Cynthia Ozick on Teshuvah

When we resolve to let go of our self-loathing and the destructive behaviors carried in its wake, whilst in the rarified “air space” of Yom Kippur, we have begun our rebirth from the limiting ego constraints of our “Adam one” lower selves, into our “Adam two” personae, from where we strive upwards, towards an embracing of our highest self.

Tomorrow, we will read the first full Shabbat Torah portion of the year! This Shabbat is its own event and its unique name “Shabbat Braysheet” reflects that status.

The name Braysheet, literally translated as Genesis, refers to the portion we read, which is of course the opening reading of the first “Parsha” of the five books of Torah. Reading Genesis after the High Holidays requires a personal and conscious “reading of ourselves” into the narrative, to the point where we can begin to recognize the distinct texture of our own personal “Braysheet” dreams of personal renewal.

The descent from the month-long “heavenly trip” through the Hebrew month of Tishrei is fraught with all the emotional turbulence of the impending separation from the good feelings we enjoy during this time. The revoking of our annual “visitor's pass” to the “Garden of Eden” signals that it's time to go home. The homecoming landing is never smooth. The “Shedding of the Skin of the serpent” from this week's reading, effectively captures the aftershock of being “cast out”—the inevitable and sudden piercing loneliness, akin to the ensuing panic and pounding in the chest, felt so viscerally in the aftermath of a traumatic abandonment. There is no “tapering off.” The drop is steep. One moment we are treading on the sacred grounds in the precincts of the “Holy of Holies,” and the next moment is our rude awakening “in our own beds,” rendering this entire season with its somewhat surreal and dreamlike aura. If this leaves you feeling as vulnerable and exposed as I do during this time, then the fact that I am not alone in this loneliness is comforting. In this post-Chag “TOHU VAVOHU,” (chaos) moment, reminiscent of the primordial chaos, and its “Choshech” (darkness)—that precedes our efforts to usher in a desperately needed new way of existing, we know instinctively that there is a “Ruach Elokim” (“Spirit of G-d”) hovering over the “deep” of the vacuum. A hollowness we are surprised to encounter as we are simply trying to be better, to do better.

The light we seek out becomes gradually discernible. As we attempt to shake off the vertigo and grope for a foothold in the dark, we are surprised to discover that we have unknowingly stumbled upon the mysterious presence of Adam and Eve, our mythic forebears. “We are just here for our annual visit…and anyhow do we even need a reason to be here?” they both chirp out in unison. “After all, is not your fall ours as well?”

Shivering and terrified in the darkness, huddled together, naked and alone, they sat. As they processed the new sensation of fear brought on by their first experience of darkness, their very proximity to one another gave rise to other new emotions, even more powerful than the first: the feelings of hope and love. The encounter that night, between the “two stones” of hope and love, conspired together to form light.

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I recently added to my collection an inscribed first edition of a Cynthia Ozick book, ironically named “The Pagan Rabbi.” The inscription, perhaps even more ironic, is to an actual Rabbi. I was sufficiently moved by her words to share them with you. She writes: “This book is for Rabbi—, a pagan Rabbi (or perhaps a Rabbinical pagan) and a ‘soul-tuner,’ his own. He will turn and turn until he achieves the Turning.” Here she writes out the word *Teshuvah in Hebrew and asterisks it. Then she signs off: “With good wishes, Cynthia Ozick.”

*Teshuvah: redemption; fresh start.

Thank you, Cynthia Ozick, for reminding us that Teshuvah is indeed, at its core, about our never-ending quest for redemption and the chances we are given to not squander those rare opportunities to start fresh.