There is a parable told by the Maggid of Dubna about a young peddler who went from house to house collecting old clothes to resell.

At one house he was told to go up to the attic and take whatever clothes he found there that seemed useful.

He went up and gathered a respectable bundle, imagining he could sell it for a good sum.

He looked for something to tie the bundle with and spotted a rope hanging from the ceiling. Without much thought, he cut it — and immediately heard a tremendous crash. The homeowner came running up in alarm. "What have you done?!"

"I'm collecting old clothes, just as your wife told me," said the young man.

"And that rope in your hands?!" the owner demanded, his face turning red.

"I cut a piece to tie the bundle," explained the young man. "I didn't think it was worth anything."

"My boy — that rope was holding the central crystal chandelier in my main hall! Now it's completely shattered!"

This story came to mind during a conversation I had recently with a young woman who approached me for help understanding certain aspects of her Jewish identity. At one point she said: "I've already let go of almost all Jewish religious practice. There are only two things I still do — and I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe to please my religious parents. These two things are limiting my personal freedom. If I let them go too, I will be completely free and happy. Tell me, rabbi, why shouldn't I?"

My heart broke at the dilemma tormenting her. How could I help her understand — not for her parents' sake, but for her own — that the struggle was not between her and her parents? It was a struggle between her and herself, and cutting those last threads would not bring freedom; it would pursue her no matter what.

And then I remembered the story of the chandelier.

"Are these threads binding you," I asked, "or are they roots connecting and nourishing you?"

We talked it through, and arrived together at the conclusion that perhaps they are both: they constrain one part of her while connecting and nourishing another.

According to the Tanya, the foundational text of Chabad philosophy, we each have two drives, two souls: the animal soul, which seeks self-gratification, and the Divine soul, which seeks to fulfill G‑d's will. There is a constant struggle between them. Sometimes one wins, sometimes the other does. The goal of life is not to eliminate the animal adversary within, but never to tire of fighting — without truce. It becomes easier when one understands they are dealing with an "animal," and it is natural that an animal doesn't understand.

When one is motivated, the struggle is easier. When motivation flags, one must draw on willpower and sheer stubbornness to keep going, even without inspiration.

In this week's Torah portion, Eikev, Moses continues his farewell address to the nation: Vehayah eikev tishme'un — "And it shall be, as a result of your heeding these laws … " The word eikev is unusual. It can also mean "heel" — and our sages find many teachings embedded in this double meaning.

Vehayah eikev tishme'un can be read as: "It shall be that the heel will listen." What does it mean for a heel to listen?

The heel is the least sensitive part of the body. It can step on sharp stones without being hurt. It is also the lowest point of the standing body. These two characteristics are connected: they represent, according to Chassidic teaching, the final era of history — the most spiritually insensitive time — known as ikveta dimeshicha, the "heels of the Messiah."

The implication is that at the very end of our long history, at the most insensitive moment, i.e., the heel, we will come to truly "listen," to grasp things that have eluded us throughout the ages.

We can apply this to individual life as well. We all want to understand. But all that we can ever understand about the meaning of Torah and the purpose of the commandments will always be limited and incomplete. It is the most we can achieve with our finite minds and hearts.

It is precisely when we choose to remain connected—not because we understand and feel the "why," but despite not understanding and feeling—that we reach the “heel level” of connection with G‑d. We arrive at something deeper than comprehension. The constraining "threads" transform, suddenly, into vital roots.

The tool for this week: When you are holding your last thread, don't despair. It may well be the first root of a new and richer chapter. Also: when you encounter something that seems to have little spiritual value, think carefully before "cutting" it. It may be far more important than it appears. Do not underestimate things that seem insignificant when it comes to your connection with your own soul, with G‑d, and with the Jewish people.