This year, as most people in the world are unlikely to know, is a Sabbatical year in the Land of Israel. The Torah says that every seven years all agricultural labor must cease, and whatever grows in fields, orchards, and vineyards can be picked by the poor.
Some scholars say that this impossible arrangement was actually observed during Second Temple times. Today the rabbinate has made the colossal error of reinstating the rule, only to find a way of getting around it.
I contend it was an error, because I imagine the rabbis could have said they had no idea when the cycle started and, consequently, couldn't determine which year was a Sabbatical year. But they attached great value to the fulfillment of a commandment, even if it was more or less impossible to do it right. So, from their point of view, it was not an error.
But I digress.
I have been studying the subject of the Sabbatical year with a group of adults at an unusual Israeli institution called Elul, a House of Study open to secular and religious men and women. At Elul we try to focus on the meaning of traditional texts for us in our lives, not in the sense of dictating details of Jewish law, but in the sense of implying values that we may or may not identify with.
In our discussion of the Sabbatical year, for which the Hebrew word is "shmita," from the verb "lishmot," meaning to drop, to let go, we have been discussing the ethical and spiritual value of abandoning things in our lives, to which we cling, the way property owners, according to the biblical law, had to forgo their crops, an aspect of their ownership. (If this smacks of Buddhism, let it smack!)
At Elul, as I said, we have been thinking and talking a lot about discarding, and I have just reached the age of seventy, an age when further acquisition doesn't make much sense - unless it is for the sake of my children and grandchildren.
To illustrate my attitude: our good china shows a good deal of attrition, but when my wife and I start thinking about spending another few hundred dollars to replace the broken and chipped plates, we say to ourselves - why bother? How long will we be using it? We've had most of it since we were married in 1970, we replaced some of it about 20 years ago, but what's the point of doing it again now?
Another seemingly unconnected thought that has been on my mind for a while is the matter of ambition. At this time, I happen to be translating a book by a very ambitious young man. Indeed, most of the work I do is for ambitious people who think their thoughts and words are so precious that they must be made available to the English speaking world. I'm not complaining. If no one was ambitious, no one would hire me.
I was once ambitious, I think. When I was young and thought I was very smart, I thought I wanted to be widely respected and influential, famous. I say, "I thought," because, as I look back at the decisions I made in my life, I see that I didn't really want to be famous, since I never strove for fame. I didn't have that drive. Fame never came to me, and I never sought it out. But I grew up with the idea that a person had to be ambitious, so I thought of myself as someone who hadn't lived up to expectations - whose expectations? Don't ask.
Ambition doesn't make a lot of sense when your seventy years old, and I'm not sure how much sense it ever makes. Success, recognition, should be thought of as a tool: if, say, as an artist, I gain recognition, then I can continue to be an artist. If I want to improve the world, I need to attain a certain status so that people will listen to me and do what I propose. But the status is instrumental, not essential.
Have I discarded ambition? I think I did so long ago and never noticed.
Just today I learned that an essay I entered in a creative non-fiction contest didn't even make it to the honorable mentions. I guess I care. Otherwise I wouldn't have spent $25 to enter the piece in the contest. But, when you come down to it, my satisfaction came from writing the piece, and if it isn't interesting enough to be published, so be it.
Some scholars say that this impossible arrangement was actually observed during Second Temple times. Today the rabbinate has made the colossal error of reinstating the rule, only to find a way of getting around it.
I contend it was an error, because I imagine the rabbis could have said they had no idea when the cycle started and, consequently, couldn't determine which year was a Sabbatical year. But they attached great value to the fulfillment of a commandment, even if it was more or less impossible to do it right. So, from their point of view, it was not an error.
But I digress.
I have been studying the subject of the Sabbatical year with a group of adults at an unusual Israeli institution called Elul, a House of Study open to secular and religious men and women. At Elul we try to focus on the meaning of traditional texts for us in our lives, not in the sense of dictating details of Jewish law, but in the sense of implying values that we may or may not identify with.
In our discussion of the Sabbatical year, for which the Hebrew word is "shmita," from the verb "lishmot," meaning to drop, to let go, we have been discussing the ethical and spiritual value of abandoning things in our lives, to which we cling, the way property owners, according to the biblical law, had to forgo their crops, an aspect of their ownership. (If this smacks of Buddhism, let it smack!)
At Elul, as I said, we have been thinking and talking a lot about discarding, and I have just reached the age of seventy, an age when further acquisition doesn't make much sense - unless it is for the sake of my children and grandchildren.
To illustrate my attitude: our good china shows a good deal of attrition, but when my wife and I start thinking about spending another few hundred dollars to replace the broken and chipped plates, we say to ourselves - why bother? How long will we be using it? We've had most of it since we were married in 1970, we replaced some of it about 20 years ago, but what's the point of doing it again now?
Another seemingly unconnected thought that has been on my mind for a while is the matter of ambition. At this time, I happen to be translating a book by a very ambitious young man. Indeed, most of the work I do is for ambitious people who think their thoughts and words are so precious that they must be made available to the English speaking world. I'm not complaining. If no one was ambitious, no one would hire me.
I was once ambitious, I think. When I was young and thought I was very smart, I thought I wanted to be widely respected and influential, famous. I say, "I thought," because, as I look back at the decisions I made in my life, I see that I didn't really want to be famous, since I never strove for fame. I didn't have that drive. Fame never came to me, and I never sought it out. But I grew up with the idea that a person had to be ambitious, so I thought of myself as someone who hadn't lived up to expectations - whose expectations? Don't ask.
Ambition doesn't make a lot of sense when your seventy years old, and I'm not sure how much sense it ever makes. Success, recognition, should be thought of as a tool: if, say, as an artist, I gain recognition, then I can continue to be an artist. If I want to improve the world, I need to attain a certain status so that people will listen to me and do what I propose. But the status is instrumental, not essential.
Have I discarded ambition? I think I did so long ago and never noticed.
Just today I learned that an essay I entered in a creative non-fiction contest didn't even make it to the honorable mentions. I guess I care. Otherwise I wouldn't have spent $25 to enter the piece in the contest. But, when you come down to it, my satisfaction came from writing the piece, and if it isn't interesting enough to be published, so be it.
1 comment:
Jeff, I share your thoughts about ambition. I always thought it was a gene that slipped out of my DNA. Only now, three weeks from 70 am I feeling twinges of ambition - as if this is my last chance to publish a book. But even if I don't succeed, I have the satisfaction of having written the book.
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