This is the message I posted on social media to say goodbye – and to say thank you – to the Springboard community. Grateful doesn’t begin to describe it. My heart is open and I want to pull the whole world in.

*~*Life Update!*~* After four and a half years teaching new Hillel professionals on Team Springboard, I will be leaving my role as Springboard Assistant Director on June 23rd. But don’t worry – I won’t be going too far! I’m thrilled to be joining the team at Illini Hillel as their Senior Jewish Educator, starting virtually on July 1 and in-person in August. Joining the team at Illini Hillel represents a wonderful next step in my growth at Hillel as an educator and “erev rav” (rabbi-to-be). While I am sad to leave Springboard, I am excited to continue our relationship. I can’t wait for our paths to cross again, both virtually and in person.

Fellows and alumni: It has been an absolute honor and joy to partner, learn, and grow with you. I am so proud to have been a part of your individual journeys, as well as the journey of this fellowship. When I reflect on where we’ve been together, it’s hard for me to believe that just four and a half years ago, this program had 19 fellows with two staff members. It’s been incredible to watch the program grow to include 85+ fellows each year, over 100 alumni, and a village of staff and community partners.

I also want to express endless gratitude for my colleagues at the SIC, especially the Talent(ed) Team, and for Team Springboard, in all of its constellations. Thank you to Danielle N. for stepping in to lead this community. I have already learned a lot from working with you even over just a few months. I am grateful that Springboard has your leadership, and I’m excited to see how you grow the program from here. Thank you to Becca for being my go-to person and my calendar/breakouts/swag hero. You are the shomer (keeper/guardian) of Springboard’s sacred details and we couldn’t do it without you. Thank you to Rabbi Danielle, Rabbi Jessica, Erica, and Arielle. You all taught me so much about Jewish education. I will take these lessons with me in my next role and in the many years to come.

Most of all, thank you to Josh Feldman for being so much more than my supervisor. You’ve been a mentor, a confidant, a cheerleader, and a role model. Thank you for believing in me from day 1, and for inviting me to join you in building the best early career development program in the Jewish world. It’s been an honor to grow Springboard with you, and I’m so proud of what we built together. Thank you for always seeing the best in me, and for empowering me to see the best in myself. Your dedication to my leadership and growth have changed me for the better. I am so grateful we shared these last four and a half years with Springboard.

I look forward to staying in touch as I take these next steps. Feel free to reach out* through my website, scatteredleaves.net. Thanks to each and every one of you for being part of my journey. You’ve taught me more than you’ll ever know.

Hugs and High-Fives,

Heather

*Especially with tips on driving in snow, because this West Coaster has never seen winter.

Much like the Five Stages of Grief, the stages outlined below do not represent a linear process. You can be in Stages 1 and 5 at the same time. You can jump from 2 to 4 and then back to 1 in the span of a day, week, or year. The Five Stages of Grief were developed by a psychiatrist, and were originally meant for people who are dying, not for people who are in mourning. The Five Stages of Re-Entry, on the other hand, are a purely non-scientific write-up based on my own experiences coming home from DLTI, short-term immersive travel, Hillel retreats and trainings, Milton Marks Neuro-Oncology Family Camp, Camp Kesem, and other retreats. If these ring true for you, please let me know. If they don’t, let me know what’s missing. Wishing my DLTI friends a smooth re-entry – only 196 days till we are together again!

Stage 1: Exhaustion

You step off the plane and into your bed. More accurately, you step off the plane, get your luggage, ride home, greet your family, and then get into bed. But in this stage, bed is the target, the be-all, end-all, the ultimate desire. In truth, the exhaustion hit long before you stepped onto the plane, and it feels more like confusion than anything else. You’re at the airport, and for the first time in a week, you interact with people who don’t know your deepest secrets. You resist the urge to tell the Starbucks barista about that one traumatic thing you experienced 10 years ago. You call someone from home to explain what you just went through, but despite your best efforts, you just say “amazing” a lot, because you don’t have any other words yet. And because you’re exhausted, and the only thing that makes sense in this stage is your bed.

Stage 2: Reliving

You wake up and you’re not sure where you are, but you know that your friends are not with you. You get on Facebook and Instagram before you even get out of bed and you relive your last week by looking through everyone’s pictures and videos. You read poetic reflections written by friends who have found words to express the experience. Others are still saying “amazing” and not much else. Almost everyone has posted something along the lines of “Where am I? Where are you? Why aren’t we singing together?” Confusion is part of this stage as well, but since you’ve already woken up in your own bed, the confusion is mixed with the first tinges of longing (stage 3). You check in with your retreat friends, you respond to every picture (even the one where it looks like you have five chins) and you sing along with your videos. You don’t sound as good as you remembered. This may be because your voice is still shot from your week away, or because your voice isn’t the same when you’re singing alone. It’s probably both.

Stage 3: Longing

You’re definitely not on retreat anymore. You’ve gone back to work. You remember the stresses of the rest of your life. You desperately wish you could run back to the middle of nowhere, where nothing mattered besides your own learning, growing, and community-building. But you can’t. The digital memories bring you joy, until you have to stop looking at them, to face a responsibility you avoided on your retreat. Call a credit card company. Book a doctor’s appointment. Respond to another email. Bore someone else with yet another story about your experience. Begin counting the days until your next immersive. This is a long stage.

Stage 4: Acceptance

Some parts of your life outside of the retreat do not suck. You did miss your family and it’s nice to see them. You also missed your favorite coffee shop/coworker/hiking trail/food/etc. You’re connecting with your retreat friends often, and are reassured that they haven’t forgotten you. You’ve gotten more sleep. You’re relocating your routine. You miss everyone, but you’re learning how to live with something missing, and that’s a really important skill to develop, right?

Stage 5: Integration

You’ve found some words to explain what happened. You begin to share them, not only with your friends from your immersive, but with family members, friends from home, and even professional contacts. You figure out how you might replicate some of the lessons you learned in other contexts – for those you teach, or in your own life. You set goals based on your experiences – some of them are unrealistic, and you’ll never reach them. Some are attainable, and when you reach them, you’ll remember your immersive experience, and will likely go through stages 2-4 again, but rapidly, or all at once. When you successfully bring something you learned on retreat into the rest of your life, you reach out to your friends again, and celebrate the moment. You remember why you went on the immersive experience to begin with, and use the tools, skills, and ideas you learned to enrich the rest of your life.

You achieve temporary enlightenment, and it feels, for lack of a better word, amazing.

 

Do we bury them like sacred texts?
Do the stories turn into seeds underground?
If the seed splits like the Red Sea, and a stem starts to grow, where does it go
If it can’t burst through the soil, if it can’t rise up singing,
If it never blooms?

Where do untold stories go? I’ve been not-asking this question for years in various community leadership roles. Because it’s not about me. We talked about it at DLTI. As a leader, I “tell the stories that communities need to hear, instead of the stories that I want to tell.” The best leaders know how to “hold space instead of taking up space.” As a leader, when I open up, it’s to create openings for others to grow. I am the soil, not the seeds. It’s more than an honor. It’s a blessing to bear witness, to share just enough that others are inspired to stretch and crack and split through the shells of their seeds. It’s a blessing to empower others to grow.

I have built a life out of soil and I’m good at it. I am soil when I facilitate grief groups, when I teach new Hillel professionals, and when I serve as a coach and mentor. I always thought that I make great soil because I am  comfortable with the seeds of my own stories – I am comfortable with my vulnerability. However, in the past few months I’ve learned that while I’m very open, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to be vulnerable. I’m open about things that others feel vulnerable sharing, but my stories are highly curated and crafted. I’ve written the stories before sharing them, or I’ve considered the role they might play in others’ stories. I share my experiences when it’s something a mentee needs to hear, instead of a story I need to tell. That’s not vulnerability.

At DLTI last week, we took turns leading and then “labbing” prayer services. In the labs, our teachers offered feedback and guidance on how to make the prayer service more powerful. Transformation occurred every time a prayer leader cracked open their shell and showed a hint of their own stem. During the labs, our teachers showed us how to lean into vulnerability in just the right way, how to draw on our stories and lead from the heart. Leaders ARE the soil, but we are also IN the soil. And we lead best when we let it show – not a lot, but just a little more than I’ve let on in the past.

In a conversation with one of my beloved teachers on Friday, I set a kavanah (intention) that I was going to try out this whole vulnerability thing. There was going to be an open mic night on Saturday, and I planned to tell a story that is vulnerable for me. The story I shared last time we were all together, at Smicha Week, was a little bit vulnerable, but it’s a story I’ve told before, on stage and on live radio. And its vulnerability is cloaked in humor so that I don’t really have to feel the raw seed of the story in public. This time, I would stretch, and tell a story that has been longing for soil. I’d tell a story that truly makes me feel vulnerable.

I practiced throughout the day, and on Saturday night, I was ready. I told a few friends about my plan. I was going to be brave. I was nervous, but I was ready.

And then, every presenter who came before me told their own hard story. They split open their shells in the soil of our kahal (community) and the most beautiful, vulnerable stories were blooming all over the sanctuary.  However, I noticed that the kahal was starting to feel a little worn out from all the emotion – a few people left (it was late at night at the end of an exhausting week), and those who were left in the room looked drained from the heaviness. Everyone else’s stories until that point had been just right, but another heavy story would have been too much in that moment. Lightness was necessary. I pulled a friend outside for a reality check to make sure I was reading the room correctly. He agreed with me. It was time to tell the story the community needed to hear, instead of the story I wanted to tell, because the story I wanted to tell was really, really dark.

When it was my turn, I told the kahal that I had planned on telling a tough story, but that I felt like we could use some simcha (joy), so I was going to tell a different one. I shared a story I wrote a long time ago that never fails to make me (and others) laugh. It felt good to lift them up. The tone was right on. And afterward, my teacher congratulated me: “That was davvenen leadership.” It was, and I was proud.

…until I was sad. Devastatingly, crushingly sad. I figured I was just tired. It was a long day at the end of a long week. Where do untold stories go? The question was tugging at me. The seed was still there, ready to burst, the stem threatening to crack everything open. I remembered all the moments in previous leadership roles when I so desperately needed to tell my story, and chose not to. When I felt the tears welling up during a group song circle, I realized that 1am was not a great time to analyze my feelings, and I decided to go to bed. A friend stopped me on the way to my room and offered to listen, but I was too drained to tell the story in the moment. Besides, I thought, these are the kinds of decisions I make all the time as a leader. Surely I’d be fine the next day.

I knew something was up when I didn’t feel better in the morning. I went to shacharit (morning) services and felt tears pulsing behind my eyes the entire time. A friend approached me during breakfast and asked how I was doing. I said that I was having a tough morning and was going to sit in the sanctuary for awhile to cool off. She offered to join me, with no pressure to share anything. I said yes.

When we were alone, she asked what was wrong and I decided to explain everything. She acknowledged that I did make the right choice in the moment, and then pointed out that this was a different moment. She asked if she could hear the story I didn’t tell the night before. At first I hesitated, but I saw that she meant it. So I let the seed crack open.

Once I started talking, I stopped crying. When I finished, I felt lighter. Another friend had joined us in the meantime, and he offered to hear it too. I shared the story again. The stem began to bud. My friend pointed out that if I felt lighter every time I told it, it was a good thing I didn’t tell it all at once. Now I could experience the lightness and the bloom over and over again. I had no idea how much I needed to tell that story, but I’m so grateful that I finally did.

I still think this is a story I’d like to tell the kahal at some point, because it’s part of who I am, and I want my sacred community to know about this part of my journey. But my holy teachers were right about reading the room and responding. And in the meantime, I learned an important lesson about vulnerability and openness. Next time, I’ll plan ahead and ask a friend in advance: “If I cannot tell this story tonight, can I tell you another time?” I was open when I chose to share a lighter experience on Saturday night. I was vulnerable when I shared with my friends the next day. Leaders need to both support and be supported. Sometimes it’s hard to know how to do both, but I’m learning every day.

Where do untold stories go? Do we bury them like sacred texts? Do the stories turn into seeds underground?  As leaders, we have countless opportunities to lean into vulnerability. Every seed wants a chance to grow, and, as I learned, even soil needs soil sometimes.

And with that, my first rabbinical intensive has ended. I’m at the airport and am slowly reentering the rest of my life. I haven’t touched work email in over week. I ignored personal business emails for over a week too. Last Friday I was at Kesem spending time with children I’ve known for eight years. This past Friday I was at Shabbat dinner with another community, newer to me, but also precious. It’s hard to find the words for what this week meant to me. So I’m going to start with what I learned, and see where it takes me.

1. I am not alone. I am supported by an incredible community of fellow students, travelers, and seekers, who share my values and who are not afraid to have hard and important conversations. They are invested in my journey, and I am invested in theirs.

2. “We will build this world from love.” I felt fantastic potential in the people around me this week. We are going to change the world, and we are going to do it together with caring communities from all faith, ethnic, and cultural backgrounds.

3. My fellow seekers are extraordinarily talented. I am humbled in the presence of people who come to this space with so much knowledge and experience, and who are still open to continue learning along with me.

4. “Make for yourself a teacher, acquire for yourself a friend.” I am blessed with phenomenal teachers and mentors. So many inspiring educators and role models in this program!

5. Skills! I learned a new way of teaching Torah this week and I can’t wait to try it out in Hillel. I also learned a new way of engaging big feelings about painful issues, and I’m looking forward to using it in my own life, as well as in conversations I facilitate with others.

6. I am ready to learn how to build an inspiring prayer experience. I was so moved by the beautiful shacharit, mincha, and maariv services this week (morning, afternoon, evening). The voices rising together, the power of our dancing, the joy and pain, wonder and stillness – such glorious elevation. The Saturday morning Torah service pulled me out of my life and into the story in a way that I’d never experienced before, and will never forget. Just like I won’t forget the power of the healing service my friends led for one of our fellow seekers on Tuesday night. What we summoned, created, and experienced was bigger than each of us alone.

7. I am way better at dealing with conference FOMO than I used to be. I skipped several mincha prayer services and went to bed earlier than some of the others – and I have no regrets. It was the right choice, each time. This used to be really hard for me, so I’m proud of myself for moving beyond my need to be everywhere at all times.

8. I learned that I can be present and at peace during a very busy week. I had no idea that some part of me knows how to stay calm, without getting swept up into the madness of what’s happening next and what’s happening after that. My re-entry goal is to learn how to bring these feelings of peace, wholeness, and connection along with me, even when my inbox is exploding and urgency is tugging at my sleeve. I will be more effective if I’m approaching tasks from the contemplative, authentic, and playful energy I felt within and around me this week. I felt it even though most of our days started at 6:30am, included six hours of classes and many more hours of discussion, and continued until midnight. I’ve proven to myself that I can do it now. I’m going to remember that for my next intensive, and for the work week ahead of me.

With that kavanah (intention) in mind, I am going to head off now to check work email and to get the inbox in some kind of order before tomorrow. More reflections are coming later, I’m sure – and in the meantime, I am so grateful. I didn’t know how much I needed this, I am thrilled to be part of this community, and I am grateful to work for an organization that supports my participation in continued growth and learning.   Sending hugs to all of you as we continue to build this world from love