Interpretations, Intention

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

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

First I dumped out my purse. Nope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Influenza

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

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

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

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

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

Internal Drama

[reposted 8/23]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assume Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ice Axe

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


"Commit," I whispered inside my head.


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


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

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

Invigorating, Intricacies, Immense

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I was!

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

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

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

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

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

Immersion, Idaho Springs

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.

Intentional Chocolate

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.

Intelligent Indulgence

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.

Indistinct, Intellectual Interference

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.

Ignescent, Impermanence

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.

Idolatry, revisited

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.