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.