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.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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?
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?
Monday, September 24, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
More such stories to follow as I find or discover them. Feel free to bring such stories to my attention.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Insomnia, II
One would think that after a week of intense physical work - painting, moving cartons and containers from an attic to a car and then carrying them up another two flights of stairs (repeat 5 times), culminating in today's mattress move - that I would have fallen fast asleep tonight on my reassembled bed.
Alas.
My body is exhausted beyond belief, my fingers and forearms aching from effort, but my mind is going a mile a minute. So, here I am, finding some solace at the keyboard, hoping to fake out my brain a bit and convince it to slow down enough so that it will let me rest. Luckily, there is a wireless network I can hop onto.
My apartment is conveniently located, within walking distance of a post office, a few grocery stores, thrift shops and a small downtown area with a bakery, UPS Store and some restaurants. All this convenience comes with a price - the house in which my apartment is located is on a busy street, and even at 3:42 a.m. there are still cars speeding by. I might need to stock up on earplugs (perhaps buy stock in earplugs?) if I am going to be comfortable here.
One of my insomnia strategies is to change venues, to try to sleep somewhere other than the place where the insomnia climbed into bed with me....I figure, maybe if I quietly go somewhere else, I will leave it behind. I plopped down on my futon couch and covered myself with a colorful throw that my aunt made for me a few years ago. My relaxation was interrupted by unmistakable snores from one of the two guys who live in the apartment below me, despite the fact that my apartment is carpeted (I hate carpeting, but thought - on the bright side - that it might create a sound barrier). It is a bit odd to be hearing such an intimate sound from someone I've met just once. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "noisy neighbor".
Do I bang on the floor so that he'll turn over and possibly stop?
I am going to go back to bed and ponder that question, hopefully falling asleep in the process.
Alas.
My body is exhausted beyond belief, my fingers and forearms aching from effort, but my mind is going a mile a minute. So, here I am, finding some solace at the keyboard, hoping to fake out my brain a bit and convince it to slow down enough so that it will let me rest. Luckily, there is a wireless network I can hop onto.
My apartment is conveniently located, within walking distance of a post office, a few grocery stores, thrift shops and a small downtown area with a bakery, UPS Store and some restaurants. All this convenience comes with a price - the house in which my apartment is located is on a busy street, and even at 3:42 a.m. there are still cars speeding by. I might need to stock up on earplugs (perhaps buy stock in earplugs?) if I am going to be comfortable here.
One of my insomnia strategies is to change venues, to try to sleep somewhere other than the place where the insomnia climbed into bed with me....I figure, maybe if I quietly go somewhere else, I will leave it behind. I plopped down on my futon couch and covered myself with a colorful throw that my aunt made for me a few years ago. My relaxation was interrupted by unmistakable snores from one of the two guys who live in the apartment below me, despite the fact that my apartment is carpeted (I hate carpeting, but thought - on the bright side - that it might create a sound barrier). It is a bit odd to be hearing such an intimate sound from someone I've met just once. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "noisy neighbor".
Do I bang on the floor so that he'll turn over and possibly stop?
I am going to go back to bed and ponder that question, hopefully falling asleep in the process.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Interiors, II
Tonight is my first official night in my new apartment. I spent an "unofficial" night here on Saturday, sleeping on the futon couch after a friend dropped me off quite late. This evening I will sleep on my bed, albeit unmade, as the mattress cover got rather filthy during its traumatic transition today. Miraculously, a mover and I managed to cajole, squeeze and tug my queen size mattress up two flights of very narrow stairs. Pushing this unwieldy item through the passageway of the staircase, trying to get it to contract enough to make it over just one more step, and then our relief that we actually succeeded in this ludicrous endeavor, brought to mind the birthing process (even though I haven't experienced it personally).
On a lighter note, I present a catalogue of items left in my apartment by the previous tenant, in the order in which I discovered them. Can you figure out which I kept and which I've tossed?
White fan
Ironing board
Iron
Orange vacuum cleaner
Cleaning supplies - many
Comforter, faded and worn
Three frozen chicken entrees (2 Barber Foods, 1 Stouffers)
An extra plastic shower curtain
One stick of salted butter
One bottle of Heinz Ketchup
Clear rectangular glass vase
Starbucks Mug, "Barista" series
Four sheer purple drapes
One sheer white drape
Wooden rolling pin
Red teakettle
Two chenille throw pillows
Toaster oven - working and reasonably clean
Bags of round silver balls from the Christmas Tree Shop
Scented candles
Faux crystal candle holders
1.5 liter bottle of Advanced Listerine, 80% full
Equaline value pack Douche, package of four, three remaining
On a lighter note, I present a catalogue of items left in my apartment by the previous tenant, in the order in which I discovered them. Can you figure out which I kept and which I've tossed?
White fan
Ironing board
Iron
Orange vacuum cleaner
Cleaning supplies - many
Comforter, faded and worn
Three frozen chicken entrees (2 Barber Foods, 1 Stouffers)
An extra plastic shower curtain
One stick of salted butter
One bottle of Heinz Ketchup
Clear rectangular glass vase
Starbucks Mug, "Barista" series
Four sheer purple drapes
One sheer white drape
Wooden rolling pin
Red teakettle
Two chenille throw pillows
Toaster oven - working and reasonably clean
Bags of round silver balls from the Christmas Tree Shop
Scented candles
Faux crystal candle holders
1.5 liter bottle of Advanced Listerine, 80% full
Equaline value pack Douche, package of four, three remaining
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Inventory
I went to Pier 1 Imports today, armed with a list of items I hoped to purchase for my new apartment: Sheer curtain panels; decorative chair covers; a small bench; a coatrack for a wall. I had seen all of these items for sale at Pier 1 in recent years, spotting them during my many, many visits to this colorful emporium.
The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.
Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.
You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.
The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.
The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.
Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.
You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.
The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.
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