With a few exceptions, this blog tends to discuss areas of Jewish thought and a few musings that I have had on different subjects. It tends to stay reasonably theoretical. I feel that it might be appropriate to share something personal that has been on my mind for quite a while: Growing up and maturity.
Dylan's finest expression of alienation came in one of his most personal songs, Idiot Wind, where he seems to speak directly to his wife: Even you, Yesterday, You had to ask me where it was at, I couldn't believe after all these years you didn't know me any better than that, sweet lady.
There is something terribly sad and poignant about this verse. It is a very painful experience where the ones we once held so dear no longer understand us. This feeling tends to surface around this time of year because it is Pesach bein ha zmanim. In a sense, it is a time warp.
Seeing people come back a couple of years ago, I would see myself, the fresh-faced Yeshiva bochur return after 9 months, filled with zeal and enthusiasm. When I spoke to them about their experiences in a sense I was confronting my 19 year old self, remembering what it was like, recalling that passion and intensity. For a few years it came with a sense of guilt: Can I ever be like that again?
Other encounters would involve seeing old friends who had started around the same time as me but were still in Yeshiva. They might be married. Invariably there was strained conversation. Polite questions about each other's well-being. Watching each other suspiciously. What are you doing next year? I would ask. I would imagine the response: Are you a heathen yet? Reminiscing, musing on our thoughts, thousands of miles away.
But these wistful encounters have changed, and these days something else strikes me when I have them: The sense of distance from it all. Not, 'Oh I wish I was still like that.' Not, 'wow it seems like yesterday.' But rather, this was a very long time ago and seems like a previous era. Forgive my over-dramatisation. A line has been drawn. It is no longer regret, nostalgia or guilt that I feel but a dispassionate sense of appreciation. I say to myself that I have moved on and hope to constantly aspire to develop and dream in my own way, making a difference to God's earth, but I have 'grown up'. This realisation comes with a sense of pain:
I could make the case that the hardest thing about leaving a place is dealing with the consequences of returning to it. People who once knew you haven't seemed to realise that time has moved on. It is this that is particularly difficult when it comes to rabbis and mentors. Some of them might have been such pivotal figures when growing up and will always see you in a particular light. It is very hard to turn around to yourself and say that they have little to offer you any more as you simply exist in very different worlds. Unfortunately, this distance can lead to the feeling emphasised by another line, earlier in the song: People see me all the time and they just can't remember how to act. Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts.
This is particularly relevant to what I will classify as the 'deterioration' narrative which is so prevalent in certain circles. Sometimes I get the feeling that you are seen as either a good Yeshiva bochur/'yungerman' (arguably the best word of all time)/ ben Torah/ learned ba'al ha bos/ any combination of the above or you have slipped and deteriorated. The idea that you may have matured and developed in a way unique to yourself is not a popular one. As someone who sees individuality as a key component of the religious experience this causes me a lot of grief. This is a struggle I have experienced fairly regularly with certain people who used to know me well and now simply don't. I want them to. I want them to understand. But I have realised they often can't.
I would say that this has been one of my greatest challenges in returning to London after 5 years away. I walk the same streets yet much has changed. Carving out an identity that reflects a new reality yet simultaneously feeling the need to self-justify can lead to real tension. This tension can easily result in cynicism and antagonistic behaviour. In fact, I would put sardonic ranting on my linkedin profile as one of my standout qualities. This being said, I am strong believer that idealism and cynicism are two sides of the same coin. The latter gives you the energy to withstand the inevitable disappointments of living for the former, forming a rather bizarre coexistence. But that is for another time.
This leads me onto the theme of maturity. What does it mean? If it means discussing house prices, mortgages and looking disapprovingly at strange/unusual/impulsive/interesting behaviour or people then my Oxford dictionary has categorised that under 'boring'. In a sense I would define it in terms of a certain calmness when responding to events. Not a cerebral lack of feeling. But rather some sort of perspective which the fires of youth could never really grasp. It is certainly not something I now 'have' or fully internalised. In fact, many of the things I write on this blog come to me as I am writing and are therefore more indicative of aspirations than actualised behaviour. The exercise of writing is extremely cathartic. On Pesach we try and experience the transition from slavery to freedom and think about what we can pass on to the next generation as well as develop within ourselves so I suppose this is part of that process in my mind.
(Going back to the point a few paragraphs back where I was tempted to let loose on a super-rant): One of the most important areas of growing up for me has been learning to understand that everyone lives within their own context and world-view. You can't please everyone or be understood by everyone. Every individual exists within their own framework and if you shove something into their faces which clearly goes against that, there will be no beneficial results, just bad feeling. It is important to engage with everyone on a level that they are comfortable with. As I mentioned before, it's very hard sometimes when that person is trying to change you thinking in good faith that their position entitles them to do so. It is even harder when they are people you used to think had all the answers. But maturity means stepping back and assessing the situation. Sometimes this may involve acknowledging that the gap between you and another may be too wide and it is time to move on and leave the past on the shelf dedicated to good memories. It may just involve smiling and waving, like the penguins in Madagascar. It may involve sparing someone from a self-indulgent lecture. It may just involve silence.
Secondly, things don't always turn out the way you want them to. Things also shouldn't always turn out the way you want them to. This has taken me a long time to internalise and is probably something I will always struggle with. One of the fascinating elements of many of the historical narratives of our people is the sheer time frame involved. 210 years of slavery in Egypt? That's the equivalent period of time between now and the battle of Trafalgar (which most of you are too young to remember). Redemption took a long time in coming. Expecting things to happen just because you really want them to fit in to the picture of life that you painted in your mind a few years ago is just a childish fantasy. Not just because it is unrealistic. But because stages and setbacks are vital parts of character development, and slowly you can become a more profound and sensitive person as you grapple with the challenges of life, as well as cultivating a more self-sufficient personality. This applies to the religious as well as the social or financial sphere. The world doesn't end after a fall.
Part of the experience of growing up is that sometimes you find yourself in encounters that would have looked very different through the lenses of your younger self. The past clings to you and you are unwilling to shake it off. And for a moment there is self-doubt and accusation from a very different time. And you are unsure again. But maturity involves the ability to dust yourself down, smile and move on. To remember the good times, to laugh about them but not to be frozen or paralysed by the past. On that semi-optimistic note, Chag Sameach :-)
