Ice Cream from a Truck!

A red ice cream truck makes its daily rounds through West Newton, its telltale jingle alerting anyone who is home and craving a cold treat that help is on its way. This truck has a low profile, like a small pickup, in contrast to the large white ice cream vans that strategically station themselves at various hot spots (such as the parking lot at Walden Pond). The driver's side has white lettering, and I believe it said "_______ Farm". I wish I could remember whose farm was mentioned, but in my haste I wasn't focusing. After hearing the truck circulating for weeks, yesterday I decided to give into my urge for ice cream and I ran outside in the hopes of getting the driver's attention before he had moved too far down the street.


Because it was an unusual truck with So-and-So's Farm inscribed on the side, I had a flashing fantasy that the driver was carrying a haul of premium ice cream flavors that he would carefully scoop into a cone and present to me with a fluorish.


"What do you have?" I asked eagerly, my fantasy still intact.

"Oh, the usual," he said, gesturing to the far side of the truck which was pasted with labels of all the usual ice cream truck offerings: Hood ice cream sandwiches, creamsicles and assorted ice cream configurations (with flavored centers and crunchy objects on the surface) on sticks.

My bubble thus burst, I had to make a selection. Fast. I was the only customer he had lured outdoors and I didn't want to make the man linger all that long while I mulled over a purchase that turned out to be less than $2. I hoped he was getting a decent wage, rather than relying on commissions.

I chose the so-called Sports Bar, a rectangular block of ice cream covered with a thin but rich chocolate coating.

It was delicious, all the more so because it came from a truck.

Iced Raspberry Mochaccino

As far as "i" words go, "iced" is pretty generic, if not completely lame, but it was prominent in my consciousness this past weekend during a very successful, and very hot, folk festival where I was selling my jewelry.

A large coffee establishment, whose name I will not mention but which you can probably guess, and which normally I do not patronize (favoring instead independently owned cafes), had a van at this festival, filled with college-aged people who were making free samples of iced raspberry mochaccinos. These came in little cups, which one young lady filled with the chilled chocolatey coffee liquid before passing them to her colleague who topped them with a squirt whipped cream, followed by a squiggle of raspberry sauce. To complete the preparation, a short green straw was inserted into the cup.

On Saturday, the husband of one of my fellow artists made a run to the van and returned with handfuls of these little caffeinated delights. I had barely slept the night before (not because of pre-show nerves, but because my body goes a bit berserk at certain times of the moon cycle), and this wee cup of colorful cold creamy sweetness gave me the jolt I needed to stay attentive to my many customers. My neighbor at the show shuns caffeine (wise woman!) and offered me hers, so I enjoyed a double portion.

On Sunday, shortly after 12pm, I abandoned my booth and dashed over to the aforementioned van and asked if I could get several samples for the artists nearby.

"Sure, how many do you want?" a young lady asked me.

"How about a tray of them?" I suggested.

"No problem!"

She and her colleague got to work, and within minutes produced a tray of seven mini mochaccinos, which decorated with their straws looked like caffeinated cocktails. Off I went, navigating through the crowds to return to the art festival, where I distributed the loot.

Aah!

Irritation

I am looking for a place to live.

I hate looking for a place to live.

I don't hate looking at places, I hate dealing with so-called real estate "professionals".

They advertise an apartment. It looks appealing. I call to inquire about that particular apartment.

"So, what are you looking for?" they ask, wanting to know the neighborhood or town I want to live in, the number of bedrooms, the rent I am willing to pay.

"I am looking for information on the apartment you advertised," I reply, trying to keep my irritation in check. "Is it still available?"

"Can you tell me what you are looking for?" they persist.

"I am looking for something that matches the description of the apartment you advertised," I seethe.

We are at a standoff.

A friend has loaned me a tape about "going with the flow", and clearly I am not doing that with these rental agents, whose help I need unless I can find someone to rent from directly. I hate the bait and switch tactics they use, advertising one apartment only to show you others, and the fact that many apartments are listed by several agencies, each employing a different highly creative writer to describe these places, making it hard to figure out what you've already seen. For example, I was shown an absolute cave of a 1-bedroom apartment on a ground floor of a brownstone on Beacon Street, across the street from my synagogue. The location, location, location was perfect, perfect, perfect, but the unit itself was dark and smelly with paint chips dangling precariously from the living room ceiling. A few days later I saw another ad for the same place touting its "retro screen door" (e.g. piece of crap on hinges that needs to be replaced!). I have to admit, part of me admired the genius of the 20-something year old rental agent who coined that phrase; at least this person was thinking outside the box and possibly having some fun.

My irritation occasionally extends to myself for forgetting about the "art" of renting and selling real estate, of which I've done both, and how you can't believe anything that you read about a piece of property. Except, of course, that everything I ever wrote about the apartments I used to rent, and then sold, was accurate, and my naive self wants to believe what it reads.

But my irritation turns to wrath when I encounter incompetent real estate agents, grown ups - not recent college graduates - who have licenses and, me thinks, are supposed to know most things about the properties they are listing and showing. Earlier today I drove over to Brookline to check out a non-astronomically priced 1-br condominium, just to see. The agent who hosted the open house was very attractive and pleasant yet wasn't able to tell me what similar apartments in that building rent for. Considering that most of the units in the association are rented out, I figured she might have done her homework. But she, and many other agents who do open houses, are like gameshow hosts and hostesses who look pretty while pointing out the features of the property or giving suggestions on how to renovate it, as if you'll have extra money on hand after closing. If you want the facts, you have to follow up with a phone call, during which time they'll ask you what you are looking for......

Instant Equilibrium

I am not the same person each day.

Some days I feel open and expansive, filled with optimistic confidence about life in general and my life in particular. And other days I feel constricted and small, convinced that my life is permanently stuck in a tiny hole with no escape possible, that how I've conducted my life until this point has simply been a series of mistakes. And then there are days where I am somewhere in between.

Today I found myself in a highly constricted emotional space, practically unable to breathe and feeling very paralyzed. If you were to ask why, I could list a few plausible sounding reasons for it, but I'm learning that the particulars are largely irrelevant, because the particulars change each time I find myself in such a state. What is more relevant for me is to be able to notice what is happening and to do something to shift out of it. Sometimes taking a few deep breaths works, as might going for a walk.

But today I needed something more, so I put on my bathing suit, packed a towel and went to Walden Pond. It was a hot summer Sunday afternoon and the pond was filled to capacity when I arrived close to 5pm, the parking lot closed until 6pm. But I was determined to swim, so I parked in a small lot on the other side of Route 2, about half a mile away, and walked back towards the pond, following some wooded trails until I was on the far side, away from the main beach. Picnickers and swimmers dotted the shore, and I walked and walked until I could find my own little spot for my towel and shoes.

I entered Walden's healing waters and stood there for several minutes, the water up to my thighs. I had gotten this far, but I was still somewhat paralyzed, unable to simply plunge in, even though I knew it was exactly what I needed to do. Finally, I started to move, and experienced again the miracle of swimming there. Simply being immersed in the water, surrounded by pine trees and under an expansive sky, immediately restores my mental and emotional equilibrium, quieting whatever thoughts had been tormenting me before. As a child, I was not a strong swimmer and I hated the opaque water of ponds and lakes. I never would have thought that one day I'd seek refuge smack in the middle of a body of open water.

Infinite Possibilities

Infinite Possibilities is the title of a set of CDs I listen to occasionally, to help reprogram some of the buggy software that runs between my ears, replacing ingrained thought patterns with something new. The basic message of the entire series is, "Thoughts become things. Think the good ones."

I live in an urban area where parking can be tough to find and it is something that many people complain about. Worse, many people will curb their plans out of the belief that finding a parking spot will be a hassle, if not altogether impossible, so they decide to stay home or do something less tantalizing, but where parking is ample. For awhile I fell for this line of thought, and often talked myself out of going to certain places during peak travel times, but these CDs helped me to challenge my mindset.

I decided to adopt the belief that I would always find a parking spot, that parking was something I would never have to worry about again. Since making that decision, I have always found a spot. Not only that, I frequently find an extremely convenient, if not perfect, spot. About two years ago I had to bring a dozen packages to the post office, and somehow I chose to get in my car around 5pm, just when traffic starts to get particularly thick and people are doing errands at the end of their day. The post office is on a crowded main road, with fewer than half a dozen spaces out front. As I pulled up, someone pulled out, and I found myself smack in front of the post office door.

Today, a similar thing happened. Driving to my yoga class, I noticed a car pulling away from a spot that was practically across the street from the studio. I slid into it the space, turned off the ignition, and took some quarters to feed the meter. But the meter had 34 minutes left on it, which was exactly how much time there was before 6pm, when parking becomes free. I like to believe that serendipitous events such as this one are more than just coincidences, that there is a benevolent force at work on our behalf, if only we can think about it and activate it.

Impatience

This will likely be the first of many posts on this subject. I am trying to cultivate more patience (I seem to have been endowed with a very short supply), but even when I am making what feels like extreme efforts to be patient, I often seem to lose patience long before others do.

Except this morning, when I had an experience that showed that I have actually been able to grow a teeny weeny patience plant in my emotional and spiritual garden.

The scene: I was stopped at the intersection of Mount Auburn Street and Aberdeen Avenue, which has a large sign indicating "Left Turn on Left Arrow Only". I was in my car, patiently waiting for the green arrow that was pointing straight ahead to be joined by the green arrow pointing to the left. A car behind me started to honk, as if I were in the way. Well, I guess I was, but I was also respecting the law. I wished I had a sign that I could project onto my rear windshield that pointed to the words, "Left Turn on Left Arrow Only". Lacking such a sign, and lacking any desire to otherwise confront these people, I sat there and waited while listening to a tape about going with the flow (in this particular case I aligned with the "flow" of the traffic law and decided to wait for the light to change) .

The person behind me quickly ran out of patience, and swerved around and in front of me to make the turn. This driver was followed by two others, who also rather angrily swerved around and in front of me. Perhaps they "saved" 20 seconds out of their day, if that, by taking matters into their own hands. Interestingly, I often find myself the first in line when stopped at that light, and this is the first time that other cars passed me, giving me the opportunity to observe, at least with this particular situation, that my patience plant has established some roots.

Off to yoga, where I will water it some more.

Inversions and Inspiration

In yoga we practice inversions, postures where our bodies move into upside down positions. Inversions include headstands, handstands and shoulder stands, the common theme being that the head is below the heart.

The point of standing on our heads is to invert our view of the world and, with that, to get a handle on how the way we normally view things might not be the most effective or productive. Being upside down does give you an entirely different perspective and headstands in particular leave me with a biochemical high that allows me to view the world through slightly rosier lenses.

But the practice of yoga itself is an inversion, a turning upside down of many of our assumptions about how life works and how to experience fulfillment. On Saturday morning, in an intensely heated studio, our teacher urged us to tune into our bodies and our breath, allowing what we discover inside to inspire us to action in the world, rather than having our behavior be motivated by external stimuli or expectations, as mine as been for much of my life. Another inversion is the idea that if you relax into pain or difficulty, rather than resisting, it will cease to be painful or difficult. "Pain" is the label that our mind gives to strong sensations, and once we identify something as "pain", rather than curiously exploring what the sensation actually feels like (is it a dull thudding? sharp tingles? a burning feeling?), we are likely to intensify that sensation, rather than ease it. Ditto for strong sensations caused by difficult emotions; do we repress our fear and anger or do we go into it, and see what is really going on? Easier said than done, but worth attempting all the same.

This particular instructor, a dark haired man in his 30s, has a strong regional Boston accent and occasionally mixes up words, but he is one of the more inspirational and passionate teachers I've encountered. He is not there to strike a pose, wow us with medically accurate descriptions of our anatomical workings, or lecture about the eight limbs of yogic philosophy while strutting his yoga butt. He's a very real person, with real problems, and he brings all of himself to the class, exhorting us to do the same. It is refreshing to have an instructor like him in the exceedingly cerebral Boston area, where intellectualism and accuracy rule.

Had I taken this person's class six years ago, I probably would have dismissed much of what he had to say because he's a regular guy wearing baggy shorts and a crucifix around his neck, not an impeccably attired and well spoken expert. I'm glad to observe that, since beginning my practice six years ago, my attitudes have inverted enough to allow me to not only appreciate people like him, but to seek them out.

Improv, Weeks 4 & 5

Today was my last improv class, and I was left hungering for more. It seemed as if we, or maybe I, had just gotten into the swing of things when the workshop came to a close.

Last week, in class #4, just three of us showed up, giving us each more time to play, act and express. I "starred" in a comedy skit featuring two people who met shopping at Whole Foods and who were obsessed with reading food labels and with what they put into their bodies. In the course of our improvised dialogue, I invented a gadget called the iCombine, like an iPod for health nuts, which allows you to select images of various foods with a stylus and then the screen shows you if they combine in a nutritionally positive way or not. If anyone reading this likes the idea and can create it, let me know and I'll tell you where to send me my royalty checks.

One of the roles I played today was that of an illegal Mexican migrant worker who speaks no English, and the feds have come to check everyone's papers. My acting partner and I "escaped" being caught and possibly deported by traveling on the underside of a farm truck, hanging onto the axle and onto each for dear life. The coach then asked me to deliver a speech, in English and Spanish (which I speak, albeit rustily), to a crowd of thousands who were gathered to protest recent immigration legislation. I learned afterward, from my classmates and the coach, that the part of the speech I delivered in Spanish was much more emotional and powerful than what I had said in English, that my whole demeanor changed when speaking Espanol. Their remarks confirmed what I've felt ever since learning Spanish, that this language gives me access to parts of myself that seem to be somewhat locked up in English. It is truly odd to contemplate that, in some ways, I am more authentic when not speaking my native tongue, that English limits my expressiveness. Perhaps it is the nature of Spanish itself or that I feel freer using another culture's words, intonations and gestures, as they are not burdened by early conditioning about what can be said, and how. Hopefully I will be able to translate my Spanish self back into English.

To close, some thoughts on how to approach life itself as an improvisation:

1) Say YES! When life "offers" something, just as a partner in improvisation will offer up a scene or a plot, accept the offer. For me, this is a great form of spiritual practice, as my earlier "training" in life has had me saying "maybe", "I'll think about it", or just plain old "no." Somewhere along the way I picked up that being enthusiastic was not in keeping with (my idea of) being sophisticated, or maybe my ego would be unhappy that someone other than me came up with a great idea. It is time to let these notions drop.

2) Make offers! In addition to saying "yes" to another actor's offer, it is important to keep making offers oneself. If not, it is the equivalent of having your tennis partner hit balls over the net while you just stand there, watching them roll away, refusing to swing your racket. Most of us would not play tennis this way, but sometimes we play life this way. And sometimes I feel as if I am the one hitting balls across the net, only to have no one hit them back. It is hard to know if I've chosen the wrong partners or if I'm simply hitting the balls too hard.

3) Take risks! You could say that making an offer is taking a risk, but for people who are comfortable making offers, the risk might be to make new kinds of offers, or to behave in ways that are somewhat "out of character", as it were. Taking risks requires moment-to-moment awareness, stepping into a potentially scary space to try out new behavior. Easier said than done, but I intend to continue to try.

Intestines

Well, as they say, be careful what you wish for. As I requested in my first post, two people sent me suggestions for topics based on the letter "I", and of the half dozen or so ideas that have been offered so far, Intestines is where I am beginning. I am still taking suggestions for topics, but please be kind. Whimsical is preferable to political. For example, don't proffer "Islamist intransigence" (alas, someone has beat you to it).

For those of us who need a quick reminder about this extremely valuable but, under normal circumstances, invisible part of the body, click here for the Wikipedia entry, whence I've "borrowed" this image.

Did you know that in an adult male the small intestine is about 20 feet long? That is a decent distance for digested food to travel on part of its journey out of the body and into the porcelain goddess, or into a hole in the ground, and I can imagine how easily it could stuck along the way, trapped in tight curves, if it isn't being pushed along by a current of water or other fluid (I presume beer might work, too). Having written that I think I have just convinced myself to get another drink....of lemon seltzer; excuse me for a minute!

Aah. Much better.

Someone I know recently had a colonscopy, and not just a run of the mill colonscopy. This person had also agreed to participate in a study of a new pre-colonoscopy diet which, if it is found to create more accurate test results, might become part of the protocol for everyone. This was a multi-day procedure to help clean out the intestines, et al, involving a strict regimen of prescribed and specially prepared foods and finally, on the very last day, consuming a gallon of a foul tasting beverage before the exam. This person dutifully followed the plan and the doctor pronounced her sparklingly clean intestines to be incredibly healthy looking; perhaps if there had been a Miss America contest for intestines she would have won, and could have toured the country extolling the benefits of eating green leafy vegetables, perhaps helping to slow the epidemic of obesity and diabetes in this country.

The rest of the time, of course, our intestines are full of well, you know what they are full of. And if they are too full of it, then we become constipated or suffer from irritable bowel syndrome, or just become kvetchy and grouchy.

Of course, if intestines are filled with a mixture of meat, vegetables and spices and then cooked, they are called kishkes, or stuffed derma. It is possible that I once tried this traditional East European Jewish dish although if I did, I have repressed the memory. I do recall eating and enjoying beef tongue when I was a young child, before my brain was developed enough to make the connection between the meat on the stove and the part of my anatomy with the exact same name. Ignorance, apparently, really was bliss.

Intellectual Inanity

The following headline in the New York Times online edition caught my eye: In Economics Departments, a Growing Will to Debate Fundamental Assumptions .

Well, it is about time.

Like my brothers before me, I studied economics, and found that some of the assumptions underlying Microeconomics 101, which forms the foundation of much of the discipline, did not correspond to my experience of how I or others made certain decisions. In microeconomics, people are assumed to be "rational" agents, always making decisions to maximize their welfare.

But unless you are a cold blooded, emotionally disconnected and hyper analytical person, you behave like a human, which is not particularly rational. Not to mention that each person's idea of "welfare", and what is in their best interest, is highly subjective and varied. That is what makes the world an interesting place in which to live, each of us perched on his/her quirky "indifference curve". On several occasions, the specifics of which elude me here, I was gently chastised by certain family members for having committed the misdemeanor of not behaving or thinking "rationally".

Has anyone ever noticed that the first three letters of this word spell "rat"? And with the exception of wanting to have the cooking skills of the protagonist in the film Ratatouille, I have no interest in behaving like a rodent. Sometimes my heart, soul and psyche long for things that my overeducated and logical brain fails to comprehend. I am learning that if my "rational" side is puzzled by what the rest of me is doing, then I am probably on the right track.

But back to this article. It begins: For many economists, questioning free-market orthodoxy is akin to expressing a belief in intelligent design at a Darwin convention: Those who doubt the naturally beneficial workings of the market are considered either deluded or crazy.

Sadly, the brainwashing happens early in the academic training, long before a Ph.D. is bestowed (if anyone who doesn't know me is reading this, I don't have one). And if you don't swallow the orthodoxy hook, line and sinker, you are pretty much out of luck. Several of my former economics professors told me - back in the 1990s - that they would not become economists if they had to make that choice again, and perhaps I am still a bit bitter or disappointed that, due to the rigidity of thought and belief in that profession, I didn't feel particularly at home there (not to mention that in that field, anyone without a Ph.D. is, shall we say, barely acknowledged).

What is frightening is the profession, which prides itself on the use of mathematical models and rigorous analyses to distinguish itself from (and sometimes to look down upon) other social sciences, is increasingly divorced from the world it is supposedly trying to understand and affect.

I hope that the New York Times article is correct, that things really are starting to change, that more economists will be climbing down from their inane ivory towers to see what life on earth is really like.

Dorchester Dim Sum

Here I am, just a few postings into this blog, and you've noticed that I've already bent my rule about beginning postings with the letter "I". We do make exceptions for alliteration. Might as well get that out of the way.

Eating dim sum is always an adventure, especially if one has dietary restrictions. At this particular restaurant in Dorchester, a relentless procession of middle aged Chinese women, each with a different cart, approached the table I was sharing with a friend almost seconds after we sat down. The contents of these carts remained obscure - most contained steaming meat and seafood which remained hidden inside opaque white buns or dumplings.

I had to speak fast, before these eager ladies deposited plates and steamers of "je ne sais quoi" onto our table.

"I don't eat pork," I said, as clearly as possible.

Sure enough, all Cart Lady #1 heard or understood was "pork", and began to lift the lids of all of the pork dishes in the cart, about 75% of the total. Depending on your perspective, the prevalence of pork either made our choices that much easier or deprived us of a good portion of the menu.

We began with a seaweed salad, which my friend spotted on the cart's second shelf, hanging out alongside some cubed jello. Then we added a crispy concoction of fried potatoes and shrimp. The cart lady stamped our bill but hung around, expecting us to pile on some more.

"That's it for now," my friend said, receiving a blank look in return. "Come back in ten minutes," she added, pointing to her wrist to indicate a watch. The cart lady shrugged her shoulders to let us know that she didn't understand.

Before we had taken too many bites, Cart Lady #2 had pulled up, tempting us with her fragrant wares. The dumplings looked divine, but when we asked her what was in them, most had pork.

"Do you have any with vegetables?" I asked.

She shook her head no.

"Do you have any with chicken?" my friend inquired.

Rummaging through the cart, Lady #2 found a steamer of fluffy white buns filled with chicken. I was dubious, but for the sake of variety we ordered them. The dough was on the sweet side, and somewhat sticky, and the piece of poultry inside was small and nastyish, not offal but not really meat, either. We didn't finish those. We also tried shrimp that came wrapped in silky white coverings that were the shape, but not the texture, of crepes. Lady #2 squirted a dark sauce on them after placing them on our table.

Stamp, stamp. Our bill, unintelligible to me, was now decorated with two more colored dots.

I decided that - for me, at least - dumplings in translucent pouches were a better bet. From Cart Lady #3 we ordered a basket of shrimp dumplings (the beef ones looked iffy) and my friend wanted to get some buns with bean paste (I didn't touch those).

At that point we decided to call it quits on the ordering. It was a hot day and we went easy on our bellies, leaving behind an orphaned white chicken bun and a white bun with bean paste.

The waiter took our stamped sheet and returned with a bill we could understand.

The sum for our dim sum? $20.

Insomnia

It is 3:00 a.m.

Usually I sleep through thunder storms, but not this morning apparently. It isn't even all that loud, the rain not all that torrential, so perhaps I can't really fault the weather for rousing me from what must have not been a terribly deep sleep in the first place.

I've had enough experience with insomnia over the years to know that it is best not to fight it, not to curse the wakefulness and my inability to return to slumber, not to imbibe various potions or shots of slivovitz to trick my body and brain into sleep. They say that what you resist persists, and that seems to be very much the case with me and insomnia. Perhaps I began this blog just in time to have something to do while I wait for sleepiness to return.

The rain is a relief from the humid and hot weather that we've had and that we're supposed to get in the next few days, although perhaps the forecast has changed. I don't pay attention to the meteorologists, who in New England are incorrect much more than half of the time, but enough people I know still listen to weather reports and feel compelled to share the bad news ("It's going to be in the 90s next week!") that, like it or not, I am somewhat tuned in. Given the aforementioned inaccuracies, what I'm really tuned into is everyone's feelings (from marvel to annoyance) at the anticipated weather, rather than the forecast itself. Frankly, I'd rather not know what is coming, preferring to keep in my car my New England weather gear - a fleece, a Goretex shell, an umbrella, hat and gloves - so that I'm prepared for whatever ends up happening. As the old adage goes, if you don't like the weather in New England, wait five minutes.

The rain is a relief from the tyranny of summer, the collective expectation that when the weather is hot and sunny, one "should" be outside and enjoying oneself, that it is a shame to "waste" it by being indoors. I do enjoy sunshine and moderately warm temperatures but resent having to treat them as scarce commodities who trump whatever else I might have planned for a particular day. I prefer to think that there will be an abundance of sun and warmth throughout the rest of my life, that I don't need to treat each hot day as if it is my last opportunity to absorb Vitamin D. Maybe this is just sour grapes. Perhaps if I owned a delightful property on Cape Cod or had another summer vacation spot that beckoned when the mercury rose, I might feel very differently, and become one of the good weather tyrants myself.

It is 3:45 a.m. The rain has tapered off. It is gentle and soothing, rather than insistent. I'll imagine it is a lullaby for me.

Improv, Week 2 & 3

This posting will appear before "Improv, Week 1" but should be read afterward.

I hoped Week 2 would be as cathartic and challenging as Week 1, as well as more fun. Instead, the class quickly went from bad to worse. A few people arrived late, which threw off the leader's plan. She had wanted to begin with a circle, to discuss the first class and talk about what we'd do that day. But rather than have us wait, we began with our warmup and then, once the group had assembled, started us on scenes so that we wouldn't waste time.

Perhaps the transition was a bit abrupt, because one of the scenes didn't go well. The two characters became stuck in a circular dialogue, with neither offering new information or a different response to push the plot forward. In reviewing the scene afterward, one of the actors faulted the other (the man) for not responding to her cues. She felt that she had offered a lot in terms of ideas and plot development, but that he hadn't reciprocated. Another student, who had been in the audience, also criticized him for causing the scene to languish and soon the atmosphere in the class deteriorated to a blame game, puncturing the fragile balloon of safety we had started to create the week before.

Our leader intervened, insisting that we own our reactions to what had been a confusing scene rather than pointing fingers. Suddenly, I felt as if we were all children sitting in a sandbox, being chastened by a grownup for having flung dirt in each others' eyes. It was all the more distressing because one of the more vocal critics was a therapist and someone who had enrolled in this workshop before. My inner judge thought she should have known better.

It was time for the next scene. I volunteered and waited for someone to join me in front of the group, but all I saw were frustrated faces. A chill was in the air, and no one wanted to play. The leader asked another person to join me, but this woman became emotional, upset by all the flak that had flown around earlier. The leader asked her to identify the source of her tears and to do a monologue around that. I sat down. My turn would have to wait.

The therapist was then asked to do a scene with the man. She stood up and began by throwing a chair towards him while ranting about their (fictional) marriage. Her rage was real, its intensity not explained by the improvisational scene.

"Out take," called our leader. "What is going on?"

The action stopped. The therapist was able to realize that she was projecting much of her anger at her own (deceased) father onto the gentleman in the class who, in some ways, resembled him. Wisely, and with much more skill than I've seen exhibited by the one group therapist I ever met, our leader asked this woman to do a monologue about her father, rather than dumping her raw emotions on our innocent classmate.

At some point during the class I went from being a participant to a bystander, a witness as several people exposed their emotional wounds. The class was not turning into the fun and spontaneous experience I had expected; au contraire, it was heading into very deep and painful territory. I tried to view the situation positively, being grateful that our leader had the experience and the emotional intelligence to channel people's raw feelings into transformative acts of theater. But I was somewhat angry that the people who were losing control were getting the stage, that the group's energies were being focused on people who were having difficulty with the class format.

Even though I did get to spend some more time on stage, the session depleted and saddened me. I spent much of that afternoon wondering if I would go back the following week.

A few days later the leader called to check in with me to discuss what had happened. I appreciated hearing from her and to have a chance to express myself. The class felt a bit too much like a therapy session, I told her. She assured me that what had happened - an unusual collision of people and their issues - was extraordinary in the decades she has been teaching.

We began Week 3 with a discussion of what had happened in Week 2 and in the phone conversations we had each had with the leader. I hoped that this processing would take just a few minutes, clearing the slate for a fresh attempt at improv, but it turned out that the man in our group was distraught to the point of wanting to leave the class. An older and sensitive gentleman, he simply did not want to spend another minute being the recipient of anyone's latent or blatant hostility towards men, even in fictional scenes. I couldn't blame him. And some of us, it turned out, came to class reluctantly, wanting to fulfill our commitment to the workshop yet not convinced that we'd have any fun in the process. It is a poignant irony that several us were drawn to the class to explore new ways of being and to loosen the shackles of established habits - such as putting duty and the needs of others first - only to have those same habits lead us back.

And so, after spending nearly an hour rehashing and repeating much of what had transpired in the previous week, and each of us letting the man know that we wanted him to stay, we were able to proceed. The group remained intact, but after all the discussion and reassurance I still felt that something very valuable - a sense of possibility? of playfulness? - was lost.

Improv, Week 1

I am 3/5 of the way through a weekly improvisational acting class. A friend recommended it to me more than a year ago, suggesting that it might be an effective way to release and act out some stuck emotions and personal history. After signing up, I received a welcome letter, which among other things said:

"We’re looking forward to creating together in a dynamic and fun improvisation laboratory where everyone has the opportunity to learn, practice, and deepen his or her acting from the moment skills."

I was excited to begin and looking forward to the possibility of transforming some stinky old baggage into a theatrical scene, thereby leaving it in the dustbin of history. The first week we - five students (4 women and 1 man) and the leader (a woman) - dove right in. To begin, we warmed up our bodies and minds to different kinds of music, dancing alone and moving improvisationally with each other. After 30 minutes, I was starting to feel tired and wondered if I could sustain that intensity for the remainder of the three hour class. She then coached each of us in monologues, picking up on our subtle emotional vibrations and encouraging us to move in those directions. When it was my turn to sit on a chair in front of the group, she noticed that my hands were gesturing intensely, generating a lot more energy than the words coming from mouth suggested. Rather than deliver a spoken monologue, she asked me to get up and dance.

Dance?

Alone?

Without music?

With everyone watching?

And this is supposed to be fun?

I stood up but stood still, a split second of hesitation. But then I realized that I had signed up for a challenge and I began to move, trying to express what I had been unable to say aloud and trying to stay with myself, rather than stepping outside myself and becoming, as I often have, a harsh and judgmental critic who stops me in my tracks. After what felt like an eternity of running, leaping and rolling about the room, during which time I made eye contact with no one, she cued me to stop dancing and start speaking. Screaming and yelling, actually. My assignment was to deliver a rant as a teenager, and then throw a tantrum as a four year old, acting out a few scenes from my earlier life and saying things I hadn't had the courage to utter at the time.

The exercise both emptied and liberated me. It had been a highly productive few minutes. I returned to my seat and, not nervously, awaited the group's feedback on my "performance". I don't remember the exact content of what people said, but the general atmosphere was affirming and encouraging. We were there to cheer each other on, not take each other down.

More about "I for an I"

I. Eye. Eyeing. I-ing.

The act of writing, for me, is the act of I-ing, of asserting myself and crystallizing my thoughts, of responding to Hillel's question: "If I am not for myself, who will be for me?" I realize he goes on to ask, "If I am only for myself, what am I?" and finally, "If not now, when?". My intention and hope is to write in such a way that it will not be just about me, but affect and touch others, even if for a brief moment.

Writing also helps me to process feelings and digest experiences. For example, we've all experienced rage, either on the road or in our relationships (and sometimes both at once!), yet many of us were conditioned to suppress these powerful emotions, rather than taught how to express them productively or safely. So my blog title also references Hammurabi's "Eye for an Eye", which for us can evoke barbaric revenge and speak to some of our more primal urges. But from the perspective of that time, Hammurabi's Code was a call for restraint; the idea of limiting punishment to fit the crime was, in fact, rather progressive. While I don't intend to restrain my writing, I will try to entertain a variety of perspectives. I do reserve the right to rant on occasion, the literary equivalent of going for the jugular, or the eyeball, in this case.

Finally, I will also have some fun with the letter "I", which I've articulated countless times when spelling my name over the telephone to customer service and quality assurance representatives...."I as in Ice Cream"..."I as in Igloo"...etc. If you have a word or phrase that begins with "I" that you want me to write about, leave a comment on the blog. I'll be delighted to take you up on the challenge.

Thanks for reading.