Over the last year, I have found something surprising about myself.
I have discovered that it is harder and harder for me to focus without fiddling with something in my hands.
If you had told me that ten years ago, I would have rolled my eyes. I used to find fidgets a huge distraction. When someone stood up in a meeting, paced in the back of the room, or played with a small device in their hands, I would think, "How can they possibly be fully engaged in this conversation?"
And yet, here I am.
I have increasingly realized that a little movement, standing, pacing, even using a small fidget device, actually helps me focus. The tactile rhythm calms my nervous system. The physical motion seems to create space for the ideas to land. Instead of distracting me, the movement anchors me.
What is funny is that this is not actually new for me.
When I was directing camp, I never would have described myself as someone who fidgeted. But looking back, some of our best programs were not planned sitting around a conference table. They were born at the field trip checkpoint. We would be pacing in circles, jumping onto benches, batting around ideas while campers lined up in the distance. Candy wrappers became makeshift models. A crumpled napkin might stand in for a group of campers. A water bottle became a counselor. We would physically map out what movement would look like, where staff would stand, how transitions would flow.
At the time, I thought we were just being creative.
Now I realize we were fidgeting our way into clarity.
Our bodies were helping our brains do their work. Movement unlocked imagination. Tactile play translated abstract ideas into a lived experience. We were not distracted from the task. We were fully immersed in it.
It turns out that sometimes our bodies need to move so our minds can listen.
Which brings us to this week's double portion, Vayak'heil–P'kudei.
These closing chapters of Exodus are filled with exquisite details about the building of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the wilderness. Measurements. Fabrics. Clasps. Rings. Poles. Precious metals. Acacia wood. At first glance, it can feel repetitive, technical, and almost tedious.
But what is actually happening?
The Israelites are no longer standing at Sinai receiving revelation. They are moving. Hammering. Weaving. Spinning. Carving. Carrying. Their hands are busy. Their bodies are engaged.
The sacred space is built not through passive listening but through active doing.
The Torah does not say, "And the Israelites thought very holy thoughts." It says they brought; they crafted; they assembled. Every skilled heart, every willing spirit, every set of hands had a role. Holiness emerged through motion.
Vayak'heil means "and he assembled." Moses gathers the people. P'kudei refers to accounting, the careful reckoning of what was built. Community and craftsmanship. Gathering and doing. Intention and implementation.
We are not a tradition that lives only in the mind. We light candles. We lift a cup of wine. We tear challah. We build a sukkah. We stand, we bow, we sway. Even in prayer, our bodies move. There is a reason we rock gently as we pray. Our bodies help carry our souls.
Maybe fidgeting is not the opposite of focus.
Maybe, sometimes, it is the pathway to it.
In the wilderness, our ancestors needed to do something with their hands in order to transform revelation into reality. Revelation alone was not enough. They needed to measure, to weave, to touch something tangible. The Mishkan became a physical expression of invisible presence. It was built through thousands of small, repetitive, embodied acts.
This week, I am reflecting on the humility of realizing that what once felt like distraction might actually be devotion in disguise. That movement can be mindfulness. That tactile engagement can deepen listening.
As we gather in community, as we continue building sacred space together through programs, worship, learning, and relationships, I am grateful for the many different ways we each show up. Some of us sit very still. Some of us pace. Some of us doodle. Some of us hold something small in our hands.
All of us are building.
May this Shabbat remind us that sacred work does not require stillness. It requires presence. It requires hands willing to engage. It requires bodies willing to move toward purpose.
May we honor the many ways each of us focuses, creates, and contributes to the Mishkan we continue to build together.
Shabbat Shalom,
Danny Glassman