Rosh Hashana 5784
Ever since my early 20s, I have had this recurring dream. The dream opens with me on an airplane, sitting in my seat, seatbelt fastened, when suddenly I realize that I have absolutely no idea where we are headed. Usually, as we are taking off, the wheels just lifting from the runway, I learn our destination.
It doesn’t take a Jungian dream analyst to understand what this dream is about, and it is no mistake that it arises in times of elevated uncertainty and fear of losing control. One small detail is that nine times out of ten, as we are lifting off into the air, I learn that we are headed to… the Philippines. That is where a dream analyst could come in handy.
Fear of the unknown is core to our psyche, it’s natural and normal. And yet, when we zoom just an inch out of our predictable, scheduled lives, we see just how much of the unknown we face each day, even each moment. We have a famous and often misunderstood song about facing the unknown, also known as a narrow bridge, the words adapted from a teaching by the Hasidic master Rebbe Nachman of Breslov: Kol haOlam Kulo, gesher tzar me’od. The translation of the song being: the entire world is a very narrow bridge, and the ikar, the main thing, is to not be afraid at all. However, what Rebbe Nachman actually taught is slightly but powerfully dierent:
, ְוַדע, ֶש ָהאָָדם ָצ ִרי ַל ֲעבֹר ַעל ֶג שׁר ַצר ְמאֹד ְמאֹד
And know, that a human being needs to cross a very, very narrow bridge
ְו ַהְּכ ָלל ְו ָה ִעָּקר ֶׁשא יִ ְתַּפ ֵחד ְּכ ָלל
And what is essential is that this person should not be consumed by fear completely.
I like to read Rebbe Nachman, who was no stranger to fear, depression and despair, as a fellow traveler on the path, not an expert. As someone who knew the fear of this narrow bridge, the fear of the precarious unknown that, as he says, is a necessity in our lives, it would be hypocritical for him to demand that we banish our fear all together. The hitpa’el form of the word חדֵפַּ changes the meaning from the active, “do not be afraid” to the passive, “do not be consumed by fear.” A small but notable distinction that illuminates what Rebbe Nachman is actually teaching us–that the true bravery is in making room for the fear, but not letting it completely consume us.
A few months ago, I was asked to walk on what felt like a very narrow bridge, the hallway to the operating room. In my many months of mentally rehearsing a play by play of what would be my first ever surgery, I had missed this small but powerful detail–that I was going to have to walk myself to the operating room, lay myself down on the operating table, fully surrendering to the hands of the doctors and nurses around me. When I shared my surprise with the surgeon, having imagined I would be wheeled in like they do in the movies, she shared stories of previous patients who had walked in, taken one look at the table, turned around and walked out. Not wanting to be yet another hilarious story for my surgeon to tell her future patients, one step at a time, in my blue gown I walked into the operating room and laid myself on the table.
Each one of us has taken literal or metaphorical steps like these before. Steps into something that terrified us immensely, steps into the wild unknown.
In this year of destruction and mourning for our people and the world, each day we have been wading in the wild unknown. While this is nothing new for us– having survived the presidential election of 2016, the pandemic, 5784 demanded an extra level of mastery of the unknown, an ability to walk through seemingly unbearable darkness and uncertainty. And 5785– with an ongoing war, extremism rising, climate change becoming ever more visible, and a presidential election that is destined to impact our future, we are being asked even more so to walk headfirst into the unknown. To be masters of it.
Another word for a master of the unknown is a Shaman. I want to pause and recognize that last year I talked about compost, this year I’m talking about shamanism. While it all may seem a bit out there, I ask that you go along with me if you are able.
The word Shaman, now wildly overused to sell different services and experiences, originates from the Tungus people of Siberia. The word literally means, “one who knows,” which seems quite ironic given that, as Matthew Wood writes, “The path of the shaman is pointed in the opposite direction from the known.” The Shaman is the knower in the unknown, or perhaps the one who knowingly walks into the unknown, specifically the unknown territory of the soul. In our tradition, this might be equivalent to the baal shem, the healer and mystic who knows the way.
We have many examples of this archetype within our tradition, starting with Avraham who, with only a few words of instruction from the Divine, sets out on his journey away from his home, family, and everything he has known before. The rabbis of the Talmud describe in detail Avraham’s shamanic vibes, “Rabbi Elazar HaModa’i says: Avraham our forefather was so knowledgeable in astrology that all the kings of the East and the West would come early to his door due to his wisdom.” This same sugya even describes Avraham’s attire similar to our modern day stereotypical Shaman, the kind that might be wandering around Park Slope today: “Rabbi Shimon bar Yoḥai says: A precious stone hung around the neck of Avraham our forefather; any sick person who looked at it would immediately be healed.” (I think they sell these at the Tibetan shop on 7th ave).
This past year has demanded of us a Shamanic level of bravery, and this coming year is demanding just as much if not more. Knowingly or unknowingly, your inner baal shem, your inner Shaman, has carried you through. It has helped you face unbearable news in the world, challenges in your lives, and has gotten you through this crisis, maybe not in one piece– but through nevertheless.
In this year of 5785, how can we intentionally live from this part within us– the part of us that knows the way, the part of us that knows we have everything we need to face even the hardest things, the part of us that– as R’ Nachman encourages us– can feel the fear and do it anyway, not letting fear consume us.
I want to end with words from one of my Rebbes, Mary Oliver:
The Kookaburras
In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator.
In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waiting
to stride out of a cloud and lift its wings.
The kookaburras, pressed against the edge of their cage,
asked me to open the door.
Years later I remember how I didn't do it,
how instead I walked away.
They had the brown eyes of soft-hearted dogs.
They didn't want to do anything so extraordinary, only to fly
home to their river.
By now I suppose the great darkness has covered them.
As for myself, I am not yet a god of even the palest flowers.
Nothing else has changed either.
Someone tosses their white bones to the dung-heap.
The sun shines on the latch of their cage.
I lie in the dark, my heart pounding.
On this Yom haZikaron, this day of remembrance, may we remember and claim our inner guide, the god of flowers within us, donning it with whatever magical healing stones and amulets we need to wade through the dark. May it enable us to open the cage to free ourselves and others.
And, when we are, inevitably–as our poem concludes–lying in the dark with our hearts pounding, may we know that we are so much bigger than our fear.
Shanah Tovah.
