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On My Mind

Mrs. Aliza Feder's Newsletter

There’s always been a certain vagueness, for me, around the avodah of the Three Weeks. Especially after a year—or two—when sadness and tragedy seem to ebb and flow on a regular basis throughout the months, the beginning of the Three Weeks can feel almost anticlimactic. There’s a sense of, “Been there, done that.”

And yet, there's no question that halacha gently nudges us toward a focused time of mourning and reflection. That’s the nature of halacha—from the word halicha, meaning "walking"—it guides us along a path. Still, despite the clarity of the laws, I often find myself feeling somewhat unmoored. Yes, I’m feeling sad—but for what purpose, exactly? Sadness without direction can feel hollow. Emotion needs a purpose, and once we understand the goal of this mourning period, it becomes easier not to see the restrictions as something we just have to "get through" until Tisha B’Av is behind us.

Anyone who has experienced profound loss will tell you that one of its side effects is a crystal-clear refocusing of what truly matters. When confronted with deep, raw reality, it becomes difficult to muster enthusiasm for the superficial—like a new pair of shoes or a petty argument. For those closest to grief, even basic daily tasks can feel overwhelming. In a similar way, spending time reflecting on the loss of the Beis HaMikdash—and the resulting concealment of Hashem’s presence—is meant to reorient us toward what’s really important.

In the midst of summer’s light and carefree energy, the Three Weeks drop in like a wake-up call: What game are you playing? (See: Game of Life class here). Where is your headspace? Where is your heart—and why? These questions challenge us to confront a painful truth: Even if our lives seem externally comfortable, something is missing. And if we don’t know that, then we don’t truly know anything.

The mishna in Ta’anis says "כל המתאבל על ירושלים זוכה ורואה בשמחתה". This means: the depth of the void you allow yourself to feel will directly determine how much you can be filled with future joy and clarity. If you don’t feel the ache, you won’t feel the healing.

Sometimes, though, the idea of the Shechinah in exile or the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash can feel too big, too abstract to connect with in a real way. Some of us may even remember our camp days, staring at the ‘holy’ ones crying during Eicha while we forced ourselves to focus on sad thoughts desperately trying to squeeze out a tear (not talking about myself obviously). 

If we want to be real about this avodah, and if the historical or national concepts feel too vague, we can turn to our personal pain and the pain of those around us. Every lack in our lives—every illness, every struggle with infertility or parnassah or shidduchim, every moment of loneliness or emotional suffering—is rooted in the same truth: Hashem’s presence is hidden. Our pain is a reflection of His distance. And our personal suffering becomes a channel through which we can begin to grasp the greater national loss.

And yet, there’s something else, too—something comforting. All of this pain is also a reminder of Hashem’s love. He still wants something from us. It’s not that He has turned away; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. It’s clear that He is the one orchestrating even the painful moments. Av—our Father. He hasn’t given up on us. The very presence of the “mask” proves someone is behind it. We cry out—and He listens.

So, what are we meant to do? Just be sad?

Yes—and no. Allow yourself to feel. Let it touch you. But don’t get lost in distractions. Turn it toward Hashem. Accept the pain with love. And daven for something better.

-Mrs. Aliza Feder