In Memoriam: Benazir Bhutto

Today I didn't check the headlines until early afternoon and I was startled and deeply saddened to read that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated. Her ethics and track record were not impeccable but she brought hope to many people both inside and out of Pakistan. She was also a captivating figure on a world stage heavily populated by greying middle aged men. On a more personal note, when I was in graduate school many years ago another student told me that I resembled Ms. Bhutto. I remember feeling very flattered by that comparison.

Upon learning that she will no longer grace the newspapers with her elegance, I was inspired to see if, in fact, I really did share a resemblance. My skills at self-portraiture (via handholding my digital camera) could certainly be improved, as could my ability to properly position a headscarf. Below is a sliver of an image I came up with. I'll let you decide for yourselves the strength of the resemblance, if any.

May Benazir Bhutto, and all of the Pakistanis who've been victims of political violence, rest in peace.

Icicles

Immediate, Internet

Despite the few comments this blog has inspired so far, I know people are reading it - or at least looking at the pages - based on statistics I receive. And sometimes people in my real life approach me with a question based on something they've read here, which temporarily throws me for a loop since - without a ton of comments - I don't know who, exactly, is reading this on a regular basis.

Having become accustomed to a practically invisible audience, and to my near anonymity in this space, I was quite taken aback to receive a comment on my last post about my experience in a focus group from a person at the company who organized the event. I had forgotten that news travels fast, if not immediately, on the Internet, with Google news alerts and other ways to track who is writing about what. And as much as I would enjoy having more people comment on my writing, it felt a bit strange to get a response from a corporate person on what had been until now a fairly intimate and personal endeavor.

Interview, of sorts

Last night I lost my "focus group virginity" at a bland office park in Waltham, MA. Lured by the promise of an honorarium and some snacks, I spent a few hours in a focus group for Constant Contact, the e-mail marketing company whose software I've been using for years. The snacks were pathetic - half-sandwiches of pale coldcuts and tired tunafish with shreds of iceberg lettuce slumped over the sides. I passed on the food and had a soda, and before long a few of us were chatting and commiserating over some of our technical difficulties with the product while waiting for the focus group to officially begin.

We were escorted into a bland but heavily miked conference room with a one-way mirror. There were nearly a dozen of us users, including academics, event planners, a church board member, and retailers. Several of us naively thought that Constant Contact was paying us each $125 so that they could get our input on how to improve their basic product, which allows one to create customized electronic newsletters, announcements invitations. But it quickly became clear that we had been invited for another reason, which was to give feedback on a proposed change in the user interface and other add-ons. The game then became how to respond to the questions in such a way that would also allow us to deliver feedback on the current product which has more features - and bugs - than its predecessor. The facilitator, an independent marketing professional with bleached highlights, pink nails and a poker face, did her best to keep the conversation on track. And a few of us in the room did our best to reiterate our basic concerns and suggestions, hoping that one of the many microphones would record our comments.

As a fan of Constant Contact and someone who has been monitoring their stock price ever since they went public a few months ago, I was a bit disappointed that the company is considering making mostly cosmetic changes to the user experience, rather than enhancing and deepening the functionality of its current product to keep pace with the increasingly sophisticated needs of its long-time customers. At the end of the evening, I was happy to receive my pink envelope of cash and decided to invest it in something other than their stock. At least for now.

Invierno

Winter is unmistakably here. Tiny snowflakes float gently but unrelentingly from the heavens, like a sprinkling of confectioner's sugar gone amok. These miniscule flakes are, one by one, creating spectacular drifts. I briefly opened my skylight to dislodge the accumulated snow only to have it be quickly recoated, enveloping me in a powdery blanket. My car is nearly completely covered with a fluffy quilt of snow.

It is only 8:20 a.m., on a Sunday, when most of the world is probably asleep, but I can hear the sounds of a neighbor's shovel stubbornly scraping against the pavement. The city's plows have already made several passes down my street, a main thoroughfare. Only 30 feet of unshoveled driveway stands between me and the clean road. Earlier this morning, while meditating, the sounds of my downstair's neighbors' snores percolated into my apartment. I will wait until they stir before attempting to shovel. And my shovel is in my car so I will have to bushwhack a trail to get to it. But I am not in a rush.

Intangible

A loyal reader has tossed this word at me. I'm catching it and running with it. This word is a bit of a paradox - we can see it, read it and speak it yet it refers to those things that we cannot discern or observe.

This evening I had tea with a woman from my synagogue whom I've been getting to know in our Rosh Chodesh group, a monthly women's gathering centering on spirituality. Both of us are trying to focus our attention on gratitude and appreciation and I saw her as a fellow traveler along a difficult path. It is very challenging, when accustomed to looking at the world, and the people, places and objects in it, as something that needs fixing or improvement, to try to notice all that is positive in our lives. I must constantly refocus my eye, which gravitates to details and loves to linger on the miniscule flaw, and zoom out and see the basically good big picture.

Another thing this woman and I share is our sensitivity to the vibrations of people and places, what for others might be completely intangible. She and I are a bit like Goldilocks, needing to try many chairs, porridges and beds before finding the ones that are "just right". Sometimes I envy people who can find a place to live in a short amount of time, can enjoy almost any situation and are at ease with a lot of people. If they have an inner sensor, it is not blinking yellow or flashing red as much as mine and hers do, or maybe these people have just decided to ignore it.

Ideology, the Danger of

There was a time when I stopped reading newspapers. I was on a diet of sorts, not for my body but for my mind, which was generating an unhealthy surplus of anxieties and fears. I was determined not to introduce any additional negative stimuli in the form of violent or depressing stories that would leave me feeling even more overwhelmed or despairing.

I'm not in such a dark place anymore and so I now do read the New York Times online. Typically I skim the headlines, check out the Letters to the Editor and poke around for feature articles. I am still on a news diet, trying to carefully select what information to feed my still impressionable brain. But sometimes I do give into the temptation to click on a headline that might lead to a longer and upsetting story.

And so it was that I read Ending Famine, Simply by Ignoring the Experts, about how Malawi is now growing enough food for export after years in which it couldn't produce enough for domestic consumption. During those bleak years Malawi followed the World Bank's ideologically orthodox free market advice to not subsidize fertilizer. Without the fertilizer, farmers couldn't coax food out of the weak soil. Many people died of starvation. What is so sickening about the World Bank's advice is that the United States and Europe subsidize their farmers.

But after the 2005 harvest, the worst in a decade, Bingu wa Mutharika, Malawi’s newly elected president, decided to follow what the West practiced, not what it preached.

In my master's program, which each year produces a fresh crop of World Bank employees, I was indoctrinated in the dogma of free trade and free markets and could spout the ideology on command. Some of the economic theories underlying this ideology are seductive in their simple logic and beautiful when illustrated by an elegant curve on a graph. But insisting on transplanting these Ivory Tower ideas into Africa's, or at least Malawi's, barren terrain seems foolish at best and - in light of the resulting deaths - criminal at worst.

Indulgence or Investment?

A few years ago I wandered into a high-ceilinged boutique in SoHo, called Pastec, that was filled with boldly colorful clothing, accessories and housewares. Tightly knit striped scarves and socks were arrayed along a large wood table as if they were food at a banquet. They certainly looked good enough to eat. The yarn and the craftmanship screamed quality and the color combinations - inspired by Morocco and imagined by designer Valerie Barkowski - practically had me gasping in excitement. I kept browsing, touching the sweaters and blouses that hung on racks around the room. Peeking at the price tags, I nearly fainted.

But it was too late. I was smitten by this shop's exotic yet contemporary clothing and I was going to buy something.

I returned to the table and picked out a pair of cotton socks with stripes of pink, yellow, orange, blue and brown against a brick red background. They were $20, about four or five times what I typically pay for socks. The clerk behaved as if I had bought a high ticket item. He ceremoniously wrapped the socks in tissue and put the packet into a handsewn bag made of specialty paper embossed with Pastec's logo. I was delighted by my purchase, which felt like a huge indulgence at the time.

Last week, I wore these same socks when I traveled to New York. Notwithstanding dozens of washings and wearings, they had outlasted several pairs of socks from Target and other such places and had not even developed any thin spots or holes. My fashion indulgence had proved to be a wise investment.

Returning to Pastec last Wednesday, I thought I might up the ante and purchase something other than socks. But the prices of the scarves gave me pause, as did the triple digit tags on the sweaters. I decided to invest in two more pairs of socks. Despite inflation, they were still $20 a pair, a reasonable price indeed.

Insanity, temporary

Perhaps I am getting old. Last Monday I received a substantial refund check from the IRS. We're talking five fat figures. If you're wondering how it is that I managed to overestimate my tax liability to such an astonishing degree, send me a note and I'll tell you.

But this story begins with this check and my last minute preparations to travel to New York for Thanksgiving. My goal had been to deposit this and other checks before getting on the commuter rail on Wednesday morning to travel to South Station, where I'd board the Lucky Star bus to Manhattan's Chinatown. For just $15 one way, non-stop except for a short break at the Century Buffet in Connecticut, I'll sacrifice legroom. But I didn't make it to the bank on Tuesday or on Wednesday morning, and so I traveled to New York with many checks, totalling many many dollars, on my person. The IRS check I had tucked into my wallet. The other checks, from jewelry customers, I had zipped into an inside pocket of my purse.

I was vaguely aware of the stupidity of doing this - what if they were to get lost? But, I told myself, I don't lose things. I'm a careful person, a savvy traveler, someone who is alert to what is happening around her. I am an ex-New Yorker, after all!

During my trip I used my credit card for many transactions - purchasing a metro card, a small gift, dinner at a sushi bar, some socks at a mouth watering boutique in SoHo, and a pair of luscious lime green velveteen pants at Filene's basement. And I also used most of my stash of cash, next to which I had tucked my still unendorsed IRS check, for other things: visits to a few cafes, food at the Chinese buffet where our bus stopped in Connecticut, a rare deal on a sweater and, finally, a cab ride home from South Station. I had planned to take the commuter rail but had missed the 6pm train and didn't want to wait for more than 2 hours for another. Dehydrated, fatigued, body aching and eager to get home, I decided to splurge.

As we drove down the Mass Turnpike my eyes glanced at the signage inside the cab. Be sure to write down the taxi's number to help us find lost items, one of them said, or something to that effect.

The driver pulled up to my house and I used most of the rest of my cash to pay the fare, which cost nearly as much as my roundtrip bus ticket to New York. It was dark, I was tired, and I quickly counted out a few bills.

A few hours later, after I had had a chance to relax and drink some tea, I unpacked my bags. My anxiety rose when I couldn't find a necklace I had worn earlier that day but had tossed into my purse when I was trying on some clothing. Panicked, I dumped the contents of my purse and my shoulder bag, into which I had squeezed pajamas, socks, underwear, toiletries, two sweaters, an extra pair of pants, a silk sleeping sack, an organza bag with jewelry, books, a camera and snacks of crystallized ginger and dried cranberries. Still no necklace.

And that is when I discovered my customers' checks, still safely zipped into the interior pocket of the purse. I had forgotten all about them. I then opened my wallet to retrieve the IRS check and discovered that it was gone. Where there had once been a thick wad of cash now remained just a ten dollar note, a five dollar bill and a single.

I was too stunned to cry.

I sat on the floor in my hallway, my stomach both heavy and hollow, trying to imagine how it had vanished. Did it flutter to the floor when I pulled out two dollar bills to pay for my final NYC subway ride? Did it sneak into the tip I left for the waitress at Le Pain Quotidien? Did I hand it to the Boston cab driver as I stumbled out of his poorly lit taxi, eager to be home?

My mind latched onto the taxi man as the most likely scenario.

Would he turn it in? What if he tried to look up my phone number but couldn't because I don't have a landline? Would he mail it to me, or let it sit around gathering dust until I called to collect it? Or would he call the local papers to get the word out, and everyone in the greater Boston area would know what an idiot I was for walking around with this check? I looked on the receipt that the taxi driver had given me for any sort of identifying information, such as a license number or name of his taxi company. There was none. Why hadn't I written it down when I was in the cab? Why hadn't I just gone to the bank when I was supposed to? And why on earth hadn't I simply checked the box for direct deposit on my tax return, avoiding this fiasco altogether?

Recognizing that such self-beating wouldn't return the check any faster, I tried to clear my head and went to the IRS website. They do assist taxpayers with lost refunds, meaning checks that never arrive. There was no section or FAQ for people who receive the check and then lose it. They could call this section "Losers".

Still dumbstruck and deflated, I went into my kitchen to make some more tea. And there, on one of the counters, was the necklace that I thought I had lost. I must have taken it out of my purse when I got home, even though I had no recollection of performing that action. The sight of the necklace was heartening. Maybe I wasn't losing my mind completely. Maybe I was able to keep track of things to some degree.

I resumed the search for the check. Was it possible that, like the necklace, it was right in front of me but I had overlooked it? Again, I picked through the clump of receipts and papers that were nesting in my wallet, straightening them and sorting them. There were receipts for postage, for gasoline and for my NY cafe visits and clothing deals. But there was no check. Heading over to my desk, I noticed another stack of receipts. Was it possible that I had actually left the check at home, even though I could have sworn it was on my person?

As I flipped through this new wad of papers, the check - folded in half - fell onto my desk. I must have emptied my wallet of some of its contents before my trip, but without realizing that the check was in that pile. I felt a kind of sobering relief. I had found the check but had temporarily lost my mind.

Interiors, III

I'm writing from a penthouse apartment on West 112th Street in New York City. By New York standards, it is palatial, with two large bedroom, 2.5 bathrooms and two balconies with sweeping views of rivers, bridges and water-tower dotted rooftops. It even has a laundry room which, when equipped with a twin sized air mattress, converts to a cozy bedroom. For Thanksgiving, much of the family piled into the apartment, where my older brother is staying during a semester teaching at Columbia. My younger brother, his wife and two young children slept in one of the bedrooms, my older brother and his wife took the other bedroom, and my older nieces and nephew camped out in the living room. I spent two nights sleeping in the laundry room but tonight - the rest of the family having dispersed to Rhode Island, Boston and Riverdale - I have the place to myself. Like Goldilocks, I might have to try out all the mattresses to find the one that is just right.

This evening I attended Shabbat services at B'nai Jeshurun, the synagogue I discovered a year before I left New York City. It is about 25 blocks south of the apartment, a decent walk in nice weather but a bit of a schlep in the cold and wind. The joyful and musical service in the amply heated sanctuary restored me for the return to 100th Street, but about halfway back I spotted an Asian restaurant bar and decided to take a sushi and tea break. After eating a bit more than I really I had room for, the maitre d' brought the check and a fortune cookie. I opened it in anticipation that its interior would yield an amusing proverb or uplifting saying, much in the way that someone might crack open an oyster, hoping for a pearl.

Rather than revealing a gem of wisdom it said:

LEARN CHINESE - Still single (mae yao jeh huan).

Thank you, fortune cookie writers, for providing this line for me to read as I sat alone at a Manhattan sushi bar on a Friday night. I'm sure this phrase would come in useful if I'm ever searching for a soul mate in China.

The flip side, the fortune side, wasn't terribly inspiring either:

Today, give control over to another person. It is definite.

Well, the day was almost over, and I had given control of half of it to another person, mainly my older brother's wife. She makes many of the decisions in their family and when I stay or visit with them I've learned to try to go with the flow, even when I'd rather be paddling in a different direction or think that there is a better way of organizing or planning an activity. My ability to give control over to another person - and not just my sister-in-law - is quite limited. Usually after 48 hours of ceding control I start to feel uncomfortable and seek solitude. Tonight I have that in spades.

Ingenious

A woman with a striped hat and large smile came into my studio today and announced that she's seen my jewelry at shows around the area. Taking another look at her, I realized that I'd probably seen her before, or at least I'd seen her distinctive blue and white hat which flopped over her eyes.

"Your bracelets look so delicious!" she exclaimed in admiration.

"Thank you, but I wouldn't recommend eating them," I replied. "They look much better on your wrist."

She poked around my studio some more. Another woman, who had seen one of my necklaces at a silent auction, had made a beeline for my bigger necklaces and was in the process of trying on half a dozen. Having a sale - this time a rather generous one -brings in the serious shoppers.

Ms. Floppy Hat ogled my basket of Czech glass bracelets and cooed, "Your jewelry is just so joyful and cheerful!" I wished that I could be so joyful and cheerful, rather than having my jewelry act as my positive emotional ambassador to the world.

But, she sighed, "I can't spend the money right now."

"But this is the least expensive they've been," I explained. "If you buy two, you get another one free. That's 33 percent off. Now is a great time to buy them."

"You're right," she sighed, agreeing with my logic in theory.

She took a final appreciative look around and loudly declared that my combinations of beads were "ingenious."

Her pleasure in my jewelry and her comment - especially the use of an "I" word - made my day. And it didn't hurt that the other woman expressed her enjoyment by purchasing four necklaces and a pair of earrings. Acting on one's good taste is, perhaps, another kind of ingenuity.

Interviews, a Dozen

"Oh, the places you'll go!" exclaims the Dr. Seuss book about life's unpredictable journey.

Who would have predicted that I, avoider of run of the mill restaurants and bars in general, would set foot into Charley's Eating and Drinking Saloon on Newbury Street? But that is where a HurryDate event was being held on Wednesday for Jewish people in my age range. So I told the part of me who snubs conventional places to chill out while I checked out a dozen supposedly eligible bachelors.

If you've never participated in this post-modern dating ritual, it can be a bit strange at first. Each person gets a number (I was #10) and each woman takes a seat at a table, each marked with a letter of the alphabet; of course, I chose the table marked I. Then the men seat themselves, one per table, and the dating begins. After 4-5 minutes, the host blows his whistle and the men get up and move to the next table in alphabetical order; it's like musical chairs except there is no music and there are enough chairs for all, unless there is a gender imbalance. Then either the extra woman or man gets a breather. If you're wondering how it's possible to get to know someone in 4-5 minutes, it isn't possible. That's not the point of a HurryDate, or a SpeedDate, or an 8MinuteDate. The point is to figure out if you'd like to continue the conversation some other time, not whether you want to marry the person and have "a million babies" as the host joked with us.

The fact is there are some people whom you know you never want to date just by looking at them. The first man to sit at my table fell into this category. His bad teeth and scruffy appearance turned me off, although he seemed happy in his life. Fortunately, the 4 minutes flew by. Before we knew it, the host had tooted the whistle and the next man had sat down.

Only one of my conversations dragged. A fleshy and flashily dressed man with a gold tie clip asked me if I was at all into sports or the Red Sox.

"No," I said, without elaboration or apology.

Somehow we survived until the whistle sounded again.

Towards the end of the evening, as the host became more practiced, his low toots on the whistle evolved into sharp and loud blasts. I felt as if I were at a bizarre sporting event, with no teams or spectators and with no winners or losers, just people playing the odds.

The host's grounding advice was to circle Y (for Yes) on our scorecards for as many people as possible. Yes simply meant a willingness to schedule a follow up conversation, nothing more. Taking that view, I was surprised to discover that there were 5 men I would have been willing to continue talking to. Of these, one I already knew, so that leaves a potential upside of 4 new possible acquaintances. I am curious which of these gentlemen "Yessed" me but I don't feel attached to a particular outcome.

Insanity, Impatience, Intransigence

This triple "I" posting is inspired by an outing last evening.

Among the many rites observable at my synagogue on Friday nights - including candlelighting, Shabbat services and blessings over the challah and wine - is a relatively modern tradition. This contemporary ritual involves groups of mostly single people going to a restaurant for dinner after the kiddush.

Sounds lovely, you say, how nice to have such a group!

In theory it is a nice idea, but in practice the ritual makes me insane. It involves someone assuming a leadership role, often reluctantly, and then canvassing between six and eight people, most of whom are engaged in conversation with someone else, about their interest in having dinner and, if it is affirmative, the kind of food they'd like to eat. By the time this process has concluded, about 30 minutes have passed, more than enough time for me to snack amply on rugelach at the kiddush.

No longer hungry, I have lost much of the impetus to attach myself to a group outing, an act that is slightly unnatural for me in the first place. Moreover, I am starting to get cranky at the prospect of not arriving to a restaurant until 8:30 pm or later, not being served until 9pm, and not getting home until after 10pm. The group's tendency towards indecisiveness and the demonstrated inability of the group's members to arrive at the designated restaurant at the same time further frustrate me. I simply do not find it fun to engage in multilateral negotiations about which restaurant to choose, week after week after week. It's not as if we are debating the merits of different fine dining establishments where we're each expecting to pay upwards of $30/person, plus wine. We are talking Turkish or Thai with most entrees under ten dollars. Most Friday nights I am content to chat with people at the kiddush and then go on my merry way, either to dancing or a quiet evening alone or with one other person, unshackled by a slow moving pack of people. Democracy is great except when it gets in the way of eating at a reasonable hour.

Last week - and I will get to last night in a minute - my friend R. had broken free from the shackles of tradition and had made a reservation at a nearby restaurant for 8pm, a time that was still on the reasonable side. To support her bold, unilateral move, I joined the group. It was basically a fun evening, and the four of us who showed up on time ordered without waiting for the others who straggled in 30 minutes later. Somehow, we all completed the meal at the same time.

Based on that mostly successful outing, I decided to take my chances again last night. J., a very kind man, offered to round up the troops. A consensus builder, he also wanted to make sure that everyone could agree on the restaurant.

"Please pick a place," I urged him, hoping to simplify his job and speed things up. "And get back to me."

Meanwhile, R. wasn't sure she could join us because she had to first go home and let her dog out. I offered to drive her so she could take care of her pet and save some time. Deal. Then she suggested a restaurant near her house to save travel time on the other end. Perfect! We told J. of the plan. He just wanted to consult another member of our party, whom I'll call Y., who was engrossed in conversation with one of our congregation's elders. R. had tried to get Y.'s attention multiple times but failed.

But the dog needed to romp, so R. and I left the synagogue and told J. that we'd meet the group at 8:30pm at a certain Thai restaurant in Brookline. After caring for her pet, R. and I were walking to the rendezvous when my cell phone rang. It was Y., explaining to me that she couldn't join us for dinner because for various personal reasons she can't be seen in that part of town.

"I see," I said into my phone, even though I had no clue what she was talking about. I imagined that she had an agreement with an ex-lover who lived in the neighborhood to not hang out on his turf.

"Please tell R. I'm sorry I won't be there," Y. said.

I repeated what she said to R., who nodded in understanding when I mentioned that Y. can't set foot in this restaurant.

"So, what is that about?" I asked R.

"Well, it's personal, so she should probably tell you," R. replied, deepening the mystery.

We arrived to the restaurant, packed with people and with a long wait, and J. was already there, accompanied by a somewhat awkard man, looking forlorn because Y. can't - or won't - come. He's on the phone with her, and she is suggesting that everyone meet her and another friend at a different restaurant across town, apparently where it is safer for her to dine out.

It is past 8:30 pm. It is cold, I am tired, my car is back at R.'s house, and I put my foot down.

"Sorry," I say, baring my intransigence. "I'm not going anywhere else. If you'd like to join Y. for dinner across town that's fine with me. I can just go home."

I wasn't whining or complaining or angry, just stating my preference. I had no patience left for another round of negotiating, another trip in the car, finding another parking spot and another wait at a restaurant.

The others looked chagrined, as if breaking up the group was akin to a Halachic violation. I wondered if I was being difficult. For an instant, I was willing to reconsider my position.

"Well," I said, still cold and impatient, "could someone at least tell me why Y. can't be seen in this part of town?"

Perhaps if I understood the mishegas I'd be ready to relent. J. decided to break the silence.

"Well, Y.'s a rabbi - but she doesn't like people to know this - and she doesn't like to go to restaurants that are near KI (a conservative temple) for fear she might be seen."

Uh huh.

My mind quickly calculated the merits of this particular case of Jewish insanity: conservative female ordained as a rabbi, but who doesn't want to be known as a rabbi, attends a post-denominational synagogue where almost everyone drives on the Sabbath yet because she is still known as a rabbi by some people and might still want to work as a rabbi somewhere, sometime, she thinks she can't enjoy a Shabbat meal at a restaurant within a few blocks of a conservative temple whose members don't observe the Sabbath 100% either, but who might frown upon seeing a rabbi dining out on a Friday. Whew.

I am no stranger to these convoluted complexities - I attend synagogue every Friday night and observe one dietary law (hold the pork!), which makes me "religious" to some secular Jews, yet I break almost all the other commandments, making me practically a gentile in the eyes of the Orthodox. I totally got the "logic" of her situation but I didn't want to exhaust myself further in support of her rabbinic ambivalence.

"Well, I am going to have dinner here," I told the group, pointing to a less crowded restaurant across the street from where we were standing. "If anyone wants to join me, that's great. If not, I'll go by myself."

In the end the four of us - me, R., a somewhat sullen J. and the awkward man - shared a late meal. I made a few suggestions to J. about ways to organize the group dinners to make the process more efficient and enjoyable.

"Efficient is for the workplace," J. said, "It doesn't work for socializing."

"Well, I'd be more likely to come to these dinners if they were more organized," I politely disagreed. "Every week we spend so much time making the same decision, I am exhausted by the time we begin eating. Can't one person choose a restaurant each week and make a reservation?"

"But what if the others don't like it?"

"Well, everyone would know that they'd each have a chance to pick a place. Over time, people would get to eat at the restaurants they liked."

J. looked dubious. And I simply stopped there and tried to savor my very spicy but slightly oily soup.

Indistinct, Intellectual Interference

I will attempt to reestablish my blogging rhythm (so far somewhat erratic) with a posting about drumming. I'm enrolled in a "Beyond Beginner" African drumming class, a level in which students are supposed to remain for a few years before moving into Intermediate or Advanced. Two summers ago I took the Beginner class. I have hardly touched a drum since.

But as I remembered during my first "Beyond Beginner" lesson a few weeks ago, rhythm isn't really a problem for me. Most of the time I can quickly pick up what the instructor is teaching us. And closing my eyes while drumming prevents the thinking part of my brain from seeing what I am doing, having an opinion about it, and therefore screwing it up. My hands generally know what to do as long as there is no interference from my intellect. I can play for a longer amount of time if I feel the rhythm, rather than try to understand it or memorize it.

The biggest challenge for me is creating the proper sound with my hands. There are basically three sounds that we use to make music. The bass, created by a flat palm in the middle of the drum; a tone, created when the bottom of the hand hits the rim of the drum and the fingers - but not the tips - land on the drum head; and the slap, which is like a tone but the fingers land at a slightly different angle, creating a sharper sound. At this earlier stage in my drumming life, my slaps are sloppy and my tones are tentative. And the faster we drummed, the sloppier and more tentative they became, respectively. A classmate described her slaps and tones as indistinct as our rhythm picked up speed.

Indistinct indeed.

And since my technique stinks I am inclined to use more force to generate separate sounds so I can feel as if I'm "getting it right," but muscling through a song is exhausting and unnecessary.

"Coax the sound out of the drum," our teacher, a portly retired gentleman, explained the first night. "You don't need to bang it to get a good bass."

The best drumming happens when the mind and body are relaxed but alert. I'll think of it as musical meditation.

Incisions

I've been devoting more time to mosaic-making. In particular I am attempting to master the art of cutting sheets of stained glass into the sizes and shapes that I want. If you've ever been in a glass shop, you might have seen an employee coat the glass with kerosene or paint thinner and score the glass (or mirror) with a special tool. The lubricant prevents the glass from "healing" after it has been scored, thereby allowing a very clean break.

Voila!

It looks so easy. And I'm sure it will be easy for me, too, after I've made dozens of tries, hopefully not all as bloody as they were today. I have two scoring tools - a wet one (requiring a lubricant) and a dry one. A mosaicist friend makes clean and efficient cuts with her dry scorer and watching her a few times it looked rather straightforward.

But the project I am working on now - a mirror - involves several different colors of stained glass, each with a different surface texture. And some sheets of glass have different textures on the front and back. Each type of glass requires a different amount of pressure to score it so that it will break cleanly, not shatter into pieces when I place it in the glass nipper and gently squeeze perpendicular to the scored line. And the glass somehow knows when I mean to score it or not ... it senses the purity of my intention, my ability to focus on it and only it. When I do give the glass 100% of my attention and my score is straight and on the correct side of the glass, it breaks easily.

But I must have been distracted this afternoon because many of my attempts yielded imprecise cuts, which sliced incisions into my finger tips as I tried to position the glass pieces on my mosaic. Three blood soaked bandaids later it was time to stop and go to yoga. Tomorrow I will try again.

Ignescent, Impermanence

Ignescent: bursting into flame.

I've been following the coverage of the California wildfires, a compelling reminder of the power and cycles of nature which demand our respect. The fires are also a reminder of the simple fact of impermanence. While I don't wish that everyone should live in constant fear of having their houses destroyed on any given day, and I don't wish to be glib about the enormous dislocation of so many people, it is useful to keep in mind that nothing lasts forever. I used to be someone who resisted most change and wanted the world around me to arrange itself in such a way that it would be easier for me to be happy in it. While I am not even close to eliminating that tendency, I am now much more aware of it and I increasingly find that I am not as anxious about impermanence. Sometimes I even embrace it, particularly when I am stuck or in a difficult situation. The fact that nothing last forever can be a tremendous blessing. Impermanence means that something can and will change or shift, if only I am willing to accept it or, in some cases, allow it to happen.

During the last week I've been obsessing about a particular person, my mind unable to let go of the story it had created around this person and my feelings. Even daily meditation, writing and vigorous yoga classes did not completely stop these racing and roaring thoughts; these spiritual practices only succeeded in briefly pausing them. During one of those much needed hiatuses I realized that I had a choice about whether to continue with or end the obsession, and a phone call with this person - during which I chose to ask a question I had avoided uttering before - helped me do the latter. Now that I have reached greater clarity around this situation, it is hard to believe that I had been so consumed by it just a few days before. Much like the wildfires have destroyed everything in their path, my obsession had obliterated my equanimity and concentration. Thank goodness, in this case, for impermanence. And may the thousands of people displaced by the wildfires find the strength to rebound and rebuild their lives.

International, Identity

At my studio yesterday three of us had gathered in the hallway to chat about an event we are planning. There wa A., whose showroom is filled with colorful handmade crafts from his native Morocco, and L., a painter who just moved to the Boston area from France, and me, born here but with a lingering longing for other lands. Briefly, but briefly, our conversation veered into French, which I understand to some degree but barely speak. I managed to put together a complete sentence and ask a question, communicating with the others. Speaking a foreign language subtly but suddenly shifts my inner gears. Having access to other languages, but not being completely fluent in them, I can only express myself simply and directly, without resorting to cleverness, elaboration or obfuscation. I can no longer fool myself. When I shift into globetrotting mode, all that matters is that I am a human being, interacting with other human beings, transcending our particular place-based identities. My persona falls away and I become, simply, a person. It is such a blissful relief.

Idolatry, revisited

Earlier today I attended a meditation workshop at my synagogue called, "Letting Go of the Burning Coal: Anger and How to Heal It", led by Rabbi Alan Lew. The workshop was scheduled to run from 10am-4pm and, like many events held at my synagogue, for reasons that were not apparent it didn't start at the stated time. And because people know that events at my synagogue (even if organized by different groups) tend not to start on time, they have learned not to knock themselves out to arrive on time. And so it goes, creating awkwardness for the people who did arrive promptly and who need to leave (at the original) "on time", when the event might run quite late.

In fact, by the time lunch rolled around we were 30 minutes off schedule. I had intended to leave at 4pm to get to a yoga class and I started to wonder if I'd have to choose between completing the retreat and keeping my commitment to practice yoga three times a week. Poor planning and sliding schedules tend to push a few of my buttons: there is the button of respect - when people don't honor appointments or plans I start to feel that they are not respecting my time and, therefore, not respecting me; and there is the button of irritation - it gets ignited when I believe (rightly or wrongly) that I am in a situation that is being run less than competently. Needless to say, given the increasingly casual world we live in, I'd be better off if I could figure out a way to reprogram these buttons.

Being somewhat, but not completely, self-aware, I ruefully realized that I was in exactly the right place to become angry and annoyed.

Could I learn something about myself and how and why I get angry, I wondered, as I quietly steamed about the schedule during the silent vegetarian lunch. Why didn't the Rabbi shave a few minutes off of lunch (after all, we were not allowed to speak, just eat, so it wasn't social time) in order to make up for the time he lost in the beginning?

It wasn't until 3pm or so that Rabbi Lew actually gave us some instructions on how to work with anger in meditation. "Finally!" my huffy inner voice hissed.

And then he, too, mentioned anger as a form of idolatry, although not in the way that I had heard it described by a woman at Elat Chayyim, where I had spent Yom Kippur. Back in September, a fellow retreatant had mentioned that persistent anger is a way of keeping oneself at the center of things, raising oneself onto a pedestal. But Rabbi Lew had other explanations as to why anger is akin to idolatry. First, by being angry at another person, one gives that person tremendous power over one's life. And fixating on this person puts his or her image in the forefront of one's consciousness, whereas it is God who belongs at the forefront. Secondly, by treating anger as something in the body that must be expelled or gotten rid of, one gives anger a solid form (turning it into an idol) when in fact it is formless. It is energy which we can either suppress (rarely a good idea), express (often a bad idea) or - as we learned today - simply experience and inhabit it, watching it rise and fall. Since we can't exorcise it once and for all, we might as well learn to live with it.

The workshop, despite the 30 minute delay, ended on time, rendering my dilemma moot and making me realize that I had gotten steamed up over...NOTHING...my mind had chosen to chew on the delay much like a dog masticates a bone. My mind does this a lot, the content varying depending on the situation. As a meditator, my job is to figuratively remove the bone before my mind sinks its teeth into it and direct my mind's attention toward something else. Rabbi Lew suggested compassion - can we turn our feelings of anger to thoughts of compassion for the person who is pissing us off? After all, if they are showering us with harsh words and ill feelings, imagine how bad it must be for them.

His recommendation is not new or earth shattering, but it was worth hearing once again, something for my mind to chew on during yoga class while my body rested in downward facing dog.

Illegal immigrant

Today Juan (not his real name, as it turns out) returned to finish some repairs at my apartment. Remembering that I wrote that I would be kinder when he came back, I got up early enough to meditate for 30 minutes before the agreed arrival time of 7:30 a.m. Since the contractor and Juan had appeared promptly the week before, I even skipped a shower so that I'd be sure to hear them arrive (I have no doorbell...yet) and be able to let them in.

As 8:15 rolled around, my impatience and stinkiness growing, I called the contractor to find out when I might expect them.

"Oh, it's just Juan who is coming today," he told me. I was relieved.

"OK, but I'd like to take a shower, so could you find out when he'll show up?"

"Don't worry, he won't get there while you're showering," the contractor said. "He's at least a half hour away."

I was not reassured.

The phone rang again after I had finished bathing and dressing. It was the contractor letting me know that Juan probably wouldn't make it until 10 a.m. I started to get annoyed - I could have slept later, showered sooner....my mind could have generated a list a mile long about how things "could have" been.

"Well," I huffed. "I'm not sure I can stick around much longer than that."

"OK," he said. "I'll tell him to hurry."

Part of me was eager to get agitated and pissed and scream at this guy but I remembered kindness so I didn't bite his head off. I also realized that even though contractors have made me feel crazy in the past, I do have a choice about how I am going to react NOW. I didn't have to get angry all over again. I sighed and tried to figure out how to rearrange my plans so that I could get something accomplished while waiting.

The following e-mail shows up, one of a few daily inspirational quotes that I receive:

If someone cheats you, they cannot diminish your experience. They only diminish their experience. You cannot be diminished by someone cheating you unless you get all upset about being cheated and push against them.

I wasn't feeling cheated, per se, but it was a good reminder to not let other people's behavior determine how I feel. Getting upset is, actually, a choice (one that many people make).

At 11 a.m., engrossed in creating my jewelry newsletter, I hear a faint sound down below. I go to my hallway, open the window to peer out and see Juan standing patiently in his New England fall "uniform": blue jeans and a grey zipped hooded sweatshirt.

"Just a minute!" I say, scampering down the steep steps in my sockfeet.

"I owe you a big apology," he says in Spanish while handing me a bag of tostadas. "These are for you."

"Muchas gracias!" I say, trying to let him in. The hallway is so narrow I need to back up the stairs so that Juan, who's somewhere between "husky" and "a few extra pounds" can enter. It is hard to be too upset with a handyman who comes bearing authentic Mexican snacks, even if the guy is nearly half a day behind schedule.

He quickly fixes one of my kitchen lights, reinstalls the window pane in the bathroom and hangs up my coatrack. When he's finished we get to talking about his boss ("Esta un poco loco, no?" he says, almost smiling. I agree that the contractor is a bit crazy, but I'm grimacing). But Juan is not bothered by the man's kookineess. He's grateful to be working at all. His previous patrones, a couple who flew him to Boston from LA to live in their house while fixing it up, left the country without paying him for three months of his labor. They also sold the house, giving him little time to find another place to stay. All he got was $200 and a note that said, essentially, "Sorry! We're outta here".

Juan said he was glad to be in the US, even if illegally, as back home he found his job, as a member of the presidential secret service, demoralizing and degrading. Lacking connections, he had to pay a bribe to be considered for the job, which often entailed keeping an eye on presidential offspring who were drinking, drugging and vomiting. And he was on call nearly all the time, a life without structure or much sleep. Or respect.

"If you don't know the right people in Mexico, " Juan said. "Then you're nothing. People will treat you how they want. I have studied and have a few degrees but it made no difference. It's much better here."

Juan seemed to harbor no bitterness towards the couple who fleeced him. He embodied the message in my inbox, a walking example of how to let go and move on, to be happy regardless. He might be somewhat naive but he seems to be living in the moment, not living with a grudge.

I hope I can remember his example the next time I start to feel cheated. Certainly, I'll think of him for as long as I can make the tostadas - in this case they are round, flat and slightly sweet biscuits - last.

Innovation

I'm taking a class at my synagogue called, "Prayer: A journey of the heart or a burden? Thinking, struggling and learning about Tfilah". One of the things that turned me off of organized and synagogue-basedJudaism for many years was my lack of connection to the sequences of words that populate the siddur (prayer book). In many synagogues, these prayers are recited in much the same manner, time after time, often with uninspiring melodies and with little explanation as to why the service was constructed in a certain way. Without passion or meaning, and devoid of transformative power, of course prayer - reciting certain Hebrew words in a particular order at prescribed times - can feel like a chore or, worse, a burden. Oy!

As I learned from my classmates during the first evening, many of us feel connected to God when we are doing anything but reciting traditional prayers. Singing, chanting, doing yoga, playing music and dancing are ways that a lot of my Jewish community experience a relationship with God, or a force that is greater than ourselves. Yet we still come to synagogue, wanting to feel a divine connection in a Jewish context and environment created for that very purpose. The medium is the siddur and our kavanah (intention/direction) to create such a connection.

So, how do we go about doing it?

Apparently this struggle with prayer is not unique to 21st century North American Judaism; what constitutes meaningful prayer has been debated and discussed in the Babylonian Talmud, which reached its final form in the year 700 A.C.E. One sage, Rabbi Eleazar, said that a person needs to take stock of themselves, to determine if they can focus their attention. If yes, they should pray, but otherwise not. Most of us agreed that prayer is more meaningful if we can become fully present and focus on it, but we also agreed that making prayer conditional on being fully in the present moment would mean that little in the way of traditional prayer would happen (what if the rabbis were distracted and decided, based on this advice, to cancel services?)

However, is there a way to approach prayer that would help us to become more present while doing it, to prevent our mouths and brains from running on autopilot? Here is where innovation comes in. Innovation, or improvisation, turns what could have been a rote prayer into an experience of the moment and, therefore, of the heart. At my synagogue, the rabbis frequently change tunes and melodies - sometimes even mid-prayer - keeping us on our toes and the service fresh and vibrant. At Elat Chayyim, the retreat center I frequent, we often davven (pray) by focusing on a single line from a longer text, chanting it again and again so that the words, sounds and meaning have a chance to penetrate into our bodies, past our brains. This innovative prayer style helps me personalize my own prayers. Sometimes I will just sing a line or two as a way to shift into a more present and connected state of being.

Ick! Incompetence

After posting under such esoteric words as isagogics and irritatory, I thought I'd simplify to a three letter word.

Ick! was my reaction to the "contractor" who showed up bright and early this rainy morning (yes, I had chosen the time - 7:30 a.m. - but had overslept), his fly unzipped and his pants sitting just a bit too low on his hips, his jacket and shoes dripping water into my apartment. Having just rolled out of bed, I was not in a good mood, nor had I meditated. My only preparation for this appointment (aside from putting on a pair of pants) was that I removed something from above the sink so that they could install a light.

What was this something? A sticky note that said KINDNESS, as a reminder to be more kind to myself and others.

I efficiently pointed out to him and his assistant what needed to be done (pipes to be insulated, lights to be fixed, replaced or installed) and proceeded to make myself a cup of tea.

"You know," he said, "I was at Home Depot at 8 o'clock last night getting things for your job."

Did the man want a medal for his heroic efforts? A pat on his unkempt head?

"OK," I said, starting to wish he'd just do the work and get the heck out of my space before he polluted it with his sulky attitude.

It quickly became apparent that this disheveled man had absolutely no clue about basic home repair.

I had told my landlord to install a heat lamp in the bathroom, and this fellow dutifully went to Home Depot and tried to find a heat lamp that ... get this ... wouldn't vent, because he figured the landlord wouldn't want to pay to have a vent put into the bathroom.

Well.

Mr. Disheveled had found the ugliest possible contraption for a heat lamp which, according to his assistant, a Mexican fellow, could not be properly hooked up without ventilation. Duh! And he didn't quite get that I wanted to keep my regular light fixture in the bathroom, not replace it with a heat lamp. Had he been a licensed contractor, he would have either asked about this or assumed that both a normal bulb and an infrared bulb were needed.

"You know," I practically spat, "they do sell combination heat lamps with regular bulbs that can operate on a single switch."

"Don't worry," he replied,"we'll solve the problem."

Unconvinced, I retreated with my tea to the living room.

He came in and said, "I'm here trying to help you. I've never done business with you before and you seem to have a bad attitude. I was getting stuff for you late last night!"

Poor fellow...had I ruined his weekend?

"You're working for my landlord, not me, and I've been waiting a month for you to show up. It was your choice to go to Home Depot last night." I retorted, as calmly as I could.

"Well, I'm trying to be helpful," he repeated, as if his good intention would be enough to accomplish the list of chores he came to perform. "Sounds like you are annoyed at the landlord."

One of the things my last therapist tried to convince me of is that, believe it or not, the Universe (even in the form of a disheveled, unzipped and incompetent contractor) is friendly helpful. If only I can learn to see things that way.

Remembering the sign I had taken off the kitchen wall just a few minutes before, I wondered if I could I show some...uh...KINDNESS to this, um, incompetent idiot?

I realized that I could sit there, sip my tea and stew in self-righteous anger and frustration, or I could try to do what I've been learning in yoga for the last few years - drop the fight and accept that these were the guys I'd have to deal with. After all, this was not my house and I couldn't send them away and call another tradesperson, even though I know several.

"So, are you happy here?" he asked, looking around my funky apartment.

"Yeah, it's a great place," I said, deciding to accept his idle presence. My apartment is small, and there wasn't a place for me to go and shut the door. His assistant, Juan, was doing all the work while he tried to make nice.

"Except it's not properly heated. That's why I wanted a heat lamp for the bathroom."

"Not heated?" he exclaimed. "No wonder why you're upset. Don't worry - we'll take care of that. Juan, guess what? She has no heat!"

Mr. Disheveled had sat down on my one chair, sort of reclining and running his hand through his hair, making himself a little too at home. Did he now think that he was my swank superhero, about to save me from a cold winter?

Ick! Ick! Ick!

"So, how is your jewelry business?" he asked, attempting friendliness. Somehow, I must have told him about it when we were scheduling the appointment.

"I'm probably going to wrap it up, " I said, but not wanting to talk about myself, quickly countered, "So, do you work with licensed contractors? What is it that you do?"

"Well, sometimes. It depends on the job," he said. "I'm in charge of customer relationships. Bad customer relationships," he chuckled. "Basically my business is about fixing up rentals and homes to get higher rents or sales prices. I don't usually do repairs," he confessed.

No kidding.

"But I try to make people happy," he added. "And I do some management consulting. Tomorrow I'm going to the Pentagon to see a client."

The Pentagon, eh? Assuming that is true, I wonder if he'll show up in Washington looking like he did this morning.

Mr. Disheveled became obsessed with my inadequate heating situation and insisted that Juan take a look to see what could be done. By this time, some of the repairs had been accomplished, I was in a better mood and Juan and I were chatting in Spanish. It turned out that when it came to home repairs Juan really did know what he was talking about, unlike his patron. He also recommended some Mexican restaurants in Chelsea and helped me install some storage racks on my walls.

I hope Juan learns enough English to start his own business and get away from this man. And I plan to be kinder when they come back.

Irritatory

I've learned through books and seminars on personal growth that when we find another person particularly irritating or annoying, it's because this person embodies or displays a characteristic or trait that we also possess but that we haven't fully accepted in ourselves. It's also the case that we tend to admire people who embody traits that we believe we possess but that we haven't fully developed or realized. The rest of the world can thus be seen as a mirror, providing continuous reflections of all of our parts, even the shadowy bits that reside below our conscious awareness most of the time.

To be more specific, there is a woman I occasionally interact with who irritates me....a lot...probably because in some important ways we are very much alike, a situation that irritates me even more. She likes to be visible and an attention-getter in group settings (um...so do I sometimes), she likes to appoint herself in charge, and she has a tendency to make confident pronouncements to people about things they should do, books they should read, people they should talk to, as if she possesses great clarity about what each individual needs to do to make a quantum improvement in their life.

Um...I've been guilty of that, too.

And I also know, from the one real conversation I've had with her, that - like me - she struggles a bit with relating to her family and to feeling comfortable among them.

Today I attended a Simchat Bat ceremony (the female version of a bris) where the baby girl is officially named and welcomed into her family and Jewish community. Unlike a circumcision, this event does not involve any medical procedures, unless - God forbid! - one of the guests has a mishap while overindulging in bagels, lox and whitefish salad and needs the Heimlich maneuver or, worse, CPR.

After the baby was officially named and welcomed with song, poetry and wine, I enjoyed some delicious treats and pleasant conversation with some old and new acquaintances on the back patio. Coming inside the house to warm up and find a hot beverage, I noticed that this woman had arrived in the meantime, long after the ceremony was over. She behaved as if she had been there the entire time, welcoming those of us who were coming indoors after an hour of relaxed chatting as if we were late to the party.

While talking with someone else as I warmed up with a cup of coffee (I don't normally drink the stuff, but I was quite chilled), this woman made eye contact with me and said, "There's something I have to tell you," in a tone (with matching facial expression, including dramatically raised eyebrows) that suggested that her forthcoming revelation would change my life.

Hmmm. What could it be? I slowly sipped my coffee, unable to reciprocate her apparent intensity.

"There's a mosaic exhibit you should see," she insisted.

"Actually, I had work in the exhibit," I replied. "It was really a fantastic show."

"Oh!" she said. "Is it still on?"

"It closed yesterday," I informed her.

"Oh, well I'd love to see your work sometime!" she exclaimed.

"Sure," I told her. "Come by my studio!"

I have to assume she meant well and was trying to connect with me, but her style of delivery was, as the title of this posting indicates, irritating. Being on the receiving end of such a blast of advice didn't feel so great, it was as if she was bestowing something upon me, rather than trying to engage me in a conversation and assess my receptivity. A valuable experience for me to remember the next time I feel that irrepressible urge to give a friend or acquaintance a piece of life changing advice.

Isagogics

Flipping through my dictionary, I found this somewhat relevant "I" word which means:
Introductory study; especially, the study of the literary history of the Bible, considered as introductory to the study of Bible interpretation.

Yesterday at synagogue, we started a fresh round of Torah reading with the first part of the creation story. But before anyone uttered the first word, "B'reishit" (normally translated as "in the beginning"), our rabbi gave a brief overview of the different ways or levels in which the Torah can be read.

There is the peshat (surface) level, where each word is taken literally. Of course, even peshat isn't so simple, as certain words can have multiple meanings and there are some words that appear in the Torah only once, making it difficult to be completely sure what that meaning is. And plenty of the words in the Torah derive from even more ancient languages (how's your Ugaritic?) or refer to things, places or creatures that no longer exist. The next level is called remez, focusing on allusions or allegories in the text. The third level is called derash, where we look to the text in the Torah to answer a contemporary question, teasing out relevance with creative interpretations. In other words, we take the stories as written and make up new stories to breathe life into the text. And finally we can read Torah on the level of sod, the hidden and mystical.

Our Torah study session on Saturday mornings (before services start) is just a therapist's hour in length (we're lucky if we're at it for a full 50 minutes), and you could spend multiples of that time discussing just the first few verses of the Old Testament on all four levels, especially when you have a group of 30+ people, many of whom have something valuable to share.

In fact, one could spend a long time discussing just the third word of Genesis, "Elohim", which is in plural form even though it just refers to a singular God. Is it possibly a reference to the fact that at the time the Old Testament was written people believed that a whole group of gods had created the earth? Read in such a way, the Bible raises more questions than it answers. And our rabbi reminded us that even though the creation story is lovely and rather poetic (e.g. "God divided the light from the darkness" and "Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters"), in a few chapters God gets upset and destroys it all (you know, the flood!).

Sounds to me like God is an artist who, displeased with her first attempt at creating, wrecks it and tries, tries again. It is comforting to remember that even God didn't get things right the first time. The other piece that stuck with me is the idea that God created the world with words - not with a magic wand, not with esoteric gestures, not with a great wind.

Words.

And so we create our own worlds with our words. The words we use to describe the people and situations in our lives are like paints. Do we pick the ones that create a hopeful and inspiring picture or choose words that perpetuate negativity and confusion? Can we step back from our experience and look at it, much like a painter steps back to examine her canvas, and find words to describe it that are positive and encouraging?

I often feel like I need to (re)write my own story, starting once again with b'reishit, in the beginning, developing a plot from a much kinder and compassionate place than I've been able to access during previous drafts.

Imbibing

Last night was Simchat Torah (happiness of Torah), the holiday that celebrates the conclusion of a year's worth of Torah reading. Tomorrow morning we begin again with Genesis. At my synagogue, we complete the entire scroll on a three year cycle, reading only 1/3 of each week's parsha (portion) in each of the three years. Like serialized stories that used to appear in magazines and newspapers, this method of reading keeps people in suspense and coming back for more...at least that is the idea.

Simchat Torah is a joyous affair. At my synagogue we unfurl the entire scroll; many people are enlisted to carefully hold it up and, when it's their turn, they read a synopsis of the parsha they happen to be holding. The first time I saw this done (and participated in the doing of it) I thought it was cool if not a bit wild (the Torah seemed to be naked and vulnerable, all spread out like that), but this year I felt a bit bored listening to the rather straightforward summaries of the chapters. Why not do it in limerick or haiku form? I might have to make that suggestion and, if accepted, I might have to create the limericks. Could be a fun project.

Once we'd symbolically read the entire Torah, it was rolled back up and, with other scrolls, paraded around the synagogue. Each parade is called a hakafa, and each hakafa was in honor of a certain group of people - e.g. board members, people who regularly read Torah on Saturdays, new members, etc.. And at some point the hakafot made their way outside and people were dancing on the sidewalk, accompanied by a lively klezmer band.

Like last year, I wasn't able to get into the dancing, and I didn't make myself try. It was one of those moments - and I have many of them - where I feel a distance from exuberant ritual, or I feel a need to set myself apart from everyone else. I hung back at the top of the steps of our synagogue, watching the action below and munching on some m&m's. At times like this I seem to retreat into an anthropologist persona, someone who is curious about and appreciates what is going on, but who isn't going to shed their reserve and jump into the fray.

After the seventh hakafa, we returned to the sanctuary and the service became more structured and formal. The rabbi called up three aliyot (an aliya is when someone is asked to come to the front of the sanctuary and recite the blessings before/after reading the Torah), starting with people who are descendants of the Cohanim, or priestly class of Jews, followed by an aliya for the Levites and then Israelites. I am the daughter of a cohen, through my father's side. In more traditional Jewish communities female offspring of cohanim don't receive any special privileges or perks, a fact which used to enrage my ego and (unjustified) sense of superiority when I was growing up. So, there I was, feeling disconnected from the festivities yet being invited to bless the Torah as a bat-cohen (daugher of a cohen) in a community that doesn't particularly care about such distinctions anyway. I hesitated a few seconds before joining the others at the front of the room, for the recognition I had always wanted. A few people held up a tallis (prayer shawl) over our heads as we recited the blessing, reading it from a laminated card with large print. The tall fellow next to me said, "Cohanim don't need the card," implying that as descendants of priests we should have memorized the prayers a long time ago.

Oy.

Returning to my seat, a few people shook my hand and uttered, "Yasher Ko-ach" (may your strength be firm), which is what you say to people who have participated in the synagogue service. (here's an interesting explanation of why we say these words). I felt strange accepting their salutations and wishes. My reluctant participation had not required any effort or skill or preparation.

I was, however, quite eager to try a homemade etrog (citron) liqueur that was being passed around in opaque shot glasses. The creator had grated the rind of three etrogim and steeped them in a few cups of vodka for several days before adding yet more vodka and sugar. The result was refreshing and delicious. Perhaps it could become a new holiday tradition, or a new holiday: Simchat vodka, anyone?

Integration

Somewhat dissatisfied by my Sukkot experience of shaking the lulav in a not very mindful fashion, I went online to read more about the meaning of the plants and fruit that form the core of this ritual.

The lulav (palm branch) is flanked on either side by branches of myrtle and willow. According to one rabbinic video on the subject, myrtle leaves are shaped like eyes, willow leaves like mouths, and the lulav itself is like a spine, straight but flexible. The etrog (citron) represents the heart. We can choose to use each of these parts of ourselves for goodness....or not. Does our heart lust after things and people, or do we open our hearts to other people? Do we choose to see the good in others or to use our eyes to find flaws? And, most importantly, can we integrate these parts of ourselves so that we're acting as a whole individual, not a person who feels one thing yet says and does another. Had I been more aware of the symbolism at the time that I joined the etrog to the lulav and waved them in six directions, I might have felt more open to the experience and to imbuing it with my own meaning.

Integration is something for which I strive. In a popular culture that encourages us to act from our heads, not our hearts, that appeals to our material lusts rather than spiritual needs, and that treats the body as an entity distinct from mind and soul, it is very easy to disconnect from one's true self, to dis-integrate. I don't believe that is an exaggeration or overstatement - people can and do fall apart when they can no longer hear what their heart and soul are trying to telling them. Yoga is a means by which I am trying to link myself back together, to bring all the seemingly disparate pieces of myself into a coherent whole and to learn to act from a place that is located between my crotch and my clavicle, not above my neck. For decades I gave my head veto power over what the rest of me wanted to do, and it's about time that my decision making authority be transferred to a more appropriate place: my heart. But first I need to flex my heart muscles some more, because after years of being ignored it has atrophied somewhat and isn't always in a position to override my highly trained brain.

One of my main heart-head struggles has had to do with my level of observance of Judaism. My heart is increasingly inclined to observe the Sabbath in some fashion, not necessarily strictly adhering to Jewish law but also not doing things that explicitly violate the Sabbath, like working. Having had a retail business for the last few years which relied primarily on weekend, and especially Saturdays, for selling, I've found myself with a conundrum on my hands, especially with the holiday sales season approaching. In American culture, Saturday is a much busier shopping day than Sunday.

Yesterday I decided to do an event at my studio, but started it late enough so that I could attend Torah study at my synagogue and stay for the shacharit (morning) service, one of my favorites. But leaving synagogue mid-way through the morning felt unsatisfying, and the fact that I didn't open my studio until 12pm meant that fewer people came. Both experiences were compromised.

And I was somewhat bewildered, in an amused way, by the fact that I (presumably a single individual) had had such a diverse day yesterday, beginning with the study of the Book of Ecclesiastes ("Vanity of Vanities, All is Vanity!"), followed by the intense chanting of morning prayers, to the sale of my jewelry (in which I felt Ecclesiastes' sense of futility), to attendance at a highly frivolous event celebrating marshmallow Fluff, during which a college friend treated me to chocolate ice cream with Fluff, boosting my blood sugar levels to heights not recently experienced, and ending with an outing with a new friend to hear the band Sol y Canto, whose lead singer also attended my college, perform.

I got home close to midnight and all of us - the studier of Torah, the chanter of prayer, the businesswoman, the friend, the Fluff-lusting inner child and my Latina persona - went to bed.

Insecurity

At Sukkot services today, the man who gave the d'var Torah (a brief explanation of the weekly Torah portion) spoke of how we can interpret this holiday as being about insecurity and security. Sukkot celebrates the harvest, the gathering of food from the fields, actions that procure sustenance and security for the community. But we are also commanded to sit and dine in the sukkah, or booth, which has only three sides and only branches for a roof, exposing the occupants to the elements, to insecurity. And, most importantly, we are to be joyful!

So often in life we tell ourselves that we'll be happy or celebrate once we've found security, in whatever form we tell ourselves security exists....when we've completed a large project, receive a promotion or a new job, bought a house or found a place to live, or otherwise have our various ducks lined up in an impeccable row. Yet we can align our ducks perfectly, and even smooth their feathers and shine their beaks, only to have a great wind blow (or a hunter come along) and destroy some or all of our efforts. And if we weren't experiencing joy while attempting to arrange our circumstances to our liking, then when are we to experience it?

I am at a point in my existence where I am keenly, make that painfully, aware of my tendency to figuratively, and often literally, hold my breath and not be able to enjoy life in its current configuration. Yes, I can make decisions and choices and put things in motion, but how they turn out is not 100% up to me. Intellectually, I know that each day really is a cause for celebration - not necessarily in the form of a black tie party with a mariachi band - but a chance to feel good simply about being alive, or even some small aspects of being alive. Plenty of people I know no longer are.

And yet....it is difficult for me to rejoice in my highly imperfect life, despite a growing pile of evidence from my own experience that pleasant surprises or turn of events typically appear when I am not looking for or expecting them, when I have let go of whatever urgency I had attached to the particular outcome, when I have stopped being preoccupied. For a (recovering) Type A personality and skeptic, this lesson has been slow to percolate through my consciousness, which seems to be protected by a very thick layer of nearly impermeable ego.

At synagogue we all had a chance to wave (and shake) the lulav (palm branch) and etrog (citron) in all four directions as well as up in the air and down towards the earth. I couldn't help but remember Palm Sunday in Jerusalem, where I toured the Christian Quarter of the Old City and tried to surreptitiously snap pictures of monks of all denominations toting palm branches in what appeared to be an arcane ritual. Our guide told us that it was possible that Jesus had entered Jerusalem around sukkot, when Jews would have been parading around with their lulavim, and that later Christians might have appropriated this part of Jewish ritual to mark his arrival to the holy city.

Lulav and etrog in my hands, I was relieved that no snarky photographers were lurking in the corners of my synagogue, waiting to catch us in the act of praising God with objects that bear some resemblance to reproductive organs. I didn't quite connect to the ritual at the time, but perhaps I can retroactively attach meaning to my actions, a way of thanking God for all the reminders I've been given to be at ease and joyful, even when, or especially when, I don't know what is coming.

Hallelujah!

Irony

On Sunday, following the Yom Kippur retreat, I ate a quick brunch at Elat Chayyim and quickly said my goodbyes so I could get back to Brookline in time to attend a brit milah, ritual circumcision, of a friend's newborn boy. Back in August I had participated in a moving ceremony at the couple's home to prepare them for the arrival of their child.

The ritual circumciser, in this case, was a woman, or mohelet. Her duties included not only performing the cut but also leading the assembled well wishers in blessings and in saying a few words, words which I recognized immediately from my younger nephew's bris nearly five years ago.

The following is not the precise language used, but the boilerplate brit blessing goes something like, "May he enter into Torah, into marriage (l'chuppah - the wedding canopy), and into good deeds....." At my nephew's ceremony, the first I had ever attended, I felt that I was witness to a very powerful tribal ritual, one that evoked marvel and revulsion. It was a bit of a miracle that my younger brother had, despite a previously rocky relationship with Judaism, chosen to continue the ancient Jewish practice of the brit with his first born son. But I was taken aback by the fact that expectations of marriage were being publicly heaped on a helpless eight day old baby and that everyone thought that this was perfectly acceptable.

What if the child chooses not to marry, is homosexual (the implication in the ancient words is that the boy will marry a female), or otherwise finds that his path to fulfillment lies outside mainstream Jewish practice? For some children these blessings can turn into curses, expectations that cannot be or are not met, sending them running into the open arm(chair)s of therapists.

Our mohelet was simply doing her job, repeating the words and prayers that have been uttered for millennia, but I wonder if she was aware that this tiny boy's parents had not yet stood under the chuppah themselves?

Immersion, Idolatry

I spent Yom Kippur at Elat Chayyim, a Jewish spiritual retreat center in the Berkshires. But the sentence I just wrote is casually inaccurate. More precisely, Elat Chayyim is the only Jewish spiritual retreat center anywhere in the world, and it happens to be in the Berkshires. It used to be in the Catskills and moved a year ago to Connecticut, shaving an hour off of my round trip journey. My first visit to Elat Chayyim was in December 2003, about seven months after my father passed away. Lost and grieving, I went for a seven-day silent meditation retreat, hoping that something would shift as a result. It was a revelation that Jewish practice and contemporary spirituality could be married in such a meaningful, practical and profound way, creating my most authentic experience of prayer yet. Each year since I've returned two or three times to nurture my soul and refresh my spirit. In many ways, Elat Chayyim is home, a place where my heart dares to open.

Yom Kippur is the most solemn and sacred holiday of the Jewish calendar, one in which we don white clothes and refrain from wearing leather, eating, drinking and bathing, as if we are rehearsing our own deaths. It is a day I take seriously, preferring to spend most of it in prayer or silent contemplation, without engaging in superficial conversation or driving my car back and forth to a crowded synagogue. Elat Chayyim, which attracts spiritual seekers and those disgruntled with traditional high holiday services, is - for me - a wonderful place for such an immersive experience. The simple wood cabins, clean mountain air and inclusive atmosphere all conspire to help one focus inside and forget worldly cares.

Yom Kippur is also about release: releasing ourselves from vows or, in modern parlance, commitments that no longer serve us or that we can no longer honor in a healthy way, allowing us to begin the new year with a clean slate. It is also an opportunity to unburden ourselves of unproductive habits and emotions.

To facilitate this release, on the eve of Yom Kippur we immerse ourselves unclothed and unadorned in the mikveh, the ritual bath which, in the case of Elat Chayyim, is a beautiful pond surrounded by pine trees and hiking trails. The women's mikveh took place late Friday afternoon, a ritual that was presided over by Rabbi Jill Hammer, a young woman with a strong mind and a delicate build.

She asked that we pick a mikveh buddy, someone to whom we'd confide what our imminent immersion would release us from, someone who would witness our immersion. I don't remember the name of my partner, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, but when I told her that I wanted my immersion to help release old anger, she mentioned that she'd just attended a seminar with an orthodox rabbi who likened persistent anger as a form of idolatry, a way of keeping oneself in the center of things, raised up on a pedestal.

Idolatry?!

From practically the day I started Hebrew school, as an eight year old, I learned that idol worship was, to put it mildly, a major no-no for our tribe. Taking a hunk of clay and crafting objects that represented other deities was a sure way to provoke God into a destructive frenzy. And if God didn't strike you down personally, a messenger would be sent to do His bidding. But today our idols are not statuary or pieces of pottery. In our materialistic and individualistic culture the idols are more elusive things like perfection, fame, power, peak experiences, wealth and other things which, if focused on excessively, can lead people away from God. The self can be an idol, too.

Idolatry!

I had not viewed my anger in such a stark and profoundly Jewish way before. I was at a loss for words.

And soon I was at a loss for air. It was time to get in the water which, Rabbi Hammer pointed out, was a solvent that would aid us in dissolving our inner schmutz but was also "teeming with life." The pond was a less than tempting shade of brown, and the area near the dock on which we stood, in various stages of undress, swarmed with plants and reeds.

Already naked, I was the second person to jump in. The rabbi went first.

The water at the bottom of the pond was warm and, had I been an amphibian, I would have just stayed right there, curled up in the comfortable current. But I had to come up in order to perform four immersions (one each for body, mind, heart and soul), and when I rose to the much colder surface I was out of breath, spitting out some muddy liquid that had managed to enter my mouth. I started to cough and, strangely, despite my experience as an open water swimmer, my anxiety rose. Perhaps the idea of truly leaving all of my anger in that pond made me more than a little nervous.

What if this ritual succeeded...then what? Would I recognize myself as a person without resentments and grudges?

I wanted to get out of the water and try again, to try to enter the pond in a less jarring and more deliberate way. But there was no going back. I was already naked, wet and shivering. To stay warm I tread water while awaiting further instructions from our rabbi, who was still encouraging the other women to get into the pond. When it was time, my partner observed my four immersions - for each I faced a new direction - and then I witnessed her quartet of dippings, through which she hoped to be able to just "let go" of things.

By this point my relaxed breathing was restored. The gently moving water caressed my bare skin and the late afternoon sun kissed my face as I skinnydipped with God.

It's Never Too Late

An article in today's New York Times, about a middle-aged woman in Sweden who reinvented herself as a bodybuilder, is inspiring me to create a category called "It's Never Too Late" for this blog. While I don't aspire to follow in her footsteps (or biceps or triceps) I do admire her courage to create a life for herself that she genuinely loves, even if the rest of this world hasn't embraced her choice.

More such stories to follow as I find or discover them. Feel free to bring such stories to my attention.

Ironic, Illegal, Icy

I am sitting at my desk, which I've situated beneath the 42"-square skylight that attracted me to this apartment, contemplating the irony of my housing choice.

One reason I am renting is to take a breather from the responsibilities - real and imagined - of owning a property, especially after having fixed up and maintained a three family dwelling for more years than I expected. I decided to rent in order to relax, in order to not feel the weight of decisions that come about with ownership, in order to not feel my internal pressure to create a perfectly decorated space, in order to not be in charge of contractors.

I rented this place after taking a very quick look at it to ascertain: Did I like the layout? Does it get enough light? Was it in good condition? Did I like the location? Did I get a good feeling about the landlord? Was the rent appropriate?

Why Yes to all! That's why I am here.

What I failed to notice (in addition to not seeing the paint colors!) was that neither the bedroom, the bathroom nor the kitchen have a heat source. Of course, on a hot day in the middle of August, verifying the existence and whereabouts of radiators was not my top priority when checking out this place. It wouldn't occur to most people that this man - a real estate lawyer, developer and landlord - would even show a place that lacked a heated bedroom. Having rented out apartments before, I know that the lack of radiators in such key places is, shall we say, a bit illegal. I also know that getting heat into converted third floors can be a challenge.

I happen to like this apartment and the owner, so I am not going to raise a huge fuss. At least not yet. But, rather than experiencing a carefree rental I've been sending the owner e-mails with instructions for what his handyman needs to do to begin to resolve the situation. I've asked that he insulate the hot water pipes that run, through my stairwell, to this apartment so that I am not paying for heat to disappear before it's made the arduous climb from the basement to the two radiators that do exist up here (in the living room and in the entry hall). And I've asked that an electrician install a heat lamp in the bathroom. Freezing on the toilet in the morning is an adventure when camping, but inexcusable at home. The landlord has indicated that he'll send someone over to take care of these things. Electrician #1 did not contact me so now I am waiting for someone else.

For now, that should satisfy, although it still leaves me in a position of dealing with contractors, a position I hoped to avoid by renting. And I'd like to take some more time to develop a strategy for addressing the lack of heat in my bedroom. I'm not interested in raising hell over it, but I might be willing to not notify the authorities in exchange for, say, a rent reduction that would cover the cost of keeping an electric space heater. Yes, in this case I would not refuse hush money. At the moment I am leaning towards being pragmatic rather than self-righteously pointing fingers. I will see how I feel (assuming I haven't gone numb) when the outdoor temps get really icy.

Something to contemplate.

Ignorance is Bliss

Last night I attended a meeting in downtown Boston, a place notoriously difficult to find street parking. The gathering was of a group that discusses and practices the "Law of Attraction", which basically says that your thoughts, beliefs and feelings create your experience of life. For example, if you believe that the world is a hostile place, you will likely focus on the hostility you notice and/or behave in a hostile way, thus reinforcing your belief (we all want to be "right"!). If you believe that the world is a kind place, you will probably seek out people and experiences that confirm that belief. Part of it is a question of what you're choosing to focus on, and part of it has to do with the energy you emanate (are you a contented person who generates good vibes? or an angry person who sends off nasty, "get out of my way" vibes?). You get the idea - it is simple to understand and can be complex to implement, especially if one is trapped in negative emotional states. One of the things discussed at this event was ways to shift into more positive states of being.

Anyway, presumably each of the 50+ people who attended this event wanted to attract a street parking spot.

The meeting was at 7pm, and I had planned to leave shortly after 6pm to ensure that I would have enough time to attract a parking space. But extensive wardrobe deliberations (do I wear my red shoes or blue shoes? and what would match them?) delayed me and I didn't get out the door until 6:20 p.m. Traffic was thick as sludge near the turnpike entrance/exit, a sluggish rainsoaked mass of "out of service" buses and cars, and as the clock ticked I feared that I would be late.

But the clogging cleared and I found myself zipping down the Turnpike towards Boston, grateful that I was not heading in the other direction. Within a few minutes I had arrived at my destination. No sweat.

It was now 6:46 p.m.

Now I had to find a parking spot. Cruising down the street, I noticed a grey SUV owner get into his vehicle. I hovered, waiting for him to pull out. Thrilled, and perhaps feeling a little too self-satisfied for my own good, I snagged the metered space and sauntered over to the meeting. Of course I had to tell everyone about my amazing manifestation, that I had found a parking spot on the same street.

At the end of the meeting as I was thanking the host, and sharing with him my parking triumph, he mentioned that, in his part of town, meters require feeding until 8 p.m.

Oops.

That was a detail I had overlooked, assuming that 6p.m. was the cut off time, as it is in many parts of the greater Boston area. I mentally prepared myself to receive a whopper of a parking ticket. But, by this point of the evening I was in a good mood and wasn't going to let mere money ruin the bliss I had experienced at 6:48 p.m. when I had effortlessly pulled into my space.

The fine was $25.

P.S. To end the suspense....I know you are all dying to know..I went with the blue shoes and a turquoise silk shirt. Yes, I also wore pants.

Intoxicating

I hate sitting in traffic. I hate driving in traffic. But each of the 95 minutes I spent crawling up Route 95 on Friday night during "rush" hour was well worth it for the reward that awaited me. I decided to make a pilgrimage to Topsfield to attend an evening of Danskinetics with live African drumming, followed by a wine tasting.

Danskinetics was invented at Kripalu and it is a combination of yoga and dance that, I find, is very transformative and freeing, providing a natural high. I first tried it at Kripalu a few years ago, was amazed by its power to generate blissful feelings in a very short time, and then attended a few classes in the Boston area. Sadly, this instructor moved to Ohio, leaving behind a great void. The next closest teacher is in Wakefield; I receive notifications of her classes, but they are far enough away to be discouraging, especially since she holds them on Friday evenings, normally when I attend synagogue.

But I was intrigued by this event she was hosting, a combination of live drumming by Mamadou and a chance to sample local wines at Alfalfa Farm. And after a week of moving, unpacking, sorting and organizing, my body was begging to shake itself out. Synagogue could wait. Wanting to arrive on time, I gave myself 90 minutes to travel 29 miles, a ride that Mapquest estimates at taking just 41 minutes. As the traffic stalled and the clock ticked, I began to despair of making it by 6:30pm. Somehow, the logjam broke at around 6:20pm, and I sped to my exit, arriving at the farm just a few minutes late but before the dancing had begun.

The drummers started gently as we warmed up but quickly picked up the tempo, enveloping the group (50+ people, with some men even!) with a rousing and mood altering rhythm. Within minutes my formerly aching and tight limbs and torso were jumping, stomping, wriggling and doing things I had no idea they knew how to do, at a speed that surprised me.

Intoxicating.

The gaz guzzling trek to Topsfield was worth that one dance. And that was just the first 15 minutes. As the temperature in the room climbed my tempo cooled a bit, but not my enthusiasm. In each subsequent set, the music began innocuously enough, a gentle drumming to get us swaying, then shifted into high gear. Some of us hooted and screamed as we jumped around, releasing the week's frustrations.

After such a catharsis, the wine seemed less appealing. I did try several varieties (Merlot, Marechal Foch, Blueberry and Aurore), and helped myself to the accompanying cheeses, but their flavors were not nearly as intense and intoxicating as the dancing.

Inconnu

Newtonville, my new 'hood, is similar to my former stomping grounds in a number of ways. They both have a commuter rail station, a UPS Store, a cluster of bakery cafes and a bunch of banks, all within close range of my apartment. They also have a Shaw's Supermarket in common.

But the Newtonville Shaw's, a hulking windowless block of concrete, has always made me anxious because it perches over the Massachusetts Turnpike. If it didn't have a brightly lit orange sign affixed to its side, one could understandably believe it to be a detention center for suspected terrorists. Driving underneath it all these years, I hold my breath and say a quick prayer in the hopes that it won't collapse in the split second that I pass below it.

So far, so good.

But now, if I want to walk just a few blocks to a supermarket, Shaw's is it. I will either have to get over my fear that it might plunge to the turnpike while I am in it, splattering me and its entire juice section onto the pavement, or go to another place (not such a bad idea, since Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are also nearby).

I bravely entered Shaw's the other day, in search of the most basics of basics: toilet paper, laundry detergent and seltzer. Wandering through the aisles, which were differently configured from the Porter Square supermarket, I managed to pick up a few more things. When my carriage appeared to contain about as much as I could reasonably carry back to my place, I went to the checkout counter. The clerk tallied my purchases and I asked for paper bags with handles. This was all quite unremarkable, but quickly I began to feel like an inconnu, a real outsider.

Before I knew what was happening, the bagger had removed my shopping cart, placed half my purchases in a plastic bin and put the bin on a conveyor belt.

"Um, where did my groceries go?" I asked.

At this point he was bagging the rest.

"Can't I just take these with me?" I demanded, pointing to the bags that were still within reach. "I walked here."

But the bagger was on auto pilot and put them in a bin, handing me two numbers that corresponded to the containers.

"Where do I pick these up?" I sighed.

"Go downstairs, to the left and under the building," the clerk said.

Numbers in hand, I scampered after my groceries, entering a tunnel where SUV after SUV lined up to be loaded with goodies by the Shaw's employees. The customers didn't even have to leave their vehicles. My bins trundled toward me, the lone pedestrian shopper, and I scooped up the bags, retreating as quickly as I could from the dark and exhaust filled underbelly of Shaw's.

I am curious about the reaction I'll get when I go next time and ask them to load my groceries into a backpack.