A Community of Care
Rabbi Sharon Brous places individual care and relationships at the heart of meaningful community.
Relationships of mutual concern are rooted in both love and trust. These are people we know will hold our hearts with care. We’re prone to forgive them when they make mistakes, and we hope they’ll do the same for us. We feel accountable to one another. We want to share with them our important moments, both the hardships and the joys. We thrive when we’re together. Relationships of shared purpose are rooted not only in a commitment to one another, but also to a shared dream….
If the sweet spot … is the intersection of mutual concern and shared purpose, I want to root in a community that stands at that same intersection. Such a community sees every ritual, every service, and every gathering as an opportunity for a deepening of connectivity. It invests in people as complicated, multi-faceted, wounded, beautiful individuals, each one essential to the greater whole. This kind of community is fueled by questions like “Who are you, and what brings you here?” rather than “Where do you work?”… This kind of community establishes spiritual anchors—regular opportunities for people to pray, sing, grieve, learn, and reflect together. It recognizes the collective power of people of good will working to help heal the broader society and prioritizes creating pathways for the holy work to be done. It invests in the creation of sacred space that fosters not inclusion, but belonging, intimacy and authenticity, love and accountability. [1]
Recognizing the collective loneliness and despair experienced by so many in our culture, Brous’s community made a deeper commitment to meeting people where they were.
Our work is not only to preach a theology of love and belonging, but to ensure that our communities strive to embrace that mandate. I am certain that this is the most important work we have done. That is the amen effect—the sacred mandate to hear each other, to embrace each other, to love each other up, especially on the hard days. To say to one another, “Amen.”
To take this mandate seriously means to do everything we can to free our sacred spaces of shame and stigma. It means to speak honestly and openly about disconnectedness and loneliness, depression, anxiety, and addiction…. Communities of love and belonging are spaces where even at our most vulnerable, we’re still willing to show up and start walking, trusting that our community, those circling toward us, won’t look away.
The scientific data and spiritual insight here are in strong alignment. Disconnection is a plague on our society, a plague of darkness. The antidote is rich, meaningful connection. We all need an ezer k’negdo [2]—someone to meet our vulnerability with concern and care, to weep with us through the night, and to stand with us in the trenches, working with love to build a better world.
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From Andrew Lang:
| Hey CO Few,You’re probably familiar with the Buddhist parable of the Two Arrows.It goes something like this: when we experience harm or pain, two arrows fly toward us. The first arrow we experience is the pain of the event: the physical injury or the initial feeling of loss, change, or challenge. The second arrow is the suffering we experience from how we respond to the pain itself: the narratives, stories, and behaviors we weave together or embody in reaction to it. As the parable states: the first is unavoidable; the second is chosen.This past week, my daughter lost her two front teeth at once – and she was ecstatic. It was a celebratory moment, for sure! But rather quickly, she started hearing less-than-congratulatory messages from friends and family around her:“Good thing picture day isn’t for awhile!”“Ooh – bad time for that with the wedding coming up.”The first arrow.And now, at the young age of 7, she has to navigate not only those responses, but her response to those responses (the second arrow.) Will she decide to start smiling with a closed mouth? Will she feel ashamed whenever a camera is present? Or will she say – in 7-year-old-language – screw that! and give a big smile nonetheless?To the extent that she is able, she gets to choose her response. Similarly, we also face “first arrows” almost everyday of our lives: both the personal and intimate as well as the political and expansive. The loss of loved ones, the stinging words of others, but also the impact on our bodies and communities of ICE raids, reading the news, challenges to reproductive rights, and rising authoritarianism – these are all “first arrows” that can pierce through us. Unlike the parable, however, I’m not so sure we get to “choose” whether or not we experience the second arrow – but I do think we have a say in how it lands.The Second Arrow: Two Types of Pain. In his book My Grandmother’s Hands, trauma specialist Resmaa Menakem details two types of pain: dirty pain and clean pain. We experience the second arrow as dirty pain when we turn away from the reality of the first arrow, seek to bypass its impact on us, or try to pin it on somebody else.In other words, we experience dirty pain when we never truly sit with and face how the first arrow has pierced us.Living with the dirty pain of this second arrow can look and feel like: Ruminating about who’s to blame for the situation. Getting stuck in our stories of why this happened to us. Blowing our pain and frustration through our communities. Reading news apps compulsively to avoid the impact of the first arrow Pouring ourself into work and activism rather without taking care of our bodies Refusing to acknowledge the impact of the first arrow or minimizing its significance On the other hand, the second arrow can land as clean pain when we feel that first arrow and stay with it.Instead of bypassing the hurt or casting it onto others, we opt for a second arrow of clean pain by naming the reality of the first arrow, feeling its impact in our minds and bodies, and from that space, identifying how to move in a way that is aligned with our values and sense of self.Menakem writes that it still “hurts like hell,” but that opting for this clean pain “mends and can build [our] capacity for growth.”Especially in our current political context, experiencing clean pain is vital for us in order to remain present without burning out or checking out.To that end, here are a couple ways we can practice choosing clean pain: Identify ways to soothe yourself. In the Gentle Change Collective, we use Menakem’s language of “primal reps.” These are practices and activities that help you stay grounded in the midst of challenge. A few examples: self-touch, deep breathing, tapping, singing, stretching, orienting, etc. Notice and name. Become accustomed to noticing your emotions and thought patterns and naming them, whether to a journal, your phone’s notes app, or to someone else. Engage community. When that first arrow hits and our defense systems activate, it can be extremely helpful (and sometimes life-saving) to have a friend or community of care that can hold you in the midst of it. Find your people and practice being open about your experiences. Safely metabolize with movement. While facing that first arrow, it’s also vital to move with it. Go for a walk, engage with dancing, exercise, or stretching. Push and pull heavy things, to your capacity and ability. Movement like this releases endorphins, serotonin, dopamine, and others chemicals in our brain, supporting our ability to be resilient and grounded. Safely metabolize with action. One of the results of metabolizing the impact of that first arrow is often a desire to take action for justice and healing. And paradoxically, one of the best ways to metabolize the impacts of that first arrow is to take action for justice and healing. It’s not a first-we-metabolize-then-we-act situation; taking action is one of the core ways we invite healing within ourselves and our communities. |
