From the Search to the Play

What bedikat chometz, meditation, and childhood advice taught me about presence, practice, and letting go.

The night before Passover is the night we light a candle, take a feather and wooden spoon, and go searching for chometz.

We move through rooms in the dark slowly, deliberately. Not just to clean, but to find.

To collect the last crumbs hiding in the shadows.

And then…

The search ends.

The lights come back on.

And there’s this quiet awe. The house is still. Clean. Prepared.

We’re no longer hunting, no longer chasing.

We can see again.

There’s something powerful about that moment:

After inspecting with a tiny flame, simply flipping the switch and basking in full light feels sacred. Almost celebratory.

But the search has to end.

Even if you're the Alter Rebbe, up all night checking and re-checking — once morning comes, it’s over. The daylight breaks in, and we stop. We burn what was found.

Because the goal was never to stay in the search.

Chassidic teachings explain that searching for chometz represents the act of iskafia, or subjugation, and burning the chometz represents ishapcha, or transformation. In other words, searching for chometz represents searching for all undesirable, ego-full traits a person has. He must first practice iskafia where he refrains from behaving a certain way. Then, once he finally lets go of the habit that no longer serves him, he has performed ishapcha, he has transformed the behaviors to positive expressions, as expressed in the act of burning the chometz. Matzah represents self-transcendence, letting go of the ego.

The goal is to transform. To cross over.

To go from finding chometz to becoming matzah.

That movement — that crossing — mirrored something I felt recently in my own inner work.

On the Sunday days before Passover, I woke up feeling a lot of tension and frustration.

I decided to try a new, shorter meditation. Whereas usually I start with breath-work and then proceed to a guided meditation, after the guided audio I practiced a few breaths.

When I finished, there was still tightness.

And yet —

When I got back from the mikveh and began learning chassidus I noticed something shifted. My body still ached… but I felt lighter. Clearer. Freer.

That’s when it landed (on another level):

It wasn’t the meditation.

It wasn’t the breath-work.

It was how I was approaching it.

I was approaching meditation like a plowshare — digging into what’s wrong, trying to fix it, or even into what needs improvement. Even though I never practiced this way intentionally, it was being expressed in the length and order, the structure, of how I was practicing, of the practice having to be a certain way.

What if meditation is meant to be a playground, not a plowshare?

A space of curiosity. Creativity. A sandbox. A field.

Play doesn’t ask for a specific length or structure.

Play flows. It moves. It interrupts itself.

It’s unpredictable, nonlinear, and full of surprise.

Kids don’t ask:

“Am I playing correctly?” or “When I play, do I first need to do this?”

They just play.

They forget time. They follow joy.

They’re not afraid of messing up — because they’re not trying to get it right in the first place.

I started wondering:

How might I approach meditation — or even my entire life — with less structure, more wonder?

What would happen if I took the pressure off?

If I stopped trying to “do it right” — and just did it?

It reminded me of something coaches (even my older, wiser self ) and parents used to say:

“Just play.”

“Just shoot.”

It seemed so simple then. But maybe those words hold the exact wisdom my adult self needs now — in shidduchim (dating), in parnassa (having an income), in spiritual practice:

Just play.

Even during practice.

Even when it’s not a “real” game.

Even when you’re alone.

Because play is not a time. It’s not a structure. It’s not a place. It’s a state of being.

So I’m asking myself:

Where have I stopped playing?

Where have I made life about searching, about effort, about being “good enough” to deserve the light?

Where am I still searching around in the dark… when the lights are already waiting to be turned on?

This Pesach, I’m remembering:

The search must end.

The chometz must be burned.

And then…

We return to the light.

We enter the play.

Consider

Where in your life have you turned something sacred into a plowshare — whether through your intention or through the structure of doing it?

And how might you bring back the spirit of just play — even if it’s only for a moment?

How is not playing affecting areas in your life?