From Fixed Place to Flexible Presence

Attachment and the Freedom to Be Flexible

A story is told about Reb Mendel Futerfas (and versions of it are also attributed to earlier

Chassidic masters such as Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa and the Kotzker Rebbe).

One day, he asked his students three questions.

“What is the holiest place in the world?”

“The Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies,” they answered.

“What is the holiest time of the year?”

“Yom Kippur.”

“And who is the holiest person in the world?”

“The Kohen Gadol.”

Reb Mendel smiled.

“No. No. And no.”

“The holiest place in the world is here, exactly where you are.

The holiest time in the world is now.

And the holiest person in the world is you.”

These three questions correspond to a foundational concept in Chassidus known as עָשָׁן

(AShaN).

AShaN literally means “smoke,” specifically referring to the smoke of the ketores, the

incense offering that ascended in the Holy of Holies.

But AShaN is also an acronym:

• עוֹלָם (Olam) — World, or place

• שָׁנָה (Shanah) — Year, or time

• נֶפֶשׁ (Nefesh) — Soul, or person

Every experience occurs within these three dimensions.

Where are you?

When is it happening?

Who is experiencing it?

Similarly, every mitzvah functions within these dimensions of place, time, and consciousness.

Judaism does not seek to escape the world. Rather, it sanctifies the world by bringing awareness into these three dimensions.

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on these ideas through the lens of practices, routines, and personal growth.

In previous articles such as Things Don’t Have to Look a Certain Way, as well as pieces exploring less is more, playfulness, and maintaining routines without rigidity, I wrote about the subtle ways attachment can disguise itself as discipline.

I’ve noticed that the dimensions of AShaN - place, time, and soul - are precisely where I have been adjusting my relationship with various tools and practices.

Most noticeably, meditation and morning preparations for prayer.

For a while, I found myself unconsciously creating rules around it.

Meditation had to be a certain length.

It had to happen at a particular time.

I preferred a certain chair.

A darker room.

With a blindfold.

These things can absolutely enhance the practice. Many teachers recommend them for

good reason.

But over time, I noticed something.

What began as helpful structure was quietly becoming attachment.

Most recently, I noticed another layer: meditation felt like it had to happen in a certain place

within my home - the spot I designated.

If the conditions in that spot were not right, the mind would whisper, there’s too much light

in the living room, it’s not the right spot.

At the same time, there is undeniable value in consistency and a set place.

The Kitzur Shulchan Aruch writes in the laws pertaining to prayer, chapter 12 Halacha 10:

“Within the synagogue, he should designate a fixed place to pray.”

Having a designated place matters.

Having routines matters.

Having structure matters.

The goal isn’t chaos.

The goal is freedom within structure. In Chassidic terms, it’s tohu within the kelim d’tikkun, boundless energy within the vessels of order.

The challenge is that rigidity often enters disguised as commitment.

The Mishna states “the most holy offerings were slaughtered on the north side of the altar.”

The Baal Shemtov teaches that the Hebrew word for “north,” tzafon (צָפוֹן), shares the exact

same root as tzafun (צָפוּן), which means “hidden” or “concealed.”

The obstacle in the place of elevating can come as a disguise to prevent growth.

A designated place can gradually become the only place.

A preferred method can become the required method.

A helpful tool can become a dependency.

One small shift I’ve found helpful is changing the language.

Instead of saying:

“This is my spot.”

Say:

“This is my usual spot.”

“This is my usual morning routine.”

The difference seems minor, but psychologically and spiritually it is enormous.

“My spot” can subtly create possession and attachment.

“My usual spot” preserves regularity while leaving room for life.

“My usual routine” allows a flexibility of order of the morning preparations.

It allows for discipline without becoming imprisoned by discipline.

Consistency without fragility.

Structure without stiffness.

Healthy attachment rather than unhealthy attachment.

When we return to the Chassidic story, a deeper message emerges.

The holiest place is not somewhere else, nor somewhere specific.

The holiest time is not tomorrow.

The holiest person is not someone more spiritual than you.

The holiness is available right here.

Right now.

Within you.

And the next day or next moment, it may be available elsewhere externally.

But internally, always within you.

Sometimes the deepest spiritual growth comes not from tightening our grip but from

loosening it.

From listening.

From responding to the moment.

From noticing the quiet nudges of Divine providence inviting us to try a different route, sit in

a different chair, change the order, pray in a different corner, take a walk instead of forcing

another routine, play.

To trust that holiness is not confined to one location, one method, one schedule, or one

state of mind.

The smoke of the ketores rose upward, but I don’t think it stayed fixed in one shape.

Perhaps there is something to learn from that.

To keep our practices.

To honor our routines.

And at the same time, to remain flexible enough to follow where life is guiding us.

To remember that the holiest place is here.

The holiest time is now.

And the holiest person available to serve G-d in this moment is you.