I founded Kolot Chayeinu/Voices of Our Lives, in Brooklyn, New York, in 1993. This is an independent community that has grown from a collection of eight people around my dining room table, to 360+ members.

I joined the Institute's third rabbinic program when Kolot was ten years old.

At that time,  I felt spiritually dry.  I felt that perhaps I had done all I could to move the community forward; prayer and too many other aspects of our religious life were getting dull to me.  The Institute looked like water in the desert.

It wasn't as if I didn't have any spiritual practices in my life: Shabbat dinners at home, and Torah study with a long-time study partner gave me deep sustenance.  But it wasn't enough, so I applied to the Institute.

When my partner heard I was joining the program, she said, "You're going to be silent for four days??"  It turned out I loved the silence.  

But the practice that brought me to my edge was yoga.  It was so difficult, emotionally: I felt like I was back in the sixth grade, the kid who couldn't do gym. Confronting that freed me in many ways.  And I have maintained a deeply spiritual yoga practice.

Without the Institute and the timing of the program, I might have looked for another job. I might have gotten bitter, which can be an occupational hazard for rabbis, as sometimes we start to blame our congregants for the lack of depth we may feel in our communities. 

The spiritual practices I learned at the Institute taught me compassion, for myself and for others, including congregation members. I can see that people I once found annoying aren't just annoying:  they are struggling and I have come to view their struggles more clearly and with greater compassion.

One exercise from the cohort is still with me. In pairs, we sat facing each other and asked ourselves, over and over, as our answers grew deeper, "What would it mean to give up judgment right now?"  This question remains crucial for me as part of my practice.

I am still at Kolot Chayeinu; thanks in large part to the Institute's teaching and support, I wholeheartedly celebrated the congregation's eighteenth birthday last year. 

And I stop often, even for a moment, to breathe deeply, savor the world around me and - even fleetingly - know the divine presence.

The Institute saved my life.

It is important, though, to conceive of this joy as more than pleasure or satisfaction, at least as commonly understood. That is, when my need or desire is met, I experience a form of joy. On the surface, that joy derives from my sense of being recognized; justified in my desires, right and good as, after all, my desires were fulfilled. That joy will be fleeting, as our desires will not always be fulfilled; our needs will conflict with others'; we will discover that what we wanted was not satisfying in the end. The temporary joy that comes from having our needs filled ultimately causes more suffering.

Yet, there is an aspect of having our needs filled that may not cause such suffering. It is when we can recognize that our needs are filled in every waking moment. Just to be alive is itself a miracle, a gift, even with its losses and its pain. In any given moment, we can wake up to the fact that we are conscious, that we can observe the fact of our aliveness. The observing mind is not suffering in the moment. It knows our suffering, of the body and spirit making their way through life. It can extend compassion for our suffering; delight at our success; love for us, no matter what. It is balanced in every circumstance. It can revel at the wondrous workings of the body as it struggles to remain healthy; the complex and powerful forces of the psyche seeking integration and wholeness, even in the midst of confusion and conflict. It treasures the unique form in which consciousness has found its way into expression in this person, at this time, in this place, in this world.

This is a form of joy that does not vary according to circumstances. It is not dependent on events. It is present always, or at least accessible. This joy opens the heart, increases energy and expands the field of vision to include all others. It is the ground for our true intention, to ease the suffering of all beings, of being whole with ourselves and with others. This joy keeps us engaged with others, attentive to their humanity and needs, even when in conflict. It sustains us even in the face of the suffering of others. It is, indeed, a necessary element of a healthy and balanced spirituality. Rather than leading to apathy, anger or acquiescence it is a source of energy for wholehearted engagement. It is, indeed, joy that can lead to release from any Egypt. Can we hear that message?