Reflecting

25 Kislev, 1st day of Chanukah 5786

Sometimes a bunch of unrelated moments line up, and only afterward do you realize they were all pieces of one idea Hashem was trying to show you.

I didn’t set out to write about this. It kind of strung together on its own. Between a text message, a conversation with a friend, opening a book, and attending a shiur that doesn’t usually fit into my schedule. Looking back, it’s hard not to see how the pieces were placed exactly where they needed to be. Hashem gives us the pieces. Our job is to notice how they fit.

As you may know, I write a weekly post on the parsha, usually trying to uncover a deeper layer beneath the surface of the text. Lately, my focus has been on Shabbos, on learning how to tap into its light and carry it with us as we move through the darkness of the weekdays.

I’ve been writing about the spirituality of light and darkness. Sometimes we have to find the hidden light inside the darkness just to get through. Even when we reach the light, we’re often met by our own shadows, the patches of darkness we still have to face before we can really receive the light fully.

These are deep ideas, and they can feel abstract. I actually think they’re very practical, but I also know they don’t always resonate for everyone. Still, I keep writing, partly to clarify them for myself, and partly in case they reach the person who might need them.

While doing this, I often feel like an impostor. Much of the time it feels like I am simply writing down what I have learned and processing it through my own words. I don’t see myself as an expert, nor as a personal example of inspiration. If someone were to ask me to speak about these ideas, even to share what I wrote, I would likely decline.

That’s why it took me by surprise when a reader sent me a screenshot of a post he shared. He listed 36 people who inspire him. Thirty-five of them were a who’s who of today’s Torah world. Then there was me, somehow in the middle. It was humbling, and honestly uncomfortable. I know myself, and I know how far I still have to go.

What struck me afterward wasn’t the list itself, but what it revealed. Sometimes you don’t really know what you’re doing until you see where the light lands. When you share something and it feels like a shot in the dark, you assume it disappears. Then you find out it reflected off something, reached someone, and suddenly the light becomes clearer to you as well, you can finally see its strength.

I realized that the parshiyos we are learning are teaching us that often impact precedes understanding. Yosef dreamed long before he understood his dreams. He spoke about them before he was ready to live them. Only decades later, standing in a very different place, did their meaning become clear.

That same night, I picked up a book that was sitting on my nightstand, The Creative Act by Rick Rubin, and opened it at random to a chapter on self-doubt. He writes that “self-doubt lives in all of us, and that while we may wish it gone, it is there to serve us. Flaws are human, and the attraction of art is the humanity held in it. If we were machinelike, the art wouldn’t resonate. It would be soulless. With life come pain, insecurity, and fear.”

He continues that “we’re all different and imperfect, and that those imperfections are what make both us and our work interesting. We create pieces reflective of who we are, and if insecurity is part of who we are, then our work carries a greater degree of truth as a result.” He adds that “the people who choose to create are often the most vulnerable, and that the same sensitivity that allows them to make the work is what makes them more tender to being judged.”

Later he writes that ‘we have stories about ourselves, and stories about the work, but those stories are not who we are or what the work is. We have no real way of knowing what will prove insignificant and what will matter. All that ultimately exists is the work itself, how it’s made, and how it’s received. If we choose to share what we make, it can recirculate and become source material for others.’ That idea resonated, because it means exactly what I experienced that once something is shared, it can go places we never expected.

Then, I found myself at a shiur on Likutei Moharan by Rav Joey Rosenfeld. He explained that our purpose in this world is to fill it with light. That means shining our uniqueness and our contribution into the world. Sometimes that looks simple, a smile, a friendly greeting, or a few words that give someone clarity and strength.

He spoke about daas, that real compassion is knowing what another person actually needs, and giving it to them. When we share that kind of light, the light of Creation, it doesn’t diminish what we have, it spreads it outward.

Then I began to recognize some of the ideas I had been hearing over Shabbos.

When Yosef looked at his fellow prisoners and asked what was wrong, he was bringing light into the darkest of dungeons. Or consider the story of the holy hunchback, who taught that the greatest thing we can do in this world is to do a favor for another Jew. That lesson was taught to him by the Piaseczna Rebbe, who never imagined that a single teaching would spare his student from death, help him survive the Holocaust, and eventually lead him to sweep the streets of Tel Aviv, where he would later share his story with Rav Shlomo Carlebach.

The Rebbe was planting a seed. That seed became light. The light did not end with him. It grew, and it continues to inspire generations of Jews.

Being recognized for what I share reminded me of something simple and demanding at the same time. We all have something to contribute, even if we don’t yet know exactly how to hold it. Sometimes the reflection comes before the confidence, and sometimes the response arrives before the readiness.

It starts small. Do something for another, give a compliment, share a word of encouragement. Light shared this way doesn’t disappear, it multiplies. We can accomplish so much, and spread so much light, if we only believed in ourselves a little more.

Chanukah teaches that even in the darkest moments, a single flame can push back overwhelming darkness. Be that flame, and you may discover its warmth only after it begins to shine.

There is light in the darkness, and there is darkness in the light. Some believe the light should remain internal, and others believe it should be shared outward. I think it can be both. When light is shared honestly, it returns and strengthens what’s inside as well.