Early this afternoon I went for a pre-Thanksgiving walk in my neighborhood wearing red sneakers, black athletic pants, a black fleece pullover, sunglasses and a set of headphones that conspicuously covered my ears. The sun was out and it was in the upper 50's and I wandered over to Cheesman Park a few blocks away. Others were out enjoying the day - families with their dogs, couples and other solo park visitors. I walked up a slight incline to the pavilion, an area that has a cluster of tall columns covered by a roof, to get a view of the mountains. Spotting a bench, I sat down and watched my surroundings.
A man wearing a bright red outfit, including a red cap, drove back and forth in a pale yellow convertible along the road that bifurcates the park. It appeared that he was calling attention to himself but I was unsure what kind. A bit downslope from me, a 60-something man in a plaid flannel shirt, beige baseball cap, and tan chinos sat on the edge of the fountain and spoke on his cell phone. Two women, wearing bright pink shirts and carrying bundles of twigs, perhaps for a late afternoon fire, approached and sat on another bench. Up close they appeared to be mother and daughter. After a few minutes they, too, moved on.
Then the man in the flannel shirt came over and excused himself. I still had my headphones on yet he did not take that as a sign that I did not wish to be disturbed.
"Do you know if this is a gay park?" he asked.
I truly did not know the answer and I also did not know if he was a gay basher, simply a curious out of towner, or looking for action.
"I don't know," I said, looking at him more carefully. There was nothing slick about him. His eyeglasses looked as if they were from the previous decade, his clothing was clean but well-worn. His appearance was as bland and ordinary as they come, his rough and wrinkled skin offering little color contrast to his beige cap.
"Well, I asked two young women and they said they were bisexual and so I thought that maybe this is a gay park," he continued, as if by telling me this information I'd be willing to provide him some corroboration.
"I have no idea," I replied. Then I wondered if the red-clad man in the convertible had been, in fact, cruising for fun in broad daylight.
The man in the flannel then sat down on my bench, leaving about a person's width between us. I did not feel threatened by him so I stayed put, enjoying my view of the mountains. For several minutes we sat in silence and I wondered if was planning to leave or not. There were other benches around and if he had simply wanted to sit somewhere he could have chosen his own private spot. After an awkward interval he stood up.
"Sorry to bother you," he said, "I just thought that maybe this was a place where gay men came looking for sex."
"Why are you asking me?" I retorted, allowing my annoyance to show, adding, "Clearly I'm not a man."
He muttered something about bisexuals and wandered off.
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Identity. Show all posts
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Monday, March 24, 2008
Introvert, Inside the Tent
I'm reading Gifts Differing, a book by Isabel Briggs Myers, as I continue to explore the characteristics of my personality type (du jour), INFP, and what that might mean for me. What is fascinating is the relationship among what the four letters represent. "I" indicates introversion, as opposed to extraversion, and for folks like me it is the dominant process. Introverts' way of dealing with the world means going inside. Of course, most of the rest of the world are extraverts, so introverts need to develop the auxiliary process of being in the world. As Briggs Myers puts it, the auxiliary process is second best.
Let's take a look at the "F" of INFP. "F" represents feeling as my dominant internal process. But when I deal with the outside world the auxiliary process of thinking takes over and the world only sees or hears my thoughts, not my feelings. Same with the "P", which stands for perceptive. Its auxiliary is "J", for judging, and so I live my outer life in the judging attitude.
"The result is a paradox," says the book. Well, that explains why I've felt like two people (at least) my entire life. What happens internally and what I project externally can often feel like two different, but both very real, worlds. She gives an excellent analogy to describe how the dominant and auxiliary processes work:
Let's take a look at the "F" of INFP. "F" represents feeling as my dominant internal process. But when I deal with the outside world the auxiliary process of thinking takes over and the world only sees or hears my thoughts, not my feelings. Same with the "P", which stands for perceptive. Its auxiliary is "J", for judging, and so I live my outer life in the judging attitude.
"The result is a paradox," says the book. Well, that explains why I've felt like two people (at least) my entire life. What happens internally and what I project externally can often feel like two different, but both very real, worlds. She gives an excellent analogy to describe how the dominant and auxiliary processes work:
A good way to visualize the difference is to think of the dominant process as the General and the auxiliary process as (her) Aide. In the case of the extravert, the General is always out in the open. Other people meet her immediately and do their business directly with her. They can get the official viewpoint on anything at anytime. The Aide stands respectfully in the background or disappears inside the tent. The introvert's General is inside the tent, working on matters of top priority. The Aide is outside fending off interruptions, or, if he is inside helping the General, he comes out to see what is wanted. It is the Aide whom others meet and with whom they do their business. Only when the business is very important (or the friendship is very close) do others get in to see the General herself.
If people do not realize that there is a General in the tent who far outranks the Aide they have met, they may easily assume that the Aide is in sole charge. This is a regrettable mistake. It leads not only to an underestimation of the introvert's abilities but also to an incomplete understanding of her wishes, plans and points of view. The only source for such inside information is the General.
One thing I'd like to have happen is for my General to get out of the tent a bit more, to enjoy some sunshine and to give the overworked Aide a bit of relief.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Inexpressible, Incomplete
When days go by without a post, it sometimes means that I have too much to say, rather than nothing to say. This post is the seed for something else, I think. It is not complete.
Last week I attended the Chassidic wedding of one of my many third cousins, none of whom I had ever met, let alone known about until recently. The bride's aunt had found my brothers and I via the Internet, after searching for our father and discovering that he had passed away. The bride's aunt and my father would be second cousins. For those for whom the concept of second and third cousins is a bit elusive, a simple way to remember the relationship is as follows: (first) cousins have common grandparents; second cousins have common great-grandparents; and third cousins have common great-great-grandparents. For many families that were decimated by the Holocaust, leaving an aching void where grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins would have or could have been, third cousins are a relatively close relationship, or at least not so distant.
Until the last few years, I had been put off by extremely religious people of any denomination, and I had a particular aversion to orthodox Judaism, which to my feminist sensibilities seemed like a culture built around the subjugation of women. Certainly, that is one lens through which one can view some of the practices of ultra orthodox Jews. But as I've become increasingly comfortable with having some Jewish ritual and affiliation as part of my life, and as I witness my oldest nephew and nieces growing up with a strong and positive Jewish identity in a caring modern orthodox community, I have tried to temper some of my aversion to hard core traditionalists with curiosity and respect.
And so it was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that I packed up my salt sprayed Subaru and drove to Montreal for this festive occasion, to meet this part of the family that my father - for reasons I can only surmise - had not told us about. I had rustled up a long black skirt, selected an elegant but modest green velvet top and had ordered some new shoes for this evening wedding. Arriving to the hotel where the ceremony would take place, I schlepped my large wheeled duffel and a garment bag through the lobby, already filled with sparklingly well groomed women in floor length gowns and men with those unmistakable black hats. Passing a mirror, I caught a glimpse of my tired face and greying hair, frizzy from the dry air in my car, and I felt like the poor country cousin. Suddenly my chosen outfit seemed highly inadequate, as did my skills at applying makeup, of which I have very little. My unpolished nails, which had looked fine the day before, now seemed to scream that I lacked elegance and traditional femininity. The hotel clerk must have sensed my momentary discomfort because he asked me, upon noticing that I had reserved a room with the wedding rate, if, indeed, I had come for the wedding.
"Yes," I said, partly wishing I could turn around and leave, if not for good then at least to visit a salon. He handed me a welcome bag filled with kosher cookies, chips and candy. I added that bag to my load and headed for the elevator, hoping no one would see me in my dishevelment.
At this point I had about 90 minutes or so before the wedding was to begin. My initial plan had been to arrive early enough to use the pool, but the thought of traversing the lobby in my swimming gear, passing a gauntlet of religious men and women, was too intimidating. Instead, I took a short nap.
As I dressed for the celebration, I adjusted my attitude and told myself that I would have a great time, even if I were the only single person there, not to mention childless at an age where some of the women in this community might already be grandmothers. I also decided to suspend judgment and take it all in, as if I were an anthropologist visiting a new subculture.
I found my relatives within a few minutes. Their warm welcome was reassuring and a bit overwhelming - I couldn't remember the last time I had entered a room and been greeted so enthusiastically by so many people. My experiences with other distant relatives have not been so positive. In preparation for our encounter, I had printed up the family tree that they had e-mailed my brothers and me so that I could show other people my connection. This folded up piece of paper served as my passport for the evening, allowing me into a world that most non-religious Jews (or others) would never get to see. One woman questioned whether I was "real" family or not - she seemed satisfied after seeing my passport. Family and shared ancestry are the currency of this community, and even though in many ways I am an outsider to the Chassidic way of life, for this occasion I was made to feel like an insider. The sense of acceptance and belonging I experienced was far more powerful and palpable than the twinges of uneasiness I felt, such as when the bride - her head and face completely obscured by an opaque veil - was carefully escorted by her mother and future mother-in-law down the aisle to the outdoor chuppah (wedding canopy), where the groom waited for her in the freezing cold.
The chuppah was adjacent to a canvas walled tent, where brave guests sat shivering as the bride - still veiled and aided by her mother - circumnavigated the groom an agonizingly slow seven times. The mercury was in the single digits. This community took seriously the custom of marrying under the stars and was undeterred by the winter weather. The wedding photographer had been warned and wore a hooded parka. Some of the women were in the know and wore mink coats. I was unprepared and nearly lost sensation in my fingers. A few guests, religious themselves, thought the outdoor chuppah was a bit meshuga.
Men and women sit, eat and dance separately at orthodox celebrations. My tablemates were mostly diamond decorated matrons who were surprised to learn that I had driven to Montreal by myself. Ten years ago, I would have thought about such a sola trip as evidence of empowerment and independence, and smugly used it as a way to make myself feel superior to these traditional women and to emphasize our differences, but this time I simply said, yes, I drove by myself. My only company on the journey were the voices on the French language cassettes I had checked out of the library. For a moment I envied these women's lives, filled with people and with no shortage of companions for long car trips.
Dancing with these women, linked together as we circled the bride, I was struck by the delicacy of their hands. Mine are strong and firm from yoga and from years of working with them. And unlike the bodies of these women, mine has borne backpacks but not children. And I couldn't help but imagine that my life could have turned out like theirs had my father chosen to stay in the orthodox fold and had raised me in such a community. But he left that orbit to create his own family and his own universe, to expose his children to the wider world. Yet there I was, in many ways a privileged contemporary woman, feeling soothed by the beat of Judaism's Chassidic heart.
In a way I am glad that I didn't learn about these people until now, even though upon meeting them I felt that a certain void had been filled and that, in fact, I had been missing them for a long time. As a child, teenager or young adult, I doubt I would have been able to see the women under the wigs and the men under the hats as individuals, as people with whom I share ancestry and Hebrew names. During the final part of the ceremony, with most of the hundreds of guests already gone home or to their hotel rooms, I witnessed the very special Mitzvah Tantz. The badchen, the wedding entertainer or poet, stood on a chair and with microphone in hand chanted improvised Yiddish rhymes to lovingly describe the bride's and groom's forebears, essentially invoking their spirits. The mood in the room was meditative and mystical, with the family and remaining guests paying focused attention to the badchen's words. After each person was honored, a male family member or group of men would stand up and take hold of one end of a rope - the other end was held by the bride - and would dance "with" the bride, who would just sway as the man or men would kick up their heels, eventually dropping the rope to dance in a circle with each other. Although I barely understood the badchen's rhythmic chanting, I was mesmerized by his loving and reverent invocation of the names and stories of my ancestors, acknowledging their role in contributing to this happy occasion. Entranced by the soothing rhymes of this ritual, I suddenly and surprisingly felt enormous affection for this hybrid tongue. I regretted terribly that I didn't speak or understand Yiddish, a language whose soft sounds and curious expression I've rejected for years.
As the night wore on and as guests began to dwindle further, the badchen remained in good rhyming form, generating wet eyes and causing the appearance of white handkerchiefs as he movingly honored the parents of the bride and groom. The bride's final dance was with her father. For this, there was no rope. They first clasped their hands and then clasped in an awkward embrace, a final tearful farewell.
Last week I attended the Chassidic wedding of one of my many third cousins, none of whom I had ever met, let alone known about until recently. The bride's aunt had found my brothers and I via the Internet, after searching for our father and discovering that he had passed away. The bride's aunt and my father would be second cousins. For those for whom the concept of second and third cousins is a bit elusive, a simple way to remember the relationship is as follows: (first) cousins have common grandparents; second cousins have common great-grandparents; and third cousins have common great-great-grandparents. For many families that were decimated by the Holocaust, leaving an aching void where grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins would have or could have been, third cousins are a relatively close relationship, or at least not so distant.
Until the last few years, I had been put off by extremely religious people of any denomination, and I had a particular aversion to orthodox Judaism, which to my feminist sensibilities seemed like a culture built around the subjugation of women. Certainly, that is one lens through which one can view some of the practices of ultra orthodox Jews. But as I've become increasingly comfortable with having some Jewish ritual and affiliation as part of my life, and as I witness my oldest nephew and nieces growing up with a strong and positive Jewish identity in a caring modern orthodox community, I have tried to temper some of my aversion to hard core traditionalists with curiosity and respect.
And so it was with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that I packed up my salt sprayed Subaru and drove to Montreal for this festive occasion, to meet this part of the family that my father - for reasons I can only surmise - had not told us about. I had rustled up a long black skirt, selected an elegant but modest green velvet top and had ordered some new shoes for this evening wedding. Arriving to the hotel where the ceremony would take place, I schlepped my large wheeled duffel and a garment bag through the lobby, already filled with sparklingly well groomed women in floor length gowns and men with those unmistakable black hats. Passing a mirror, I caught a glimpse of my tired face and greying hair, frizzy from the dry air in my car, and I felt like the poor country cousin. Suddenly my chosen outfit seemed highly inadequate, as did my skills at applying makeup, of which I have very little. My unpolished nails, which had looked fine the day before, now seemed to scream that I lacked elegance and traditional femininity. The hotel clerk must have sensed my momentary discomfort because he asked me, upon noticing that I had reserved a room with the wedding rate, if, indeed, I had come for the wedding.
"Yes," I said, partly wishing I could turn around and leave, if not for good then at least to visit a salon. He handed me a welcome bag filled with kosher cookies, chips and candy. I added that bag to my load and headed for the elevator, hoping no one would see me in my dishevelment.
At this point I had about 90 minutes or so before the wedding was to begin. My initial plan had been to arrive early enough to use the pool, but the thought of traversing the lobby in my swimming gear, passing a gauntlet of religious men and women, was too intimidating. Instead, I took a short nap.
As I dressed for the celebration, I adjusted my attitude and told myself that I would have a great time, even if I were the only single person there, not to mention childless at an age where some of the women in this community might already be grandmothers. I also decided to suspend judgment and take it all in, as if I were an anthropologist visiting a new subculture.
I found my relatives within a few minutes. Their warm welcome was reassuring and a bit overwhelming - I couldn't remember the last time I had entered a room and been greeted so enthusiastically by so many people. My experiences with other distant relatives have not been so positive. In preparation for our encounter, I had printed up the family tree that they had e-mailed my brothers and me so that I could show other people my connection. This folded up piece of paper served as my passport for the evening, allowing me into a world that most non-religious Jews (or others) would never get to see. One woman questioned whether I was "real" family or not - she seemed satisfied after seeing my passport. Family and shared ancestry are the currency of this community, and even though in many ways I am an outsider to the Chassidic way of life, for this occasion I was made to feel like an insider. The sense of acceptance and belonging I experienced was far more powerful and palpable than the twinges of uneasiness I felt, such as when the bride - her head and face completely obscured by an opaque veil - was carefully escorted by her mother and future mother-in-law down the aisle to the outdoor chuppah (wedding canopy), where the groom waited for her in the freezing cold.
The chuppah was adjacent to a canvas walled tent, where brave guests sat shivering as the bride - still veiled and aided by her mother - circumnavigated the groom an agonizingly slow seven times. The mercury was in the single digits. This community took seriously the custom of marrying under the stars and was undeterred by the winter weather. The wedding photographer had been warned and wore a hooded parka. Some of the women were in the know and wore mink coats. I was unprepared and nearly lost sensation in my fingers. A few guests, religious themselves, thought the outdoor chuppah was a bit meshuga.
Men and women sit, eat and dance separately at orthodox celebrations. My tablemates were mostly diamond decorated matrons who were surprised to learn that I had driven to Montreal by myself. Ten years ago, I would have thought about such a sola trip as evidence of empowerment and independence, and smugly used it as a way to make myself feel superior to these traditional women and to emphasize our differences, but this time I simply said, yes, I drove by myself. My only company on the journey were the voices on the French language cassettes I had checked out of the library. For a moment I envied these women's lives, filled with people and with no shortage of companions for long car trips.
Dancing with these women, linked together as we circled the bride, I was struck by the delicacy of their hands. Mine are strong and firm from yoga and from years of working with them. And unlike the bodies of these women, mine has borne backpacks but not children. And I couldn't help but imagine that my life could have turned out like theirs had my father chosen to stay in the orthodox fold and had raised me in such a community. But he left that orbit to create his own family and his own universe, to expose his children to the wider world. Yet there I was, in many ways a privileged contemporary woman, feeling soothed by the beat of Judaism's Chassidic heart.
In a way I am glad that I didn't learn about these people until now, even though upon meeting them I felt that a certain void had been filled and that, in fact, I had been missing them for a long time. As a child, teenager or young adult, I doubt I would have been able to see the women under the wigs and the men under the hats as individuals, as people with whom I share ancestry and Hebrew names. During the final part of the ceremony, with most of the hundreds of guests already gone home or to their hotel rooms, I witnessed the very special Mitzvah Tantz. The badchen, the wedding entertainer or poet, stood on a chair and with microphone in hand chanted improvised Yiddish rhymes to lovingly describe the bride's and groom's forebears, essentially invoking their spirits. The mood in the room was meditative and mystical, with the family and remaining guests paying focused attention to the badchen's words. After each person was honored, a male family member or group of men would stand up and take hold of one end of a rope - the other end was held by the bride - and would dance "with" the bride, who would just sway as the man or men would kick up their heels, eventually dropping the rope to dance in a circle with each other. Although I barely understood the badchen's rhythmic chanting, I was mesmerized by his loving and reverent invocation of the names and stories of my ancestors, acknowledging their role in contributing to this happy occasion. Entranced by the soothing rhymes of this ritual, I suddenly and surprisingly felt enormous affection for this hybrid tongue. I regretted terribly that I didn't speak or understand Yiddish, a language whose soft sounds and curious expression I've rejected for years.
As the night wore on and as guests began to dwindle further, the badchen remained in good rhyming form, generating wet eyes and causing the appearance of white handkerchiefs as he movingly honored the parents of the bride and groom. The bride's final dance was with her father. For this, there was no rope. They first clasped their hands and then clasped in an awkward embrace, a final tearful farewell.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
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.
"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.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
International, Identity
At my studio yesterday three of us had gathered in the hallway to chat about an event we are planning. There wa A., whose showroom is filled with colorful handmade crafts from his native Morocco, and L., a painter who just moved to the Boston area from France, and me, born here but with a lingering longing for other lands. Briefly, but briefly, our conversation veered into French, which I understand to some degree but barely speak. I managed to put together a complete sentence and ask a question, communicating with the others. Speaking a foreign language subtly but suddenly shifts my inner gears. Having access to other languages, but not being completely fluent in them, I can only express myself simply and directly, without resorting to cleverness, elaboration or obfuscation. I can no longer fool myself. When I shift into globetrotting mode, all that matters is that I am a human being, interacting with other human beings, transcending our particular place-based identities. My persona falls away and I become, simply, a person. It is such a blissful relief.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Isagogics
Flipping through my dictionary, I found this somewhat relevant "I" word which means:
Introductory study; especially, the study of the literary history of the Bible, considered as introductory to the study of Bible interpretation.
Yesterday at synagogue, we started a fresh round of Torah reading with the first part of the creation story. But before anyone uttered the first word, "B'reishit" (normally translated as "in the beginning"), our rabbi gave a brief overview of the different ways or levels in which the Torah can be read.
There is the peshat (surface) level, where each word is taken literally. Of course, even peshat isn't so simple, as certain words can have multiple meanings and there are some words that appear in the Torah only once, making it difficult to be completely sure what that meaning is. And plenty of the words in the Torah derive from even more ancient languages (how's your Ugaritic?) or refer to things, places or creatures that no longer exist. The next level is called remez, focusing on allusions or allegories in the text. The third level is called derash, where we look to the text in the Torah to answer a contemporary question, teasing out relevance with creative interpretations. In other words, we take the stories as written and make up new stories to breathe life into the text. And finally we can read Torah on the level of sod, the hidden and mystical.
Our Torah study session on Saturday mornings (before services start) is just a therapist's hour in length (we're lucky if we're at it for a full 50 minutes), and you could spend multiples of that time discussing just the first few verses of the Old Testament on all four levels, especially when you have a group of 30+ people, many of whom have something valuable to share.
In fact, one could spend a long time discussing just the third word of Genesis, "Elohim", which is in plural form even though it just refers to a singular God. Is it possibly a reference to the fact that at the time the Old Testament was written people believed that a whole group of gods had created the earth? Read in such a way, the Bible raises more questions than it answers. And our rabbi reminded us that even though the creation story is lovely and rather poetic (e.g. "God divided the light from the darkness" and "Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters"), in a few chapters God gets upset and destroys it all (you know, the flood!).
Sounds to me like God is an artist who, displeased with her first attempt at creating, wrecks it and tries, tries again. It is comforting to remember that even God didn't get things right the first time. The other piece that stuck with me is the idea that God created the world with words - not with a magic wand, not with esoteric gestures, not with a great wind.
Words.
And so we create our own worlds with our words. The words we use to describe the people and situations in our lives are like paints. Do we pick the ones that create a hopeful and inspiring picture or choose words that perpetuate negativity and confusion? Can we step back from our experience and look at it, much like a painter steps back to examine her canvas, and find words to describe it that are positive and encouraging?
I often feel like I need to (re)write my own story, starting once again with b'reishit, in the beginning, developing a plot from a much kinder and compassionate place than I've been able to access during previous drafts.
Introductory study; especially, the study of the literary history of the Bible, considered as introductory to the study of Bible interpretation.
Yesterday at synagogue, we started a fresh round of Torah reading with the first part of the creation story. But before anyone uttered the first word, "B'reishit" (normally translated as "in the beginning"), our rabbi gave a brief overview of the different ways or levels in which the Torah can be read.
There is the peshat (surface) level, where each word is taken literally. Of course, even peshat isn't so simple, as certain words can have multiple meanings and there are some words that appear in the Torah only once, making it difficult to be completely sure what that meaning is. And plenty of the words in the Torah derive from even more ancient languages (how's your Ugaritic?) or refer to things, places or creatures that no longer exist. The next level is called remez, focusing on allusions or allegories in the text. The third level is called derash, where we look to the text in the Torah to answer a contemporary question, teasing out relevance with creative interpretations. In other words, we take the stories as written and make up new stories to breathe life into the text. And finally we can read Torah on the level of sod, the hidden and mystical.
Our Torah study session on Saturday mornings (before services start) is just a therapist's hour in length (we're lucky if we're at it for a full 50 minutes), and you could spend multiples of that time discussing just the first few verses of the Old Testament on all four levels, especially when you have a group of 30+ people, many of whom have something valuable to share.
In fact, one could spend a long time discussing just the third word of Genesis, "Elohim", which is in plural form even though it just refers to a singular God. Is it possibly a reference to the fact that at the time the Old Testament was written people believed that a whole group of gods had created the earth? Read in such a way, the Bible raises more questions than it answers. And our rabbi reminded us that even though the creation story is lovely and rather poetic (e.g. "God divided the light from the darkness" and "Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters"), in a few chapters God gets upset and destroys it all (you know, the flood!).
Sounds to me like God is an artist who, displeased with her first attempt at creating, wrecks it and tries, tries again. It is comforting to remember that even God didn't get things right the first time. The other piece that stuck with me is the idea that God created the world with words - not with a magic wand, not with esoteric gestures, not with a great wind.
Words.
And so we create our own worlds with our words. The words we use to describe the people and situations in our lives are like paints. Do we pick the ones that create a hopeful and inspiring picture or choose words that perpetuate negativity and confusion? Can we step back from our experience and look at it, much like a painter steps back to examine her canvas, and find words to describe it that are positive and encouraging?
I often feel like I need to (re)write my own story, starting once again with b'reishit, in the beginning, developing a plot from a much kinder and compassionate place than I've been able to access during previous drafts.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Inventory
I went to Pier 1 Imports today, armed with a list of items I hoped to purchase for my new apartment: Sheer curtain panels; decorative chair covers; a small bench; a coatrack for a wall. I had seen all of these items for sale at Pier 1 in recent years, spotting them during my many, many visits to this colorful emporium.
The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.
Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.
You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.
The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.
The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.
Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.
You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.
The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Identity and Influence and Essence
At a Shabbat dinner last Friday night one of the conversation, or rather intense discussion, topics was identity. The gentleman to my right, an accomplished writer and self-described nerd, posited that we can't change our identities. He is disturbed by the fact that our culture allows if not encourages us to do so, that it is perfectly acceptable in some circles to wake up one day and decide to be someone completely different. Many celebrities have kept themselves in the limelight by doing just that. We can't change the past, he argued, and the past leaves an imprint on our current selves.
I, on the other hand, find it incredibly liberating, if not a bit daunting, that we can choose who we want to be, and how we wish to present ourselves, to a certain degree. We cannot change the past but we are free to change our interpretation of that past - most of what we remember about our histories are the narratives we've created to explain various events. We were all raised to believe certain things about ourselves, other people and how life works (or is "supposed to" work), or we unconsciously created beliefs to explain or navigate the world of our childhoods. Identity is not inherent, it is made up of our stories and beliefs. These can be compelling. If we stop for a minute and examine some of these beliefs, they may no longer seem so relevant or helpful. For example, for a long time I believed (really!) that I had to be the smartest person in the room, that I had to know the answer to almost anything that was asked. This belief motivated certain behaviors, such as dominating certain conversations (when I thought I was the smartest) or removing myself from certain conversations or activities (when I clearly wasn't the "alpha"). Repeated frequently enough, these behaviors became part of an identity. At some point I chose not to hold this belief. Releasing this belief increased my behavioral choice set, allowing me to participate in life in different ways and affecting my identity as perceived by others. We can choose to examine any number of beliefs, keeping some and discarding or amending others, essentially de- and re-constructing our ideas about ourselves so that we can create space for who we really are.
I like to think that our essence is immutable, although our identity can change.
And even if we are not consciously deciding to change how we relate to the world, we might be slowly morphing into new habits, possibly building new identities, over time. I was intrigued by a recent article in the New York Times, "Who's Minding the Mind?", which describes how everyday sights, smells and sounds can selectively activate goals or motives that people already have. ...New studies have found that people tidy up more thoroughly when there’s a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air; they become more competitive if there’s a briefcase in sight, or more cooperative if they glimpse words like “dependable” and “support” — all without being aware of the change, or what prompted it.
I was relieved to read of these findings, because I'm highly sensitive to and influenced by my environment, to the point where I feel like almost a completely different person when I'm, say, at a craft show, in a yoga class, riding the subway in Manhattan, having an intense conversation with an intellectual on a Friday evening, or doing a group hike. Each environment triggers or activates a part of me at that moment. In many situations I find myself shifting internal gears (I feel this as a physical sensation) in order to fully experience the vibe of a particular place or culture. I am learning to see this adaptability and flexibility as a strength, after a long time of being plagued by a sense of inadequacy for not being able to settle or decide on a single identity for myself, either in terms of profession or, at times, personality. I can be a cranky curmudgeon. I can also (with some effort) behave in such a way that others perceive me as an energetic and highly positive person.
So, who am I really?
I had the time and opportunity to ponder this question over the weekend.
Following the Friday dinner I spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday in New Hampshire at a ceramic bead making workshop offered by a husband and wife team who create funky and colorful beads that I love. The class was reasonably priced, my schedule was free, and I signed up to find out if I might enjoy making the small objects I've been admiring for the last few years. The class was held at a bead shop in Salem, only 45 minutes from here but culturally a world away. Entering the classroom I felt immediately uneasy, not wanting to be associated or identified with two astonishingly obese women who were already sitting at the table. The shop owner and another woman in the class were also rather rotund, but to a less startling degree. I could not help but think of another New York Times article about the "contagiousness" of obesity; is it possible that by their frequent associations, through beading, these women maintain their excess poundage?
But I love beads and playing with them, a situation that other parts of my multifaceted identity find inconvenient if not entirely disgraceful. My inner intellectual and sophisticate dislike rubbing elbows with fellow bead lovers, many of whom are like these NH women. These aspects of my personality prefer that I associate with highly articulate people in more rarified settings, and were a bit repulsed that my beading self took them to this nondescript store not far from the rusted gates of Rockingham Park. One way we reinforce our identities is to seek out people with similar views, opinions and beliefs; it can be highly threatening to our identities to find ourselves in alien territory.
To make the weekend as pleasant as possible and to attempt to be in the moment, I made a conscious decision to sideline my snottiness and bring onstage my more spiritual identity, which helps me focus on what I share in common with people. We're all one, after all! Would our mutual enjoyment of beads be enough to create conversation? During the first day there wasn't much time for chatting. The instructor showed us several ways to create beads and we only had a few hours to work - rather, to play. I noticed these women's manual dexterity and ability to create detailed pieces, while I fumbled with the clay and carved basic designs. My inner elitist was not pleased by the comparison. I happen to like primitive looking beads, such as the ones I've been buying from this couple, another fact that my inner snob finds distressing.
On Sunday there was more time to get acquainted with my classmates. After glazing our beads we had to wait while they fired in the kiln, which took several hours to reach the desired temperature. I could have left right then and simply had the instructor mail me the finished beads when they were done. The person who would have made that decision was my busy, "my time is valuable, I don't want to wait" self, but I decided to stay to have the pleasure of seeing the beads when they emerge from the kiln, always a moment of surprise, and to observe the final step in the raku process (placing the hot beads in a trash can filled with flammable material, creating a ton of smoke).
The store owner brought us a take out menu from a local pizza and sub shop and we all ordered lunch. I was relieved that there were some moderately healthy choices available. The food arrived and another of my personalities, The Judge, silently castigated these gigantic women for ordering french fries and onion rings along with their steak and cheese subs. And maybe they had an instinctive reaction against me, the thin person from Massachusetts, for invading their turf (they spend so much time at the bead shop that they spoke of it in a proprietary fashion) and eating a chicken salad sandwich. But now was the time to get to know them, not condemn them. Over lunch I learned that all were married, active in their communities, and busy with home renovation projects when not enjoying their love of beads. In many ways, their lives were fuller than mine.
Lunch ended and, unlike these women, I hadn't brought any creative projects to pass the remaining time while our beads cooked. There were a few hours to go so I headed to a Barnes & Noble down the road, passing the time by reading The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream, an oddly appropriate choice. What is my dream? I've had/have many, the answer differing depending on which of my identities is responding.
Back at the bead store, someone had created a beaded bead, which is a bead made entirely of smaller beads sewn together. This woman had an eye for color and design and we all praised her talent. Even though I didn't particularly like how she planned to use this bead, I was able to find something genuinely positive to say about it and her choice of materials. In that small way, I felt I had succeeded in nourishing a new identity, that of an affirming person. Unfortunately, we also learned that the firing of our ceramic pieces would take longer than expected. It was now close to 6pm and we had been told the class would end at 5pm. I decided not to stick around any longer and asked the shop to mail me my beads.
I could hear the voice of the busy elitist chastising me for not just getting the heck out of there before lunch and for "wasting" the afternoon by waiting around in the bookstore in a stripmall in such a godforsaken place. But the voice was muffled, as if from far away. It's a voice I no longer pay such close attention to, an identity I no longer nurture, choosing instead to hear the voice that allowed me to spend a relaxing afternoon reading a good book in air conditioned comfort, something I had not done in awhile.
My writer friend is about to move to a new apartment in a different neighborhood. I asked him on Friday if he was going to be getting rid of any of his books. He said that when he moved to Boston from Baltimore, after completing his Ph.D., he did leave behind many books, as part of his - get this! - change of identity, from nerdy graduate student to professional writer.
"Does that mean you are no longer a nerd?" I teased this very bookish and brainy man, wondering if, perhaps, we were really on the same page after all.
"Well, no," he admitted. "Now I'm a nerd who is trying to sell lots of books."
I, on the other hand, find it incredibly liberating, if not a bit daunting, that we can choose who we want to be, and how we wish to present ourselves, to a certain degree. We cannot change the past but we are free to change our interpretation of that past - most of what we remember about our histories are the narratives we've created to explain various events. We were all raised to believe certain things about ourselves, other people and how life works (or is "supposed to" work), or we unconsciously created beliefs to explain or navigate the world of our childhoods. Identity is not inherent, it is made up of our stories and beliefs. These can be compelling. If we stop for a minute and examine some of these beliefs, they may no longer seem so relevant or helpful. For example, for a long time I believed (really!) that I had to be the smartest person in the room, that I had to know the answer to almost anything that was asked. This belief motivated certain behaviors, such as dominating certain conversations (when I thought I was the smartest) or removing myself from certain conversations or activities (when I clearly wasn't the "alpha"). Repeated frequently enough, these behaviors became part of an identity. At some point I chose not to hold this belief. Releasing this belief increased my behavioral choice set, allowing me to participate in life in different ways and affecting my identity as perceived by others. We can choose to examine any number of beliefs, keeping some and discarding or amending others, essentially de- and re-constructing our ideas about ourselves so that we can create space for who we really are.
I like to think that our essence is immutable, although our identity can change.
And even if we are not consciously deciding to change how we relate to the world, we might be slowly morphing into new habits, possibly building new identities, over time. I was intrigued by a recent article in the New York Times, "Who's Minding the Mind?", which describes how everyday sights, smells and sounds can selectively activate goals or motives that people already have. ...New studies have found that people tidy up more thoroughly when there’s a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air; they become more competitive if there’s a briefcase in sight, or more cooperative if they glimpse words like “dependable” and “support” — all without being aware of the change, or what prompted it.
I was relieved to read of these findings, because I'm highly sensitive to and influenced by my environment, to the point where I feel like almost a completely different person when I'm, say, at a craft show, in a yoga class, riding the subway in Manhattan, having an intense conversation with an intellectual on a Friday evening, or doing a group hike. Each environment triggers or activates a part of me at that moment. In many situations I find myself shifting internal gears (I feel this as a physical sensation) in order to fully experience the vibe of a particular place or culture. I am learning to see this adaptability and flexibility as a strength, after a long time of being plagued by a sense of inadequacy for not being able to settle or decide on a single identity for myself, either in terms of profession or, at times, personality. I can be a cranky curmudgeon. I can also (with some effort) behave in such a way that others perceive me as an energetic and highly positive person.
So, who am I really?
I had the time and opportunity to ponder this question over the weekend.
Following the Friday dinner I spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday in New Hampshire at a ceramic bead making workshop offered by a husband and wife team who create funky and colorful beads that I love. The class was reasonably priced, my schedule was free, and I signed up to find out if I might enjoy making the small objects I've been admiring for the last few years. The class was held at a bead shop in Salem, only 45 minutes from here but culturally a world away. Entering the classroom I felt immediately uneasy, not wanting to be associated or identified with two astonishingly obese women who were already sitting at the table. The shop owner and another woman in the class were also rather rotund, but to a less startling degree. I could not help but think of another New York Times article about the "contagiousness" of obesity; is it possible that by their frequent associations, through beading, these women maintain their excess poundage?
But I love beads and playing with them, a situation that other parts of my multifaceted identity find inconvenient if not entirely disgraceful. My inner intellectual and sophisticate dislike rubbing elbows with fellow bead lovers, many of whom are like these NH women. These aspects of my personality prefer that I associate with highly articulate people in more rarified settings, and were a bit repulsed that my beading self took them to this nondescript store not far from the rusted gates of Rockingham Park. One way we reinforce our identities is to seek out people with similar views, opinions and beliefs; it can be highly threatening to our identities to find ourselves in alien territory.
To make the weekend as pleasant as possible and to attempt to be in the moment, I made a conscious decision to sideline my snottiness and bring onstage my more spiritual identity, which helps me focus on what I share in common with people. We're all one, after all! Would our mutual enjoyment of beads be enough to create conversation? During the first day there wasn't much time for chatting. The instructor showed us several ways to create beads and we only had a few hours to work - rather, to play. I noticed these women's manual dexterity and ability to create detailed pieces, while I fumbled with the clay and carved basic designs. My inner elitist was not pleased by the comparison. I happen to like primitive looking beads, such as the ones I've been buying from this couple, another fact that my inner snob finds distressing.
On Sunday there was more time to get acquainted with my classmates. After glazing our beads we had to wait while they fired in the kiln, which took several hours to reach the desired temperature. I could have left right then and simply had the instructor mail me the finished beads when they were done. The person who would have made that decision was my busy, "my time is valuable, I don't want to wait" self, but I decided to stay to have the pleasure of seeing the beads when they emerge from the kiln, always a moment of surprise, and to observe the final step in the raku process (placing the hot beads in a trash can filled with flammable material, creating a ton of smoke).
The store owner brought us a take out menu from a local pizza and sub shop and we all ordered lunch. I was relieved that there were some moderately healthy choices available. The food arrived and another of my personalities, The Judge, silently castigated these gigantic women for ordering french fries and onion rings along with their steak and cheese subs. And maybe they had an instinctive reaction against me, the thin person from Massachusetts, for invading their turf (they spend so much time at the bead shop that they spoke of it in a proprietary fashion) and eating a chicken salad sandwich. But now was the time to get to know them, not condemn them. Over lunch I learned that all were married, active in their communities, and busy with home renovation projects when not enjoying their love of beads. In many ways, their lives were fuller than mine.
Lunch ended and, unlike these women, I hadn't brought any creative projects to pass the remaining time while our beads cooked. There were a few hours to go so I headed to a Barnes & Noble down the road, passing the time by reading The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream, an oddly appropriate choice. What is my dream? I've had/have many, the answer differing depending on which of my identities is responding.
Back at the bead store, someone had created a beaded bead, which is a bead made entirely of smaller beads sewn together. This woman had an eye for color and design and we all praised her talent. Even though I didn't particularly like how she planned to use this bead, I was able to find something genuinely positive to say about it and her choice of materials. In that small way, I felt I had succeeded in nourishing a new identity, that of an affirming person. Unfortunately, we also learned that the firing of our ceramic pieces would take longer than expected. It was now close to 6pm and we had been told the class would end at 5pm. I decided not to stick around any longer and asked the shop to mail me my beads.
I could hear the voice of the busy elitist chastising me for not just getting the heck out of there before lunch and for "wasting" the afternoon by waiting around in the bookstore in a stripmall in such a godforsaken place. But the voice was muffled, as if from far away. It's a voice I no longer pay such close attention to, an identity I no longer nurture, choosing instead to hear the voice that allowed me to spend a relaxing afternoon reading a good book in air conditioned comfort, something I had not done in awhile.
My writer friend is about to move to a new apartment in a different neighborhood. I asked him on Friday if he was going to be getting rid of any of his books. He said that when he moved to Boston from Baltimore, after completing his Ph.D., he did leave behind many books, as part of his - get this! - change of identity, from nerdy graduate student to professional writer.
"Does that mean you are no longer a nerd?" I teased this very bookish and brainy man, wondering if, perhaps, we were really on the same page after all.
"Well, no," he admitted. "Now I'm a nerd who is trying to sell lots of books."
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
