Parshas Matos-Masei: Let’s Go Camping
Earlier this week I spent an embarrassing amount of time planning our family’s summer vacation.
I genuinely enjoy this part. Comparing locations. Reading reviews. Finding the perfect Airbnb or hotel or campsite. Looking at hiking trails. Figuring out whether the four-year-old would enjoy one place more than another, or whether the older boys would get bored. Deciding whether it’s worth spending a little more for a nicer place, a bit more privacy, or a better view.
Before long I had more browser tabs open than I could count.
The funny part was that every new tab made me less certain, not more.
I genuinely enjoy this part. Comparing locations. Reading reviews. Finding the perfect Airbnb or hotel or campsite. Looking at hiking trails. Figuring out whether the four-year-old would enjoy one place more than another, or whether the older boys would get bored. Deciding whether it’s worth spending a little more for a nicer place, a bit more privacy, or a better view.
Before long I had more browser tabs open than I could count.
The funny part was that every new tab made me less certain, not more.
There were simply too many good options.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I caught myself smiling.
This wasn’t really about planning a summer getaway.
This was just… me.
I’ve noticed the same pattern showing up in lots of places.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I caught myself smiling.
This wasn’t really about planning a summer getaway.
This was just… me.
I’ve noticed the same pattern showing up in lots of places.
It’s rarely the bad ideas that overwhelm me. It’s the good ones.
A new book or podcast someone recommends, an article I’d like to write, a program I’d like to create, a conversation I’ve been meaning to have, a sefer I’d like to start learning, a mitzvah I’d like to strengthen, a shiur that sounds incredible, a project at work, an idea from therapy.
None of them are wrong. Most of them are beautiful.
Ironically, that’s usually the moment when I stop moving altogether.
But I noticed something about myself.
A new book or podcast someone recommends, an article I’d like to write, a program I’d like to create, a conversation I’ve been meaning to have, a sefer I’d like to start learning, a mitzvah I’d like to strengthen, a shiur that sounds incredible, a project at work, an idea from therapy.
Or another insight that feels too important to lose.
None of them are wrong. Most of them are beautiful.
Somehow, that makes choosing even harder.
Eventually I find myself trying to hold all of them at once.
Ironically, that’s usually the moment when I stop moving altogether.
Not because I don’t care. Because I can’t hear.
Lately I’ve been experimenting with something different. When I feel that familiar overwhelm beginning to build, I block an hour on my calendar.
Lately I’ve been experimenting with something different. When I feel that familiar overwhelm beginning to build, I block an hour on my calendar.
Silence my phone. Close the computer. Grab a notebook.
Then I write. Everything. Every responsibility, idea, project, conversation, obligation, and inspiration.
Then I write. Everything. Every responsibility, idea, project, conversation, obligation, and inspiration.
Not because I’m trying to build the perfect productivity system.
Simply because I've realized my mind wasn't meant to carry a thousand open loops at once.
The paper can hold the thousand so my mind doesn’t have to.
For a while, I thought that was the whole exercise.
The paper can hold the thousand so my mind doesn’t have to.
For a while, I thought that was the whole exercise.
Get it all out. Make a list. Choose one to cross off.
Come back later for another.
But I noticed something about myself.
As soon as the paper was holding the thousand, my mind immediately wanted to refill the empty space.
Another podcast, another article, another book, another browser tab, another journey.
It finally dawned on me that making the list wasn’t really the point.
The point was what happened next.
It finally dawned on me that making the list wasn’t really the point.
The point was what happened next.
Or perhaps what didn’t happen next.
Instead of immediately filling the quiet, I’ve been trying to stay there for a little while.
Instead of immediately filling the quiet, I’ve been trying to stay there for a little while.
To breathe. To let my nervous system catch up.
Not to decide anything. Not to solve anything.
Just long enough to notice what's happening inside me before I rush toward the next thing.
To ask a much quieter question:
Hashem, what have You already been teaching me that I'm still learning to live?
I didn't arrive at this because someone recommended a spiritual practice or I found the perfect book.
Then I opened this week’s parshiyos.
And instead of giving me a new idea, the Torah gave me language for what I'd been slowly stumbling toward.
What caught my attention wasn’t any single mitzvah. It was the order.
Before entering Eretz Yisrael comes the end of the wilderness.
The parsha is almost entirely about commitments.
And then, only after discussing vows, only after tying up loose ends, and only after remembering the journey, Hashem commands the Jewish people to establish cities of refuge.
That sequence wouldn’t leave me alone.
And then, with a sort of beautiful irony, I kept going anyway. There were still a few more lessons waiting patiently beneath the surface—learning about what was mine to carry, what I was ready to receive, the "wrong rocks" of my mistakes, and how the light I carried was never mine to own.
But the harder part wasn't discovering any of this.
Hashem, what have You already been teaching me that I'm still learning to live?
I didn't arrive at this because someone recommended a spiritual practice or I found the perfect book.
Honestly, I was just trying to survive the noise.
Then I opened this week’s parshiyos.
And instead of giving me a new idea, the Torah gave me language for what I'd been slowly stumbling toward.
What caught my attention wasn’t any single mitzvah. It was the order.
Before entering Eretz Yisrael comes the end of the wilderness.
And before the end of the wilderness comes Matos.
The parsha is almost entirely about commitments.
Vows. Responsibilities. Wars. Tying up loose ends.
Before we start dreaming about the next chapter, the Torah first asks a quieter question:
What have you already committed yourself to?
What has already been placed in your hands?
Finish that first.
It struck me that this is almost the opposite of how my mind naturally works.
It struck me that this is almost the opposite of how my mind naturally works.
My instinct is to collect another commitment before I've finished the ones I already have.
Only then does Masei begin.
Only then does Masei begin.
The Torah stops and names every journey.
Not just the dramatic ones. Forty-two encampments.
Some were joyful, some painful.
Some lasted days, others lasted years.
The Torah names them all. It doesn’t rush past them.
It honors them.
And then, only after discussing vows, only after tying up loose ends, and only after remembering the journey, Hashem commands the Jewish people to establish cities of refuge.
That sequence wouldn’t leave me alone.
Why here? Why as the last step after everything?
The more I sat with it, the more I wondered whether the Torah wasn’t simply telling us where to build these cities.
The more I sat with it, the more I wondered whether the Torah wasn’t simply telling us where to build these cities.
Maybe it was showing us when we need them.
After we’ve done our part. After we’ve made commitments that we plan to keep.
After we’ve done our part. After we’ve made commitments that we plan to keep.
After we’ve looked honestly at where we’ve been.
Before we immediately rush toward the next thing.
Create a place to remain. Not forever. Not as an escape.
Create a place to remain. Not forever. Not as an escape.
Because becoming takes time.
The more I looked back over the past year and a half—and especially these last two months—the more I realized I haven’t been lacking journeys.
The more I looked back over the past year and a half—and especially these last two months—the more I realized I haven’t been lacking journeys.
I thought I had reached the point where the lessons simply needed to be lived.
And then, with a sort of beautiful irony, I kept going anyway. There were still a few more lessons waiting patiently beneath the surface—learning about what was mine to carry, what I was ready to receive, the "wrong rocks" of my mistakes, and how the light I carried was never mine to own.
I was writing about slowing down, all while maintaining the exact weekly momentum I was trying to escape.
Somewhere along the way, I realized there comes a point when searching for another insight begins to get in the way of living the ones I already have.
If you train your eyes to always look for the next deep lesson, reality will happily hand you another trail to follow.
And boy, have I found a lot.
But I've reached the point where I don't need another trail.
The next lesson isn't another lesson.
It's practice.
I don't need to keep convincing myself.
The conversations can continue.
The apologies can continue.
The learning can continue.
But they no longer need to become another project for me to analyze from every angle before I trust them.
They can simply become part of the way I live.
And I don't think those false stops were a mistake.
I needed those hard conversations that should have happened years ago.
Some old stories needed to be revisited.
The apologies. The gratitude. Learning to receive. Learning to let go.
Every one of those has been another necessary encampment on my map.
But the harder part wasn't discovering any of this.
The harder part was trusting it deeply enough to stop searching for something else.
In the Torah, the City of Refuge isn't built because someone wants a quiet weekend.
In the Torah, the City of Refuge isn't built because someone wants a quiet weekend.
It's built because someone is running for their life.
They accidentally caused a death, and the Go'el HaDam—the Avenger of Blood—is pursuing them.
The Torah knows there are moments when a person’s life is moving too fast to be lived safely.
That’s when it builds walls.
When I look at my own life, I realize that by trying to live a thousand journeys at once, even beautiful things can become noise.
That’s when it builds walls.
When I look at my own life, I realize that by trying to live a thousand journeys at once, even beautiful things can become noise.
And the overwhelming noise of a thousand open loops becomes its own kind of hunter.
I end up choking out the very thing I'm trying to grow.
The insight I just received barely has time to land before I'm already chasing the next one.
The Torah doesn’t tell us to outrun it. It tells us to build a city.
The City of Refuge isn’t a prison where we lock our past away.
And if I'm being even more honest, that speed is often its own kind of running.
I used to run toward all sorts of things that couldn't really satisfy me, trying to outrun my shadows.
Lately, I've been running toward healthier things.
Toward Hashem. Toward reconciliation. Toward repairing relationships. Toward difficult conversations. Toward becoming a better husband, father, and Jew.
It's a far better direction. But it's still running.
And after a while, the momentum itself becomes the pursuer.
The City of Refuge isn’t a prison where we lock our past away.
It’s a sanctuary. A place where the walls are strong enough that the old momentum no longer gets the final word.
A place where, perhaps for the first time, we are safe enough to stop running—not to fight the older version of ourselves, or to be ashamed of him, but to finally sit beside him with compassion.
To let the running part of ourselves hear something it has never believed before:
To let the running part of ourselves hear something it has never believed before:
You’re inside the walls now. It’s safe to breathe.
The Torah itself builds refuge into Jewish life.
The Torah itself builds refuge into Jewish life.
Not instead of journeys. Because of them.
That changes something for me.
That changes something for me.
It tells me that perhaps my avodah right now isn’t to become someone with fewer ideas.
It’s to build better cities. Places with walls—where the other nine hundred and ninety-nine beautiful ideas can wait outside for a little while, because they don’t all belong to today.
You cannot pitch a tent in the middle of a stampede.
You cannot pitch a tent in the middle of a stampede.
You need the boundaries of the city to keep the noise at bay so that, inside the walls, you can finally do the real work.
You can finally go camping.
Drive the tent pegs into the dirt.
You can finally go camping.
Drive the tent pegs into the dirt.
Stop looking for the next trail long enough to discover where this one has already brought you.
The work of becoming the person your last journey was trying to make you.
I don't know if that's why the Torah tells the story this way.
But that's how it spoke to me this year.
And for now, that's enough.
חזק חזק ונתחזק
Be strong, be strong, and may we be strengthened.
This year, the strength I’m asking Hashem for isn’t the strength to take another step.
It’s the strength to stop asking, even for a little while, “What should I learn next?” long enough to simply live what Hashem has already been teaching me.
The work of becoming the person your last journey was trying to make you.
I don't know if that's why the Torah tells the story this way.
But that's how it spoke to me this year.
And for now, that's enough.
חזק חזק ונתחזק
Be strong, be strong, and may we be strengthened.
This year, the strength I’m asking Hashem for isn’t the strength to take another step.
It’s the strength to stop asking, even for a little while, “What should I learn next?” long enough to simply live what Hashem has already been teaching me.
Good Shabbos,
💙 Berke