Impact

I suspect that many of us, as we go about our lives, are oblivious to the impacts we have on other people simply by being ourselves. A stray comment, a random compliment, a kind word of encouragement, all of these might alter the course of someone's day, week or even life. And yet if we try too hard to have an impact on others, by preaching, recommending, urging, insisting, we might actually push people away, unintentionally creating distance or damage. The examples we set can be more powerful than our desire to make waves and generate certain results.

I learned today that a woman who had inspired me by her example was recently murdered in New York City. I met S T Woolf when we lived in Somerville, MA and we were both active in our local arts community. She was in her mid-40s at the time and was just finding her wings as a sculptor and artist. Shortly thereafter she boldly decided to leave Massachusetts, her home for many years, and move to New York City to pursue her artwork full time in a place where she might gain more exposure. As I learned through her occasional e-mails, she quickly made friends and got involved in local arts groups; her work was getting seen and she seemed to be thriving in her new home. Observing her successful mid-life relocation gave me the courage to pack up and move to greener pastures which, for me, was the mountains.

Although I did not know her well, she still had a large influence on me. In addition to leaving behind her art, she left me with the awareness of how each of us, even if we are but tiny pebbles in this vast universe, can potentially create large ripples just by being who we are.

May S T Woolf rest in peace.

Inept

Early this afternoon I went for a pre-Thanksgiving walk in my neighborhood wearing red sneakers, black athletic pants, a black fleece pullover, sunglasses and a set of headphones that conspicuously covered my ears. The sun was out and it was in the upper 50's and I wandered over to Cheesman Park a few blocks away. Others were out enjoying the day - families with their dogs, couples and other solo park visitors. I walked up a slight incline to the pavilion, an area that has a cluster of tall columns covered by a roof, to get a view of the mountains. Spotting a bench, I sat down and watched my surroundings.

A man wearing a bright red outfit, including a red cap, drove back and forth in a pale yellow convertible along the road that bifurcates the park. It appeared that he was calling attention to himself but I was unsure what kind. A bit downslope from me, a 60-something man in a plaid flannel shirt, beige baseball cap, and tan chinos sat on the edge of the fountain and spoke on his cell phone. Two women, wearing bright pink shirts and carrying bundles of twigs, perhaps for a late afternoon fire, approached and sat on another bench. Up close they appeared to be mother and daughter. After a few minutes they, too, moved on.

Then the man in the flannel shirt came over and excused himself. I still had my headphones on yet he did not take that as a sign that I did not wish to be disturbed.

"Do you know if this is a gay park?" he asked.

I truly did not know the answer and I also did not know if he was a gay basher, simply a curious out of towner, or looking for action.

"I don't know," I said, looking at him more carefully. There was nothing slick about him. His eyeglasses looked as if they were from the previous decade, his clothing was clean but well-worn. His appearance was as bland and ordinary as they come, his rough and wrinkled skin offering little color contrast to his beige cap.

"Well, I asked two young women and they said they were bisexual and so I thought that maybe this is a gay park," he continued, as if by telling me this information I'd be willing to provide him some corroboration.

"I have no idea," I replied. Then I wondered if the red-clad man in the convertible had been, in fact, cruising for fun in broad daylight.

The man in the flannel then sat down on my bench, leaving about a person's width between us. I did not feel threatened by him so I stayed put, enjoying my view of the mountains. For several minutes we sat in silence and I wondered if was planning to leave or not. There were other benches around and if he had simply wanted to sit somewhere he could have chosen his own private spot. After an awkward interval he stood up.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, "I just thought that maybe this was a place where gay men came looking for sex."

"Why are you asking me?" I retorted, allowing my annoyance to show, adding, "Clearly I'm not a man."

He muttered something about bisexuals and wandered off.

Interruption

This afternoon an attractive 50-something year old man washed my feet and put my socks back on and laced up my shoes. Sadly, this was not a lover or even a pedicurist, but a technician at a podiatrist's office. Since I've been able to put on my socks and tie my shoes myself for at least a few decades, I felt rather foolish having him do the honors. There I was, my legs stretched out in front of me as I sat on the podiatry chair, jacked up to a height of about five feet off the ground. He said it was standard practice and, from what I observed in the waiting room, many patients are probably not capable of tying their shoes.

When I first arrived for my appointment, to check out some persistent pain in my left foot, I was one of the few fully ambulatory people around. Mostly older folk maneuvered in their wheelchairs and walkers, negotiating the path between the door and the reception desk. One man, his thinning hair slicked back with grease and his belly as round as that of the Buddha, was missing a foot. The receptionist handed me a stack of papers to fill out; on the top was written "Diabetic Foot Wound Center" and I asked her if, indeed, I was in the right place.

"Yes," she said. "Don't worry about that language. We take care of everything below the knee."

Below the knee. It was not an expression I'd heard before and, while it's true that my foot is below my knee, it can also affect areas above my knee, such as my hip and spine. But ours is specialized medical world and there was not much I could do about that. As I made my way through the forms, a woman in a motorized wheelchair returned to the waiting area from a consultation room; she wore specially made shoes, her head was held in place by a brace and her arms were covered with black fabric, obscuring her hands or where her hands might have been. Suddenly, my foot problem - and everything else on my mind - seemed quite trivial.

The podiatrist's analysis confirmed my suspicion of a pronated left foot; it has always tended to turn in but now the difference between my left and right feet had become quite stark and the imbalance was painful. My hiking habit will be interrupted for a few weeks while I wait for my orthotics to be made. In a saner system, my health insurance would cover the cost of these inserts, as they'll keep me active and probably prevent me from developing knee trouble later, which would be more costly to fix but would likely be covered. Such is the world we live in.

Inexplicable, Implausible II

Several months ago I wrote about the mysterious disappearance of some clothing, a t-shirt and a sports bra, that happened to be of the same brand. The sports bra turned up soon after that - I think it had gotten tangled in my sheets while I had sorted the laundry and revealed itself when I was going to sleep that night. But the t-shirt remained missing and I had given up hope of ever seeing it again. A few days ago I was working on an essay for a workshop I'm taking and one of the items that popped into my writing was the process of putting on pantyhose. Since I rarely engage in this activity, I wanted to refresh my memory as to how the nylon feels. I went into my closet, found my shoebox filled with pantyhose and opened it up. Inside, nestled alongside my stocking collection, was the missing t-shirt. I am completely baffled and clueless as to why I put it there in the first place, but I'm delighted to have it back.

Inhale, Invasion

After a long day, I returned home at 9:15 to be confronted by the acrid aroma of polyurethane in the hallway of my apartment building. Opening the door to my second floor unit, I inhaled and detected another offensive odor, that of exhaust. Exhaust? I could not identify the source but it was unmistakably different from the smell downstairs. I microwaved some dinner and quickly ate it, but I was beginning to feel lightheaded from whatever molecules were invading my airspace. I opened the windows, turned on the ceiling fans and then headed out for a walk, hoping that I'd be able to air the place out before bedtime.

As I was leaving, I met some of the other tenants who were complaining about the smell. Had they contacted the landlord? No.

I strolled to Whole Foods, purchased a poppyseed hamentashen to cheer me up, and when asked by the pony-tailed checkout clerk how my evening was going, I told him, "Not so well. My building has fumes in it and I'm here while I'm airing out my apartment. If it doesn't work, I might have to spend the night in a hotel. By the way, do you know of any hotels nearby?"

He suggested I look off of I-25, heading north, for a Hampden Inn.

When I returned to my apartment the situation had not abated and I left a message for the landlord, letting him know that I did not feel safe sleeping there and that I'd like him to pay the cost of a hotel. Within minutes he had called back and, after discussing the situation, said he'd reimburse me up to $60. Fine, I said, even though that would probably not cover a room at a hotel I'd feel safe staying at. I did not feel like haggling over the amount, I simply had to get out of there. Already, I had a headache. I grabbed my purse (containing the hamentashen), laptop and toothbrush - what else does a gal really need for an unexpected adventure? - and started driving north. While I was on the highway the landlord called again, asking me if I had found a hotel. Not yet, I said, but I told him that I was in my car, in search of lodging. He said he was on his way over to the building install some exhaust fans to help clear the air. He also seemed very apologetic and sympathetic - in his words, he said that I must have an allergy to polyurethane. No, I've been blessed with a sensitive nose that alerts me to anything that might harm me.

As I pulled off the highway I told him I had spotted a "La Quinta Inn" and would check for a room there. He said that was OK and agreed to pay whatever the rate was. It turns out to be more than $60.

Inimitable

Yesterday evening, as the temperatures plummeted to the 20s in advance of last night's snowfall, I dashed over to a movie theater to see Julie and Julia. I'm a big fan of cooking and eating and of Meryl Streep and I hoped I was in for a treat. Ms. Streep's acting was, as usual, la creme de la creme. Even though I had never seen Julia Child's cooking show on television and was unfamiliar with her trademark voice and gestures, Ms. Streep's artful interpretation and performance made up for that gap in my experience.

As I watched the film, I found myself savoring certain aspects more than others. Ironically, many of the cooking scenes held less of my interest than those where Julia Child confronts the male dominated French culinary establishment and finds herself in the process. After her first humiliating class in which she was the only woman and the slowest to chop an onion, she decides to improve her skills at home. We see a sack of onions and a colossal and growing pile of the chopped white vegetable on Mrs. Child's kitchen table as she single-mindedly practices this fundamental skill, over and over again, onion after onion, oblivious to the tears running down her face. That made more of an impression than many of the scenes of modern day Julie Powell, the blogger, as she's shown preparing the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking and writing about it.

Some of the more satisfying scenes involved Julia Child corresponding with her sister and potential publishers, featuring the physical acts of writing, typing, folding, licking and sealing. What the film left me hungry for was an earlier and slower paced era when people still composed letters by hand, when the sending and receiving of mail was accompanied by anticipation and excitement, and when life was richer for these rituals.

And I wonder if the reason many of the cooking sequences failed to sizzle is that I recently decided to become a pescetarian, eliminating poultry and red meat from my diet. Chicken, beef and duck are also stars in this movie, forming an important but unacknowledged supporting cast, yet despite all the food styling that must have taken place I was not terribly tempted by the sight of a perfectly roasted bird emerging from the oven or by the much-touted boeuf bourguignon that made multiple appearances. Perhaps if I had seen the move before modifying my diet I would have been inspired both to drool over these dishes and to run out and purchase a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Instead, my plans are to slowly, probably not methodically and most likely not publicly, make my way through The Greens Cookbook and Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, both by Deborah Madison. It's not that I plan to deprive myself of flavor or fat. For this morning's breakfast, in homage to Julia, I fried an egg in plenty of butter.

Interpretations, Intention

Yesterday was Erev Yom Kippur and I had planned to attend Kol Nidrei services at 7pm a Reconstructionist synagogue in Denver. I went for a walk in the late afternoon and returned home to eat a bit, drink a lot, shower and change into my all-white wardrobe for this most solemn of Jewish holidays. I even removed the bright red polish from my toe nails to be more in keeping with the spirit Yom Kippur. It is a day that we rehearse our deaths by wearing white, as if wrapping ourselves in a shroud, and refraining from eating, drinking, bathing, having sex and wearing leather. And it’s a day that even many lapsed Jews show up in synagogue for at least part of the time, not wishing to miss Kol Nidrei, which has some of the most poignant and moving liturgy of the entire Jewish calendar.

By 6:20pm I had accomplished my pre-holiday preparations and was ready to leave but could not find my car keys. The key and the remote are attached to a ring that has a large metal charm on it; this ensemble jangles and makes a sound if dropped. I’ve temporarily misplaced my keys before so, rather than panicking, I started to systematically look for them in all the usual places.

First I dumped out my purse. Nope.

Then I looked on my kitchen table – often I leave the keys there. Nothing. And they had not fallen to the ground, either. Perhaps I had put them in one of my backpacks accidentally? A quick check indicated that no, I had not.

Then I looked in the bathroom – perhaps I had brought the key ring in there after returning from my yoga class earlier in the day? I searched the top of my sink, the bathtub and the wall cabinet. Nada.

Maybe, when I had uncharacteristically made my bed that afternoon, the keys had gotten trapped between the blanket and the sheets? I checked my bed for lumps and did not find any. Nor were there any keys in my laundry basket, where I had tossed a towel and yoga clothes a few hours before.

What about my desk? There are always lots of things on my desk. Normally I don’t put the car keys there, but I figured I’d look anyway. I scoured the top of my desk and opened the drawers. No keys.

Quickly, I looked in my refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. At this point no place seemed too unlikely for the keys.

By this time it was 6:40pm and I was starting to feel a bit of panic.

I remembered that I had wrapped up and taken out the trash when I went for my walk. Had I accidentally tossed my keys in the trash?

Back outside I went to the dumpster. Unfortunately my bag of garbage was no longer sitting conveniently near the top and I could not grab it while standing on the ground. Wearing my Yom Kippur whites, I hoisted my left leg onto the dumpster’s handle so I could reach down and reclaim my bag. This was the closest I’ve ever come to dumpster diving. Garbage in hand, I jumped back to the ground.

Now I was in the bathroom again, picking through my personal compost. Corn husks and cobs, cantaloupe rind and a rotten zucchini had been sitting in a plastic bag for a few days, marinating with assorted liquids and other trash, creating a pungent perfume. I thought how this activity was, oddly enough, perfect for Yom Kippur, a day when we take an inventory of our inner world, vowing to discard or heal our psychological garbage while focusing on finding the keys to a good life.

My stinky and sticky search did not yield the keys to my Subaru. I returned the garbage to the dumpster and, this time, brought a flash light. Perhaps I had dropped the keys on the ground? Left them in my car?

There were no keys. For a second, I wondered if someone had picked them up and, at a moment unbeknownst to me, would be taking my car with them.

It was now after 7pm and I realized that I would be missing Kol Nidrei.

My Jewish self was frustrated and disappointed and burst into tears. My more Buddhist self recognized I had some choices: I could use this situation as an opportunity to blame and judge myself for having lost the keys, exacerbating my suffering, or I could have compassion for myself and try to salvage something from this experience, perhaps opening to something that would not have been available had I made it to services on time.

I lit two candles in the hopes of fostering some inner stillness and creating a sacred space; perhaps I could consider this a private Kol Nidrei with the Almighty? My intention was in the right place. I wondered if my keys' disappearance was some sort of a Yom Kippur wake-up call, to slow down even more and pay closer attention to my emotions, my living space, and my state of mind than I was already. If so, I thanked God for the fact that this call was a lot gentler than the message my sister-in-law received last year. While driving in the Bay Area just before Yom Tov, smoke began coming out of her car, unbeknownst to her. Another driver motioned for her to pull over and get out. Luckily she heeded this good Samaritan; moments after she left her vehicle, it burst into flames.

I started to chant the Kol Nidrei to myself, but only remembered a few lines. Recreating the service on my own, I realized, did not make much sense. Since I was home, I decided to make the best of it. Slowly and mindfully, I started to sort my belongings and organize my apartment, hoping that in the process of creating tranquility the keys would emerge. And part of me knew from past experience misplacing things that they often turn up, or appear in my sight, once I’m no longer in hot pursuit. Indeed, one of the interpretations of the akeda, Abraham’s near sacrifice of Isaac, is that Abraham, as he prepared to slaughter his son was in a trance state. The angels call out, “Abraham! Abraham!” to stop him, saying his name twice to get his attention for Abraham was not truly present. When he came to, and looked up, there was the ram to be sacrificed. Some scholars argue that the animal had been there all along but Abraham - so intent on following through with God's request - had been unable to see it.

I asked that God please reveal my keys to me, much as Hashem had revealed the ram to Abraham and water to Hagar as she wandered in the desert.

One of my father’s favorite sayings came to mind, “You’ll find whatever you’ve lost in the last place you look.” I managed a half-smile. As I placed some stray clothes on hangers I was reminded of another frantic search, for my father’s glasses. He had been rushed to the hospital and either he or his companion had grabbed his old eyeglasses, a pair from the 1980s with large lenses that resembled bug eyes. During one of my visits he had asked me to bring him his newest pair, a contemporary design with wireless rims, which he had left in the bedroom. I went to his house and looked for them. They were neither on his bed, on or in his chest of drawers or near the nightstand. Nor were they on the floor. Stymied, I told him I could not find them. He said not to worry but I felt like a failure, unable to fulfill such a simple request. He died unexpectedly a few days after that. As my brother and I cleaned out his house the glasses materialized; they had been in my father’s bedroom closet, where it had simply not occurred to me to look.

Where had it not occurred to me look for my keys?

I did not try to answer this question directly but continued with my tidying - gathering receipts, stacking books and picking things off the floor. With no car keys in sight, I started to wonder how I'd get to services the next day. The synagogue was just over three miles away. Walking would take more than an hour, or I could hop on my bicycle for a faster trip. In either case, it would probably not be wise for me to fast completely and risk dehydrating. And then, without getting too worried, I gently pondered how long it would take me to order a new set of car keys, how much that would cost, and how I’d arrange my life in the meantime.

At around 10:20pm I decided to go to sleep. As I very slowly made my way around the bed to my night stand so I could turn on my reading lamp, I paused by the small cast iron radiator below my window. For some reason I looked down. Between the radiator and the wall I noticed a black object wedged in that tiny gap. Bending over, I reached below the radiator and pulled out my car keys. I have no idea how they got there. But God did answer my prayer.

Intriguing, Intelligence

Over the years I've come to believe that there is an enormous intelligence operating in the universe that creates synchronicity, meaningful encounters and seemingly spontaneous connections. It's as if we're linked by a vast membrane, and if a person gently tugs or pokes that membrane then other people will sense it and respond, most likely at an unconscious level. When I was younger these events would feel quite magical to me, proof that there was more to the world than met the eye, that the hyper-rational outlook championed by my parents was insufficient to explain how life might actual work. My excitement at having sensed or experienced this invisible side to life was often met with an unimpressed, "That was just a coincidence."

Someone, or maybe a few people, must have been tugging pretty hard on the membrane yesterday because I overcome by a powerful urge to look up people I had met in Washington, D.C. while in graduate school for international relations many years ago. Over time, and as my life path took a different course, I had lost touch with them and for long stretches had not thought about my classmates at all, not even the person I dated while I was a student. In fact, I had forgotten many of their names. But with Google, Facebook and Flickr, it's not hard to find people. I typed in my ex's name and found some links, leading to images of him delivering a lecture in Europe last spring. He looked the same but seemed to have grown into his role as scholar, having dropped the playboy persona of his dissertation days. Suddenly I was back in time, remembering very specific details of my graduate school experience, including how another friend had a somewhat awkward body position when sitting on the grass in Dupont Circle. I thought most of these impressions, sights and sounds had been wiped out by the passage of time and by my willful focus on the "now". Instead, the longer I lingered in my memories of that time the more names my brain started to recall, as if all I had ever needed to do was prime the pump. After looking up a few more people I decided to go to sleep, thinking I might contact one or two of them today.

This morning, like most mornings, I logged into Google Analytics to quickly check the previous day's traffic on my website. The Analytics tools also allow me to see how people arrive at my site, either directly, by a referring website or by a key word search. And it turned out that yesterday someone had arrived at my website after entering my name AND the name of my graduate school in a search engine. While I don't know who had looked me up, I was glad to see that I was not the only person out there to feel and respond to the tug on the membrane.

Influenza

Last week, after nearly a year of living with good health in Denver, I finally scheduled my annual routine medical checkups. Aside from the annoyance at having to fill out three similar sets of paperwork - one set at each facility - the appointments went smoothly and there were no surprises. And to reward myself for having endured the discomfort of a mammogram and pelvic exam, I went for a pedicure, haircut and brow wax at a local beauty academy.

There I was, healthy as can be and looking a bit sharper than usual when, on Labor Day, WHAM! Without much warning I was hit with a fever, chills, cough and muscle aches. A quick Google search confirmed that my symptoms were flu-like; indeed, rapid onset is one of its hallmarks, unlike a cold which sneaks up on you gradually. I haven't had the flu in decades so, unlike my more familiar visits from colds and sinus infections, I was not quite sure what to do when this virus showed up, tornado-like, and destroyed my plans for the day. Lying down seemed like a good place to start, followed by some Ibuprofen for the fever and aches. I took a nap and a few hours later got up to get something to eat.

Just a few days earlier, in a renewed effort to take excellent care of myself by eating a tasty, varied and nutritious diet, I had gone to the grocery store armed, uncharacteristically, with an organized and comprehensive list of ingredients that would allow me to create some vegetarian recipes. I filled my formerly empty fridge with spinach, mushrooms, green onions, zucchini, cheeses, yogurt, fruit and assorted types of tofu. And some dark chocolate covered almonds. The next day I whipped up some spreads and made a so-called Green Velvet Soup, one of the most startlingly green dishes I've ever seen. And on Monday morning, just hours before the flu whacked me over the head and sent me crawling under the sheets, I had gone to pay for and pick up a bicycle that someone in my neighborhood was selling on Craigslist. The bike acquisition was also part of my attempt to improve the quality of my life by diversifying my exercise options.

While heating up some soup and boiling water for tea I recalled something my meditation teacher often says. She likes to remind her students that once a person has made a decision to take better care of themselves, whether this means changing their diets, getting a new job or choosing not to enable a loved one's destructive behavior, life often responds with an, "Oh, yeah?" and presents the person with a situation that challenges their commitment to their new intentions.

So, rather than kvetch about my sweat-producing fever and sporadic coughing, I will interpret this flu as an indication that I'm on the right track.

Iridescent

Last weekend I took a short but intense road trip to Southern Colorado. On Saturday I thought I'd be occupied all day hiking with the Colorado Mountain Club, but that outing lasted just a few hours so I decided to join a tour of Zapata Ranch, home to bison and, as it turned out, hummingbirds. I had an hour before the tour began so I sat at a picnic table near the ranch's main cluster of buildings and, while eating my hiker's lunch of PB&J, was mesmerized by the movements, colors and sheen of these hummingbirds. There must have been a dozen of them whizzing about, hovering in mid-air before dashing off in some new direction, sometimes in pairs but often alone. Their airborne behavior reminded me of that of the Golden Snitch in Harry Potter's Quidditch games, that little ball that would zip around, hover, and then zoom off again. The ranch had set up a hummingbird feeder (above) and I was lucky to grab this shot of three birds at once. They did not linger at the feeder, either, but would take a sip of nectar and then dash off, only to return for another quick pitstop.

Coincidentally, today I received a letter from the Nature Conservancy, which owns Zapata Ranch, asking me to support its efforts to protect the hummingbirds' habitats along their 2,000 mile migration route. Having witnessed how marvelous these creatures are, and how tiny - the birds are four inches, their wings 2.5 inches long - I did not hesitate a second before writing a check.

Internal Drama

[reposted 8/23]

I recently spent one week on a retreat at a Zen monastery in Northern California. For years I've been reading the books published by the head monk, and over time her words convinced me to begin and sustain a daily meditation practice. It felt like it was time to visit and learn how to incorporate some of the other spiritual tools she had mentioned in her writings and on her radio show.

Before I left a few people said, "Have fun!" or "Have a great time!" or "Sounds peaceful." I am guessing these well-wishers had never spent a week in a silent, structured environment that is designed to reveal to retreatants how their minds operate. With no e-mail, Internet, phone or other things to distract my attention, my monkey mind was more clearly exposed. Volatile, not peaceful, more accurately describes what I experienced.

Although this retreat was not completely silent - we participated in brief group discussions every day - I had enough time alone to observe what my mind will do to generate drama out of thin air, or, in this case, out of the dirt. This monastery, located on some 300 acres in the Sierra Nevada foothills, had a lot of rules to follow, all clearly spelled out in a guest booklet that I found in my hermitage, a tiny cabin in the woods. The rules mostly fell into two categories: silence and sanitation. In the former, we were instructed to not speak to anyone, to walk with an averted gaze so as not to make eye contact, and to leave a note for "Guestmaster" on the message board if we needed something. Since this was a role and not a specific person, "Guestmaster" took on the quality of an anonymous, omnipotent authority figure. Leaving a note for "Guestmaster" felt, at times, as if I were asking God for a favor. In terms of sanitation, we were asked to remove shoes and don slippers to prevent dust and grime from dirtying the dining room and meditation hall. And we were asked to wash our hands every time we entered the dining room, even if we had just washed our hands after using the restroom. I often ended up washing my hands nearly a dozen times a day. If cleanliness is next to Godliness then I was getting closer.

But my internal drama centered around another phrase in the guest booklet: Assume Nothing. The comprehensive rules were, apparently, not enough. The monastery did not want people to make judgments and decisions for themselves about what else might be appropriate or acceptable.

In between sits and group sessions we had free time and I would go for walks around the property on various dirt paths. It was quite hot and I was not moving quickly and on my second or third day my eyes were drawn to some shiny turquoise shapes on the ground. I looked closer and saw that they were shards of pottery that looked similar to the hand-thrown dishes and bowls we used at meal times (another rule was that we could not remove these special plates from the dining hall. Now I understood why - apparently many of them had not survived the journey from dining hall to hermitage).

My artist-self got excited about a potentially large treasure trove of colorful pottery shards for her mosaics.

Assume Nothing.

"But we're at a monastery," my inner Policewoman said to the Artist, "don't assume you can take them. Ask the Guestmaster."

"That's silly," came the reply, from a rather pragmatic character. "Probably no one even knows these shards are here. Some are partially buried. Leaving a note is just a way of drawing attention to yourself, and that's not why you're here."

Another voice chimed in: "These are sharp and could hurt someone or puncture a tire. You're doing the monastery a favor by picking them up."

I started to collect the shards, carefully choosing the best ones in terms of thickness, size and shape and putting them into a bag.

"You really should ask first," warned the Policewoman. "Don't take that which is not given."

Indeed, that is one of the lines I'd heard the monks recite each morning before meditation.

"But they might say no! I really want these. Then I'll be upset," my Inner Child piped up.

I had observed that the Guestmaster often took up to 24 hours to respond to a note. Did I want to suspend my collection efforts for such a long period of time or, worse, have to hand over my stash? That would be mortifying.

"They won't say no - that's crazy!" said the Pragmatist.

"You're too conscientious. This is NOT a big deal. If they didn't want people to remove stones and objects from the property they would have created a rule and told you. No rule = no problem," contributed the Lawyer.

"But," the Policewoman emphasized, "they said Assume Nothing."

"Well, these pottery shards are not in the field of their awareness," said the Lawyer, cleverly co-opting the monastery's terminology. "Trust me, no one is going to know they are missing."

During my walks I continued to pick up the shards but I kept looking around to see if anyone was observing me. I realized I was behaving like a thief.

"If I don't ask I will feel like I'm hiding something. And I don't want to hide anymore," said the voice of the well-intentioned person who had come to the retreat. "I don't want to leave the monastery carrying a secret, no matter how small it might seem."

"So, ask the Guestmaster if it's OK to pick them up. Pretend you haven't touched them yet," advised the Lawyer. "And what happens if they say NO?!"

"Well, I can get up early and dump them somewhere. At least I enjoyed finding them. Or I can take them with me anyway and I'll have had the experience of going through this process. This is all part of awareness practice," I countered, sounding a little too lawyerly for my own comfort.

"How you do anything is how you do everything," intoned my Spiritual Guide, quoting one of the head monk's favorite phrases. "You can ask, speak up and clear your conscience, rather than continue lurking around the edge of this sangha (community)."

"Why do you want to feel like a part of this sangha, anyway? It's a resource for you and you contribute to it financially. Why not keep it at arm's length?" said a rather cool, calculating Accountant-like voice.

"Besides, you're Jewish!" declared the Rabbi, as if I needed to be reminded. "Why don't you join a synagogue, instead?" (side note to dualistic Rabbi: "Why can't I join BOTH?")

I decide that I'm fed up listening to the Pragmatist, the Lawyer and the Accountant. Two days before the end of the retreat I muster the courage to leave a note for the Guestmaster. Rather than fudging it, I explain that I'd already picked up some shards, realized that I should have asked first, and that I wanted permission to take them and use them in a mosaic for the monastery's benefit. Either I could donate a piece of art to one of their fundraising events or sell it on my own and send the proceeds to them.

The hours slowly passed. I kept checking the message board to see if the Guestmaster had responded. Nothing. After 22 hours of waiting, I started to feel sad, ashamed (after all, now they knew what I'd been up to!) and deflated. The various voices in my head convinced me that the monks had gathered in a special session to "discuss" my situation and to render a "verdict", as if this had been the most important issue at the monastery. My excitement at taking the broken pottery and transforming it into a piece of art had dissipated, if not disappeared altogether. Although I noticed a rich lode of scrumptious pottery shards on a less-traveled path, I decided not to pick them up until I had received a response. My Artist and Inner Child felt chastened and deprived. I explained to them that the fun was in finding the pottery and that we'd have a chance to work with lots of material back at the studio. And we'd probably find even better things to play with elsewhere.

The night before I was scheduled to leave the monastery I saw a note addressed to me on the message board. Fearing disappointing news, I decided to wait until the following morning to read it. When I opened it the note simply said, "Thanks for asking. That's fine with us." It was 6:20 a.m. and I grabbed my satchel, bounded out of my hermitage and harvested another pound of pottery from that rich lode.

Inflate

The front left tire on my car has a slight leak which, due to its location cannot be repaired, so every so often, and with increasing frequency, I need to inflate it. It's gotten to a point where I need to get new tires - not just one tire, or two tires, but four of those rubber puppies so that my All Wheel Drive vehicle will, like a yogi, remain balanced.

I'm not a "car person", per se, and most things automotive don't set my synapses afire. My brain seems to have little space reserved for car stuff, and that tiny bit of mental real estate is used only during the very rare occasions when I listen to Car Talk on NPR. I've been procrastinating about the tire replacement for a few months and have finally realized that no one is going to tell me which tires to buy and where or, better yet, take care of this for me, so I have no choice but to dive in and do my homework.

Since I am trying to be mindful about this process, I want to understand a little bit about tires and what my particular needs are, rather than forking over hundreds of dollars with little awareness of what I'm buying. This might make a lot of sense in theory but in practice it I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, unable to get a handle on all the information I've unearthed. If I have to choose, do I want tires that are better at dry braking, wet braking or have good snow traction? Living in Colorado, where the weather and road conditions can change dramatically a few times a day, I'd like all of the above, thank you very much. And there is the noise level. Apparently some tires ride quietly but have less traction than their louder counterparts. Do I want a noisy but secure ride or a silent but more slippery ride? And am I willing to spend several extra bucks for that strong, silent type, the tire that offers super traction with barely a whisper? And given the limited driving I do, how critical is this decision, anyway? It's hard for me to gauge the impact of getting a decent, but not a fabulous, tire. Reading the reviews in Epinions and Consumer Reports, written mostly by men who do devote a lot of brain space to cars, one might conclude that the purchase of certain tires can be a life-changing experience.

Then there is the matter of deciding where to buy whichever tires I ultimately select. I could try to find them online and have them shipped to a service center who will mount and balance them. Or I could order them from Sam's Club, whose higher prices include shipping to their store, where I could have them installed. This would eliminate one step from the process, a good thing in my opinion.

I thought that by putting this decision into words I might shed some light on which tire to choose; instead, I'm feeling deflated.

Instep

After seven years, several hundred miles and dozens of hikes, the last of which was a climb up Colorado's Quandary Peak (14,265'), my beloved hiking boots finally fell apart. From the first time I wore them until I took them off last Friday afternoon, they never pinched, gave me a blister or rubbed me the wrong way. I can't say the same about most of my other shoes (or people, for that matter). Although these boots look rather forlorn now, when I bought them they were smooth to the touch, a sophisticated blue in color and were extremely well-crafted. They conveyed quality but without being ostentatious. Made in Hungary by a Swiss company, their provenance connected me to the various times in my life when I lived in Budapest and traveled in Europe. Slipping my feet into these boots and lacing them up triggered feelings of confidence and optimism that often elude me in my non-hiking life.

So when the soles began to lose traction and water began seeping into the toe area, I went into denial rather than deal with the deterioration. "I'll just bring extra socks in case my feet get wet," I told myself. "I'll carry my hiking poles in case I need help balancing."

Those strategies worked until two weeks ago when I noticed the soles peeling off the boots, leaving large gaps. With two challenging hikes in my future and being fearful of attempting them without this trustworthy and faithful pair, I generously applied Shoe Goo to fill these cracks. The goo extended the life of these boots a few extra days, allowing my feet to be cradled by their comfortable companions on these multi-mile steep adventures. But as you can see from the photo the glue hardened and started to peel off; it was time for me to say goodbye.

I went online to search for boots from this same manufacturer as my local outdoor gear store was out of stock. Luckily, I found a web retailer that carries this brand in my size and within a day or two I should be receiving three pairs of boots to audition. They have big shoes to fill.

Inexplicable, Implausible

I rarely lose things. Sure, I've been known to misplace things, for minutes, hours, day, weeks or months at a time. Inevitably, most of these temporarily missing items reappear when I least expect them to. At those moments I breathe a sigh of relief, both for not having completely lost my mind and for the restoration of the object to my life. But it has been months since a new, high quality black moisture wicking t-shirt has gone missing; after checking the washer and dryer I use in the basement of my art studio building, I went through all of my drawers, peered under my bed, ransacked my closet, and checked the lost and found at my yoga studio. Nada. It had disappeared. For awhile I tortured myself over my possible carelessness - maybe I had let my laundry linger in the washing machine and someone had helped themselves while I was upstairs, making art. And then I realized that I should not cause myself to suffer over a t-shirt, even if I had snagged it for just $15 at the GoLite gear sale shortly after moving to Colorado. Eventually I moved on, or so I thought.

But this morning, while getting dressed for a hike, I was looking for the sports bra I had purchased at that same gear sale and could not find it. I had just done a load of laundry at my studio and it was not among the clothing that I had scooped from the dryer and placed into my nylon laundry bag. Not again?! I chose something else to wear and left for the day. Returning to my apartment in the late afternoon, I found myself obsessing over this second missing piece of athletic gear, the same brand as that t-shirt. Not wishing to wait another day to possibly solve this mystery, I walked to my studio building this evening to check the washer and dryer. Both were empty.

My brain is trying to devise an explanation for the fact that two pieces of GoLite gear have vanished within in a few months of one another under similar circumstances. While it is possible that someone has helped themselves to my laundry, I can't imagine who it would be. Most of the artists in my building rarely venture into the basement, where the machines are located, and none of them are my size, not to mention that I have no basis to distrust them. And there have been more valuable pieces of clothing available for the picking, so even if someone were sneaking around and harvesting my stuff, why wouldn't they take more or different things?

Realizing I could drive myself crazy attempting to recover these items, I am going to try (again) to let go of these perplexing episodes, following the advice suggested by the brand itself. I will "GoLite", moving ahead without being bogged down by the mystery of my missing clothes.

Infuriating, Infantile

Getting parking tickets makes my blood boil. First the rage is directed inward for having failed to properly read the sign and/or sufficiently feed the meter, and then I feel pissed at the Universe for not exempting me from the parking officer's scrutiny. In Denver, I'm finding, I rarely escape this scrutiny. I have received three parking tickets in the nearly nine months I've lived here, an amount that is outrageously high in my experience.

In other cities, meter maids (and meter men) frequently do their inspections on foot. This slows them down, so that if you see them approaching and you can move faster than they can, you can quickly move your car before they get a chance to ticket it. It also means that each meter maid, or man, covers less territory in a given amount of time than if they were in a vehicle, which lessens the probability that you'll get a ticket.

In Denver, the parking police drive around in mini-jeeps whose steering wheel is on the right side, making it easy for them to pull up alongside parked cars, check meters, issue tickets and place them on the driver's door of the offending car without having to pound the pavement.

I received my first ticket in the fall when, running late for a yoga class, I pulled into a space near the studio. There was a landscaping crew parked just up ahead and I assumed the spot was legitimate. Two hours later I discovered via a yellow envelope and white ticket tucked into the door of my Subaru that, in fact, I had parked on a residential-only stretch of pavement. There had been a sign, but I had not bothered to read it. The penalty? $25. Ouch.

My second screw up took place in winter. A friend had an art opening downtown and I arrived around 7pm and quickly found a parking spot. Thinking that meters only ran until 6pm, I went to the opening to say a quick hello. Fifteen minutes later I returned to my ticketed car; just up ahead I could see the police jeep slowly making its way up the street, ticketing nearly every car in sight. Had I left five minutes earlier, I would not have been saddled with a $25 fine. The meter, it turned out, ran until 8pm.

Chastened by these experiences, I've been making an effort to read the meters and parking signs with great diligence. In Denver, depending on the neighborhood, some meters go until 6pm, others 8pm and still others 10pm. Some meters have an hour limit, others a two hour limit, others just 30 minutes. At some meters 25 cents will buy you a luxurious hour of time, whereas that same quarter will only get you 15 minutes in other parts of the city.

About a month ago I went to an event downtown and was careful to feed the meter and to set the alarm clock on my cellphone to remind myself when I'd have to refill it. At the appointed time I ducked out of the event and returned to my vehicle and carefully deposited my remaining nickels (3 minutes each) and dimes (6 minutes) each to extend my lease on that space. At the end of the evening, I headed to my car and was dismayed to see that now familiar yellow envelope sticking out of the door to my car.

My meter still had 22 minutes on it. What the f---?

Exasperated, I read the ticket. It cited me for parking in two spaces at once. Impossible, I thought - there was a car in front of me and a car behind me, so I was not actually occupying two spaces. However, I had to concede that the front of my car poked a few inches past the parking meter. For this small incursion into another space they were going to fine me $25?

Infuriated, I decided to contest it.

Ticket in hand, I went to the office of the Parking Magistrate. I was asked to take a number; there was no dispensing machine, just a roll of perforated numbered slips of paper lying on a desk. I tore one off and took a seat. Minutes later I was escorted by a uniformed officer to one of the hearing rooms. I had imagined that the person who would hear my case would be sitting behind a desk, and would offer me a chair, and our heads would be at the same level as we'd have a friendly conversation about this mistakenly issued ticket.

Instead, I found myself standing behind a counter that came up to my chin, peering up into the face of the Parking Magistrate who sat in a tall chair and loomed over me. Suddenly I felt that I was three years old.

"Could you explain this ticket to me?" I squeaked. In hindsight, this was a bad strategy. What I really wanted was to have her dismiss the ticket or lower the fine, not to educate me about the arcana of Denver's parking rules.

The Magistrate explained why the ticket was issued. I tried to protest.

"But I was not occupying two spaces," I said.

"Well, you asked me to explain the ticket," she repeated, reminding me of what I had actually asked, as opposed to what I wish I had asked.

"It says clearly on the meter," the Magistrate continued, "that the front bumper must be aligned with the meter. Otherwise, you're in violation."

"So, even though I was not depriving anyone of a space, I'm still being fined?" I was still squeaking, as if my adult self had left the room leaving a youngster to deal with this situation. A little voice in my head told me to shut up and get out of there before I shredded my dignity any further. I did not listen to it.

"But I've lived or visited dozens of cities and I've never seen such a thing before," I protested. Did I really think she was going to let me get out of this?

"Well, this is the law in Denver. You might not like it, but that's what it is."

"I don't like it," I said, feeling like a toddler as soon as the words exited my lips.

I went to the cashier's office and paid the $25 on my credit card, wishing I had simply mailed in a check and saved myself the aggravation and embarrassment.

Ice Axe

Nearly two weeks ago I was at 11,000 feet, lying on my back. My helmeted head faced down a slope, my booted feet were held by two instructors in my Wilderness Trekking School. My hands gripped an ice axe. Before releasing me into a slide, my instructors asked me which way I was going to turn once I was in freefall.


"To the right," I replied, slightly lifting my torso and twisting to the right to reinforce my intention.

The point of this exercise was to learn how to stop oneself from slipping to one's death, serious injury or - in the best case scenario - inconvenience. Plunging the tip of the ice axe into the snow would create a fulcrum around which my body would rotate, so that I'd end up on my belly with my feet facing downslope, and by putting my weight onto the axe I would stop my descent. In theory, that is what was supposed to happen.


I gave the teachers the OK and they let me go. Off I went. Rather than terror, I experienced pure bliss sliding down a glacier in the bright sunshine, my skin tingling from the bits of snow that found their way inside my Gore-Tex layers. I didn't really want to stop and could have happily slid to the bottom, but with my classmates and teachers watching I had no choice. I plunged the ice axe into the snow and, sure enough, my body eventually spun around and my feet and head reversed positions. But I kept slipping. Without being conscious of it, I had lifted the axe out of the snow and plunged it in again, as if the initial plunge had been the problem. Eventually I stopped, but I had traveled a long way.


I climbed back to the top of our slide and awaited my next turn, observing the other students as they attempted this maneuver. Another woman seemed to have the same experience as me - she repeatedly, but imperceptibly, lifted her axe out of the snow and repositioned it, as if each successive plunge would work better than the preceding one. She, too, ended her slide a bit farther than desireable.


"Commit!" exclaimed our lead instructor. "Once the axe is in the ground, commit to it. Put all your weight on it. Don't pull it out!"


I tried again, with similar results. Even though I wanted to stick with my initial axe position, my reflexes had other ideas and I kept lifting it out of the ground. Landing at the bottom of the slope after several rolls and slides - and laughs - I had an even longer climb back to the top.


Before my third attempt, I tried to center myself as my instructors held me by the ankles. I was getting tired, so this was going to be my final try at a successful self-arrest.


"Commit," I whispered inside my head.


As I began my slide, I willed myself to hang onto that axe with all my might, pushing it deeper into the snow rather than lifting it back out. My mental preparation must have worked because I was able to stop myself rather quickly.


Reflecting on this experience, I realized that I need an ice axe equivalent for my life, something that I can plunge into the present moment to prevent me from falling further into negative mind states, getting trapped in thought-loops about the past, and sliding down other slippery internal slopes. Many days I feel as if I've tumbled and slid down life itself, unable to gain any traction, while my peers are off in the distance, out of sight, continuing their upward climbs. Or maybe this is just how it is to travel one's own path, uncharted, with no one providing direction or a map except my inner guidance system which, many times, seems to have me going around in circles, retracing my steps.

I do, however, have a few ice axes in my existential tool belt, if only I can remember to deeply commit to using them. One is meditation; it often succeeds in bringing me back to now. Another is writing; it often helps me gain a compassionate perspective on my life, to help me see that maybe I have not plummeted to the bottom of a ditch after all, that maybe if I poke my head out I'll be blessed with a beautiful view. And a third tool is art making; it allows me to externalize my inner conundra by creating physical objects to represent them, depriving them of their power over me.

Inner Thighs, Indiscriminate

Until yesterday, I was a woman who rarely had issues with my body or self-image. Unlike many of my friends, as a teenager and 20-something I did not spend much time fretting over the size or shape of my behind, legs, breasts, arms and belly. For decades, I've accepted and even liked my body, pleased with its proportions and grateful that all of it worked pretty well nearly all of the time. My metabolism had been able to keep up with my intake of chocolate and no one was the wiser after my occasional binges of Toblerone bars or Ben & Jerry's pints.

For a brief moment, all that seemed to have changed.

Yesterday I was at REI, the outdoor clothing store I've patronized for years. I had ordered a dress online and went to the store to pick it up and try it on. Removing my pants and top in the fitting room, I was confronted with an unfamiliar and unwelcome sight: a roll of flesh around my belly and lumpy thighs that, in the mirror, looked a lot larger than I recalled. I don't have a full length mirror in my apartment and although I've felt that my body has been gradually changing - even though my weight has remained constant - I wasn't quite sure what I looked like.

It probably hadn't helped that, the night before, I had broken down and indulged in a longstanding craving for Popeye's Fried Chicken and biscuits (and cajun fries), washing it all down with a beer. It was as if this soul food had bypassed my digestive tract and plastered itself directly onto my thighs and derriere, as if to mock me for consuming it.

I quickly slipped the dress over my head. It fit beautifully and concealed the bumps and lumps - definitely a keeper! Briefly, I considered getting another one in a different color, imagining that I'd have to cover myself from waist to mid-calf for as long as I walked about the earth. No more shorts, and forget about bathing suits. And then I began to think about how I'd have to subsist on a diet of kale and tofu to recover my former figure. At that point, I began to sink into a funk, a perfect example of how attachment - to a thinner body - leads to suffering.

Were my days of indiscriminate eating really over? Would I have to finally face some fundamental facts about aging and further limit my intake of cheeses, cookies and chocolates? Would I need to intensify my exercise if I were to continue to entertain my tastebuds and fill my belly in the manner to which they had grown accustomed? As I pondered these questions, I realized that bumming out over the diameter of my butt was unnecessary, that my happiness was not contingent upon the circumference of my thighs. I know many large women and men who are much more content and successful than I am. And while I'm not going to allow my size to expand exponentially, I'm also not going to fixate on, or try to eradicate, every surplus centimeter of flesh. That would be ridiculous as well as an affront to the person I've always been - someone who refuses to confuse her self-esteem with her body.

Interruption, Indignity

Although it has happened to me a few times already, I still haven't quite gotten used to the fact that - in Colorado - when I ask a server at a restaurant to please pack up the remainder of my meal, they do not whisk my plate away and return with a tidy little box filled with my food. Rather, they bring an empty box to the table, and it is up to me to transfer the contents of my plate into a styrofoam carton or a paper container. The process of packing up my meal interrupts whatever conversation I'm having with my dining companion, not to mention that accidentally spilling food or clumsily handling it in front of watchful eyes feels like an indignity.

I find this Colorado custom a bit irritating, and perhaps that is why I've repeatedly suppressed the memory of it. Indeed, last Thursday I had lunch at a local French restaurant and found myself scooping half of my chocolate pot de creme into a paper box. My companion stared as the dark brown dessert plop-plopped into the take-out carton where it looked significantly less appetizing than it had just seconds before in its cute white ramekin. By Friday evening I had already buried this painful episode deep in my psyche and, as a result, was newly and unpleasantly surprised when I was presented with a small box for storing half a plate of drunken noodles. Mercifully, all the food fit, but having to again peform the ritual of scooping food and scraping my plate in front of someone I had just recently met was just not fun. Next time, I might have to either order less or just eat more.

Insanity, Instincts

Insanity, it is said, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. However, with a meditation or awareness practice, one has the opportunity to observe oneself in the process of repeating history and then choosing not to in the end. Last night I was deep into deja vu all over again while sitting across a restaurant table from a 30-something year old man I had met online. In a moment of loneliness, intensified by a periodic fleeting desire to reconnect with my earlier self who had lived in Budapest, I had e-mailed this person whose screen name was in Hungarian to simply ask him if, indeed, he was. Igen. And he was also new to this area and seemed eager to meet new people, including me, even though I'm considerably older than the age range he had specified in his profile. He had posted photographs of himself in which he was outdoors and had what appeared to be a relaxed smile on his face. After a few e-mail exchanges we agreed to meet for dinner last night. Since he was driving some ways to meet me, I chose the restaurant, a funky Thai place that had received good reviews.

"So, you've been here before," he stated, as we took our seats.

"No, I haven't" I said.

"So, for a first date you've suggested an unknown place?" he asked, a bit taken aback, as if I had broken some generally accepted protocol and/or asked him to take a chance.

I, too, was taken aback. A first date? True, we were meeting for the first time, but I did not consider it a date with a capital "D". We had not even spoken on the phone beforehand, except for a few minutes immediately prior when he called to let me know he was running late. While I had been interested in meeting him I was not focused on coming up with an impressive evening or setting. I had asked him what food he enjoyed and made plans accordingly, choosing a place that would be conducive to conversation.

"Well," I said, "I asked some people for Thai restaurant suggestions and they recommended this one. The fact is I haven't eaten out all that much since moving here and I like trying new places."
Immediately, we dropped into a conversation about my impressions of Hungary and Hungarians - he had asked me in an e-mail and I thought it best to respond in person.

"Well," I said, not wanting to offend, "There seemed to be a cloud of gloom hanging over the country. People were pessimistic. But you don't seem to be like that at all."

"Actually, I am," he responded. At least he was being honest.

His remark released a range of uncomfortable sensations that I had felt while living there two decades ago, as if these had been sealed in a pouch all these years, waiting to be opened so they could be fully processed or digested. Now the pouch was leaking feelings of incompleteness, sadness, of longing for wholeness, resulting from being disconnected - by geography and genocide - from ancestral roots, and wanting to transform the experience of my Hungarian heritage into a happy one, despite the seeming impossibility of this task. No wonder I had packed this emotional goulash into an inner Ziploc, storing it somewhere deep in my guts, hoping that over time it would just pass through my system without my having to feel its painful contents.

The waitress came over to take our orders but we had not even opened the menus. We sent her away, and within minutes she returned.

"We're still not ready," I said to her. "Do we get a third try or are you going to kick us out?"

My companion laughed. I was relieved.

For what felt like a long time the waitress ignored us, and I got to hear a bit about his family history and journey to America. Like many Jewish men of his generation, he wasn't told of his religion until he was Bar Mitzvah age, a time when the word "Jew" was a common insult. An engineer, he had studied at the same university where I had spent my junior year abroad. We had eaten in the same cafeteria, whose offerings included soup with chicken feet, a dish that delighted the locals but freaked out the Americans.

As he spoke, I could not help but notice that he sounded almost exactly like another Hungarian Jewish engineer I had met, and dated, many years before. This genre of human being, in my experience, operates almost entirely from the left-brains, is analytical and logical to an extreme, lacks an aesthetic sensibility, has a scarcity mentality and can be very single-minded bordering on self-righteous. At one point during our meandering conversation my companion switched topics in order to pick up a loose thread. I can't recall what the abandoned subject had been, but I got the distinct impression that it was important to him to not leave anything hanging, that everything needed to be put in its place.

Some people might find this constellation of character traits attractive or positive in some circumstances, but I heard a little voice in my head comment, "You moved to Colorado to change your life...so why are you having dinner with a slightly more polite and refined version of an ex-boyfriend from hell?"

Perhaps I needed to revisit some old psychological territory from a new perspective, to hear nearly the exact same thought processes, mindset and beliefs from this more junior man as I had heard from my ex who, at the time, had been my senior, and to have a completely different experience. As I nibbled my drunken noodles I realized that I'm no longer the person who was afraid to trust herself and who preferred to rely on what others had to say, particularly people with strong views and clearly articulated opinions. In what had been a disastrous and painful relationship with my ex, I had abandoned many parts of myself in order to conform to his views of the world and to fit his image of who he needed his girlfriend to be.

Slowly I have learned to not do that again. All this seemed quite clear while sitting in the restaurant and when saying good night to my dinner companion after we had finished our meal. It was raining by the time we left the restaurant and, after a brief and somewhat awkward discussion about continuing our evening in a more happening part of Denver, he chivalrously suggested that we save that for another time and better weather. I was free to enjoy my own company for the rest of the night.

When I got home, however, my self-doubt and conditioning kicked in with a vengeance, berating me for not having picked a restaurant in a more lively location that offered the possibility of a post-dinner stroll, as if I had blown my very last chance to find a fulfilling relationship because I had not orchestrated a perfectly seamless, multi-stop evening. For a few moments I actually fell for these nasty voices in my head, voices that have been telling me most of my life that I need to be romantically involved with someone to be an acceptable person and that I need to twist myself into knots to either enter into or maintain such relationships. The fundamental message of these voices, a malevolent mantra as it were, is that I am not enough, that by myself I am inadequate. I think I am finally catching onto these insidious bastards and their very dirty tricks.

Imagination, Intimacy, Impatience

I have an active imagination. It is like an unruly animal that races around, dragging my emotions and hopes along with it, sometimes taking them on a wild fantasy ride, other times pulling them into a deep pit of despair. A recent episode showed me just how out of whack with reality my imagination can be.

Earlier in the week I received an e-mail from a synagogue announcing that Friday, March 13, was Shabbat Across Boulder County - people could sign up to host others or to be invited. Imagining that I might find myself at an enthusiastic and joyful Shabbat dinner with many other people, I asked the synagogue to find me a space in someone's home. Almost instantly, the organizer e-mailed me some information about my hosts and how they were wonderful people; he wrote that he'd leave it to them to send me details about the time.

I waited a day, and heard nothing. By Thursday evening, I was getting a bit concerned, so I sent the hosts an e-mail, asking for more information. By Friday morning, I still had not received a response, and my imagination started to spin sad stories about how their dinner was actually full, there had been a miscommunication between them and the synagogue, and they were too embarrassed to tell me so they were just ignoring me. And then, my imagination tamer showed up and said, "Well, maybe their e-mail is down, let's give them a call." So I called and left a message.

An hour later I received a call back from the wife. She sounded a bit breathless and disorganized, explaining that she had not checked her e-mail because she's busy mothering her 2 year old son. She told me that the other Shabbat guests had canceled, and it would just be me, her and her husband, her child, mother-in-law and her three dogs.

"Did I still want to come?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, even though that meant puncturing the fantasy balloon of a large Shabbat dinner. I did not have a backup plan and it was too late to make other arrangements.

"Well, all we do for Shabbat is say a few blessings," she added. I imagined that their minimalist ritual was due to the fact that they lacked a traditional Jewish background; perhaps they had returned to religion to raise a child but otherwise had no deep connection.

"That's OK with me," I replied. So this would not only not be a large dinner, it might not even be very Shabbat-like.

"And I'm not much of a housekeeper," she said. "Even though I'm sure I'll like you I'm not going to clean the house for you."

The last time someone from this congregation made that remark to me they had not been exaggerating. So I imagined that her home was covered with dog fur, strewn with toys, unwashed dishes piled in the sink and crumbs everywhere. Perhaps she was overwhelmed with motherhood and had let her house go to pot; in fact, my imagination went wild, conjuring images of a trailer park, with old tires and cars in the front yard.

I suppose this was the moment when I could have changed my mind. But something told me to go anyway.

"Not a problem," I said.

"Great. Is there anything that you don't or can't eat?" she asked.

"I don't eat pork," I said, figuring that I should not make any assumptions about how Jewish this family was.

"Oh, well! I was going to serve pork chops with a bacon reduction sauce," she quipped.

I burst out laughing.

"Well," I said, "you never know these days, what people will or won't eat. I hope I did not offend you."

"Not at all," she added. "I just wanted to be sure you weren't a vegan or had a gluten-free diet."

"Thanks for checking, I appreciate it."

"Do you eat sweets?" she asked.

"Absolutely!" I enthused.

"Do you like chocolate? Or would you prefer a fruit tart?" This woman was serious about dessert.

"Chocolate works for me," I said, thinking that would be end of it.

"Now, do you prefer chocolate mousse or something more solid, like chocolate cake?"

While pondering this very important question, I realized that it had been a long time since anyone had inquired so specifically about what I prefer. This stranger had been able to create some intimacy with me over our shared fondness for chocolate. For an instant, I felt a rush of love.

"Chocolate cake," I replied. "Thank you so much for asking."

We agreed that I would arrive between 6 and 7pm. And I thought that was the end of our phone calling.

In the late afternoon she called back to let me know to come closer to 7pm.

"Sure," I said, preparing not to speak to her again until arriving at her house.

Shortly after 6pm, while I was on the phone with a friend, she called again.

"What the...?" I wondered, feeling impatient at this interruption.

I took her call.

"Hi," I said, trying to disguise my annoyance. "What's up?"

"Do you eat cheese?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Great!" she replied. And I said I'd see her soon.

Within five minutes, she called again, interrupting my conversation once more. My blood was starting to boil.

"I just want to let you know," she exhaled, "that we are very casual for Shabbat. We don't dress up. We wear really comfortable clothes - like sweats or pajamas. So, I hope you are not dressed up."

At this point I was imagining this family sitting cross-legged in their sweatpants in a circle on the floor, the dogs running around, barking and stealing food from our plates, the Shabbat candles dripping wax onto the unvacuumed carpet, as if they belonged to some sloppy hippie commune. Not knowing what to expect, I had put on some of my favorite clothes that morning - not fancy, but not pj's either.

"Well, I am not planning to change before coming to your house," I said, trying to conceal my growing annoyance. "I am comfortable with what I am wearing and I hope you'll be comfortable, too."

That had to be the last of it, I thought, switching back to my other conversation.

But then minutes later she called AGAIN. I was starting to go ballistic.

"Yes?" I asked, a bit fearful of what she might say next. My imagination had already conjured the Shabbat from hell, yet at this point I could not easily back out.

"If you haven't left your studio yet, could you bring a piece of your art to show us?" she wondered.

"I'd be happy to bring you one of my business cards," I said, suppressing a growl. "I really don't wish to be doing show and tell on Shabbat. I am sure we'll have plenty to talk about."

The drive to their house was 40 minutes which gave me enough time to cool down and try to be present for whatever reality I'd be confronting when I'd ring their doorbell.

The home was, as far as I could tell, spotless. A carefully and beautifully arranged platter of cheeses, strawberries and blueberries was offered to me. The hosts wore jeans and while they were not dressed formally they were not slobs either. The dogs were well behaved and well-groomed. None of them seemed to shed a single hair. And over dinner, around a lovely table, it came up that the wife had attended yeshiva in her childhood - so, my imagination had been wrong about why they have a minimal Shabbat. And despite her flakiness on the telephone, I learned that the wife had had a successful career in finance.

While digging into the delicious chocolate cake, she and I discussed the series of phone calls we had had.

"You probably thought I was crazy," she said.

"Well, yes. And, based on what you told me, I imagined that your home was a disaster, and that is so far from the truth," I confessed. "You have a beautiful place." Later on she would show me her art collection, including a Warhol.

"I honor that you chose to come here tonight," she said, "I am not sure I would have made the same decision if I had been in your shoes."

Before long she and I were deeply immersed in a conversation about spirituality, personal growth, family dynamics, men and the choices we make. It turned out we had much more in common than a love of chocolate cake.

By this time her mother-in-law had left, her son was asleep and her husband had changed into his pajamas.

"Are you two going to be here when I get up in the morning?" he wondered, getting a drink from the kitchen.

It was after midnight when I finally left, my mind reeling from this newly forged connection. My imagination, chastened from having nearly led me astray with its fear-based stories, was curled up in the corner of my brain like a dog on its bed.

Incensed, Imitation, Immune, Integrity

Last summer when I first walked into the building where I’d soon be renting an art space, I was immediately struck by the camaraderie and welcoming attitude of the handful of artists I had met that day. These included a young woman who had her own line of hand painted pottery. She was very attractive in a conventional sense – svelte, blonde, blue eyed, with a bubbly personality and a dazzling smile. The product of a Southern upbringing, she was raised to be accommodating, non-confrontational and cheerful no matter what, maintaining a relentlessly positive view of each of her life’s circumstances and of other people’s behavior. She was all about fun – creating it, having it – and she did not seem to have room in her life for anything that would get in the way of a good time. She seemed immune to regrets, remorse or self-awareness of any kind. I have to admit that even I, a cynical, introspective and blunt-speaking Easterner was seduced by her charisma and upbeat persona. She was, in a sense, my Karmic opposite. Once I moved into the building, I often found myself wandering into her studio to chat about art, business and life and, perhaps, to have some of her unabated optimism and cheer rub off on me.

When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.

All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.

“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.

“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.

I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.

And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.

I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.

Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.

I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.

Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.

What on earth had she been thinking?

Most likely she had not been.

I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.

Intercourse

I suppose it was only a matter of time before I'd write a post with this word. The time has come. Although I live in a fairly urban neigbhorhood - by Denver standards - my apartment is surprisingly quiet. Rarely do cars or motorcycles speed down the street. My neighbors are not prone to throwing wild parties, blaring the television or having loud arguments. Occasionally I hear the scraping of skateboards against the asphalt between my building and the neighboring one - in fact, as I write this, some young boarder is creating an annoying racket, going back and forth and back and forth, practicing jumps.

But lately the more persistent sounds have been generated by the couple in the apartment below mine; judging by the duration and volume of bed squeaks, grunts and moans, they seem to enjoy a healthy sex life. Good for them. I have never met them, and don't wish to, as I'd rather not picture their faces the next time their carnal exertions crescendo, keeping me awake in the process.

Inauspicious

This word came to mind as I was nuking some leftovers on a microwave-safe plate and, a few seconds before the timer went off, I heard a loud snap. The plate had cracked almost exactly in half, a very clean break. Holding the two pieces together so that my food would not fall through the chasm, I dumped my dinner on a different, microwave-safe plate and tossed the other one into the trash. I wondered what "microwave-safe" meant in this context.

Insanely Intense...or Intensely Insane?

I am wondering which of these two phrases would more aptly describe my third telemark ski class. This weekend, unlike the previous two, my class - three students and two teachers - headed to the back country, meaning that there were no chairlifts to whisk us to the top of the mountain. Beginning at an elevation of 10,800 feet, we had to hoof it up ourselves, on skis, carrying heavy backpacks filled with all the supplies we'd need. In mine I stowed nearly three liters of water, chocolate, cheese, a sliced apple and a sandwich, a down jacket, extra mittens and a hat, a first aid kit, and a mini-version of my wallet. To keep the skis from slipping we adhered skins to them - long strips of fuzzy fabric with very sticky glue on them and hooks on both ends.

In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.

"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.

"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.

I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.

Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.

This was going to be a long day.

L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.

"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.

We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.

As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.

During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.

After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.

The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.

Mostly onto my face.

This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.

Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.

Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.

Will I do this again?

I won't rule it out.

Invigorating, Intricacies, Immense

Towards the end of 2008 I joined the Colorado Mountain Club and in mid-December received my welcome packet and some printed trip listings. One of them was for the Telemark Ski School, a series of classes over four weekends in January. Something inside me stirred and said, "Sign up". I read more of the fine print and it turns out that one was supposed to have taken a pre-qualifying ski trip in late November or early December. Those dates had long passed and the registration deadline for the school was looming. I called the school's director to find out if I might be able to enroll anyway. The number I dialed rang and rang and then went dead. I phoned the Mountain Club to ask them if I could sign up without speaking to the director - that was not an option, but they thought I could reach him by e-mail. After making contact, I asked the director what the qualifying trips were all about. Turns out they were to assess stamina rather than skiing ability. I have more of the former than of the latter. He also mentioned that the classes are at high altitude - 10,000-12,000 feet - a factoid which gave me pause. I told him a bit about myself and he said I could sign up.


Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.


I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.

"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."

Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.

The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.

As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.

"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.

Maybe I was!

What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.

"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.

They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.

"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.

By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.