Insanity, Instincts

Insanity, it is said, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. However, with a meditation or awareness practice, one has the opportunity to observe oneself in the process of repeating history and then choosing not to in the end. Last night I was deep into deja vu all over again while sitting across a restaurant table from a 30-something year old man I had met online. In a moment of loneliness, intensified by a periodic fleeting desire to reconnect with my earlier self who had lived in Budapest, I had e-mailed this person whose screen name was in Hungarian to simply ask him if, indeed, he was. Igen. And he was also new to this area and seemed eager to meet new people, including me, even though I'm considerably older than the age range he had specified in his profile. He had posted photographs of himself in which he was outdoors and had what appeared to be a relaxed smile on his face. After a few e-mail exchanges we agreed to meet for dinner last night. Since he was driving some ways to meet me, I chose the restaurant, a funky Thai place that had received good reviews.

"So, you've been here before," he stated, as we took our seats.

"No, I haven't" I said.

"So, for a first date you've suggested an unknown place?" he asked, a bit taken aback, as if I had broken some generally accepted protocol and/or asked him to take a chance.

I, too, was taken aback. A first date? True, we were meeting for the first time, but I did not consider it a date with a capital "D". We had not even spoken on the phone beforehand, except for a few minutes immediately prior when he called to let me know he was running late. While I had been interested in meeting him I was not focused on coming up with an impressive evening or setting. I had asked him what food he enjoyed and made plans accordingly, choosing a place that would be conducive to conversation.

"Well," I said, "I asked some people for Thai restaurant suggestions and they recommended this one. The fact is I haven't eaten out all that much since moving here and I like trying new places."
Immediately, we dropped into a conversation about my impressions of Hungary and Hungarians - he had asked me in an e-mail and I thought it best to respond in person.

"Well," I said, not wanting to offend, "There seemed to be a cloud of gloom hanging over the country. People were pessimistic. But you don't seem to be like that at all."

"Actually, I am," he responded. At least he was being honest.

His remark released a range of uncomfortable sensations that I had felt while living there two decades ago, as if these had been sealed in a pouch all these years, waiting to be opened so they could be fully processed or digested. Now the pouch was leaking feelings of incompleteness, sadness, of longing for wholeness, resulting from being disconnected - by geography and genocide - from ancestral roots, and wanting to transform the experience of my Hungarian heritage into a happy one, despite the seeming impossibility of this task. No wonder I had packed this emotional goulash into an inner Ziploc, storing it somewhere deep in my guts, hoping that over time it would just pass through my system without my having to feel its painful contents.

The waitress came over to take our orders but we had not even opened the menus. We sent her away, and within minutes she returned.

"We're still not ready," I said to her. "Do we get a third try or are you going to kick us out?"

My companion laughed. I was relieved.

For what felt like a long time the waitress ignored us, and I got to hear a bit about his family history and journey to America. Like many Jewish men of his generation, he wasn't told of his religion until he was Bar Mitzvah age, a time when the word "Jew" was a common insult. An engineer, he had studied at the same university where I had spent my junior year abroad. We had eaten in the same cafeteria, whose offerings included soup with chicken feet, a dish that delighted the locals but freaked out the Americans.

As he spoke, I could not help but notice that he sounded almost exactly like another Hungarian Jewish engineer I had met, and dated, many years before. This genre of human being, in my experience, operates almost entirely from the left-brains, is analytical and logical to an extreme, lacks an aesthetic sensibility, has a scarcity mentality and can be very single-minded bordering on self-righteous. At one point during our meandering conversation my companion switched topics in order to pick up a loose thread. I can't recall what the abandoned subject had been, but I got the distinct impression that it was important to him to not leave anything hanging, that everything needed to be put in its place.

Some people might find this constellation of character traits attractive or positive in some circumstances, but I heard a little voice in my head comment, "You moved to Colorado to change your life...so why are you having dinner with a slightly more polite and refined version of an ex-boyfriend from hell?"

Perhaps I needed to revisit some old psychological territory from a new perspective, to hear nearly the exact same thought processes, mindset and beliefs from this more junior man as I had heard from my ex who, at the time, had been my senior, and to have a completely different experience. As I nibbled my drunken noodles I realized that I'm no longer the person who was afraid to trust herself and who preferred to rely on what others had to say, particularly people with strong views and clearly articulated opinions. In what had been a disastrous and painful relationship with my ex, I had abandoned many parts of myself in order to conform to his views of the world and to fit his image of who he needed his girlfriend to be.

Slowly I have learned to not do that again. All this seemed quite clear while sitting in the restaurant and when saying good night to my dinner companion after we had finished our meal. It was raining by the time we left the restaurant and, after a brief and somewhat awkward discussion about continuing our evening in a more happening part of Denver, he chivalrously suggested that we save that for another time and better weather. I was free to enjoy my own company for the rest of the night.

When I got home, however, my self-doubt and conditioning kicked in with a vengeance, berating me for not having picked a restaurant in a more lively location that offered the possibility of a post-dinner stroll, as if I had blown my very last chance to find a fulfilling relationship because I had not orchestrated a perfectly seamless, multi-stop evening. For a few moments I actually fell for these nasty voices in my head, voices that have been telling me most of my life that I need to be romantically involved with someone to be an acceptable person and that I need to twist myself into knots to either enter into or maintain such relationships. The fundamental message of these voices, a malevolent mantra as it were, is that I am not enough, that by myself I am inadequate. I think I am finally catching onto these insidious bastards and their very dirty tricks.

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:

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.

INFP

What do Mary, Mother of Jesus, and I have in common?

Apparently we are both INFPs, one of the 16 personality types according to the Myers-Briggs personality preference indicator. So, what does INFP mean? "I" stands for introverted, "N" stands for intuitive, "F" stands for feeling, "P" stands for perceiving. Each of the four letters represents a component of psychological type as determined by Carl Jung. As for mine and the Virgin Mary's type, INFP describes a person who - at their best - is sensitive, concerned and caring; idealistic and loyal to their ideas; curious and creative; have long-range vision. At worst, or if not properly supported and appreciated, INFPs withdraw from people and situations, have difficulty expressing themselves verbally, become easily discouraged, and reject logical reasoning.

Bingo!

The reason I took this personality test in the first place is that I'm enrolled in a career exploration workshop and in our last class we discussed Myers Briggs types in some detail. The result is a useful piece of information to include when mulling over one's work life and the kinds of circumstances and occupations that will be conducive to satisfaction and happiness.

Interestingly, I had scored differently the last time I took this test, about 12 years ago. Then I turned out to be an INTJ, someone with a clearer preference for thinking over feeling and judging over perceiving (what "judging" means in Myers-Briggs terminology is a preference for structure and planning). That just shows how years of yoga practice, spiritual re-education and plunging into a creative line of work can transform a "TJ" into an "FP", while leaving my "IN" intact; for the sake of accuracy, I must admit that my scores for I and N were quite strong, while my tendency towards F and P were less conclusive. And it is possible that the last time I took the test I answered the questions inaccurately, responding aspirationally (how I wanted to be and/or how I thought I should be) rather than how I actually was. It's also possible that I'm a bit of a flip-flopper. In certain group work situations, I can quickly morph into an INTJ if I sense (intuitively, of course!) that there is a need for a decision maker or someone to be in charge. I can play that part, but I don't necessarily enjoy being in that role. Indeed, when I read a bit more about how personality type manifests in the workplace it became clear that, on the job, I am an INTJ.

And while I normally hate being put into a box and reject almost any categorization of my "type", the woman leading my career workshop told us that INFPs are rare indeed, occurring in about 1% of the US population. That made me feel special again, until I realized that I am just one in a 100, not one in a million. Then she pointed out that INFPs, of the 16 types, have the hardest time finding satisfaction in or fitting into the contemporary American workplace. Many of them just quit. It felt validating to have my own highly disappointing and discouraging corporate experiences corroborated by the research, although then I started to worry that I might never be able to tolerate a job that actually offered benefits and a 401(k) plan. My detour into anxiety and self-pity abruptly ended when I Googled "INFP" and discovered that, according to Wikipedia, I am in pretty amazing company. In addition to Jesus' Mother, other INFPs include Homer, Shakespeare, Princess Diana and Mister Rogers.

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.

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.

In Memoriam: Benazir Bhutto

Today I didn't check the headlines until early afternoon and I was startled and deeply saddened to read that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated. Her ethics and track record were not impeccable but she brought hope to many people both inside and out of Pakistan. She was also a captivating figure on a world stage heavily populated by greying middle aged men. On a more personal note, when I was in graduate school many years ago another student told me that I resembled Ms. Bhutto. I remember feeling very flattered by that comparison.

Upon learning that she will no longer grace the newspapers with her elegance, I was inspired to see if, in fact, I really did share a resemblance. My skills at self-portraiture (via handholding my digital camera) could certainly be improved, as could my ability to properly position a headscarf. Below is a sliver of an image I came up with. I'll let you decide for yourselves the strength of the resemblance, if any.

May Benazir Bhutto, and all of the Pakistanis who've been victims of political violence, rest in peace.

Irritatory

I've learned through books and seminars on personal growth that when we find another person particularly irritating or annoying, it's because this person embodies or displays a characteristic or trait that we also possess but that we haven't fully accepted in ourselves. It's also the case that we tend to admire people who embody traits that we believe we possess but that we haven't fully developed or realized. The rest of the world can thus be seen as a mirror, providing continuous reflections of all of our parts, even the shadowy bits that reside below our conscious awareness most of the time.

To be more specific, there is a woman I occasionally interact with who irritates me....a lot...probably because in some important ways we are very much alike, a situation that irritates me even more. She likes to be visible and an attention-getter in group settings (um...so do I sometimes), she likes to appoint herself in charge, and she has a tendency to make confident pronouncements to people about things they should do, books they should read, people they should talk to, as if she possesses great clarity about what each individual needs to do to make a quantum improvement in their life.

Um...I've been guilty of that, too.

And I also know, from the one real conversation I've had with her, that - like me - she struggles a bit with relating to her family and to feeling comfortable among them.

Today I attended a Simchat Bat ceremony (the female version of a bris) where the baby girl is officially named and welcomed into her family and Jewish community. Unlike a circumcision, this event does not involve any medical procedures, unless - God forbid! - one of the guests has a mishap while overindulging in bagels, lox and whitefish salad and needs the Heimlich maneuver or, worse, CPR.

After the baby was officially named and welcomed with song, poetry and wine, I enjoyed some delicious treats and pleasant conversation with some old and new acquaintances on the back patio. Coming inside the house to warm up and find a hot beverage, I noticed that this woman had arrived in the meantime, long after the ceremony was over. She behaved as if she had been there the entire time, welcoming those of us who were coming indoors after an hour of relaxed chatting as if we were late to the party.

While talking with someone else as I warmed up with a cup of coffee (I don't normally drink the stuff, but I was quite chilled), this woman made eye contact with me and said, "There's something I have to tell you," in a tone (with matching facial expression, including dramatically raised eyebrows) that suggested that her forthcoming revelation would change my life.

Hmmm. What could it be? I slowly sipped my coffee, unable to reciprocate her apparent intensity.

"There's a mosaic exhibit you should see," she insisted.

"Actually, I had work in the exhibit," I replied. "It was really a fantastic show."

"Oh!" she said. "Is it still on?"

"It closed yesterday," I informed her.

"Oh, well I'd love to see your work sometime!" she exclaimed.

"Sure," I told her. "Come by my studio!"

I have to assume she meant well and was trying to connect with me, but her style of delivery was, as the title of this posting indicates, irritating. Being on the receiving end of such a blast of advice didn't feel so great, it was as if she was bestowing something upon me, rather than trying to engage me in a conversation and assess my receptivity. A valuable experience for me to remember the next time I feel that irrepressible urge to give a friend or acquaintance a piece of life changing advice.

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."