Internal Drama

[reposted 8/23]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Assume Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inflate

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

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

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

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

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

Incessant Imbibing

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.

Immortality, Individuation

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.

Insanity, temporary

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.

(z)It

My eldest nephew became a Bar Mitzvah last weekend, a carefully and lovingly prepared for and anticipated event that drew family and friends from all over the country. The preparations took place on many levels.

There were the Bar Mitzvah boy's preparations over several years, during which time he leyned (learned) with his maternal grandfather, his rabbi and other members of his orthodox congregation to master the Torah reading, the Friday night service and most of the Saturday morning service, not to mention preparing and reciting two speeches (he got a bit of a break - they were both in English).

There were the preparations of the Bar Mitzvah boy's mother, who orchestrated and coordinated and organized a Shabbat dinner at the synagogue for out of town guests, an extended noshing session at their home on Saturday and, on Sunday, as if we hadn't already eaten more than enough, a brunch for out of town guests. Not to mention contacting nearby hotels, reserving blocks of rooms and negotiating the best possible deal. And she hired a photographer to take various permutations of family portraits on Friday afternoon, before the Sabbath began, and on Sunday, during our final food-oriented gathering.

There were the preparations of the out of town relatives: reserving plane tickets, hotel rooms and rental cars and, not trivially, figuring out what to wear and, realizing they had nothing suitable for a summer event at an orthodox synagogue (no short skirts, no sleeveless tops!), hitting the stores in a flummoxed frenzy.

Events like these - important milestones in a beloved family member's life - are a cause for celebration but can also provoke anxiety among the relatives, the vicarious variety as they imagine what it might be like for the Bar Mitzvah boy to complete all of his tasks in front of hundreds of people, or actual anxiety related to the passage of time...how did the last 13 years go by so quickly, and can we remember how we've spent those years?

Among the single women of a certain age attending this event, there was the possibility of anxiety around whether they'd ever marry, raise a child and be able to attend that child's rite of passage. Among the grandparents of the Bar Mitzvah boy, perhaps there was anxiety around whether they would live to see all of their grandchildren become Bar or Bat Mitzvot.

But, interestingly, despite these many possibilities, I detected very little free floating anxiety at this event. My theory is that all the anxiety - of the Bar Mitzvah boy himself, of his family and friends, of his relatives - gathered itself into a tiny but intense ball of pulsating energy and implanted itself squarely on the very Jewish nose of my younger brother (who is a husband, father and uncle), turning itself into an enormous red zit.

I think my younger brother's schnozz was the most appropriate place for this coagulation of collective anxiety to attach itself, since it was going to land on someone. By choosing my brother, the anxiety-filled-zit spared the Bar Mitzvah boy (and all the women in the family) the lifelong disgrace of appearing in the family photos with an unsightly red mound on his face (my nephew has clear porcelain-like skin, and may it stay that way throughout his adolescence and beyond). Moreover, since my younger brother adamantly refused to become Bar Mitzvah when he was at that age, deeply disappointing my parents and wreaking havoc on the life of our family during that time, it seems fitting that, for the weekend of his nephew's big event, he should bear this pulsating pimple on his beak, perhaps as penance for the Bar Mitzvah he never had?

That is my theory, anyway.