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.
Showing posts with label Anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anger. Show all posts
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Incensed, Imitation, Immune, Integrity
Last summer when I first walked into the building where I’d soon be renting an art space, I was immediately struck by the camaraderie and welcoming attitude of the handful of artists I had met that day. These included a young woman who had her own line of hand painted pottery. She was very attractive in a conventional sense – svelte, blonde, blue eyed, with a bubbly personality and a dazzling smile. The product of a Southern upbringing, she was raised to be accommodating, non-confrontational and cheerful no matter what, maintaining a relentlessly positive view of each of her life’s circumstances and of other people’s behavior. She was all about fun – creating it, having it – and she did not seem to have room in her life for anything that would get in the way of a good time. She seemed immune to regrets, remorse or self-awareness of any kind. I have to admit that even I, a cynical, introspective and blunt-speaking Easterner was seduced by her charisma and upbeat persona. She was, in a sense, my Karmic opposite. Once I moved into the building, I often found myself wandering into her studio to chat about art, business and life and, perhaps, to have some of her unabated optimism and cheer rub off on me.
When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.
All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.
“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.
“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.
I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.
And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.
I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.
Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.
I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.
Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.
What on earth had she been thinking?
Most likely she had not been.
I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.
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.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Immersion, Idolatry
I spent Yom Kippur at Elat Chayyim, a Jewish spiritual retreat center in the Berkshires. But the sentence I just wrote is casually inaccurate. More precisely, Elat Chayyim is the only Jewish spiritual retreat center anywhere in the world, and it happens to be in the Berkshires. It used to be in the Catskills and moved a year ago to Connecticut, shaving an hour off of my round trip journey. My first visit to Elat Chayyim was in December 2003, about seven months after my father passed away. Lost and grieving, I went for a seven-day silent meditation retreat, hoping that something would shift as a result. It was a revelation that Jewish practice and contemporary spirituality could be married in such a meaningful, practical and profound way, creating my most authentic experience of prayer yet. Each year since I've returned two or three times to nurture my soul and refresh my spirit. In many ways, Elat Chayyim is home, a place where my heart dares to open.
Yom Kippur is the most solemn and sacred holiday of the Jewish calendar, one in which we don white clothes and refrain from wearing leather, eating, drinking and bathing, as if we are rehearsing our own deaths. It is a day I take seriously, preferring to spend most of it in prayer or silent contemplation, without engaging in superficial conversation or driving my car back and forth to a crowded synagogue. Elat Chayyim, which attracts spiritual seekers and those disgruntled with traditional high holiday services, is - for me - a wonderful place for such an immersive experience. The simple wood cabins, clean mountain air and inclusive atmosphere all conspire to help one focus inside and forget worldly cares.
Yom Kippur is also about release: releasing ourselves from vows or, in modern parlance, commitments that no longer serve us or that we can no longer honor in a healthy way, allowing us to begin the new year with a clean slate. It is also an opportunity to unburden ourselves of unproductive habits and emotions.
To facilitate this release, on the eve of Yom Kippur we immerse ourselves unclothed and unadorned in the mikveh, the ritual bath which, in the case of Elat Chayyim, is a beautiful pond surrounded by pine trees and hiking trails. The women's mikveh took place late Friday afternoon, a ritual that was presided over by Rabbi Jill Hammer, a young woman with a strong mind and a delicate build.
She asked that we pick a mikveh buddy, someone to whom we'd confide what our imminent immersion would release us from, someone who would witness our immersion. I don't remember the name of my partner, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, but when I told her that I wanted my immersion to help release old anger, she mentioned that she'd just attended a seminar with an orthodox rabbi who likened persistent anger as a form of idolatry, a way of keeping oneself in the center of things, raised up on a pedestal.
Idolatry?!
From practically the day I started Hebrew school, as an eight year old, I learned that idol worship was, to put it mildly, a major no-no for our tribe. Taking a hunk of clay and crafting objects that represented other deities was a sure way to provoke God into a destructive frenzy. And if God didn't strike you down personally, a messenger would be sent to do His bidding. But today our idols are not statuary or pieces of pottery. In our materialistic and individualistic culture the idols are more elusive things like perfection, fame, power, peak experiences, wealth and other things which, if focused on excessively, can lead people away from God. The self can be an idol, too.
Idolatry!
I had not viewed my anger in such a stark and profoundly Jewish way before. I was at a loss for words.
And soon I was at a loss for air. It was time to get in the water which, Rabbi Hammer pointed out, was a solvent that would aid us in dissolving our inner schmutz but was also "teeming with life." The pond was a less than tempting shade of brown, and the area near the dock on which we stood, in various stages of undress, swarmed with plants and reeds.
Already naked, I was the second person to jump in. The rabbi went first.
The water at the bottom of the pond was warm and, had I been an amphibian, I would have just stayed right there, curled up in the comfortable current. But I had to come up in order to perform four immersions (one each for body, mind, heart and soul), and when I rose to the much colder surface I was out of breath, spitting out some muddy liquid that had managed to enter my mouth. I started to cough and, strangely, despite my experience as an open water swimmer, my anxiety rose. Perhaps the idea of truly leaving all of my anger in that pond made me more than a little nervous.
What if this ritual succeeded...then what? Would I recognize myself as a person without resentments and grudges?
I wanted to get out of the water and try again, to try to enter the pond in a less jarring and more deliberate way. But there was no going back. I was already naked, wet and shivering. To stay warm I tread water while awaiting further instructions from our rabbi, who was still encouraging the other women to get into the pond. When it was time, my partner observed my four immersions - for each I faced a new direction - and then I witnessed her quartet of dippings, through which she hoped to be able to just "let go" of things.
By this point my relaxed breathing was restored. The gently moving water caressed my bare skin and the late afternoon sun kissed my face as I skinnydipped with God.
Yom Kippur is the most solemn and sacred holiday of the Jewish calendar, one in which we don white clothes and refrain from wearing leather, eating, drinking and bathing, as if we are rehearsing our own deaths. It is a day I take seriously, preferring to spend most of it in prayer or silent contemplation, without engaging in superficial conversation or driving my car back and forth to a crowded synagogue. Elat Chayyim, which attracts spiritual seekers and those disgruntled with traditional high holiday services, is - for me - a wonderful place for such an immersive experience. The simple wood cabins, clean mountain air and inclusive atmosphere all conspire to help one focus inside and forget worldly cares.
Yom Kippur is also about release: releasing ourselves from vows or, in modern parlance, commitments that no longer serve us or that we can no longer honor in a healthy way, allowing us to begin the new year with a clean slate. It is also an opportunity to unburden ourselves of unproductive habits and emotions.
To facilitate this release, on the eve of Yom Kippur we immerse ourselves unclothed and unadorned in the mikveh, the ritual bath which, in the case of Elat Chayyim, is a beautiful pond surrounded by pine trees and hiking trails. The women's mikveh took place late Friday afternoon, a ritual that was presided over by Rabbi Jill Hammer, a young woman with a strong mind and a delicate build.
She asked that we pick a mikveh buddy, someone to whom we'd confide what our imminent immersion would release us from, someone who would witness our immersion. I don't remember the name of my partner, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, but when I told her that I wanted my immersion to help release old anger, she mentioned that she'd just attended a seminar with an orthodox rabbi who likened persistent anger as a form of idolatry, a way of keeping oneself in the center of things, raised up on a pedestal.
Idolatry?!
From practically the day I started Hebrew school, as an eight year old, I learned that idol worship was, to put it mildly, a major no-no for our tribe. Taking a hunk of clay and crafting objects that represented other deities was a sure way to provoke God into a destructive frenzy. And if God didn't strike you down personally, a messenger would be sent to do His bidding. But today our idols are not statuary or pieces of pottery. In our materialistic and individualistic culture the idols are more elusive things like perfection, fame, power, peak experiences, wealth and other things which, if focused on excessively, can lead people away from God. The self can be an idol, too.
Idolatry!
I had not viewed my anger in such a stark and profoundly Jewish way before. I was at a loss for words.
And soon I was at a loss for air. It was time to get in the water which, Rabbi Hammer pointed out, was a solvent that would aid us in dissolving our inner schmutz but was also "teeming with life." The pond was a less than tempting shade of brown, and the area near the dock on which we stood, in various stages of undress, swarmed with plants and reeds.
Already naked, I was the second person to jump in. The rabbi went first.
The water at the bottom of the pond was warm and, had I been an amphibian, I would have just stayed right there, curled up in the comfortable current. But I had to come up in order to perform four immersions (one each for body, mind, heart and soul), and when I rose to the much colder surface I was out of breath, spitting out some muddy liquid that had managed to enter my mouth. I started to cough and, strangely, despite my experience as an open water swimmer, my anxiety rose. Perhaps the idea of truly leaving all of my anger in that pond made me more than a little nervous.
What if this ritual succeeded...then what? Would I recognize myself as a person without resentments and grudges?
I wanted to get out of the water and try again, to try to enter the pond in a less jarring and more deliberate way. But there was no going back. I was already naked, wet and shivering. To stay warm I tread water while awaiting further instructions from our rabbi, who was still encouraging the other women to get into the pond. When it was time, my partner observed my four immersions - for each I faced a new direction - and then I witnessed her quartet of dippings, through which she hoped to be able to just "let go" of things.
By this point my relaxed breathing was restored. The gently moving water caressed my bare skin and the late afternoon sun kissed my face as I skinnydipped with God.
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