Lech l'cha

"Lech l'cha" are the opening words of God's command to Abram (and Sarai) in Genesis 12:  "Go forth . . . "


Abram is called to leave behind the familiar;  called to set out for a land that is not yet known to him.  Abram was 75 years old when he took all his possessions and left Haran.


I'm not 75 (although maybe I am in Torah years!) and I'm not Abram (nor Sarai).  But this ancient story resonates with this mid-life woman who is needing to leave her comfortable and beautiful community in the West to an unfamiliar place to do who knows what with who knows whom.  My spirit is called to enter a new phase of life.  And so I go.


Jewish teachings inspired by Genesis 12 that I find particularly meaningful:


"Perhaps the Hebrew ("Lech l'cha") implies, "Go by yourself."  This is one journey which must be made alone.  One must become a stranger in the world to view it clearly, a wanderer to find its resting point.  Abraham is God's possession, not the world's."  -- Samson Raphael Hirsch


"The expression may be interpreted to mean, "Go to yourself," i.e., go to your roots, to find your potential.   -- Chasidic teaching


"Why did Abraham have to go forth to the world?  At home he was like a flask of myrrh with a tight-fitting lid.  Only when it is open can the fragrance be scattered to the winds."  -- Midrash


On one level, my journey is not exactly being made alone: I have support on this side, support on the other side, and my brother, AAA and U-Haul to get me from point A to point B.  But this truly is my journey.  I have a family as a physical safety net but my soul and my ego are taking a net-less leap of faith.  Will I find personal connection?  Fulfilling Jewish work?  Can long-standing personal and professional dreams come true at this juncture, my half-century mark?


If I don't look at my cardboard/styrofoam/newsprint/packing foam-strewn garage I can still pretend that everything is quite normal.  I haven't yet started breaking down my living space.  My journey will truly start when the pictures come down off the walls and the books are cleared from my dining room shelves.  Then I will know:  I'm officially the spiritual stranger in the world, the wanderer whose resting point is points unknown.