“Don’t look back

Because everything is burning

We have no other path

And we cannot remain here”

(from a song by the Breslov songwriter and performer, Adi Ran)

The red sky at sunset created a magnificent scene outside my picture window on the seventh floor of my apartment building, in the center of town. Hot tears filled my eyes, tears of joy, and fear. I was happy that Hashem had been revealed to me. Joyous that in the single moment that He shed his light upon me, a long, painful chapter in my life, of searching through the dark, had come to an end.

I was also in fear, of the unknown. Where will I go from here? What should I do next? How does one make the transformation from this life, to the life I long for? A life illuminated by the Torah, a life in which I would establish a Jewish home, and a family…

During that period before I was “reborn”, I had a lot of friends. The apartment I shared with several roommates was always full of our acquaintances. I was always surrounded by people, but did I really connect with any of them? The only thing we all had in common was our disinterest in the world we lived in. We didn’t want what most people desired: a career, money, social status. And a family? That was not on our agenda. At that stage of my life, I had been too hurt to believe that anything positive could result from marriage. And children? What for? So that they would also suffer? And anyway, what did one do with children? I couldn’t stand going shopping in the mall, and that’s what people did with their kids, right?

Music provided us with some pleasure, as did dance parties out in nature. I remember when a friend of mine from my army days came to visit me. We hadn’t seen each other for five years. During those five years, I had moved to the big city, gotten married and divorced, enrolled in the University and then abandoned my studies. Other than my job at a TV channel, there was no stability in my life whatsoever.

My friend, on the other hand, had married her high school sweetheart as soon as she finished her army service. He was an engineer, and she had received a degree in education.

The meeting between us was very emotional. We had been quite close in the past, but that was before our lives took such different paths. In the evening, my apartment filled up with people. Guitars and cigarettes dominated the atmosphere. The air was stifling.

My friend stepped out onto the porch for some fresh air, and I saw that she was upset. I followed her. “My husband says that people who smoke grass are people who are discouraged with life.” The sounds of music, and people laughing and talking drifted out of the apartment, along with a wave of pungent smoke. “It’s true,” I answered. “Your husband is right. He is absolutely correct. I am truly discouraged with life.”

My confession was a desperate cry for help, released into the black night sky. Was there anyone there to hear me?

I was twenty-one years old when I moved from the little town I grew up in, to the big city of Tel Aviv. I remember myself walking down the crowded streets. The variety of people I passed, many of whom looked very strange, only increased my anxiety. Where were all those people going? On Rechov Shenkin, everybody was dressed in what looked like carnival costumes. Why was everyone so different from me, and from all the people I had known until then? The sense of loneliness I experienced was so powerful, it was almost paralyzing. I didn’t know a single soul in the whole city. What was I looking for there? Why had I come? Why had I left my home and family, and everything that was familiar? Why had I tried to run away from myself? Was there something wrong with the reality I had been born into, that I could not gain satisfaction or accept life as it was?

These questions bore into my brain, and dug into my soul, and I had no peace of mind. Over a period of seven years, the Yetzer Hara- the temptations of the satan, of the evil side tried to pull me down. I fell so low that I did not believe anyone would be able to lower themselves far enough down in order to pull me back up. At least that’s what I thought at the time. But there is one such person who is capable of diving into the depths, and resurfacing unscathed. That is the true Tzaddik . He collects all that has been lost and discarded and abandoned at the lowest points that exist, and brings them back up to a level of kedushah - holiness. He heals the wounds, and purifies them of their tumah -impurity.

Blessed be Hashem who did not deprive me of my redeemer. He is a source of comfort, and his name is Na Nach Nachma Nachman Me’Uman.

“He who wishes to become impure, the way will be open for him” (Yoma, 38:72) Rabbi Na Nach Nachma Nachman Me’Uman says, that if there are openings, then one may escape from that place, back through the openings.

The first opening that was prepared for me was through books. I always looked for answers in books. It doesn’t surprise me that most of the authors whose works I admired were Jewish. In almost every story, the main character suffered unbearably, but never lost his sense of humor, and his unique perception of life.

A French Jewish writer, who I loved to read, once wrote in one of his books, “Nobody needs a reason to be depressed.” I read that when I was sixteen years old, and that sentence has popped up in my head every time I have tried to understand the black cloud that I lived in. Today, I know that the sentence was not true. Because there is a reason, and it is the reason of all reasons.

The whole world is asleep. How much longer will they slumber? (The holy Saba Rabbi Yisrosel Ber Odesser, ztz”l).

One pleasant day in Elul, I got sick with the flu and stayed home from work. I had a lot of time to just think, and too much thinking was not a good thing for me. I took some medicine to reduce my fever, and walked to the neighborhood library. I searched up and down the rows of shelves for a book that would put my soul at peace. After an hour, in a dusty corner of the library, I took a step stool and reached for a book on a top shelf. It was as if an invisible hand had guided me there and pushed me to take the book. It was written by a secular Israeli, and when I skimmed some of the pages, I sighed with relief. Finally, I had found someone who thought the way I did.

The book was a personal diary, describing the author’s search for Truth. He elaborated on the fact that most members of the human race are spiritually asleep. For the first time, I had found a voice which told me, “You are just fine. It’s the world that has a problem.”

(I later discovered that the author had once met the holy tzaddik, the Saba, Rabbi Yisroel Ber Odesser, ztz”l. The rabbi’s daughter told me that this particular man had “escaped” from Rabbi Yisroel, because he feared that if the met even once more, he would make teshuva.) When I finished reading the book, I paced back and forth in my room. I felt both confused and excited, and that the black cloud that had been hovering over my head was beginning to dispel. The wall I had been attempting to breach was now cracked. Now I was positive that there was a higher purpose to human existence. There was more to life that accumulating physical objects which had no inherent value. But what is that purpose? The author didn't have an answer.

A week later, a friend of mine called and asked to come visit me. He said he had something important to give me. He worked as a technician, and told me that the company where he was employed had cleaned out its offices. All the books no longer in use for research were to be discarded. He had gone through the boxes of books to see if there was anything of interest, before they were thrown in the garbage.

“A soon as I read the back cover of this book, I knew I had to bring it to you! The woman in this story resembles you very much.”

The book was a diary of a twenty-seven year old Jewish woman (my exact age) who had lived in Amsterdam before World War Two. As I read the first few pages of the book, shivers ran down my spine. The woman’s voice was like my own. The same currents ran through her words, and the inner world she described was identical to mine. (At the time I read the diary, I had also been keeping a diary for two years). It was more than a coincidence. Someone wanted me to have that book. The messenger had been my friend. Now I knew that everything was directed from Above. I had always believed in G-d (though in a very foggy manner), but now I sensed that He believed in me, and was beginning to reveal Himself to me.

There were many autobiographical details that the Dutch woman and I shared. Our family backgrounds were eerily similar, and we shared the same date of birth. I began to lead my life according to what I read in the diary. The main character of the story went in search of G-d, and I decided to follow her.

During the Holocaust, when Hashem concealed himself from the Jewish nation more than ever before in history – during that terrible period of hester panim – the author of the diary was acutely aware of Hashem’s light and presence. (She did not, however, return to her Jewish heritage, and did not associate the G-d she discovered with her own religion). She died in Auschwitz, but on the way to the camp she threw her diary out of the train. The diary found its way back to Amsterdam, where her friends published it as a book after the war.

I traveled to Amsterdam, but did not gain much by that trip. The building where the woman had once lived was graced with a small plaque stating her name, and the years she had resided there. The woman who lived in the apartment when I visited Holland shouted at me in Dutch to go away. Finally, I found in the archives of a local newspaper a number of articles about the woman, and even a photograph of her before she was deported. I was greatly moved when I saw that we greatly resembled one another.

A Dutch, Jewish journalist who I met on my trip thought my admiration for the woman was misplaced. “What do you want from her? She could have saved herself, in any one of many ways, but she chose death,” the journalist remarked with contempt. I was shocked by her attitude, and returned to Israel emotionally exhausted. I decided to take a break from my searching. The letters of “Amsterdam” in Hebrew stood for “ATimut” (a closed heart), “ReD” (spiritual downfall), and “SAM” (drugs).

We should always view everything for the best (Rabbi Na Nach Nachma Nachman Me’Uman)

I had a friend who was seven years older than I was, and still single. She was like a big sister to me. While I was still at the stage of apathy and inactivity, she was busy searching and doing. She studied Tai Chi, had Chinese acupuncture and massage treatments, and had sessions with Thai astrologists and Taro card readers. I was listening to her theories about "what happens under the sun" with a big interest, however for some reason I couldn't give any opinion about anyone of  those themes.

I remember one night that we sat together in my apartment. She took out a deck of Tarot cards, and told me, “You are about to undergo a major change in your life. Whatever you have been familiar with until now will soon be insignificant. It has no relevance to your life any more. This is the card of the age of the bucket,” she pointed to a card bearing a colorful design on it. “We are about to enter the age of the bucket, a period of time when spirituality will be a dominant force in the world. Many people will search for spiritual fulfillment.”

“But what exactly does that mean?” I demanded to know.

“Things will get better,” she answered, in an effort to placate me, and perhaps also herself.

I began to develop a relationship with joy. Instead of listening to Joni Mitchell strumming melancholy tunes on her guitar, I started to listen to Bob Marley. He sang the Redemption Song…

Another friend told me about a Practical Philosophy course. Her brother had taken the course, and received answers. I signed up for the course. The lecturer, a French Jew, drew a graph on the blackboard. It was in the shape of a parabola, rising and falling. He explained that it represented the state of humanity from a moral, social, ideological, and spiritual perspective. He turned to the class and asked us where we thought we were on the graph today. Each of the students he questioned replied that we were on the descending side. When it was my turn to answer, I remembered what my friend had said about the age of the bucket, and without referring to the graph, I said that were we on the rise.

His expression grew stern, and he asked me how I could think such a thing. He looked at me astounded and said: “Can’t you see what a terrible state humanity is in right now. The world is plagued with crime and drug use…” What could I say to him? He was right, in his own way. I guess he had never heard of the “age of the bucket”.

“Even if a man falls to a place where, Heaven forbid, he no longer has any purpose in living, Hashem, blessed be His name, is there, though He and his power are concealed.

Hashem draws attention to himself over and over, hinting in different ways everywhere that man may be, until he returns to Hashem. Of course, we must make an effort to disconnect ourselves from this world, in every sense of the word, but after everything we have been through, we must know and believe that there is no need to despair in this world at all. Even if a person has strived thousands of times to return, to make teshuva, and he was not successful and fell to wherever he fell, and even if he committed the most terrible sins, Heaven forbid and transgressed the entire Torah thousands of times, there is still hope for him, as long as his soul is still within his body. The most important thing is that he should believe in Hashem, he should have complete faith in Hashem, blessed be His name and he should make a strong effort to connect to the True Tzaddik” (He is Rabbi Na Nach Nachma Nachman Me’uman).

[Free translation - from the book “Blossom Of The Spring” by the Saba, Rabbi Yisroel Ber Odesser]

The time of the Final Redemption is very near (Saba Yisroel)

It was Motzei Shabbat, the fourth night of Chanukah. My friend picked me up in her pink Volkswagen, and we went out driving around in town. Little did we know that every kilometer we drove brought me closer to the opening - the opening to the light… The little car braked, as we noticed a strange and wonderful sight on one of the street corners. We had never seen anything like it before. In the middle of the road danced a group of white-clad angels. Modern trance music played in the background, and as we drove a little closer, we saw that the dancers had beards and peyot. Were they Orthodox? How could they be? We had always pictured Orthodox Jews dressed in black, and assumed they hated their secular brethren.

We sat in the car, watching the fascinating scene, and then one of the chassidim offered us a book. Orit began to talk to him, and I listened from the side. I hesitantly opened the little book, entitled “Tales of Rabbi Nachman”. The chassid had a secular sounding name, but when he spoke, he used terms I had never heard before. I wondered whether the man was Orthodox, traditional, or secular. If he was Orthodox, how could he be talking to secular women about the Torah? I took a sweater out of my bag, put it on, and buttoned it up to my neck.

Beginning on that day of Chanuka, when the Light illuminates everything below ten tefachim, and the Shechina descends to the lowest places of all, the significant events in my life seemed to occur at the speed of light.

I remember the first time I opened a prayer book, and read the words, “Modah ani…”. The words of the prayers seemed familiar to me, as though I had awoken from a long sleep, and recalled a forgotten dream. “Elokai, neshama…” The words split my soul in two – I was both happy and anguished. How had I lived all those years without my soul? Now it was almost tangible. And my soul was full of love. Love for my Creator. I cried. I cried for all those long years, and for am Yisroel that is still lost in the desert, tired, and without the thirst quenching waters of Torah. I wanted to run through the streets and tell everyone that Hashem, our Creator, is here in this world, and that He loves us very much, that we are Jews, and he has chosen us above all the other nations. I wanted to tell everyone that we are bnei malachim – royalty.

I continued to read the siddur, standing up, with my legs together. I had never seen anyone pray before, and only later I found out that this is the way how one should stand during the Shemonah Esre. I didn’t know the first time I prayed, but I had an instinctive need to stand…

The letters seemed to fly off the pages, and I felt such intense joy. I had never felt so happy before, and every word released more light. Every word was Truth -- such pure truth.

In my rented apartment, I gazed out the wide, picture window at the sun setting in a peaceful sky. I don’t remember how long I stood there, but later I woke up in my bed. It was pitch dark in my room, and my body felt as heavy as lead. I tried to sit up, but I couldn’t move a muscle. I had no idea what had happened. Then I remembered that it had been about five in the evening a few minutes ago. How could it now be the middle of the night? I looked at my watch, and saw that it was two in the morning. I didn’t now how I had moved from the living room to my bed. (I now know that the light was so bright, and that I had such an intense spiritual experience, that my soul rose out of my body.)

I began to experience all sorts of miracles. Every time I prayed for something, I saw immediate results.

These were minor things, like for example once I was in a traffic jam, and I prayed for the traffic to start moving, it immediately started to move. Or when I decided that the time had come for me to start wearing skirts, my friend showed up at my house with a huge bag of skirts. She said that her neighbor had just cleaned out her closet. The bag was full of skirts and other modest clothing, in my exact size! (How did those chareidi clothes find their way to the secular neighborhood of Ramat Gan?)I chose a skirt that I liked more than all the others – it was a brown and honey colored plaid. I put it on, and felt like a peasant who has been given royal clothes in place of rags. I had no idea, at the time, how much trouble that skirt would bring me.

My friend called the Breslov chassid we had met in the street, and he agreed to meet with us in my apartment. She wanted to hear more. A group of us sat in rapt attention, listening to Dvar Hashem. The chassid opened a book and read us a story, and one of my friends began to argue with him on a certain idea. Suddenly, I heard the chassid say, “The Geulah is very near, and the Mashiach has already been born.” None of us dared to refute that statement. “We have inherited our faith from Avoteinu.” We didn’t need any proof. We realized that we had been born into the world as lost souls. Our newfound teacher continued. “Rabbi Nachman of Breslov wrote that is necessary to change everything for the better. In the merit of our holy rebbe, the Geulah will arrive, and everything will be transformed into Good. All the heretics will become believers, and all those who are distant will come close. All the intentional sins will be changed into merits.”

I was shocked. I had always believed that religion was something dark and imposing. Now I was introduced to another side of Judaism, which shed a new light on all my preconceptions. Now I found out that there is one, and only one Tzaddik, who makes everything look different.

My friend who had challenged the chassid during that first meeting, also began to make teshuva. We used to stand in the kitchen at work, drinking coffee, and discuss Torah and Judaism. But that wasn’t enough for me, and I wanted to make the jump from talking to acting. I wanted to begin observing the mitzvot. I had no idea where to start, but I new I had to leave my job, and even leave the city.

I had no idea where I would go, or what awaited me. But I thought that after committing myself to a new way of life, everything would get easier. How wrong I was! My adventure was only beginning.

I moved back in with my parents. My father was angry, telling me that my religious aspirations were the result of “smoking drugs”. One morning, while I was praying, he grabbed my siddur out of my hands and screamed at me, “Is this what you plan to do from now on? -- To pray all day? And how will you support yourself? You are twenty-eight years old, and divorced. The chareidim get married at age eighteen. You are living a fantasy!”

“Abba, I am not planing to go to the "chareidim”, I tried to explain to him. “I am only interested in Breslov, and it isn’t some formal institution.”

My mother begged me, with tears in her eyes, not to go out on the street wearing the plaid skirt. She was ashamed of what the neighbors would think. She had aged ten years after my divorce, and she had developed diabetes. She was just beginning to adjust to her unfortunate state of health, when this new “disaster” hit her. I sat in my childhood bedroom, which I had left ten years ago. If I had any other choice, I wouldn’t have come back. There was no sense of harmony in my home. As a teenager I used to muse, “What is a family, if not a group of people thrown together by chance force by fate to all live together under one roof.”

Now I began to wonder what the characteristics of a real Jewish family were…I had such a longing for a home with a Shabbat table, and children of my own dressed in white shirts. A father and mother who were both calm and happy, and who each knew what his or her role was in the family. My reality and my dreams were worlds apart.

I was in limbo. I had no more connections to the world I had left. The moment I put on the skirt, my “friends” stopped having anything to do with me. They criticized and belittled me, and spoke of the Torah in the same casual manner that they discussed all the other religions and philosophies they encountered.

“You don’t understand!” I shouted at them. “There is only one, absolute, Truth!”

I hadn’t yet gained entry into the world I desired. The world of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov was still inaccessible. I felt as though I was standing out a locked, iron gate, and that I didn’t yet have a key to get in.

The idea of going to Safed crossed my mind, and then I was suddenly desperate to go there. I didn’t have money for bus fare, but I finally convinced my father to lend me his car. As soon as I arrived in Safed, I was enchanted by its beauty. I stood and looked at the magnificent scenery. A hawk flew in circles over the ancient cemetery. Everything was so still and peaceful, and as I inhaled the pure, holy air, I saw like in a vision that here is the place where I am going to live in the future . Little did I know that I would undergo three more years of wandering before my journey would finally end.

When I got home, a weakness came over me. I experienced all sorts of aches and pains, and I got into bed. I knew that I was entering a battle with evil powers that sought to drown me. As it is written, “The punishment for sinners in Gehenom lasts for twelve months.”

For twelve months, I lay in bed, suffering from unexplainable pains. Several years previously, I had met a young Jewish woman who had been stricken with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. She, too, had been confined to her bed for months, never leaving her house. She had also experienced excruciating pain all over her body. She was underweight, and very weak, and her only connection with the outside world was through the internet.

My symptoms were very similar to those of the woman I had met, but my illness didn't have a name to justify it, because I didn't even search for the doctors. I remember that one night I sat in my room and stared at the sticker hanging on my wall: “Ain yeush b’olam klal” – “There is no despair in the world at all” (Rabbi Nachman).

“What does it mean? I don’t understand the sentence!” I cried to the Heavens, in deep pain. “I have been in this world for many years, and all I have ever seen is despair. Ribbono shel Olam, why did You show me the great light, if the price to pay was to be trapped in this even greater darkness?!”

I kept staring at the sticker, focusing my eyes and thoughts on the word “klal”. Klal – what was Klal? The answer came to me in a flash: “Klal” is when you are kalul (included in) and nichlal (part of) the Tzaddik who uttered the phrase, then you will not despair.

“But how, Ribbono shel Olam, can one remove the obstacles, and the illusions, and the traps that prevent one from reaching the Tzaddik?”

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov writes: “When the suffering that befalls a man fills him up, until on a certain day, at a certain hour, he can bear no more.”

One morning, I woke up feeling somewhat better. I gradually returned to my old self, and the process of healing was as sweet as a baby that is just starting to walk. It was truly miraculous. My little sister, who had just returned from a trip to South America, also began to make teshuva. Together, we found a way to the Truth.

My first real connection with Breslov was via the internet, when I downloaded songs by a Breslov singer, Israel Dagan.  I also downloaded an inspiring picture of a Tzaddik. The tzaddik sat at a table, and in the background was an orange sun. Words on the picture read, “The light of the moon was like the light of the sun, and like the light of the seven days of Creation”. I used the picture as my screen saver, without knowing the identity of the tzaddik.

The first time I went to Meron, to the tomb of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, a man and his two small children approached me. They were wearing white kippot like the chassidim that danced in Tel Aviv. The words “Na Nach Nachma Nachman Me’Uman” were woven into the kippot. The man gave me a book entitled “Shema Yisroel”, by Rabbi Yisroel Ber Odesser (Saba HaKadosh). I read the book, and cried, “This is it! This is real Breslov chassidut!” I was very excited. I understood that I would only be able find Rabbi Nachman with the Saba Yisroel. I realized that my screen “saver” had been Rabbi Yisroel Odesser. The Saba Na Nach NachmaNachman Me’Uman had been “saving” me, all that time.

(Today, Baruch Hashem, I am married and have little children, and we live in Safed.)