[reposted 8/23]
I recently spent one week on a retreat at a Zen monastery in Northern California. For years I've been reading the books published by the head monk, and over time her words convinced me to begin and sustain a daily meditation practice. It felt like it was time to visit and learn how to incorporate some of the other spiritual tools she had mentioned in her writings and on her radio show.
Before I left a few people said, "Have fun!" or "Have a great time!" or "Sounds peaceful." I am guessing these well-wishers had never spent a week in a silent, structured environment that is designed to reveal to retreatants how their minds operate. With no e-mail, Internet, phone or other things to distract my attention, my monkey mind was more clearly exposed. Volatile, not peaceful, more accurately describes what I experienced.
Although this retreat was not completely silent - we participated in brief group discussions every day - I had enough time alone to observe what my mind will do to generate drama out of thin air, or, in this case, out of the dirt. This monastery, located on some 300 acres in the Sierra Nevada foothills, had a lot of rules to follow, all clearly spelled out in a guest booklet that I found in my hermitage, a tiny cabin in the woods. The rules mostly fell into two categories: silence and sanitation. In the former, we were instructed to not speak to anyone, to walk with an averted gaze so as not to make eye contact, and to leave a note for "Guestmaster" on the message board if we needed something. Since this was a role and not a specific person, "Guestmaster" took on the quality of an anonymous, omnipotent authority figure. Leaving a note for "Guestmaster" felt, at times, as if I were asking God for a favor. In terms of sanitation, we were asked to remove shoes and don slippers to prevent dust and grime from dirtying the dining room and meditation hall. And we were asked to wash our hands every time we entered the dining room, even if we had just washed our hands after using the restroom. I often ended up washing my hands nearly a dozen times a day. If cleanliness is next to Godliness then I was getting closer.
But my internal drama centered around another phrase in the guest booklet: Assume Nothing. The comprehensive rules were, apparently, not enough. The monastery did not want people to make judgments and decisions for themselves about what else might be appropriate or acceptable.
In between sits and group sessions we had free time and I would go for walks around the property on various dirt paths. It was quite hot and I was not moving quickly and on my second or third day my eyes were drawn to some shiny turquoise shapes on the ground. I looked closer and saw that they were shards of pottery that looked similar to the hand-thrown dishes and bowls we used at meal times (another rule was that we could not remove these special plates from the dining hall. Now I understood why - apparently many of them had not survived the journey from dining hall to hermitage).
My artist-self got excited about a potentially large treasure trove of colorful pottery shards for her mosaics.
Assume Nothing.
"But we're at a monastery," my inner Policewoman said to the Artist, "don't assume you can take them. Ask the Guestmaster."
"That's silly," came the reply, from a rather pragmatic character. "Probably no one even knows these shards are here. Some are partially buried. Leaving a note is just a way of drawing attention to yourself, and that's not why you're here."
Another voice chimed in: "These are sharp and could hurt someone or puncture a tire. You're doing the monastery a favor by picking them up."
I started to collect the shards, carefully choosing the best ones in terms of thickness, size and shape and putting them into a bag.
"You really should ask first," warned the Policewoman. "Don't take that which is not given."
Indeed, that is one of the lines I'd heard the monks recite each morning before meditation.
"But they might say no! I really want these. Then I'll be upset," my Inner Child piped up.
I had observed that the Guestmaster often took up to 24 hours to respond to a note. Did I want to suspend my collection efforts for such a long period of time or, worse, have to hand over my stash? That would be mortifying.
"They won't say no - that's crazy!" said the Pragmatist.
"You're too conscientious. This is NOT a big deal. If they didn't want people to remove stones and objects from the property they would have created a rule and told you. No rule = no problem," contributed the Lawyer.
"But," the Policewoman emphasized, "they said Assume Nothing."
"Well, these pottery shards are not in the field of their awareness," said the Lawyer, cleverly co-opting the monastery's terminology. "Trust me, no one is going to know they are missing."
During my walks I continued to pick up the shards but I kept looking around to see if anyone was observing me. I realized I was behaving like a thief.
"If I don't ask I will feel like I'm hiding something. And I don't want to hide anymore," said the voice of the well-intentioned person who had come to the retreat. "I don't want to leave the monastery carrying a secret, no matter how small it might seem."
"So, ask the Guestmaster if it's OK to pick them up. Pretend you haven't touched them yet," advised the Lawyer. "And what happens if they say NO?!"
"Well, I can get up early and dump them somewhere. At least I enjoyed finding them. Or I can take them with me anyway and I'll have had the experience of going through this process. This is all part of awareness practice," I countered, sounding a little too lawyerly for my own comfort.
"How you do anything is how you do everything," intoned my Spiritual Guide, quoting one of the head monk's favorite phrases. "You can ask, speak up and clear your conscience, rather than continue lurking around the edge of this sangha (community)."
"Why do you want to feel like a part of this sangha, anyway? It's a resource for you and you contribute to it financially. Why not keep it at arm's length?" said a rather cool, calculating Accountant-like voice.
"Besides, you're Jewish!" declared the Rabbi, as if I needed to be reminded. "Why don't you join a synagogue, instead?" (side note to dualistic Rabbi: "Why can't I join BOTH?")
I decide that I'm fed up listening to the Pragmatist, the Lawyer and the Accountant. Two days before the end of the retreat I muster the courage to leave a note for the Guestmaster. Rather than fudging it, I explain that I'd already picked up some shards, realized that I should have asked first, and that I wanted permission to take them and use them in a mosaic for the monastery's benefit. Either I could donate a piece of art to one of their fundraising events or sell it on my own and send the proceeds to them.
The hours slowly passed. I kept checking the message board to see if the Guestmaster had responded. Nothing. After 22 hours of waiting, I started to feel sad, ashamed (after all, now they knew what I'd been up to!) and deflated. The various voices in my head convinced me that the monks had gathered in a special session to "discuss" my situation and to render a "verdict", as if this had been the most important issue at the monastery. My excitement at taking the broken pottery and transforming it into a piece of art had dissipated, if not disappeared altogether. Although I noticed a rich lode of scrumptious pottery shards on a less-traveled path, I decided not to pick them up until I had received a response. My Artist and Inner Child felt chastened and deprived. I explained to them that the fun was in finding the pottery and that we'd have a chance to work with lots of material back at the studio. And we'd probably find even better things to play with elsewhere.
The night before I was scheduled to leave the monastery I saw a note addressed to me on the message board. Fearing disappointing news, I decided to wait until the following morning to read it. When I opened it the note simply said, "Thanks for asking. That's fine with us." It was 6:20 a.m. and I grabbed my satchel, bounded out of my hermitage and harvested another pound of pottery from that rich lode.
Showing posts with label Spirituality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spirituality. Show all posts
Friday, August 21, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Invigorating, Intricacies, Immense
Towards the end of 2008 I joined the Colorado Mountain Club and in mid-December received my welcome packet and some printed trip listings. One of them was for the Telemark Ski School, a series of classes over four weekends in January. Something inside me stirred and said, "Sign up". I read more of the fine print and it turns out that one was supposed to have taken a pre-qualifying ski trip in late November or early December. Those dates had long passed and the registration deadline for the school was looming. I called the school's director to find out if I might be able to enroll anyway. The number I dialed rang and rang and then went dead. I phoned the Mountain Club to ask them if I could sign up without speaking to the director - that was not an option, but they thought I could reach him by e-mail. After making contact, I asked the director what the qualifying trips were all about. Turns out they were to assess stamina rather than skiing ability. I have more of the former than of the latter. He also mentioned that the classes are at high altitude - 10,000-12,000 feet - a factoid which gave me pause. I told him a bit about myself and he said I could sign up.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Improbable, Impatience
On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.
Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).
It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.
Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.
"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."
Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.
"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."
By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.
"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.
We were headed home and that was all that mattered.
Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).
It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.
Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.
"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."
Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.
"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."
By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.
"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.
We were headed home and that was all that mattered.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Installed, Invested
I have lived in many different apartments. Even in the ones I owned I did not invest much time, effort or money in trying to optimize the lighting. Somehow, the decisions involved in choosing floor lamps and hanging light fixtures seemed overwhelming, not to mention permanent. Especially with lighting that would require installation on a wall or a ceiling, selecting a particular fixture for a given room and hiring an electrician to hook it up seemed akin to making an irrevocable commitment. Table lamps, however, didn't stir up as much angst - they could be moved from place to place or sold - so I would buy those instead. As a result, I suffered with sub-par lighting in most of my living spaces and even in my Boston area art studio rather than install the "wrong" lights and then feel compelled to live with the mistake.
But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.
On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.
On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.
Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.
Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.
But the bigger blunder and spiritual error was not committing to my comfort and not meeting the needs I had at various times, even if these needs were to change and would therefore require an adjustment in how I addressed them and perhaps an additional cost. Part of the reason for moving myself and my stuff 2,000 miles away was to remind myself that I am starting over, hitting the reset button on many areas of my life, that I am not going to keep doing the same thing over and over again.
On Monday I spent a good chunk of the afternoon at Home Depot in the lighting department, choosing track lights, connectors, and dimmer switches. Add to that some shelving components and a refridgerator, and I also spent a good chunk of change. But the person who wrote "spent a good chunk of change" was listening to the voice of scarcity, e.g. my inner cheapskate, which views every dime spent as a depletion of fixed and limited amount of resources. If I switch hats, to that of the voice of abundance, I could instead write that I made a large investment in my new space and in myself, in that I committed to creating a functional work environment to which I'll attract buyers of my art.
On Tuesday morning the handyman showed up at 9:30 a.m. sharp to install the shelves and the track lights. When he removed the existing fluorescent fixture from the ceiling we noticed a short metal pipe protruding, a relic of the era when this room was lit by a gas lamp. In order to cover it up he needed additional materials, plus he needed some components that the Home Depot staff hadn't been able to show me, so off he went to spend yet another chunk of change. To distract my inner cheapskate from counting the minutes that he was gone, time which she was paying for, I primed and painted the shelves that the Home Depot staff had cut for me out of a large sheet of fiberboard.
Still, the cheapskate has been obsessing about the total cost - umm...investment - that my higher self had made in my well-being and in my mosaic art, which deserves to be properly illuminated. My inner cheapskate keeps yammering that I should have looked for a less expensive handyman (this guy had a reasonable rate, came recommended and had worked in this building), shopped around for cheaper lights (well, I did get the most basic kind) and is still coming up with ways that I could have done it for less. But, I knew that if I had spent too much time trying to tweak it to get the best price possible, my cheapskate might have talked me out of it altogether.
Now, at least, the tracks and lamps are installed. The investment in a supportive and functional work space has been made. The only thing left to negotiate with my inner cheapskate is how much we'll spend on - I mean invest in! - full-spectrum 50-watt bulbs.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Interrupt Not
Interrupt Not. That is the basic message of an anonymous plea called "Listen", which has shown up in my life twice in the last few weeks. I received a copy at the end of the Hoffman retreat and again last night, at the first meeting of a group that explores a spiritual path to creativity via exercises in the book The Artist's Way. For much of my life I've prided myself on being a good listener, even though - as I now realize - I've often listened with an agenda or with a need to then be able to say something clever or wise to the person who was speaking. That isn't necessarily listening. I've also been guilty of interrupting people; often my comments are motivated by my own need to be heard. And as someone who has often had trouble expressing herself verbally, I've often been interrupted by supposedly well-meaning family members and friends who think I have finished speaking because, simply, I have stopped to take a breath or choose a word or because they simply can't wait another minute to impart wisdom or to chime in with a humorous aside.
It was incredibly refreshing and empowering yesterday evening to be given 10 whole uninterrupted minutes in which to explain to the group why I had signed up for the workshop. Knowing that no one would cut me off, interject a cute comment or otherwise divert the attention to themselves, I was able to say things that I had never said aloud before. To protect my own confidentiality, I will not divulge those remarks here. When the 10 minutes were up, I was asked if I wanted to receive feedback, or not. I said yes. Again, it was empowering to be given that choice. And the interesting thing about allowing someone to speak for 10 (or 15 or 5) minutes without inserting one's two cents is that, chances are, by they time the speaker is done, that previously irresistible urge to give a certain bit of feedback will have dissipated, allowing the listener to offer a deeper level of response.
I invite anyone - particularly those who have felt that they are not truly being heard - to ask their spouse, partner, siblings and friends to try this experiment with them. Set a timer for 10 minutes, allowing one person to speak without interruption for that time. Then the listener has 2 minutes to reflect back what s/he heard, without offering advice or reassurance. It is also refreshing to be a listener, knowing that one is not expected to jump in and save the other person. This kind of listening can also be done by phone. I feel fortunate that I have a reflective listening "buddy" with whom I speak each week on the telephone. We each get 15 minutes to speak and the other person periodically reflects back what has been said, without offering commentary of any kind. This arrangement is organized and facilitated by the Zen Monastery Peace Center in California, if anyone else would like to look into it.
The text of "Listen" follows - author is Anonymous.
When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked.
When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I should not feel that way, you are trampling on my feelngs.
When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me.
Listen! All I ask is that you listen - not talk, or do. Just hear me.
Advice is cheap; a buck will get you Dear Abby and Dr. Joyce Brothers in the same paper.
I can do for myself; I'm not helpless - I may be discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.
When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy, but......
When you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel, no matter how irrational it appears, then I can quite trying to convince you, and get about the business of understanding what's behind this feeling. When that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice. "Irrational" feelings make more sense when we understand what's behind them.
Perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people - because God is mute and S/He doesn't give advice or try to fix us. God just listens and lets us work it out for ourselves.
So please listen and just hear me. And then, if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn, and I'll listen to you.
It was incredibly refreshing and empowering yesterday evening to be given 10 whole uninterrupted minutes in which to explain to the group why I had signed up for the workshop. Knowing that no one would cut me off, interject a cute comment or otherwise divert the attention to themselves, I was able to say things that I had never said aloud before. To protect my own confidentiality, I will not divulge those remarks here. When the 10 minutes were up, I was asked if I wanted to receive feedback, or not. I said yes. Again, it was empowering to be given that choice. And the interesting thing about allowing someone to speak for 10 (or 15 or 5) minutes without inserting one's two cents is that, chances are, by they time the speaker is done, that previously irresistible urge to give a certain bit of feedback will have dissipated, allowing the listener to offer a deeper level of response.
I invite anyone - particularly those who have felt that they are not truly being heard - to ask their spouse, partner, siblings and friends to try this experiment with them. Set a timer for 10 minutes, allowing one person to speak without interruption for that time. Then the listener has 2 minutes to reflect back what s/he heard, without offering advice or reassurance. It is also refreshing to be a listener, knowing that one is not expected to jump in and save the other person. This kind of listening can also be done by phone. I feel fortunate that I have a reflective listening "buddy" with whom I speak each week on the telephone. We each get 15 minutes to speak and the other person periodically reflects back what has been said, without offering commentary of any kind. This arrangement is organized and facilitated by the Zen Monastery Peace Center in California, if anyone else would like to look into it.
The text of "Listen" follows - author is Anonymous.
When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked.
When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I should not feel that way, you are trampling on my feelngs.
When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me.
Listen! All I ask is that you listen - not talk, or do. Just hear me.
Advice is cheap; a buck will get you Dear Abby and Dr. Joyce Brothers in the same paper.
I can do for myself; I'm not helpless - I may be discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.
When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy, but......
When you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel, no matter how irrational it appears, then I can quite trying to convince you, and get about the business of understanding what's behind this feeling. When that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice. "Irrational" feelings make more sense when we understand what's behind them.
Perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people - because God is mute and S/He doesn't give advice or try to fix us. God just listens and lets us work it out for ourselves.
So please listen and just hear me. And then, if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn, and I'll listen to you.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Inward Bound
It's been awhile since my last post. Thanks to those of you who are still with me, still checking this blog for signs of life. Part of the time I was in California, at a retreat designed to help people reconnect with themselves. And before that I was fighting a cold and a fever, which almost made me consider cancelling my trip. And after the retreat I have been letting my experience sink in, pondering how to write about it. I felt that I had to address it first before scribing about other things.
Inward Bound is the best way for me to characterize this retreat, called the Hoffman Process and organized by the Hoffman Institute. In my class were 39 other people, from across the country and the world, of all shapes, sizes and hairstyles, with a variety personalities that defied Myers Briggs categorization, ranging in age from 20s to early 60s. What we shared was a common determination to free ourselves from, in many cases, lifetimes of emotional pain and suffering that was interfering with the quality of our lives. Many of us were veterans of different therapies and therapists, myriad medications and spiritual practices, as well as practitioners of strict diets and exercise regimes to render medication unnecessary. The collective healing expertise of our group was impressive, even if - as our presence at Hoffman indicated - these complex formulae and heartfelt efforts have not consistently eased our distress. And most of us had learned about the Hoffman Process from other people who had done it and who had experienced meaningful if not lasting results, many of which have been documented in research studies. It was the combination of scientific proof, and the fact that the person who referred me is a Harvard educated CEO, that persuaded my highly skeptical intellect to invest time and a not trivial amount of money in this experience. At the same time, my ego was convinced that it was so special that the process wouldn't work on me, and so there I was, deeply wanting to put an end to my existential and emotional angst yet concerned that I would simply get in my own way, that I would be one of the people for whom this didn't "work".
As we were told early on in the retreat, there is no way to "fail" the Process. True enough. Simply by showing up one has demonstrated a commitment to heal. But many of us were hoping and wanting to achieve an enormous transformation. Fast. And forever.
Although we didn't scale sheer walls, navigate a rope course or leap blindfolded off of a platform into a safety net of interlinking outstretched arms, the process was probably more intense than what I imagine an Outward Bound course would be like. On several days we did exert our bodies to an exhilaratingly and sometimes painfully sweaty degree, stretching ourselves beyond previously established limits, but we did this indoors, not outside. And the exertion was designed to physically, and ultimately mentally, disconnect ourselves from many of the unproductive or negative thoughts and behaviors that we had picked up when we were children and have clung to us like life-force sucking leeches ever since. Hoffman refers to these as "patterns". Sometimes I've thought of them as programming, or conditioning. Whatever metaphor works is the one to use. Disassociating from the patterns was actually liberating and fun, and most of us looked markedly stronger and more powerful after that emotional and highly physical exercise than we had just a few hours before. In fact, a few of us were ready to pack our bags and go home at that point, having accomplished what we thought we had come for: a psychic purging of negative and self-defeating inner voices, voices that had once protected us but no longer serve us.
But we were only on day three of an eight-day retreat. There was more to come, said the teachers, a group of people of a variety of backgrounds who are trained specifically to deliver this process. I preferred to think of them as guides or shepherds, steering our group of sometimes unruly and resistant sheep from one session or activity to another and keeping track of the handful of sheep who'd inevitably wander off, either mentally or physically. Come to think of it, we were more like cats than sheep. Our large class was divided into smaller groups of eight, which periodically met for more intimate processing and discussion, and each group had its own catherd (if it isn't already a word, it is now).
One reason I had a hard time thinking of the facilitators as teachers is that much of the material they presented was not completely new to me, and sometimes I experienced their delivery as uninspired. Having attended retreats, personal growth seminars and dozens of yoga classes, many of them led by emotionally open and enthusiastic people who willingly shared elements of their own spiritual journeys, I was occasionally disappointed by what and how the person at the front of the room was trying to "teach" us. And at times my intellect would protest, "What are you doing here? You know this stuff already. What a waste of money!"
But then it occurred to me that my broad exposure to all kinds of healing modalities and spiritual writings meant that maybe I was a personal growth junkie who could talk the talk, perhaps even more effectively than these teachers, but, let's face it, still wasn't able to walk the walk. My resistance, thicker than a coconut shell and spikier than a porcupine, had gotten in the way of translating intellectual understanding of spirituality and healing into new ways of being and behaving. And at the times that my intellect was trying to invalidate what it was hearing, I reminded myself that I came for the group energy, which I believed I needed to complete some of the healing work I had started in individual therapy, and because the time had come to just do it. I decided I was not going to let my reactions to the teachers get in the way.
The only way out is through.
I had found that it was quite difficult for me to go through some of the less pleasant emotions in a 50-minute hour. It often would take me until minute 40 to soften and relax enough to let my feelings out. And by then it would be too late, because my ego - eager to protect my appearance at all costs - didn't want me to leave the therapist's office while I was a blubbering, vulnerable mess. And if I did manage to release some deep emotion, it was very difficult for me to sustain a more open and yielding emotional quality between sessions. I'd return the following week, feeling as if not much had happened. And so on. I would stay stuck, out of a powerfully toxic combination of stubbornness and fear, both unable and at times unwilling to free myself from some rather heavy baggage.
The Hoffman Process and the group helped me through, and I was able to tap into, feel and release grief that I didn't even know I was carrying with me as well as reach deeper levels of some more familiar sorrows. How did this happen? The Process is neither magical nor manipulative, but it does creatively utilize and sequence some time-tested tools - guided visualization, meditation, expressive writing, music and physical movement - to allow suppressed feelings to surface and be released, to give voice to parts of ourselves that have been shut down for decades. Equally important is that each person came to this retreat with a strong intention and motivation to allow this work to happen. And the setting - a resort in Napa Valley with gourmet catered meals from a Bay Area restaurant - nourished our spirits and bodies. The food in particular gave me something to look forward to each day after a few hours of riding an emotional roller coaster or two; between my cold and the tears, I probably consumed a full box of tissues each day.
The release of so much negative emotion and energy was palpable, with many people literally blooming, growing taller and sparkling before our eyes. And because each of us was feeling comfortable enough with ourselves to remove our social masks, we could now finally see each other as individual people, rather than as the projections of our fears, hopes and judgments. Many people told me to look in the mirror. I did. I recognized myself again, after years of seeing the reflection of a stranger.
Inward Bound is the best way for me to characterize this retreat, called the Hoffman Process and organized by the Hoffman Institute. In my class were 39 other people, from across the country and the world, of all shapes, sizes and hairstyles, with a variety personalities that defied Myers Briggs categorization, ranging in age from 20s to early 60s. What we shared was a common determination to free ourselves from, in many cases, lifetimes of emotional pain and suffering that was interfering with the quality of our lives. Many of us were veterans of different therapies and therapists, myriad medications and spiritual practices, as well as practitioners of strict diets and exercise regimes to render medication unnecessary. The collective healing expertise of our group was impressive, even if - as our presence at Hoffman indicated - these complex formulae and heartfelt efforts have not consistently eased our distress. And most of us had learned about the Hoffman Process from other people who had done it and who had experienced meaningful if not lasting results, many of which have been documented in research studies. It was the combination of scientific proof, and the fact that the person who referred me is a Harvard educated CEO, that persuaded my highly skeptical intellect to invest time and a not trivial amount of money in this experience. At the same time, my ego was convinced that it was so special that the process wouldn't work on me, and so there I was, deeply wanting to put an end to my existential and emotional angst yet concerned that I would simply get in my own way, that I would be one of the people for whom this didn't "work".
As we were told early on in the retreat, there is no way to "fail" the Process. True enough. Simply by showing up one has demonstrated a commitment to heal. But many of us were hoping and wanting to achieve an enormous transformation. Fast. And forever.
Although we didn't scale sheer walls, navigate a rope course or leap blindfolded off of a platform into a safety net of interlinking outstretched arms, the process was probably more intense than what I imagine an Outward Bound course would be like. On several days we did exert our bodies to an exhilaratingly and sometimes painfully sweaty degree, stretching ourselves beyond previously established limits, but we did this indoors, not outside. And the exertion was designed to physically, and ultimately mentally, disconnect ourselves from many of the unproductive or negative thoughts and behaviors that we had picked up when we were children and have clung to us like life-force sucking leeches ever since. Hoffman refers to these as "patterns". Sometimes I've thought of them as programming, or conditioning. Whatever metaphor works is the one to use. Disassociating from the patterns was actually liberating and fun, and most of us looked markedly stronger and more powerful after that emotional and highly physical exercise than we had just a few hours before. In fact, a few of us were ready to pack our bags and go home at that point, having accomplished what we thought we had come for: a psychic purging of negative and self-defeating inner voices, voices that had once protected us but no longer serve us.
But we were only on day three of an eight-day retreat. There was more to come, said the teachers, a group of people of a variety of backgrounds who are trained specifically to deliver this process. I preferred to think of them as guides or shepherds, steering our group of sometimes unruly and resistant sheep from one session or activity to another and keeping track of the handful of sheep who'd inevitably wander off, either mentally or physically. Come to think of it, we were more like cats than sheep. Our large class was divided into smaller groups of eight, which periodically met for more intimate processing and discussion, and each group had its own catherd (if it isn't already a word, it is now).
One reason I had a hard time thinking of the facilitators as teachers is that much of the material they presented was not completely new to me, and sometimes I experienced their delivery as uninspired. Having attended retreats, personal growth seminars and dozens of yoga classes, many of them led by emotionally open and enthusiastic people who willingly shared elements of their own spiritual journeys, I was occasionally disappointed by what and how the person at the front of the room was trying to "teach" us. And at times my intellect would protest, "What are you doing here? You know this stuff already. What a waste of money!"
But then it occurred to me that my broad exposure to all kinds of healing modalities and spiritual writings meant that maybe I was a personal growth junkie who could talk the talk, perhaps even more effectively than these teachers, but, let's face it, still wasn't able to walk the walk. My resistance, thicker than a coconut shell and spikier than a porcupine, had gotten in the way of translating intellectual understanding of spirituality and healing into new ways of being and behaving. And at the times that my intellect was trying to invalidate what it was hearing, I reminded myself that I came for the group energy, which I believed I needed to complete some of the healing work I had started in individual therapy, and because the time had come to just do it. I decided I was not going to let my reactions to the teachers get in the way.
The only way out is through.
I had found that it was quite difficult for me to go through some of the less pleasant emotions in a 50-minute hour. It often would take me until minute 40 to soften and relax enough to let my feelings out. And by then it would be too late, because my ego - eager to protect my appearance at all costs - didn't want me to leave the therapist's office while I was a blubbering, vulnerable mess. And if I did manage to release some deep emotion, it was very difficult for me to sustain a more open and yielding emotional quality between sessions. I'd return the following week, feeling as if not much had happened. And so on. I would stay stuck, out of a powerfully toxic combination of stubbornness and fear, both unable and at times unwilling to free myself from some rather heavy baggage.
The Hoffman Process and the group helped me through, and I was able to tap into, feel and release grief that I didn't even know I was carrying with me as well as reach deeper levels of some more familiar sorrows. How did this happen? The Process is neither magical nor manipulative, but it does creatively utilize and sequence some time-tested tools - guided visualization, meditation, expressive writing, music and physical movement - to allow suppressed feelings to surface and be released, to give voice to parts of ourselves that have been shut down for decades. Equally important is that each person came to this retreat with a strong intention and motivation to allow this work to happen. And the setting - a resort in Napa Valley with gourmet catered meals from a Bay Area restaurant - nourished our spirits and bodies. The food in particular gave me something to look forward to each day after a few hours of riding an emotional roller coaster or two; between my cold and the tears, I probably consumed a full box of tissues each day.
The release of so much negative emotion and energy was palpable, with many people literally blooming, growing taller and sparkling before our eyes. And because each of us was feeling comfortable enough with ourselves to remove our social masks, we could now finally see each other as individual people, rather than as the projections of our fears, hopes and judgments. Many people told me to look in the mirror. I did. I recognized myself again, after years of seeing the reflection of a stranger.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Ignescent, Impermanence
Ignescent: bursting into flame.
I've been following the coverage of the California wildfires, a compelling reminder of the power and cycles of nature which demand our respect. The fires are also a reminder of the simple fact of impermanence. While I don't wish that everyone should live in constant fear of having their houses destroyed on any given day, and I don't wish to be glib about the enormous dislocation of so many people, it is useful to keep in mind that nothing lasts forever. I used to be someone who resisted most change and wanted the world around me to arrange itself in such a way that it would be easier for me to be happy in it. While I am not even close to eliminating that tendency, I am now much more aware of it and I increasingly find that I am not as anxious about impermanence. Sometimes I even embrace it, particularly when I am stuck or in a difficult situation. The fact that nothing last forever can be a tremendous blessing. Impermanence means that something can and will change or shift, if only I am willing to accept it or, in some cases, allow it to happen.
During the last week I've been obsessing about a particular person, my mind unable to let go of the story it had created around this person and my feelings. Even daily meditation, writing and vigorous yoga classes did not completely stop these racing and roaring thoughts; these spiritual practices only succeeded in briefly pausing them. During one of those much needed hiatuses I realized that I had a choice about whether to continue with or end the obsession, and a phone call with this person - during which I chose to ask a question I had avoided uttering before - helped me do the latter. Now that I have reached greater clarity around this situation, it is hard to believe that I had been so consumed by it just a few days before. Much like the wildfires have destroyed everything in their path, my obsession had obliterated my equanimity and concentration. Thank goodness, in this case, for impermanence. And may the thousands of people displaced by the wildfires find the strength to rebound and rebuild their lives.
I've been following the coverage of the California wildfires, a compelling reminder of the power and cycles of nature which demand our respect. The fires are also a reminder of the simple fact of impermanence. While I don't wish that everyone should live in constant fear of having their houses destroyed on any given day, and I don't wish to be glib about the enormous dislocation of so many people, it is useful to keep in mind that nothing lasts forever. I used to be someone who resisted most change and wanted the world around me to arrange itself in such a way that it would be easier for me to be happy in it. While I am not even close to eliminating that tendency, I am now much more aware of it and I increasingly find that I am not as anxious about impermanence. Sometimes I even embrace it, particularly when I am stuck or in a difficult situation. The fact that nothing last forever can be a tremendous blessing. Impermanence means that something can and will change or shift, if only I am willing to accept it or, in some cases, allow it to happen.
During the last week I've been obsessing about a particular person, my mind unable to let go of the story it had created around this person and my feelings. Even daily meditation, writing and vigorous yoga classes did not completely stop these racing and roaring thoughts; these spiritual practices only succeeded in briefly pausing them. During one of those much needed hiatuses I realized that I had a choice about whether to continue with or end the obsession, and a phone call with this person - during which I chose to ask a question I had avoided uttering before - helped me do the latter. Now that I have reached greater clarity around this situation, it is hard to believe that I had been so consumed by it just a few days before. Much like the wildfires have destroyed everything in their path, my obsession had obliterated my equanimity and concentration. Thank goodness, in this case, for impermanence. And may the thousands of people displaced by the wildfires find the strength to rebound and rebuild their lives.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Illegal immigrant
Today Juan (not his real name, as it turns out) returned to finish some repairs at my apartment. Remembering that I wrote that I would be kinder when he came back, I got up early enough to meditate for 30 minutes before the agreed arrival time of 7:30 a.m. Since the contractor and Juan had appeared promptly the week before, I even skipped a shower so that I'd be sure to hear them arrive (I have no doorbell...yet) and be able to let them in.
As 8:15 rolled around, my impatience and stinkiness growing, I called the contractor to find out when I might expect them.
"Oh, it's just Juan who is coming today," he told me. I was relieved.
"OK, but I'd like to take a shower, so could you find out when he'll show up?"
"Don't worry, he won't get there while you're showering," the contractor said. "He's at least a half hour away."
I was not reassured.
The phone rang again after I had finished bathing and dressing. It was the contractor letting me know that Juan probably wouldn't make it until 10 a.m. I started to get annoyed - I could have slept later, showered sooner....my mind could have generated a list a mile long about how things "could have" been.
"Well," I huffed. "I'm not sure I can stick around much longer than that."
"OK," he said. "I'll tell him to hurry."
Part of me was eager to get agitated and pissed and scream at this guy but I remembered kindness so I didn't bite his head off. I also realized that even though contractors have made me feel crazy in the past, I do have a choice about how I am going to react NOW. I didn't have to get angry all over again. I sighed and tried to figure out how to rearrange my plans so that I could get something accomplished while waiting.
The following e-mail shows up, one of a few daily inspirational quotes that I receive:
I wasn't feeling cheated, per se, but it was a good reminder to not let other people's behavior determine how I feel. Getting upset is, actually, a choice (one that many people make).
At 11 a.m., engrossed in creating my jewelry newsletter, I hear a faint sound down below. I go to my hallway, open the window to peer out and see Juan standing patiently in his New England fall "uniform": blue jeans and a grey zipped hooded sweatshirt.
"Just a minute!" I say, scampering down the steep steps in my sockfeet.
"I owe you a big apology," he says in Spanish while handing me a bag of tostadas. "These are for you."
"Muchas gracias!" I say, trying to let him in. The hallway is so narrow I need to back up the stairs so that Juan, who's somewhere between "husky" and "a few extra pounds" can enter. It is hard to be too upset with a handyman who comes bearing authentic Mexican snacks, even if the guy is nearly half a day behind schedule.
He quickly fixes one of my kitchen lights, reinstalls the window pane in the bathroom and hangs up my coatrack. When he's finished we get to talking about his boss ("Esta un poco loco, no?" he says, almost smiling. I agree that the contractor is a bit crazy, but I'm grimacing). But Juan is not bothered by the man's kookineess. He's grateful to be working at all. His previous patrones, a couple who flew him to Boston from LA to live in their house while fixing it up, left the country without paying him for three months of his labor. They also sold the house, giving him little time to find another place to stay. All he got was $200 and a note that said, essentially, "Sorry! We're outta here".
Juan said he was glad to be in the US, even if illegally, as back home he found his job, as a member of the presidential secret service, demoralizing and degrading. Lacking connections, he had to pay a bribe to be considered for the job, which often entailed keeping an eye on presidential offspring who were drinking, drugging and vomiting. And he was on call nearly all the time, a life without structure or much sleep. Or respect.
"If you don't know the right people in Mexico, " Juan said. "Then you're nothing. People will treat you how they want. I have studied and have a few degrees but it made no difference. It's much better here."
Juan seemed to harbor no bitterness towards the couple who fleeced him. He embodied the message in my inbox, a walking example of how to let go and move on, to be happy regardless. He might be somewhat naive but he seems to be living in the moment, not living with a grudge.
I hope I can remember his example the next time I start to feel cheated. Certainly, I'll think of him for as long as I can make the tostadas - in this case they are round, flat and slightly sweet biscuits - last.
As 8:15 rolled around, my impatience and stinkiness growing, I called the contractor to find out when I might expect them.
"Oh, it's just Juan who is coming today," he told me. I was relieved.
"OK, but I'd like to take a shower, so could you find out when he'll show up?"
"Don't worry, he won't get there while you're showering," the contractor said. "He's at least a half hour away."
I was not reassured.
The phone rang again after I had finished bathing and dressing. It was the contractor letting me know that Juan probably wouldn't make it until 10 a.m. I started to get annoyed - I could have slept later, showered sooner....my mind could have generated a list a mile long about how things "could have" been.
"Well," I huffed. "I'm not sure I can stick around much longer than that."
"OK," he said. "I'll tell him to hurry."
Part of me was eager to get agitated and pissed and scream at this guy but I remembered kindness so I didn't bite his head off. I also realized that even though contractors have made me feel crazy in the past, I do have a choice about how I am going to react NOW. I didn't have to get angry all over again. I sighed and tried to figure out how to rearrange my plans so that I could get something accomplished while waiting.
The following e-mail shows up, one of a few daily inspirational quotes that I receive:
If someone cheats you, they cannot diminish your experience. They only diminish their experience. You cannot be diminished by someone cheating you unless you get all upset about being cheated and push against them.
I wasn't feeling cheated, per se, but it was a good reminder to not let other people's behavior determine how I feel. Getting upset is, actually, a choice (one that many people make).
At 11 a.m., engrossed in creating my jewelry newsletter, I hear a faint sound down below. I go to my hallway, open the window to peer out and see Juan standing patiently in his New England fall "uniform": blue jeans and a grey zipped hooded sweatshirt.
"Just a minute!" I say, scampering down the steep steps in my sockfeet.
"I owe you a big apology," he says in Spanish while handing me a bag of tostadas. "These are for you."
"Muchas gracias!" I say, trying to let him in. The hallway is so narrow I need to back up the stairs so that Juan, who's somewhere between "husky" and "a few extra pounds" can enter. It is hard to be too upset with a handyman who comes bearing authentic Mexican snacks, even if the guy is nearly half a day behind schedule.
He quickly fixes one of my kitchen lights, reinstalls the window pane in the bathroom and hangs up my coatrack. When he's finished we get to talking about his boss ("Esta un poco loco, no?" he says, almost smiling. I agree that the contractor is a bit crazy, but I'm grimacing). But Juan is not bothered by the man's kookineess. He's grateful to be working at all. His previous patrones, a couple who flew him to Boston from LA to live in their house while fixing it up, left the country without paying him for three months of his labor. They also sold the house, giving him little time to find another place to stay. All he got was $200 and a note that said, essentially, "Sorry! We're outta here".
Juan said he was glad to be in the US, even if illegally, as back home he found his job, as a member of the presidential secret service, demoralizing and degrading. Lacking connections, he had to pay a bribe to be considered for the job, which often entailed keeping an eye on presidential offspring who were drinking, drugging and vomiting. And he was on call nearly all the time, a life without structure or much sleep. Or respect.
"If you don't know the right people in Mexico, " Juan said. "Then you're nothing. People will treat you how they want. I have studied and have a few degrees but it made no difference. It's much better here."
Juan seemed to harbor no bitterness towards the couple who fleeced him. He embodied the message in my inbox, a walking example of how to let go and move on, to be happy regardless. He might be somewhat naive but he seems to be living in the moment, not living with a grudge.
I hope I can remember his example the next time I start to feel cheated. Certainly, I'll think of him for as long as I can make the tostadas - in this case they are round, flat and slightly sweet biscuits - last.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Ick! Incompetence
After posting under such esoteric words as isagogics and irritatory, I thought I'd simplify to a three letter word.
Ick! was my reaction to the "contractor" who showed up bright and early this rainy morning (yes, I had chosen the time - 7:30 a.m. - but had overslept), his fly unzipped and his pants sitting just a bit too low on his hips, his jacket and shoes dripping water into my apartment. Having just rolled out of bed, I was not in a good mood, nor had I meditated. My only preparation for this appointment (aside from putting on a pair of pants) was that I removed something from above the sink so that they could install a light.
What was this something? A sticky note that said KINDNESS, as a reminder to be more kind to myself and others.
I efficiently pointed out to him and his assistant what needed to be done (pipes to be insulated, lights to be fixed, replaced or installed) and proceeded to make myself a cup of tea.
"You know," he said, "I was at Home Depot at 8 o'clock last night getting things for your job."
Did the man want a medal for his heroic efforts? A pat on his unkempt head?
"OK," I said, starting to wish he'd just do the work and get the heck out of my space before he polluted it with his sulky attitude.
It quickly became apparent that this disheveled man had absolutely no clue about basic home repair.
I had told my landlord to install a heat lamp in the bathroom, and this fellow dutifully went to Home Depot and tried to find a heat lamp that ... get this ... wouldn't vent, because he figured the landlord wouldn't want to pay to have a vent put into the bathroom.
Well.
Mr. Disheveled had found the ugliest possible contraption for a heat lamp which, according to his assistant, a Mexican fellow, could not be properly hooked up without ventilation. Duh! And he didn't quite get that I wanted to keep my regular light fixture in the bathroom, not replace it with a heat lamp. Had he been a licensed contractor, he would have either asked about this or assumed that both a normal bulb and an infrared bulb were needed.
"You know," I practically spat, "they do sell combination heat lamps with regular bulbs that can operate on a single switch."
"Don't worry," he replied,"we'll solve the problem."
Unconvinced, I retreated with my tea to the living room.
He came in and said, "I'm here trying to help you. I've never done business with you before and you seem to have a bad attitude. I was getting stuff for you late last night!"
Poor fellow...had I ruined his weekend?
"You're working for my landlord, not me, and I've been waiting a month for you to show up. It was your choice to go to Home Depot last night." I retorted, as calmly as I could.
"Well, I'm trying to be helpful," he repeated, as if his good intention would be enough to accomplish the list of chores he came to perform. "Sounds like you are annoyed at the landlord."
One of the things my last therapist tried to convince me of is that, believe it or not, the Universe (even in the form of a disheveled, unzipped and incompetent contractor) is friendly helpful. If only I can learn to see things that way.
Remembering the sign I had taken off the kitchen wall just a few minutes before, I wondered if I could I show some...uh...KINDNESS to this, um, incompetent idiot?
I realized that I could sit there, sip my tea and stew in self-righteous anger and frustration, or I could try to do what I've been learning in yoga for the last few years - drop the fight and accept that these were the guys I'd have to deal with. After all, this was not my house and I couldn't send them away and call another tradesperson, even though I know several.
"So, are you happy here?" he asked, looking around my funky apartment.
"Yeah, it's a great place," I said, deciding to accept his idle presence. My apartment is small, and there wasn't a place for me to go and shut the door. His assistant, Juan, was doing all the work while he tried to make nice.
"Except it's not properly heated. That's why I wanted a heat lamp for the bathroom."
"Not heated?" he exclaimed. "No wonder why you're upset. Don't worry - we'll take care of that. Juan, guess what? She has no heat!"
Mr. Disheveled had sat down on my one chair, sort of reclining and running his hand through his hair, making himself a little too at home. Did he now think that he was my swank superhero, about to save me from a cold winter?
Ick! Ick! Ick!
"So, how is your jewelry business?" he asked, attempting friendliness. Somehow, I must have told him about it when we were scheduling the appointment.
"I'm probably going to wrap it up, " I said, but not wanting to talk about myself, quickly countered, "So, do you work with licensed contractors? What is it that you do?"
"Well, sometimes. It depends on the job," he said. "I'm in charge of customer relationships. Bad customer relationships," he chuckled. "Basically my business is about fixing up rentals and homes to get higher rents or sales prices. I don't usually do repairs," he confessed.
No kidding.
"But I try to make people happy," he added. "And I do some management consulting. Tomorrow I'm going to the Pentagon to see a client."
The Pentagon, eh? Assuming that is true, I wonder if he'll show up in Washington looking like he did this morning.
Mr. Disheveled became obsessed with my inadequate heating situation and insisted that Juan take a look to see what could be done. By this time, some of the repairs had been accomplished, I was in a better mood and Juan and I were chatting in Spanish. It turned out that when it came to home repairs Juan really did know what he was talking about, unlike his patron. He also recommended some Mexican restaurants in Chelsea and helped me install some storage racks on my walls.
I hope Juan learns enough English to start his own business and get away from this man. And I plan to be kinder when they come back.
Ick! was my reaction to the "contractor" who showed up bright and early this rainy morning (yes, I had chosen the time - 7:30 a.m. - but had overslept), his fly unzipped and his pants sitting just a bit too low on his hips, his jacket and shoes dripping water into my apartment. Having just rolled out of bed, I was not in a good mood, nor had I meditated. My only preparation for this appointment (aside from putting on a pair of pants) was that I removed something from above the sink so that they could install a light.
What was this something? A sticky note that said KINDNESS, as a reminder to be more kind to myself and others.
I efficiently pointed out to him and his assistant what needed to be done (pipes to be insulated, lights to be fixed, replaced or installed) and proceeded to make myself a cup of tea.
"You know," he said, "I was at Home Depot at 8 o'clock last night getting things for your job."
Did the man want a medal for his heroic efforts? A pat on his unkempt head?
"OK," I said, starting to wish he'd just do the work and get the heck out of my space before he polluted it with his sulky attitude.
It quickly became apparent that this disheveled man had absolutely no clue about basic home repair.
I had told my landlord to install a heat lamp in the bathroom, and this fellow dutifully went to Home Depot and tried to find a heat lamp that ... get this ... wouldn't vent, because he figured the landlord wouldn't want to pay to have a vent put into the bathroom.
Well.
Mr. Disheveled had found the ugliest possible contraption for a heat lamp which, according to his assistant, a Mexican fellow, could not be properly hooked up without ventilation. Duh! And he didn't quite get that I wanted to keep my regular light fixture in the bathroom, not replace it with a heat lamp. Had he been a licensed contractor, he would have either asked about this or assumed that both a normal bulb and an infrared bulb were needed.
"You know," I practically spat, "they do sell combination heat lamps with regular bulbs that can operate on a single switch."
"Don't worry," he replied,"we'll solve the problem."
Unconvinced, I retreated with my tea to the living room.
He came in and said, "I'm here trying to help you. I've never done business with you before and you seem to have a bad attitude. I was getting stuff for you late last night!"
Poor fellow...had I ruined his weekend?
"You're working for my landlord, not me, and I've been waiting a month for you to show up. It was your choice to go to Home Depot last night." I retorted, as calmly as I could.
"Well, I'm trying to be helpful," he repeated, as if his good intention would be enough to accomplish the list of chores he came to perform. "Sounds like you are annoyed at the landlord."
One of the things my last therapist tried to convince me of is that, believe it or not, the Universe (even in the form of a disheveled, unzipped and incompetent contractor) is friendly helpful. If only I can learn to see things that way.
Remembering the sign I had taken off the kitchen wall just a few minutes before, I wondered if I could I show some...uh...KINDNESS to this, um, incompetent idiot?
I realized that I could sit there, sip my tea and stew in self-righteous anger and frustration, or I could try to do what I've been learning in yoga for the last few years - drop the fight and accept that these were the guys I'd have to deal with. After all, this was not my house and I couldn't send them away and call another tradesperson, even though I know several.
"So, are you happy here?" he asked, looking around my funky apartment.
"Yeah, it's a great place," I said, deciding to accept his idle presence. My apartment is small, and there wasn't a place for me to go and shut the door. His assistant, Juan, was doing all the work while he tried to make nice.
"Except it's not properly heated. That's why I wanted a heat lamp for the bathroom."
"Not heated?" he exclaimed. "No wonder why you're upset. Don't worry - we'll take care of that. Juan, guess what? She has no heat!"
Mr. Disheveled had sat down on my one chair, sort of reclining and running his hand through his hair, making himself a little too at home. Did he now think that he was my swank superhero, about to save me from a cold winter?
Ick! Ick! Ick!
"So, how is your jewelry business?" he asked, attempting friendliness. Somehow, I must have told him about it when we were scheduling the appointment.
"I'm probably going to wrap it up, " I said, but not wanting to talk about myself, quickly countered, "So, do you work with licensed contractors? What is it that you do?"
"Well, sometimes. It depends on the job," he said. "I'm in charge of customer relationships. Bad customer relationships," he chuckled. "Basically my business is about fixing up rentals and homes to get higher rents or sales prices. I don't usually do repairs," he confessed.
No kidding.
"But I try to make people happy," he added. "And I do some management consulting. Tomorrow I'm going to the Pentagon to see a client."
The Pentagon, eh? Assuming that is true, I wonder if he'll show up in Washington looking like he did this morning.
Mr. Disheveled became obsessed with my inadequate heating situation and insisted that Juan take a look to see what could be done. By this time, some of the repairs had been accomplished, I was in a better mood and Juan and I were chatting in Spanish. It turned out that when it came to home repairs Juan really did know what he was talking about, unlike his patron. He also recommended some Mexican restaurants in Chelsea and helped me install some storage racks on my walls.
I hope Juan learns enough English to start his own business and get away from this man. And I plan to be kinder when they come back.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Immersion, Idolatry
I spent Yom Kippur at Elat Chayyim, a Jewish spiritual retreat center in the Berkshires. But the sentence I just wrote is casually inaccurate. More precisely, Elat Chayyim is the only Jewish spiritual retreat center anywhere in the world, and it happens to be in the Berkshires. It used to be in the Catskills and moved a year ago to Connecticut, shaving an hour off of my round trip journey. My first visit to Elat Chayyim was in December 2003, about seven months after my father passed away. Lost and grieving, I went for a seven-day silent meditation retreat, hoping that something would shift as a result. It was a revelation that Jewish practice and contemporary spirituality could be married in such a meaningful, practical and profound way, creating my most authentic experience of prayer yet. Each year since I've returned two or three times to nurture my soul and refresh my spirit. In many ways, Elat Chayyim is home, a place where my heart dares to open.
Yom Kippur is the most solemn and sacred holiday of the Jewish calendar, one in which we don white clothes and refrain from wearing leather, eating, drinking and bathing, as if we are rehearsing our own deaths. It is a day I take seriously, preferring to spend most of it in prayer or silent contemplation, without engaging in superficial conversation or driving my car back and forth to a crowded synagogue. Elat Chayyim, which attracts spiritual seekers and those disgruntled with traditional high holiday services, is - for me - a wonderful place for such an immersive experience. The simple wood cabins, clean mountain air and inclusive atmosphere all conspire to help one focus inside and forget worldly cares.
Yom Kippur is also about release: releasing ourselves from vows or, in modern parlance, commitments that no longer serve us or that we can no longer honor in a healthy way, allowing us to begin the new year with a clean slate. It is also an opportunity to unburden ourselves of unproductive habits and emotions.
To facilitate this release, on the eve of Yom Kippur we immerse ourselves unclothed and unadorned in the mikveh, the ritual bath which, in the case of Elat Chayyim, is a beautiful pond surrounded by pine trees and hiking trails. The women's mikveh took place late Friday afternoon, a ritual that was presided over by Rabbi Jill Hammer, a young woman with a strong mind and a delicate build.
She asked that we pick a mikveh buddy, someone to whom we'd confide what our imminent immersion would release us from, someone who would witness our immersion. I don't remember the name of my partner, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, but when I told her that I wanted my immersion to help release old anger, she mentioned that she'd just attended a seminar with an orthodox rabbi who likened persistent anger as a form of idolatry, a way of keeping oneself in the center of things, raised up on a pedestal.
Idolatry?!
From practically the day I started Hebrew school, as an eight year old, I learned that idol worship was, to put it mildly, a major no-no for our tribe. Taking a hunk of clay and crafting objects that represented other deities was a sure way to provoke God into a destructive frenzy. And if God didn't strike you down personally, a messenger would be sent to do His bidding. But today our idols are not statuary or pieces of pottery. In our materialistic and individualistic culture the idols are more elusive things like perfection, fame, power, peak experiences, wealth and other things which, if focused on excessively, can lead people away from God. The self can be an idol, too.
Idolatry!
I had not viewed my anger in such a stark and profoundly Jewish way before. I was at a loss for words.
And soon I was at a loss for air. It was time to get in the water which, Rabbi Hammer pointed out, was a solvent that would aid us in dissolving our inner schmutz but was also "teeming with life." The pond was a less than tempting shade of brown, and the area near the dock on which we stood, in various stages of undress, swarmed with plants and reeds.
Already naked, I was the second person to jump in. The rabbi went first.
The water at the bottom of the pond was warm and, had I been an amphibian, I would have just stayed right there, curled up in the comfortable current. But I had to come up in order to perform four immersions (one each for body, mind, heart and soul), and when I rose to the much colder surface I was out of breath, spitting out some muddy liquid that had managed to enter my mouth. I started to cough and, strangely, despite my experience as an open water swimmer, my anxiety rose. Perhaps the idea of truly leaving all of my anger in that pond made me more than a little nervous.
What if this ritual succeeded...then what? Would I recognize myself as a person without resentments and grudges?
I wanted to get out of the water and try again, to try to enter the pond in a less jarring and more deliberate way. But there was no going back. I was already naked, wet and shivering. To stay warm I tread water while awaiting further instructions from our rabbi, who was still encouraging the other women to get into the pond. When it was time, my partner observed my four immersions - for each I faced a new direction - and then I witnessed her quartet of dippings, through which she hoped to be able to just "let go" of things.
By this point my relaxed breathing was restored. The gently moving water caressed my bare skin and the late afternoon sun kissed my face as I skinnydipped with God.
Yom Kippur is the most solemn and sacred holiday of the Jewish calendar, one in which we don white clothes and refrain from wearing leather, eating, drinking and bathing, as if we are rehearsing our own deaths. It is a day I take seriously, preferring to spend most of it in prayer or silent contemplation, without engaging in superficial conversation or driving my car back and forth to a crowded synagogue. Elat Chayyim, which attracts spiritual seekers and those disgruntled with traditional high holiday services, is - for me - a wonderful place for such an immersive experience. The simple wood cabins, clean mountain air and inclusive atmosphere all conspire to help one focus inside and forget worldly cares.
Yom Kippur is also about release: releasing ourselves from vows or, in modern parlance, commitments that no longer serve us or that we can no longer honor in a healthy way, allowing us to begin the new year with a clean slate. It is also an opportunity to unburden ourselves of unproductive habits and emotions.
To facilitate this release, on the eve of Yom Kippur we immerse ourselves unclothed and unadorned in the mikveh, the ritual bath which, in the case of Elat Chayyim, is a beautiful pond surrounded by pine trees and hiking trails. The women's mikveh took place late Friday afternoon, a ritual that was presided over by Rabbi Jill Hammer, a young woman with a strong mind and a delicate build.
She asked that we pick a mikveh buddy, someone to whom we'd confide what our imminent immersion would release us from, someone who would witness our immersion. I don't remember the name of my partner, a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, but when I told her that I wanted my immersion to help release old anger, she mentioned that she'd just attended a seminar with an orthodox rabbi who likened persistent anger as a form of idolatry, a way of keeping oneself in the center of things, raised up on a pedestal.
Idolatry?!
From practically the day I started Hebrew school, as an eight year old, I learned that idol worship was, to put it mildly, a major no-no for our tribe. Taking a hunk of clay and crafting objects that represented other deities was a sure way to provoke God into a destructive frenzy. And if God didn't strike you down personally, a messenger would be sent to do His bidding. But today our idols are not statuary or pieces of pottery. In our materialistic and individualistic culture the idols are more elusive things like perfection, fame, power, peak experiences, wealth and other things which, if focused on excessively, can lead people away from God. The self can be an idol, too.
Idolatry!
I had not viewed my anger in such a stark and profoundly Jewish way before. I was at a loss for words.
And soon I was at a loss for air. It was time to get in the water which, Rabbi Hammer pointed out, was a solvent that would aid us in dissolving our inner schmutz but was also "teeming with life." The pond was a less than tempting shade of brown, and the area near the dock on which we stood, in various stages of undress, swarmed with plants and reeds.
Already naked, I was the second person to jump in. The rabbi went first.
The water at the bottom of the pond was warm and, had I been an amphibian, I would have just stayed right there, curled up in the comfortable current. But I had to come up in order to perform four immersions (one each for body, mind, heart and soul), and when I rose to the much colder surface I was out of breath, spitting out some muddy liquid that had managed to enter my mouth. I started to cough and, strangely, despite my experience as an open water swimmer, my anxiety rose. Perhaps the idea of truly leaving all of my anger in that pond made me more than a little nervous.
What if this ritual succeeded...then what? Would I recognize myself as a person without resentments and grudges?
I wanted to get out of the water and try again, to try to enter the pond in a less jarring and more deliberate way. But there was no going back. I was already naked, wet and shivering. To stay warm I tread water while awaiting further instructions from our rabbi, who was still encouraging the other women to get into the pond. When it was time, my partner observed my four immersions - for each I faced a new direction - and then I witnessed her quartet of dippings, through which she hoped to be able to just "let go" of things.
By this point my relaxed breathing was restored. The gently moving water caressed my bare skin and the late afternoon sun kissed my face as I skinnydipped with God.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Ignorance is Bliss
Last night I attended a meeting in downtown Boston, a place notoriously difficult to find street parking. The gathering was of a group that discusses and practices the "Law of Attraction", which basically says that your thoughts, beliefs and feelings create your experience of life. For example, if you believe that the world is a hostile place, you will likely focus on the hostility you notice and/or behave in a hostile way, thus reinforcing your belief (we all want to be "right"!). If you believe that the world is a kind place, you will probably seek out people and experiences that confirm that belief. Part of it is a question of what you're choosing to focus on, and part of it has to do with the energy you emanate (are you a contented person who generates good vibes? or an angry person who sends off nasty, "get out of my way" vibes?). You get the idea - it is simple to understand and can be complex to implement, especially if one is trapped in negative emotional states. One of the things discussed at this event was ways to shift into more positive states of being.
Anyway, presumably each of the 50+ people who attended this event wanted to attract a street parking spot.
The meeting was at 7pm, and I had planned to leave shortly after 6pm to ensure that I would have enough time to attract a parking space. But extensive wardrobe deliberations (do I wear my red shoes or blue shoes? and what would match them?) delayed me and I didn't get out the door until 6:20 p.m. Traffic was thick as sludge near the turnpike entrance/exit, a sluggish rainsoaked mass of "out of service" buses and cars, and as the clock ticked I feared that I would be late.
But the clogging cleared and I found myself zipping down the Turnpike towards Boston, grateful that I was not heading in the other direction. Within a few minutes I had arrived at my destination. No sweat.
It was now 6:46 p.m.
Now I had to find a parking spot. Cruising down the street, I noticed a grey SUV owner get into his vehicle. I hovered, waiting for him to pull out. Thrilled, and perhaps feeling a little too self-satisfied for my own good, I snagged the metered space and sauntered over to the meeting. Of course I had to tell everyone about my amazing manifestation, that I had found a parking spot on the same street.
At the end of the meeting as I was thanking the host, and sharing with him my parking triumph, he mentioned that, in his part of town, meters require feeding until 8 p.m.
Oops.
That was a detail I had overlooked, assuming that 6p.m. was the cut off time, as it is in many parts of the greater Boston area. I mentally prepared myself to receive a whopper of a parking ticket. But, by this point of the evening I was in a good mood and wasn't going to let mere money ruin the bliss I had experienced at 6:48 p.m. when I had effortlessly pulled into my space.
The fine was $25.
P.S. To end the suspense....I know you are all dying to know..I went with the blue shoes and a turquoise silk shirt. Yes, I also wore pants.
Anyway, presumably each of the 50+ people who attended this event wanted to attract a street parking spot.
The meeting was at 7pm, and I had planned to leave shortly after 6pm to ensure that I would have enough time to attract a parking space. But extensive wardrobe deliberations (do I wear my red shoes or blue shoes? and what would match them?) delayed me and I didn't get out the door until 6:20 p.m. Traffic was thick as sludge near the turnpike entrance/exit, a sluggish rainsoaked mass of "out of service" buses and cars, and as the clock ticked I feared that I would be late.
But the clogging cleared and I found myself zipping down the Turnpike towards Boston, grateful that I was not heading in the other direction. Within a few minutes I had arrived at my destination. No sweat.
It was now 6:46 p.m.
Now I had to find a parking spot. Cruising down the street, I noticed a grey SUV owner get into his vehicle. I hovered, waiting for him to pull out. Thrilled, and perhaps feeling a little too self-satisfied for my own good, I snagged the metered space and sauntered over to the meeting. Of course I had to tell everyone about my amazing manifestation, that I had found a parking spot on the same street.
At the end of the meeting as I was thanking the host, and sharing with him my parking triumph, he mentioned that, in his part of town, meters require feeding until 8 p.m.
Oops.
That was a detail I had overlooked, assuming that 6p.m. was the cut off time, as it is in many parts of the greater Boston area. I mentally prepared myself to receive a whopper of a parking ticket. But, by this point of the evening I was in a good mood and wasn't going to let mere money ruin the bliss I had experienced at 6:48 p.m. when I had effortlessly pulled into my space.
The fine was $25.
P.S. To end the suspense....I know you are all dying to know..I went with the blue shoes and a turquoise silk shirt. Yes, I also wore pants.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Identity and Influence and Essence
At a Shabbat dinner last Friday night one of the conversation, or rather intense discussion, topics was identity. The gentleman to my right, an accomplished writer and self-described nerd, posited that we can't change our identities. He is disturbed by the fact that our culture allows if not encourages us to do so, that it is perfectly acceptable in some circles to wake up one day and decide to be someone completely different. Many celebrities have kept themselves in the limelight by doing just that. We can't change the past, he argued, and the past leaves an imprint on our current selves.
I, on the other hand, find it incredibly liberating, if not a bit daunting, that we can choose who we want to be, and how we wish to present ourselves, to a certain degree. We cannot change the past but we are free to change our interpretation of that past - most of what we remember about our histories are the narratives we've created to explain various events. We were all raised to believe certain things about ourselves, other people and how life works (or is "supposed to" work), or we unconsciously created beliefs to explain or navigate the world of our childhoods. Identity is not inherent, it is made up of our stories and beliefs. These can be compelling. If we stop for a minute and examine some of these beliefs, they may no longer seem so relevant or helpful. For example, for a long time I believed (really!) that I had to be the smartest person in the room, that I had to know the answer to almost anything that was asked. This belief motivated certain behaviors, such as dominating certain conversations (when I thought I was the smartest) or removing myself from certain conversations or activities (when I clearly wasn't the "alpha"). Repeated frequently enough, these behaviors became part of an identity. At some point I chose not to hold this belief. Releasing this belief increased my behavioral choice set, allowing me to participate in life in different ways and affecting my identity as perceived by others. We can choose to examine any number of beliefs, keeping some and discarding or amending others, essentially de- and re-constructing our ideas about ourselves so that we can create space for who we really are.
I like to think that our essence is immutable, although our identity can change.
And even if we are not consciously deciding to change how we relate to the world, we might be slowly morphing into new habits, possibly building new identities, over time. I was intrigued by a recent article in the New York Times, "Who's Minding the Mind?", which describes how everyday sights, smells and sounds can selectively activate goals or motives that people already have. ...New studies have found that people tidy up more thoroughly when there’s a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air; they become more competitive if there’s a briefcase in sight, or more cooperative if they glimpse words like “dependable” and “support” — all without being aware of the change, or what prompted it.
I was relieved to read of these findings, because I'm highly sensitive to and influenced by my environment, to the point where I feel like almost a completely different person when I'm, say, at a craft show, in a yoga class, riding the subway in Manhattan, having an intense conversation with an intellectual on a Friday evening, or doing a group hike. Each environment triggers or activates a part of me at that moment. In many situations I find myself shifting internal gears (I feel this as a physical sensation) in order to fully experience the vibe of a particular place or culture. I am learning to see this adaptability and flexibility as a strength, after a long time of being plagued by a sense of inadequacy for not being able to settle or decide on a single identity for myself, either in terms of profession or, at times, personality. I can be a cranky curmudgeon. I can also (with some effort) behave in such a way that others perceive me as an energetic and highly positive person.
So, who am I really?
I had the time and opportunity to ponder this question over the weekend.
Following the Friday dinner I spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday in New Hampshire at a ceramic bead making workshop offered by a husband and wife team who create funky and colorful beads that I love. The class was reasonably priced, my schedule was free, and I signed up to find out if I might enjoy making the small objects I've been admiring for the last few years. The class was held at a bead shop in Salem, only 45 minutes from here but culturally a world away. Entering the classroom I felt immediately uneasy, not wanting to be associated or identified with two astonishingly obese women who were already sitting at the table. The shop owner and another woman in the class were also rather rotund, but to a less startling degree. I could not help but think of another New York Times article about the "contagiousness" of obesity; is it possible that by their frequent associations, through beading, these women maintain their excess poundage?
But I love beads and playing with them, a situation that other parts of my multifaceted identity find inconvenient if not entirely disgraceful. My inner intellectual and sophisticate dislike rubbing elbows with fellow bead lovers, many of whom are like these NH women. These aspects of my personality prefer that I associate with highly articulate people in more rarified settings, and were a bit repulsed that my beading self took them to this nondescript store not far from the rusted gates of Rockingham Park. One way we reinforce our identities is to seek out people with similar views, opinions and beliefs; it can be highly threatening to our identities to find ourselves in alien territory.
To make the weekend as pleasant as possible and to attempt to be in the moment, I made a conscious decision to sideline my snottiness and bring onstage my more spiritual identity, which helps me focus on what I share in common with people. We're all one, after all! Would our mutual enjoyment of beads be enough to create conversation? During the first day there wasn't much time for chatting. The instructor showed us several ways to create beads and we only had a few hours to work - rather, to play. I noticed these women's manual dexterity and ability to create detailed pieces, while I fumbled with the clay and carved basic designs. My inner elitist was not pleased by the comparison. I happen to like primitive looking beads, such as the ones I've been buying from this couple, another fact that my inner snob finds distressing.
On Sunday there was more time to get acquainted with my classmates. After glazing our beads we had to wait while they fired in the kiln, which took several hours to reach the desired temperature. I could have left right then and simply had the instructor mail me the finished beads when they were done. The person who would have made that decision was my busy, "my time is valuable, I don't want to wait" self, but I decided to stay to have the pleasure of seeing the beads when they emerge from the kiln, always a moment of surprise, and to observe the final step in the raku process (placing the hot beads in a trash can filled with flammable material, creating a ton of smoke).
The store owner brought us a take out menu from a local pizza and sub shop and we all ordered lunch. I was relieved that there were some moderately healthy choices available. The food arrived and another of my personalities, The Judge, silently castigated these gigantic women for ordering french fries and onion rings along with their steak and cheese subs. And maybe they had an instinctive reaction against me, the thin person from Massachusetts, for invading their turf (they spend so much time at the bead shop that they spoke of it in a proprietary fashion) and eating a chicken salad sandwich. But now was the time to get to know them, not condemn them. Over lunch I learned that all were married, active in their communities, and busy with home renovation projects when not enjoying their love of beads. In many ways, their lives were fuller than mine.
Lunch ended and, unlike these women, I hadn't brought any creative projects to pass the remaining time while our beads cooked. There were a few hours to go so I headed to a Barnes & Noble down the road, passing the time by reading The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream, an oddly appropriate choice. What is my dream? I've had/have many, the answer differing depending on which of my identities is responding.
Back at the bead store, someone had created a beaded bead, which is a bead made entirely of smaller beads sewn together. This woman had an eye for color and design and we all praised her talent. Even though I didn't particularly like how she planned to use this bead, I was able to find something genuinely positive to say about it and her choice of materials. In that small way, I felt I had succeeded in nourishing a new identity, that of an affirming person. Unfortunately, we also learned that the firing of our ceramic pieces would take longer than expected. It was now close to 6pm and we had been told the class would end at 5pm. I decided not to stick around any longer and asked the shop to mail me my beads.
I could hear the voice of the busy elitist chastising me for not just getting the heck out of there before lunch and for "wasting" the afternoon by waiting around in the bookstore in a stripmall in such a godforsaken place. But the voice was muffled, as if from far away. It's a voice I no longer pay such close attention to, an identity I no longer nurture, choosing instead to hear the voice that allowed me to spend a relaxing afternoon reading a good book in air conditioned comfort, something I had not done in awhile.
My writer friend is about to move to a new apartment in a different neighborhood. I asked him on Friday if he was going to be getting rid of any of his books. He said that when he moved to Boston from Baltimore, after completing his Ph.D., he did leave behind many books, as part of his - get this! - change of identity, from nerdy graduate student to professional writer.
"Does that mean you are no longer a nerd?" I teased this very bookish and brainy man, wondering if, perhaps, we were really on the same page after all.
"Well, no," he admitted. "Now I'm a nerd who is trying to sell lots of books."
I, on the other hand, find it incredibly liberating, if not a bit daunting, that we can choose who we want to be, and how we wish to present ourselves, to a certain degree. We cannot change the past but we are free to change our interpretation of that past - most of what we remember about our histories are the narratives we've created to explain various events. We were all raised to believe certain things about ourselves, other people and how life works (or is "supposed to" work), or we unconsciously created beliefs to explain or navigate the world of our childhoods. Identity is not inherent, it is made up of our stories and beliefs. These can be compelling. If we stop for a minute and examine some of these beliefs, they may no longer seem so relevant or helpful. For example, for a long time I believed (really!) that I had to be the smartest person in the room, that I had to know the answer to almost anything that was asked. This belief motivated certain behaviors, such as dominating certain conversations (when I thought I was the smartest) or removing myself from certain conversations or activities (when I clearly wasn't the "alpha"). Repeated frequently enough, these behaviors became part of an identity. At some point I chose not to hold this belief. Releasing this belief increased my behavioral choice set, allowing me to participate in life in different ways and affecting my identity as perceived by others. We can choose to examine any number of beliefs, keeping some and discarding or amending others, essentially de- and re-constructing our ideas about ourselves so that we can create space for who we really are.
I like to think that our essence is immutable, although our identity can change.
And even if we are not consciously deciding to change how we relate to the world, we might be slowly morphing into new habits, possibly building new identities, over time. I was intrigued by a recent article in the New York Times, "Who's Minding the Mind?", which describes how everyday sights, smells and sounds can selectively activate goals or motives that people already have. ...New studies have found that people tidy up more thoroughly when there’s a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air; they become more competitive if there’s a briefcase in sight, or more cooperative if they glimpse words like “dependable” and “support” — all without being aware of the change, or what prompted it.
I was relieved to read of these findings, because I'm highly sensitive to and influenced by my environment, to the point where I feel like almost a completely different person when I'm, say, at a craft show, in a yoga class, riding the subway in Manhattan, having an intense conversation with an intellectual on a Friday evening, or doing a group hike. Each environment triggers or activates a part of me at that moment. In many situations I find myself shifting internal gears (I feel this as a physical sensation) in order to fully experience the vibe of a particular place or culture. I am learning to see this adaptability and flexibility as a strength, after a long time of being plagued by a sense of inadequacy for not being able to settle or decide on a single identity for myself, either in terms of profession or, at times, personality. I can be a cranky curmudgeon. I can also (with some effort) behave in such a way that others perceive me as an energetic and highly positive person.
So, who am I really?
I had the time and opportunity to ponder this question over the weekend.
Following the Friday dinner I spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday in New Hampshire at a ceramic bead making workshop offered by a husband and wife team who create funky and colorful beads that I love. The class was reasonably priced, my schedule was free, and I signed up to find out if I might enjoy making the small objects I've been admiring for the last few years. The class was held at a bead shop in Salem, only 45 minutes from here but culturally a world away. Entering the classroom I felt immediately uneasy, not wanting to be associated or identified with two astonishingly obese women who were already sitting at the table. The shop owner and another woman in the class were also rather rotund, but to a less startling degree. I could not help but think of another New York Times article about the "contagiousness" of obesity; is it possible that by their frequent associations, through beading, these women maintain their excess poundage?
But I love beads and playing with them, a situation that other parts of my multifaceted identity find inconvenient if not entirely disgraceful. My inner intellectual and sophisticate dislike rubbing elbows with fellow bead lovers, many of whom are like these NH women. These aspects of my personality prefer that I associate with highly articulate people in more rarified settings, and were a bit repulsed that my beading self took them to this nondescript store not far from the rusted gates of Rockingham Park. One way we reinforce our identities is to seek out people with similar views, opinions and beliefs; it can be highly threatening to our identities to find ourselves in alien territory.
To make the weekend as pleasant as possible and to attempt to be in the moment, I made a conscious decision to sideline my snottiness and bring onstage my more spiritual identity, which helps me focus on what I share in common with people. We're all one, after all! Would our mutual enjoyment of beads be enough to create conversation? During the first day there wasn't much time for chatting. The instructor showed us several ways to create beads and we only had a few hours to work - rather, to play. I noticed these women's manual dexterity and ability to create detailed pieces, while I fumbled with the clay and carved basic designs. My inner elitist was not pleased by the comparison. I happen to like primitive looking beads, such as the ones I've been buying from this couple, another fact that my inner snob finds distressing.
On Sunday there was more time to get acquainted with my classmates. After glazing our beads we had to wait while they fired in the kiln, which took several hours to reach the desired temperature. I could have left right then and simply had the instructor mail me the finished beads when they were done. The person who would have made that decision was my busy, "my time is valuable, I don't want to wait" self, but I decided to stay to have the pleasure of seeing the beads when they emerge from the kiln, always a moment of surprise, and to observe the final step in the raku process (placing the hot beads in a trash can filled with flammable material, creating a ton of smoke).
The store owner brought us a take out menu from a local pizza and sub shop and we all ordered lunch. I was relieved that there were some moderately healthy choices available. The food arrived and another of my personalities, The Judge, silently castigated these gigantic women for ordering french fries and onion rings along with their steak and cheese subs. And maybe they had an instinctive reaction against me, the thin person from Massachusetts, for invading their turf (they spend so much time at the bead shop that they spoke of it in a proprietary fashion) and eating a chicken salad sandwich. But now was the time to get to know them, not condemn them. Over lunch I learned that all were married, active in their communities, and busy with home renovation projects when not enjoying their love of beads. In many ways, their lives were fuller than mine.
Lunch ended and, unlike these women, I hadn't brought any creative projects to pass the remaining time while our beads cooked. There were a few hours to go so I headed to a Barnes & Noble down the road, passing the time by reading The Alchemist, a fable about following your dream, an oddly appropriate choice. What is my dream? I've had/have many, the answer differing depending on which of my identities is responding.
Back at the bead store, someone had created a beaded bead, which is a bead made entirely of smaller beads sewn together. This woman had an eye for color and design and we all praised her talent. Even though I didn't particularly like how she planned to use this bead, I was able to find something genuinely positive to say about it and her choice of materials. In that small way, I felt I had succeeded in nourishing a new identity, that of an affirming person. Unfortunately, we also learned that the firing of our ceramic pieces would take longer than expected. It was now close to 6pm and we had been told the class would end at 5pm. I decided not to stick around any longer and asked the shop to mail me my beads.
I could hear the voice of the busy elitist chastising me for not just getting the heck out of there before lunch and for "wasting" the afternoon by waiting around in the bookstore in a stripmall in such a godforsaken place. But the voice was muffled, as if from far away. It's a voice I no longer pay such close attention to, an identity I no longer nurture, choosing instead to hear the voice that allowed me to spend a relaxing afternoon reading a good book in air conditioned comfort, something I had not done in awhile.
My writer friend is about to move to a new apartment in a different neighborhood. I asked him on Friday if he was going to be getting rid of any of his books. He said that when he moved to Boston from Baltimore, after completing his Ph.D., he did leave behind many books, as part of his - get this! - change of identity, from nerdy graduate student to professional writer.
"Does that mean you are no longer a nerd?" I teased this very bookish and brainy man, wondering if, perhaps, we were really on the same page after all.
"Well, no," he admitted. "Now I'm a nerd who is trying to sell lots of books."
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