In Memoriam, My Father

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intermittent

I am still marveling at the spectacle that was yesterday's weather in the Boston area. The day began gray and moist with a light drizzle. Then the precipitation stopped, yielding to brilliant sunshine and temperatures hovering close to 70. I had plans to visit a friend, indoors, and I was lamenting that I would not be spending much time outside. But by mid afternoon dark storm clouds had rolled in, bringing thunder and torrential rain came down. The rain continued but the sun came out. We looked for a rainbow but could not spot one. However, the naked trees outside had been transformed into diamond-studded divas as fat water droplets glittered on their branches in the sunlight. Driving home, the clouds returned, dropping monsoon-like quantities of water onto the highway. The grand finale came in the form of hail. Big balls of the icy stuff banged loudly on my windshield, as if they were desperately trying to get my attention.

Intentional Chocolate

It is said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions...but some people believe that the path to nirvana is paved with Intentional Chocolate. Before this chocolate ships to you, it receives the focused meditative blessings of monks, hence the intentional. Check out the website for the double blind study that demonstrates that people who consume chocolate that has been created with such good intentions experienced better quality emotional states than people who ate regular chocolate. Something to chew on. Or, rather, let the dark chocolate pistoles melt in your mouth.

Intermission, Inspiration

There will be a pause in this blog for about a week while I'll be on a mosaics mission, sans computer. Tomorrow I head to warm and sunny Florida for the Society of American Mosaic Artists annual summit in Miami. I've never been to such an event and I expect it will be populated with colorful characters and highly colorful art, all of which I hope will inspire me to keep experimenting with this fascinating and extraordinarily time intensive medium. This past week I spent many hours at my studio, absorbed and engrossed by the process of cutting and arranging tiny pieces of ceramic and glass into various patterns.

Introvert, Inside the Tent

I'm reading Gifts Differing, a book by Isabel Briggs Myers, as I continue to explore the characteristics of my personality type (du jour), INFP, and what that might mean for me. What is fascinating is the relationship among what the four letters represent. "I" indicates introversion, as opposed to extraversion, and for folks like me it is the dominant process. Introverts' way of dealing with the world means going inside. Of course, most of the rest of the world are extraverts, so introverts need to develop the auxiliary process of being in the world. As Briggs Myers puts it, the auxiliary process is second best.

Let's take a look at the "F" of INFP. "F" represents feeling as my dominant internal process. But when I deal with the outside world the auxiliary process of thinking takes over and the world only sees or hears my thoughts, not my feelings. Same with the "P", which stands for perceptive. Its auxiliary is "J", for judging, and so I live my outer life in the judging attitude.

"The result is a paradox," says the book. Well, that explains why I've felt like two people (at least) my entire life. What happens internally and what I project externally can often feel like two different, but both very real, worlds. She gives an excellent analogy to describe how the dominant and auxiliary processes work:

A good way to visualize the difference is to think of the dominant process as the General and the auxiliary process as (her) Aide. In the case of the extravert, the General is always out in the open. Other people meet her immediately and do their business directly with her. They can get the official viewpoint on anything at anytime. The Aide stands respectfully in the background or disappears inside the tent. The introvert's General is inside the tent, working on matters of top priority. The Aide is outside fending off interruptions, or, if he is inside helping the General, he comes out to see what is wanted. It is the Aide whom others meet and with whom they do their business. Only when the business is very important (or the friendship is very close) do others get in to see the General herself.

If people do not realize that there is a General in the tent who far outranks the Aide they have met, they may easily assume that the Aide is in sole charge. This is a regrettable mistake. It leads not only to an underestimation of the introvert's abilities but also to an incomplete understanding of her wishes, plans and points of view. The only source for such inside information is the General.

One thing I'd like to have happen is for my General to get out of the tent a bit more, to enjoy some sunshine and to give the overworked Aide a bit of relief.

Icing-less bun

This morning I overcame some serious inertia to go to a spinning class. It began at 9 a.m. which, for many of you, is not all that early and might even be considered decadently late for some. For me, however, it was a bit of a coup to get up, spend an hour meditating and writing, have a pre-breakfast of a grapefruit and some tea and walk to the class.

I've never "spun" before. Averse to fads and a bit leery of gyms and indoor exercise that requires equipment, I had dismissed this activity out of hand. But this studio, Spynergy, was offering a free first class and it seemed worth checking out. Three of the five students were brand new and the instructor patiently showed us the proper sitting position. We began with easy cycling as we stretched our upper bodies and breathed deeply, much like I would in a yoga class. The music du jour was R&B, and towards the end of the class we climbed out of our seats to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough", all the while maintaining the correct posture. I appreciated the instructor's attention to our alignment, essential to avoid stressing and injuring the knees. And despite our request that she not tone down the intensity of the class for the neophytes, the instructor kept the class mild enough that, alas, I didn't bust a gut or break much of a sweat. After the class ended I asked the teacher if she ever used Latin music to accompany the workout. Turned out she is a techno-pop and R&B woman but she suggested that I take a class with Anna, whom a student affectionately described as merciless. Sounds good to me!

To reward myself for my early morning adventure I stopped into a local bakery to pick up the carbohydrate, or second course, of my breakfast. I spotted what looked like fruit studded rolls on a bottom shelf and asked what they were.

"Hot cross buns," said the employee.

"Can I buy just one?" I asked, noticing that they were arranged in groups of six.

"Sure," she said, after checking with the manager. "Do you want me to ice it?"

"No, thanks," I replied. I didn't really need the extra sugar or to be reminded of the crucifixion while munching away.

The hot cross bun, which was neither hot nor crossed, was light, moist and delicious.

Intelligent Indulgence

I'm a recovering chocoholic. Once upon a time I could scarf down bars of high-fat milk chocolate that a friend would send me from Europe. Lindt bars with different fillings and Ritter Sport bars had a particularly short half life once they arrived to my home. My self-discipline disappeared as I tore into their elegant and shiny wrappers and mindlessly masticated the contents. In a bit of perverse logic, I convinced myself to quickly consume them so that they wouldn't be around to tempt me.

I wasn't always like that. As a child, I was able to stretch my stash of Halloween candy for up to six months. Back then, I knew that my parents would not budge and buy sweets the rest of the year so, like a squirrel, I'd hoard the stuff for a long New England winter. Perhaps it was this childhood "deprivation" that led me, in later life, to overindulge in sweets, particularly chocolate. And I'm sure I got hooked on the caffeine, theobromine and phenylethylamine and the other compounds found in chocolate, not to mention the sugar, which sent my energy level skyrocketing, and then plummeting. For a time I must have found this sugar-induced roller coaster ride exciting, if not addicting, but over time it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage my chocolate-enhanced moods.

Fast forward to September 2007, when I moved into my current apartment. I decided to treat this move as a fresh start, a chance to nurture some new habits and to discard some unproductive ones. I decided that I would not bring into the house any sweet edible substance that might pose the risk of overindulgence. In other words, jams, jelly and maple syrup were OK, as I consume these in moderation, but ice cream, cookies, cakes and candies were most definitely not OK. And I honored this rule for a few months until it became very cold and very dark, and I was convinced that I couldn't survive winter without the help of hot chocolate. Bringing sweetened cocoa powder into my apartment turned out to be a mistake. I'd typically drink the hot cocoa in the evening, and the caffeine and sugar would conspire to make it difficult for me to fall asleep at night. And even that little bit of sugar started to feel addictive.

And now I will get to the point of this posting. A fellow I met at my retreat told us about Dagoba chocolate, which he eats as part of his breakfast. Intrigued, I found some on sale at Whole Foods and promptly fell in love with this intelligent indulgence. Dagoba means temple of the gods, and the unfussy label, in addition to clearly stating the cacao content, subtly declares that Chocolate is sacred. Indeed. I first sampled the Xocolatl, a dark chocolate bar infused with cinnamon and enough chili to kick up some heat in my mouth. Its complex flavor demanded that I slow down to savor it. One segment of the bar was quite satisfying and I was not tempted to commit the sacrilege of carelessly consuming the whole thing at once. I also tried the Mon Cherri, which has hints of berries and vanilla. And tonight I have enjoyed some of the Lime bar, dark chocolate with lime and macadamia nuts. I get the most out of the experience if I treat the chocolate like a fine wine and take the time to appreciate its aroma before putting it in my mouth. I never knew mindfulness meditation could taste so good.