Interpretations, Intention

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

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

First I dumped out my purse. Nope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagination, Intimacy, Impatience

I have an active imagination. It is like an unruly animal that races around, dragging my emotions and hopes along with it, sometimes taking them on a wild fantasy ride, other times pulling them into a deep pit of despair. A recent episode showed me just how out of whack with reality my imagination can be.

Earlier in the week I received an e-mail from a synagogue announcing that Friday, March 13, was Shabbat Across Boulder County - people could sign up to host others or to be invited. Imagining that I might find myself at an enthusiastic and joyful Shabbat dinner with many other people, I asked the synagogue to find me a space in someone's home. Almost instantly, the organizer e-mailed me some information about my hosts and how they were wonderful people; he wrote that he'd leave it to them to send me details about the time.

I waited a day, and heard nothing. By Thursday evening, I was getting a bit concerned, so I sent the hosts an e-mail, asking for more information. By Friday morning, I still had not received a response, and my imagination started to spin sad stories about how their dinner was actually full, there had been a miscommunication between them and the synagogue, and they were too embarrassed to tell me so they were just ignoring me. And then, my imagination tamer showed up and said, "Well, maybe their e-mail is down, let's give them a call." So I called and left a message.

An hour later I received a call back from the wife. She sounded a bit breathless and disorganized, explaining that she had not checked her e-mail because she's busy mothering her 2 year old son. She told me that the other Shabbat guests had canceled, and it would just be me, her and her husband, her child, mother-in-law and her three dogs.

"Did I still want to come?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, even though that meant puncturing the fantasy balloon of a large Shabbat dinner. I did not have a backup plan and it was too late to make other arrangements.

"Well, all we do for Shabbat is say a few blessings," she added. I imagined that their minimalist ritual was due to the fact that they lacked a traditional Jewish background; perhaps they had returned to religion to raise a child but otherwise had no deep connection.

"That's OK with me," I replied. So this would not only not be a large dinner, it might not even be very Shabbat-like.

"And I'm not much of a housekeeper," she said. "Even though I'm sure I'll like you I'm not going to clean the house for you."

The last time someone from this congregation made that remark to me they had not been exaggerating. So I imagined that her home was covered with dog fur, strewn with toys, unwashed dishes piled in the sink and crumbs everywhere. Perhaps she was overwhelmed with motherhood and had let her house go to pot; in fact, my imagination went wild, conjuring images of a trailer park, with old tires and cars in the front yard.

I suppose this was the moment when I could have changed my mind. But something told me to go anyway.

"Not a problem," I said.

"Great. Is there anything that you don't or can't eat?" she asked.

"I don't eat pork," I said, figuring that I should not make any assumptions about how Jewish this family was.

"Oh, well! I was going to serve pork chops with a bacon reduction sauce," she quipped.

I burst out laughing.

"Well," I said, "you never know these days, what people will or won't eat. I hope I did not offend you."

"Not at all," she added. "I just wanted to be sure you weren't a vegan or had a gluten-free diet."

"Thanks for checking, I appreciate it."

"Do you eat sweets?" she asked.

"Absolutely!" I enthused.

"Do you like chocolate? Or would you prefer a fruit tart?" This woman was serious about dessert.

"Chocolate works for me," I said, thinking that would be end of it.

"Now, do you prefer chocolate mousse or something more solid, like chocolate cake?"

While pondering this very important question, I realized that it had been a long time since anyone had inquired so specifically about what I prefer. This stranger had been able to create some intimacy with me over our shared fondness for chocolate. For an instant, I felt a rush of love.

"Chocolate cake," I replied. "Thank you so much for asking."

We agreed that I would arrive between 6 and 7pm. And I thought that was the end of our phone calling.

In the late afternoon she called back to let me know to come closer to 7pm.

"Sure," I said, preparing not to speak to her again until arriving at her house.

Shortly after 6pm, while I was on the phone with a friend, she called again.

"What the...?" I wondered, feeling impatient at this interruption.

I took her call.

"Hi," I said, trying to disguise my annoyance. "What's up?"

"Do you eat cheese?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Great!" she replied. And I said I'd see her soon.

Within five minutes, she called again, interrupting my conversation once more. My blood was starting to boil.

"I just want to let you know," she exhaled, "that we are very casual for Shabbat. We don't dress up. We wear really comfortable clothes - like sweats or pajamas. So, I hope you are not dressed up."

At this point I was imagining this family sitting cross-legged in their sweatpants in a circle on the floor, the dogs running around, barking and stealing food from our plates, the Shabbat candles dripping wax onto the unvacuumed carpet, as if they belonged to some sloppy hippie commune. Not knowing what to expect, I had put on some of my favorite clothes that morning - not fancy, but not pj's either.

"Well, I am not planning to change before coming to your house," I said, trying to conceal my growing annoyance. "I am comfortable with what I am wearing and I hope you'll be comfortable, too."

That had to be the last of it, I thought, switching back to my other conversation.

But then minutes later she called AGAIN. I was starting to go ballistic.

"Yes?" I asked, a bit fearful of what she might say next. My imagination had already conjured the Shabbat from hell, yet at this point I could not easily back out.

"If you haven't left your studio yet, could you bring a piece of your art to show us?" she wondered.

"I'd be happy to bring you one of my business cards," I said, suppressing a growl. "I really don't wish to be doing show and tell on Shabbat. I am sure we'll have plenty to talk about."

The drive to their house was 40 minutes which gave me enough time to cool down and try to be present for whatever reality I'd be confronting when I'd ring their doorbell.

The home was, as far as I could tell, spotless. A carefully and beautifully arranged platter of cheeses, strawberries and blueberries was offered to me. The hosts wore jeans and while they were not dressed formally they were not slobs either. The dogs were well behaved and well-groomed. None of them seemed to shed a single hair. And over dinner, around a lovely table, it came up that the wife had attended yeshiva in her childhood - so, my imagination had been wrong about why they have a minimal Shabbat. And despite her flakiness on the telephone, I learned that the wife had had a successful career in finance.

While digging into the delicious chocolate cake, she and I discussed the series of phone calls we had had.

"You probably thought I was crazy," she said.

"Well, yes. And, based on what you told me, I imagined that your home was a disaster, and that is so far from the truth," I confessed. "You have a beautiful place." Later on she would show me her art collection, including a Warhol.

"I honor that you chose to come here tonight," she said, "I am not sure I would have made the same decision if I had been in your shoes."

Before long she and I were deeply immersed in a conversation about spirituality, personal growth, family dynamics, men and the choices we make. It turned out we had much more in common than a love of chocolate cake.

By this time her mother-in-law had left, her son was asleep and her husband had changed into his pajamas.

"Are you two going to be here when I get up in the morning?" he wondered, getting a drink from the kitchen.

It was after midnight when I finally left, my mind reeling from this newly forged connection. My imagination, chastened from having nearly led me astray with its fear-based stories, was curled up in the corner of my brain like a dog on its bed.

I-Ching, of the Torah

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

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

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

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

Incantations, Interpretations

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

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

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

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

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

Immersion, Idaho Springs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

In Memoriam, My Father

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Incognito

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

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

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

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

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.

Intangible

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

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

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

Interiors, III

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

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

Rather than revealing a gem of wisdom it said:

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

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

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

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

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

Interviews, a Dozen

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow we survived until the whistle sounded again.

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

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

Insanity, Impatience, Intransigence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Idolatry, revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Innovation

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

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

So, how do we go about doing it?

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

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

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.

Imbibing

Last night was Simchat Torah (happiness of Torah), the holiday that celebrates the conclusion of a year's worth of Torah reading. Tomorrow morning we begin again with Genesis. At my synagogue, we complete the entire scroll on a three year cycle, reading only 1/3 of each week's parsha (portion) in each of the three years. Like serialized stories that used to appear in magazines and newspapers, this method of reading keeps people in suspense and coming back for more...at least that is the idea.

Simchat Torah is a joyous affair. At my synagogue we unfurl the entire scroll; many people are enlisted to carefully hold it up and, when it's their turn, they read a synopsis of the parsha they happen to be holding. The first time I saw this done (and participated in the doing of it) I thought it was cool if not a bit wild (the Torah seemed to be naked and vulnerable, all spread out like that), but this year I felt a bit bored listening to the rather straightforward summaries of the chapters. Why not do it in limerick or haiku form? I might have to make that suggestion and, if accepted, I might have to create the limericks. Could be a fun project.

Once we'd symbolically read the entire Torah, it was rolled back up and, with other scrolls, paraded around the synagogue. Each parade is called a hakafa, and each hakafa was in honor of a certain group of people - e.g. board members, people who regularly read Torah on Saturdays, new members, etc.. And at some point the hakafot made their way outside and people were dancing on the sidewalk, accompanied by a lively klezmer band.

Like last year, I wasn't able to get into the dancing, and I didn't make myself try. It was one of those moments - and I have many of them - where I feel a distance from exuberant ritual, or I feel a need to set myself apart from everyone else. I hung back at the top of the steps of our synagogue, watching the action below and munching on some m&m's. At times like this I seem to retreat into an anthropologist persona, someone who is curious about and appreciates what is going on, but who isn't going to shed their reserve and jump into the fray.

After the seventh hakafa, we returned to the sanctuary and the service became more structured and formal. The rabbi called up three aliyot (an aliya is when someone is asked to come to the front of the sanctuary and recite the blessings before/after reading the Torah), starting with people who are descendants of the Cohanim, or priestly class of Jews, followed by an aliya for the Levites and then Israelites. I am the daughter of a cohen, through my father's side. In more traditional Jewish communities female offspring of cohanim don't receive any special privileges or perks, a fact which used to enrage my ego and (unjustified) sense of superiority when I was growing up. So, there I was, feeling disconnected from the festivities yet being invited to bless the Torah as a bat-cohen (daugher of a cohen) in a community that doesn't particularly care about such distinctions anyway. I hesitated a few seconds before joining the others at the front of the room, for the recognition I had always wanted. A few people held up a tallis (prayer shawl) over our heads as we recited the blessing, reading it from a laminated card with large print. The tall fellow next to me said, "Cohanim don't need the card," implying that as descendants of priests we should have memorized the prayers a long time ago.

Oy.

Returning to my seat, a few people shook my hand and uttered, "Yasher Ko-ach" (may your strength be firm), which is what you say to people who have participated in the synagogue service. (here's an interesting explanation of why we say these words). I felt strange accepting their salutations and wishes. My reluctant participation had not required any effort or skill or preparation.

I was, however, quite eager to try a homemade etrog (citron) liqueur that was being passed around in opaque shot glasses. The creator had grated the rind of three etrogim and steeped them in a few cups of vodka for several days before adding yet more vodka and sugar. The result was refreshing and delicious. Perhaps it could become a new holiday tradition, or a new holiday: Simchat vodka, anyone?

Integration

Somewhat dissatisfied by my Sukkot experience of shaking the lulav in a not very mindful fashion, I went online to read more about the meaning of the plants and fruit that form the core of this ritual.

The lulav (palm branch) is flanked on either side by branches of myrtle and willow. According to one rabbinic video on the subject, myrtle leaves are shaped like eyes, willow leaves like mouths, and the lulav itself is like a spine, straight but flexible. The etrog (citron) represents the heart. We can choose to use each of these parts of ourselves for goodness....or not. Does our heart lust after things and people, or do we open our hearts to other people? Do we choose to see the good in others or to use our eyes to find flaws? And, most importantly, can we integrate these parts of ourselves so that we're acting as a whole individual, not a person who feels one thing yet says and does another. Had I been more aware of the symbolism at the time that I joined the etrog to the lulav and waved them in six directions, I might have felt more open to the experience and to imbuing it with my own meaning.

Integration is something for which I strive. In a popular culture that encourages us to act from our heads, not our hearts, that appeals to our material lusts rather than spiritual needs, and that treats the body as an entity distinct from mind and soul, it is very easy to disconnect from one's true self, to dis-integrate. I don't believe that is an exaggeration or overstatement - people can and do fall apart when they can no longer hear what their heart and soul are trying to telling them. Yoga is a means by which I am trying to link myself back together, to bring all the seemingly disparate pieces of myself into a coherent whole and to learn to act from a place that is located between my crotch and my clavicle, not above my neck. For decades I gave my head veto power over what the rest of me wanted to do, and it's about time that my decision making authority be transferred to a more appropriate place: my heart. But first I need to flex my heart muscles some more, because after years of being ignored it has atrophied somewhat and isn't always in a position to override my highly trained brain.

One of my main heart-head struggles has had to do with my level of observance of Judaism. My heart is increasingly inclined to observe the Sabbath in some fashion, not necessarily strictly adhering to Jewish law but also not doing things that explicitly violate the Sabbath, like working. Having had a retail business for the last few years which relied primarily on weekend, and especially Saturdays, for selling, I've found myself with a conundrum on my hands, especially with the holiday sales season approaching. In American culture, Saturday is a much busier shopping day than Sunday.

Yesterday I decided to do an event at my studio, but started it late enough so that I could attend Torah study at my synagogue and stay for the shacharit (morning) service, one of my favorites. But leaving synagogue mid-way through the morning felt unsatisfying, and the fact that I didn't open my studio until 12pm meant that fewer people came. Both experiences were compromised.

And I was somewhat bewildered, in an amused way, by the fact that I (presumably a single individual) had had such a diverse day yesterday, beginning with the study of the Book of Ecclesiastes ("Vanity of Vanities, All is Vanity!"), followed by the intense chanting of morning prayers, to the sale of my jewelry (in which I felt Ecclesiastes' sense of futility), to attendance at a highly frivolous event celebrating marshmallow Fluff, during which a college friend treated me to chocolate ice cream with Fluff, boosting my blood sugar levels to heights not recently experienced, and ending with an outing with a new friend to hear the band Sol y Canto, whose lead singer also attended my college, perform.

I got home close to midnight and all of us - the studier of Torah, the chanter of prayer, the businesswoman, the friend, the Fluff-lusting inner child and my Latina persona - went to bed.

Insecurity

At Sukkot services today, the man who gave the d'var Torah (a brief explanation of the weekly Torah portion) spoke of how we can interpret this holiday as being about insecurity and security. Sukkot celebrates the harvest, the gathering of food from the fields, actions that procure sustenance and security for the community. But we are also commanded to sit and dine in the sukkah, or booth, which has only three sides and only branches for a roof, exposing the occupants to the elements, to insecurity. And, most importantly, we are to be joyful!

So often in life we tell ourselves that we'll be happy or celebrate once we've found security, in whatever form we tell ourselves security exists....when we've completed a large project, receive a promotion or a new job, bought a house or found a place to live, or otherwise have our various ducks lined up in an impeccable row. Yet we can align our ducks perfectly, and even smooth their feathers and shine their beaks, only to have a great wind blow (or a hunter come along) and destroy some or all of our efforts. And if we weren't experiencing joy while attempting to arrange our circumstances to our liking, then when are we to experience it?

I am at a point in my existence where I am keenly, make that painfully, aware of my tendency to figuratively, and often literally, hold my breath and not be able to enjoy life in its current configuration. Yes, I can make decisions and choices and put things in motion, but how they turn out is not 100% up to me. Intellectually, I know that each day really is a cause for celebration - not necessarily in the form of a black tie party with a mariachi band - but a chance to feel good simply about being alive, or even some small aspects of being alive. Plenty of people I know no longer are.

And yet....it is difficult for me to rejoice in my highly imperfect life, despite a growing pile of evidence from my own experience that pleasant surprises or turn of events typically appear when I am not looking for or expecting them, when I have let go of whatever urgency I had attached to the particular outcome, when I have stopped being preoccupied. For a (recovering) Type A personality and skeptic, this lesson has been slow to percolate through my consciousness, which seems to be protected by a very thick layer of nearly impermeable ego.

At synagogue we all had a chance to wave (and shake) the lulav (palm branch) and etrog (citron) in all four directions as well as up in the air and down towards the earth. I couldn't help but remember Palm Sunday in Jerusalem, where I toured the Christian Quarter of the Old City and tried to surreptitiously snap pictures of monks of all denominations toting palm branches in what appeared to be an arcane ritual. Our guide told us that it was possible that Jesus had entered Jerusalem around sukkot, when Jews would have been parading around with their lulavim, and that later Christians might have appropriated this part of Jewish ritual to mark his arrival to the holy city.

Lulav and etrog in my hands, I was relieved that no snarky photographers were lurking in the corners of my synagogue, waiting to catch us in the act of praising God with objects that bear some resemblance to reproductive organs. I didn't quite connect to the ritual at the time, but perhaps I can retroactively attach meaning to my actions, a way of thanking God for all the reminders I've been given to be at ease and joyful, even when, or especially when, I don't know what is coming.

Hallelujah!

Irony

On Sunday, following the Yom Kippur retreat, I ate a quick brunch at Elat Chayyim and quickly said my goodbyes so I could get back to Brookline in time to attend a brit milah, ritual circumcision, of a friend's newborn boy. Back in August I had participated in a moving ceremony at the couple's home to prepare them for the arrival of their child.

The ritual circumciser, in this case, was a woman, or mohelet. Her duties included not only performing the cut but also leading the assembled well wishers in blessings and in saying a few words, words which I recognized immediately from my younger nephew's bris nearly five years ago.

The following is not the precise language used, but the boilerplate brit blessing goes something like, "May he enter into Torah, into marriage (l'chuppah - the wedding canopy), and into good deeds....." At my nephew's ceremony, the first I had ever attended, I felt that I was witness to a very powerful tribal ritual, one that evoked marvel and revulsion. It was a bit of a miracle that my younger brother had, despite a previously rocky relationship with Judaism, chosen to continue the ancient Jewish practice of the brit with his first born son. But I was taken aback by the fact that expectations of marriage were being publicly heaped on a helpless eight day old baby and that everyone thought that this was perfectly acceptable.

What if the child chooses not to marry, is homosexual (the implication in the ancient words is that the boy will marry a female), or otherwise finds that his path to fulfillment lies outside mainstream Jewish practice? For some children these blessings can turn into curses, expectations that cannot be or are not met, sending them running into the open arm(chair)s of therapists.

Our mohelet was simply doing her job, repeating the words and prayers that have been uttered for millennia, but I wonder if she was aware that this tiny boy's parents had not yet stood under the chuppah themselves?