Indescribably Delicious

It is difficult to find words to describe the sensation of utter bliss that I experienced a week ago today, just off of Highway 880 in Oakland, California.

I had picked up my yellow Chevy Aveo rental car at Oakland Airport and was tootling along the road, en route to the bed & breakfast where I'd be staying during my nephew's Bar Mitzvah. A hand made sign caught my eye, a white sandwich board with WATERMELONS lettered in bright red, along with painted images of these juicy delights. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and the colors just popped off the sign. I slowed down. Watermelon sounded good, but what would I do with an entire melon?

The tempting WATERMELONS sign was followed by another handpainted sign that read TACOS La Pinata. Instinctively I pulled over, not even bothering to check with my body to see if it was hungry, parking my cheery economy class car between the Johnny-on-the-Spot and the one picnic table that decorated this gravel-topped lot where the TACOS La Pinata van had positioned itself for lunch.

Not only was I in the right place, I was home.

In line were Central American laborers, out for a quick, inexpensive and satisfying meal. I scanned the menu. A single taco was just $1 to $1.50, depending on the filling - grilled chicken, grilled fish, steak, and assorted pork variations. A man ahead of me received his order, a round plate with four tacos carefully arranged on it, garnished by radishes, pickled carrots, jalapenos, and a shoot of spring onion.

Too excited by the food and too exhausted from my flight to properly remember my Spanish, I ordered two chicken tacos in English.

"What do you want on that?" the friendly man in the van asked.

"Con todo!" I declared, my Spanish emerging. I wanted everything on them.

The man preparing the food took his time to create my dos taquitos, increasing the anticipation. In the meantime, I sipped a Coca Cola, my treat when I'm traveling, and watched as a trio of dark haired and coffee skinned workers occupied the shaded part of the picnic table, where I had planned to sit.

I must have been an oddity, a single white woman buying her lunch at a taco van by the side of a busy road, as I attracted some not unfriendly stares. When the food was ready, I decided to sit at the table, but on the sunny side, creating some space between me and my compadres. I nodded in greeting and then dug in.

One bite and I was in heaven. The tacos themselves were flavorful and soft, double layered to absorb the moisture of the filling, succulent chicken covered with chopped onions and cilantro. Two bites and the first taco was a goner. Within minutes I had polished off my plate and sadly realized that I had forgotten to photograph my sumptuous feast, which had set me back a staggering $3.50.

I would just have to order some more.

I approached the man in the van again.

"The tacos are delicious," I said, this time in Spanish, grinning broadly. "I'd like two fish tacos, please."

I was able to restrain myself long enough to take this photograph. Reveling in this second set of savories on a sunsplashed bench, intoxicated by the freshness and flavors of the food, I briefly entertained the thought, "It was worth flying across the country just for this."

(z)It

My eldest nephew became a Bar Mitzvah last weekend, a carefully and lovingly prepared for and anticipated event that drew family and friends from all over the country. The preparations took place on many levels.

There were the Bar Mitzvah boy's preparations over several years, during which time he leyned (learned) with his maternal grandfather, his rabbi and other members of his orthodox congregation to master the Torah reading, the Friday night service and most of the Saturday morning service, not to mention preparing and reciting two speeches (he got a bit of a break - they were both in English).

There were the preparations of the Bar Mitzvah boy's mother, who orchestrated and coordinated and organized a Shabbat dinner at the synagogue for out of town guests, an extended noshing session at their home on Saturday and, on Sunday, as if we hadn't already eaten more than enough, a brunch for out of town guests. Not to mention contacting nearby hotels, reserving blocks of rooms and negotiating the best possible deal. And she hired a photographer to take various permutations of family portraits on Friday afternoon, before the Sabbath began, and on Sunday, during our final food-oriented gathering.

There were the preparations of the out of town relatives: reserving plane tickets, hotel rooms and rental cars and, not trivially, figuring out what to wear and, realizing they had nothing suitable for a summer event at an orthodox synagogue (no short skirts, no sleeveless tops!), hitting the stores in a flummoxed frenzy.

Events like these - important milestones in a beloved family member's life - are a cause for celebration but can also provoke anxiety among the relatives, the vicarious variety as they imagine what it might be like for the Bar Mitzvah boy to complete all of his tasks in front of hundreds of people, or actual anxiety related to the passage of time...how did the last 13 years go by so quickly, and can we remember how we've spent those years?

Among the single women of a certain age attending this event, there was the possibility of anxiety around whether they'd ever marry, raise a child and be able to attend that child's rite of passage. Among the grandparents of the Bar Mitzvah boy, perhaps there was anxiety around whether they would live to see all of their grandchildren become Bar or Bat Mitzvot.

But, interestingly, despite these many possibilities, I detected very little free floating anxiety at this event. My theory is that all the anxiety - of the Bar Mitzvah boy himself, of his family and friends, of his relatives - gathered itself into a tiny but intense ball of pulsating energy and implanted itself squarely on the very Jewish nose of my younger brother (who is a husband, father and uncle), turning itself into an enormous red zit.

I think my younger brother's schnozz was the most appropriate place for this coagulation of collective anxiety to attach itself, since it was going to land on someone. By choosing my brother, the anxiety-filled-zit spared the Bar Mitzvah boy (and all the women in the family) the lifelong disgrace of appearing in the family photos with an unsightly red mound on his face (my nephew has clear porcelain-like skin, and may it stay that way throughout his adolescence and beyond). Moreover, since my younger brother adamantly refused to become Bar Mitzvah when he was at that age, deeply disappointing my parents and wreaking havoc on the life of our family during that time, it seems fitting that, for the weekend of his nephew's big event, he should bear this pulsating pimple on his beak, perhaps as penance for the Bar Mitzvah he never had?

That is my theory, anyway.

Interiors

For the last month or so much of the interior of my head has been filled with musings, concerns, fantasies and doubts about where I'll find myself living.

When I returned from my trip, my main preoccupation was whether I'd stay here or pick up and move somewhere else. A not insignificant part of me wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else, as if the Boston area is just one large toxic waste dump that is poisoning my soul (the truth is more likely that a part of my psyche, a voice whose job is to be sure that I'm not enjoying myself, is poisoning Boston for me). Of course, without a clearly defined "somewhere else" (this voice was not terribly helpful about suggesting another place to live), it made some sense to stay until further clarity emerges.

Having decided to stay here, the next decision was whether to buy or to rent. Having been a homeowner for half a dozen or so years, the thought of paying to live in someone else's space made me wince. "No way, Jose!" said my inner property owner, not wanting to reduce its status to that of a lowly renter.

I began looking online at condominiums for sale. But my heart wasn't really in it, and each day I'd come up with new criteria or a new neighborhood in which to look. Focused I was not. Different scenarios appeared in my head. There was the minimalist scenario of buying a studio or small one bedroom apartment, paring down my belongs even further (last winter I sold, donated or got rid of a ton of my things), and having a tiny stake in the real estate market. There was the maximalist scenario of buying the largest house or condominium I could afford and getting roommates to help pay the mortgage, giving me the possibility of expansion as time goes on. There was the vulture scenario, where I'd descend on a pre-foreclosure sale and, benefitting from another's bad luck, snap up something big for cheap.

These scenarios had a logical appeal but didn't feel right. I don't want to purchase a tiny apartment to live in, and I don't want to take on the responsibility of maintaining a larger property. And there was no single neighborhood that beckoned, that had my name on it. I wanted to feel excited about possibly having my own home and yet the thought of owning something made my stomach clench. And then there is that nagging feeling that, maybe, I really do belong somewhere else, even if I don't yet know where that somewhere else is.

I realized that I might be better off renting, either until I leave (a possibility) or can feel happy about buying here. It could also be the case that the real estate market will soften further, making it a financially wise move for me to wait before locking myself into a property. But that is my analytical brain talking. It's yakked a lot in my life and I'm trying not to listen too much to it anymore.

Somewhat reluctantly, I began looking at rentals in July. After the irritation of working with rental agents, I started to look at apartments rented by owners. If I were going to be paying rent, at the very least I wanted to meet the person who'd be cashing the check. Some of these people were renting in-law apartments in their homes, usually on the top floor (my favorite).

I fell in love with a large-ish studio with sleeping loft in the Victorian home of a Brookline couple. It had some drawbacks - not a full kitchen, the entrance was through the house, parking was a bit like musical chairs - but the view of the Boston skyline and the serenity of the space won me over, as did its location: just a few steps away from my synagogue and less than half a mile from Coolidge Corner.

"I'm interested!" I exclaimed.

They told me to think it over. I told them I really liked it. They chose someone else.

I tried to blunt my disappointment by telling myself that this, too, is for the best.

A woman in Newton showed me her in-law apartment, a basement level space which contained a lot of furniture, including a hideous couch.

"Would the furniture stay?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Why, do you have your own?"

"Yes, I was planning to bring my bed," I said.

She didn't seem very happy about this, nor did she seem willing to empty the single closet down there for my use.

This, too, I told myself, is for the best.

I briefly considered renting a room in someone's apartment for a few months. An acquaintance from my synagogue offered up a room in her condo, then retracted it after deciding that she didn't want to live with my cat after all. Another person at my synagogue put me in touch with her neighbor who rents a room in her JP apartment. The place was extremely well cared for and nicely decorated, to the point that I didn't feel at home. The woman had been there many years and had clearly left her mark. The room itself was small and, as she pointed out, somewhat noisy.

Next.

A voluble woman in Brighton showed me her top floor apartment. The entrance was through her kitschily decorated Victorian house but the apartment itself was spacious, with a full kitchen. A possibility. She told me that she'd be painting it before the next tenant would move in, including adding some color accents to some of the shorter, funky walls under the eaves. My gut contracted - what if I didn't like the colors she chose?

Still, the rent was reasonable and she seemed like a decent person, if I didn't like her taste, so I kept open the possibility of staying there. She reassured me that she and her husband would respect my privacy and that I could come and go without saying a word if that is what I wanted. I told her I'd think about it. Ultimately, I realized that I didn't really want to be traipsing through someone's house to get to my own place.

Back on Craigslist, I posted my own ads indicating that I - a quiet and responsible person with a car and a cat - was looking for an apartment in Newton or Brookline. A surprising number of people responded with apartments in Winthrop, Quincy and Medford. Would I consider those communities? Um, no.

There was a tempting ad for an apartment in someone's home, but with a separate entrance and a private deck overlooking a brook. The photos looked attractive, so I e-mailed and expressed my interest. A day or so later the owner called me. She seemed to know who I was, or had at least heard my name, and told me that the apartment had a drawback that might be a dealbreaker for me. She explained that because the owners have a teenage daughter, they only want a married couple living there or a celibate single, or a single who is willing to not have overnight guests. Feeling uncharacteristically optimistic about my romantic future, I told her that yes, this scenario would be a dealbreaker. I hung up, feeling discouraged.

With the summer coming to a close and the number of apartments dwindling, my anxiety was rising. A few days ago I did a final search on Craigslist and found a listing that was a few days' old for an apartment in a two-family home in Newton. I e-mailed, realizing that it was quite likely that the apartment would already be rented. I received a response from a man whose last name is the same as mine, except with another six letters tacked on. I asked him about the place. He told me to contact the tenant to set up a time to see it. Annoyed but not showing it, I told him I wasn't comfortable doing that, that I wanted him to show it to me.

He agreed.

I was pleasantly surprised by the place, which met many of my criteria: top floor, skylight, dedicated parking spot, non-exorbitant rent, clean and in good condition. Those were enough to outweigh two major demerits - wall-to-wall carpeting in most of the apartment and an electric stove, neither of which I would tolerate in a permanent home.

And I had a good feeling about the owner himself. As I told him, I wanted him to show me the place so that I could see who I'd be dealing with - he's an athletic Jewish man, a real estate attorney and developer, a husband and a father. He had a relaxed air about him. He must have had a good feeling about me, too, because he decided not to request my credit report, trusting me at my word. It was odd to sign a lease as a tenant, not as the owner, but I am glad that someone else will be taking care of home maintenance for a change. I had a good chuckle when I signed the addendum in which I agreed to not throw a keg party. So much for continuing my mid-life crisis by acting like a college student. I hope none of you are disappointed by the fact that beer will not be flowing freely on the premises.

I move at the beginning of September.

Idea: Global Schwarming?

A friend and fellow blogger, some of whose postings make me hot under the collar, is hot on the trail of any soupcon of evidence indicating that global warming is a myth, or at least has not been sufficiently or rigorously proven. Click here to read for yourself. If you are a die hard liberal your blood pressure might spike - don't say I didn't warn you!

But, on a sillier note, what would happen if schwarma (or shawarma) stands were to pop up on every street corner, all over the world? They would smell really good (to us carnivores), and they would be an exotic (for some) alternative to local snack foods. While it would be an exaggeration to say that I survived on schwarma while I was in Israel, I did appreciate that this satisfying, spicy and colorful sandwich was both inexpensive and ubiquitous.

Let it be known that I am in favor of global schwarming!

Insatiable Desire

This posting, alas, is not about my insatiable desire for beads, chocolate, funky shoes, chocolate beads or beaded shoes. I lifted this phrase from an essay by Wendell Berry in a book called The Way of Ignorance, itself titled after one of the included essays.

The context for "insatiable desire" is from his essay called Quantity vs. Form, in which he raises the possibility that in certain situations more might actually be less. The New York Times has recently reported that life expectancy in the United States lags that of other developed nations. Presumably most of us, if given a choice, would choose a longer over a shorter life, provided that the quality of our extended time on earth is relatively high.

Here is what Mr. Berry has to say:

"We seem to be living now with the single expectation that there should and will aways be more of everything, including 'life expectancy'. This insatiable desire for more is the result of an overwhelming sense of incompleteness, which is the result of the insatiable desire for more. This is the wheel of death. It is the revolving of this wheel that now drives technological progress. The more superficial and unsatisfying our lives become, the faster we need to progress. When you are skating on thin ice, speed up.

"The medical industry's invariable unction about life-saving, healing, and the extended life expectancy badly needs a meeting on open ground with tragedy, absurdity, and moral horror. To wish for a longer life is to wish implicitly for an extension of the possibility that one's life may become a burden or even a curse. And what are we to think when a criminal becomes a medical emergency by the beneficence of nature, is accorded the full panoply of technological mercy, and is soon back in practice? The moral horror comes when the suffering or dementia of an overly extended life is reduced to another statistical verification of the 'miracle' of modern medicine; or when a mental disease, such as the inability to face death or an ungovernable greed for more of everything, is exploited for profit."

As a society, we might want to worry about these aggregate life expectancy statistics, which put us at the bottom of the heap. I doubt Mr. Berry would think that lower life expectancy in the US, for the reasons cited in the op-ed piece, is a good thing. Rather, it is a sign of inadequacy if not outright sickness in how we go about caring for people, a result of the profit-orientation of our health care system.

But as individuals, we might want to think about the Quantity vs. the Form of our lives. What makes each of our lives complete? I am reminded of the saying, "Having heard the Tao in the morning, one can die in the evening." For those of us who don't practice or believe Eastern philosophy, will we know and be able to accept when our time has come?

Iconoclast, Iced Brownies

I felt privileged today to participate in a ceremony to prepare a friend and her companion for the birth of their child, whose arrival is anticipated in about a month. After enjoying a rich and delicious brunch of creamy quiches, assorted bagels with an array of schmears, guacamole, vegetables and other goodies that I simply didn't have room to try, we assembled in their gracious home to wish them well as they embark, knock wood, on parenthood. This occasion was not a baby shower, a concept antithetical to the Jewish tradition of waiting until a child is born before celebrating, but it was motivated by my friend's desire to create a community for her offspring-to-be, a community that might have otherwise been introduced to one another at a wedding, had my friends decided to do that.

My friend is a nurse and a nurturing person, a gentle and persistent builder of relationships and not someone who rocks the boat. So I was intrigued that her father, when it was his turn to speak, described her and her boyfriend as people who don't take advice from anyone. They are both free spirits camouflaged by their conventional appearances and jobs, a camouflage that, sadly, I had not really questioned or attempted to investigate during the years I've been acquainted with her.

Her specialness was revealed in the gathering itself, an occasion that brought together extended family, some of whom had felt isolated from one another for many years, colleagues and far flung friends. She asked that each person speak of their experiences - positive and negative - as parents and children, or to share a story behind the beads that many of brought to be strung into a necklace for her to wear when she delivers. Although many of us did not know each other, the atmosphere in the room was conducive to listening and sharing, and not just the humorous anecdote.

A woman spoke of the difficulty of parenting, how her own family does not work so well all the time. She shared a poem by Khalil Gibran, verses that I think should be required daily reading for all parents and prospective parents. It begins: Your children are not your children. We applauded her when she was done. I invite you to click the link and read the rest.

As we went around the large circle, the atmosphere became increasingly intimate, tears of joy and happiness flowing freely down many faces. At the conclusion, I turned to the woman behind me, someone I had never met, and by accident or divine design (who knows?) we had a long and profound conversation about feelings of otherness, the grieving process, and places we go for spiritual healing (Walden Pond). She is a Polish Catholic convert to Judaism, something she felt called to do.

Bidding farewell to my friend after sampling a second peppermint iced brownie, I found myself in a lengthy conversation with her, during which she described herself as an iconoclast. I'm not sure it is the most appropriate word to capture who is - she doesn't so much "attack settled beliefs or institutions" but she does intuitively and independently, following her own internal navigation system, create her life exactly how she wants it.

Intelligence

My oldest niece, not quite 10 years old, is sensitive, creative and religious. Like me, she is the middle child and has artistic inclinations, and so I more closely identify with her than with my other nieces and nephews. On a recent visit to the East Coast from California, she told me that towards the end of August she'll be visiting Las Vegas, where her mother's parents live, for a few days, returning home the day before her older brother's Bar Mitzvah weekend.

"It was my idea to go," she proudly told me. "I didn't want to be at home during such a stressful time for my family," she explained, referring to the frenzy that will likely be taking place as the household prepares for this important milestone and celebration.

I was blown away by her awareness, at such a young age, to take such good care of her sensitive self by relocating to a calmer place, where her grandmother will probably treat her to a manicure and otherwise pamper her.

When I was her age, the most I could do to extricate myself from difficult and chaotic times at home was to get on my bicycle and ride for a few hours, hoping that by the time I returned the storm would have blown over. I had no other place to go, either on foot, by bicycle or by airplane.

She is lucky that her parents have the means to send her to visit far flung family. And she is extremely intelligent to have figured out when it's a good time for her to get out of town.

You go, girl!

Identity and Influence and Essence

At a Shabbat dinner last Friday night one of the conversation, or rather intense discussion, topics was identity. The gentleman to my right, an accomplished writer and self-described nerd, posited that we can't change our identities. He is disturbed by the fact that our culture allows if not encourages us to do so, that it is perfectly acceptable in some circles to wake up one day and decide to be someone completely different. Many celebrities have kept themselves in the limelight by doing just that. We can't change the past, he argued, and the past leaves an imprint on our current selves.

I, on the other hand, find it incredibly liberating, if not a bit daunting, that we can choose who we want to be, and how we wish to present ourselves, to a certain degree. We cannot change the past but we are free to change our interpretation of that past - most of what we remember about our histories are the narratives we've created to explain various events. We were all raised to believe certain things about ourselves, other people and how life works (or is "supposed to" work), or we unconsciously created beliefs to explain or navigate the world of our childhoods. Identity is not inherent, it is made up of our stories and beliefs. These can be compelling. If we stop for a minute and examine some of these beliefs, they may no longer seem so relevant or helpful. For example, for a long time I believed (really!) that I had to be the smartest person in the room, that I had to know the answer to almost anything that was asked. This belief motivated certain behaviors, such as dominating certain conversations (when I thought I was the smartest) or removing myself from certain conversations or activities (when I clearly wasn't the "alpha"). Repeated frequently enough, these behaviors became part of an identity. At some point I chose not to hold this belief. Releasing this belief increased my behavioral choice set, allowing me to participate in life in different ways and affecting my identity as perceived by others. We can choose to examine any number of beliefs, keeping some and discarding or amending others, essentially de- and re-constructing our ideas about ourselves so that we can create space for who we really are.

I like to think that our essence is immutable, although our identity can change.

And even if we are not consciously deciding to change how we relate to the world, we might be slowly morphing into new habits, possibly building new identities, over time. I was intrigued by a recent article in the New York Times, "Who's Minding the Mind?", which describes how everyday sights, smells and sounds can selectively activate goals or motives that people already have. ...New studies have found that people tidy up more thoroughly when there’s a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air; they become more competitive if there’s a briefcase in sight, or more cooperative if they glimpse words like “dependable” and “support” — all without being aware of the change, or what prompted it.

I was relieved to read of these findings, because I'm highly sensitive to and influenced by my environment, to the point where I feel like almost a completely different person when I'm, say, at a craft show, in a yoga class, riding the subway in Manhattan, having an intense conversation with an intellectual on a Friday evening, or doing a group hike. Each environment triggers or activates a part of me at that moment. In many situations I find myself shifting internal gears (I feel this as a physical sensation) in order to fully experience the vibe of a particular place or culture. I am learning to see this adaptability and flexibility as a strength, after a long time of being plagued by a sense of inadequacy for not being able to settle or decide on a single identity for myself, either in terms of profession or, at times, personality. I can be a cranky curmudgeon. I can also (with some effort) behave in such a way that others perceive me as an energetic and highly positive person.

So, who am I really?

I had the time and opportunity to ponder this question over the weekend.

Following the Friday dinner I spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday in New Hampshire at a ceramic bead making workshop offered by a husband and wife team who create funky and colorful beads that I love. The class was reasonably priced, my schedule was free, and I signed up to find out if I might enjoy making the small objects I've been admiring for the last few years. The class was held at a bead shop in Salem, only 45 minutes from here but culturally a world away. Entering the classroom I felt immediately uneasy, not wanting to be associated or identified with two astonishingly obese women who were already sitting at the table. The shop owner and another woman in the class were also rather rotund, but to a less startling degree. I could not help but think of another New York Times article about the "contagiousness" of obesity; is it possible that by their frequent associations, through beading, these women maintain their excess poundage?

But I love beads and playing with them, a situation that other parts of my multifaceted identity find inconvenient if not entirely disgraceful. My inner intellectual and sophisticate dislike rubbing elbows with fellow bead lovers, many of whom are like these NH women. These aspects of my personality prefer that I associate with highly articulate people in more rarified settings, and were a bit repulsed that my beading self took them to this nondescript store not far from the rusted gates of Rockingham Park. One way we reinforce our identities is to seek out people with similar views, opinions and beliefs; it can be highly threatening to our identities to find ourselves in alien territory.

To make the weekend as pleasant as possible and to attempt to be in the moment, I made a conscious decision to sideline my snottiness and bring onstage my more spiritual identity, which helps me focus on what I share in common with people. We're all one, after all! Would our mutual enjoyment of beads be enough to create conversation? During the first day there wasn't much time for chatting. The instructor showed us several ways to create beads and we only had a few hours to work - rather, to play. I noticed these women's manual dexterity and ability to create detailed pieces, while I fumbled with the clay and carved basic designs. My inner elitist was not pleased by the comparison. I happen to like primitive looking beads, such as the ones I've been buying from this couple, another fact that my inner snob finds distressing.

On Sunday there was more time to get acquainted with my classmates. After glazing our beads we had to wait while they fired in the kiln, which took several hours to reach the desired temperature. I could have left right then and simply had the instructor mail me the finished beads when they were done. The person who would have made that decision was my busy, "my time is valuable, I don't want to wait" self, but I decided to stay to have the pleasure of seeing the beads when they emerge from the kiln, always a moment of surprise, and to observe the final step in the raku process (placing the hot beads in a trash can filled with flammable material, creating a ton of smoke).

The store owner brought us a take out menu from a local pizza and sub shop and we all ordered lunch. I was relieved that there were some moderately healthy choices available. The food arrived and another of my personalities, The Judge, silently castigated these gigantic women for ordering french fries and onion rings along with their steak and cheese subs. And maybe they had an instinctive reaction against me, the thin person from Massachusetts, for invading their turf (they spend so much time at the bead shop that they spoke of it in a proprietary fashion) and eating a chicken salad sandwich. But now was the time to get to know them, not condemn them. Over lunch I learned that all were married, active in their communities, and busy with home renovation projects when not enjoying their love of beads. In many ways, their lives were fuller than mine.

Lunch ended and, unlike these women, I hadn't brought any creative projects to pass the remaining time while our beads cooked. There were a few hours to go so I headed to a Barnes & Noble down the road, passing the time by reading The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream, an oddly appropriate choice. What is my dream? I've had/have many, the answer differing depending on which of my identities is responding.

Back at the bead store, someone had created a beaded bead, which is a bead made entirely of smaller beads sewn together. This woman had an eye for color and design and we all praised her talent. Even though I didn't particularly like how she planned to use this bead, I was able to find something genuinely positive to say about it and her choice of materials. In that small way, I felt I had succeeded in nourishing a new identity, that of an affirming person. Unfortunately, we also learned that the firing of our ceramic pieces would take longer than expected. It was now close to 6pm and we had been told the class would end at 5pm. I decided not to stick around any longer and asked the shop to mail me my beads.

I could hear the voice of the busy elitist chastising me for not just getting the heck out of there before lunch and for "wasting" the afternoon by waiting around in the bookstore in a stripmall in such a godforsaken place. But the voice was muffled, as if from far away. It's a voice I no longer pay such close attention to, an identity I no longer nurture, choosing instead to hear the voice that allowed me to spend a relaxing afternoon reading a good book in air conditioned comfort, something I had not done in awhile.

My writer friend is about to move to a new apartment in a different neighborhood. I asked him on Friday if he was going to be getting rid of any of his books. He said that when he moved to Boston from Baltimore, after completing his Ph.D., he did leave behind many books, as part of his - get this! - change of identity, from nerdy graduate student to professional writer.

"Does that mean you are no longer a nerd?" I teased this very bookish and brainy man, wondering if, perhaps, we were really on the same page after all.

"Well, no," he admitted. "Now I'm a nerd who is trying to sell lots of books."

Dissed Appointments = Disappointment

I will try to be grateful for all of the "things that were supposed to happen today but didn't", as being dealt multiple disappointments, in the form of (what felt like) dissed appointments, gave me a chance to observe how I react to such situations.

A friend who has been away called this morning and we agreed to meet for lunch at around noon. Shortly before 12pm, I was near her home and called her so we could figure out where to eat. We chose a place and she said she'd leave immediately and be there in 12 minutes. That gave me ample time to park my car and walk to the sandwich shop, where I waited. And waited. About half an hour after we'd spoken, my friend called to say she'd been sidetracked by a phonecall and she'd be over in a few minutes, perhaps I could get started on lunch. But I needed to leave soon thereafter, to keep my other appointments, and the prospect of a "quickie" without time for relaxed conversation didn't appeal to me. I suggested we reschedule. My friend later apologized for "messing up".

Mid-afternoon, I traveled some distance to see a potential rental apartment. I had spoken last night with the owner and we'd agreed on a time (4pm) and she had given me detailed directions. I arrived a few minutes early and was not encouraged by the fact that her mail was still in the slot. Still, I was ahead of schedule, and willing to give her the benefit of the doubt I pulled out my laptop, hopped onto a wireless network and checked my e-mail. Then I called her, only to get her voicemail. After 15 minutes, which seemed a generous margin of error, I left. At around 5:30pm this woman called and left a deeply apologetic message for forgetting about our meeting.

At this point, I realized I need a swim, thinking it might wash away some of the residue of the day. I arrived to Walden Pond shortly after 6pm, only to learn that swimming was not permitted due to a high bacteria count. Determined to immerse myself in water - any water, even chlorinated water! - I called a friend whose apartment complex has a pool. "Could I come by?" I asked. This person said they would meet me there, but if I arrived earlier I was to go use the pool and sign myself in, no one would care if I didn't live there. And so I arrived and used the pool. My phone rang, and it was my friend, saying they'd be there in five minutes. Thirty minutes later, this person had not shown up, and I decided to leave. I did call to find out what was going on and learned that minutes after speaking with me something else had come up that changed the plan, yet this person had chosen not to fill me in.

Through my spiritual practice and readings, I "know" on an intellectual level that none of these dissed appointments should be taken personally, that it is my choice whether to heap judgment, interpretation, and meaning onto these missed appointments or to just notice my reactions, much as a scientist observes natural phenomena. Yet it certainly felt personal, at least initially, especially with the people with whom I have a relationship. Not that I am perfect - I have on several occasions told say, family members, that I'll meet them at time "x", only to arrive at time "x+20", but in these instances my tardiness or lack of integrity around my words is due to a deep ambivalence. I'm inclined to project this reasoning onto my friends' behavior, concluding that they are ambivalent about spending time with me, but that might not be the case. Perhaps today, coincidentally and unfortunately for my easily bruised ego, I simply was not the highest priority.