Musings to search for an anchor? thaw? context?
It has been a very long time since I've sat down to simply write a journal entry, to play with my thoughts or beautiful words, or any words at all. I have mostly felt, in some combination, cold, flat, sad, frustrated, lonely, in the past few months. I don't mean to imply that I have not had any good feelings in that time, but they don't seem to have been memorable. To be fair, much of what I have felt has not been memorable; certainly nothing to make me come running to the computer to commit things to text. I'm not sure, really, whether this has been due to a lack of feeling experiences, or just a lack of motivation to find the words. But in my experience, that motivation is usually a part of the way I experience things.
I don't know if this makes sense so far. My mind is a jumble of thoughts and words, and I don't think that I can unify them enough to write something cohesive. I won't know until I start typing whether I'll even want to try.
Type your cut contents here.Where I go to Shabbat services, there is no sermon on Friday nights. Maybe the congregation is simply too large; maybe the sermons are saved for the Saturday morning services, which I don't attend. But one of the rabbis always speaks briefly before we go into L'Cha Dodi. This week, one of them spoke about possibility and choice, specifically the fact that on Shabbat, all possibilities exist simultaneously. Every decision each of us has made, both the choices we did make and those we did not, are all true. We live in our cities, work at our jobs, and love our partners, while at the same time we live somewhere else, have different jobs, and different partners. Only on Shabbat, the rabbi said, do we get to have everything. When sundown comes on Saturday evening, all of the choices we did not make fade into unreality again. And we, most of us, spend the rest of the week longing for the rest of the possibilities.
When I listened to him speaking, I was interested in an intellectual way, but didn't connect emotionally to the idea. Until he used the word "longing." It's strange how one word can travel so deeply into the mind. Thinking about the past few months of my life, I should have realized how appropriate a word it has been for my experience, but I was too caught up in the details to understand what it was. Ultimately, though, "longing" is about as accurate as any word could be. Throughout the rest of the service the feeling both intensified and was relieved. I have, and have always had, a deep, desperate longing to be part of something, to belong to a group. Hardly unique, that desire, but I have never truly known how to achieve it. I still don't, of course, but I have come to the realization that my sudden return to Judaism, my attendance at services and beginning attempts to relearn the history and traditions that I learned as a child, have all been about that need to belong.
I have mixed feelings about organized religion, and I don't think I really believe in G-d, but this is something that I want to be a part of. I was thinking about these things during the Amidah, when everyone prays or ponders silently, formally or informally. At this shul, after the Amidah the rabbis lead the congregation in a niggun, and everyone sings together. It's one of my favorite parts of the service, feeling the way we all come back together after being briefly enclosed in our own minds. This week we sang hallelujah, which is my favorite because the melody they use for it is so intense for me. In the middle of the singing, I found myself suddenly struck with fierce love and pride for the Jewish people. Jews are always saying that as a people we have kept ourselves together through so much adversity, and usually when I hear it I am thinking about the adversity: the pogroms, the Holocaust, the anti-semitism throughout the centuries. This time, when I thought it, I was thinking of the community, of the fact that there really is still a "Jewish People" in the world. The desire to belong is part of the collective unconscious and I don't know of anyone who does not feel it in some way. That night I realized that, whatever my feelings about the theology of Judaism, I cannot give up on, or ever again leave, something that is so attuned to that most universal of needs.
I have felt my need for belonging so intensely this year because my life has changed in so many ways. So much is new even still, and I am not yet adjusted. I have, I think, mentioned in passing my social difficulties at work. Last week was a difficult one in that sense. My relationship with my classroom staff, specifically my lead instructor, has since day one been strained, and despite what feels to be my best attempts (which may indeed not be enough), I have not succeeded in developing a positive working relationship with her. While I've always been aware that first-year teachers always find things difficult, I was thinking that within the small sample size of head teachers at NYCA, I was the only one having such trouble.
Last week, we had a head teacher meeting--we have them once a month--to discuss an instructor observation tool that we are expected to begin using. I raised my concerns about conducting observations on my lead instructor, which led to a long discussion about related topics. I also took the opportunity to ask the others about the relationships they have with their classroom staff, what they're like, and how to foster them. To my horror I started crying... and to my utter astonishment, two of the other head teachers joined me. It was an intense meeting and I don't think there's a good way for me to describe it, or even to recount what we talked about, but it was an eye-opener in several ways. My bosses, apparently, have had similar experiences with Liz to the ones I have had. Her manner and temperament have been difficult for them on occasion, as well. I was shocked, because I really thought that it was just a social issue between the two of us. In large part I suppose it still is, but I was both relieved and discomfited to realize that I have not just imagined the strain between us.
It is even more uncomfortable to learn that one's boss has such accurate insight into oneself. Jamie, our executive director, came by my classroom as I was packing up to go home after that meeting. I don't see much of Jamie because he's usually locked in his office doing paperwork, budgets, and so on. Beyond that, he is in the first of the two hallways that comprise NYCA, and my classroom is in the second. When he came into the classroom he said to me, "you know how sometimes people's best qualities are also their worst?" I asked him what he meant by that and he gave, as an example, his own gregariousness. Then he said, "Your best and worst quality is that you're a perfectionist. You have really high standards and expectations of yourself. And you beat yourself up if you can't meet them right away." I hadn't completely stopped crying yet, but I started laughing. It's hardly news to me, that I feel that way. After all, that has been the truth for my entire life. What was news to me was that it's so obvious, even to people I rarely see for more than a few minutes at a time. I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that my bosses see it so clearly; I think I'm supposed to hide it.
I've always been very open about my emotions; I'm a heart-on-the-sleeve sort of person and don't really know how to be otherwise. But in the recent past I have largely stopped talking about the thoughts behind what I've felt. I don't know if anyone really wants to hear it; I think I'm supposed to stay locked up and quiet. But I also think that that is a self-perpetuating state of being and that it might not be good for my mental health to do it.
I'm cutting myself off here in spite of the fact that this is not a logical place to stop writing, and I'm sure that I have not achieved any kind of catharsis. I still feel adrift, alone, and unclear. I simply don't know how to end, and I don't think I have the concentration to continue.
I don't know if this makes sense so far. My mind is a jumble of thoughts and words, and I don't think that I can unify them enough to write something cohesive. I won't know until I start typing whether I'll even want to try.
Type your cut contents here.Where I go to Shabbat services, there is no sermon on Friday nights. Maybe the congregation is simply too large; maybe the sermons are saved for the Saturday morning services, which I don't attend. But one of the rabbis always speaks briefly before we go into L'Cha Dodi. This week, one of them spoke about possibility and choice, specifically the fact that on Shabbat, all possibilities exist simultaneously. Every decision each of us has made, both the choices we did make and those we did not, are all true. We live in our cities, work at our jobs, and love our partners, while at the same time we live somewhere else, have different jobs, and different partners. Only on Shabbat, the rabbi said, do we get to have everything. When sundown comes on Saturday evening, all of the choices we did not make fade into unreality again. And we, most of us, spend the rest of the week longing for the rest of the possibilities.
When I listened to him speaking, I was interested in an intellectual way, but didn't connect emotionally to the idea. Until he used the word "longing." It's strange how one word can travel so deeply into the mind. Thinking about the past few months of my life, I should have realized how appropriate a word it has been for my experience, but I was too caught up in the details to understand what it was. Ultimately, though, "longing" is about as accurate as any word could be. Throughout the rest of the service the feeling both intensified and was relieved. I have, and have always had, a deep, desperate longing to be part of something, to belong to a group. Hardly unique, that desire, but I have never truly known how to achieve it. I still don't, of course, but I have come to the realization that my sudden return to Judaism, my attendance at services and beginning attempts to relearn the history and traditions that I learned as a child, have all been about that need to belong.
I have mixed feelings about organized religion, and I don't think I really believe in G-d, but this is something that I want to be a part of. I was thinking about these things during the Amidah, when everyone prays or ponders silently, formally or informally. At this shul, after the Amidah the rabbis lead the congregation in a niggun, and everyone sings together. It's one of my favorite parts of the service, feeling the way we all come back together after being briefly enclosed in our own minds. This week we sang hallelujah, which is my favorite because the melody they use for it is so intense for me. In the middle of the singing, I found myself suddenly struck with fierce love and pride for the Jewish people. Jews are always saying that as a people we have kept ourselves together through so much adversity, and usually when I hear it I am thinking about the adversity: the pogroms, the Holocaust, the anti-semitism throughout the centuries. This time, when I thought it, I was thinking of the community, of the fact that there really is still a "Jewish People" in the world. The desire to belong is part of the collective unconscious and I don't know of anyone who does not feel it in some way. That night I realized that, whatever my feelings about the theology of Judaism, I cannot give up on, or ever again leave, something that is so attuned to that most universal of needs.
I have felt my need for belonging so intensely this year because my life has changed in so many ways. So much is new even still, and I am not yet adjusted. I have, I think, mentioned in passing my social difficulties at work. Last week was a difficult one in that sense. My relationship with my classroom staff, specifically my lead instructor, has since day one been strained, and despite what feels to be my best attempts (which may indeed not be enough), I have not succeeded in developing a positive working relationship with her. While I've always been aware that first-year teachers always find things difficult, I was thinking that within the small sample size of head teachers at NYCA, I was the only one having such trouble.
Last week, we had a head teacher meeting--we have them once a month--to discuss an instructor observation tool that we are expected to begin using. I raised my concerns about conducting observations on my lead instructor, which led to a long discussion about related topics. I also took the opportunity to ask the others about the relationships they have with their classroom staff, what they're like, and how to foster them. To my horror I started crying... and to my utter astonishment, two of the other head teachers joined me. It was an intense meeting and I don't think there's a good way for me to describe it, or even to recount what we talked about, but it was an eye-opener in several ways. My bosses, apparently, have had similar experiences with Liz to the ones I have had. Her manner and temperament have been difficult for them on occasion, as well. I was shocked, because I really thought that it was just a social issue between the two of us. In large part I suppose it still is, but I was both relieved and discomfited to realize that I have not just imagined the strain between us.
It is even more uncomfortable to learn that one's boss has such accurate insight into oneself. Jamie, our executive director, came by my classroom as I was packing up to go home after that meeting. I don't see much of Jamie because he's usually locked in his office doing paperwork, budgets, and so on. Beyond that, he is in the first of the two hallways that comprise NYCA, and my classroom is in the second. When he came into the classroom he said to me, "you know how sometimes people's best qualities are also their worst?" I asked him what he meant by that and he gave, as an example, his own gregariousness. Then he said, "Your best and worst quality is that you're a perfectionist. You have really high standards and expectations of yourself. And you beat yourself up if you can't meet them right away." I hadn't completely stopped crying yet, but I started laughing. It's hardly news to me, that I feel that way. After all, that has been the truth for my entire life. What was news to me was that it's so obvious, even to people I rarely see for more than a few minutes at a time. I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that my bosses see it so clearly; I think I'm supposed to hide it.
I've always been very open about my emotions; I'm a heart-on-the-sleeve sort of person and don't really know how to be otherwise. But in the recent past I have largely stopped talking about the thoughts behind what I've felt. I don't know if anyone really wants to hear it; I think I'm supposed to stay locked up and quiet. But I also think that that is a self-perpetuating state of being and that it might not be good for my mental health to do it.
I'm cutting myself off here in spite of the fact that this is not a logical place to stop writing, and I'm sure that I have not achieved any kind of catharsis. I still feel adrift, alone, and unclear. I simply don't know how to end, and I don't think I have the concentration to continue.