Parshas Toldos: Anyone Have a Shovel?

There’s a moment early in Parshas Toldos that’s been sitting with me. Rivka feels something moving inside her, but it pulls in opposite directions. Chazal say that when she passed a house of idol worship, one baby stirred, and when she passed a house of learning, the other stirred. Two children. Two awakenings. Two different responses to the world.

Something in that helped name something inside me. I also have different movements within myself. Different parts wake up in different rooms. I’ve known that for a while, but Toldos gave me a clearer language for it.

The blessings later in the parsha sharpen this even more. Yitzchak sees the side of Eisav that comes alive in his presence—the hunter, the provider, the loyal son. Rivka sees another side of him as well, along with a danger she senses earlier than anyone else. She also sees a depth in Yaakov that Yitzchak doesn’t see right away. These aren’t contradictions. Each child reveals a different truth depending on who’s standing with them. The love can be real, even if not every part opens in every relationship.

Later in Yitzchak’s journey, the Torah brings us to the wells, and something about that scene made the whole pattern feel clearer. Before anything new can be built, he has his servants re-open the wells of his father, clearing away what the Plishtim had packed shut. Only once the old water flows again do they settle into digging new wells. The order matters: sometimes you have to uncover what once flowed before you can even imagine anything new.

When I noticed that pattern in the parsha, a piece of my own week finally made sense. There’s a part of my story that I’ve spoken about openly in one therapy space, yet last week that same part wouldn’t budge in another. No crisis and no drama. Just stillness where there used to be flow.

The truth is, all of this is still new for me. 

Exactly a year ago I walked into therapy for the first time. I wasn’t yet able to sit with myself deeply enough to notice this kind of stuckness. My inner world felt more like the wells after the Plishtim filled them—covered before I got close. I didn’t have the tools or the safety or the patience to stay with myself long enough to understand what was blocked. When I finally began this path, I didn’t know what I was digging toward or what tools I’d pick up along the way. I just knew it was time to begin.

This time I paused. I said, “I’m stuck.” It wasn’t a solution, but it softened something inside. Sometimes honesty is its own way of loosening the ground.

Sitting with it longer made something clear. The problem wasn’t the story. And it wasn’t the room either. It was just the fit — a part of me that wouldn’t open in that moment, in that setting. Certain wells only flow in specific environments. Some parts need a different kind of holding. Even the names of Yitzchak’s wells speak to this. Esek feels like the inner friction that shows up without explanation. Sitnah is the quiet shutting-down that happens before I can find words.

So I reached out for new help. Not to replace the work I’ve been doing, but to give this particular part of me the room it needed. In that new space this week, I felt something shift. Nothing dramatic, but enough to remind me that the water was still there. The well wasn’t dry. It was simply covered.

The next day, it expanded even further. I walked back into the original room where I’d been stuck and found the words waiting for me. Whatever loosened in one space seemed to make room for movement in another. Sometimes a small shift in one well is all it takes for another to open. That felt like my own little Rechovot — a place where something inside finally had room to breathe.

Chazal teach that the stories of our ancestors are also the stories of our inner world (מעשה אבות סימן לבנים). These figures aren’t only historical. They’re emotional templates. Every one of them shows up inside a single person at different moments.

• There’s a part of me that feels like Yitzchak — steady, quiet, wanting things to be good and gentle, still believing life doesn’t have to be so complicated if we can stay honest.

• There’s a part that feels like Rivka — deeply intuitive, picking up a shift inside me before I can explain it, sensing movement long before the words arrive.

• There’s a part that feels like Yaakov — soft and sincere, longing to open, but only willing to come out when it feels truly safe, when it knows it won’t be rushed or judged.

• There’s a part of me that feels like Eisav — full of energy and appetite, quick to move, drawn toward action more than reflection, sometimes reacting before I’ve had a chance to think.

In some ways my year’s looked a little like Yitzchak’s. Learning to uncover what was covered. Re-digging what once flowed. Loosening old stones. Slowly finding my way toward new wells, toward expansiveness.

Yitzchak shows us that a covered well isn’t a failure.

It’s an invitation.

Sometimes the old water is still the truest water, and the work is simply to uncover it again.

So we take a breath, steady our hands, and try to loosen what time has tightened.

When the flow returns, even a little, we remember what Yitzchak knew:

the source was always there.

We’re just learning how to reach it.

Whether you’re already digging or just beginning to think about it, know you’re not alone. If you want a little water and someone to sit with, reach out anytime.

Wishing you all a week of steady digging, gentle honesty, and unexpected flow.

Good Shabbos,

Berke