.  Having diabetes has always been a liability, but sometimes I forget how much of one it can be.  My health is often more at risk than others and I need to protect myself through preventative measures in a more aggressive fashion that I frequently do.

Further, I work in an elementary school and am exposed to all manner of bacteria, viruses, sickly kids, and other environmental health risks.  It can be a highly stressful position, where I never feel like I have enough time to complete everything I want to do in my day.  That sense of unfinished business can be trying at times no matter how much I try to walk away from it when I am not there.  And I never really stop thinking about the kids I work with.  I want to bring them my best self, my most creative ideas, and something that might make learning a little better, a little easier, a little more enjoyable than it has been in the past for them.  I want to engage them and make them lifelong learners too.

But even with all of these factors, I'm not sure I can blame this round of illness on much of any of that.  No, I think deep down that my own emotional conflicts over theological school, call, meeting the needs of my family, and ignoring my own health were the real culprits this time.  My inability to put my own physical, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs ahead of anything else is always detrimental to my body, as it decides to shut the whole system down to keep me from wreaking any more havoc on myself.  Just like the encapsulating cysts that I excel at growing, my body eventually encapsulates me in a cyst so that I too must be drained of the puss that I have accrued within my spirit.

Much like the physical abscess I had blocking my airway, my emotional airway was blocked by an unwillingness on my part to acknowledge that I was doing too much.  I had taken on projects, and work, and commitments I could in no way fulfill, and yet I tried to take on more.  From my innermost self that wants to be loved, I continue to put myself into those vicious circles of offering too much in return for too little.  Over extending myself is not truly a sign of flexibility or the ability to multitask, rather I see in my own life that it is merely a way of running oneself ragged and incapable of doing anything.

I was in so much denial about how overwhelmed I was that I had even stopped really caring for my diabetes.  I suspect that this a key player in my prolonged illness.  Diabetes is an autoimmune disorder, and when it is improperly managed, the body cannot respond to bacterial or viral attacks with enough strength to properly fight off the illness.  My blood glucose levels had been rising and my overall average was up as well.  I drank coffee laden with sugar, creamers, and sugary syrups.  I ate candy bars, donuts, cakes, cookies, and way to much protein.  I lowered my immunity and suffered the consequences.

But what about those figurative lumps in my throat?  Well, as I sat there, stuck in that bed, I began to see how much I missed my wife and children.  I realized how much I missed my work life.  I realized how much I missed my freedom to go to a grocery store and by some fresh fruit and vegetables.  I realized that I missed my life.  And that, that missing of my own life, was what brought the true lumps to my throat.

For nearly 40 years I have suffered from the belief that my existence was not truly important to the world, or even my own family's.  I didn't feel that my wife really needed me to exist, and of course she doesn't need me to exist per se, but to have a loving and fulfilling life we need each other.  Our existences are dependent upon the love that we create and share as two grown adults in the life altering bond of marriage.  We need each other.  And that emotion was overwhelming enough to bring a lump to my throat.

And so too, being a present, loving, nurturing father to my two magnificent sons.  Likewise my colleagues, my students, my friends, and the people with whom I share my stories of what it means to be intersex and transgender.  I meet each person exactly where they are and allow them the space to share with me their struggles and their triumphs.  What greater importance could there be in life?

And we have all been granted this opportunity.  We are given the gift of our lives to live into and share with others.  We are connected by our experiences, by our comings, and our goings in life.  We are connected by something as simple as a smile, or as profound as a lifelong relationship filled with hardships and joys that push us to be better people than we could have ever imagined.

Yet there is one more element to this magic, G-d.  Because I believe that it is the G-d outside of us, and the G-d within each of us that creates these opportunities to experience this brief flicker of time we have been granted.  And perhaps this brought the biggest lump to my throat.  The knowing that the G-d within me and the G-d within each housekeeping staff member, CNA, nurse, and doctor created a place of care, healing, and recovery for me, for my family, for my work, for my friends, and for the very people who cared for me during my illness became a truth that changed my life.  I mattered.  They mattered.  My existence here and now has meaning and value, and my absence would be a loss.

As a new week begins, I come to it with an appreciation for another day to be.
I am here, and my life has meaning.  Thanks be to G-d.

Thank you for having meaning in my life, in the lives of others, and for choosing to be a part of the lump in my throat.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Call, Of Discernment, and of Teaching

Hello My Dear One,

It is now Autumn, the season that brings a cooler breath to our lungs, more vibrant colors to our eyes, and the needed space for a quieter reflection as the earth begins to prepare itself for the coming hibernation.  For many, this is a time of contentment, a time of settling into a deeper place that came with the activities of summer.  It is a time of discernment for all of us as we prioritize what we must do in order to make the coming months safe, warm, and nourishing in all ways possible.  It a season of planning ahead.

In my own days of fall, I am in the midst of a discernment process, one that I have experienced multiple times before and will undoubtedly repeat in years to come.  It is listening to my call to ministry and what exactly that call is.  It is a remarkably, and achingly difficult thing to do, to sort out my own emotions from my delusions, my desires from the needs of others, and whether the voice I hear is G-d's or my own.  This process is what gives us the ability to serve others the way that G-d wants us to, but only if we can truly, truly listen.  And for a person with mental health issues, well it is even trickier to know what to listen for.

So, I have once again explored the possibility of attending theological school.  I have even visited a campus and reveled in the academic opportunities and enjoyments that come with being in a graduate school setting.  I loved the camaraderie, the jokes, the intimacy, the theological discussions, and the hope for a deepened faith life and practice.  I was nearly giddy with the thrill of course work, readings, exegesis, and frozen yogurt runs at 11:00 at night.  Yes, the sheer exuberance that comes with academia for a lifelong learner, is like an alcoholic beverage to me.  I am intoxicated by the very potential for more study.

To make the letters even sweeter.

And I believe that as a Jew, this is normal.  It is, I suspect, an inborn calling within all who are members of the 12 tribes of Israel, to physically long for learning.  We get our first taste of the Aleph-Bet with actual honey, to make learning a sweet process, thus ensuring that we will want to continue.  It will also probably lead us to being diagnosed with some form of pre-diabetes or diabetes within our lifetimes, but so what? Being able to read is more important than a functional pancreas, right?

We become "men" and "women" at our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs when we have learned how to read Torah well enough to participate in Shabbat, speaking ancient words, sharing the sacred space where words take on meanings that we would otherwise not ascribe to them.  And in some communities we still gift the newest "adult" of our group with a fountain pen, to further impress upon them, and us, that reading, discussing, and writing about G-d is what makes us truly "grown-ups."  Funny story, one of my young cousins, herself preparing for her upcoming Bat Mitzvah, was attending a Shabbat service with all of us to celebrate my Uncle's 80th birthday.  After we celebrated the occasion during the service, my Uncle jokingly asked where the new fountain pen was, and my dear, sweet, modern cousin, asked in earnest, "What's a fountain pen?"  Apparently, we should have said something like a stylus for your iPad.

Heck, we even call our spiritual leaders, Rabbi, a word that means teacher.  It is as if Jews see the need for someone to provide educational opportunities in order to grow, as well as someone who can provide comfort during our times of trial.  And Rebs of old inspire and teach through the Talmud, a collection of explorations and answers to every possible life scenario, and most importantly at least 2 answers that completely contradict each other.  That's right, there are multiple answers to life's questions and there, codified in volumes of texts, is the very answer to the mystery of spirituality itself.  There is no one right answer.  We humans cannot grasp the enormity of G-d, and when we try to answer questions with an either or solution, we show our limitations as created beings.  With G-d there are no "either/or" answers to life, rather, it is "both/and."  Within the first few verses of Torah, in Genesis, the term for G-d used during the creation of humans is a plural, meaning the divine.  G-d is both/and, singular and plural, greater than the entire cosmos, yet within each atom that it is composed of.

So, in my current (perpetual) discernment process, I am seduced by the opportunity to delve again into the words that create meaning within my life.  I have a visceral response to the idea that I could spend hours upon hours sitting in a library, pouring over texts, writing, thinking, imagining, believing, and dreaming about what each letter could mean.  It's true, I would love a life of academia, filling my mind to the brim with every last bit of knowledge I could fit in there.

And yet.

And yet.

For as much as I have a call to learning,  I have a deeper call to teaching.  And of course the two calls are really one in the same, but it is how one chooses to live into them that can have remarkably different effects on the people around you.

If I choose to throw myself headlong into a world of academia, a world of abstraction, and a necessary laser like focus, I will likely lose the connection to my family, friends, and community as I become ensconced in my world of books.

If I choose to throw myself headlong into a world of teaching, a more concrete world, and a necessarily large world view, I will likely grow in my relationships, and have more to offer to those I love.

And, as the Talmud would offer up, both options are right, both options are wrong, and there are infinitely more options than those that I have created.

In my life today though, I know that for as much as I love academic challenges within higher education, I learn far more when I am teaching those who require a little more, a little extra, another set of eyes, or ears, or hands, or neurons in order to learn for themselves.  Everyday, every single day, I am blessed to be able to go to work, experience totally different world views from my own, and get hugs from people half my size.  Being an educator in an elementary school is the best thing I've ever done in my life, save for being a good husband and father.  Being a positive male role model for boys and girls who may not have one is a priceless gift that I have been given to share.  Being allowed to be myself grants me more knowledge than I will ever be able to contain.

And that brings me right back to my discernment process and my own sense of call.  Those dreams of academia, of discussing and debating, of questions that lead to more questions, of philosophical dilemmas worked through in the early morning hours over beer and sleep deprivation, each dream more tantalizing than the next.  But they are just that, dreams.  They are not goals.  They are fantasies, and in all truth, they are fantasies that I have already fulfilled in my seminary days.  I've lived them all.  And I have a life that calls me now to dream new dreams, make goals, and live them out in the here and now.

It is seldom easy to put a want on hold.  It is seldom easy to prioritize which task must be done first.  Should I work on the outdoor tasks before the snow falls?  Should I work on tightening up the inside jobs in my house before the cold winds blow through the cracks in this old farmhouse?  Are the questions I pose literal, figurative, or both?  In the end it probably doesn't matter, whether or not they are reality nor the actual order of the tasks.

In the end I know that whatever decisions I make will have consequences for more than just myself.  Each choice will affect my wife, my sons, my job, my community, my faith, my sanity, and my time to enjoy the changes in the seasons that continue to fly past me.  Each choice isn't about me, it is about the family I have created, and the family that I have chosen to be a part of.

It has been nearly a year since my Deconstruction, and I can't bear to think of putting my loved ones or myself through that again.  Ultimately, I know that a choice to return to theological school, regardless of the reasons would eventually lead to that, and that is not a choice I wish to make.  I am a far better man than I was a year ago and as such I know when it is time to put the good of myself and of my family first.

Teacher, Scholar, Family man.

So, will I regret not attending theological school?  Maybe.  Would I regret not being here for my family, for my students, my community, my friends, or even my own life?  Yes!  I recently read that one should live the way you want to be remembered in your eulogy/obituary.  Meaning, that I want to be remembered for my love and devotion, my volunteerism, the differences I made in others' lives, the way I helped shift understanding of what it means to be transgender, intersex, and interfaith.  I want to be remembered for the good that I did, the Tikkun Olam, and not the times I left my family for my own personal gains.  

So, it is time to plan ahead then, to prepare for the coming hibernation of the wintery world that is coming.  And my plan is to stay the course.  I have found my call in teaching, and in so doing, I will always be able to fulfill my desire to learn.  There are exams for me to take, classes to complete, and teaching that needs to be done.  And there is the constant learning of being a husband and father to my ever evolving family and its growing needs.

May it be so that there is always more to learn.

Thank you for continuing to learn with me, and to teach me on this journey together.

Be well.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself.  And remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari