Last week was Mental Health Awareness Shabbat throughout the Jewish community in London and I had the pleasure to take part in the Erev Shabbat service lead by Rabbi Benji Stanley at Westminster Synagogue.
In parshàt Bo that week, the plague of darkness fell on the Egyptians as a result of the hardening of Pharaoh's heart. The description of this phenomenon is disturbing: people and houses and animals of Egypt were enwrapped in total darkness, an almost palpable darkness, like a blob whose density makes it impossible to see the other near you. In the study that we shared, Rabbi Benji drew a parallel between the perception of such a phenomenon and that of depression.
That description of a darkness that makes it impossible to see another person near you, reverberated in my memory. The feeling of isolation, of fear, that I felt during my childhood came back onto my skin. Over the long afternoons and evenings that I spent in our spacious flat in Sassari, when my mother and my sister were almost always out, I felt lonely and my brother, who already suffered from serious mental disorders, was alone in his room. I tried not to be heard so as not to risk a contact that would make me anxious. At the same time, I was afraid of the darkness and turned on all the lights in the house, then went out onto the balcony and observed the street, hoping that my mother would return soon.
From the New North London Synagogue, I also listened online to the first-hand experience of a young man who works for Jami, a British organisation that works to serve and facilitate the lives of people with mental illness. It reminded me that during my time in London I attended one of their presentations at the West London Synagogue, for whose newsletter I wrote an account of that event. When the Rabbi of New North London asked J "why a Mental Health Awareness Shabbat?" the young man replied "Because I think the saying "more than the Jews kept Shabbat, it is Shabbat that kept the Jews", is very significant with regard to mental health. We can see how mental illness is an ancient thing. The framing of depression today may be new in a medicalised sense, but the underlying feelings and emotions are very old. To see how they have been understood in culturally specific ways across time is very valuable. To be able to see the way it has specifically been in Jewish culture is more valuable. It makes me feel connected, because these issues did not arise with 21st century technology: but for millennia people have been sitting and thinking 'is it really good that we are here?' Clearly enough people thought that life was good because they had children. Still they may have been asking themselves 'Why is this all worth in the first place?'. Here is where Tradition can come in, to remind us or give us hope that this is something that can be worth it. And J, in the light of his experience, having managed to turn his illness into an occupation and a way of helping others, is working to break down the taboos surrounding this subject.
I couldn't be more in agreement, I also believe that mental health should be addressed in the same way as physical health.
There was also a moment of infinite tenderness: J referred to a Midrash on Bereshit, when the angels argued with each other in order to advise Hashem whether or not it was good to create a human being. This, he said, reminds us of our limitations, of arguing and philosophising our way to a very dark place. In the Midrash, Hashem returns from the work of creation and, having ignored the angels all along, informs them that man now exists.
What tradition here teaches us is that it is actually good for us to be here. Regardless of whether we can debate and deliberate our way to that conclusion, God had no uncertainty. This is a big aspect of mindfulness, to put aside the deliberation of our minds and to just experience existence. To derive a sense of the goodness of life from a much more direct experience. Thank you Jon!
Back at Westminster Synagogue, Rabbi Benji quoted Psalms 34:19 which says: "The Eternal is close to the brokenhearted: those crushed in spirit God delivers." How powerful can it be, when you feel immovably dark, to be promised that it can change.
For the Lucia who turned on all the lights in the house, for example, a way out was to lock myself in the spacious, elegant bathroom and, in front of the giant mirror, pretend to be the beauty cream saleswoman who fascinated me when I accompanied my mother to the perfumery. But my passion has been thwarted for so long, blocked by the fear of my father's threatening words. Though, a happy note to today's LiOr is that just yesterday I was commissioned to represent Just, and recommend its fabulous beauty products to everyone!
So may memory become a blessing. Processing my experiences using the sense of connection and vision that the study of Jewish tradition gives me, as well as the exchange with and the company of teachers and friends, I can put aside the deliberation of my mind and trust that what I have learned can help others.
This year the Jewish calendar and the Gregorian one, which we use in the secular sphere, had us find in close proximity Mental Health Awareness Shabbat (with the parashah depicting the plague of darkness), the Holocaust Memorial Day (around which time, sadly, I have experienced how, still, difficult is for some decent and intelligent people to try and talk about that darkness), and the festival of Tu b'Shvat, the 15th of Shevat, which begins tonight and marks the new year for the trees, with its message of ecological awareness and the beginning of the renewal of life.
So, Chag Tu b’Shvat Sameach to all Jews and loving wishes to all the inhabitants of the world for being good recipients of the gifts of Nature.