Sprained Ankles. (And What Else is) Nu?

I don’t think I’ve mentioned that I’ve had a sprained ankle since the middle of July. As much as I pride myself on being emotionally vulnerable, it’s very hard for me to be physically vulnerable.

When I went to Urgent Care, the doctor wanted to offer me a medical boot, which I refused because it was so big. It took me two months to give in and get one myself, along with a pair of crutches. But I had to endure comments (from one child) about how “attention-seeking” crutches are.

We live in a culture that doesn’t allow for much vulnerability in general—one that sneers at “weakness.”

My older daughter gave birth just a few days ago to her first child. Yes, we’re first-time grandparents!! Such joy! And what vulnerability! And anxiety.

Where does all the anxiety come from?

While we happen to live in a time, place, and circumstances with access to the best possible care, the messages coming at us are filled with all the terrible things happening, and all that can go wrong. For pregnancy specifically, few and far between are messages of the power of the human body and its natural ability to do what it’s designed to do.

On the other end of the spectrum, we are bombarded by messages of personal power.

The truth is, this business of pregnancy and birth is hazardous. Living is hazardous, as my stepfather used to like to say—and so vulnerable.

On Yom Kippur, I had a chance to really sink into that feeling of fear. As I’ve said before, it’s a time of facing our vulnerability as humans, and I was facing it in real time. I cried and cried, praying that the birth would go smoothly and all would be well. But I kept having scary images come to me, which I also pushed away, telling myself it was “just my anxiety.” Then positive images would come as well, assurances that all would be well.

But I often get the message from others that anxiety is a personal flaw I need to overcome. And I couldn’t stop the tears. I tried to hide under my prayer shawl. But people around me noticed, and cautiously asked, “Is everything alright?” And I would turn to them and smile with tears in my eyes and say, “Everything is perfect.”

Because it was.

Ten days later, we got the call that they were at the hospital. There were two days of waiting, with essentially no information.

Finally, at 6:15 on Friday evening, just as I had surrendered to not knowing, and we were about to light the Shabbos candles, a text came in. It was from our daughter, with a picture of this truly (objectively) beautiful baby: “He’s here!! He’s perfect!!!” with a hint that the birth had not been uncomplicated. My visions had been correct.

We raced to the hospital. And he was perfect. Our daughter was still regaining her strength. It had been a scary afternoon.

After a wonderful visit, my husband and I headed home, deciding we could finally relax and sleep. For the next two nights, though, anxiety flooded me. Even though all had gone well and everyone was fine in the end, it left its imprint. I still found it hard to sleep.

Questions came: was there something wrong with my faith? Was I ruining this perfect moment? Why couldn’t I just be happy and stop ruminating? I even wondered whether, rather than the visions being a prophecy, I might have caused the problems during birth with my anxious, “negative” thoughts.

Because I’m that powerful—like God! As a friend pointed out.

When my husband and I returned to the hospital on Saturday to visit, at one point we left our daughter alone and went out for a bit with our son-in-law. We made our way down to an outdoor garden area. As we were sitting chatting, my husband suddenly noticed a Sukkah over in a corner. We hadn’t gotten to eat or sit in one yet during the holiday for various reasons, and here it was the last day! Excited, we went to check it out.

As we approached the doorway, others were on their way out. They were a group of three Ultra-Orthodox Jews. I immediately felt a sense of vulnerability, like I didn’t belong there.

But they left, and inside we found three other people sitting at the long table. They immediately welcomed us and told us where we could get hot food—anything we needed in the “Jewish Room” down the hall where (there they were again) the same group of Ultra-Orthodox Jews were. Amid their conversation in Yiddish, they helped us find food provided to those looking for a kosher meal as they or family members were healing. It felt comforting in a vulnerable moment.

We returned to the Sukkah and sat with the second group of three who had become friends over the previous days. They were dealing with complications from their own births, and great unknowns about the future. They had bonded in their vulnerability, and we quickly bonded with them as well. We laughed with joy, and also talked seriously about the fragility of life we were all squarely facing.

Here we had found this shelter together, this Sukkah, vulnerable to the elements, with its precarious walls and view of the sky through the branches and leaves that made its roof, comforted and cared for by strangers who had provided all the food you could possibly need.

Lovely, special—and perfect.

The next day, on Simchas Torah, a holiday when Jews dance with Torah scrolls, my husband and I went to synagogue. We suspected we would be getting a call to help the new family get home from the hospital. But there was so much to celebrate, and we really wanted to share it with our community. I was given the honor of carrying a Torah scroll even before anyone knew about the new baby.

A teaching was given about why we dance at the end of this intense cycle of holidays that comes at this time of year, from Rosh Hashanah through the end of Sukkos.

One answer, according to a Hassidic teaching, is that we have gone through deep spiritual work; after all the intellectual searching throughout the year, during these holidays we sink into the spiritual realm. We are now ready to transcend the intellect, and dance with our feet, not our heads. Since the Torah scroll has no feet, we become its feet, holding the Torah close to our hearts, reaching within and connecting through the heart instead of the head.

Another teaching we heard refers to the broken tablets of the Ten Commandments—you know, perhaps, the ones that Moses shattered in a rage. In response, God gave Moses a second set of tablets. But the broken tablets were not discarded. Rather, they were stored in the ark along with the new, perfect set.

Why?

Because we all carry our brokenness along with the perfection of the world simultaneously.

Though it’s important to have moments when we can feel pure joy and let go of our anxiety, when anxiety does present itself, to me, this means the anxiety, which is part of our brokenness, should be lovingly and compassionately greeted and allowed in—just like those beautiful moments of connection we shared with the people in the fragile structure we call a Sukkah; all emotions were welcomed.

As we begin a new year and a new cycle of Torah reading this coming Shabbos, with the myths that tell of the beginnings of life on Earth, with each creation, the God of our Torah says, “it was good.”

Yes, it is good.

May we welcome all of life, with all its fragility, and be able to hold each other in our vulnerability with compassion and love. May we all have a sense of belonging, with all that we carry, and without judgment.