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The Land Is Mine

2 minute read
Straightforward

In a world where land is hoarded or flipped to the highest bidder, the Torah says stop. Let go. Rest.

One of the Torah’s most interesting laws is the mitzvah of Shemitta, the Torah’s command to let the land of Israel rest every seventh year—no planting, no harvesting for profit—reminding us that the earth belongs to God, not us. It’s a divine pause that restores balance, humility, and equality.

וְהָאָרֶץ לֹא תִמָּכֵר לַצְּמִיתֻת: כִּי-לִי הָאָרֶץ – The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is Mine. (Vayikra 25:23)

The land is Mine. Not yours.

That’s not just a spiritual statement. It is revolutionary.

At its heart is the idea that land must be distributed, and redistributed, according to divine command, not power, skill, or wealth.

Every 50 years, land reverts to its original owners. Inequality is structurally limited. Accumulated power is reset. No one becomes permanently dispossessed. No one can dominate the land indefinitely—not even the “original” owner, because ownership is a fiction, a story we tell to forget who really owns the land.

The land is Mine. Not yours.

And it is sustained only by faithfulness to the Torah.

In a world where accumulation is sacred, and ownership is worshipped, Shabbos limits our time, and Shemitta limits our property.

The Torah doesn’t abolish inequality. It disciplines it. Wealth compounds. Land concentrates. Then the Torah calls time, interrupting the algorithm of greed. It assumes fluctuation, success, failure—but insists on a cyclical return to justice. To pause. To reset. To remember.

We often separate religion from politics and finance. But the Torah says they are the same.

The land is Mine. Not yours.

We all have property we cling to—status, ego, the illusion of permanence. We think that having something makes us better than people who don’t. But Shemitta isn’t only about agriculture; it’s about the soul. It is a whisper from the Divine: let go. Remember whose world this is.

Nothing we hold is entirely ours, not forever. Everything returns to the Source.

The land is Mine. Not yours.

If the land is not ours, then neither are the people who walk upon it. Everyone has their place; no person is disposable.

Shemitta teaches us to stop claiming what was never ours—including superiority. No status is permanent.

To release not only the land, but our grip on judgment, hierarchy, and entitlement.

Because if the land is God’s, then so is every soul upon it.

When Does Change Actually Begin?

2 minute read
Straightforward

Here’s a question most of us have quietly asked ourselves: When can I finally say I’ve changed? Is it when the past is behind me? When others believe it? When I’ve done enough to prove it?

In much of modern culture, change is proven by outcomes: therapy goals achieved, resolutions kept, habits restructured. But the Torah flips this — transformation begins not with results, but with sincere readiness.

In the Torah’s introduction to the laws of the tzara’as, it frames the laws in the context of the day of his purification:

זֹאת תִּהְיֶה תּוֹרַת הַמְּצֹרָע בְּיוֹם טׇהֳרָתוֹ וְהוּבָא אֶל־הַכֹּהֵן: וְיָצָא הַכֹּהֵן אֶל־מִחוּץ לַמַּחֲנֶה וְרָאָה הַכֹּהֵן וְהִנֵּה נִרְפָּא נֶגַע־הַצָּרַעַת מִן־הַצָּרוּעַ – This shall be the ritual for a leper on the day of his purification. When it has been reported to the priest, the priest shall go outside the camp. If the priest sees that the leper has been healed… (14:2,3)

Notably, the Torah calls it “the day of his purification,” before he’s actually purified yet. He’s just starting. The healing hasn’t happened, the rituals haven’t begun, and the Torah still calls it “the day of purification.”

Why does the Torah declare it “the day of purification” when nothing outward has changed? Isn’t it premature?

The Beis Yisrael observes here a breathtaking truth whispered by the Torah — that healing begins not with the final outcome, but with the decision to change. Before the ritual immersions, before the birds and the cedar and the hyssop — before any sign that anything has changed — the Torah already names it the day of purification, because the soul has already turned. It begins in consciousness, not in rituals.

As the Imrei Emes notes, repentance doesn’t begin when others believe we’ve changed. It begins the moment we truly want to change – היום אם בקולו תשמעו.

The body lags behind the soul: Even before the physical signs of healing appear, the person is spiritually in a new place. Reality takes time to catch up to intention, but God already counts inner readiness for change as the turning point. And maybe so should we — seeing others not only as who they’ve been, but who they’re trying to become, and perhaps extending ourselves the same grace.

The moment of transformation is fleeting but instant. It’s not only after you’ve fixed everything. Nor when someone else declares you clean. Nor when you’ve proven yourself to everyone. It begins sooner — far sooner. Today — in that quiet moment on the bus, or standing at the kitchen sink. If you open your heart, soften your ego, and truly hear. That’s the day of purification.

Change begins in that sacred moment when intention and desire align—when we truly hear the calling to be different.

Purity and healing are not destinations we arrive at, but moments of turning we pass through. The day of transformation doesn’t wait for evidence or witnesses—it arrives the moment your heart is ready, often in life’s quietest spaces, where only you and God bear witness to the change.

And the moment your heart is ready, the day has already arrived.

Prayer Without Permission

2 minute read
Straightforward

In the hushed corridors of the Persian palace, Esther faced an impossible choice. The law was clear: approach the king without being summoned and face death. Yet the fate of her people hung in the balance.

In that pivotal moment, Esther made her decision and walked deliberately toward the throne room against protocol:

וּבְכֵן אָבוֹא אֶל־הַמֶּלֶךְ אֲשֶׁר לֹא־כַדָּת וְכַאֲשֶׁר אָבַדְתִּי אָבָדְתִּי – “Then I shall go to the king, though it is against the law; and if I am to perish, I shall perish!” (4:16)

She violated the royal protocol, and yet, that bold, desperate act saved her people. Consider this: had she followed the proper channels—waiting for an invitation, scheduling an audience through the court protocols—she would have undermined her own message. This was not the ordinary course of business; the very act of breaking protocol communicated the desperation of the moment in a way that no formal petition ever could.

This moment takes on even deeper significance when we consider our sages teaching that every reference to “the king” in the Purim story has a dual meaning and is also an allegory for God, The King.

Esther’s defiance isn’t just political—it’s spiritual. Her willingness to break protocol mirrors a deeper truth: even when we don’t follow the right steps, we are still heard.

Jewish tradition provides us with structured prayer, set times, formulated words, and careful sequencing; it can create rhythm and meaning in our spiritual lives. There is undeniable wisdom and beauty in these established pathways that have sustained our people through millennia.

But what of the mother sobbing in the middle of the night for her child? The lost soul whispering a plea in the dark?

How often do we find ourselves constrained by the “proper” way of approaching God, struggling to connect with the proper words, times, or places?

One of Purim’s greatest lessons is that the “wrong way” also works—sometimes even better. The power of prayer does not reside solely in formulaic recitation—it also lives in spontaneous, raw, unscripted intent. Sometimes, breaking protocol isn’t just necessary—it’s transformative – אֲשֶׁר לֹא־כַדָּת.

Elsewhere in our tradition, Hannah also approached God unconventionally—people thought she was drunk. She prayed for a child at Shiloh by moving her lips without audible words. No one taught her, she did it, and it worked—and her innovative, heartfelt prayer became the model for our silent Amidah. There are times when our raw, unfiltered needs must be expressed straightforwardly, even if they don’t follow the prescribed patterns of tradition.

This doesn’t diminish the importance of our formal traditions. But it reminds us that the core of prayer is reaching out with an open heart.

Like Esther, we may find the gates of heaven open—not to perfection, but to presence. When words fail, when the right words feel distant, when we hesitate because we fear we aren’t doing it the “right way”—just say what you need to say. The King is listening.

The Art of Grounded Greatness

3 minute read
Intermediate

Some people live with their heads in the clouds—always dreaming, always reaching for something bigger. Others stay firmly on the ground—practical, realistic, never daring to soar too high. But the key to a meaningful life isn’t choosing one or the other. It’s in holding both at once.

This delicate balance is woven into the very fabric of the Jewish worldview, reflected in some of our tradition’s most profound teachings. Nowhere is this clearer than in the Cherubim on the Ark, whose wings stretched toward the heavens while their faces remained turned toward one another:

וְהָיוּ הַכְּרֻבִים פֹּרְשֵׂי כְנָפַיִם לְמַעְלָה סֹכְכִים בְּכַנְפֵיהֶם עַל־הַכַּפֹּרֶת וּפְנֵיהֶם אִישׁ אֶל־אָחִיו אֶל־הַכַּפֹּרֶת יִהְיוּ פְּנֵי הַכְּרֻבִים – The cherubim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall face each other, the faces of the cherubim being turned toward the cover. (25:20).

As the Sadeh Margalit notes, this wasn’t just aesthetic design – it was a blueprint for living; spiritual heights mean nothing if we aren’t also face-to-face, engaged with each other.

This profound pattern of grounded aspiration also appears in Yaakov’s dream:

וַיַּחֲלֹם וְהִנֵּה סֻלָּם מֻצָּב אַרְצָה וְרֹאשׁוֹ מַגִּיעַ הַשָּׁמָיְמָה – He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky (28:12).

As R’ Yehuda Leib Gertner teaches, the ladder reached the heavens yet remained firmly planted on earth, a powerful image that captures an essential truth: dreaming without roots is mere fantasy; rootedness without vision leads to stagnation. True greatness requires both.

But let’s be honest – maintaining this balance is incredibly challenging. We all know people who’ve lost their way on both extremes: The business executive who achieves incredible success but can’t remember the last time he really listened to his children. The scholar who can quote any text but walks past a neighbor in need without noticing.

While we admire those who dream big, unchecked ambition often leads to dangerous detachment. To reach without looking inward, to ascend without connection, is to miss the true heights of greatness. Like the cherub who turns away, like a ladder missing its base, they rise without anchoring themselves in connection.

Our sages teach that when the Cherubim faced away from each other, it signaled spiritual and national disconnection. A person who flies too high and forgets the ground may one day look down and realize they are utterly alone.

Yet the opposite extreme carries its own dangers. Those who never lift their eyes beyond the present moment risk becoming trapped in a cycle of mere survival, losing sight of all life has to offer. We see this in the “practical” person so focused on daily tasks they’ve stopped believing in possibility, in those who avoid dreaming big because they fear disappointment, and in people so consumed by screens and schedules they never pursue deeper wisdom or purpose.

As the Malbim notes, the Ten Commandments were split into two tablets: five between man and God and five between man and man. One tablet without the other is incomplete. Focusing only on your spirituality can leave you self-absorbed, and focusing only on your relationships with people can have you losing sight of the higher purpose that gives relationships meaning.

So, what does this ancient wisdom mean for us in practice today?

When you’re praying, let your soul soar – but keep your eyes open for those in your community who might need help this week. When learning Torah, reach for deep understanding – but always ask yourself how this wisdom can make you a better spouse, parent, friend, or neighbor. When pursuing your career goals, dream big – but measure success not just by personal achievement, but by how many others you can lift along the way.

The Cherubim and Yaakov’s ladder aren’t just historical images but timeless messages about the path to genuine fulfillment. They teach us to reach skyward while remaining grounded and to pursue our highest aspirations while strengthening our human connections.

Reach for the Heavens. Climb with purpose.

But keep your feet firmly planted in the world of kindness and connection.

Shabbos Redux

3 minute read
Straightforward

It’s not a sin to need money, to want money, or to have money. But it might be a sin to love money or tie human value and identity to money.

From the time Adam was cursed to work at the sweat of his brow, and today, arguably more than ever, humans have grappled with hustle culture—the idea that working long hours and sacrificing self-care are required to succeed.

A person is not their money. A person is not defined by their economic productivity at all. Recognizing the intrinsic value of every human created in God’s image reminds us that our worth is not measured by wealth or productivity but by our very being.

Pharaoh’s rhetoric—”They’re just lazy!”—was not just an excuse for oppression; it was a worldview that equated human worth with work. This same perversion echoes across history, from Pharaoh’s Egypt to Auschwitz’s gates and now to the modern grindset that glorifies relentless labor over true purpose. The names have changed, but the logic remains the same: people are only as valuable as what they produce. This thinking is so ingrained that overwork is mistaken for virtue even today.

For the people who walked under it, the demonic slogan “Arbeit Macht Frei” (“Work sets you free”) is the ultimate perversion of labor’s value—work twisted into a tool of dehumanization. But the Torah offers a counterpoint: work is meaningful, but it is never the measure of a person’s worth. Shabbos is a weekly rejection of a system that defines people by productivity alone. There is no glory in self-sacrifice in the form of endless labor.

Of course, practical realities often force people to work beyond healthy limits. The mortgage doesn’t pay itself, and children need to eat. However, this constraint should be acknowledged as an imperfection in our system, not glorified as an ideal.

In our time, hustle culture and “grindset”—the mindset and mentality of absolute perpetual grind—is poison. Our smartphones have become portable taskmasters, ensuring we’re never truly off the clock. Hustle culture breeds hard workers, sure, but by the same token, lazy thinkers who don’t have time to prioritize. How many of us would benefit from slowing down to devise an effective strategy?

The epidemic of burnout, anxiety, and depression in our society is not unrelated to our loss of sacred rhythms of work and rest.

Against this backdrop, the Torah’s introduction and framing of Shabbos is a breath of fresh air: Six days shall you work, and on Shabbos, you shall rest. Because the Creator created for six days, and then He rested.

To be sure, work is important. Our sages teach us to enjoy our work – אהוב את המלאכה. Our sages go further and say our work is sacred because the Divine Presence did not rest among the Jewish People until they had worked to build the Mishkan – וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם.

R’ Tzadok HaKohen observes that the Torah always frames the mitzvah of Shabbos in the context of an obligation to work six days—that is to say, not a seventh. Work is important; it is part of inhabiting the fruitful and productive world in which the Creator has placed us.

We’re supposed to work; work gives rest its meaning, just as effort gives fulfillment to reward. There is no rest with no work; a vacation is only as sweet as the labor that precedes it—without meaningful effort, even rest becomes hollow. Shabbos transforms rest from mere absence of work into something sacred. Work and rest are two sides of one coin.

The Creator doesn’t get tired, but Creation does. Rest is not a reaction to exhaustion but an integral part of the design. Everything needs to stop to catch its breath.

As R’ Samson Raphael Hirsch notes, just as individuals need rest, so does the earth; Shemittah is Shabbos for the land. It is not just an agricultural law—it is a radical reset, a divine reminder that human worth is not measured in wealth or output. In a world that worships work, Shemittah breaks the illusion that value is transactional. Creation is about more than economic productivity; it demands a different mode of being—one that steps away from the grind to allow for renewal, reflection, and return. Rest is not a reward. It’s part of the building process.

There is a depressing phenomenon among some senior citizens. After playing as much golf and tennis as their bodies allow, they literally wait for death. Their entire life revolved around earning a living, and rather than live, with no more work they literally had nothing left to live for.

Even in today’s corporate world, companies recognize that constant work can be counterproductive. “Gardening leave” forces professionals to step back from the industry as a strategic reset. Shabbos operates on the same principle but with a higher purpose: to remind us that life is not just about what we produce but about who we are.

Pharaoh and hustle culture demand that we prove ourselves through endless labor. Shabbos reminds us that we were never slaves to begin with. In a world that tells us we are what we do, Shabbos tells us we are enough simply because we exist.

Leaders Lead

2 minute read
Straightforward

The most dangerous leadership failure isn’t incompetence—it’s convenient patience.

At the dedication of the Mishkan, the affluent princes of each tribe, the Nesi’im, were the last to bring their offerings.

Their thinking was to allow the regular folks the opportunity to contribute, and they’d backstop the project; whatever was missing, they would cover. They waited to see what was needed, filling in the gaps rather than seeking personal recognition.

At first glance, their decision seems noble—selfless, even. They intended to support rather than overshadow. Yet, in their hesitation, they miscalculated. In the end, the people had provided everything except for some final touches.

Rav Yeruchem Levovitz observes that they had rationalized their delay as generosity, but it contained an element of laziness, a passive reluctance to lead from the front. Their plan wasn’t wholly virtuous; it was a little too convenient.

When we delay action in moments that demand initiative, our leadership loses something. The Torah describes their gifts with a missing letter—subtly highlighting that something about their contribution was defective – נשיאים / נשאים. The princes lost not just a letter but their opportunity to inspire others through example.

They were not the first or last to fall into this trap. This pattern of leadership—stepping in only when gaps appear—is not unique to the princes. It recurs in all spheres of leadership, from personal responsibility to communal roles. Telling yourself you’ll backstop whatever is missing can feel magnanimous. It’s an easy way to look generous while avoiding the hard work of true leadership.

Leadership isn’t about waiting until the last moment to patch holes. It’s about stepping in before gaps appear. It’s about anticipating needs, not just reacting to them. Being the safety net isn’t the same as carrying the weight. The finest contributions come from those who engage early, not those who wait for necessity to force their hand.

When backstopping becomes a way to compensate for prior inaction, it can be a comfortable excuse rather than a noble act. Virtue is not in waiting until urgency forces movement but in acting when it is most challenging—when excuses are easiest to make.

As our sages teach, in a place without leaders, strive to be a leader—not when it’s easy, but when it’s most needed.

Rationalizing laziness is one of the subtlest self-deceptions. It sometimes wears the mask of mercy, patience, and even wisdom. “I’m just letting others have a chance!” We convince ourselves that patience is wisdom when it’s often fear disguised as strategy. A mindset that feels wise and generous can mask a reluctance to bear the full weight of responsibility.

Failure to act early is a timeless lesson. Consider a struggling company. A leader who swoops in when bankruptcy looms may be hailed as a savior—but where was that leadership when the first cracks appeared?

The test is simple: am I waiting because others need space, or because I need comfort?

True leadership isn’t about last-minute heroics; it’s about stepping up so the crisis never comes.

Little by Little

3 minute read
Straightforward

We all know that feeling: waiting for something we desperately want, wondering why it’s taking so long. Whether it’s a career breakthrough, a relationship, or personal growth, the slow pace of progress can feel excruciating.

In those moments of impatience, the Torah offers us profound wisdom about the true nature of divine kindness. When God promised the Jewish people that they would inherit the Land of Israel, He declared the conquest would be gradual rather than instant:

לֹא אֲגָרְשֶׁנּוּ מִפָּנֶיךָ בְּשָׁנָה אֶחָת פֶּן־תִּהְיֶה הָאָרֶץ שְׁמָמָה וְרַבָּה עָלֶיךָ חַיַּת הַשָּׂדֶה.מְעַט מְעַט אֲגָרְשֶׁנּוּ מִפָּנֶיךָ עַד אֲשֶׁר תִּפְרֶה וְנָחַלְתָּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ – I will not drive them out before you in a single year, lest the land become desolate and the wild beasts multiply to your hurt. I will drive them out before you little by little, until you have increased and possess the land. (23:29,30)

Such a measured approach might seem puzzling at first—wouldn’t immediate possession of the land be preferable?

The Torah explains otherwise: a sudden conquest would have left vast territories temporarily uninhabited, inviting wild animals to overrun the land before it could be properly settled. What appeared ideal in theory would have proven disastrous in practice.

This principle isn’t just an ancient lesson—it’s a blueprint for how we navigate frustration in our own lives.

As R’ Shlomo Farhi explains, when progress feels painfully slow, the answer lies in this teaching. Just as an unsettled land would become overrun by predators, blessings that come too quickly can overwhelm our ability to steward them properly. God gives you just enough, one step at a time. Each step forward comes with enough room to grow and inhabit that space before moving on.

Sometimes, what we need isn’t everything all at once but to receive it slowly, at a manageable pace. God’s measured kindness ensures that you’re not overwhelmed and that what you receive is manageable and sustainable. Sometimes, the slow, step-by-step process is the greatest kindness, even when it doesn’t feel that way in the moment.

When something takes a long time to come to fruition, God might be asking you to divide and conquer—again and again. And yet, often, we’re so fixated on the whole of what we want that we don’t move in, commit, connect, occupy, or settle the parts we already have. We convince ourselves that the blessing isn’t here yet—because it’s not fully complete. The way we handle this divine process in our lives often reveals our deeper relationship with progress and perfection.

Imagine owning a magnificent house – seven bedrooms, a luxurious living room, beautiful outdoor spaces – and a dated kitchen. Some people will fixate on that single flaw, uproot their entire family, and move into a cramped rental for two years during renovations. They abandon the joy of living in 95% perfection because they cannot tolerate the 5% that needs some work. Rather than enjoying their abundant blessings while gradually improving what needs attention, they let one imperfection divide them from all they have. People with this pattern of allowing a single flaw to overshadow countless gifts rob themselves of life’s richness, perfectly illustrating the need for divide-and-conquer thinking.

Many people approach life this way. They think, Until I’ve solved all my problems, I’ve solved none of my problems. They let one unfinished area prevent them from enjoying all the blessings in the others. But maybe God is giving you pieces and wants you to enjoy those pieces while you work on the rest.

You wouldn’t refuse to move into a house because the basement is unfinished. Why should you refuse to settle into your life just because one area still needs work? God’s kindness comes in stages, and learning to live and enjoy those stages is part of the process. Don’t let one work-in-progress keep you from inhabiting, settling, or connecting with all the goodness that’s already yours.

So when we look at God and wonder why we didn’t get what we wanted, we have to ask ourselves: Did we get none of what we wanted? Often, the answer is no.

This wisdom extends to every area of life. We tend to focus on what’s missing, on the things we don’t have. But if God gave us everything we asked for immediately, it might overwhelm or even break the blessings that are already ours. What if we could learn to be grateful for the things we don’t yet have?

Smaller, incremental gains are far more sustainable than dramatic overnight transformations; blessings and success are best handled in stages. By giving you space and time to adjust and grow, God has granted you the opportunity to nurture what you do have.

Koheles reminds us that everything has its season, time, and purpose under the sun. The divine plan unfolds at the perfect pace—even when we wish it would move faster.

Sometimes, the greatest gift isn’t getting everything we want – it’s getting exactly what we can handle, exactly when we can handle it.

How can you start settling into more of your blessings today?

Rewriting Reality

2 minute read
Straightforward

The Jewish People must have felt invincible after witnessing the greatest miracles in history—the Exodus and the splitting of the Red Sea.

It didn’t last long.

Three days after traversing the Red Sea, they reached Marah, and provisions ran low. No one could imagine the manna or well coming their way. They were thirsty; what were they going to drink?

וַיָּבֹאוּ מָרָתָה וְלֹא יָכְלוּ לִשְׁתֹּת מַיִם מִמָּרָה כִּי מָרִים הֵם עַל־כֵּן קָרָא־שְׁמָהּ מָרָה. וַיִּלֹּנוּ הָעָם עַל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר מַה־נִּשְׁתֶּ – They came to Marah, but they could not drink the waters of Marah because they were bitter; that is why it was named Marah. And the people grumbled against Moshe, saying, “What shall we drink?” (15:23,24)

It was a legitimate survival question. The human body has physical limits.

They could have asked. Instead, they grumbled and complained.

As the Kotzker Rebbe profoundly teaches, it was not the waters that were bitter, but their hearts – כִּי מָרִים הֵם.

This teaching is not metaphorical; it is also supported by modern neuroscience. The concept of neuroplasticity explains that the brain physically reshapes its architecture to build new structures in response to whatever stimuli, behavior, and thoughts you’re pumping into it. Our experience of the world is shaped by our internal state; the world is a mirror that reflects back our states of consciousness.

As the Proverb teaches, as a man thinks in his heart, so he is – כִּי  כְּמוֹ שָׁעַר בְּנַפְשׁוֹ כֶּן־הוּא (Proverbs 23:7). The thoughts we cultivate shape not only our self-perception but the world we encounter. A bitter heart sees a bitter world; a heart sweetened by gratitude and openness finds sweetness even in hardship.

We write our reality; life’s challenges often reflect the state of our inner world. Studies show that when people expect hostility, they interpret neutral actions as aggression. If you enter relationships or situations expecting hostility or failure, you’ll unconsciously act in ways that elicit those outcomes. The reverse is also true: projecting kindness often fosters positivity and connection.

Your mind is a filter, not a camera. Change the lens and the picture changes.

The stories you tell yourself, the emotions you cling to, and the patterns you repeat are the ingredients of your inner architecture. What are you feeding your mind? Is your mental, emotional, or spiritual diet cultivating thoughts of scarcity, resentment, and self-doubt, or are you nourishing yourself with hope, curiosity, and compassion?

Our minds filter reality based on what we expect to see. If we train our minds to expect bitterness, we will find it—even in places where sweetness exists. When you see the world as unkind, consider whether you are viewing it through the lens of your own dissatisfaction.

You don’t see the world as it is; you see it as you are. When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.

Small, positive changes in thought patterns lead to profound shifts over time. Modern psychological theories, such as confirmation bias, affirm that we notice what aligns with our beliefs. We can intentionally harness this mechanism to rewire our neural pathways with gratitude and openness.

You are not just an observer; you are the builder.

This world has always contained both bitterness and sweetness, but we choose the lens through which we see it. If the reflection feels bitter, try softening your gaze. Sweeten your perception, and you may taste a world that has been waiting for you to taste its sweetness.

Perfectly Imperfect

2 minute read
Straightforward

Closing the book of Genesis, the Torah offers one of the most profound images of closure and legacy in the Torah: Yaakov gathers his children around his deathbed and sees them united in faith and purpose. All of Yaakov’s children remained within the covenant, united in their commitment to his spiritual legacy, and everything was brought into harmony

Our sages see here a moment of wholeness, and Rashi here quotes our sages’ description that “his bed was complete.”

But pause for a moment. Is this really the perfection we might imagine? After all, Yaakov’s family history is far from ideal: sibling rivalries, betrayals, jealousy, and strife – and a little kidnapping and human trafficking.

How, then, can this moment represent perfection?

The answer challenges our usual assumptions. The Torah here presents an image of perfection that does not conform to a conjured image of artificial symmetry and flawlessness—a life untouched by failure or struggle.

That’s not what perfection looks like; that’s not real.

Yaakov’s life tells a different story, and it’s real. It’s a vision of perfection not in the absence of struggle but in the beauty and wholeness that can emerge from it.

In the story of Yakov’s family, we see a man whose life is anything but smooth. He wrestled with angels, endured family betrayals, faced deep loss and sorrow, and spent years in exile. His life was filled with scars and setbacks, yet it culminated in this profound moment of unity and blessing.

This moment invites us to rethink our definition of perfection.

In this view, perfection doesn’t mean the absence of flaws but rather the willingness to wrestle with them and emerge stronger. Perfection isn’t a destination we reach; it’s a way of being, where the scattered fragments of our lives—both light and shadow—are woven together into a greater whole. It is a vision of a life fully lived, where nothing is wasted, and even the struggles become stepping stones toward a greater wholeness.

The bumps and scrapes of our lives are not flaws to be erased; they are part of the story that makes us whole.

What does perfection look like for us? Perhaps it looks like the family that navigates its disagreements but still comes together for a Shabbos meal. Or like siblings who argue yet still rally together when a parent is in need. Or the person who has faced failure but uses those experiences as a foundation for growth. A generation of Holocaust survivors has shown us that wholeness doesn’t mean being unbroken—it means turning even the darkest moments into a foundation for life and blessing. Like Yaakov’s family, perfection isn’t about being flawless—it’s about growing through those flaws.

Life is messy, and our relationships—whether with family, friends, or even God—are rarely perfect in the conventional sense. But they are not a distraction from the journey; they are the journey.

Tipping Point

2 minute read
Straightforward

Joseph’s story is one of the most complete and dramatic arcs in the Torah. It is a story of youthful arrogance transformed into prophetic greatness and, more importantly, betrayal transformed into redemption.

Joseph starts as his father’s favorite, but his dreams and their interpretations alienate his brothers, who throw him into a pit and sell him into slavery. In Egypt, his fortunes sink further as he is falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife and imprisoned. His downward trend is long and grueling, filled with isolation and injustice.

But where exactly does Joseph’s story hit its turning point?

Many would point to his prophetic interpretation of Pharaoh’s servants’ dreams as the critical moment that started the upswing that brought him to Pharaoh’s attention and set him on the path to prominence. It’s a fair answer and mostly correct.

But Rav Shimon Schwab offers a profound insight: Joseph’s tipping point was not the moment he interpreted their dreams, but rather five minutes earlier, the moment one morning he noticed they weren’t themselves and thought to ask, “Hey, you seem sad today; what’s happening?”

וַיָּבֹא אֲלֵיהֶם יוֹסֵף בַּבֹּקֶר וַיַּרְא אֹתָם וְהִנָּם זֹעֲפִים. וַיִּשְׁאַל אֶת־סְרִיסֵי פַרְעֹה אֲשֶׁר אִתּוֹ בְמִשְׁמַר בֵּית אֲדֹנָיו לֵאמֹר מַדּוּעַ פְּנֵיכֶם רָעִים הַיּוֹם – When Joseph came to them in the morning, he saw that they were sad. He asked Pharaoh’s courtiers, who were with him in custody in his master’s house, saying, “Why do you appear downcast today?” (40:6,7)

This compassionate inquiry, selfless and unassuming, with no agenda or ego, recognizing the pain of another and taking the initiative to address it, is the pivotal moment the story turns on. This act of noticing—seeing others in their pain and offering support—echoes throughout the Torah, highlighting how empathy and connection to others are essential elements of leadership and redemption.

Like Joseph, Moshe’s leadership began with noticing. The Torah describes Moshe seeing an Egyptian taskmaster beating another Jew and intervening to stop the injustice. In both stories, leadership emerges from the courage to look beyond oneself and act on behalf of others.

Small acts of care—a question, a moment of attention—can ripple outward, changing the course of events in ways we cannot foresee. But just as significantly, these acts can ripple inward, helping us heal and grow. When Joseph looked beyond his own suffering to care for others, he set himself on the path to recovery and redemption. Seeing others’ pain is not just an act of kindness—it’s a sign we’re starting to rise ourselves.

Joseph’s rise began not with grand miracles or mysterious prophecies but with the quiet act of noticing another person having a rough day.

Life’s turning points rarely involve fanfare and supernatural insight. Far more often, they are shaped by deliberate, invisible actions that create connection and healing.

Seeing beyond our own struggles to notice others’ pain and lift them is no small act; it’s the first step to redemption.