In Chapter 27 before us, we examine two verses, each of which is an entire world in a person's spiritual service: verse 7 - the secret of appetite, why a sated soul loathes even honeycomb while a hungry soul finds sweetness in every bitter thing; and verse 8 - the hardship of wandering from one's place, from the practical aspect to the deepest emotional plane. Both verses together teach us about human nature: how habit and satiety dull the palate, and how the soul always yearns to return to its place.
נֶפֶשׁ שְׂבֵעָה תָּבוּס נֹפֶת וְנֶפֶשׁ רְעֵבָה כָּל מַר מָתוֹק׃ (ז) - A sated soul tramples honeycomb, but to a hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet. (7)
Rabbeinu Yonah cites this verse regarding the words of the Tanna, "and drink their words with thirst." One who is sated with words of Torah has no desire for them. Even if you tell him, "Come and hear a wondrous novel insight, come see precious pearls, come taste something sweeter than honey," his soul will trample them, meaning it loathes them. Rashi adds: even reasons that resonate deeply with the heart, where you demonstrate to him how wondrous the teachings are and how well they align with reason - even these hold no value in his eyes.
In contrast, a hungry soul - one who hungers for words of Torah - even if he is told things that lack a readily understood rationale, and he does not fully grasp them, he rejoices in them. Why? Because he knows it issued from the mouth of Hashem; it is a tradition that his master transmitted to him. Ask him, "Can you explain the reasoning behind this to me?" He will tell you, "I do not know the reasoning here." Why is something that is fixed considered fifty-fifty (*kavua kemechatztza al mechatztza dami*)? Who can explain the rationale behind that? It has no apparent logic, yet nonetheless, this is the Halachah, and he rejoices in it because it issued from the mouth of Hashem.
And what is "every bitter thing is sweet"? Rashi explains: even things that come to him through bitterness and toil. Some concepts come easily to a person - he hears an idea, something light; while there are other matters over which he racked his brain, exerted himself, and toiled to comprehend them. For someone whose soul is hungry, even that which came with bitterness is sweet and pleasant to him. From this we see that the entire taste of words of Torah depends on the way one approaches them: with an appetite or without an appetite.
The Vilna Gaon cites a Gemara in Sanhedrin 100b: if bread is served to a person and he says, "With what shall I eat the bread?" - what do I have to eat along with this? - "take the bread from him." Rashi explains: it is known that he is not hungry, so take the bread from his hand, for had he been hungry, he would have eaten. Why? Because to a hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet, and it does not seek out refined delicacies or special spreads; bring whatever you bring, and it is entirely pleasing to it.
It is worthwhile to pass these ideas on to our children. A child is capable of opening the refrigerator, seeing four packed shelves, and saying, "There is nothing to eat." There is sour cream, Eshel, leben, cheese, margarine, butter, tahini, hummus, eggplant salad, chocolate spread, halvah - everything present in any standard household - yet still "there is nothing to eat," because he decided he specifically needs focaccia. And as is well known, foods that go uneaten at home get eaten at work and in the yeshivah. A package of biscuits that sat at home for two weeks without anyone glancing at it suddenly speaks to you at work, and to the other employees, in no uncertain terms. The young man who went to yeshivah - anything that moves there gets eaten. One who grew up in yeshivah is no longer picky about food; he can eat anything, and this is part of the life training that later resolves issues of marital harmony. Someone who is genuinely hungry eats anything; the picky one is someone who is not truly hungry, but rather, as someone once put it, "I just want to close a corner" - he has an unclosed corner, a niche that needs filling.
The Vilna Gaon says: so it is with a person who has no desire for the logic of the Torah and does not wish to delve into it - he does not taste its sweetness, and does not sense the sugar and honey of the holy Torah. But one whose soul hungers and yearns for words of Torah finds every bitter thing sweet. Even a difficult Talmudic topic, even matters that require exertion from him, are sweet, pleasant, and delicious to him, and through this he attains the sweetness of the holy Torah.
The author of Chovot HaLevavot writes that the love of physical pleasures and this world, and spiritual matters, are like two rival wives to one another: if you appease one, you inevitably detract from the other, and if you appease the other - you detract from the first. They will forever remain opposing rivals. A person cannot possess all the cravings of this world and also have Torah; they simply do not go together. This is why our Sages said, "Be heedful of the children of the poor, for from them the Torah will go forth."
One of the great Torah leaders once remarked: A person wants to learn the entire Torah in a single night, and still manage to get a full night's sleep. He wants all of the Torah, provided there is still time left to sleep! That is to say, a person is utterly unwilling to give up his pleasures, his desires, and his ingrained habits. But when a person indulges the desires of his soul - "a sated soul loathes honey"; it tires of the sweetness of the Torah. On the other hand, one who does not indulge his desires, who practices self-restraint - as is the way of Torah, "eat bread with salt, etc." - to him, all the apparent bitterness of Torah, every difficult sugya, and every matter requiring toil becomes sweet and pleasant.
The Dubno Maggid offered a wonderful parable on this point. There was once a destitute man who lived hand-to-mouth all his days and barely had enough to eat. One day, his wealthy brother brought him the good news that his son had gotten engaged, and that the wedding would take place on a certain date. What joy! In those days, the poor looked forward to weddings with eager anticipation, for it was their only opportunity to eat a portion of chicken, a serving of meat, or something warm - especially at the home of a wealthy man, where everything would be done lavishly.
It was customary for the wealthy host to send a carriage to collect the guests according to a prepared list. Our poor man began preparing for the wedding two days in advance: he cut back on his eating, following the Talmudic adage, "Remove the greens so meat may enter" - why waste stomach space on vegetables when one can fill it with meat? On the day of the wedding, he fasted completely, anticipating the evening feast. When evening arrived, he looked through the shutters and saw the carriage arrive to pick up the neighbors on the right, return to collect the neighbors on the left, and then continue on to the next courtyards - completely bypassing him. He realized he was apparently not on the list, for why else would they not have picked him up? He thought to himself: Perhaps my brother is ashamed of me because I am poor. He said to his wife, "Serve whatever food we have." And what did he have? Coarse black bread, onions, and garlic. He sat down and stuffed himself with whatever was available, after two days of barely eating.
Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door: "Your brother asked to invite you to the wedding he is holding tonight!" "Thank you very much, you only come now..." Still, he went to the wedding, where they served delicacies the likes of which no eye had ever seen, truly extraordinary dishes. They served a rich, exquisite soup. He had already eaten and was completely full, but food was being served - how could he not partake? He took a spoonful and tasted it, but the hot soup mixed with the raw onions in his belly, and he felt a sudden wave of nausea and disgust. "What kind of special feast is this?!" he complained. They said to him, "My friend, what did you eat beforehand? What did you eat that makes this disgusting to you?"
The Masters of Mussar explain: If you see that the sweet Torah does not speak to you, that its delicacies do not attract you or resonate with you, think about what you ate beforehand. Consider what onions and coarse bread you gorged yourself on, so that when refined foods are served to you, you cannot tolerate them and your stomach rejects them. This is the meaning of "a sated soul loathes honey": if a soul is gorged on physical cravings and worldly matters, it loathes the Torah. But a hungry soul, one who restrains himself from worldly desires - on the contrary, he experiences the true sweetness of Torah.
The Malbim explains a profound truth here: whether something is pleasant or unpleasant does not depend on the intrinsic nature of the food, but on the disposition of the person. One who has delicacies will come to despise them from habit; he becomes so accustomed to them that he is sick of them and cannot even look at them, yet if you bring him something simple, he will eat it with relish. Conversely, one who lacks luxury will find pleasantness in everything; to him, every simple food is delicious. In this, the Malbim notes, there is a rebuke to those who pursue delicacies and run after luxuries, for once they attain them, they will derive no pleasure from them at all. On the contrary, withholding them brings greater delight, and the poor man will ultimately find far more pleasure than the rich man.
How true this is. A neighbor once approached a mother and said: "I do not know what to do with my boy, he is obsessed with falafel. Morning, noon, and night - 'Mom, make falafel!' I make him chicken, I make him meat, fried cutlets with hummus - no, he only wants falafel." The mother told her: "Wean him off it." She asked, "How?" She replied, "Make him falafel for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." After four or five days, falafel balls were practically coming out of his ears: "Enough, Mom, I do not want falafel!"
The same phenomenon occurred in yeshivah. The cook had to prepare meals, and making omelets was complicated - checking eggs, pouring, frying. So he would take fifty or a hundred eggs, place them in a large olive tin, and boil them on the stove: hard-boiled eggs for dinner, hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. For years afterward, the students could not bear to look at a hard-boiled egg. The same happened with pasta: throw a bag into a pot of boiling water and you have a meal, so why bother varying the menu? For a long time afterward, no one could look at any kind of pasta. Similarly, they once brought individually wrapped coated halva bars; at first everyone was thrilled, but soon, whatever was set out was returned untouched, because no one had any desire for it anymore. Halva is delicious; the whole question is the dosage.
As noted earlier, the holy Torah does not restrict a person simply to say, "Do not enjoy." Rather, the Torah says: I will teach you the art of enjoyment; I will teach you how to truly enjoy. You want to enjoy halva? Eat it once a week, or once every two weeks. You want a child to enjoy a candy? Give him a candy once a week, and he will savor it. If you give him one every day, by the next day candies no longer interest him, and after two weeks he demands an expensive ice cream bar, because candies are beneath him. It is a mistake to think that showering a child with abundance will enrich him and make him happy; the opposite is true. Give to him in measured doses and controlled portions, and then he will truly enjoy and find flavor in everything you give him. A child who eats a popsicle every day ignores them even when the freezer is full. But if he usually receives a simple freezer pop and on a special occasion receives a popsicle, his eyes will light up; he does not look for fancy ice cream cones or grandiose treats - even with a simple popsicle, he is overjoyed.
From here comes the reality that people quickly grow disgusted with what this world has to offer. What a person once reached only in older age, today a fifteen-year-old boy has already seen everything and tasted everything. And then people wonder why this leads to suicide. That manager of the Beatles, who was a millionaire just from their concerts, committed suicide and left a note saying: I had everything and I had nothing. The moment you have everything, it is no longer tasty and no longer speaks to you. What can you possibly show me that is new? What spot on the globe haven't I visited? What food haven't I tasted? What desire haven't I exhausted? Consequently, a person comes to despise it all.
We have discussed this at length before: why is it that today all the wild eccentricities come out into the open? Were there no closets in the past? Rather, in previous times a person did not have such instant access to every physical pleasure in the world, and he was satisfied with standard pleasures. But today, because everything is accessible, it very quickly ceases to satisfy him, and he searches for ever-newer thrills. Just like a drug addict who no longer finds any taste in mild drugs, and only begins to feel something with hard drugs - until he dies from an overdose. So it is with all desires: one who chases after physical desires inflicts harm upon himself, for his threshold of sensitivity deteriorates, until ultimately he neither enjoys nor senses any flavor in something a normal person would thoroughly enjoy.
Therefore, the Malbim explains, know that specifically "a sated soul tramples honeycomb": precisely one who satiates himself, thinking he is the happiest of men and that he has everything - he is the one who comes to despise even honey. But to "a hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet," and one who holds back his appetite truly enjoys everything.
And why did the Torah say that a niddah must count seven days (which Chazal explain amounts in practice to about two weeks)? "So that she will be as beloved to him as when she entered the chuppah." This is precisely the principle before us: when a person indulges his desire without limit, even in a permissible manner, he tires of it; but if he is told, "No, take a pause" - after the pause, he has a renewed appreciation to return to it.
Incidentally, this is also good advice regarding children. Children tire very quickly of any game or toy you buy them; a child plays with it for two days, loses interest, and is already thinking about the next item, something upgraded, because what he already has no longer excites him. The advice is to take the toys and put them away in a closet for a month or two. Then bring them out again, and suddenly you will see the child engrossed in them, building the train set and inserting batteries into it. What happened? Weren't you bored of it? Indeed he was, but once you took it away for a period and brought it back - it rekindles interest. So too, "a sated soul tramples honeycomb": do not think that by indulging desire more you will experience a better taste; the opposite is true, for to "a hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet."
כְּצִפּוֹר נוֹדֶדֶת מִן קִנָּהּ כֵּן אִישׁ נוֹדֶד מִמְּקוֹמוֹ׃ (ח) - Like a bird that wanders from her nest, so is a man who wanders from his place.
The Vilna Gaon explains this as a play on words: a bird wandering from her nest (kinah) laments (mekonenet) deeply that she is wandering about. So too with a man: when he wanders from his place, he experiences distress and laments it, and it causes him profound grief to be displaced from his home.
The Vilna Gaon adds that there is a distinction between "her nest" (kinah) and "his place" (mekomo): a nest is a temporary dwelling, where the bird nests for a time, whereas "his place" is a person's permanent abode. What is the deeper meaning? Chazal say: if a person prays regularly and misses once, it feels to him as though he has never prayed before. When he returns to pray, it feels unfamiliar. So too, someone who constantly studies Torah, and misses a single time - he feels unsettled and adrift, his mind is not at ease, and the break in continuity creates a barrier that makes it difficult for him to get back into his learning.
Therefore, notice the phrasing: regarding prayer it says "like a bird that wanders from her nest," for a nest is temporary - since prayer is temporary relative to Torah, taking place only at designated times of day. But regarding Torah it says "so is a man who wanders from his place," for a person's permanent place is Torah, which occupies most of his time. Rashi also explains that "a man who wanders from his place" refers to a talmid chacham who wanders away from his study and from reviewing what he has learned: just as it is difficult for a bird when she wanders from her nest, so it is difficult for a person when he does not regularly review his learning, and his study then becomes difficult for him.
The Ralbag explains the parable differently: a bird wanders from its nest only out of absolute necessity, when it can no longer remain there - extreme cold or intense heat. So too, it is fitting for a person not to wander from his place unless driven by a compelling reason; only if there is an utmost necessity should he leave his place, and without that, he should not leave. We saw this with Avraham and Yitzchak: when they uprooted from their places, it was strictly due to famine, and under normal circumstances they would not have relocated.
He offers another explanation there as well: just as a bird that wanders from its nest arrives in a new place and must build its nest anew - having had a nest until now and currently having none - so too, a person who wanders from his place will lack everything, in every sense. Someone moving to a new place must rebuild his life from the ground up: first a home, then nurseries for the young children and schools for the older ones, arranging transportation to and fro, finding employment for himself and his wife, a synagogue, Torah classes. And most important of all - building a reputation. In his previous home, he was a recognized figure in the community; people knew and respected him, and he enjoyed status and standing. As is well known, traveling diminishes one's name, as Rashi notes, which is why the Holy One, Blessed is He, had to promise Avraham Avinu, "And I will make your name great." Thus, when a person wanders from his place he lacks everything, which connects to the Ralbag's principle that one should not wander from his place except out of absolute necessity.
The Gemara teaches that uprooting from one's place is far more difficult for a man than for a woman - citing, "Behold, the Lord will cast you down with a mighty throw, O man," which the Gemara interprets to mean that the displacement of a man is harder than that of a woman. When a woman arrives in a new neighborhood, within ten minutes she has three neighbors, gets acquainted with them, and is already exchanging recipes. But for a man, getting to know his neighbors at all can take years. The same applies to acquiring a language: there are immigrants who, after ten years in the country, still speak like newcomers, whereas women generally adapt to the language and acclimate quickly. A man is far more fixed in his ways - in his regular Torah shiurim, his synagogue, his acquaintances, his language, and his social circle - and adapting to change is exceedingly difficult for him. Therefore, the Ralbag advises: unless there is a pressing necessity, do not make changes.
This is especially true regarding the elderly. One hears many tragic accounts of older people who were uprooted from their surroundings - like an old tree that fails to take root when transplanted elsewhere. Family members say, "We brought our parents close to us," and within a few months, Heaven forbid, one sees the heartbreaking decline. There are well-known cases of this nature: a God-fearing Jew lived in Jaffa, where he had his familiar synagogue and community. Over time, the neighborhood changed and life in his building grew difficult - climbing the stairs became a struggle, loud music blared, and the environment was no longer hospitable. He relocated elsewhere, and before long his health deteriorated, Heaven protect us. One must think many times over before making drastic changes for elderly individuals, because transplanting them into a new environment is so difficult. This is "As a bird that wanders from her nest, so is a man that wanders from his place": there is profound hardship when a person wanders from his place, and one should never rush into it without carefully weighing every aspect.
The Malbim opens by explaining that man shares innate traits with the animal kingdom. As discussed previously, within man exist the nature of a lion and at times that of a snake, the nature of a deer and at times that of a turtle, the nature of a shark and at times that of a rabbit. All these traits reside within a person, and without proper self-refinement he resembles an entire zoo, a whole safari; a person's task is to elevate and rectify his nature. In any event, man shares a dimension with every creature, and in this regard as well, he intersects with the animal realm.
It is the nature of a bird to migrate, and when it wanders from its nest, it ultimately returns to it. This is a wondrous phenomenon that to this day fascinates researchers: how birds navigate distances of hundreds of miles over open seas and return with astonishing precision to the exact spot from which they departed. Today this is documented through bird banding, which tracks how many return and along what routes. "As a bird that wanders from her nest" - just as a bird will always seek to return to that very nest, so too, it is man's nature to return to his origin.
And what is this "nature to return to his place"? If understood in a physical sense, it does not ring true, for when a person relocates - usually to a place he considers better - he rarely returns to his former home. Rather, the Malbim explains that this refers to the soul. The soul wanders from its nest, and its true nest is the upper worlds; its place is in the spiritual sphere, beneath the Throne of Glory. The soul will forever yearn and long to return and unite with the Holy One, Blessed is He, to be bound in the bond of eternal life. Closeness to God, the yearning to connect to the Infinite, Blessed is He - this constantly nests within him, and like a bird wandering from her nest, a person always feels that he is displaced from his true home.
This also explains why so many people travel to find themselves in all sorts of distant lands, in India, Goa, and elsewhere. What is happening? There is an inner stirring, a restless soul calling out from within. Why? Because it finds no rest wherever a person tries to plant it in this world. The soul constantly yearns for spirituality; it was accustomed to rarefied mountain air, yet it is fed coarse barley bread - and it cannot digest it, cannot relate to it. When does a person find true rest? When he elevates himself spiritually, when he serves Hashem - only then does the soul find its tranquility and receive its proper nourishment. Otherwise, it continually senses: "I once dwelt in the upper worlds, beneath the Throne of Glory, and now where have I been cast down, to what depths have I been brought?" Therefore, a person will forever feel like a wanderer from his place, until his soul attains its wholeness and returns to its exalted source.
The two verses studied here teach one fundamental principle: the taste of things does not depend on the things themselves, but on the soul that tastes them. A sated soul disdains even honeycomb - one who has gorged himself on worldly desires and luxuries has lost the capacity to take true pleasure, and even the sweetness of Torah no longer speaks to him; whereas a hungry soul, one that has exercised restraint and curbed its appetite, finds sweetness even in a difficult Talmudic passage and in arduous toil. From this emerges the educational path: moderation and measured guidance, rather than an indulgence that dulls the senses. And from the second verse, we learn the hardship of displacement: one who wanders from his place laments, losing his stability and his standing, and should therefore not uproot except out of absolute necessity, especially regarding the elderly. On a deeper level - every person is a wanderer from his place, for the soul was uprooted from beneath the Throne of Glory, and only through spiritual elevation and the service of Hashem does it find tranquility and return to its true nest.