I for an I

Impact

2009-12-15T18:14:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-26T23:28:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-04T22:27:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-01T00:53:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-15T00:30:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-10T12:10:00.007-04:00

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

2009-09-28T23:16:00.007-04:00

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

2009-09-12T10:58:00.006-04:00

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

2009-09-08T15:30:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-01T22:15:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-21T23:26:00.008-04:00

[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

2009-07-29T00:12:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-14T00:37:00.009-04:00

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

2009-07-03T00:23:00.004-04:00

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

2009-06-04T23:37:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-18T22:01:00.004-04:00

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

2009-05-10T23:37:00.010-04:00

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

2009-04-05T23:59:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-04T14:10:00.014-04:00

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

2009-03-15T16:18:00.009-04:00

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

2009-03-15T15:22:00.005-04:00

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

2009-02-15T15:26:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-09T00:10:00.004-05:00

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?

2009-01-25T19:25:00.006-05:00

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

2009-01-12T11:36:00.014-05:00

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.

Improbable, Impatience

2008-12-20T23:10:00.005-05:00

On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.

Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).

It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.

Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.

"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."

Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.

"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."

By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.

"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.

We were headed home and that was all that mattered.

Invitation, Impetus

2008-12-14T02:03:00.012-05:00

On Wednesday, just a few days ago, an acquaintance invited me to the so-called "Fantastic Hosts' Party", which she described as a "wild dance/food/drink/socialize party downtown full of artists, corporate execs, and 'burners' ". I had no idea what that last word means but was too embarrassed to ask for clarification. She even told me where to find an inexpensive party dress. Being in adventure mode, I said sure, even though it meant I'd need to come up with an outfit in 72 hours or less. Somehow I'd managed to arrive at my age with fewer than a handful of skirts and dresses combined, and none of what I had on hand was suitable for a mid-December evening party.

I had some misgivings about the event itself - normally I don't seek out large and most likely loud gatherings - but being in new in town I figured it couldn't hurt to be exposed to this new scene. Maybe I'd be pleasantly surprised; if not, I'd don my anthropologist's hat and take it all in. And I decided that even if the party was a disappointment, at least I had an impetus to update my wardrobe. With the economy in a shambles, I was hoping to find some good deals if not some real steals.

Early Wednesday evening I set out on my mission. First I headed to Ross, the store that this woman suggested. They had dresses galore, many for less than $50 and several for less than $15. Either they didn't fit or they were poorly made, looking as though they might not survive even a single evening intact. I headed over to Macy's and made a beeline for the clearance racks. Nada. Then my eyes glanced upon a simple, below-the-knee sleeveless dress with a deep V-neck that culminated in a twist of fabric. Unlike many of the strappy and skimpy outfits, this dress looked wearable and comfortable. It fit like a charm. I checked the tag - it, unlike the majority of the merchandise, was not on sale, not even just a little bit.

I hung onto it and continued browsing, finding a few pair of black pants that were marked down. Rather than spend the next two days hunting for a less expensive dress, I decided to spend the money on this one. I got in line at the cash register, where a customer was trying to use a coupon from the local paper on her purchase. The clerk rang her up and the customer offered the remaining coupons to me and and another woman. When it was my turn, the clerk tallied my three items and they came to just $1.62 more than the amount required to use a coupon for $50 off the total. I felt as if the Universe had conspired to help me find a reasonably priced dress in less than two hours, no mean feat for an indecisive and picky shopper like me. And wanting to bring my bill down even further, I opened a Macy's credit card to save another 20%.

The following day I realized that I didn't have an appropriate coat to wear over the dress. My Gore-tex and down jackets just wouldn't fly. Back to Macy's I went for a more thorough look. Bingo - I found a faux lambswool cropped evening jacket that, with my newly opened Macy's card, would also be 20% less. Done.

On Friday, although I had managed to pull together an outfit, my enthusiasm for attending this event was starting to fall apart. For one thing, there had not been subsequent communication from my acquaintance about how she or her boyfriend - he was one of the 18 "Fantastic Hosts" - were going to get me my invitation, required for entry. And not knowing the precise address of the party, I couldn't easily invite someone to go with me. I called this woman to check in.

She made it clear that it was her boyfriend's responsibility to physically deliver the invitation to me - she wasn't going to get involved beyond giving me his cell phone number. While I respected her need to create some boundaries for herself around his last minute behavior, I couldn't help but feel that she was blowing me off; after all, she was the one who had told me about the event. When I suggested that maybe we could all head over there together, and therefore he could simply hand me my ticket at that time, she said she wasn't sure what their schedule would be. In other words, maybe I'd see them there, or maybe I wouldn't.

Huh.

In the meantime, I had mentioned my dress quest to a few artists in my studio building and one of them recommended that I check out Colorado Mills, a group of outlet stores. Only a 15 minute drive away, and with nothing else on my calendar, I figured I'd do some more due diligence. Just as I pulled onto Highway 6 to head towards the stores, my cellphone rang. It was the boyfriend, asking me if I'd be at home in 20 minutes so he could give me this prized invitation. Sorry, I said, I'm heading West and will be gone a few hours. Then he suggested stopping by later that evening. I told him that I had to get up the next morning for a yoga class so he could swing by up until 11pm. He asked me if I do text messaging - I said my cellphone plan doesn't cover it and I'd prefer a quick phone call to let me know when he was on the way.

At the outlet stores - even Nieman Marcus and Saks - they were practically giving the clothing away. I had never seen so much couture for so little cash, relatively speaking. Dresses that normally sell for several hundreds were discounted to the low three digits. And there were a few luxury items whose prices had temporarily dipped into the double digits, thanks to special Friday evening offers. In that respect, I had chosen the perfect time to visit. A few hours later I left with a long knit skirt, some tights, a funky royal blue short-sleeve coat and some gifts. Back home, I went to sleep without hearing from the boyfriend.

On Saturday, the day of the party, I went to yoga, enjoyed a manicure, had some lunch and got ready to go to a "Change is Coming" meeting in my neighborhood. At around 3pm I called the boyfriend to let him know that I'd be turning off my phone for a few hours and that hopefully we'd connect somehow. He was good to his word - sometime between 4pm and 6pm he had managed to squeeze the invitation into my supposedly airtight mailbox. I checked out the address. I was in luck - this bash was within walking distance of my apartment. Being someone that prefers to speak to people over the phone, I called the boyfriend to thank him for the invite and to find out when he and my acquaintance might be arriving. He was non-committal, but later sent me a text message saying 10:30 p.m.

My inner reaction?

"Whatever."

Although I am only a few years older than this couple, I feel like I'm from a different generation if not another planet altogether. From what I've read about the contemporary 30-something social scene, it is perfectly acceptable to engage in dynamic, last-minute plan making and plan breaking, all possible with the aid of text messaging. I grew up with a different model for social interaction - you agree on a time and place and a way of getting in touch if something comes up. To me, this whole party situation felt non-committal, if not slightly rude. Indeed, this fellow was one of the Fantastic Hosts yet was not planning to make an appearance until after the party was underway.

I realized that if I wanted to salvage any fun from the evening I'd need to refrain from indulging in judgmental and negative thoughts and stay focused on the upside: a chance to dress up, check out the scene, enjoy some wine, meet people and dance. I also realized that I could simply choose not to go at all. Perhaps I'd already received the full benefits of the invitation: inexpensive yet high quality clothing that I'd enjoy for a long time.

In the end, I decided to go. As I suspected, the venue was loud and crowded and many people - including women - had chosen not to dress up at all. While I don't regret my purchases, I was a bit disappointed that my acquaintance had given me some inaccurate intelligence on what to wear. While waiting in the long line at the bar for a glass of red wine, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Molly who, it turned out, was also looking around for her friends. I had not spotted mine. When I mentioned that I had just moved to Denver she said, gesturing towards the crowd behind us, "Don't worry, not everyone in this city is a poser. There are some down to earth people in town, too."

Ah, posers.

Could it be that my new acquaintances were of that ilk, despite my hopes to the contrary?

At around 11:20 or so, amidst the din of this bash, located in a vacant multi-story building, I violated my no text messaging rule to contact the boyfriend to see if they had arrived. "Not yet," came the reply. As it approached midnight, snow began to fall and, with my acquaintances nowhere in sight, I decided to call it a night.

Instant Joy

2008-12-02T23:11:00.004-05:00

This afternoon I went to my local post office to mail some mosaics and some show applications and to pick up a gift a friend had sent me. I arrived to find a long line of sullen looking people and only three clerks on duty. I passed some of the time by reading a copy of the neighborhood newspaper that had been left on the counter. As the line inched along it continued to expand behind me; by the time it was my turn the queue was nearly to the door.

I'm sure the people behind me were not pleased by the fact that I had four packages to mail, each requiring slightly different treatment and therefore additional conversation. The process was further slowed by the fact that the clerk was hearing impaired - so said the sign at the counter - and my effort to speak clearly didn't always succeed. Finally, after some repetition and clarification, all the packages had been metered and affixed with delivery confirmation stickers.

Then I presented the clerk with my slip of paper so she could retrieve the item my friend had mailed. I knew what it was, as my friend had e-mailed me the tracking information. After checking my ID the clerk went to the back, found the item, and returned to the counter bearing a hoola hoop, wrapped in brown paper for its postal journey, and with a diameter of more than three feet.

As I turned to leave, hoop in hand, I noticed big smiles on the faces of the people waiting patiently in the line behind me. Even one of the clerks broke into a grin. Seeing their reactions dissolved my own blah mood, and for a moment I was walking on air.

Intimacy

2008-10-28T15:22:00.003-04:00

Walking into Denver's downtown this morning to do some errands it occurred to me that a possible way of looking at the cause of the financial crisis is through the lens of intimacy or, in this case, the lack thereof. As I strolled in the sunshine I was thinking of intimacy as meaning detailed knowledge of and deep familiarity with a thing or a person. That is simply what arose in my head.

Lenders were not intimate with their borrowers' financial condition. Borrowers, in many cases, were not intimate with the terms of their loans or with their own financial positions. Both borrowers and lenders may not have been intimate with themselves, ignoring their doubts or misgivings about what they were doing. Heads of banks and financial institutions were not intimate with what their organizations were doing.

In other words, maybe it all boils down to an entire culture not paying attention to details, glossing over unpleasant facts, realities and twinges of inner discomfort in the quest for monetary success.

I wonder if this crisis will help some people wake up and start tuning in and, in an intimacy-building way, turning inward.

Introducing another Blog

2008-10-23T15:09:00.003-04:00

New situations demand new blogs, so I've created a blog in which to reflect upon certain aspects of my experiences in Colorado. Please visit Adventures with Altitude to read about cultural and climactic differences and the occasional quirky observation about life at 5,280 feet.

For a change of pace, on this new blog the titles of posts begin with a variety of letters, not just "I", and often contain more than just a word or two. Do check it out I will be keeping this blog, too, and cross referencing posts when it makes sense to do so.

Thanks for reading, and please don't be shy about leaving comments on either blog.

I-Ching, of the Torah

2008-10-22T00:57:00.005-04:00

Tonight I celebrated Simchat Torah, which marks the completion of the yearly cycle of Torah reading, with congregation Nevei Kodesh in Boulder. In true Jewish Renewal style there was joyful dancing, praying and singing during each of the hakafot, or processionals. Except these weren't really processionals, where a select group of people carry the Torah scrolls around a synagogue. It was more like a casual prom where everyone got to dance with the popular partners which, in this case, were one of half a dozen Torah scrolls, one of which was a few hundred years old and had survived the Holocaust. Each hakafa had its own theme and accompanying music, ranging from Hassidic niggunim (chants) to a Jewish version of "My Dear Lord". Depending on the tune, some people waltzed, others sashayed, and some swayed slowly with their Torahs. Unlike last year, where I stood on the sidelines, I borrowed someone's tallis, embraced a Torah and did some shimmying myself.

After the hakafot we unfurled a Torah scroll around the edges of the room, each of us holding up a portion of the parchment so that we created a circle. In the middle, where the text was visible, several rabbis - including Reb Zalman - gathered to perform an I-Ching-like ritual. People holding the Torah would point to a passage on the parchment in front of them and one of the rabbis would translate the verse which, much like an oracle, would help us find guidance for the coming year. Since it is quite difficult to read Hebrew calligraphy upside down, let alone figure out where in the Torah a meaningful verse might be, the ritual was pretty random.

So imagine my delight when Reb Zalman himself came over to my section of the scroll, and then my complete surprise when he translated the verse to which I had randomly pointed. It turned out to be the same verse (Deuteronomy 30:19) that my father used to quote, part of which appears on his headstone. In brief, the message I received was: Choose Life.

OK, God! I think I am finally getting the message.

Incantations, Interpretations

2008-10-19T22:52:00.004-04:00

This post has been simmering on this blog's back burner for a long time. So I wonder if I should not even post it, given that it refers to something that happened a few weeks ago, practically an eternity in blog time. Indeed, my observance of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur seem like they were in another era. The weather was still summer-like for Rosh Hashanah and just days before I had begun moving into my apartment in Denver, my life change coinciding nicely with the change of seasons and the Jewish New Year.

I chose to spend these holidays with Nevei Kodesh, a Jewish renewal congregation in Boulder, about 35 minutes away. We worshipped in the town's Seventh Day Adventist Church, a spacious and sparsely decorated building that was easily converted into a synagogue for the Days of Awe. Congregants turned out in large numbers, filling the sanctuary with white or light-colored clothing for the holidays. Personalized tallitot, prayer shawls, added a bit of color, as did four chuppot, canopies, one in each corner of the large room.

Each of the chuppot, which were draped with brightly painted silk fabrics, represented one of each of the Four Worlds, or ways in which one can connect with holiness. There was the chuppa for Assiyah, the Physical World; another for Yetzirah, the Relational World; a third for Briyah, the World of the Mind; and finally for Atzilut, the Spiritual Realm Beyond Time and Space. Each canopy provided a semi-private space for silent meditation and prayer on the relevant subject matter. As someone who takes the High Holidays seriously and doesn't view services as primarily a time to socialize, I was grateful to have the option to be with the group but in a private space.

It turned out that I worshipped with like-minded souls and I never felt the need during services to duck under a chuppah to have some quiet, although I napped in Yetzirah during the mid-afternoon break on Yom Kippur. The rabbi offered plenty of opportunities in the services for silent contemplation in between the recitations and incantations of the ancient prayers, effectively hitting the pause button and allowing our own words and thoughts to sink in. And during the Torah service I was grateful for the group aliyot, the calling up to the Torah, based on creative psychologically-oriented interpretations of the ancient texts. For example, on Rosh Hashanah we read the tale of Sarah's late-in-life pregnancy with Isaac and her banishment of Hagar and Ishmael into the desert. When Sarah discovers that she will have a child, the Hebrew text uses a word that could be interpreted as laughter or mocking. Is Sarah laughing in delight or is she afraid of being mocked? For the reading of this passage the rabbi asked all of us to come up who were on the edge of faith, those of us who teeter between letting out belly laughs because we recognize that life has been unfolding in a way that supports and nurtures us, and between mocking or doubting the existence of a higher power. Since I probably teeter on this edge many times a week if not every day, I walked to the front of the room, as did a third of the congregation. Once the Torah reader had completed the passage the rabbi blessed all of us to find the kind of faith that would allow us to live fully and fully aware of the miraculousness of life itself.

I went up for a few more aliyot, as did many of the people there. Unlike in more traditional synagogues, in Jewish Renewal aliyot are not rationed or bestowed upon a handful of people, rendering the rest of the congregation observers rather than active participants in the service. The only exception to this was the final aliyah, where the rabbi called to the Torah and blessed Reb Zalman Schachter Shalomi, the 80-something year old founder of the Renewal Movement, referring to him as the wellspring of this fluorishing branch of Judaism. May he live to be a hundred and twenty.

Intact, Incense

2008-10-04T22:59:00.005-04:00

Yesterday morning my relocube, a large metal storage unit containing most of my earthly possessions, was delivered to my parking spot near the apartment building I now live in. The driver, a man with pale skin, a white beard, twinkly eyes and a laid back manner, was the same person who had brought my studio relocube a few weeks earlier. Seeing him again was like seeing an old friend. As had happened previously, not only did he spend several minutes with me discussing the optimum positioning of my cube for easiest unloading, he also lingered for some small talk after he had used his forklift to deposit the cube in the perfect spot. Despite his full day of deliveries and pickups, this man did not act as if he were in a hurry. He seemed quite relaxed, unlike most delivery people I had encountered on the East Coast.

Then I got on Craigslist to find some movers to unload the cube. By mid-afternoon the crew showed up; the first guy to arrive, a 36-year old fellow with craggy good looks, a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of his shirt and a prosthetic leg from a drunk-driving accident in his teens, apologized for his somewhat disheveled appearance, saying that he hadn't been planning to work that day. It didn't bother me that he showed up in jeans and a t-shirt (he's moving stuff, after all), but as he worked up a sweat carting boxes up to my apartment it became clear that he probably hadn't showered in the preceding few days. His exertions released an increasingly foul odor in my apartment. I turned the ceiling fan on the highest speed and opened all the windows, hoping that would help. This man was also ingratiatingly and somewhat aggressively polite, insisting on calling me Ma'am at every opportunity despite my protestations.

"Whatever you say, Ma'am"
"No problem, Ma'am"
"Where should I put this, Ma'am?"
"We'll take care of everything, Ma'am"
"Thank you, Ma'am"
"Ma'am, do you mind if I take this call?"

After being Ma'am-ed to death over the course of nearly three hours I wanted to strangle him...except that would have meant touching him.

Since then I've unpacked about two-thirds of the boxes and so far all of my belongings are intact, even if the containers they were in got somewhat bit bent out of shape. It's been a month since I've seen all of my stuff and in the meantime I had forgotten exactly what I had put in the relocube. Imagine my delight and relief a few minutes ago when I opened a box and discovered some cones of frangipani incense I purchased in Thailand a few years ago.

Things are starting to smell a lot better around here.

Immersion, Idaho Springs

2008-09-30T22:29:00.008-04:00

In preparation for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on Sunday I participated in a mikveh - ritual immersion - with a group of women from a Renewal congregation, Nevei Kodesh, of Boulder, CO. Whereas last year I immersed in the brisk waters of a Connecticut pond, this year I dunked in some very hot springs. The facilitator of this ritual, Eve Ilsen, asked us to use the drive into the mountains to quietly contemplate what it was we wanted to leave behind in the water so that we could begin the new year with a clean slate. She explained that water, which surrounded us in the womb, has the power to absorb emotional stress, restoring us to equilibrium. Certainly that has been my experience with open water swimming.

As a passenger in someone else's car, I had plenty of time to think about this but became overwhelmed by the number of choices of behaviors and patterns that were candidates for being washed away. About half way on our silent journey the driver began a somewhat complicated Hebrew chant to which I hummed along while I struggled to remember the words to, and tune of, one of my favorites: Elohai neshama she-natata-bi tehora, hi. It means: The soul that God has given me is pure. Getting in touch with our goodness - and that of others - can be difficult especially if it requires excavating through accumulated layers of hurt, pain, disappointment, frustration and anger.

Approaching the hot springs, the driver asked if any of us wanted to share our kavanah, or intention, for the mikveh. Knowing the power of articulating my thoughts, I told the three other women that I wanted to drop negativity, starting my new year and my new life in Colorado without any traces of it. There are many forms and shapes of negativity, of course, but like an umbrella insurance policy I figured I would try to cover as many bases as possible in a single word. Another woman shared that she wanted to leave behind the difficulties and emotional pain of the preceding year.

We entered the Indian Springs spa and headed to the locker room to prepare for our immersion, removing all makeup, nail polish and jewelry and showering thoroughly. The hot springs themselves were located in underground caves that, except for the padded walkways, had a biblical feel. They were dimly lit with low ceilings and signs urged people to respect the sacredness of the space and the solitude of the bathers. Luckily for our group of nine women there were no other clients there, giving us plenty of privacy. Removing our towels, we circled one of the pools and reviewed the customs of the mikveh: a minimum of three complete immersions, reciting the blessing after the first one. We were told that we could dip as many times as we needed. Looking around our group - ages 20-60 something, of many shapes and sizes - I was struck by how much younger and how much more themselves everyone looked without their clothes on. The act of disrobing alone helped us each leave behind some of what obscures our neshamot (souls).

Based on where I was standing, I was part of the first pair of women to immerse side by side, separated by a railing, in a somewhat narrow and dark pool. There were three steps into the pool, each one allowing a greater degree of adjustment to the temperature. After descending and standing in the water for several seconds, I thought I was used to the heat but when I immersed my head I felt somewhat panicky and quickly stood up. The heat made it difficult for me to relax and focus on my intention, even though I immersed four times, twice in each direction. Luckily, after the others went, I had an opportunity to do it again - a double dipping of sorts. Now accustomed to the heat I was able to stay in the water long enough to relax and let go.

I participate in rituals such as this to have a touchstone, a reminder of my intention, knowing full well that the ritual alone will not make negativity disappear from my life instantaneously. Sure enough, at Rosh Hashanah services the following evening, I noticed that my mind was generating some negative chatter, doing its usual thing of comparing, evaluating, analyzing. I sighed inside, remembered my immersion of the previous day, realized that I have a choice and refocused my thoughts.

Insurance, Industrial Classifications, IRS

2008-09-24T01:21:00.004-04:00

Earlier this week I spent the better part of two days jumping through various hoops in order to be considered for a more comprehensive health insurance policy that is offered to business groups, as opposed to individuals. In other words, I had to demonstrate that I have a business in Colorado. But since I lack a business history here, I also had to demonstrate that my application was legitimate.

It didn't help matters that last spring I filed for an extension for my 2007 taxes, giving myself until October 15 to send in the paperwork. The underwriter needed to see my return, which doesn't exist....yet. However, my insurance broker got them to agree that it would be sufficient for them to see evidence that I filed for an extension. Until a few years ago, the IRS would routinely send confirmation of extension requests to the taxpayer. But they ended this practice, probably to save money, and so I had no proof that I had requested extra time. I had no choice but to call the IRS and see if they would send me something that indicated that, yes, I had filed for an extension. It took three phonecalls and nearly three hours of waiting on hold (at least they play classical music) before I succeeded in having them fax me the document I needed. The process might have been shorter had I known in advance that I'd need to be in front of the fax machine when it arrived, as they won't fax personal tax information somewhere else. Since I didn't have a fax number, I got one from Efax, and then - while the IRS employee waited patiently on the line - downloaded the software so I could open it. It worked. I felt a tiny sense of triumph over the vast tax bureaucracy.

Compared to that, registering my business in Colorado was a breeze. I registered my trade name - Mixed Media Mosaics - at the Secretary of State's Office online, then took proof of my registration to the Colorado tax department to get my license to do business. Before hand I had looked at this form online to see what information I'd need to provide. They ask applicants for their industrial classification - it turns out it is 711510, Independent Artists, Writers, Performers, which lumps a lot of people under a single category including but not limited to: storytellers, poets, orchestra conductors, taxidermists, ethnic dancers, motivational speakers, art restorers and celebrity spokepersons. In previous years, according to the website I consulted, many of these job titles were separately classified.

Then it was off to the City and County of Denver Treasury Division to get a license to collect their sales tax, separate from the state tax. Whoever called my home state "Taxachusetts" had not been to Colorado, where certain cities, counties and districts collect all kinds of taxes. When I sell my art here, I will charge a tax rate of 7.72% that includes the state sales tax, the Denver sales tax, the Regional Transportation District tax, the Football Stadium District tax and the Scientific and Cultural Facilities District tax. And then I get to pay a monthly Occupational Privilege Tax (OPT) for the privilege of being in business. This would all be quite entertaining if I could file my sales tax returns online, as I did in Massachusetts, simply entering in my revenues and having the website calculate what I owe. Unfortunately, Colorado is about four years away from having such a system in place. So, I will receive personalized tax booklets on which to write in ink who is getting how much tax. Perhaps when I fill out my first one I will blog about it under the title "Insane-making". Meanwhile, Colorado is kind enough to offer free tax classes to help newbies decipher it all.

But all of my phoning, faxing and filling out forms paid off. My application for the health coverage I wanted was approved.

Inflatable

2008-09-22T00:57:00.005-04:00

Since arriving in Denver, and with the exception of the first night when I stayed at the home of my studio landlord, I have been camping out in my art studio, sleeping on a cotton mattress loaned to me by my landlord. He told me I could hang out here until I find a place to live and, while I did not intend to stay here a long time, the arrangement is proving to be somewhat convenient and helpful.

For one thing, I haven't completely decided if I want to rent an apartment or buy a place to live, so staying here is giving me a bit more time to think about that and keep exploring different neighborhoods and options. Furthermore, the combination of my cross-country drive, the adjustment to the altitude and to the realization that I actually did move left me feeling a bit shell-shocked and exhausted for the first several days after my arrival. I am grateful that I did not have to look for a place to live during a time of mental discombobulation. Finally, sleeping here makes my transition feel more like an adventure and it's a reminder of how far I've come in my personal growth - even a few years ago I would not have considered doing this, as it would have seemed too bohemian, and I probably would have been too afraid of arriving in a new city without a place to live or, more likely, afraid of what others might think of that.

But, it turns out that arriving in a new city with no place to live is not really a big deal. People are not looking at me cross-eyed. I have a small refridgerator here, a microwave, an electric tea kettle, a place to park my car, a bathroom and coin-operated laundry in the basement. And, of course, wireless access. The showers don't work but that merely motivated me to take advantage of a free introductory membership at the local YMCA, where I enjoyed yoga and dance classes in addition to the sauna and showers. And with my free trial about to expire, now I've found a yoga studio with showers a few minutes' drive from my studio - all the more incentive to develop a regular yoga practice, something I've been wanting to do anyway.

When I slow down and take each day as it comes, solutions to my immediate logistical challenges keep presenting themselves. And so it was when my landlord - a portrait photographer - asked to borrow his mattress back temporarily. Sometimes he uses it as a prop when photographing infants, allowing them to crawl all over it. Not wishing to engage in further mattress exchanges, and not wanting to continue to impose on him, I told him that he should hang onto the mattress and I'd find something else to use. I did bring a camping mattress with me, but it is quite thin. After going for a short hike yesterday afternoon to clear my head and stretch my legs, I noticed a Bed Bath & Beyond on the other side of the highway. I pulled off the road and found my way into the store. It turns out that they were having a sale and the more deluxe inflatable mattress was 30% off. I took a twin size and put it in my shopping cart. Arriving at the checkout, I couldn't decide which line to get into and hung back for a few minutes while others got in the queue. My indecisiveness proved to have a purpose. When I finally chose a register, I ended up behind a customer with an entire deck of store coupons and a generous spirit. She asked me if I'd like a coupon (yes!) and, after flipping through her stash, handed me one for 20% off. It had already expired but the store accepted it, no questions asked. Knowing that I got a good deal helped me sleep better at night, and the mattress itself was quite comfortable, too.

Tomorrow I will resume looking for a place to live.

Installed, Invested

2008-09-17T22:03:00.004-04:00

I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.

But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.

On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.

On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.

Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.

Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.

Interstate: Illuminated

2008-09-09T23:28:00.004-04:00

I'm in Wyoming, a place that once seemed very far away, a place that I might only see in a movie. Driving through the most eastern part of the state I was struck by its lush-looking landscape. I say "looking" because the combination of prairie grasses, which are yellowish green, and darker grass make it appear as if the ground is covered in a pale chartreuse velour. It looks particularly lush when illuminated by bright afternoon sun. While the countryside I drove through was mostly flat, occasionally there were these odd mounds, bumps and cones, some whose shapes reminded me of extinct volcanos, creating a sense of otherworldliness. It was as if the earth had been undulating and then, at some point, had stopped moving, freezing these mounds in place.

Seeing the different shades of greens, yellows and browns, the textures of the grasses, the shapes of the hills, the silhouettes of cattle grazing and the bright blue sky made me think about how I might paint such a landscape, should I ever attempt to paint again. I wondered how one could capture the sweep of the sky and the seeming endlessness of the land.

Interstate: Inns and Ice Machines

2008-09-09T23:14:00.002-04:00

This trip has given me the opportunity to sample some of America's typical roadside accommodations, the no-nonsense, not too many frills hotels that cluster around major exits on this country's interstate highways. Interestingly, the worst one (a depressing looking Holiday Inn in Milesburg, PA) was also the most expensive, even with the AAA discount. And breakfast wasn't included! I've also slept at an AmericInn (Albert Lea, Minnesota), a Days Inn (Rapid City, SD) and now a La Quinta (Cheyenne, WY). I ended up at these hotels because they happened to be in the places where I decided to stop driving on a given night; I certainly did not make these particular lodgings as my destination. With the exception of AmericInn, where I couldn't connect to the wireless, all had great WiFi and extremely mediocre coffee. And I gotta mention those ice machines! You know, the kind that dispense ice cubes into plastic buckets with a loud clunking noise. It is definitely part of the required soundtrack for a drive across the country.

Interstate: Impressions

2008-09-09T01:04:00.005-04:00

Marketers and advertisers know that it takes a minimum of seven, if not more, impressions to convert someone into a customer. That potential customer will need to see or hear at least seven advertisements or product mentions before they will take action. The marketers in South Dakota are well acquainted with this fact, thus the Interstate is lined with billboards that announce restaurants and attractions that are hundreds of miles away.

For example, for hours before I arrived to Wall, SD, population 800 or so, I must have seen dozens of billboards with simple but tempting graphics and slogans for Wall Drug. In hindsight, I wished I had stopped to photograph each and every one of them, although that might have slowed me down quite a bit.

The theme was simple. Each billboard emphasized a different items available at Wall Drug. One sign focused on homemade donuts, and had an image of a chocolate frosted one. Another boasted 5 cent coffee. A third showed cowboy boots. A fourth had a picture of cherry pie. A fifth announced that T-Rex was at Wall Drug. A sixth said, "Only 50 miles to Wall Drug". And on and on, mile after mile, billboard after billboard, to the point that I got curious about what kind of place Wall Drug was. Yup, they totally snagged me with their clever ads.

After soaking up the Badlands I headed to Wall Drug. Leaving the park, sign after sign informed me that I was getting closer to the 5 cent coffee. I pulled up in front of what looked like an old western store front. Wall Drug is basically a small mall filled with cowboy boots, food, games, gimmicks and more. It is probably the largest employer of this tiny town, which counts on a steady stream of visitors from the national park.

If I had been less tired, I might have lingered at Wall Drug to fully absorb the kitsch, but I wanted to eat something before traveling one more hour in waning daylight to get to Rapid City, SD. I ditched over-the-top Wall Drug in favor of the unpretentious Badlands Bar, a local joint that seemed anachronistic. Both the bartender and a few of the cowboy hatted customers smoked cigarettes as ceiling fans whirred.

The man who took my order had longish gray hair, a handlebar moustache and a friendly demeanor.

I asked him if the buffalo burger came with anything on it.

"Nope, we don't have lettuce or tomato," he said, simply stating the facts without apology. This place was really about the meat and french fried potatoes.

"Could you some put onion on it?" I asked.

"Well, I can bring you some onion on the side," he replied. I hadn't yet noticed the sign on the wall that let customers know that this place was not Burger King....you don't have it your way.

He brought over a cardboard beer bottle tote filled with condiments: two squirt bottles, one with ketchup and one with mustard, and two recycled Corona bottles, one filled with pepper and another with salt. He placed a small plastic container with chopped white onions and a white plastic fork next to it.

The buffalo burger was a bit overcooked but I dumped a lot of onions and ketchup on it, washed it down with french fries and a coke, and in its own way was just fine. Just as, in its own way, even the mildly smoky air was refreshing.

Interstate: Interior, SD

2008-09-09T00:05:00.007-04:00

My route has taken me on I-90 through Wisconsin, Minnesota and now South Dakota. The further west I travel, the higher the speed limit. In South Dakota it is 75 miles per hour, so traffic flows at about 85-90 mph. At that rate one can cover a lot of ground. Depending on one's perspective, there is either very little or quite a lot to see. The swaths of farmland are, for the most part, flat. They are slightly less green than in Wisconsin or Minnesota. There are the occasional buffalo and herds of cattle. The sky, however, is vast and filled with different patterns and textures of clouds, some of which appear to be in vertical layers, as if they were fluffy skyscrapers. In late afternoon, the landscape is bathed in gorgeous light, rendering even the flattest of plains breathtakingly beautiful and making the pain of a day sitting in the car worth it.

Today I whizzed by a sign announcing that I was entering the Mountain Time Zone, gaining an hour in less than a second. I decided to spend my extra 60 minutes of sunlight during my visit to the Badlands National Park, in Interior, SD. From the highway, dotted only with round bales of hay and, pardon the pun, corny billboards every few miles exhorting travelers to visit the Corn Palace - "You'll Be A-maized!" and "It's All Ears!" (yes, I pulled off the highway to visit it) - you can't even imagine that just a few miles away are magnificent rock formations that form the Badlands. Created over the millenia by evaporating water that left red stripes of sediment sandwiched between lighter stone, the Badlands appear to be simultaneously ancient and futuristic. From certain angles the silhouettes of the craggy rocks seem to be castles in the sky, overlooking the grassy prairie where rabbits, elk and - of course - prairie dogs wander and graze. It is otherwordly, reminding me a little bit of Turkey's Cappadocia, and I doubt that the dozens of photographs I took will do it justice. It is a place probably best experienced in a 24-hour period, seeing both sunset and sunrise amidst the astonishing topography. Having said that, I don't regret not planning to spend the night there. That most likely would have involved booking accommodations ahead of time and, therefore, seeing pictures of the park beforehand. I went not knowing what I would be seeing and enormously enjoyed the surprise.

Interstate: Intimacy, Inflate

2008-09-08T22:55:00.008-04:00

My visit in Evanston was leisurely and relaxing. My friend, whom I've known since seventh grade, is a busy career woman and mother of three young girls and yet she pampered me to the point of embarrassment. She insisted on including my laundry in one of her many daily loads and made sure I was well fed, well rested and well sugared; we both dipped into her stash of York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps her caring for my physical needs was a way to re-establish some intimacy between us. Over the years, partly due to geographical distance but mostly to differing life choices and my reactions to those, we had grown apart. I was glad for an excuse for a brief visit and to spend some time with her daughters, ages 8, 5 and 3 1/2.

To my delight, the children took to me almost immediately and before I knew it I was being recruited to draw, do other art projects, and sing and dance to the Mamma Mia CD. It was like taking a trip back into childhood, but this time having some little sisters. I learned that the two oldest girls were absolute Hoola pros, effortlessly Hoola-ing for minutes on end while doing various tricks with the hoop. I was an enthusiastic audience and they convinced me to try it, too. I was able to keep the hoop aloft for about five seconds before it, along with my ego, crashed to the floor.

A middle child myself, I couldn't resist the charms of the middle girl, also a sensitive soul, who insisted on sitting next to me at dinner on Friday night and who invited me to watch her first soccer game on Sunday. I decided to see the game and then continue on my journey, but when I went to pack up my car late Sunday morning I noticed it had a completely flat tire. For a brief moment I experienced the same mixture of helplessness and inertia as when I left my mother's house - if I have a flat, how will I ever leave? I snapped out of it fairly quickly, realizing how lucky I was to get a flat tire while at my friend's home, rather than on a highway in the middle of nowhere.

Within 30 minutes of calling AAA, a tow truck operator arrived to change the tire, which had been punctured by a nail. I brought it into a body shop in Skokie, IL and soon enough they had patched and properly inflated it. I was good to go, if only I knew which direction to take. My mental fog still hadn't cleared enough to reveal a preferred route. My friend's husband, kindly but also a bit protectively, offered to let me borrow a GPS device for the rest of my trip, so at least I'd know where I was at all times. I declined - the AAA office in Massachusetts had loaded me up with tour books and maps for every state I was bound to traverse. And part of having an adventure is, occasionally, getting lost, pulling over and checking a map or asking for directions. Besides, I couldn't decide where to go so having the ability to type in a destination and map a route wouldn't have solved my immediate problem.

By the time I was roadworthy the soccer game had ended but it was still early enough to keep driving so I decided to head to Wisconsin. Shortly after crossing the state border I saw a huge sign for the Mars Cheese Castle. That sounded colorful, local and a bit kitschy. It was. I purchased some smoke string cheese, a sourdough roll, two chocolate bars and a half decaf, half regular coffee, poured by a sullen employee. My spirits lifted again and, on my own again, I knew that I would enjoy the rest of my trip, whichever way I ended up going.

Interstate: I.D.I.O.T.S.

2008-09-08T22:46:00.005-04:00

On the second day of my trip I whizzed through the rest of Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana before getting to Evanston, Illinois. The scenery was mostly bucolic, with the exception of stinky Gary, Indiana, but at a spotless and contemporary rest stop in Ohio I spotted a trio of wide women wearing lavender T-shirts that said on the back:

I lluminated
D aughters
I nspired
O f
T he
S pirit

On the front was a cross.

I didn't have the chutzpah to ask them why they were self-described idiots.

Interstate: Itinerary, Imperfect

2008-09-08T22:14:00.008-04:00

The first of several postings on my long-distance car trip from Boston to Denver. Wireless access has been sporadic so these are not real-time postings.

I left the Boston area, specifically my mother's house, on Thursday, September 4, at around noon. I did not have a map or an exact itinerary, I just knew that I wanted to arrive in the Chicago area by either Friday evening or Saturday morning to visit a friend. My car was packed, but a bit carelessly. I had thrown my cosmetics into a shoebox and put that in the back seat, along with several suitcases, two yoga mats, my sleeping bag, a camping mattress, a bag of books, and a few milk crates filled with financial and personal documents. Most of the people reading this blog would not leave for a 2,000+ mile car trip in such haste. And I suspect that many of them would have carefully plotted and planned the route, figuring out ahead of time where they would be spending the night and what sights they wanted to see along the way. Perhaps they would have consulted other people about hotels, restaurants, road conditions, the cheapest gas stations. That is certainly one way to travel, but that isn't always my way.

After years of living in a place where I increasingly didn't want to be, and with the accumulated inertia weighing on me like a leaden blanket that grew heavier by the hour, I genuinely feared that if I didn't just go at that moment that I would never leave. And after packing up my studio and my apartment, which involved much heavy lifting and the emotionally difficult act of sorting and discarding possessions, I didn't have the capacity to plan anything, to predict what route I might want to take. Well-meaning people asked me how I planned to get from Boston to Denver and I simply could not answer them. I really had no idea, I had not looked into it. In a sense it did not matter if my route took me north, south or due west. I just needed to hit the road and trust that I would have the trip that I needed to be having at this time. Trying to optimize, strategize or otherwise try to create a more perfect trip was simply not something my brain could handle.

Still, I was not a completely reckless traveler. My first stop was at the AAA Office in Newton, MA. I walked in and told them I was leaving for Evanston, IL and could they please get me a TripTik, which is their customized travel booklet.

"Did you order one?" the man behind the counter asked.

"No," I said.

"TripTiks take days to prepare," the man informed me, looking at me as if I were slightly insane. Maybe that is how I looked.

"Oh," I said, unfazed. "It says on your website that you create them on demand. I had no idea they were so complicated."

"Well, we might be able to do one quickly for you. Where are you going?"

I gave him my friend's address and told him that I only needed a route and a place to stay that was mid-way between Boston and Evanston. To simplify the task, I told him that I did not need information on every single attraction, shopping mall and restaurant along the way.

"Could you come back in 2-3 hours?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I need to leave soon so I can get in enough daylight driving hours. Perhaps I could just take a map?"

"Well," he replied, as if he were afraid to let me loose on the road without a TripTik, "Have you had lunch yet? If not, come back in an hour. I'll have it then."

It turns out that TripTiks, if requested with a smile, take less than an hour to prepare. When I returned 60 minutes later, after having gassed up, bought some food and visited the ATM, it was already completed and had my name on it. They had highlighted the AAA recommended route in orange pen, and all I had to do was follow it. That was pretty much all I was capable of at that time, following someone else's directions. That night I made it as far as Milesburg, PA on I-80 after making what for my family is a ritual stop at Rein's Deli in Vernon, CT.

Interchange

2008-09-02T11:56:00.006-04:00

My launching pad for my upcoming move is my mother's house. She has generously allowed me to fill her screened in porch and garage with the pared down contents of my studio and my apartment, which will soon be loaded onto two pods for transport to Colorado. Not knowing where exactly I'd be moving to, I have spent months slowly whittling down my possessions to only those things that I absolutely need, really love or can't easily replace.

The original idea was that I'd load up a trailer, attach it to my car and drive out with as little as possible. Then I learned that my car, with all wheel drive, is not really designed for towing, and that the trailer that it could safely carry wouldn't fit very much anyway. Not to mention that the installed trailer hitch was quite rusted and might not be terribly secure.

Plan B was to rent a truck, load up my belonging, attach my car onto a flatbed trailer behind it and drive the contraption out West. For many weeks I had a romantic attachment to the idea of a sola long-distance truck trip and I refused to consider other options. It seemed adventurous, a bit challenging, something that I wouldn't normally do...a way to step out of my box and signal the transition I am making. Then I regained my sanity and realized that renting, loading, driving and unloading a truck would probably be much more stressful, not to mention more expensive, than shipping my belongings in pods.

The pods changed the plan. On a per pod basis, it was cheaper to order two, rather than one, and since I am moving to two locations - an art studio first, and eventually an apartment or house, which I haven't found yet - it made sense to sort my belongings based on their destination. And as I am paying for two pods, I might as well fill them, rather than leaving each half full. Right...? Hmm.

Knowing that I have extra space, my mother has been wondering if I'd take back many of the items I've deposited at her house at other times when I've moved far away. It has become a bit of a ritual - she takes in my abandoned furnishings thinking that one day I might wish to be reunited with them. Her home sometimes looks like a museum of my past lives, filled with bookcases from two former apartments, tchotchkes I've collected overseas, lamps and wicker baskets I no longer needed or wanted, clothing that doesn't fit or suit me anymore, a love seat and a wooden chair. By and large I have refused to reclaim my old things, not wishing to be saddled with furniture for which I don't yet have a place, but over the weekend she was home cleaning, organizing and attempting to tempt me with her things - vintage Mexican baskets, pots and pans she found at a garage sale, her wet-dry vac.

No thanks, I said, to most of what was proposed for interchange, even if the items were perfectly good, useful or attractive. I wanted to try to hew to my initial vision of arrriving with as little as possible, even though my, ahem, minimalist holdings do occupy many boxes and take up several cubic feet. However, she did persuade me to adopt several blankets - useful for protecting furniture - a small boxed set of matching utensils and a small hooked rug with a butterfly design, something I made as a child. That reminded me of a vintage woolen rug from Mexico, also with a butterfly pattern, so I added that, too, to my pile....

When the pods arrive - supposedly soon - I will try to load and lock them as quickly as possible, preventing more things from stowing away to Colorado.

Intersections

2008-08-26T22:28:00.006-04:00

Streets intersect, as do people. Streets intersect in a more or less predictable way. There are stop or yield signs or traffic lights to signal the presence of an intersection. Crossing the intersection, on foot, by bicycle or by car, one travels linear distance but usually remains fundamentally unchanged. When two people intersect, however, it is often much more random, the signs and signals more subtle, and the impact on their lives potentially large.

Last week I was sitting in an independently owned cafe in Denver, drinking a decaffeinated coffee and taking advantage of free wireless access to search apartment and real estate listings. A friendly looking man with a baseball cap approached me and asked me if I were Rachel, someone he knew up in Boulder. No, I said, but I reassured him that people mistake me for others all the time. I didn't think too much of it - people in Colorado tend to be quite outgoing and I didn't sense that he was using that as a pick up line. I smiled at him and returned to my web surfing.

The following day, a Friday, I returned to that same cafe to check my e-mail; I was waiting for some documents from a realtor. They didn't come, and I didn't hear from her so I left the cafe. Driving around, I found a funky ice cream place shaped like an old fashioned milk bottle. While indulging in some gelato, the realtor called and told me she needed my electronic signature within the hour. Not wanting to waste time finding a different venue with wireless, but also hating to retrace my steps, I reluctantly returned to the cafe, somewhat regretul that I was filled with gelato yet would still need to order something to take advantage of the WiFi. I bought another decaf coffee, opened my laptop and logged on.

The man with the baseball cap came in - or maybe he was already there? I can't recall - and we acknowledged each other. I figured he was a regular at this congenial establishment; there were a couple of other people there I recognized from the day before. He sat a few tables away, occupied with a paperback book. At around 5:00pm the cafe was beginning to empty out. I had concluded my business but something kept me there, even though there were other places I could have gone to spend the evening. He came over and asked me what sort of work I was doing. I told him I was in the process of moving and was looking for a place to live. He then asked me if I'd join him for a drink at a place whose name I didn't quite catch and, even if I had, I probably wouldn't have recognized. I agreed, having no idea what sort of place it would be.

The exchange was quite simple but also unusual. He later told me that he never approaches women in cafes, and that he had returned on Friday in order to find me, and I confessed that I usually don't get picked up in cafes. I think we were both a bit surprised to find ourselves seated across from one another at his neighborhood restaurant, where he's built a reputation as a regular. Being in transition, with major pieces of my life up in the air, I am taking things one day at a time, relying more heavily on my intuition than on my intellect. I am not operating from an ego-driven identity right now. I am just trying to be with whatever happens each day and see where that takes me. This man later said that he had responded to my energy of just being. Had my ego been in charge, it probably would have declined the invitation, coming up with all sorts of "reasons" why going to a place I didn't know with a stranger would be a bad idea.

Just being didn't feel particularly special to me; I was not happy or sad, elated or excited. I was not trying to get anywhere, I didn't have an agenda. I was certainly curious about this man, with whom I ended up spending the next five hours in thoughtful conversation, but I was aware of not creating a story around our encounter, not getting caught up in the what ifs or spinning scenarios about what might happen next. It was refreshing to just spend time with him, enjoying the mutual appreciation and exploration without tinging our encounter with anxiety about whether we'd meet again.

In this rare place of being in the moment, with neither of us trying to impress or otherwise play a role, this man said some extraordinary things to me, about how he perceived me. I was so surprised that I started to blush. Perhaps the Universe had orchestrated my intersection with this man, arranging for us to provide each other with psychic boosts at, for me at least, a critical time.

Identical, almost

2008-08-07T15:18:00.007-04:00

Sometimes when I have a few extra minutes on my hands I'll scroll through my cell phone address book and delete those numbers that I'm no longer calling. I'll often store numbers in my phone for future reference, such as that of a local cafe I had called once to find out when it was open. But having extra people, places and numbers just clutters up my screen and makes it that much slower to locate the numbers I do want.

In a recent purge I chose to remove the name and contact information of a man I had dated a few years ago. He lives in Boston part of the time, in the Southern Hemisphere the rest of the time, and he used to call me after making his annual trip north. I originally decided to store his name so that I'd know that it was him calling, rather than being caught by surprise at the sound of his voice. Sometimes I was happy to hear from him, other times less so, and it was useful to be able to choose whether to answer...or not. But enough time has passed since his last phone call that I decided to hit the erase button and send his details to the wireless dustbin of history.

Knowing that the Universe is somewhat mischievous and often tests me, for example having ex-boyfriends e-mail me days after I've deleted their e-mail addresses, I was not all that surprised to see his number appear on my phone today. Amused, I answered, expecting to hear his voice. It turned out not to be him after all, but my new downstairs neighbor calling me to ask if I still had anything stored in the basement. No, I said.

Our brief conversation concluded, I again looked at her phone number. It appeared to be exactly the same as this man's. Was it possible that she had inherited his old number? Unlikely, I thought. A few days earlier, in my sorting and packing I had found a piece of paper that had his contact information on it; I hadn't yet thrown it out. Locating the paper and comparing the phone numbers, I noticed that they were identical except for one digit. Where there had been a "2" in his number appeared a "3" in hers.

If she calls me again, I will probably think of him, which was what I was trying to avoid in the first place.

Intrinsic, Imbued

2008-08-05T15:25:00.003-04:00

A few conversations I've had recently about moving and stuff have got me thinking, yet again, about what to keep and what to toss. A woman moving into the apartment below mine with her two children tells me that she has so much furniture and books that she needs two trucks. I told her that I am trying to pare down as much as I can, including giving away books that I haven't opened in years and will probably never read again. They are just taking up space. Her eyes widened.

"But," she protested, "My books are a record of my life. I see them on the shelf and I'm reminded of all the things I've done."

I used to have that philosophy about things, especially books, that they provide reference points for my life's trajectory, that I needed them around in order to remember who I was and therefore who I am. They are souvenirs of moments in time, the past made visible. Books are also friends and companions, something to turn to when needing wisdom, solace or entertainment. And it used to be that I'd feel more comfortable visiting a home lined or littered with books rather than being in a space devoid of such decorations - yes, a well-stocked bookshelf can be aesthetically pleasing.

And yet, as another friend pointed out, every object gives off a certain energy, a vibration with which we or someone else has imbued it. Most of the time this energy is not intrinsic to the object but has to do with the circumstances through which it entered our lives. How did it arrive? Was the book (or thing) a loving and thoughtful gift from a kind person or did it come with some strings attached, an implied criticism or aggressive suggestion for how to improve? As I look at my stuff, books included, I am trying to recall how they came into my possession. If I am no longer friends with the person who gave it to me, do I hang onto it? Do I want to be reminded of people that either drifted away from me or I from them? Lately the answer is no, even if at the time I received the item the friendship was a happy one. Do I want to hang onto a piece of clothing that I purchased in a gloomy moment and/or only because it was a bargain? Again, the answer is no. At some point, the accumulation of reminders of what was can stifle what is or what is becoming.

The issue gets more complicated when I'm dealing with other people's things, such as items from my father's house or that were acquired while my parents were still married. Some of these objects are beautiful to behold yet their vibration is not completely positive, a sadness clings to them. Do I keep them long enough to see if I can attach a happier story to them? Can I see them simply as objects and enjoy them on a purely aesthetic and functional level, forgetting their provenance? Or do I let them go and lighten my load, choosing to honor the past without schlepping its physical manifestations along with me?

I will ponder these questions some more as I take another stab at sorting my books and my stuff.

Incremental

2008-08-01T21:34:00.004-04:00

Bit by bit, step by step, piece by piece. That is how things, people and lives are built. I'm discovering it is also how lives are taken apart, as I prepare to move a few thousand miles away. For a long time - longer than I care to admit - I haven't wanted to be where I am. My body was in one place, my spirit in another. Now I am trying to make it possible for my body and other material manifestations - as in, my stuff - to move to where my spirit would like us all to be: Colorado.

Even though I don't even have that much in the way of big stuff - for example, I do not own a television, couch, armchair, dresser or stereo system - the process of classifying and culling my belongings is time consuming and emotionally draining. I find I can only do a little bit of it at a time. I'm a collector and somewhat of a packrat, and it is hard for me to part with things such as postcards and greeting cards I've purchased on trips, small books received as gifts, ceramic objects from near and far. While these don't necessarily take up that much space, and I could easily dump them in a box and ship them, I am trying to be conscious of what I take with me, what I sell or give away and what I stick in the trash; so far, nothing I've found has qualified for a fifth option, being consumed by bonfre. So, for example, the partially used box of "Quotable Canine" notecards that I received at my department's holiday raffle in 1997 at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York is, finally, OUT, in the "to be donated" pile. However, a half-consumed box of artsy cat notecards, a gift from my mother, is IN. Also in the OUT pile is "Food Values of Portions Commonly Used", a spiral bound volume I recovered from my father's home after he passed away. I will, on the other hand, be bringing my Hungarian cookbooks with me.

At my art studio the decision making has been difficult indeed. Which beads and mosaic materials to sell and which to keep? During the first pass through my stash I decided to keep any beads that I had purchased overseas or that had been part of a popular design. But those criteria left me with a large inventory and so I then reluctantly decided to sell some of the heavier and more expensive ones. In taking my studio apart, drawer by drawer, container by container, I came across even more beads and jewelry that I hadn't seen in years. I figured that if I had forgotten about them so easily, I wouldn't mind selling them and allowing others to enjoy them. But then someone would come into my studio, and ooh and aah over them, and for a moment I'd experience a pang of envy and want them for myself. The pang was particularly piquant when other jewelry designers came in to pick over my collection; I felt like I was watching vultures pluck the meat from the bones of my business. One woman, while scooping up some luscious glass beads, asked me if I'd be keeping my website and making jewelry out West - as in, if I weren't going to keep producing my designs then she certainly could, presenting them as her own. For a split second, my competitiveness and anger surged and I wanted to take back all the beads and escort her out of my studio via a swift and sharp boot in the butt.

One day an artist friend and collector of mermaid themed items came to the studio to give me a farewell hug. He is about to move house, after living in the same apartment for 18 years, and faces similar decisions for what I suspect is an even greater quantity of stuff.

"You know," he said, "sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off if I came home and discovered that the house had burned down. Then I could start from scratch."

I nodded. Suddenly losing one's belongings might be a traumatic but ultimately liberating experience. And I realized that I still have the option of selling or dumping most of what I own, heading to Colorado with only what fits in the back of my car. I wouldn't be the first person to do such a thing. But choosing to quickly divest of most of the objects that reflect my life's trajectory feels a bit too radical; I think I need some tangible reminders of who and where I've been to help me create who I am going to be. For years, my collection of beads reflected my tastes, my travels, and my thought processes, and being surrounded by these objects was a source of comfort and reassurance. If I started to run out of a certain kind, I'd order more, just to have them around. Those beads filled some of the holes in my life.

But as the process incrementally deconstructing my studio continues, I am learning to relish it when people come in and relieve me of objects small and large. As things sell, space frees up in my body and mind. I feel lighter. And I know that once I get to where I am going I will have forgotten about most of the things I chose to leave behind, who is using them and how.

And, piece by piece, bit by bit, I'll get to build the next part of my life.

Incessant Imbibing

2008-06-30T23:04:00.008-04:00

I've been in the Denver, Colorado area for a few days, drinking up a storm. Not alcohol, mind you. Water, water and more water, with an occasional soda, fruit juice, and tea or decaffeinated coffee thrown in for good measure. Proper hydration is the main way to avoid altitude sickness, the result of moving to a higher altitude too quickly. Denver is a mile high. Despite guzzling half a gallon of water beginning with my arrival Thursday morning, I spent the first afternoon mildly disoriented and nauseous, finally venturing out at around 5pm to visit the Art Students League of Denver, followed by dinner at Tacos y Salsas, one of the city’s best rated taquerias. Yup, they were good and I’m glad I finished my meal before sunset. The neighborhood would not have been so appealing in the dark.

Within one day I felt fairly well adjusted. I continued to drink. That allowed me to enjoy a full day of activity on Friday: driving to Boulder to meet a college friend for lunch, meeting with artists at one of Boulder’s largest studio buildings and getting an impromptu tour of the space, enjoying a quick stroll in the city’s pedestrian mall and chatting with the owner of Blink Gallery, and finally spending Shabbat at Flagstaff park with the Adventure Rabbi before hopping in my car and returning to Denver.

On Saturday I went northwest to Lyons, CO for their artist open studio tour. The first place I stopped had the art work – including large metal and wood sculptures, oil paintings and fused glass – strategically placed around a huge yard bordered by a river with a steep red cliff in the background. The setting was stunning and the art was able to hold its own. Further down the road, an artist had created nearly everything in her own home: contemporary wood furniture, lamps created from metal pipes, outdoor mosaic sculptures, including five enormous mosaiced eggs carefully placed atop a rocky outcrop in her back yard, and several mosaic animals in the front yard. None of them were for sale. I envied that she created them purely for her own enjoyment. Returning to Denver I made my way to an even more obscurely located taqueria outside of Denver proper. Apparently it used to be a lunch truck and has since turned into a “restaurant”. Located in a non-descript small strip mall in Denver’s exurbs, Tacos D.F. served up very authentic tacos de barbacoa (lamb). I was in heaven, in the middle of nowhere. That night I had ambitions to check out Denver’s tango scene, but even my constant hydration wasn’t enough to fend off fatigue. I called it quits in order to get up early for a hike on Sunday.

The hike, organized by Mosaic (a Jewish outdoors club), was in nearby Jefferson County Park and promised an elevation gain of 1,400 feet. I was wondering how I’d do, given that I’d only been in Denver two days, but I figured it was worth a shot. It turns out I had nothing to worry about and I was able to keep pace with the fastest folks in the group, two women from Colorado, one of whom hikes every week. We zipped ahead and even took a longer route back.

“Altitude, shmaltitude!” I thought. I could handle anything.

Fast forward to Monday, where my cocky attitude about altitude nearly killed me. Perhaps I exaggerate, or not. My college friend suggested that I drive up to Mt. Evans, elevation 14,270 feet, to get a stunning view of the Rocky Mountains. I called to make sure the road was open, and, it was. The cheerful woman on the phone advised me to drink continuously to avoid altitude sickness. I loaded my car with a gallon of water, bottles of limeade and green tea, fruit, cheese, chocolate for snacks, and warm clothing for the summit, which the park employee said was a "nearly tropical" 47 degrees. En route to Mt. Evans I stopped near Idaho Springs to get a decaffeinated coffee. I figured I’d drink more if I could entertain my palate with a variety of beverages – so there I was, sipping coffee, then water, then limeade, then water, then coffee. At every rest stop and ranger station along the way up, I stopped to pee. And that is how it is supposed to be, to avoid getting altitude sickness.

I was doing fine up until Summit Lake Park, which is just four miles from the top of Mt. Evans. I got out of the car to walk to the lake and photograph it. At that point the temperature was quite cool and I noticed that the curvy mountain road that I had been slowly ascending was getting narrower and curvier, literally disappearing into thin air as it rose from the lake toward the summit. A very quiet voice in my head told me to stop there, at Summit Lake, and appreciate the spectacular views of snowy mountains, Alpine lakes, pine trees and magnificent clouds that I had already enjoyed. How much more beauty did I need to see, and was it worth starting to feel disoriented?

But I was so close to the top. Why not keep going? There were some good reasons to stay put. I’ve been at high altitude before, in Peru, and even with several days of acclimatization I had trouble hiking at such lofty heights and had to stop to catch my breath after each step. That was when I was on foot, not steering a heavy vehicle. And I was tired, so not as alert as one would want to be.

I could have stopped at Summit Lake. But instead I listened to the same chorus of voices that often urge me to go to the top, to finish what I start, to see all that there is to see, to do what others are doing. I slowly chugged up the mountain. As the air kept thinning, my head kept spinning disastrous scenarios: What if I were to get nauseous and disoriented, accidentally apply too much pressure to the gas pedal and fly over the edge, Thelma and Louise style? Or what if I got to the top, got sick, and couldn’t drive myself back down?

Making a U-turn was clearly impossible. I had to figure out how to get to the top without freaking out at every hairpin turn and, possibly, causing an accident. One helpful voice in my head tried to point out that this road, unlike the highways in New Mexico, was not decorated with crosses marking the scenes of fatal accidents. There was a good chance that I, too, would survive. If only I could stay calm.

Focus on your breath, I told myself. And don’t look at the scenery. Look only at the asphalt immediately in front of you and steer accordingly. Watching my breath wasn’t enough to stop the fearful fantasies. I started to chant my favorite Hebrew prayers, figuring that might help me keep going, or at least would land me in heaven if I were to miss a turn.

By the time I arrived to the parking lot at the top I felt in my body just how utterly terrified I had been. Luckily I made it to the toilet on time.

But the parking lot wasn’t the tippity top – one could hike up a rocky trail to see even more spectacular views. A woman I had met at one of the rest areas told me she had seen mountain goats at the top. I wanted to see the mountain goats, but I didn't want to get sick in the process. There were lots of people climbing the trail, laughing and talking, enjoying this peak experience.

“Why not give it a try?” asked the voices in my head.

“You can do it!” they urged.

This time, I told the voices, "Fuck off!"

I was not going to climb the trail.

I was not going to go to the very top.

I was not going to see the goats.

I was going to get myself to a lower altitude before I got myself in serious trouble.

I changed footgear – swapping my hiking boots for sandals, the better to feel the pedals with - got back in my car, shifted into the lowest gear, and began what I feared would be an equally harrowing descent. At the second hairpin turn I pulled over to the side of the road to let other vehicles pass. At the slightly lower altitude I felt a bit better and I decided to get out and enjoy the view. There were four mountain goats grazing nearby, their thick white coats had already started to shed. Perhaps my prayers had worked – I got my goats after all. One of them walked within a few feet of me, completely unperturbed. I asked another visitor to photograph me with the goats in the background – I barely recognized my voice, probably I still was not getting enough oxygen.

Returning to Summit Lake I pulled into the parking area there; it was time for a bathroom break. Walking toward the Alpine Potty I started to cry. I couldn’t tell if the tears were of relief at having made it back down to a safer elevation or of frustration at having put myself at risk for no good reason. Perhaps both.

With both of my feet firmly on the ground, I felt profoundly grateful to be alive. I didn’t burst into a Hallelujah but I did thank the park employee for cleaning the toilets. He looked surprised.

As I descended to the saner altitude of Idaho Springs, a mere 7,250 feet above sea level, I realized that nothing that happens next in my life – including the probability of a long distance move – will be nearly as overwhelming as the visceral fear I experienced today. And I felt extremely humbled by the consequences of not listening to the quiet voice within. In this instance, it was trying to protect my body. Usually, it is trying to safeguard my soul. And very often I ignore it.

Invasion, Industriousness, Indictment

2008-06-24T14:59:00.004-04:00

Ants have invaded my apartment. These industrious insects have climbed up and clambered into my 3rd floor abode, making themselves a little too at home. At first I just noticed a handful of ants scampering about and I let them go about their business. They weren't harming me so why should I harm them? But then their numbers started to grow, as did my irritation, especially when I noticed several of them slumbering in my cat's food dish. Perhaps the ants had overindulged on tuna fish and were enjoying a siesta?

It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?

Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.

Intense Itinerary

2008-06-11T17:46:00.005-04:00

Travel brings out the maniac in me.

I just returned from a few days in Santa Fe, New Mexico one of the more laid-back cities in the United States and where, with the exception of my first afternoon, I hardly sat still. I wasn't prepared for the high altitude, the dry heat and the constant sun, and I spent Friday afternoon, after I arrived, recovering from the journey and hydrating with water I had picked up at Trader Joe's which, unlike its New England brethren, was amply stocked with foods and snacks boasting habanero and chipotle. Still a bit disoriented that evening, I put on some fresh clothes to attend services at Temple Beth Shalom, a reform congregation in Santa Fe. The prayers and singing grounded me and I received a warm welcome from congregants, many of whom were transplanted East coasters. None of them regretted their decision to move to the southwest.

There are endless shops, galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums in Santa Fe, but I wanted very little of it. I had a tremendous and surprising urge to hit the open road, to drive and drive and drive, to soak up the scenery and to experience the stillness of the desert and the mountains, to be embraced by the very big sky. In the next three days I put more than 500 miles on my rental car. My first trip was up the High Road to Taos, stopping at the Sanctuario de Chimayo and the art villages of Cordova and Truchas along the way. Truchas is home to many fine artists and their distinctive galleries that occupy old churches, adobe homes and other spaces. Truchas has a general store, most of its shelves empty save a few cans of Dinty Moore stew, and no gas station. One artist couple has created a tea room, where I sat outside and had lunch, but other than that the village does not have much of a gathering place. The air was so clean, the mountain vistas so serene, the quiet so intense, that I fantasized about one day joining this intrepid group of dreamers who support themselves through their art, selling it to visitors who journey up from Santa Fe. In winter time, when the tourists stop coming, this community gets together to ski.

Truchas felt authentic whereas Taos - filled with more galleries, shops and cafes - felt too touristy. I didn't have the patience to look and linger, preferring to head back to Santa Fe along Route 68, which took me past mountains and the roaring Rio Grande. A man was selling roasted pinon nuts out of the back of his bright red pickup truck; tempted, I pulled over. He gave me some to sample and then told me that the small bag was $10, the larger bag $20. Ten dollars? I thanked him but decided to move on. He was amiable and relaxed about it, no hard feelings, no attempt at a hard sell.

That evening - Saturday - I returned to Santa Fe and to the adobe casita I rented just a few blocks from the center of town. Coming from the northeast, where I depend on skylights and large windows to let as much light as possible into my dwelling space, it was strange to stay in a building designed to keep the light and heat out. Inside it was cool and dark, offering cavelike protection from the sun, which shone intensely from the time it rose, probably before 6a.m., up until it set, at around 8:30pm. It seemed as if a single day of Santa Fa sunshine was the lumen equivalent of a month's worth of Boston rays. My brain felt supercharged.

It was time for an evening stroll in town. A co-ed mariachi band trumpeted and strummed in the plaza. A few of the musicians had blonde hair. This was clearly New Mexico, not Mexico. I poked my head into a few restaurants before coming across The Shed, a bustling restaurant with one of my favorite dishes, fish tacos, on the menu. There was an hour wait for a table so I took a seat at the bar. The food was tasty but not as heavenly, nor as inexpensive, as the fish tacos I discovered in Oakland, CA last August, served from a truck near one of the freeways. But the atmosphere was hip and happening and from my perch at the bar I could observe the flow of cocktails, food and people. A taciturn biker sat next to me at the bar and ordered without looking at the menu; clearly the place was a favorite among locals. Then a very blonde Canadian woman, navigating the tight seating, mounted a bar stool as if she were getting on a horse. She landed next to the biker. Her arrival animated him, and he told us about Gabriel's, another good restaurant, just outside of town. I finished my meal and bid my farewell to this

Sunday morning was cowgirl time. I drove south to Cerrillos, home of Broken Saddle Ranch, where I joined a small group horseback ride in the dusty state park in former mining country. I told the organizer my riding abilities included cantering, which I hoped was still the case. A bit nervous at first, I failed to convince my horse, Zane, that I really did want to canter, and so while the other horses sped on ahead he trotted a bit before slowing to a walk, testing my resolve. The leader moved us into the middle of the pack and gave me some pointers, and with my newfound decisiveness we were soon cantering up a storm, just like in Bonanza.

After the ride it was off to Madrid (pronounced MAD-rid), an artist colony and biker mecca a few miles south of Cerrillos. Woodstock in the desert is one way of describing the vibe of this place, a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants and galleries featuring offbeat art. One of my fellow riders had recommended a restaurant called Mama Lisa's, a small cafe in the middle of this small town. I sat on the patio and chatted with Rick, a friendly blonde and bearded native New Mexican who lives up in the hills, gets by with occasional repair work and doesn't have a credit card. Doesn't believe in them. He doesn't like banks much, either, although he told me he does have an ATM card and a one year old grandchild who, like his own son, was born on father's day. And he had recently taken a 6,000 mile road trip in a car bought especially for that purpose, driving from New Mexico to West Point and back again. Then an acquaintance of his sat down and, while I devoured a barbeque brisket sandwich, I overheard them chatting about their friends...a very matter of fact conversation about who is sobering up and who has outstanding DWI offenses. I got the impression that both men have had their own struggles with substance abuse; fairly common in that part of the country.

In a bit of a stupor from the heat and my lunch of red meat, I drove back to Santa Fe to visit the Museum of International Folk Art, which houses an astonishingly large collection of colorful handmade objects from around the world. There were too many things to see. Suffering from circuit overload, I abandoned the museum and headed into the center of town to check out Canyon Road, a street filled with high end art galleries and boutiques. After New York, it is the second most important art market in the United States. Wandering up the street, the sounds of live music lured me into Gallery Esteban, the eponymous space of Esteban the guitarist. Apparently he is quite well known and he was performing free of charge to a mostly local audience in the graveled courtyard behind his gallery, offering refreshments to all. I sat down, soaking up the sounds and enjoying a few moments of stillness.

By the time the concert ended most of the other galleries had closed, a situation for which I was glad. There was simply too much to look at and having fewer choices made my life easier. One gallery I ventured into featured the bold graphic work of Carole LaRoche, a woman who moved to Santa Fe from Boston in her mid-40s and began creating art full time. Twenty-five years later she has her own thriving gallery in a hot location. Her website doesn't really do her work justice - I was particular taken with her large pastel drawings of wolves.

That night I went to sleep early, planning to get up the next day and go hiking in a nearby forest. Nearby as in 10-15 minutes by car. Such proximity felt like a luxury. On Monday I started out before 9am and tried to find a trail that was labeled as "moderate", a 4-mile route down to a creek and back. Although I missed the trailhead, a fox crossed the road just a few feet in front of my car. Spotting wildlife always feels somewhat magical. And I ended up at another trail, which wound its way through a pine forest. At a trail juncture, a map was posted on a wooden sign, and an arrow pointing to the location said, "You are here. Breathe deeply". I did. The crisp pine-scented air was pure peace.

A quick shower and I was off to see the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, which had an exhibit, Natural Affinities, on her work and that of Ansel Adams. It was smaller than I had expected, both the museum and the exhibit, and before long I was in my car again, heading to Gabriel's for lunch. It was supposed to be one of the better restaurants in the area, boasting of a Zagat rating from 2001, and I figured I would give it a try. I ordered steak tacos which were well prepared but didn't launch me into tastebud heaven. Perhaps my time in Mexico spoiled me. A couple at another table were using an electronic pipette to mix two wines in different percentages, savoring the resulting blends. Note to self: Buy a pipette and try this at home.

After lunch I headed off to Abiquiu, home to Georgia O'Keeffe and the source of her inspiration. Unlike the mountainous road to Taos and the dusty hills of Cerrillos, the highway to Abiquiu is flanked by red and striped cliffs and rock formations on one side, green pastures on the other. Several times I stopped my car to take photographs and to revel in the stillness and the silence of these majestic open and somewhat empty spaces. For a moment I envied Rick, the man I met in Madrid, and his 6,000 mile cross country adventure. The highway beckoned.

Somewhat sadly, I turned around and headed back to Santa Fe for my final evening there. It was Monday, and the town was essentially shuttered, most restaurants and shops closed. I was in bed by 9pm and got up early Tuesday morning to go hiking again before returning home. I found the trail I missed the first time and was rewarded by the sight of a stag emerging from the woods.

En route to the airport, I stopped at the Kakawa Chocolate Company for a tastebud tingling Aztec brownie, a potent creation featuring generous amounts of chili pepper, cinnamon and dark chocolate. At Trader Joe's I popped in to buy a sandwich for the plane trip then sped the final 55 miles to Albuquerque, watching both the speedometer and the clock and returning my rental car two minutes before the 12pm deadline.

I did say that travel brings out the maniac in me, didn't I?

Impeccable Timing

2008-05-26T17:30:00.004-04:00

I live near a small pond and make a point of walking by it when I can. More so than the trees along my street or the plants and bushes in people's yards, the pond and its environs seem to reflect the mood of each season, of each day. In winter, the pond goes quiet, its surface a frozen white mask. In early spring, the ice begins to thaw, the mask retreating from the edges and finally disappearing, leaving the water to gently lap the shores.

Animal life returns to the pond shortly thereafter. It was a few weeks ago when I noticed what I believed to be two families of Canadian geese, four adults and eight goslings, hanging around the pond's grassy edge. Despite my proximity, less than 20 feet away, the adult geese seemed unperplexed by my presence and didn't even look in my direction, so confident were they that I posed no threat. The fluffy yellow goslings teetered on their young legs as they pecked at the grass.

On subsequent walks I hoped to be able to catch sight of these young geese and watch their progress. Perhaps a week ago I strolled by at dusk. At precisely the moment I looked at the pond I saw the goslings scrambling from the water onto a small raft where their parents already perched for the evening. I waited until the last gosling had, with great effort, hoisted itself onto this floating hotel. Had I arrive a minute later I would not have witnessed their bedtime.

This afternoon, returning from a walk to an ice cream shop, I detoured by the pond. The geese families were crossing the street, heading towards the water. The goslings were probaby twice the size they had been when I first saw them. They were still yellow, and still a bit ungainly, but their necks were longer and they were starting to resemble geese rather than generic waterfowl chicks. The relaxed parents allowed their broods to cross the street casually, stopping every so often to peck at the pavement. I slowed down and approached them carefully, seeing how close I could get before the geese reacted. It wasn't until I was but a few feet away that one of the geese hissed at me, and not very unconvincingly.

The geese had reached a stone curb that was several inches, maybe even a foot, above the pond's grassy bank. Even the adults had a difficult time navigating this gap, which was not tall enough to justify flapping the wings and flying and not short enough to allow for a graceful step. The goslings, confronted with the fact that they had to get from the curb to the grass, took a leap of faith and jumped, fruitlessly flapping their winglets. Some landed on their feet, others stumbled and one tumbled, a variety of landings that reminded me of gymnasts dismounting from their beams and bars. I waited until they all had made it in the water before continuing my walk.

In Memoriam, My Father

2008-05-15T23:06:00.004-04:00

It's been a long time since my last post. And the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to get back into it.

But tonight begins the observance of my father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his date of death according to the Jewish calendar, the 11th of Iyar. And Tuesday, May 13, was the fifth anniversary of his death according to our calendar. He passed away on a Tuesday, so this year marked a rare coincidence of date and day of week. And last Friday, at my synagogue, the rabbi read his name out loud as one of the many people for whom yahrtzeit would be observed in what was the week ahead. To help mark the occasion, I sponsored the kiddush after services and, to elicit his presence, also brought some extra food that my father loved and shared with us: chocolate babka and two large pastries filled with cocoa and poppyseeds, respectively. I would have purchased another poppyseed pastry - which wasn't nearly as moist and flavorful as the ones my father would bake himself - but I got the very last one. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. Those purchases, plus the special memorial candle that I lit tonight, came to $19.67 exactly. That is the year I was born.

At synagogue last Friday the rabbi, with his eye on the clock, rushed through the mourner's kaddish, the normally meditative prayer we also recite during the yahrtzeit. The fast pace threw me off and left me feeling disoriented, disappointed and somewhat violated, as I hadn't had enough time to properly articulate each word. The moment in the kosher grocery store when the clerk said, "Your total is $19.67" had had more spiritual resonance.

On Tuesday, the American anniversary, I was fully immersed in creating mosaics and preparing for an upcoming art show when my cell phone rang. I saw it was from an old friend, who normally doesn't call.

"Is something the matter?" I asked her, wondering if she had phoned to share difficult news.

"No," she said, "I just remembered that today is the anniversary of your father's death."

"You're right," I said. I was surprised and appreciative that she remembered and surprised and relieved that I wasn't dwelling on it. I was glad to discover that I had been so engaged in what I was doing and in thinking about the future that I was not so focused on his passing, as I had been in previous years.

My father used to quote the passage from Deuteronomy 30: 15-19, "And you shall choose life." My brothers and I had it inscribed on his headstone.

And I honor him tonight, on his yahrtzeit, by again choosing to write.

Intermittent

2008-04-13T10:28:00.003-04:00

I am still marveling at the spectacle that was yesterday's weather in the Boston area. The day began gray and moist with a light drizzle. Then the precipitation stopped, yielding to brilliant sunshine and temperatures hovering close to 70. I had plans to visit a friend, indoors, and I was lamenting that I would not be spending much time outside. But by mid afternoon dark storm clouds had rolled in, bringing thunder and torrential rain came down. The rain continued but the sun came out. We looked for a rainbow but could not spot one. However, the naked trees outside had been transformed into diamond-studded divas as fat water droplets glittered on their branches in the sunlight. Driving home, the clouds returned, dropping monsoon-like quantities of water onto the highway. The grand finale came in the form of hail. Big balls of the icy stuff banged loudly on my windshield, as if they were desperately trying to get my attention.

Intentional Chocolate

2008-04-10T22:57:00.002-04:00

It is said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions...but some people believe that the path to nirvana is paved with Intentional Chocolate. Before this chocolate ships to you, it receives the focused meditative blessings of monks, hence the intentional. Check out the website for the double blind study that demonstrates that people who consume chocolate that has been created with such good intentions experienced better quality emotional states than people who ate regular chocolate. Something to chew on. Or, rather, let the dark chocolate pistoles melt in your mouth.

Intermission, Inspiration

2008-03-31T22:29:00.003-04:00

There will be a pause in this blog for about a week while I'll be on a mosaics mission, sans computer. Tomorrow I head to warm and sunny Florida for the Society of American Mosaic Artists annual summit in Miami. I've never been to such an event and I expect it will be populated with colorful characters and highly colorful art, all of which I hope will inspire me to keep experimenting with this fascinating and extraordinarily time intensive medium. This past week I spent many hours at my studio, absorbed and engrossed by the process of cutting and arranging tiny pieces of ceramic and glass into various patterns.

Introvert, Inside the Tent

2008-03-24T21:27:00.003-04:00

I'm reading Gifts Differing, a book by Isabel Briggs Myers, as I continue to explore the characteristics of my personality type (du jour), INFP, and what that might mean for me. What is fascinating is the relationship among what the four letters represent. "I" indicates introversion, as opposed to extraversion, and for folks like me it is the dominant process. Introverts' way of dealing with the world means going inside. Of course, most of the rest of the world are extraverts, so introverts need to develop the auxiliary process of being in the world. As Briggs Myers puts it, the auxiliary process is second best.

Let's take a look at the "F" of INFP. "F" represents feeling as my dominant internal process. But when I deal with the outside world the auxiliary process of thinking takes over and the world only sees or hears my thoughts, not my feelings. Same with the "P", which stands for perceptive. Its auxiliary is "J", for judging, and so I live my outer life in the judging attitude.

"The result is a paradox," says the book. Well, that explains why I've felt like two people (at least) my entire life. What happens internally and what I project externally can often feel like two different, but both very real, worlds. She gives an excellent analogy to describe how the dominant and auxiliary processes work:

A good way to visualize the difference is to think of the dominant process as the General and the auxiliary process as (her) Aide. In the case of the extravert, the General is always out in the open. Other people meet her immediately and do their business directly with her. They can get the official viewpoint on anything at anytime. The Aide stands respectfully in the background or disappears inside the tent. The introvert's General is inside the tent, working on matters of top priority. The Aide is outside fending off interruptions, or, if he is inside helping the General, he comes out to see what is wanted. It is the Aide whom others meet and with whom they do their business. Only when the business is very important (or the friendship is very close) do others get in to see the General herself.

If people do not realize that there is a General in the tent who far outranks the Aide they have met, they may easily assume that the Aide is in sole charge. This is a regrettable mistake. It leads not only to an underestimation of the introvert's abilities but also to an incomplete understanding of her wishes, plans and points of view. The only source for such inside information is the General.

One thing I'd like to have happen is for my General to get out of the tent a bit more, to enjoy some sunshine and to give the overworked Aide a bit of relief.

Icing-less bun

2008-03-20T10:38:00.004-04:00

This morning I overcame some serious inertia to go to a spinning class. It began at 9 a.m. which, for many of you, is not all that early and might even be considered decadently late for some. For me, however, it was a bit of a coup to get up, spend an hour meditating and writing, have a pre-breakfast of a grapefruit and some tea and walk to the class.

I've never "spun" before. Averse to fads and a bit leery of gyms and indoor exercise that requires equipment, I had dismissed this activity out of hand. But this studio, Spynergy, was offering a free first class and it seemed worth checking out. Three of the five students were brand new and the instructor patiently showed us the proper sitting position. We began with easy cycling as we stretched our upper bodies and breathed deeply, much like I would in a yoga class. The music du jour was R&B, and towards the end of the class we climbed out of our seats to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough", all the while maintaining the correct posture. I appreciated the instructor's attention to our alignment, essential to avoid stressing and injuring the knees. And despite our request that she not tone down the intensity of the class for the neophytes, the instructor kept the class mild enough that, alas, I didn't bust a gut or break much of a sweat. After the class ended I asked the teacher if she ever used Latin music to accompany the workout. Turned out she is a techno-pop and R&B woman but she suggested that I take a class with Anna, whom a student affectionately described as merciless. Sounds good to me!

To reward myself for my early morning adventure I stopped into a local bakery to pick up the carbohydrate, or second course, of my breakfast. I spotted what looked like fruit studded rolls on a bottom shelf and asked what they were.

"Hot cross buns," said the employee.

"Can I buy just one?" I asked, noticing that they were arranged in groups of six.

"Sure," she said, after checking with the manager. "Do you want me to ice it?"

"No, thanks," I replied. I didn't really need the extra sugar or to be reminded of the crucifixion while munching away.

The hot cross bun, which was neither hot nor crossed, was light, moist and delicious.

Intelligent Indulgence

2008-03-19T21:44:00.003-04:00

I'm a recovering chocoholic. Once upon a time I could scarf down bars of high-fat milk chocolate that a friend would send me from Europe. Lindt bars with different fillings and Ritter Sport bars had a particularly short half life once they arrived to my home. My self-discipline disappeared as I tore into their elegant and shiny wrappers and mindlessly masticated the contents. In a bit of perverse logic, I convinced myself to quickly consume them so that they wouldn't be around to tempt me.

I wasn't always like that. As a child, I was able to stretch my stash of Halloween candy for up to six months. Back then, I knew that my parents would not budge and buy sweets the rest of the year so, like a squirrel, I'd hoard the stuff for a long New England winter. Perhaps it was this childhood "deprivation" that led me, in later life, to overindulge in sweets, particularly chocolate. And I'm sure I got hooked on the caffeine, theobromine and phenylethylamine and the other compounds found in chocolate, not to mention the sugar, which sent my energy level skyrocketing, and then plummeting. For a time I must have found this sugar-induced roller coaster ride exciting, if not addicting, but over time it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage my chocolate-enhanced moods.

Fast forward to September 2007, when I moved into my current apartment. I decided to treat this move as a fresh start, a chance to nurture some new habits and to discard some unproductive ones. I decided that I would not bring into the house any sweet edible substance that might pose the risk of overindulgence. In other words, jams, jelly and maple syrup were OK, as I consume these in moderation, but ice cream, cookies, cakes and candies were most definitely not OK. And I honored this rule for a few months until it became very cold and very dark, and I was convinced that I couldn't survive winter without the help of hot chocolate. Bringing sweetened cocoa powder into my apartment turned out to be a mistake. I'd typically drink the hot cocoa in the evening, and the caffeine and sugar would conspire to make it difficult for me to fall asleep at night. And even that little bit of sugar started to feel addictive.

And now I will get to the point of this posting. A fellow I met at my retreat told us about Dagoba chocolate, which he eats as part of his breakfast. Intrigued, I found some on sale at Whole Foods and promptly fell in love with this intelligent indulgence. Dagoba means temple of the gods, and the unfussy label, in addition to clearly stating the cacao content, subtly declares that Chocolate is sacred. Indeed. I first sampled the Xocolatl, a dark chocolate bar infused with cinnamon and enough chili to kick up some heat in my mouth. Its complex flavor demanded that I slow down to savor it. One segment of the bar was quite satisfying and I was not tempted to commit the sacrilege of carelessly consuming the whole thing at once. I also tried the Mon Cherri, which has hints of berries and vanilla. And tonight I have enjoyed some of the Lime bar, dark chocolate with lime and macadamia nuts. I get the most out of the experience if I treat the chocolate like a fine wine and take the time to appreciate its aroma before putting it in my mouth. I never knew mindfulness meditation could taste so good.

Idiazabel

2008-03-17T13:20:00.003-04:00

With my refridgerator empty save for a bit of mayonnaise, aoili mustard, a few eggs, some maple syrup, a loaf of whole wheat bread and one container each of milk and cottage cheese, it was time to replenish. Wishing to have an adventure rather than simply doing a chore, I headed over to Russo's, a food market not far from where I live. I did not bring a list but decided to follow my intuition and buy what looked interesting, colorful or otherwise appealing and figure out what to do with it all later.

I had been to Russo's years ago, before it had been renovated and expanded and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. All the better to make this expedition exciting. I found a shopping cart and entered the building. The first thing that caught my eye was a heaping pile of inaptly named red cabbages, which actually are purple. I simply had to add this amazing color to my cart. Next I encountered a gigantic carrot. Impressed by its size, I tossed it in next to the cabbage. This carrot turned out to weigh nearly a pound. Moving down the aisle I scooped up some red potatoes and an acorn squash with a dark green shell. A handful of yellow onions balanced the colors a bit. Turning the corner I saw basket after basket of shimmering apples, pears, oranges and grapefruits! I wanted them all, except these were sold by the basket. Moving along into the main building I was confronted by even more fresh produce and other edible goodies.

Fresh dates! It had been awhile since I had eaten one, or been with one. I plucked a package of them and then continued to peruse the fresh fruits. The apple section alone was inspiring. I couldn't resist such pretty pommes, especially with names like Jazz, Pink Lady and Cameo. And then there were pears! Not just any old pears, but pale yellow Chinese Ya pears, whose name reminded me of the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and so I had to add some of these individually wrapped beauties to my cart. And shortly thereafter is when I looked up and saw him, a cute guy I had briefly dated over the summer. I called out his name and he turned around. But it turned out it wasn't him, but his twin brother, who is used to answering to both names. I'm glad I met him, because I had seen the twin once before at a Whole Foods and had been too shy to ask him if, indeed, he was this person's twin. Now I can shop angst-free.

Relieved, I proceeded to the end of this particular aisle and into a smaller room filled with all kinds of vegetables, including carnival cauliflower. It is orange. A must have, even though I have no idea what gives it that distinctive color. Exiting the smaller room I spotted some artichokes and imagined dipping their leaves in my aoili mustard. Mmm. Passing some refridgerated cheeses I was tempted by goat cheese and smoked maple cheddar. Moving along into Russo's largest space I came face to face with the aptly named Ugli fruit, which looked liked a citrus gang leader with its tough, pockmarked greenish-yellowish surface. The store had sliced one in half so one could see that its interior, resembling an orange, was much less menacing. I tried to apply my fruit selection intuition to this beast even though I had no way of knowing which were riper than others. I chose one with a more yellow-orange skin. And then I spied my dear old friends, Thai bananas, at the end of this same aisle. Thai bananas are tiny, barely two-bites of fruit are protected by the peels. Fun to look at and eat, I plucked a small bunch out of the bin.

Wheeling around the corner I saw even more cheese and the deli section. And that is where I met Idiazabel. Even if it turns out I don't like this particular sheep's milk cheese from Spain, I do love the name and may have to change mine to it. Idiazabel's neighbor was Boerenkaas, a raw milk gouda from Holland. Not wishing for Idiazabel to be lonely in my fridge and to remind me of my sola cycling trip from Amsterdam to another famous cheese producer, Edam, I added a small wedge of the Boerenkaas to my cart.

I perused the pastry section but decided to pass. Perhaps I'll sample it on another trip. I stopped at the deli counter for a sandwich - a "small" sub was just $3.98 and it turned out to be quite large. A container of half sour pickles, some stem tomatoes, a head of garlic, a quartet of yams, a package of baby romaine two cukes and a singularly sumptious yellow pepper rounded out my purchases.

The total came to less than $60. I am now tempted to return, shopping list in hand, to find ingredients to complement the colorful and exotic foods from today's highly enjoyable but somewhat impractical adventure.

Intimidating

2008-03-16T20:14:00.003-04:00

Someone I know, an Ivy-league educated and published scholar, was recently denied tenure at a prestigious liberal arts college because it was reported that the students found this person to be "intimidating". This word conjures a person of large physical stature whose manner of speaking or behavior frightens people, an intellectual bully who shames students, grandstands and routinely flunks a good portion of the class. And I can imagine that an exclusive college, which prides itself on a low student: teacher ratio, would not want to have such intimidating bullies scaring the pants off many students in, say, a large survey class that is required for graduation.

But this person teaches relatively small classes in rather esoteric subjects and stands just over five feet tall. And for years this person has looked young enough to frequently be confused for a student.

Intimidating?

No.

Intellectually rigorous, expecting a great deal from students, unwilling to lower academic standards?

Yes.

So, why have these characteristics, usually lauded in elite academic institutions, been conflated with intimidating? Possibly because this person is female and students expected or wanted her to nurture their emotions as well as their scholarly ambitions. It is difficult to imagine an equally qualified male tenure candidate being turned down because he was strict yet fair about assignments and deadlines and held students to high standards.

While I don't and can't know the whole story, apparently enough people on this campus were stunned by the tenure denial and the foul odor of gender bias to protest the decision. The whole episode is yet another sad reminder that in our world being a woman of substance is not always enough. Softness is required, too.

Interrupt Not

2008-03-14T09:44:00.002-04:00

Interrupt Not. That is the basic message of an anonymous plea called "Listen", which has shown up in my life twice in the last few weeks. I received a copy at the end of the Hoffman retreat and again last night, at the first meeting of a group that explores a spiritual path to creativity via exercises in the book The Artist's Way. For much of my life I've prided myself on being a good listener, even though - as I now realize - I've often listened with an agenda or with a need to then be able to say something clever or wise to the person who was speaking. That isn't necessarily listening. I've also been guilty of interrupting people; often my comments are motivated by my own need to be heard. And as someone who has often had trouble expressing herself verbally, I've often been interrupted by supposedly well-meaning family members and friends who think I have finished speaking because, simply, I have stopped to take a breath or choose a word or because they simply can't wait another minute to impart wisdom or to chime in with a humorous aside.

It was incredibly refreshing and empowering yesterday evening to be given 10 whole uninterrupted minutes in which to explain to the group why I had signed up for the workshop. Knowing that no one would cut me off, interject a cute comment or otherwise divert the attention to themselves, I was able to say things that I had never said aloud before. To protect my own confidentiality, I will not divulge those remarks here. When the 10 minutes were up, I was asked if I wanted to receive feedback, or not. I said yes. Again, it was empowering to be given that choice. And the interesting thing about allowing someone to speak for 10 (or 15 or 5) minutes without inserting one's two cents is that, chances are, by they time the speaker is done, that previously irresistible urge to give a certain bit of feedback will have dissipated, allowing the listener to offer a deeper level of response.

I invite anyone - particularly those who have felt that they are not truly being heard - to ask their spouse, partner, siblings and friends to try this experiment with them. Set a timer for 10 minutes, allowing one person to speak without interruption for that time. Then the listener has 2 minutes to reflect back what s/he heard, without offering advice or reassurance. It is also refreshing to be a listener, knowing that one is not expected to jump in and save the other person. This kind of listening can also be done by phone. I feel fortunate that I have a reflective listening "buddy" with whom I speak each week on the telephone. We each get 15 minutes to speak and the other person periodically reflects back what has been said, without offering commentary of any kind. This arrangement is organized and facilitated by the Zen Monastery Peace Center in California, if anyone else would like to look into it.

The text of "Listen" follows - author is Anonymous.

When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked.

When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I should not feel that way, you are trampling on my feelngs.

When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me.

Listen! All I ask is that you listen - not talk, or do. Just hear me.

Advice is cheap; a buck will get you Dear Abby and Dr. Joyce Brothers in the same paper.

I can do for myself; I'm not helpless - I may be discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.

When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy, but......

When you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel, no matter how irrational it appears, then I can quite trying to convince you, and get about the business of understanding what's behind this feeling. When that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice. "Irrational" feelings make more sense when we understand what's behind them.

Perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people - because God is mute and S/He doesn't give advice or try to fix us. God just listens and lets us work it out for ourselves.

So please listen and just hear me. And then, if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn, and I'll listen to you.

INFP

2008-03-12T21:14:00.005-04:00

What do Mary, Mother of Jesus, and I have in common?

Apparently we are both INFPs, one of the 16 personality types according to the Myers-Briggs personality preference indicator. So, what does INFP mean? "I" stands for introverted, "N" stands for intuitive, "F" stands for feeling, "P" stands for perceiving. Each of the four letters represents a component of psychological type as determined by Carl Jung. As for mine and the Virgin Mary's type, INFP describes a person who - at their best - is sensitive, concerned and caring; idealistic and loyal to their ideas; curious and creative; have long-range vision. At worst, or if not properly supported and appreciated, INFPs withdraw from people and situations, have difficulty expressing themselves verbally, become easily discouraged, and reject logical reasoning.

Bingo!

The reason I took this personality test in the first place is that I'm enrolled in a career exploration workshop and in our last class we discussed Myers Briggs types in some detail. The result is a useful piece of information to include when mulling over one's work life and the kinds of circumstances and occupations that will be conducive to satisfaction and happiness.

Interestingly, I had scored differently the last time I took this test, about 12 years ago. Then I turned out to be an INTJ, someone with a clearer preference for thinking over feeling and judging over perceiving (what "judging" means in Myers-Briggs terminology is a preference for structure and planning). That just shows how years of yoga practice, spiritual re-education and plunging into a creative line of work can transform a "TJ" into an "FP", while leaving my "IN" intact; for the sake of accuracy, I must admit that my scores for I and N were quite strong, while my tendency towards F and P were less conclusive. And it is possible that the last time I took the test I answered the questions inaccurately, responding aspirationally (how I wanted to be and/or how I thought I should be) rather than how I actually was. It's also possible that I'm a bit of a flip-flopper. In certain group work situations, I can quickly morph into an INTJ if I sense (intuitively, of course!) that there is a need for a decision maker or someone to be in charge. I can play that part, but I don't necessarily enjoy being in that role. Indeed, when I read a bit more about how personality type manifests in the workplace it became clear that, on the job, I am an INTJ.

And while I normally hate being put into a box and reject almost any categorization of my "type", the woman leading my career workshop told us that INFPs are rare indeed, occurring in about 1% of the US population. That made me feel special again, until I realized that I am just one in a 100, not one in a million. Then she pointed out that INFPs, of the 16 types, have the hardest time finding satisfaction in or fitting into the contemporary American workplace. Many of them just quit. It felt validating to have my own highly disappointing and discouraging corporate experiences corroborated by the research, although then I started to worry that I might never be able to tolerate a job that actually offered benefits and a 401(k) plan. My detour into anxiety and self-pity abruptly ended when I Googled "INFP" and discovered that, according to Wikipedia, I am in pretty amazing company. In addition to Jesus' Mother, other INFPs include Homer, Shakespeare, Princess Diana and Mister Rogers.

Incognito

2008-03-11T21:58:00.004-04:00

Purim is around the corner. The protagonist of this holiday is Esther who, via a nationwide search for beautiful women, becomes the wife of Persian King Ahasuerus but conceals her identity as a Jew. Later, when the Jews are threatened by Haman, Esther risks her life by asking the king to save her people (click here for the whole megillah). Today we celebrate Purim by dressing in costume, wearing masks, and making a ton of noise to drown out the name of Haman when the story is read aloud in synagogue. And of course we eat.

On Sunday, my Rosh Chodesh group gathered to celebrate the month of Adar, in which Purim falls. In addition to nourishing ourselves with an extraordinary array of snacks we contemplated the masks that we wear on a regular basis, and why. These are masks of false cheer or bravado, masks of authority, masks of indifference. Often we aren't even aware that we have a mask on, so quickly do the muscles in our face shift into a certain position. To a certain degree, all of us walk around incognito part of the time, disguising our true feelings and authentic natures so as to protect ourselves from judgment, ridicule or the demands of others.

To emphasize the point, we made masks of each other's faces by applying strips of plaster soaked in water to a partner's vaseline-coated visage. Lying on the floor as my partner built my mask, the beginning of the process felt as relaxing as a spa treatment - the wet bands of plaster were soothing on my skin, there was music and conversation nearby. But as my partner built the layers and the plaster began to harden, it was if the spa had morphed into an ICU and I was the subject of an emergency medical procedure. Increasingly I felt trapped and stifled. While I could still breathe, I could no longer open my mouth to speak, and my face felt like it was immobilized beneath the increasingly firm plaster shell. When it was dry enough to be removed, it felt like a mini-liberation, an echo of the more profound unmasking of myself that I experienced at the Hoffman Institute.

Although most of our daily social masks don't leave us feeling as if we are trapped under plaster, some people who have maintained a particular mask for years have difficulty opening their mouths wide or registering spontaneous emotion on their face. After our masks had dried, we sat in a circle and each of us had a chance to tell the other women something about ourselves that most people don't know, or a reason we hide behind masks in the first place. Some of the responses were surprising. It was an excellent reminder for me to be more conscious of the masks I wear, to remember to take them off from time to time and to realize that, much of the time, other people are wearing them, too.

Inward Bound

2008-03-07T15:40:00.008-05:00

It's been awhile since my last post. Thanks to those of you who are still with me, still checking this blog for signs of life. Part of the time I was in California, at a retreat designed to help people reconnect with themselves. And before that I was fighting a cold and a fever, which almost made me consider cancelling my trip. And after the retreat I have been letting my experience sink in, pondering how to write about it. I felt that I had to address it first before scribing about other things.

Inward Bound is the best way for me to characterize this retreat, called the Hoffman Process and organized by the Hoffman Institute. In my class were 39 other people, from across the country and the world, of all shapes, sizes and hairstyles, with a variety personalities that defied Myers Briggs categorization, ranging in age from 20s to early 60s. What we shared was a common determination to free ourselves from, in many cases, lifetimes of emotional pain and suffering that was interfering with the quality of our lives. Many of us were veterans of different therapies and therapists, myriad medications and spiritual practices, as well as practitioners of strict diets and exercise regimes to render medication unnecessary. The collective healing expertise of our group was impressive, even if - as our presence at Hoffman indicated - these complex formulae and heartfelt efforts have not consistently eased our distress. And most of us had learned about the Hoffman Process from other people who had done it and who had experienced meaningful if not lasting results, many of which have been documented in research studies. It was the combination of scientific proof, and the fact that the person who referred me is a Harvard educated CEO, that persuaded my highly skeptical intellect to invest time and a not trivial amount of money in this experience. At the same time, my ego was convinced that it was so special that the process wouldn't work on me, and so there I was, deeply wanting to put an end to my existential and emotional angst yet concerned that I would simply get in my own way, that I would be one of the people for whom this didn't "work".

As we were told early on in the retreat, there is no way to "fail" the Process. True enough. Simply by showing up one has demonstrated a commitment to heal. But many of us were hoping and wanting to achieve an enormous transformation. Fast. And forever.

Although we didn't scale sheer walls, navigate a rope course or leap blindfolded off of a platform into a safety net of interlinking outstretched arms, the process was probably more intense than what I imagine an Outward Bound course would be like. On several days we did exert our bodies to an exhilaratingly and sometimes painfully sweaty degree, stretching ourselves beyond previously established limits, but we did this indoors, not outside. And the exertion was designed to physically, and ultimately mentally, disconnect ourselves from many of the unproductive or negative thoughts and behaviors that we had picked up when we were children and have clung to us like life-force sucking leeches ever since. Hoffman refers to these as "patterns". Sometimes I've thought of them as programming, or conditioning. Whatever metaphor works is the one to use. Disassociating from the patterns was actually liberating and fun, and most of us looked markedly stronger and more powerful after that emotional and highly physical exercise than we had just a few hours before. In fact, a few of us were ready to pack our bags and go home at that point, having accomplished what we thought we had come for: a psychic purging of negative and self-defeating inner voices, voices that had once protected us but no longer serve us.

But we were only on day three of an eight-day retreat. There was more to come, said the teachers, a group of people of a variety of backgrounds who are trained specifically to deliver this process. I preferred to think of them as guides or shepherds, steering our group of sometimes unruly and resistant sheep from one session or activity to another and keeping track of the handful of sheep who'd inevitably wander off, either mentally or physically. Come to think of it, we were more like cats than sheep. Our large class was divided into smaller groups of eight, which periodically met for more intimate processing and discussion, and each group had its own catherd (if it isn't already a word, it is now).

One reason I had a hard time thinking of the facilitators as teachers is that much of the material they presented was not completely new to me, and sometimes I experienced their delivery as uninspired. Having attended retreats, personal growth seminars and dozens of yoga classes, many of them led by emotionally open and enthusiastic people who willingly shared elements of their own spiritual journeys, I was occasionally disappointed by what and how the person at the front of the room was trying to "teach" us. And at times my intellect would protest, "What are you doing here? You know this stuff already. What a waste of money!"

But then it occurred to me that my broad exposure to all kinds of healing modalities and spiritual writings meant that maybe I was a personal growth junkie who could talk the talk, perhaps even more effectively than these teachers, but, let's face it, still wasn't able to walk the walk. My resistance, thicker than a coconut shell and spikier than a porcupine, had gotten in the way of translating intellectual understanding of spirituality and healing into new ways of being and behaving. And at the times that my intellect was trying to invalidate what it was hearing, I reminded myself that I came for the group energy, which I believed I needed to complete some of the healing work I had started in individual therapy, and because the time had come to just do it. I decided I was not going to let my reactions to the teachers get in the way.

The only way out is through.

I had found that it was quite difficult for me to go through some of the less pleasant emotions in a 50-minute hour. It often would take me until minute 40 to soften and relax enough to let my feelings out. And by then it would be too late, because my ego - eager to protect my appearance at all costs - didn't want me to leave the therapist's office while I was a blubbering, vulnerable mess. And if I did manage to release some deep emotion, it was very difficult for me to sustain a more open and yielding emotional quality between sessions. I'd return the following week, feeling as if not much had happened. And so on. I would stay stuck, out of a powerfully toxic combination of stubbornness and fear, both unable and at times unwilling to free myself from some rather heavy baggage.

The Hoffman Process and the group helped me through, and I was able to tap into, feel and release grief that I didn't even know I was carrying with me as well as reach deeper levels of some more familiar sorrows. How did this happen? The Process is neither magical nor manipulative, but it does creatively utilize and sequence some time-tested tools - guided visualization, meditation, expressive writing, music and physical movement - to allow suppressed feelings to surface and be released, to give voice to parts of ourselves that have been shut down for decades. Equally important is that each person came to this retreat with a strong intention and motivation to allow this work to happen. And the setting - a resort in Napa Valley with gourmet catered meals from a Bay Area restaurant - nourished our spirits and bodies. The food in particular gave me something to look forward to each day after a few hours of riding an emotional roller coaster or two; between my cold and the tears, I probably consumed a full box of tissues each day.

The release of so much negative emotion and energy was palpable, with many people literally blooming, growing taller and sparkling before our eyes. And because each of us was feeling comfortable enough with ourselves to remove our social masks, we could now finally see each other as individual people, rather than as the projections of our fears, hopes and judgments. Many people told me to look in the mirror. I did. I recognized myself again, after years of seeing the reflection of a stranger.

Inexpressible, Incomplete

2008-01-28T23:40:00.000-05:00

When days go by without a post, it sometimes means that I have too much to say, rather than nothing to say. This post is the seed for something else, I think. It is not complete.

Last week I attended the Chassidic wedding of one of my many third cousins, none of whom I had ever met, let alone known about until recently. The bride's aunt had found my brothers and I via the Internet, after searching for our father and discovering that he had passed away. The bride's aunt and my father would be second cousins. For those for whom the concept of second and third cousins is a bit elusive, a simple way to remember the relationship is as follows: (first) cousins have common grandparents; second cousins have common great-grandparents; and third cousins have common great-great-grandparents. For many families that were decimated by the Holocaust, leaving an aching void where grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins would have or could have been, third cousins are a relatively close relationship, or at least not so distant.

Until the last few years, I had been put off by extremely religious people of any denomination, and I had a particular aversion to orthodox Judaism, which to my feminist sensibilities seemed like a culture built around the subjugation of women. Certainly, that is one lens through which one can view some of the practices of ultra orthodox Jews. But as I've become increasingly comfortable with having some Jewish ritual and affiliation as part of my life, and as I witness my oldest nephew and nieces growing up with a strong and positive Jewish identity in a caring modern orthodox community, I have tried to temper some of my aversion to hard core traditionalists with curiosity and respect.

And so it was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that I packed up my salt sprayed Subaru and drove to Montreal for this festive occasion, to meet this part of the family that my father - for reasons I can only surmise - had not told us about. I had rustled up a long black skirt, selected an elegant but modest green velvet top and had ordered some new shoes for this evening wedding. Arriving to the hotel where the ceremony would take place, I schlepped my large wheeled duffel and a garment bag through the lobby, already filled with sparklingly well groomed women in floor length gowns and men with those unmistakable black hats. Passing a mirror, I caught a glimpse of my tired face and greying hair, frizzy from the dry air in my car, and I felt like the poor country cousin. Suddenly my chosen outfit seemed highly inadequate, as did my skills at applying makeup, of which I have very little. My unpolished nails, which had looked fine the day before, now seemed to scream that I lacked elegance and traditional femininity. The hotel clerk must have sensed my momentary discomfort because he asked me, upon noticing that I had reserved a room with the wedding rate, if, indeed, I had come for the wedding.

"Yes," I said, partly wishing I could turn around and leave, if not for good then at least to visit a salon. He handed me a welcome bag filled with kosher cookies, chips and candy. I added that bag to my load and headed for the elevator, hoping no one would see me in my dishevelment.

At this point I had about 90 minutes or so before the wedding was to begin. My initial plan had been to arrive early enough to use the pool, but the thought of traversing the lobby in my swimming gear, passing a gauntlet of religious men and women, was too intimidating. Instead, I took a short nap.

As I dressed for the celebration, I adjusted my attitude and told myself that I would have a great time, even if I were the only single person there, not to mention childless at an age where some of the women in this community might already be grandmothers. I also decided to suspend judgment and take it all in, as if I were an anthropologist visiting a new subculture.

I found my relatives within a few minutes. Their warm welcome was reassuring and a bit overwhelming - I couldn't remember the last time I had entered a room and been greeted so enthusiastically by so many people. My experiences with other distant relatives have not been so positive. In preparation for our encounter, I had printed up the family tree that they had e-mailed my brothers and me so that I could show other people my connection. This folded up piece of paper served as my passport for the evening, allowing me into a world that most non-religious Jews (or others) would never get to see. One woman questioned whether I was "real" family or not - she seemed satisfied after seeing my passport. Family and shared ancestry are the currency of this community, and even though in many ways I am an outsider to the Chassidic way of life, for this occasion I was made to feel like an insider. The sense of acceptance and belonging I experienced was far more powerful and palpable than the twinges of uneasiness I felt, such as when the bride - her head and face completely obscured by an opaque veil - was carefully escorted by her mother and future mother-in-law down the aisle to the outdoor chuppah (wedding canopy), where the groom waited for her in the freezing cold.

The chuppah was adjacent to a canvas walled tent, where brave guests sat shivering as the bride - still veiled and aided by her mother - circumnavigated the groom an agonizingly slow seven times. The mercury was in the single digits. This community took seriously the custom of marrying under the stars and was undeterred by the winter weather. The wedding photographer had been warned and wore a hooded parka. Some of the women were in the know and wore mink coats. I was unprepared and nearly lost sensation in my fingers. A few guests, religious themselves, thought the outdoor chuppah was a bit meshuga.

Men and women sit, eat and dance separately at orthodox celebrations. My tablemates were mostly diamond decorated matrons who were surprised to learn that I had driven to Montreal by myself. Ten years ago, I would have thought about such a sola trip as evidence of empowerment and independence, and smugly used it as a way to make myself feel superior to these traditional women and to emphasize our differences, but this time I simply said, yes, I drove by myself. My only company on the journey were the voices on the French language cassettes I had checked out of the library. For a moment I envied these women's lives, filled with people and with no shortage of companions for long car trips.

Dancing with these women, linked together as we circled the bride, I was struck by the delicacy of their hands. Mine are strong and firm from yoga and from years of working with them. And unlike the bodies of these women, mine has borne backpacks but not children. And I couldn't help but imagine that my life could have turned out like theirs had my father chosen to stay in the orthodox fold and had raised me in such a community. But he left that orbit to create his own family and his own universe, to expose his children to the wider world. Yet there I was, in many ways a privileged contemporary woman, feeling soothed by the beat of Judaism's Chassidic heart.

In a way I am glad that I didn't learn about these people until now, even though upon meeting them I felt that a certain void had been filled and that, in fact, I had been missing them for a long time. As a child, teenager or young adult, I doubt I would have been able to see the women under the wigs and the men under the hats as individuals, as people with whom I share ancestry and Hebrew names. During the final part of the ceremony, with most of the hundreds of guests already gone home or to their hotel rooms, I witnessed the very special Mitzvah Tantz. The badchen, the wedding entertainer or poet, stood on a chair and with microphone in hand chanted improvised Yiddish rhymes to lovingly describe the bride's and groom's forebears, essentially invoking their spirits. The mood in the room was meditative and mystical, with the family and remaining guests paying focused attention to the badchen's words. After each person was honored, a male family member or group of men would stand up and take hold of one end of a rope - the other end was held by the bride - and would dance "with" the bride, who would just sway as the man or men would kick up their heels, eventually dropping the rope to dance in a circle with each other. Although I barely understood the badchen's rhythmic chanting, I was mesmerized by his loving and reverent invocation of the names and stories of my ancestors, acknowledging their role in contributing to this happy occasion. Entranced by the soothing rhymes of this ritual, I suddenly and surprisingly felt enormous affection for this hybrid tongue. I regretted terribly that I didn't speak or understand Yiddish, a language whose soft sounds and curious expression I've rejected for years.

As the night wore on and as guests began to dwindle further, the badchen remained in good rhyming form, generating wet eyes and causing the appearance of white handkerchiefs as he movingly honored the parents of the bride and groom. The bride's final dance was with her father. For this, there was no rope. They first clasped their hands and then clasped in an awkward embrace, a final tearful farewell.

Illuminated

2008-01-19T00:46:00.000-05:00

Turning off the lights in my apartment, I glanced up to see a bright winter moon and a few fistfuls of stars scattered across the sky. An airplane moved across the heavens, leaving a white diagonal line in its wake. Winds lifted the line from below the moon to above it, where it dissolved into the darkness.

Interlapse

2008-01-15T22:11:00.000-05:00

The lapse of time between two events.

In November of 2006 I designed and printed a 5.5"x8.5" postcard to announce my holiday studio hours and crafts shows for my jewelry design business. Some of these cards I mailed, others I left at various cafes and still others I had available at my studio. Today, more than 13 months later, I received one of these postcards in my studio mailbox. What made this interlapse all the more intriguing is that I was not the sender of this postcard. Someone's father had used my postcard - which doesn't have a lot of extra room on it - to send a greeting to his children, or to a child and his/her partner. How do I know the person was a dad? He wrote, "Jeanne, Warren, Thanks for the all the goodies. Dad."

And someone else - possibly the dad's partner or another family member - had written a longer message on the lower right of the postcard, beneath the addresses. Yes, there were two addresses, the first one scratched out to make way for the second. There were also two stamps, one on top of the other - a Purple Heart stamp (2007) over a Ronald Reagan stamp (2006). If I were to assume that this person is like me and chooses stamps that reflect their values or tastes, then I would conclude that this person is a Republican who values the military, was once enlisted him/herself or is close to people who did. I am also going to assume that the dad was not the person in charge of communicating via this postcard - what kind of a dad would be so cheap that he'd hijack a jewelry designer's marketing collateral for his own purposes, scrawling in the margins? And I imagine that the dad would know the correct address for his child(ren). I am betting that this other person, who signs the card just as "B", had the bright idea of encroaching on my marketing real estate and using it to deliver his or her news.

The presence of two stamps suggests that the postcard was mailed once, with an incorrect address, and then returned...to whom? and to where? And when it was returned mysteriously to the sender, whose address is not on the card, this person then put a new address and used a fresh stamp, eclipsing most of Ronald Reagan's face, sending the postcard on its second journey.

The handwritten date on the postcard is 12/22/06. On 12/29/2007 it was stamped by a postal machine. My hypothesis is that the senders wrote the postcard in 2006 and put a stamp on it. It sat around for a year, by which time postal rates had gone up, so they plopped a second stamp on top of the first, rather than bothering to go to the post office and pay a few extra pennies for supplemental postage. And by this time the addressees had moved, so the original address was crossed out and another one inked in. But this second address was still not correct and on 1/15/08 it landed in my mailbox. If you have other theories, please let me know!

Incensed

2008-01-10T22:28:00.003-05:00

I'm normally not a political or news junkie but the results of the Iowa caucuses piqued my interest in the campaigns and in the press coverage of them. And so I was rather astonished and incensed to see the extent to which Hillary Clinton was and is being savaged by the media, including the New York Times, which until now I thought was somewhat balanced and objective, even for a liberal paper [except that it has hired William Kristol].

It is one thing for the Times' female columnists - I'm thinking of Maureen Dowd - to practically trash the woman for leaking a tear and showing some emotion (of course, if Hillary doesn't show any emotion, she gets beaten up for that, too). Columnists do get to write their own opinions, no matter how nasty. But there was a Times' headline on Wednesday, "Clinton Escapes to Fight Another Day" which struck me as being more of a comment on the media's incorrect forecast of an early demise of her campaign, rather than a reflection of the facts and perspective. No, she didn't win Iowa, but my goodness, it was only the first of many contests!

Skimming the major papers and the blogosphere, and not terribly methodically, the predominant tone towards Mrs. Clinton appears to be one of derision. The lack of respect in the newspapers for her attempts to get elected, and make history, is staggering. I'm not suggesting that people vote for her simply because she could be our first female president. But it would be a huge improvement if the media would stop circling her like a pack of vultures, eager to snack off of her political death, and would start writing articles that would educate voters about where the candidates stand on different issues.

Invasive

2008-01-07T21:19:00.000-05:00

I sailed through the first three plus decades of my life without accumulating a single cavity, a record that fueled delusions of dental grandeur. When my dentist told me a few years ago that the surface of one of my teeth was sticky - a nice way to say decaying - and required a filling, the news crushed my sense of toothy superiority. Part of me had really believed that I'd live cavity-free until 120, despite my propensity for eating sweets.

A few weeks ago this same dentist discovered another sticky spot on a rear, upper left molar. Today I went to get it filled. The room was cold and I was told to keep my coat on. Lying back in the chair, swaddled in my green down jacket, I stared at the dentist and his technician, who looked like a pair of nerdy riot police behind their blue plastic face shields. I tried not to gag as they inserted multiple objects into my mouth. First came a numbing swab of novocaine, followed by three injections of the stuff, not to mention their latex covered fingers. The technician sprayed the inside of my mouth to rinse out the excess from the swabbing.

I was handed a New Yorker magazine to entertain me while the drugs took effect. It was a brief respite before the next oral invasion, during which the dentist inserted the filling and the technician placed a suction tube in my mouth. I must have look stricken or distressed because they kept asking me, "Are you OK?"

"Un huh," I grunted affirmatively, trying to suppress my gag reflex. I wasn't really OK, but I wanted to get the procedure over with as soon as possible, rather than interrupting and prolonging it. Putting my yoga practice to work, I focused my attention on my breath, feeling it rise and fall in my belly. This exercise took my mind off the buzz of activity in my mouth, which normally prefers its privacy and to remain mostly closed.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably just five minutes, the dentist asked me to bite down and see if it felt right. It didn't - there was too much filling. I braced myself for the next invasion, a whirring tool to remove the excess material.

"Could you lick the tooth and make sure it's not rough?" the dentist asked, wanting me to test his handiwork.

I licked. It was smooth.

"You're all set. We'll see you in six months for your cleaning," he said, leaving the room and leaving me with my second filling and an uncomfortably numb mouth.

"How long will it take for the novocaine to wear off?" I asked the technician. My left cheek and lips felt enormous, as if someone had injected too much collagen.

"Um, just a few hours," she said, with just the slightest hesitation.

"Is that two hours?" I tried to clarify.

"Well, it's a few hours ... but once it starts to wear off it will go quickly," she replied.

It took nearly five hours for the novocaine to dissipate enough that I could eat something. Twelve 12 hours later there is still a slight ache in my gum, a reminder of my dental discombobulation.

Indulgences, Intimacy, Impediments

2008-01-04T21:39:00.000-05:00

The other night I got a phone call from a person who was in the middle of taking a bubble bath. Not just any bubble bath, but a green apple scented bubble bath. That is probably not the aroma I'd choose if I were to take a bubble bath, which I haven't done in years. This person - a man, actually - told me that he's in touch with his feminine side and regularly indulges himself in a hot bath. I think hot baths are a fabulous idea, and I even have a medicine cabinet with bath products from overseas, including bath tablets (Sprudelbad) from Germany in two scents: grapefruit-lime (for vitality) and vanilla-bergamot (antistress). These tablets have not only traveled across the Atlantic but have also been stored in two bathrooms and one attic over the years. I wonder if they are still good.

As I was saying, I think hot baths are a fabulous idea, and I often think this thought while traveling, figuring that, when I return home, I'll take a bath. But often, when I could really use a bath, it is simply too cold to get undressed to get into the tub. I'd rather stay fully clothed, rather than risk a wee chill en route to relaxation. But last night, one of the coldest we've had this year, as I warmed myself by a radiator and spoke to this person, I began to think about why I don't take baths.

"My bathtub is somewhat small," I explained, while trying not to imagine him in his green apple scented tub. I had had two dates with this person a week before; there had been a mildly flirtatious vibe going on between us but nothing much beyond that. He doesn't live around here and it seemed prudent to take things slowly. His decision to phone me while bathing came across as a unilateral acceleration of intimacy to which I wasn't completely receptive.

"If you don't take baths, what do you do to relax?" he asked. A fair question, I thought, but then I realized that I'm not particularly good at relaxing. Intense yoga helps, as does attending synagogue on Friday nights and meditation. But none of these activities feel like indulgences -
I see them as necessities, without which my stress level would escalate and become an enormous impediment to functioning.

Meanwhile, my foam covered friend pointed out that I was creating impediments to conversation by not being open enough to some of his questions. I don't disagree with his assessment. It's hard to pinpoint precisely when my defenses went up and why - perhaps a combination of his intensity, the geographic distance and the not insignificant difference in our ages - but towards the end of the long call, during which he had transitioned out of the tub, the good vibes had stopped flowing. There was no acrimony or anger, but the lightness had disappeared, much like the bubbles down his drain.

Immortality, Individuation

2008-01-02T20:47:00.000-05:00

Ernest Becker's The Denial of Death overflows with "I" words. This book has been around a long time but I only learned of it this past autumn, when two different people (a rabbi, a friend) recommended it for slightly different reasons. Becker is brilliant at synthesizing the work of Freud and other psychoanalysts, psychologists and thinkers on the difficult subjects of human character, neurosis and how we create meaning. I liberally used a highlighter while reading it and I will probably reread many passages again and again. I was particularly interested in what he had to say about creative types and artists. First:

"Most people play it safe: they choose the beyond of standard transference objects like parents, the boss or the leader; they accept the cultural definition of heroism and try to be a 'good provider' or a 'solid' citizen. In this way they earn their species immortality as part of a social group of some kind."

And then...

"...personal heroism through individuation is a very daring venture precisely because it separates the person out of comfortable 'beyonds'....The most terrifying burden of the creature is to be isolated, which is what happens in individuation: one separates himself out of the herd. This move exposes the person to the sense of being completely crushed and annihilated because he sticks out so much, has to carry so much in himself. These are the risks when the person begins to fashion consciously and critically his own framework of heroic self-reference.
"Here is precisely the definition of the artist type, or the creative type generally.....the key to the creative type is that is separated out of the common pool of shared meanings. There is something in his life experience that makes him take in the world as a problem; as a result, he has to make personal sense out of it. This holds true for all creative people to a greater or lesser extent, but it is especially obvious with the artist. Existence becomes a problem that needs an ideal answer; but when you no longer accept the collective solution to the problem of existence, then you must fashion your own. The work of art is, then, the ideal answer of the creative type to the problem of existence as he takes it in - not only the existence of the external world, but especially his own: who he is as a painfully separate person with nothing shared to lean on....he wants to know how to earn immortality as a result of his own unique gifts. His creative work is at the same time the expression of his heroism and the justification of it. It is his 'private religion' - as Rank put it......No sooner have we said this than we can see the immense problem that it poses. How can one justify his own heroism?"

Aha! I thought as I read this passage, which both relieved and terrified me. The relief came from recognizing parts of myself in these words, the sense I've had for a long time that I don't necessarily share in our society's idea of what is heroic and that I want to experience everything on my own terms. And the terror came from the sense of Oh shit, I'm too far down the path of being different to retrace my steps and try to find meaning where others do, but I'm not sure I have the nerve - or the talent - to keep bushwhacking forward.

More to follow.

In Memoriam: Benazir Bhutto

2007-12-27T13:55:00.000-05:00

Today I didn't check the headlines until early afternoon and I was startled and deeply saddened to read that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated. Her ethics and track record were not impeccable but she brought hope to many people both inside and out of Pakistan. She was also a captivating figure on a world stage heavily populated by greying middle aged men. On a more personal note, when I was in graduate school many years ago another student told me that I resembled Ms. Bhutto. I remember feeling very flattered by that comparison.

Upon learning that she will no longer grace the newspapers with her elegance, I was inspired to see if, in fact, I really did share a resemblance. My skills at self-portraiture (via handholding my digital camera) could certainly be improved, as could my ability to properly position a headscarf. Below is a sliver of an image I came up with. I'll let you decide for yourselves the strength of the resemblance, if any.

May Benazir Bhutto, and all of the Pakistanis who've been victims of political violence, rest in peace.

Icicles

2007-12-23T00:03:00.001-05:00

Immediate, Internet

2007-12-22T23:42:00.000-05:00

Despite the few comments this blog has inspired so far, I know people are reading it - or at least looking at the pages - based on statistics I receive. And sometimes people in my real life approach me with a question based on something they've read here, which temporarily throws me for a loop since - without a ton of comments - I don't know who, exactly, is reading this on a regular basis.

Having become accustomed to a practically invisible audience, and to my near anonymity in this space, I was quite taken aback to receive a comment on my last post about my experience in a focus group from a person at the company who organized the event. I had forgotten that news travels fast, if not immediately, on the Internet, with Google news alerts and other ways to track who is writing about what. And as much as I would enjoy having more people comment on my writing, it felt a bit strange to get a response from a corporate person on what had been until now a fairly intimate and personal endeavor.

Interview, of sorts

2007-12-19T21:57:00.000-05:00

Last night I lost my "focus group virginity" at a bland office park in Waltham, MA. Lured by the promise of an honorarium and some snacks, I spent a few hours in a focus group for Constant Contact, the e-mail marketing company whose software I've been using for years. The snacks were pathetic - half-sandwiches of pale coldcuts and tired tunafish with shreds of iceberg lettuce slumped over the sides. I passed on the food and had a soda, and before long a few of us were chatting and commiserating over some of our technical difficulties with the product while waiting for the focus group to officially begin.

We were escorted into a bland but heavily miked conference room with a one-way mirror. There were nearly a dozen of us users, including academics, event planners, a church board member, and retailers. Several of us naively thought that Constant Contact was paying us each $125 so that they could get our input on how to improve their basic product, which allows one to create customized electronic newsletters, announcements invitations. But it quickly became clear that we had been invited for another reason, which was to give feedback on a proposed change in the user interface and other add-ons. The game then became how to respond to the questions in such a way that would also allow us to deliver feedback on the current product which has more features - and bugs - than its predecessor. The facilitator, an independent marketing professional with bleached highlights, pink nails and a poker face, did her best to keep the conversation on track. And a few of us in the room did our best to reiterate our basic concerns and suggestions, hoping that one of the many microphones would record our comments.

As a fan of Constant Contact and someone who has been monitoring their stock price ever since they went public a few months ago, I was a bit disappointed that the company is considering making mostly cosmetic changes to the user experience, rather than enhancing and deepening the functionality of its current product to keep pace with the increasingly sophisticated needs of its long-time customers. At the end of the evening, I was happy to receive my pink envelope of cash and decided to invest it in something other than their stock. At least for now.

Invierno

2007-12-16T08:14:00.000-05:00

Winter is unmistakably here. Tiny snowflakes float gently but unrelentingly from the heavens, like a sprinkling of confectioner's sugar gone amok. These miniscule flakes are, one by one, creating spectacular drifts. I briefly opened my skylight to dislodge the accumulated snow only to have it be quickly recoated, enveloping me in a powdery blanket. My car is nearly completely covered with a fluffy quilt of snow.

It is only 8:20 a.m., on a Sunday, when most of the world is probably asleep, but I can hear the sounds of a neighbor's shovel stubbornly scraping against the pavement. The city's plows have already made several passes down my street, a main thoroughfare. Only 30 feet of unshoveled driveway stands between me and the clean road. Earlier this morning, while meditating, the sounds of my downstair's neighbors' snores percolated into my apartment. I will wait until they stir before attempting to shovel. And my shovel is in my car so I will have to bushwhack a trail to get to it. But I am not in a rush.

Intangible

2007-12-12T21:24:00.000-05:00

A loyal reader has tossed this word at me. I'm catching it and running with it. This word is a bit of a paradox - we can see it, read it and speak it yet it refers to those things that we cannot discern or observe.

This evening I had tea with a woman from my synagogue whom I've been getting to know in our Rosh Chodesh group, a monthly women's gathering centering on spirituality. Both of us are trying to focus our attention on gratitude and appreciation and I saw her as a fellow traveler along a difficult path. It is very challenging, when accustomed to looking at the world, and the people, places and objects in it, as something that needs fixing or improvement, to try to notice all that is positive in our lives. I must constantly refocus my eye, which gravitates to details and loves to linger on the miniscule flaw, and zoom out and see the basically good big picture.

Another thing this woman and I share is our sensitivity to the vibrations of people and places, what for others might be completely intangible. She and I are a bit like Goldilocks, needing to try many chairs, porridges and beds before finding the ones that are "just right". Sometimes I envy people who can find a place to live in a short amount of time, can enjoy almost any situation and are at ease with a lot of people. If they have an inner sensor, it is not blinking yellow or flashing red as much as mine and hers do, or maybe these people have just decided to ignore it.

Ideology, the Danger of

2007-12-02T08:49:00.000-05:00

There was a time when I stopped reading newspapers. I was on a diet of sorts, not for my body but for my mind, which was generating an unhealthy surplus of anxieties and fears. I was determined not to introduce any additional negative stimuli in the form of violent or depressing stories that would leave me feeling even more overwhelmed or despairing.

I'm not in such a dark place anymore and so I now do read the New York Times online. Typically I skim the headlines, check out the Letters to the Editor and poke around for feature articles. I am still on a news diet, trying to carefully select what information to feed my still impressionable brain. But sometimes I do give into the temptation to click on a headline that might lead to a longer and upsetting story.

And so it was that I read Ending Famine, Simply by Ignoring the Experts, about how Malawi is now growing enough food for export after years in which it couldn't produce enough for domestic consumption. During those bleak years Malawi followed the World Bank's ideologically orthodox free market advice to not subsidize fertilizer. Without the fertilizer, farmers couldn't coax food out of the weak soil. Many people died of starvation. What is so sickening about the World Bank's advice is that the United States and Europe subsidize their farmers.

But after the 2005 harvest, the worst in a decade, Bingu wa Mutharika, Malawi’s newly elected president, decided to follow what the West practiced, not what it preached.

In my master's program, which each year produces a fresh crop of World Bank employees, I was indoctrinated in the dogma of free trade and free markets and could spout the ideology on command. Some of the economic theories underlying this ideology are seductive in their simple logic and beautiful when illustrated by an elegant curve on a graph. But insisting on transplanting these Ivory Tower ideas into Africa's, or at least Malawi's, barren terrain seems foolish at best and - in light of the resulting deaths - criminal at worst.

Indulgence or Investment?

2007-11-30T21:21:00.000-05:00

A few years ago I wandered into a high-ceilinged boutique in SoHo, called Pastec, that was filled with boldly colorful clothing, accessories and housewares. Tightly knit striped scarves and socks were arrayed along a large wood table as if they were food at a banquet. They certainly looked good enough to eat. The yarn and the craftmanship screamed quality and the color combinations - inspired by Morocco and imagined by designer Valerie Barkowski - practically had me gasping in excitement. I kept browsing, touching the sweaters and blouses that hung on racks around the room. Peeking at the price tags, I nearly fainted.

But it was too late. I was smitten by this shop's exotic yet contemporary clothing and I was going to buy something.

I returned to the table and picked out a pair of cotton socks with stripes of pink, yellow, orange, blue and brown against a brick red background. They were $20, about four or five times what I typically pay for socks. The clerk behaved as if I had bought a high ticket item. He ceremoniously wrapped the socks in tissue and put the packet into a handsewn bag made of specialty paper embossed with Pastec's logo. I was delighted by my purchase, which felt like a huge indulgence at the time.

Last week, I wore these same socks when I traveled to New York. Notwithstanding dozens of washings and wearings, they had outlasted several pairs of socks from Target and other such places and had not even developed any thin spots or holes. My fashion indulgence had proved to be a wise investment.

Returning to Pastec last Wednesday, I thought I might up the ante and purchase something other than socks. But the prices of the scarves gave me pause, as did the triple digit tags on the sweaters. I decided to invest in two more pairs of socks. Despite inflation, they were still $20 a pair, a reasonable price indeed.

Insanity, temporary

2007-11-25T11:24:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I am getting old. Last Monday I received a substantial refund check from the IRS. We're talking five fat figures. If you're wondering how it is that I managed to overestimate my tax liability to such an astonishing degree, send me a note and I'll tell you.

But this story begins with this check and my last minute preparations to travel to New York for Thanksgiving. My goal had been to deposit this and other checks before getting on the commuter rail on Wednesday morning to travel to South Station, where I'd board the Lucky Star bus to Manhattan's Chinatown. For just $15 one way, non-stop except for a short break at the Century Buffet in Connecticut, I'll sacrifice legroom. But I didn't make it to the bank on Tuesday or on Wednesday morning, and so I traveled to New York with many checks, totalling many many dollars, on my person. The IRS check I had tucked into my wallet. The other checks, from jewelry customers, I had zipped into an inside pocket of my purse.

I was vaguely aware of the stupidity of doing this - what if they were to get lost? But, I told myself, I don't lose things. I'm a careful person, a savvy traveler, someone who is alert to what is happening around her. I am an ex-New Yorker, after all!

During my trip I used my credit card for many transactions - purchasing a metro card, a small gift, dinner at a sushi bar, some socks at a mouth watering boutique in SoHo, and a pair of luscious lime green velveteen pants at Filene's basement. And I also used most of my stash of cash, next to which I had tucked my still unendorsed IRS check, for other things: visits to a few cafes, food at the Chinese buffet where our bus stopped in Connecticut, a rare deal on a sweater and, finally, a cab ride home from South Station. I had planned to take the commuter rail but had missed the 6pm train and didn't want to wait for more than 2 hours for another. Dehydrated, fatigued, body aching and eager to get home, I decided to splurge.

As we drove down the Mass Turnpike my eyes glanced at the signage inside the cab. Be sure to write down the taxi's number to help us find lost items, one of them said, or something to that effect.

The driver pulled up to my house and I used most of the rest of my cash to pay the fare, which cost nearly as much as my roundtrip bus ticket to New York. It was dark, I was tired, and I quickly counted out a few bills.

A few hours later, after I had had a chance to relax and drink some tea, I unpacked my bags. My anxiety rose when I couldn't find a necklace I had worn earlier that day but had tossed into my purse when I was trying on some clothing. Panicked, I dumped the contents of my purse and my shoulder bag, into which I had squeezed pajamas, socks, underwear, toiletries, two sweaters, an extra pair of pants, a silk sleeping sack, an organza bag with jewelry, books, a camera and snacks of crystallized ginger and dried cranberries. Still no necklace.

And that is when I discovered my customers' checks, still safely zipped into the interior pocket of the purse. I had forgotten all about them. I then opened my wallet to retrieve the IRS check and discovered that it was gone. Where there had once been a thick wad of cash now remained just a ten dollar note, a five dollar bill and a single.

I was too stunned to cry.

I sat on the floor in my hallway, my stomach both heavy and hollow, trying to imagine how it had vanished. Did it flutter to the floor when I pulled out two dollar bills to pay for my final NYC subway ride? Did it sneak into the tip I left for the waitress at Le Pain Quotidien? Did I hand it to the Boston cab driver as I stumbled out of his poorly lit taxi, eager to be home?

My mind latched onto the taxi man as the most likely scenario.

Would he turn it in? What if he tried to look up my phone number but couldn't because I don't have a landline? Would he mail it to me, or let it sit around gathering dust until I called to collect it? Or would he call the local papers to get the word out, and everyone in the greater Boston area would know what an idiot I was for walking around with this check? I looked on the receipt that the taxi driver had given me for any sort of identifying information, such as a license number or name of his taxi company. There was none. Why hadn't I written it down when I was in the cab? Why hadn't I just gone to the bank when I was supposed to? And why on earth hadn't I simply checked the box for direct deposit on my tax return, avoiding this fiasco altogether?

Recognizing that such self-beating wouldn't return the check any faster, I tried to clear my head and went to the IRS website. They do assist taxpayers with lost refunds, meaning checks that never arrive. There was no section or FAQ for people who receive the check and then lose it. They could call this section "Losers".

Still dumbstruck and deflated, I went into my kitchen to make some more tea. And there, on one of the counters, was the necklace that I thought I had lost. I must have taken it out of my purse when I got home, even though I had no recollection of performing that action. The sight of the necklace was heartening. Maybe I wasn't losing my mind completely. Maybe I was able to keep track of things to some degree.

I resumed the search for the check. Was it possible that, like the necklace, it was right in front of me but I had overlooked it? Again, I picked through the clump of receipts and papers that were nesting in my wallet, straightening them and sorting them. There were receipts for postage, for gasoline and for my NY cafe visits and clothing deals. But there was no check. Heading over to my desk, I noticed another stack of receipts. Was it possible that I had actually left the check at home, even though I could have sworn it was on my person?

As I flipped through this new wad of papers, the check - folded in half - fell onto my desk. I must have emptied my wallet of some of its contents before my trip, but without realizing that the check was in that pile. I felt a kind of sobering relief. I had found the check but had temporarily lost my mind.

Interiors, III

2007-11-23T21:45:00.002-05:00

I'm writing from a penthouse apartment on West 112th Street in New York City. By New York standards, it is palatial, with two large bedroom, 2.5 bathrooms and two balconies with sweeping views of rivers, bridges and water-tower dotted rooftops. It even has a laundry room which, when equipped with a twin sized air mattress, converts to a cozy bedroom. For Thanksgiving, much of the family piled into the apartment, where my older brother is staying during a semester teaching at Columbia. My younger brother, his wife and two young children slept in one of the bedrooms, my older brother and his wife took the other bedroom, and my older nieces and nephew camped out in the living room. I spent two nights sleeping in the laundry room but tonight - the rest of the family having dispersed to Rhode Island, Boston and Riverdale - I have the place to myself. Like Goldilocks, I might have to try out all the mattresses to find the one that is just right.

This evening I attended Shabbat services at B'nai Jeshurun, the synagogue I discovered a year before I left New York City. It is about 25 blocks south of the apartment, a decent walk in nice weather but a bit of a schlep in the cold and wind. The joyful and musical service in the amply heated sanctuary restored me for the return to 100th Street, but about halfway back I spotted an Asian restaurant bar and decided to take a sushi and tea break. After eating a bit more than I really I had room for, the maitre d' brought the check and a fortune cookie. I opened it in anticipation that its interior would yield an amusing proverb or uplifting saying, much in the way that someone might crack open an oyster, hoping for a pearl.

Rather than revealing a gem of wisdom it said:

LEARN CHINESE - Still single (mae yao jeh huan).

Thank you, fortune cookie writers, for providing this line for me to read as I sat alone at a Manhattan sushi bar on a Friday night. I'm sure this phrase would come in useful if I'm ever searching for a soul mate in China.

The flip side, the fortune side, wasn't terribly inspiring either:

Today, give control over to another person. It is definite.

Well, the day was almost over, and I had given control of half of it to another person, mainly my older brother's wife. She makes many of the decisions in their family and when I stay or visit with them I've learned to try to go with the flow, even when I'd rather be paddling in a different direction or think that there is a better way of organizing or planning an activity. My ability to give control over to another person - and not just my sister-in-law - is quite limited. Usually after 48 hours of ceding control I start to feel uncomfortable and seek solitude. Tonight I have that in spades.

Ingenious

2007-11-16T22:37:00.000-05:00

A woman with a striped hat and large smile came into my studio today and announced that she's seen my jewelry at shows around the area. Taking another look at her, I realized that I'd probably seen her before, or at least I'd seen her distinctive blue and white hat which flopped over her eyes.

"Your bracelets look so delicious!" she exclaimed in admiration.

"Thank you, but I wouldn't recommend eating them," I replied. "They look much better on your wrist."

She poked around my studio some more. Another woman, who had seen one of my necklaces at a silent auction, had made a beeline for my bigger necklaces and was in the process of trying on half a dozen. Having a sale - this time a rather generous one -brings in the serious shoppers.

Ms. Floppy Hat ogled my basket of Czech glass bracelets and cooed, "Your jewelry is just so joyful and cheerful!" I wished that I could be so joyful and cheerful, rather than having my jewelry act as my positive emotional ambassador to the world.

But, she sighed, "I can't spend the money right now."

"But this is the least expensive they've been," I explained. "If you buy two, you get another one free. That's 33 percent off. Now is a great time to buy them."

"You're right," she sighed, agreeing with my logic in theory.

She took a final appreciative look around and loudly declared that my combinations of beads were "ingenious."

Her pleasure in my jewelry and her comment - especially the use of an "I" word - made my day. And it didn't hurt that the other woman expressed her enjoyment by purchasing four necklaces and a pair of earrings. Acting on one's good taste is, perhaps, another kind of ingenuity.

Interviews, a Dozen

2007-11-15T12:35:00.000-05:00

"Oh, the places you'll go!" exclaims the Dr. Seuss book about life's unpredictable journey.

Who would have predicted that I, avoider of run of the mill restaurants and bars in general, would set foot into Charley's Eating and Drinking Saloon on Newbury Street? But that is where a HurryDate event was being held on Wednesday for Jewish people in my age range. So I told the part of me who snubs conventional places to chill out while I checked out a dozen supposedly eligible bachelors.

If you've never participated in this post-modern dating ritual, it can be a bit strange at first. Each person gets a number (I was #10) and each woman takes a seat at a table, each marked with a letter of the alphabet; of course, I chose the table marked I. Then the men seat themselves, one per table, and the dating begins. After 4-5 minutes, the host blows his whistle and the men get up and move to the next table in alphabetical order; it's like musical chairs except there is no music and there are enough chairs for all, unless there is a gender imbalance. Then either the extra woman or man gets a breather. If you're wondering how it's possible to get to know someone in 4-5 minutes, it isn't possible. That's not the point of a HurryDate, or a SpeedDate, or an 8MinuteDate. The point is to figure out if you'd like to continue the conversation some other time, not whether you want to marry the person and have "a million babies" as the host joked with us.

The fact is there are some people whom you know you never want to date just by looking at them. The first man to sit at my table fell into this category. His bad teeth and scruffy appearance turned me off, although he seemed happy in his life. Fortunately, the 4 minutes flew by. Before we knew it, the host had tooted the whistle and the next man had sat down.

Only one of my conversations dragged. A fleshy and flashily dressed man with a gold tie clip asked me if I was at all into sports or the Red Sox.

"No," I said, without elaboration or apology.

Somehow we survived until the whistle sounded again.

Towards the end of the evening, as the host became more practiced, his low toots on the whistle evolved into sharp and loud blasts. I felt as if I were at a bizarre sporting event, with no teams or spectators and with no winners or losers, just people playing the odds.

The host's grounding advice was to circle Y (for Yes) on our scorecards for as many people as possible. Yes simply meant a willingness to schedule a follow up conversation, nothing more. Taking that view, I was surprised to discover that there were 5 men I would have been willing to continue talking to. Of these, one I already knew, so that leaves a potential upside of 4 new possible acquaintances. I am curious which of these gentlemen "Yessed" me but I don't feel attached to a particular outcome.

Insanity, Impatience, Intransigence

2007-11-10T21:27:00.001-05:00

This triple "I" posting is inspired by an outing last evening.

Among the many rites observable at my synagogue on Friday nights - including candlelighting, Shabbat services and blessings over the challah and wine - is a relatively modern tradition. This contemporary ritual involves groups of mostly single people going to a restaurant for dinner after the kiddush.

Sounds lovely, you say, how nice to have such a group!

In theory it is a nice idea, but in practice the ritual makes me insane. It involves someone assuming a leadership role, often reluctantly, and then canvassing between six and eight people, most of whom are engaged in conversation with someone else, about their interest in having dinner and, if it is affirmative, the kind of food they'd like to eat. By the time this process has concluded, about 30 minutes have passed, more than enough time for me to snack amply on rugelach at the kiddush.

No longer hungry, I have lost much of the impetus to attach myself to a group outing, an act that is slightly unnatural for me in the first place. Moreover, I am starting to get cranky at the prospect of not arriving to a restaurant until 8:30 pm or later, not being served until 9pm, and not getting home until after 10pm. The group's tendency towards indecisiveness and the demonstrated inability of the group's members to arrive at the designated restaurant at the same time further frustrate me. I simply do not find it fun to engage in multilateral negotiations about which restaurant to choose, week after week after week. It's not as if we are debating the merits of different fine dining establishments where we're each expecting to pay upwards of $30/person, plus wine. We are talking Turkish or Thai with most entrees under ten dollars. Most Friday nights I am content to chat with people at the kiddush and then go on my merry way, either to dancing or a quiet evening alone or with one other person, unshackled by a slow moving pack of people. Democracy is great except when it gets in the way of eating at a reasonable hour.

Last week - and I will get to last night in a minute - my friend R. had broken free from the shackles of tradition and had made a reservation at a nearby restaurant for 8pm, a time that was still on the reasonable side. To support her bold, unilateral move, I joined the group. It was basically a fun evening, and the four of us who showed up on time ordered without waiting for the others who straggled in 30 minutes later. Somehow, we all completed the meal at the same time.

Based on that mostly successful outing, I decided to take my chances again last night. J., a very kind man, offered to round up the troops. A consensus builder, he also wanted to make sure that everyone could agree on the restaurant.

"Please pick a place," I urged him, hoping to simplify his job and speed things up. "And get back to me."

Meanwhile, R. wasn't sure she could join us because she had to first go home and let her dog out. I offered to drive her so she could take care of her pet and save some time. Deal. Then she suggested a restaurant near her house to save travel time on the other end. Perfect! We told J. of the plan. He just wanted to consult another member of our party, whom I'll call Y., who was engrossed in conversation with one of our congregation's elders. R. had tried to get Y.'s attention multiple times but failed.

But the dog needed to romp, so R. and I left the synagogue and told J. that we'd meet the group at 8:30pm at a certain Thai restaurant in Brookline. After caring for her pet, R. and I were walking to the rendezvous when my cell phone rang. It was Y., explaining to me that she couldn't join us for dinner because for various personal reasons she can't be seen in that part of town.

"I see," I said into my phone, even though I had no clue what she was talking about. I imagined that she had an agreement with an ex-lover who lived in the neighborhood to not hang out on his turf.

"Please tell R. I'm sorry I won't be there," Y. said.

I repeated what she said to R., who nodded in understanding when I mentioned that Y. can't set foot in this restaurant.

"So, what is that about?" I asked R.

"Well, it's personal, so she should probably tell you," R. replied, deepening the mystery.

We arrived to the restaurant, packed with people and with a long wait, and J. was already there, accompanied by a somewhat awkard man, looking forlorn because Y. can't - or won't - come. He's on the phone with her, and she is suggesting that everyone meet her and another friend at a different restaurant across town, apparently where it is safer for her to dine out.

It is past 8:30 pm. It is cold, I am tired, my car is back at R.'s house, and I put my foot down.

"Sorry," I say, baring my intransigence. "I'm not going anywhere else. If you'd like to join Y. for dinner across town that's fine with me. I can just go home."

I wasn't whining or complaining or angry, just stating my preference. I had no patience left for another round of negotiating, another trip in the car, finding another parking spot and another wait at a restaurant.

The others looked chagrined, as if breaking up the group was akin to a Halachic violation. I wondered if I was being difficult. For an instant, I was willing to reconsider my position.

"Well," I said, still cold and impatient, "could someone at least tell me why Y. can't be seen in this part of town?"

Perhaps if I understood the mishegas I'd be ready to relent. J. decided to break the silence.

"Well, Y.'s a rabbi - but she doesn't like people to know this - and she doesn't like to go to restaurants that are near KI (a conservative temple) for fear she might be seen."

Uh huh.

My mind quickly calculated the merits of this particular case of Jewish insanity: conservative female ordained as a rabbi, but who doesn't want to be known as a rabbi, attends a post-denominational synagogue where almost everyone drives on the Sabbath yet because she is still known as a rabbi by some people and might still want to work as a rabbi somewhere, sometime, she thinks she can't enjoy a Shabbat meal at a restaurant within a few blocks of a conservative temple whose members don't observe the Sabbath 100% either, but who might frown upon seeing a rabbi dining out on a Friday. Whew.

I am no stranger to these convoluted complexities - I attend synagogue every Friday night and observe one dietary law (hold the pork!), which makes me "religious" to some secular Jews, yet I break almost all the other commandments, making me practically a gentile in the eyes of the Orthodox. I totally got the "logic" of her situation but I didn't want to exhaust myself further in support of her rabbinic ambivalence.

"Well, I am going to have dinner here," I told the group, pointing to a less crowded restaurant across the street from where we were standing. "If anyone wants to join me, that's great. If not, I'll go by myself."

In the end the four of us - me, R., a somewhat sullen J. and the awkward man - shared a late meal. I made a few suggestions to J. about ways to organize the group dinners to make the process more efficient and enjoyable.

"Efficient is for the workplace," J. said, "It doesn't work for socializing."

"Well, I'd be more likely to come to these dinners if they were more organized," I politely disagreed. "Every week we spend so much time making the same decision, I am exhausted by the time we begin eating. Can't one person choose a restaurant each week and make a reservation?"

"But what if the others don't like it?"

"Well, everyone would know that they'd each have a chance to pick a place. Over time, people would get to eat at the restaurants they liked."

J. looked dubious. And I simply stopped there and tried to savor my very spicy but slightly oily soup.

Indistinct, Intellectual Interference

2007-11-08T21:29:00.000-05:00

I will attempt to reestablish my blogging rhythm (so far somewhat erratic) with a posting about drumming. I'm enrolled in a "Beyond Beginner" African drumming class, a level in which students are supposed to remain for a few years before moving into Intermediate or Advanced. Two summers ago I took the Beginner class. I have hardly touched a drum since.

But as I remembered during my first "Beyond Beginner" lesson a few weeks ago, rhythm isn't really a problem for me. Most of the time I can quickly pick up what the instructor is teaching us. And closing my eyes while drumming prevents the thinking part of my brain from seeing what I am doing, having an opinion about it, and therefore screwing it up. My hands generally know what to do as long as there is no interference from my intellect. I can play for a longer amount of time if I feel the rhythm, rather than try to understand it or memorize it.

The biggest challenge for me is creating the proper sound with my hands. There are basically three sounds that we use to make music. The bass, created by a flat palm in the middle of the drum; a tone, created when the bottom of the hand hits the rim of the drum and the fingers - but not the tips - land on the drum head; and the slap, which is like a tone but the fingers land at a slightly different angle, creating a sharper sound. At this earlier stage in my drumming life, my slaps are sloppy and my tones are tentative. And the faster we drummed, the sloppier and more tentative they became, respectively. A classmate described her slaps and tones as indistinct as our rhythm picked up speed.

Indistinct indeed.

And since my technique stinks I am inclined to use more force to generate separate sounds so I can feel as if I'm "getting it right," but muscling through a song is exhausting and unnecessary.

"Coax the sound out of the drum," our teacher, a portly retired gentleman, explained the first night. "You don't need to bang it to get a good bass."

The best drumming happens when the mind and body are relaxed but alert. I'll think of it as musical meditation.

Incisions

2007-10-28T22:34:00.000-04:00

I've been devoting more time to mosaic-making. In particular I am attempting to master the art of cutting sheets of stained glass into the sizes and shapes that I want. If you've ever been in a glass shop, you might have seen an employee coat the glass with kerosene or paint thinner and score the glass (or mirror) with a special tool. The lubricant prevents the glass from "healing" after it has been scored, thereby allowing a very clean break.

Voila!

It looks so easy. And I'm sure it will be easy for me, too, after I've made dozens of tries, hopefully not all as bloody as they were today. I have two scoring tools - a wet one (requiring a lubricant) and a dry one. A mosaicist friend makes clean and efficient cuts with her dry scorer and watching her a few times it looked rather straightforward.

But the project I am working on now - a mirror - involves several different colors of stained glass, each with a different surface texture. And some sheets of glass have different textures on the front and back. Each type of glass requires a different amount of pressure to score it so that it will break cleanly, not shatter into pieces when I place it in the glass nipper and gently squeeze perpendicular to the scored line. And the glass somehow knows when I mean to score it or not ... it senses the purity of my intention, my ability to focus on it and only it. When I do give the glass 100% of my attention and my score is straight and on the correct side of the glass, it breaks easily.

But I must have been distracted this afternoon because many of my attempts yielded imprecise cuts, which sliced incisions into my finger tips as I tried to position the glass pieces on my mosaic. Three blood soaked bandaids later it was time to stop and go to yoga. Tomorrow I will try again.

Ignescent, Impermanence

2007-10-25T22:45:00.001-04:00

Ignescent: bursting into flame.

I've been following the coverage of the California wildfires, a compelling reminder of the power and cycles of nature which demand our respect. The fires are also a reminder of the simple fact of impermanence. While I don't wish that everyone should live in constant fear of having their houses destroyed on any given day, and I don't wish to be glib about the enormous dislocation of so many people, it is useful to keep in mind that nothing lasts forever. I used to be someone who resisted most change and wanted the world around me to arrange itself in such a way that it would be easier for me to be happy in it. While I am not even close to eliminating that tendency, I am now much more aware of it and I increasingly find that I am not as anxious about impermanence. Sometimes I even embrace it, particularly when I am stuck or in a difficult situation. The fact that nothing last forever can be a tremendous blessing. Impermanence means that something can and will change or shift, if only I am willing to accept it or, in some cases, allow it to happen.

During the last week I've been obsessing about a particular person, my mind unable to let go of the story it had created around this person and my feelings. Even daily meditation, writing and vigorous yoga classes did not completely stop these racing and roaring thoughts; these spiritual practices only succeeded in briefly pausing them. During one of those much needed hiatuses I realized that I had a choice about whether to continue with or end the obsession, and a phone call with this person - during which I chose to ask a question I had avoided uttering before - helped me do the latter. Now that I have reached greater clarity around this situation, it is hard to believe that I had been so consumed by it just a few days before. Much like the wildfires have destroyed everything in their path, my obsession had obliterated my equanimity and concentration. Thank goodness, in this case, for impermanence. And may the thousands of people displaced by the wildfires find the strength to rebound and rebuild their lives.

International, Identity

2007-10-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

At my studio yesterday three of us had gathered in the hallway to chat about an event we are planning. There wa A., whose showroom is filled with colorful handmade crafts from his native Morocco, and L., a painter who just moved to the Boston area from France, and me, born here but with a lingering longing for other lands. Briefly, but briefly, our conversation veered into French, which I understand to some degree but barely speak. I managed to put together a complete sentence and ask a question, communicating with the others. Speaking a foreign language subtly but suddenly shifts my inner gears. Having access to other languages, but not being completely fluent in them, I can only express myself simply and directly, without resorting to cleverness, elaboration or obfuscation. I can no longer fool myself. When I shift into globetrotting mode, all that matters is that I am a human being, interacting with other human beings, transcending our particular place-based identities. My persona falls away and I become, simply, a person. It is such a blissful relief.

Idolatry, revisited

2007-10-21T21:22:00.000-04:00

Earlier today I attended a meditation workshop at my synagogue called, "Letting Go of the Burning Coal: Anger and How to Heal It", led by Rabbi Alan Lew. The workshop was scheduled to run from 10am-4pm and, like many events held at my synagogue, for reasons that were not apparent it didn't start at the stated time. And because people know that events at my synagogue (even if organized by different groups) tend not to start on time, they have learned not to knock themselves out to arrive on time. And so it goes, creating awkwardness for the people who did arrive promptly and who need to leave (at the original) "on time", when the event might run quite late.

In fact, by the time lunch rolled around we were 30 minutes off schedule. I had intended to leave at 4pm to get to a yoga class and I started to wonder if I'd have to choose between completing the retreat and keeping my commitment to practice yoga three times a week. Poor planning and sliding schedules tend to push a few of my buttons: there is the button of respect - when people don't honor appointments or plans I start to feel that they are not respecting my time and, therefore, not respecting me; and there is the button of irritation - it gets ignited when I believe (rightly or wrongly) that I am in a situation that is being run less than competently. Needless to say, given the increasingly casual world we live in, I'd be better off if I could figure out a way to reprogram these buttons.

Being somewhat, but not completely, self-aware, I ruefully realized that I was in exactly the right place to become angry and annoyed.

Could I learn something about myself and how and why I get angry, I wondered, as I quietly steamed about the schedule during the silent vegetarian lunch. Why didn't the Rabbi shave a few minutes off of lunch (after all, we were not allowed to speak, just eat, so it wasn't social time) in order to make up for the time he lost in the beginning?

It wasn't until 3pm or so that Rabbi Lew actually gave us some instructions on how to work with anger in meditation. "Finally!" my huffy inner voice hissed.

And then he, too, mentioned anger as a form of idolatry, although not in the way that I had heard it described by a woman at Elat Chayyim, where I had spent Yom Kippur. Back in September, a fellow retreatant had mentioned that persistent anger is a way of keeping oneself at the center of things, raising oneself onto a pedestal. But Rabbi Lew had other explanations as to why anger is akin to idolatry. First, by being angry at another person, one gives that person tremendous power over one's life. And fixating on this person puts his or her image in the forefront of one's consciousness, whereas it is God who belongs at the forefront. Secondly, by treating anger as something in the body that must be expelled or gotten rid of, one gives anger a solid form (turning it into an idol) when in fact it is formless. It is energy which we can either suppress (rarely a good idea), express (often a bad idea) or - as we learned today - simply experience and inhabit it, watching it rise and fall. Since we can't exorcise it once and for all, we might as well learn to live with it.

The workshop, despite the 30 minute delay, ended on time, rendering my dilemma moot and making me realize that I had gotten steamed up over...NOTHING...my mind had chosen to chew on the delay much like a dog masticates a bone. My mind does this a lot, the content varying depending on the situation. As a meditator, my job is to figuratively remove the bone before my mind sinks its teeth into it and direct my mind's attention toward something else. Rabbi Lew suggested compassion - can we turn our feelings of anger to thoughts of compassion for the person who is pissing us off? After all, if they are showering us with harsh words and ill feelings, imagine how bad it must be for them.

His recommendation is not new or earth shattering, but it was worth hearing once again, something for my mind to chew on during yoga class while my body rested in downward facing dog.

Illegal immigrant

2007-10-15T22:27:00.000-04:00

Today Juan (not his real name, as it turns out) returned to finish some repairs at my apartment. Remembering that I wrote that I would be kinder when he came back, I got up early enough to meditate for 30 minutes before the agreed arrival time of 7:30 a.m. Since the contractor and Juan had appeared promptly the week before, I even skipped a shower so that I'd be sure to hear them arrive (I have no doorbell...yet) and be able to let them in.

As 8:15 rolled around, my impatience and stinkiness growing, I called the contractor to find out when I might expect them.

"Oh, it's just Juan who is coming today," he told me. I was relieved.

"OK, but I'd like to take a shower, so could you find out when he'll show up?"

"Don't worry, he won't get there while you're showering," the contractor said. "He's at least a half hour away."

I was not reassured.

The phone rang again after I had finished bathing and dressing. It was the contractor letting me know that Juan probably wouldn't make it until 10 a.m. I started to get annoyed - I could have slept later, showered sooner....my mind could have generated a list a mile long about how things "could have" been.

"Well," I huffed. "I'm not sure I can stick around much longer than that."

"OK," he said. "I'll tell him to hurry."

Part of me was eager to get agitated and pissed and scream at this guy but I remembered kindness so I didn't bite his head off. I also realized that even though contractors have made me feel crazy in the past, I do have a choice about how I am going to react NOW. I didn't have to get angry all over again. I sighed and tried to figure out how to rearrange my plans so that I could get something accomplished while waiting.

The following e-mail shows up, one of a few daily inspirational quotes that I receive:

If someone cheats you, they cannot diminish your experience. They only diminish their experience. You cannot be diminished by someone cheating you unless you get all upset about being cheated and push against them.

I wasn't feeling cheated, per se, but it was a good reminder to not let other people's behavior determine how I feel. Getting upset is, actually, a choice (one that many people make).

At 11 a.m., engrossed in creating my jewelry newsletter, I hear a faint sound down below. I go to my hallway, open the window to peer out and see Juan standing patiently in his New England fall "uniform": blue jeans and a grey zipped hooded sweatshirt.

"Just a minute!" I say, scampering down the steep steps in my sockfeet.

"I owe you a big apology," he says in Spanish while handing me a bag of tostadas. "These are for you."

"Muchas gracias!" I say, trying to let him in. The hallway is so narrow I need to back up the stairs so that Juan, who's somewhere between "husky" and "a few extra pounds" can enter. It is hard to be too upset with a handyman who comes bearing authentic Mexican snacks, even if the guy is nearly half a day behind schedule.

He quickly fixes one of my kitchen lights, reinstalls the window pane in the bathroom and hangs up my coatrack. When he's finished we get to talking about his boss ("Esta un poco loco, no?" he says, almost smiling. I agree that the contractor is a bit crazy, but I'm grimacing). But Juan is not bothered by the man's kookineess. He's grateful to be working at all. His previous patrones, a couple who flew him to Boston from LA to live in their house while fixing it up, left the country without paying him for three months of his labor. They also sold the house, giving him little time to find another place to stay. All he got was $200 and a note that said, essentially, "Sorry! We're outta here".

Juan said he was glad to be in the US, even if illegally, as back home he found his job, as a member of the presidential secret service, demoralizing and degrading. Lacking connections, he had to pay a bribe to be considered for the job, which often entailed keeping an eye on presidential offspring who were drinking, drugging and vomiting. And he was on call nearly all the time, a life without structure or much sleep. Or respect.

"If you don't know the right people in Mexico, " Juan said. "Then you're nothing. People will treat you how they want. I have studied and have a few degrees but it made no difference. It's much better here."

Juan seemed to harbor no bitterness towards the couple who fleeced him. He embodied the message in my inbox, a walking example of how to let go and move on, to be happy regardless. He might be somewhat naive but he seems to be living in the moment, not living with a grudge.

I hope I can remember his example the next time I start to feel cheated. Certainly, I'll think of him for as long as I can make the tostadas - in this case they are round, flat and slightly sweet biscuits - last.

Innovation

2007-10-13T22:39:00.000-04:00

I'm taking a class at my synagogue called, "Prayer: A journey of the heart or a burden? Thinking, struggling and learning about Tfilah". One of the things that turned me off of organized and synagogue-basedJudaism for many years was my lack of connection to the sequences of words that populate the siddur (prayer book). In many synagogues, these prayers are recited in much the same manner, time after time, often with uninspiring melodies and with little explanation as to why the service was constructed in a certain way. Without passion or meaning, and devoid of transformative power, of course prayer - reciting certain Hebrew words in a particular order at prescribed times - can feel like a chore or, worse, a burden. Oy!

As I learned from my classmates during the first evening, many of us feel connected to God when we are doing anything but reciting traditional prayers. Singing, chanting, doing yoga, playing music and dancing are ways that a lot of my Jewish community experience a relationship with God, or a force that is greater than ourselves. Yet we still come to synagogue, wanting to feel a divine connection in a Jewish context and environment created for that very purpose. The medium is the siddur and our kavanah (intention/direction) to create such a connection.

So, how do we go about doing it?

Apparently this struggle with prayer is not unique to 21st century North American Judaism; what constitutes meaningful prayer has been debated and discussed in the Babylonian Talmud, which reached its final form in the year 700 A.C.E. One sage, Rabbi Eleazar, said that a person needs to take stock of themselves, to determine if they can focus their attention. If yes, they should pray, but otherwise not. Most of us agreed that prayer is more meaningful if we can become fully present and focus on it, but we also agreed that making prayer conditional on being fully in the present moment would mean that little in the way of traditional prayer would happen (what if the rabbis were distracted and decided, based on this advice, to cancel services?)

However, is there a way to approach prayer that would help us to become more present while doing it, to prevent our mouths and brains from running on autopilot? Here is where innovation comes in. Innovation, or improvisation, turns what could have been a rote prayer into an experience of the moment and, therefore, of the heart. At my synagogue, the rabbis frequently change tunes and melodies - sometimes even mid-prayer - keeping us on our toes and the service fresh and vibrant. At Elat Chayyim, the retreat center I frequent, we often davven (pray) by focusing on a single line from a longer text, chanting it again and again so that the words, sounds and meaning have a chance to penetrate into our bodies, past our brains. This innovative prayer style helps me personalize my own prayers. Sometimes I will just sing a line or two as a way to shift into a more present and connected state of being.

Ick! Incompetence

2007-10-08T12:03:00.000-04:00

After posting under such esoteric words as isagogics and irritatory, I thought I'd simplify to a three letter word.

Ick! was my reaction to the "contractor" who showed up bright and early this rainy morning (yes, I had chosen the time - 7:30 a.m. - but had overslept), his fly unzipped and his pants sitting just a bit too low on his hips, his jacket and shoes dripping water into my apartment. Having just rolled out of bed, I was not in a good mood, nor had I meditated. My only preparation for this appointment (aside from putting on a pair of pants) was that I removed something from above the sink so that they could install a light.

What was this something? A sticky note that said KINDNESS, as a reminder to be more kind to myself and others.

I efficiently pointed out to him and his assistant what needed to be done (pipes to be insulated, lights to be fixed, replaced or installed) and proceeded to make myself a cup of tea.

"You know," he said, "I was at Home Depot at 8 o'clock last night getting things for your job."

Did the man want a medal for his heroic efforts? A pat on his unkempt head?

"OK," I said, starting to wish he'd just do the work and get the heck out of my space before he polluted it with his sulky attitude.

It quickly became apparent that this disheveled man had absolutely no clue about basic home repair.

I had told my landlord to install a heat lamp in the bathroom, and this fellow dutifully went to Home Depot and tried to find a heat lamp that ... get this ... wouldn't vent, because he figured the landlord wouldn't want to pay to have a vent put into the bathroom.

Well.

Mr. Disheveled had found the ugliest possible contraption for a heat lamp which, according to his assistant, a Mexican fellow, could not be properly hooked up without ventilation. Duh! And he didn't quite get that I wanted to keep my regular light fixture in the bathroom, not replace it with a heat lamp. Had he been a licensed contractor, he would have either asked about this or assumed that both a normal bulb and an infrared bulb were needed.

"You know," I practically spat, "they do sell combination heat lamps with regular bulbs that can operate on a single switch."

"Don't worry," he replied,"we'll solve the problem."

Unconvinced, I retreated with my tea to the living room.

He came in and said, "I'm here trying to help you. I've never done business with you before and you seem to have a bad attitude. I was getting stuff for you late last night!"

Poor fellow...had I ruined his weekend?

"You're working for my landlord, not me, and I've been waiting a month for you to show up. It was your choice to go to Home Depot last night." I retorted, as calmly as I could.

"Well, I'm trying to be helpful," he repeated, as if his good intention would be enough to accomplish the list of chores he came to perform. "Sounds like you are annoyed at the landlord."

One of the things my last therapist tried to convince me of is that, believe it or not, the Universe (even in the form of a disheveled, unzipped and incompetent contractor) is friendly helpful. If only I can learn to see things that way.

Remembering the sign I had taken off the kitchen wall just a few minutes before, I wondered if I could I show some...uh...KINDNESS to this, um, incompetent idiot?

I realized that I could sit there, sip my tea and stew in self-righteous anger and frustration, or I could try to do what I've been learning in yoga for the last few years - drop the fight and accept that these were the guys I'd have to deal with. After all, this was not my house and I couldn't send them away and call another tradesperson, even though I know several.

"So, are you happy here?" he asked, looking around my funky apartment.

"Yeah, it's a great place," I said, deciding to accept his idle presence. My apartment is small, and there wasn't a place for me to go and shut the door. His assistant, Juan, was doing all the work while he tried to make nice.

"Except it's not properly heated. That's why I wanted a heat lamp for the bathroom."

"Not heated?" he exclaimed. "No wonder why you're upset. Don't worry - we'll take care of that. Juan, guess what? She has no heat!"

Mr. Disheveled had sat down on my one chair, sort of reclining and running his hand through his hair, making himself a little too at home. Did he now think that he was my swank superhero, about to save me from a cold winter?

Ick! Ick! Ick!

"So, how is your jewelry business?" he asked, attempting friendliness. Somehow, I must have told him about it when we were scheduling the appointment.

"I'm probably going to wrap it up, " I said, but not wanting to talk about myself, quickly countered, "So, do you work with licensed contractors? What is it that you do?"

"Well, sometimes. It depends on the job," he said. "I'm in charge of customer relationships. Bad customer relationships," he chuckled. "Basically my business is about fixing up rentals and homes to get higher rents or sales prices. I don't usually do repairs," he confessed.

No kidding.

"But I try to make people happy," he added. "And I do some management consulting. Tomorrow I'm going to the Pentagon to see a client."

The Pentagon, eh? Assuming that is true, I wonder if he'll show up in Washington looking like he did this morning.

Mr. Disheveled became obsessed with my inadequate heating situation and insisted that Juan take a look to see what could be done. By this time, some of the repairs had been accomplished, I was in a better mood and Juan and I were chatting in Spanish. It turned out that when it came to home repairs Juan really did know what he was talking about, unlike his patron. He also recommended some Mexican restaurants in Chelsea and helped me install some storage racks on my walls.

I hope Juan learns enough English to start his own business and get away from this man. And I plan to be kinder when they come back.

Irritatory

2007-10-07T20:52:00.000-04:00

I've learned through books and seminars on personal growth that when we find another person particularly irritating or annoying, it's because this person embodies or displays a characteristic or trait that we also possess but that we haven't fully accepted in ourselves. It's also the case that we tend to admire people who embody traits that we believe we possess but that we haven't fully developed or realized. The rest of the world can thus be seen as a mirror, providing continuous reflections of all of our parts, even the shadowy bits that reside below our conscious awareness most of the time.

To be more specific, there is a woman I occasionally interact with who irritates me....a lot...probably because in some important ways we are very much alike, a situation that irritates me even more. She likes to be visible and an attention-getter in group settings (um...so do I sometimes), she likes to appoint herself in charge, and she has a tendency to make confident pronouncements to people about things they should do, books they should read, people they should talk to, as if she possesses great clarity about what each individual needs to do to make a quantum improvement in their life.

Um...I've been guilty of that, too.

And I also know, from the one real conversation I've had with her, that - like me - she struggles a bit with relating to her family and to feeling comfortable among them.

Today I attended a Simchat Bat ceremony (the female version of a bris) where the baby girl is officially named and welcomed into her family and Jewish community. Unlike a circumcision, this event does not involve any medical procedures, unless - God forbid! - one of the guests has a mishap while overindulging in bagels, lox and whitefish salad and needs the Heimlich maneuver or, worse, CPR.

After the baby was officially named and welcomed with song, poetry and wine, I enjoyed some delicious treats and pleasant conversation with some old and new acquaintances on the back patio. Coming inside the house to warm up and find a hot beverage, I noticed that this woman had arrived in the meantime, long after the ceremony was over. She behaved as if she had been there the entire time, welcoming those of us who were coming indoors after an hour of relaxed chatting as if we were late to the party.

While talking with someone else as I warmed up with a cup of coffee (I don't normally drink the stuff, but I was quite chilled), this woman made eye contact with me and said, "There's something I have to tell you," in a tone (with matching facial expression, including dramatically raised eyebrows) that suggested that her forthcoming revelation would change my life.

Hmmm. What could it be? I slowly sipped my coffee, unable to reciprocate her apparent intensity.

"There's a mosaic exhibit you should see," she insisted.

"Actually, I had work in the exhibit," I replied. "It was really a fantastic show."

"Oh!" she said. "Is it still on?"

"It closed yesterday," I informed her.

"Oh, well I'd love to see your work sometime!" she exclaimed.

"Sure," I told her. "Come by my studio!"

I have to assume she meant well and was trying to connect with me, but her style of delivery was, as the title of this posting indicates, irritating. Being on the receiving end of such a blast of advice didn't feel so great, it was as if she was bestowing something upon me, rather than trying to engage me in a conversation and assess my receptivity. A valuable experience for me to remember the next time I feel that irrepressible urge to give a friend or acquaintance a piece of life changing advice.