Way back in the early part of Genesis (chapter twelveish) God tells Avram to "Lech L'cha" - typically translated as "go forth," but more accurately spun as "go towards yourself." It is the kind of travel that Rabbi Norman Hirsch referred to as a "radical leaving":

BECOMING
Once or twice in a lifetime
A man or woman may choose
A radical leaving, having heard
Lech lecha — Go forth.

God disturbs us toward our destiny
By hard events
And by freedom's now urgent voice
Which explode and confirm who we are.
We don't like leaving,
But God loves becoming.

Yes. Right?! Yes! I love the idea of a disturbing force (the irritating grain of sand that ultimately turns into a pearl) as an agent for change and opportunity for growth. But sometimes, that irritating force just irritates, and we can't seem to extract it; we simply can't shake it. It takes an act of Trust to take a leaving and to make it truly radical, and there comes a moment where we simply have to jump. To take the step into the great unknown - away from the structures that we  believe to be sustaining, normative and "good" - is to have a whole lot of Trust in the outcome. To engage Trust is to excise fear; but to excise fear entirely is to remove a part of oneself - and besides, fear ultimately serves a purpose. In her book, Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert urges the reader to write a letter to Fear telling it that you understand its purpose (to keep you alive), and letting it know that you appreciate the work it does (namely, keeping you alive), but that you don't think it should be in the driver's seat, because sometimes it misses really great opportunities and holds you back from exploring what lies on either side of the narrow, one lane highway that it's keeping you on. 

In a conversation with the Judeo-Shamanic Reb Gershon he asked the following: "Why do you think the Jewish people love the fruit of the vine so much that we use it to bless and welcome the Sabbath? Because," he replied to his own question, "it is a plant that grows up the wall - taking that which would impede it and using it for its own growth." When fear is no longer in the driver's seat, we can be smart, savvy, cunning, even - like the vine that crawls upward toward the sun simply because that is what it is supposed to do, instead of cowering in fear at the base of the wall. For the plant, it takes only instinct, because it knows no fear (although apparently plant life can feel negative energy - check out the film, "What the Bleep Do We Know" if you haven't yet - it'll blow your mind). The plant doesn't even need trust, per se, it just grows toward the sun... like you do when you're a plant. We, on the other hand, have a more complicated relationship with Trust. In our culture of rational-thought-as-king we have learned to trust only that which we can see, or that about which we can reason. It narrows the focus, and creates an overinflated sense of self, of power, of ego. 

The Mussar tradition understands Trust, or Bitachon, as one of the core character traits that a person must have in proper measure in order to lead a well-balanced life. In Modern Hebrew, bitachon means "security." When I lived in Israel, there was usually a "bitachon" fee tagged on to the bill at dinner - a few extra shekels to pay for the security guard stationed at the entrance to the restaurant or cafe. Bitachon, in that context, implies a real life-or-death kind of safety to one's physical being. So when I am engaging in bitachon, I trust that despite challenges and unforeseen twists in the road, everything will work out for the best. I trust that my life will have meaning because I live it in alignment with my values, my dreams and my hopes. In this Freaking Lech Lecha moment, Trust is what it takes to step from the safety and comfort of known, the present, into what I hope will be the safety and comfort of the unknown future. On July 1st I will say farewell to the people and places that have become Home for these past three years. I will lay down my intentions as a path before me, and trust that the "road will rise up to meet me," because to do otherwise would be to let fear do the driving - and that's just not how I plan to do this Radical Leaving Thing. 

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​Shot from a sling, I've been hurtling through time and space these past two weeks. The shot was set loose by my Great Aunt Zelma's death and funeral in Portland on March 23rd. After a hasty rearranging of schedules and projects I headed northward with a heavy heart and contrite determination. Auntie Zelma was nearly 107 years old, and I had not seen or spoken to her since her 100th birthday. I carried a significant load of regret with me as I headed home to do this last mitzvah for her, to show up in this small way where I'd been unable to do so before. It was comforting to be with my mother amongst our extended cousin-network to honor the memory of a woman who gave us so much of her time and energy when she had it to give. I spent countless afternoons and evenings with Auntie Zelma in her pink studio apartment in the Portland Towers. We would play Go Fish at her little card table by the window and take special trips to the tiny supermarket in the basement of her building that I found endlessly delightful. Her Candy Bowl Game was always on-point, and I remember the odd roll of Tums she kept in there too, "adult candy" she called it. And then life, and disagreement, and a stubborn family streak (that it seems we shared) came between us, and I let seven years go by without a word to the last living connection to the grandparents I had loved so deeply and lost so young. My cousin who took care of Zelma these past many years kindly assured me that she knew I loved her and that she remembered me with fondness... but regret is a hard emotion to shake, and I was determined to turn that remorse into purposeful action instead of wallowing in it.

With that lesson learned, the rest of my time in Portland sped by, while I thumped through forests, helped dear friends consecrate their new home, and spent time with family. There is nothing as arresting as the brazen rays of sunshine through the Portland rain. A twitterpated, springtime-y energy coursed through the city, bringing me back ghosts of spring afternoons past. I had convinced a long-lost friend from summer camp to come see my new favorite band, Thao & the Get Down Stay Down with me on Friday night. After a SUPER satisfying show (dancing and singing like the spastic twitterpated bundle that I was) we set about catching up on the past seventeen years. In full disclosure, this friend was one upon whom I had harbored a *bit* of a crush, and around whose friendship and its fizzle I had created an entirely unflattering narrative about myself. Over a bottle of locally-brewed-something-or-other (when in PDX!) he proceeded to dismantle the unflattering stories that seventeen year old Callie had told herself and locked away in her heart. He held up an unfamiliar mirror to me with his own version of the story, and in an instant the "Ugly/Awkward Duckling" narrative that had become a part of who I was, simply... disappeared. I drove away from that encounter feeling like a little Mario Brother who had just landed a Super Star as my heart "blip-blipped" it's way back up to full power just in time for a weekend full of celebrations - including a baby shower. Talk about the Circle of Life/death and rebirth/winter's end and spring's beginning; it was just all happening and I was just feeling all the feels.

With a full heart, I flew out early Monday morning to meet up with classmates and colleagues in White Plains, New York for a seminar. It was nourishing to reconnect with dear friends and mentors over insightful, honest and visionary content and conversations. As I prepared to leave the seminar I found myself in a small breakout conversation about success: how we define it, by whose measure, and are our parameters external or internal? Do we listen to societal and cultural messages about success (attain, achieve, acquire) or do we hone in on our unique gifts, and measure ourselves by our ability to honor and share them? The conversation left me feeling more clear on my own next steps; I was riding high on a wave of emotion and jetlag, but high none the less. I returned to work refreshed - like my heart had been given a shiny new coat of paint. A beautiful, floaty, generous feeling that lasted for about a day until my bubble burst, as they are wont to do, and a basket into which I had placed many eggs turned out not to be much of a basket at all (more on that later).

A common theme appears to have surfaced in these encounters, as well as my latest reading material: Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic, and Rabbi Irwin Kula's Yearnings: Embracing the Sacred Messiness of Life. Both write about creativity and the need for rest and downtime in order to produce anything of substance and meaning. That week in Portland followed by a quick shot of professional development was just the prescription for a blocked-up creative process. Both books also talk about the role of Trust (my capitalization) in creative living... which is where I'll leave you for now with a "to be continued..."

​I'll publish another post on Thursday with more on This Freaking Lech L'cha Moment, and in the meantime, as ever, thank you for reading, and for coming along on this ride with me.

Everyone around me seems to be in transition - it's quite a buzz kill to be met by resigned nods of agreement when attempting to bemoan one's own liminal state. On June 30th I will finish my first rabbinic contract, and as of now, I have no idea what July 1st will look like. When fishing for sympathy it rather takes the wind out of your sails to realize that, in fact, everyone around you is at a crossroads, every moment of every day... actually.

Yesterday at a faculty meeting, a colleague suggested we use the transition of the seasons as the prompt for our personal check ins. Each person around the table, representing a range of ages and stages, shared stories of significant life change, or the contemplation of significant changes of one sort or another. It was the most personal check in that I have experienced with that group in over two years. We were vulnerable with each other in a way that I had not expected, and in opening up our inner-worlds just a crack, were able to share fuller pictures of our lives with each other.

Vulnerability sure is a tough nut to crack: it is essential to growth and change, but leaves us open to pain and sorrow. Just sitting down to write these words my inner critic wants to censor and edit before my fingers even strike the keys. I know the purpose he serves - he's there to preserve me from hurt, from pain, from disappointment and rejection. The grand irony is that the pain, the hurt and the disappointment - and yes, even the rejection - are the most fertile ground for change. A brilliant physician ("Dr. O" aka The Teen Doc) reminded me of this a few weeks ago. To paraphrase, she said that growth comes out of pain, rarely out of joy. Joy just brings joy - which is wonderful, but it's just not as generative as pain. Pain forces us into an uncomfortable position and asks us how long we can possibly keep it up. Pain teaches us about what is tenable, what is sustainable. A self-proclaimed eminence grise and mother of four adult children recently told me about bringing them all together, without the grandchildren, to spend a weekend reconnecting. At one point during the visit she asked them each to share a joy from the past year. To a person, each and every story was about joy born of significant struggle. Lifecycle milestones aside, the most profound moments of joy, it would seem, are those that are hard won.

Common amongst the teachers, seekers and the internet gurus who I find inspiring is a willingness to offer up their own vulnerability: the fitness coach who posts about falling off of a wagon of her own design, the entrepreneur who writes about her fears of failure, the teacher who is able to say "I don't know, but I'll look in to it for you." This work of being human is messy; we posture and position ourselves according to our achievements and acquisitions to give the world a show of strength and confidence. But what about the moments of fear, of doubt, of shame and guilt that so often precede real and lasting change? We fail to raise them up and it's to our detriment. It feels so much better to know that you're not alone in the trenches of transition - and that while we all face the pain of change we're also allowed the transgressive act of stepping out of the proverbial comfort zone.

And so here I go - back into the bloggosphere - uncertain and nervous of what people will think as I share what I see and experience, but determined to get vulnerable and crack myself wide open all the same.

Happy leaping!