We tend to go about our lives with an unconscious assumption that things will continue basically as they have. Yet in reality, at any moment, life can take a turn. All of us who lived through the COVID-19 pandemic experienced the sudden and disorienting shift of almost everything we took for granted — where we spent our time, how we met basic needs and the state of health and security we had always had. Things fall apart, as the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron says, when we face a serious new health crisis, when relationships end, when a cataclysm like the attacks of October 7th leaps upon us.
How are we to respond when the familiar structures of our lives are disintegrating before our eyes? When we face fear and confusion? When our emotions ping-pong between alertness and apathy, concern and numbness?
A teaching from the Baal Shem Tov (known as the Besht), the 18th century rabbi who revolutionized Judaism with the creation of Hasidism, offers a rudder as we navigate the stormy seas of crisis. The Besht sought to help his followers to cope with unwelcome experiences — distracting thoughts during prayer and any encounters with brokenness. He offered a three-pronged approach: hachna’ah (yielding), havdalah (discernment), and hamtakah (sweetening).
Hachna’ah: Yielding
When things veer from our expectations, our first reaction is often resistance. Personally, when I learned during the pandemic that long-anticipated trips had to be cancelled, one after another, I responded like a toddler who stomps her feet and screams “No! No! No!” Each time, I initially insisted that this trip would happen, that the situation would surely be resolved by then, that I would not have to relinquish my dream. Each time it became clear that my will would not change things.
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The Besht teaches that our first task in meeting disagreeable realities is hachna’ah — which means yielding or submitting. We are called to let go of the hopes, expectations, and dreams we had for this moment, and to soften to what is. This act of yielding relaxes the tension and suffering caused by denying or avoiding reality. As the writer Byron Katie says, “Whenever I fight reality, I lose … but only 100 percent of the time.”
In trying times, much of what we expect from our lives can disappear — routines, rhythms, connections, livelihoods, health. Sometimes, what we crave most is a return to what we regard as normalcy. We learn from the Besht that we can traverse this strange terrain by accepting that, as an old Israeli expression goes, zeh mah she-yesh: this is what is.
Havdalah: Discernment
Once we yield to that realization, we can move on to the second step: havdalah. As those of us who celebrate Shabbat know, the Hebrew word havdalah is the name of the ceremony demarcating Shabbat from the rest of the week. The Besht means by havdalah that we are called to discern the exact nature of the spot we’re in, to distinguish fact from fiction, in order to act wisely. We need to engage our curiosity to find our way around and learn about our new normal.
This is a bit like walking into a dark room. Initially, we see only undifferentiated darkness. But once our eyes get accustomed to the dark, we begin to discern different contours, shadows, shades of gray and black, and perhaps even a bit of light coming in under the door. We can grasp the complexity of our new reality and see the sparks of light and goodness within it. This is a practice we can try every day by asking ourselves: Where were the sparks of light in my day? Was there a moment when I was able to bring light to someone else? How might I act to make things better for myself or others?
Hamtakah: Sweetening
Times of crisis or disjunction are not just filled with loss. There are also surprises and opportunities for growth. The Besht calls this third aspect of unwelcome experience hamtakah — sweetening. When we are open to what is, and curious about what we can find and become, we will notice new things growing — even if they are tiny and subtle as the first, fragile buds on the trees.
During the pandemic, when we were isolated in our homes, many of us were surprised to find new breadth and depth of connection. Zoom enabled us to be in touch with friends and relatives, not just those in our city or neighborhood, but around the world. When we face illness, it’s not uncommon to discover a fresh gratitude for the smallest pleasures — a flower pushing up through the cracks of the sidewalk, a ray of sunshine after days of rain, a surprise visit from a dear one.
Beyond these immediate tastes of hamtakah, there is hope that we will not emerge unchanged from either individual or collective trauma. Personally, in times of crisis, I hope to grow more patient, more flexible and more compassionate with myself and others. As a society, perhaps we can recognize our interdependency, and act more boldly to care for the most vulnerable among us. Unwelcome experiences impel us not to take for granted our privileges — sufficient food, the beauty of nature, institutions that sustain our spirits, relationships with caring others.
The Besht’s teaching about hamtakah reminds me of Edith, an 88 year-old resident in a nursing home where I once served as chaplain. Edith lived in constant pain from arthritis, but somehow maintained a cheerful mien. One day, Edith pulled a small packet carefully wrapped in tinfoil out of her pocket. “I take a medicine that leaves a very bitter taste in my mouth,” she told me. “Once in a while I am able to get my hands on a square of chocolate. I try to make it last for a long time, so I take just the tiniest morsel each time, and the bitterness fades away.”
I pray that, like Edith, we will be transformed by our experience of crises for the good, and that we will be able to find bits of sweetness along the way as we struggle for health and healing, peace and safety.
