today's gratitude (breast cancer)

Yesterday, in the middle of our revelry, while I was wearing a costume and adjusting my sons' costumes, I was told that a mom I know just went into hospice. She has had stage four breast cancer for almost a decade. She used to be an anchorwoman; pretty, accomplished, well spoken, admired. After she got sick, her husband had affairs, then left her, but would not grant her a divorce, refusing to pay for her medical care...she has been a lonely, embittered skeleton walking among us for all these years.

This sort of thing, more than an earthquake in Chile, makes my gratitude supremely accessible.

I am so thankful that I am still here today, healthy, able to watch my children growing up, able to play with them, carry them, snuggle with them until they are too old for that, and then hopefully, continue to hug them every day as they sneak up toward eye level with me, and beyond...

I know that people who grew up in Nassau County, where I did, and especially those descended from Eastern European Jews, as I am, are particuarly susceptible to developing breast cancer. I take good care of myself, don't carry stress bottled up, exercise regularly, maintain a healthy weight; I spent almost five years breastfeeding (total) and get annual mammograms, as much as I hate them, and try to remember to do self exams as well. But it's out there. We do not really know what causes breast cancer. And for all the women we know who have fought it and won the battle, it is still a very deadly disease.

So, I will just give thanks today for all that I have. I am so glad to be here. So very grateful.

my predicament

today's gratitude (s.o.s. to Alison)

is for a friend so close that I knew I could call her and say "I am stuck in my wedding gown and I need your help, please." and I knew that she would be right over and that we would laugh and take a picture with her iphone or mine.

I will tell you how this happened, so far as I myself am able to understand it.

When I was twelve, I did some fashion modeling in New York. It was not a healthy experience for me, and had the unexpected effect of making me feel chubby, unattractive and unhappy.

I thought it would be healing to do some modeling again, now that I am grown up, and lately, underemployed, but with a healthier self image, thanks in part to living in the Midwest, where standards of beauty and thinnness are a bit more generous. So, last year, I hired the fabulous and adorable Gina Weathersby to shoot a portfolio's worth of pictures of me, printed up a stack of head shots, and signed up with an agency here in town.

It has not been going well. First of all, I do not go on most auditions that come my way because I do not relate to the products, services, or personality I am being asked to market or portray. And those that I do go to, well, I just do not get the job. Not a single one. I have committed to seeing it through for the duration of my one year contract. (No Sarah Palin, I!). But this commitment is becoming increasingly painful to keep. I thought that I could be a role model for the girls I mentor and teach, by showing them that I am modeling without worrying about my weight and appearance. But it is just not working out that way at all.

Well, today, without realizing quite I was getting into, I spent over two hours preparing and waiting to hold a bottle of Mr. Clean and a bright green cleaning cloth. Then I went to another audition, where I pretended to win at blackjack, so that the casino company shooting a commercial here next week can decide whether they want to pay me $2000 to do that for them.

I was feeling less than great about myself by the end of all of this. Being compared to others on a completely superficial basis, and then not getting chosen, is not a big boost for the self esteem. But I knew I had enough time to turn my day around if I chose my next activity wisely.

Celebrating my inner child, I decided to spend the remaining portion of the school day selecting and planning my Purim costume for tomorrow night. Who was judged on her looks alone but triumphed for other reasons entirely? Queen Esther! Fine, I would find a way to go to the megillah reading dressed as Esther. Now, I do not weigh myself, but the first garment I tried to put on had a lot of infomation for me about the size that I currently am NOT. I remembered only belatedly that the last time I fit into that dress I was being told by everyone that I was getting too thin, except for one guy who saw me in it and thought I was a man, but I digress. That was a while ago. Like five years.

So, next, I hoisted my wedding gown off its hanger. I remember not feeling too terribly thin on my wedding day, just comfortable and happy, which is how I wanted to feel this afternoon. So, I stepped into the dress and zipped it up, until I reached the "small" of my back, which evidently is not quite as small as it was in 1999. Go figure. But it seemed, upon examining the situation in the mirror, that I was not far from my goal. I sucked it in, rearranged it as much as possible, and tried again. So close, but yet so far. If only someone were here to help...

So, I took off the dress, but as I did, I remembered that on my wedding day I had gotten into the dress by quite a different method. My sister had held the crinolines apart and I dove in from the bottom and wiggled my way out of the top. So, I zipped the dress and hooked it closed, too, so that my struggle would not compromise the zipper, and I proceeded to wiggle my way in from the bottom. Except that this time, prezipped and without a helper, I got stuck.

Picture Winnie the Pooh visiting Rabbit's for a smackering of honey, and then trying to leave the way he came in. As much as I could not come through the top of the dress any more than I had, I also could not get back out. I tried, and I also tried to un-hook the dress while I was stuck in it, but my upper arms were trapped in a vertical (upward) position and I could not reach the hooks. Fortunately, I was able to bend over from the waist to dial the phone and put it on speaker. For that, and for being able to reach Alison on that phone, I am truly, deeply, grateful.

Whew!

Where I'm from

by Samuel Newman

I am from the biggest room with the smallest bed
I am from the white, brick, one story house and
from the redwood tree by the black eyed Susans
I am from Shabbat every Friday night
from everyone liking Nutella
from Isaac and Max
from both my brothers and I all love G.U.C.I.
I'm from "don't eat something if you don't know what it is" and "I love you"
from Michigan and Ohio
from challah and kosher
I'm from Isaac playing wii and Max going to rehearsal
We keep our great grandparents' things in Molly.
We never use some of them and they were made in Israel.

today's gratitude (life is an adventure)

I am so grateful that I did not bring my kids to Sea World today. What a horrible spectacle for a packed house of people to witness. It is beyond me why anyone would choose to work in close range with a killer whale who has been implicated in two other human fatalities. I mean, would you work closely with a PERSON with a track record like that? A woman who chose to work face to face with an enormous and dangerous animal lost her life to the whim of its violent depression, and now her six children will grow up without their mother.

I am feeling pretty sad right now, having read about what happened today, and rather contemplative.

Also, my friend who never quite adjusted to life in Cincinnati is getting her wish. She will be moving far away, and very soon. I have mixed emotions about that. I am always happy for my friends who move away from here for positive reasons. As I've said here in previous posts, I have tended, over the last decade of dwelling in Ohio, to befriend people with very few roots holding them to this city. The assumption has always been that we are just a few steps behind them from the exit door. But like my friend Alison, who also grew up in New York, and moved to Cincinnati from there, I have worked hard to make a good life for myself here, and it is now very difficult to imagine uprooting my family without a really good reason to.

But home is where the heart is, and life is an adventure. We will go where the tide takes us, and as long as we are together, I think we will always be happy. I'm so grateful to enjoy a quality of life here that makes me question whether I will ever really want to go. Especially considering how much I originally dreaded moving here, how certain I was that I could never find friends who felt like sisters, and how desperately I once was to move away...this seems almost miraculous.

When I turn onto my street to come home, I am often overwhelmed by the beauty of the place where I live. I have a very good life here, full of wonderful people and activities. As strange as this town often seems to me, as many things as it lacks, I can see that I have become a thread in the fabric of this place, woven in more and more deeply with each passing year by my friends, my children's friends, my husband's job, CCM, Yellow Springs, the Valley Temple, Hope Springs, the CSO, the new JCC, the Center for the Arts Wyoming, and most recently, my chamber orchestra. I make friends quite easily, and I am confident of my ability to ensure that my children have rich childhood experiences wherever they are.

I am about to read to Isaac from a Series of Unfortunate Events that befell three fictional orphans. I'm glad my children do not require dramatic stories of this nature to make them feel fortunate for the lives they lead. They are such happy children, and as such, they don't know how lucky they are, and that's okay. A sweet childhood is properly taken for granted while it is being lived. I'm going to go climb into a tiny little bed now and feel how great it is to be a part of that.

walking meditation

charity before dawn

I didn't have time to tell you this before taking off for Hope Springs after yoga on Friday, but I had the happy opportunity that morning to meet and befriend Radha, the artist who silk screened my yoga mat. We did yoga right next to each other and it was the kind of class where we had a few opportunities to speak to one another and become friends. I find it is possible to begin a true friendship with only a few moments' conversation, so long as you each choose carefully what you ask and what you share.

It turns out that I did not receive the most accurate story about the art on my mat when I commissioned Radha to do it through our wonderful yoga studio, Shine. I would really like to share what I now understand about it. Radha learned this art form, called kolam, from her grandmother in their village in Southern India, beginning when she was four. In honor of the Goddess Lakshmi, they rose before dawn each day and performed a conscious act of charity, feeding the insects and birds with rice powder. And they did so in the most beautiful way possible, spending 5 to 60 minutes recreating a traditional design with the powder as they sprinkled it very precisely onto the ground just beyond the threshhold of their home, thereby creating sacred space.

Really, you should let Radha tell you about this in her own words and see her beautiful artwork for yourself, along with pictures of Kolam done in rice powder on the ground of her village back in India, where she sends some of the proceeds from her artwork. You can visit her website at utsavastu.com, a celebration of sacred space. I do hope you will.

today's gratitude (fire on the set!)

I am so glad today that I am crazy enough to keep painting in the dark.

Not just a little glad. Really, really, just saved the high school from burning down glad.

Kathy and I are painting the sets for the upcoming High School production of Once Upon a Mattress. It opens in nine days and there is a lot more to do. Plus, I have an orchestra concert coming up between now and then, and just a few other demands on my time, as does Kathy. So, we want to get as much of the set painting done as possible every day that we can be there.

So, when the middle school choir filed in to hold a dress reherasal for tonight's concert, we did even not consider calling it quits for the day. I had planned to leave a bit after 2 and do some errands, including grocery shopping, before picking my boys and their friends up from the elementary school. When the brand new choir director asked if we minded if she closed the red velvet curtain for the choir to sing in front of, we said "yes, we do mind, because it will be blocking all our light."

She said it was really important to her to have them experience the sound of their singing with the curtain behind them, and that she would be really quick. We sighed and just kept painting. A moment later, as it was closing, the curtain got stuck on the back of one the acoustic shells, with about an 18 inch rip just above the hem. The choir director looked at the ripped curtain, sighed, said it might have been ripped before, but anyway, she could sew it herself and then she adjusted the curtain so that it went around and behind all the acoustic shells, and then she went back in front of the curtain and began to lead the choir through their songs.

Kathy and I bent closer into our work in the dimmed light. We will pretty much paint under any conditions; we'd just been over this fact earlier in the day.

We squinted and continued, listening to the choir, remembering when our teenagers were in middle school, and trying not to laugh too loudly at the eighth grade boys as their changing voices struggled toward equilibrium.

Then Kathy asks me "Do you smell something?" and I say "yes, I do," and immediately I realize that something is burning. I begin to run toward the hallway, thinking the fire is in a classroom, when suddenly I realize I have run away from the smell of smoke. I turn back, look up, and see that one of the spot lights has ignited a fire at the top of the red velvet curtain. Smoke is pouring out. I scream, or perhaps I bellow, "Turn off the lights! Turn off the lights NOW!!!"

I realize that the fire must be smothered, and there is no way I can climb to the top of the curtain to do that (I tried - but apparently did not have quite enough adrenalin flowing to get me up that high). All I can do from the stage is hold the curtain and wiggle it from my grip about seven feet from the bottom, which is only feeding more oxygen to the smouldering circle of velvet. So I yell again, and this time my words are "Open the curtain, Open the curtain!" and I hear this phrase echoed by someone else. I need slack so that I can smush the curtain folds together and suffocate the embyonic flame before it even thinks of leaping out at anyone.

This is what I do, and when I open the curtain folds up again, there is only a set of black circles and a small orange spark at the edge of one of them. Kathy climbs a step ladder to ascertain whether we are hallucinating or whether the orange ember is really still there. She does see it, so I fold the curtain again, refusing offers of help. "Give me another minute," I say. "I think we can put it out ourselves." And the next time I open the curtain, it is just black. It is over.

Our heartbeats slow back down. We resume painting. Men appear backstage and ask us questions. A woman with power tools shows up and sprays the black spots with a tall skinny stream of water, so that we do not have to worry any longer about the curtain erupting into flame as soon as we turn our backs.

We realize that the lights were hanging too low, but not only that. The curtain, wrapped as it was around the acoustic shells, was unable to hang straight towards the floor, so that its fabric was much closer than usual to the low hanging spot lights.

The choir director felt terrible, and apologized through her tears, but we told her, as I have told you, that we were so very glad. First, that we hadn't quit painting, but had stayed almost directly under the curtain when it began to catch fire. Also, that we hadn't intimidated this young new teacher so that she decided against closing the curtain and blocking our work light for the duration of the run through. Had she waited until the actual concert to close the curtain, while the backstage stood empty and Kathy and I sat in seats near the back of the auditorium, there may have been a very different outcome.

silent heart

 

Meditations on Love

I did a lot of work this weekend.

That was Paul's comment when I was done reading my journal to him, last night, the record of my thoughts and experiences at my weekend silence retreat.

I'm guessing some of you would like to hear about it. If you are one of the people whom I told about last year's silence retreat, let me just say that my experience this year could not have been more different. At this point, if you like, you can skip a couple of a paragraphs.

If you don't know about last year, I had arrived at Hope Springs under a burden of great stress. I was in the middle of litigating a child support matter with my ex-husband, and I was deeply worried about money. Also, ten years into a search for my spiritual path, I was feeling called to consider entering the rabbinate, and I was overwhelmed by what that would mean for my family, both financially and logistically.

Last year, in the silence, I received a visit from the soul that had briefly inhabited the body of a child I lost six months after conception. The visit was very positive and loving, but caused a huge flood of emotions, including grief over not having been able to give birth to that child. It was the first time I had allowed myself to receive messages from Spirit without the use of an intermediary, and I came home very drained, spent.

Fast forward to last Friday night. Mary, the leader of the retreat, immediately commented that I seem very changed from last year. More peaceful, more balanced. I told her it's been a very big year for me. I told her I learned since last year at Hope Springs that I do not need to become a rabbi, that I do not need to BECOME anything or anyone, just be myself and let what I am doing evolve and develop naturally, day by day. "Wow," she said, "you ARE really different!" and I smiled and thanked her for that observation.

I'm going to spare you the travelogue and cut right to the lessons I learned, or received from Spirit, over the next 42 hours, but I just want to say that the messages I received were delivered by a female Spirit in the form a spiraling violet light, in the most gentle way you can possibly imagine. This is what I received:

Love is in you, always has been.

You do not need anything more than that.

Your life lesson is one of Independence, that you have it All within Yourself.

You were set up to reject where you began so that you would go and blossom on your own, able to give and receive love, needing nothing more and knowing this.

Your children are strong and know who they are. You do not need to protect them as much as you once thought. You are the safety net that holds them no matter what. Grandparents, Teachers, Friends are Peripheral. Let them be. It's all good.

As for your sister's suffering, stop laying Blame. Let go of Anger. We are Each on Our Path. We have Each made Our Choice of Lessons and Work to do. No person or people is/are the Source of another's Trouble or Pain. We are each in Internal Struggle to Find the Way. Let it Be. Do your Own Work.

Giving and Receiving, Charity and Prosperity. These are all connected, as is Asking for What you are Worth, and Giving with your Whole Heart. Also, by Creating Sacred Space and Expressing Beauty, by using our Gifts in Dance, Movement, Music, Art and Writing, and by Performing, we are Sharing and this is Good, so long as it comes from the Soul.

Sharing truth is sacred.

Let go of the Pain

Grab Hold of the Lesson

Write what you Know

Teach what you Know

Keep doing what you are doing

You are already plugged into all the Love in the Universe. It comes right through you. Keep sharing it.

Love is infinite, not a commodity, and it costs nothing to share.

Parents are no more wise or enlightened than children, unless they have done the work to become so. We should not, therefore, hold any adults to a higher standard, but instead, try to acknowledge the suffering child within them, just as we do within ourselves.

Wow. That's a lot to receive. And by walking with this, and sitting with this, this is what I now understand:

The reason I have always thought (think) of myself as an underachiever is that my father always told me we shared that characteristic, but that was never about me. I now realize that every bit of meanness in my father comes from suffering in his own childhood. He parented the best that he was able, given that he had not healed his own suffering child.

Bringing up three boys while blogging, painting murals and sets, making pants, teaching, serving on a board and sitting on a executive committee, playing in an orchestra...who would have time to do all this and also meditate daily, practice yoga, and make her own juice, and also keep up with everyone's laundry and dishes, plan, shop for and provide wonderful meals nearly every day, only to find, of course, that nobody can eat at the same time because of rehearsals and basketball practice and piano lessons and...it is TIME...to give myself a huge break and some credit for all that I do, including being present as a Friend, instead of focusing on what I don't manage to do, like study Torah, be in a book club, or take over the world, like my father said either one of us could do, if only we were to apply ourselves fully, and be more organized.

I am going to work on writing love letters to each of my parents, because I understand that to do so does not make me or my children any more vulnerable. I will write as many drafts of these letters as are required to distill each one down to nothing but love. Love engenders love, but criticism engenders defensiveness, hurt and anger. Complaint does not lead to healing. I will do this work with no expectation of a change in my life, but simply because I am able to do it.

There is no love pie, with only a limited number of slices. When I saw my visiting spirit guide retreat from me, I still felt a connection to her and to a constant stream of love from wherever she dwells. I can tap into that for whatever use I want, and that is what I will do. I am here in this lifetime to learn and practice true compassion, which means withholding love from nobody. This does not mean that everyone is my friend, and that eveyone can actively participate in my life.

While I was at Hope Springs, I heard a speech about Healing Our World Family. After hearing those words, I sat down and meditated on this idea and this is what came to me, from I know not what source:

This seems naive. That is Not to say that it isn't a good thing to Promote Peace, Foster Common Understanding, and Support Relating to One Another, But We Are Different and Not All Meant to Be as One While on this Earth. This World is a Realm of Struggle. It is okay to give up on a person, after you have offered them your love. It is okay to Walk Away and Say "This is All We can Do Now. Not Everyone is Our Friend."

I have made that judgment with regard to my parents. But that does not mean I cannot still send them love. It only means that I do not expect that by so doing that I will be able to heal us as a family. I have previously received messages from Spirit releasing me from that burden. I am left to do as I wish with the current of infinite love that runs through me. I am free to be compassionate, without expectation.

Just to be.

Thanks for reading.

Namaste.

miracles do happen

it's not that strange, really.

Even though he said he wasn't going to pay a dime for anything beyond child support, even though he told Max not to ask him for anything else, my ex-husband is coming through.

It looks like Max is going to get to go to Israel with his friends after all.

Nobody was more surprised than Max. I picked him up at Hebrew school and said "Max, your dad asked that you please call him."

"Does he know about the grant?"

"Yes. I sent him a text a few minutes ago, and he texted me back as I pulled into the parking lot just now. I was going to ask you if you wanted to tell him, but then I just sne thim a text anyway."

Five minutes later, Max was asking me "why?"

I had the answer. "He'd rather you do stuff without him having to pay for it. But he also loves you, and he doesn't want you to be sad."

"That makes sense," Max said.

"I'm so happy for you."

"He said he would have to noodle it over and he'd get back to me."

"Well, I think that is so you don't take it for granted. It's a lot of money. He wouldn't say that and then tell you tomorrow that he thought about it and the answer is no. Maybe he is going to give you some of your trust fund money early."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Mom."

"That's okay, Max. Never mind."

I had Max call his father back from home to explain about the waiting list, and that we won't know that he hasn't got the grant for another couple of weeks.

Eliot's respose was to explain how he was going to finance his portion of the trip.

"He's says he's going to have to make that much less of an investment in my real estate portfolio this year," Max repeated to us.

"That's pretty much what I expected," I said. "Congratulations, Max."

So grateful.

disappointment and gratitude (wait listed)

We had to give Max some bad news tonight, when he was really expecting good news. Even though Paul and I both looked very somber as we produced the letter he had been waiting for, Max still assumed it was good news and that we were goofing around. We had to look at him, after he had jumped up from his seat at the dinner table, with his arms raised in triumph and tell him, "no, Max, it is actually NOT good news." You are on the waiting list. We will have to wait a few weeks to see what happens, to see if some people do not accept the grant, but you are number 7 on the waiting list. We share your disappointment. We hope that things will work out.

We had heard happy rumors from several people that the Jewish Foundation had received fewer applications than they had grants to distribute, and when I went directly to the source to confirm this, a few weeks ago, she told me that, although it was not yet official, I could tell my son it looked very likely that everyone who had applied would receive a grant. So, I repeated this to Max, and since then, we have all been waiting for the good news to arrive.

Yesterday, while I was away on my wonderful silence retreat (more on that tomorrow) Paul took in the mail and was shocked to learn that the Foundation had in fact received 97 requests for assistance, and yet it had only 82 checks to distribute. They had used random.org to make things fair, and the number assigned to Max came up #89 on the list.

"We know how much you want to visit Israel," the letter said, "and we hope the time will soon come when we can once again offer an unlimited number of grants for all who apply to visit Israel."

Enclosed is the Random Sequence generator so that Max can see his number, 10613, near the bottom of a list of 92 numbers. I am not sure what the value of that is. It confirms that his was the 13th application that was completed, but thanks to random.org, all his friends are going to Israel together this summer and he is not going to be with them.

Now, Max has a lot to be thankful for, and he knows this, including the fact that my in-laws generously made it possible for our whole family to be in Israel with them this past summer. But the whole time we were there, Max was filled not only with apprecation and excitement, but also the anticipation of sharing the discovery of his ancestral homeland next summer with his peers, kids he has gotten to know the past few years at Hebrew school and sleep away camp. Many attractions he cheerfully passed up, saying "that's okay, it's on our itinerary for next year."

So, what am I thankful for tonight? Well, when I said to Max, as I watched him reading and rereading the letter, trying to absorb the news and still hold it together, "if you don't feel like going to Hebrew school tonight, we completely understand," he said, "No. I want to go." and went to his room to get his guitar.

It took him a bit longer than usual to emerge from his room, but I waited in the car and eventually, he got into the passenger seat and let me take him to Hebrew school. He got out of the car and said "I love you." I am grateful for that. And I am very grateful that he feels he is part of a community that will support him when he is sad, that will give him sympathy while they are celebrating their good fortune. I hope he is getting what he needs from them right now.

Support from your friends is a beautiful thing.

hearting out

Hello, darlings, and farewell.

As soon as I pop off these few words to you, I will be on my way...driving a few hours to Hope Springs via Costco, where I will purchase fuel for my minivan and pink roses for the wonderful kitchen staff who will be feeding me this weekend.

Pink is the color of the fourth chakra, unless you prefer green. Both are good colors to support the energy of your heart chakra, or if translating driectly from Sanskrit, "unstruck"...

Imagine a bell so resonant that it need not be struck to produce a pure and beautiful sound. That is the idea behind this chakra. From your heart center radiates love energy, not in the sense of desiring anything or anybody, but simply a state of being. Love is our natural state, connecting us to the Big Love, Source of All. Pure blissful love surrounds us in this world, and when our fourth chakra is fully open and healthy, we connect with that love.

We were reminded today, at Shine, that we can be too open in this energy center, taking on others' pain and suffering. So remember, while you remain open to love, stay strong, and do not weaken your energy by carrying others' burdens. It is possible, better in fact, to show compassion to another person without actually feeling their hurt. This is so incredibyl important for me to rememeber that I plan to meditate on this idea the next time I am on my yoga mat.

We may value empathy, but when we are debilitated by feeling too much for others, we do no good to ourselves or to anybody else.

Many blessings to all of you, dear hearts.

Namaste

today's gratitude (first graders)

I am about to walk into Room 112 of Elm School in a few minutes, and I am anticipating the round of applause and cheers that tends to herald my arrival there, along with loud excited whispers of "Isaac, your mom is here!"

This is a pretty wonderful thing, and this year is probably the last time I will get to experience it quite this way. So I want to pause for a moment before I go back to collecting art supplies for the decoration of 25 cardboard digiridoos, and register my deep appreciation for this opportunity.

Preschoolers think everyone who viists them is terrific and interesting, but first graders are critical thinkers and they speak their mind, so this applause is not something I take lightly. Not at all.

And then there's the fact that they are not applauding anything extraordinary I've done, like finishing my law degree while nursing a new born baby and living hundreds of miles from my law school, or completing my first catch and release on the flying trapeze.

No, this applause is just for being myself, and sharing a bit of my time with these sweet kids. Which, come to think of it, may be just about the most supreme compliment I have ever been paid.

today's gratitude (silence retreat)

I am so happy and grateful that I am going to Hope Springs this weekend for a silence retreat. Even though I have not developed a regular meditation practice, as I had meant to do, since my first silence retreat one year ago, knowing it (meditation, Hope Springs, spiritual guidance, all of the above) is there for me to access whenever I need it is simply wonderful. Literally.

We will hike in the snow, eat beautiful, vegetarian food, rest, journal, gaze into the fire, sit, and just see what comes up.

Last time, I arrived without having done my homework. I simply forgot to. I had been asked to bring a statement of intention to set the purpose of my time in the quiet. I just showed up completely open, ready for anything, curious, wondering a bit about whether I was on my path, whether I was "supposed" to go in some new way.

As it turned out, I was fine being merely open. A beautiful soul appeared to me with a helpful and loving message, touching me very deeply.

My question one year later is this: what is the particular goal my soul had in embarking on this current life's journey? I feel that I am on my path, and I am learning to take it one step at a time, but I'd like more insight into the reasoning behind it.

This seems cliche, now that I try to put it into words. Am I not asking the same question that every seeker has asked in every cartoon and comic book mission to the Dalai Lama in the Himalayas or to the hermit's hut in the deepest heart of the forest: What is the meaning of life?

But I don't need the whole answer right now. I just want to know what it was that my soul and my guide agreed would be my soul's big work in this lifetime, and why did I choose to undertake it in this particular way?

I'll be sure to let you know what I find out.

leg lily

A new (snow) day

Yesterday, I was too busy to blog, to identify my gratitude, and I believe my entire day suffered as a result. That is, I suffered. Reader, I was crabby.

Paul believes this is because I did not need another snow day, another workout that consisted of shoveling our driveway (with help from Max and Isaac), another grief counseling session for Isaac when Sam abandoned him for three and half hours to play at a friend's house, another batch of cookies fresh from the oven (which I refuse to eat because it is February and I am finally exerting some will power), another load of laundry, another pile of dishes, another day without leaving our home.

This may all be true, but I really think my attitude did not adjust to sunny because I did not sit down and listen to my inner voice, find my anchor to all that is good.

There were many good things in my day, but I did not give them proper attention.

My children were all home and healthy. All the appliances are working properly, helping me keep everyone fed and clothed. I got to drink good coffee, write a proposal for a decorative painting job, practice beautiful orchestral music, talk to my niece and three friends on the phone, work on a beautiful pair of fancynancypants (spring fever pants, for MYSELF!), make and eat some amazing guacamole, watch some gorgeous figure skating, hold amazing conversations with each of my children, and answer appreciative emails about my last blog (Truth and Love). It was a pretty terrific day, yet I was, somehow, a bit too focused on the negative.

Then I fielded a phone call from the school superintendant, announcing yet another snow day.

But it's okay. I feel terrific this morning. The crabbies have been banished. Paul greeted me this morning with a wonderfully conscious hug and kiss. Max's girlfriend is coming over so that she and Max can watch the boys, so that I CAN leave the house for a little while. I will buy groceries, come back home, and try to do some yoga before anyone notices that I have returned. Then, depending on how the roads are, I may take everyone to the movies. I will finish sewing my fabulous new pants, put them on and dance.

Truth and Love

There is an article in today's NYT about a couple who got engaged at the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (p.26). It is indeed a very special place, but my most significant memory associated with it is quite different from theirs. I try to have a sense of humor whenever I visit, as I recall the sharp pangs of the night I had my heart squashed, but mercifully, not broken, there.

I was thirty, divorced about a year, and my son was three. A college friend, to whom I had lost my virginity, and who, after a semester of ballet, jazz, theatre, folk dancing, dinner and movie dates, persuaded me to take a dinner course on Marriage and Jewish Law, but then failed to pop the question, had recently resurfaced as my #1 most supportive friend during both my separation and divorce. Dan took on this role with great commitment, making sure that no matter where he was I was able to reach him every day. His assistant recognized the sound of my voice on the phone and was ready to patch me through to Dan as he literally traversed the globe. One day, while chatting about the terrific pressure he was getting from friends and family to marry, now that he was over thirty, he asked me if I would co-host a conference he was organizing for the Young Presidents Organization, of which he was also a member. The conference was just over a month away.

I hesitated, not being a jet-setter, or unencumbered, but he persisted, stressing the importance of the conference to his global business relationships and insisting that he needed me at his side to make it the best possible experience. Thrilled at the possible import of his words, I agreed, arranging to stay with my parents and to leave my son with them every evening.

For his part, Dan set about planning the most extraordinary series of social events to which I've ever been invited. He playfully kept his plans for the week secret, only advising me in advance of the dress code for each evening so that I would arrive in New York from Cincinnati with the appropriate wardrobe. Dan insisted that there was no need for me to buy anything new - "you always look great" - but after consulting with my mother and aunt, I concluded that, despite my limited income, I had better pull out all the stops to ensure that I made the best possible impression every night. "Nothing's more important than this," my maiden aunt remarked.

I hit all the best stores in town and acquired a small collection of elegant, sexy dresses for the line-up of events, with the exception of a black and white gown required for the closing event. I also went on a crash diet.

My mother took her newly slim(mer) daughter and three year old grandson straight from Laguardia airport to Loehmann's Back Room, where a figure hugging column of black satin, delicately embroided on the bodice with small white butterfiles, was obtained. I spent each day entertaining my son while Dan attended fabulous lectures and seminars given by world renowned business leaders. I was also busy designing, shopping for and creating a pair of masks in the style of Venetian carnevale, which Dan knew I loved. He apologized for the short notice, but said he had shopped for our masks and concluded that I would surely make something more spectacular than anything money could buy. (No pressure or anything)

Each evening, I would arrive in the city and discover once again that Dan had clearly planned the night's social event with my passions and preferences in the forefront of his mind. He introduced me to many people, bragged about me, and explained that he had asked me to fly in from Ohio to host this week with him because there was simply nobody better than I. Together, we hosted a pair of cocktail parties in the shops of what Dan knew I considered the world's most elegant jeweler, Asprey and Garrard, and the world's most elegant clothing designer, Georgio Armani; a dinner party in a penthouse featuring not only the best possible wrap around view of midtown Manhattan but also exquisite murals; and for the grande finale, a formal, black and white Venetian style ball with my favorite flowers and food, in my favorite space in my favorite city, the majestic Temple of Dendur. To say that this was a thoughtful and romantic gesture seemed at the time possibly the world's greatest understatement.

Dan and I stood at the head of a receiving line and greeted each pair of guests as they arrived. Those whom I had met earlier in the week were very friendly to me. The women complimented my gown and mask, and I complimented theirs. Some people who had not met me earlier in the week greeted me formally as Mrs. Schwartz. It was a fair assumption, perhaps, as pretty much everyone else there seemed to be married, but nonetheless one I found deeply embarrassing. I felt, as I corrected them, that they had clumsily revealed my most secret wish. Dan pretended not to notice.

As the organizer and event planner of each evening's activity, Dan had been consistently very preoccupied whenever I saw him. I was left alone each night to converse in English, French and Spanish with a wide array of succesful young businessmen and their wives, which reminded me several times of the joke about Harvard's core curriculum, that it prepared you for the ultimate cocktail party. It had indeed. But by the time the black and white ball was well underway, that last night, and I had learned all about the Alexander technique from the charming dinner companion on my right, while the seat on my left remained mostly empty and the meal in front of it mostly uneaten, I decided to seek Dan out and ask for a dance.

I found him deeply engrossed in conversation with two handsome men. I sidled up beside him, took his arm, and playfully insisted that I had been ignored long enough and thought I deserved at least a short spin around the temple grounds. Dan looked a bit taken aback, but he smiled sheepishly, and awkwardly excused himself, making me wonder if I had just been too pushy and demanding. Moments later, I realized that I had. The handsome, tuxedoed man I was dancing with was not holding me. He was stiff as a board, allowing me to hold his left shoulder and right hand but not yielding or responding physically in any way to the proximity of my body. It almost felt like he wanted to lean away from me as we slowly circled the dance floor. The lyrics of a romantic song, which I have mercifully forgotten, wafted overhead as if to underscore the incongruity. Here, in this most romantic setting, made as magically beautiful as could be through the great efforts of my dear friend (along with the city's foremost party planner), it flashed through my mind, as we danced, that I was utterly alone.

This was just not a normal way to dance with one's date, and thus it became patently obvious, finally, that this was not a date. If it were a romantic evening for many couples here, as I am sure it was, we were not to be counted among them. Dan was not about to become my boyfriend, nor would we stand together at the end of the night awash in the moonbeams that flooded the temple floor, and speak in hushed tones about love and second chances.

By myself, I returned to my married friends' apartment, where I was spending the night. I told them how I had finally and suddenly just come to realize (after more than ten years) that Dan was not attracted to me. They exclaimed and protested, and then exhorted me to believe that Dan had procured my services as a beard, certain that I would provide extraordinary value as a co-host, without making personal demands upon him, just as I had proved I could do in college. They passionately expressed outrage on my behalf, and loudly insisted that my very wealthy and closeted friend now owed me a great deal of money, and at the very least, should pay for my clothing and transportation expenses, which were incurred under false pretense. Of course, they were right, and of course, I was far too hurt and humiliated even to begin to imagine making such a claim.

The truth can hurt, but it can also set you free.

I am spending this Valentine's day with my darling husband of almost eleven years, whom I met just one month after getting my heart squashed in the Temple of Dendur.

I thank my Creator for the supreme resilience and elasticity of my heart. It has grown and expanded so greatly since that dark night, embracing not only a new husband, but also two more children, many nieces and nephews, wonderful in-laws and countless friends. The love that surrounds me now is literally beyond measure.

That long ago night, after donning an elegant gown and jewels and paying an egregious sum of money to have my make up professionally applied, I felt so utterly and completely alone - there, in the arms of a man I loved in vain, in the special place he had chosen for us to be, while elegant couples in love, swirled happily around us on a beautifully lit dance floor.

Today, as I sit in my kitchen, sipping coffee, typing in my flannel pajamas, listening to my children play, I feel so utterly embraced and connected by love to the whole entire universe.

today's gratitude (out of the mouths of babes)

is for my awareness that my kids are here to teach me about life just as much as I am to teach them.

Yesterday, Isaac got his feelings hurt by a lame joke told at his expense at a shiva call. I explained to him that when people lose someone they love, and we go to visit them, they often make jokes that aren't funny, because they don't want to seem sad and upset. "Why can't they just act the way they feel?" he wanted to know. "If he feels sad, then he should not try to tell jokes. He should just say, "wow, I feel really sad, I'm glad you came to visit." " I agreed.

This afternoon, he told me not to get upset when I am not doing my best at wii bowling. "It has nothing to do with real bowling, and anyway, we are only playing it to have fun."

Of course, that's easy for him to say when he's beating me by almost 400 points. But seriously, the kid knows what he's talking about.

today's gratitude

...is for funerals. I just came home from one, and I am so moved by what I heard. What wonderful work to take from one person's life words with the power to inspire so many.

Just to say goodbye to a person who wanted so much to live every day makes you appreciate today's sun, snow, and birds on a new level, when you step outside, at least for a moment. But this funeral, like the woman it was for, gave us all so much more. Dori Ach prepared her self to depart this life with a faith based knowledge that death would not be the end of her journey. I hope that when my time comes, I will be as brave and positive and concerned about others as she was.

After receiving a prognosis of just a few months to live, Dori spent the last ten beautiful years of her life bravely battling lymphoma, as she had previously battled breast cancer, and the woman who counseled her twice a month during that long fight shared one of Dori's favorite poems, by Mary Oliver, which I'd now like to share with you here:

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

AMEN

much deeper than I can measure...

is my gratitude today that someone very dear and very special to me, along with her sweet, beautiful children, are finally safe and sound in a Domestic Violence Shelter. I pray that she may find the support and strength she needs to go only forward from here and not back. I know that this is very hard.

I'm sorry if it makes people uncomfortable to be reminded, but it is very sad and frightening what goes on behind so many closed doors. If you do not live in a home where you have to fear for your safety, or the safety of your children, then hold you loved ones close tonight and offer up a prayer of thanks to whatever power you believe in, even if you call it luck.

If however, you ARE currently living in such a situation, please believe this:
You are not alone. There are so many people who have been where you are, so many who want to help you, and who will not judge you, if only you'd just reach out. There is no shame in this. It is only out of respect for her privacy that I am not publishing the victim's name. She is a bright, accomplished and beautiful woman, with two post graduate degrees, two children and many friends, who admire her and look to her for advice in many things, but she has been enduring a secret hell for a long time for reasons I cannot name here.

If you are in Cincinnati and you need help, please call the local domestic violence hotline (800) 540-4764 on Walnut Street. If you need a number for some other city, and you don't want to search from your home computer, go to your public library, or use a friend's computer, and do this google search "Domestic violence shelters in......" and go down there or pick up the phone and call. It's a fact: Domestic violence only escalates. Please take care of yourself.

today's gratitude

...is for an evening orchestra rehearsal at the end of two snow days, and for practicing music even when there is no apparent reason to, except love.

Permit me to explain.

Two weeks ago, our orchestra read through the Vivaldi second flute concerto, with our wonderful soloist, Suzanne Bona. The concertmaster was away, performing with another ensemble, so I sat in his seat and had a grand time (see earlier post, from January). I absolutely adore Vivaldi; it's in my blood. The A minor violin concerto was my first ever, when I was 8, and I am pretty sure I could still play the first movement from memory, right now, if you asked me to. As a teenager, when a group of us performed the Four Seasons as a memorial for a young friend who had died of brain cancer, I got to be the soloist for Summer, under the baton of my dearly departed Todd Mucaro, and I swear I was in heaven right there next to my late friend during the performance.

So, there's a passage on the bottom half of the last page of the flute concerto, where the music indicates a semi-humongous series of classic Vivaldi cascades, or broken chords, modulating every two beats. I was the only one who played it, and I was under the impression that this was because it was too intimidating for the rest of the section to sightread such a virtuosic passage. I am oddly fearless, and I will sightread anything you give me, forte, if that is how it's marked, in front of just about anyone. If I make mistakes, which of course I know I will, I keep going, knowing that is to be expected and I'll work on fixing them later, at home.

When we reached the bottom of the page, my stand partner for the night, the lovely Laura, expressed admiration for my having survived the chords passage and I modestly accepted her praise, knowing that my success was partially attributable to adrenalin, and the awareness that if I had stopped playing, there would be a whole lot of nothing going on. I was eager to take the music with me to practice it, so that the next time I would do at least as well, without the benefit of a momentary hormonal surge. So I was disappointed when the conductor collected the parts to add bowings to them. We would have to wait to take them home.

The following week, we did not work on the Vivaldi, having new and more challenging music to learn. At the end of the rehearsal, I approached the conductor and asked, "would it be possible to take home a Vivaldi part, please? I would really like to practice it." He smiled indulgently and told me that if I followed him outside to his car, he had the music there and would let me take my part. I did, and while I was at it, requested and obtained a part for my carpool buddy, a very busy violist, so that she wouldn't be jealous. This is how I think, right or wrong. I have no idea if she wanted the Vivaldi, but because I did, it seemed like natually everyone else would, too.

The next day, I sat down to work, beginning with the first page. The notes were really not challenging until the flying chords on the last page. When I finally began to play them, more slowly than in rehearsal, I noticed a notation in Italian above the first measure. Solo viol. With a stab of mortification, suddenly I realized why nobody else had played this passage, and also why it was really unnecessary for me to have the part to practice. This was not something I would be playing again; it was the concertmaster's solo. I decided not to be embarrassed by my mistake, since it was (until now) an entirely private one, yet I could not contain my disappointment. My favorite passage in the piece, and I would have to sit back and listen to someone else play it - NO FAIR! (In case you did not already know, I'm very in touch with my inner five year old.)

I sighed and returned to work on the Elgar variations, mastery of which continues to elude me in many of its runs, but I did so with a heavy heart. I did not look at the Vivaldi again for days, and was deflated enough that I practiced less during the week than I had since joining the orchestra.

Last night, we were scheduled to work on the Vivaldi a second time. I was catching up with my second desk stand partner, Kim, when the conductor came over and asked me to sit in the concertmaster's chair again, for the night, since it was not likely Will would come through the snow to join us. We had gotten five inches of snow over the last two days, but nothing had fallen for hours and by now the roads were quite clear. But what happens in Cincinnati, which is nestled just on the northern side of the Mason Dixon Line, if you don't know, is this: people are endlessly surprised and panicked by snow, and pretty much everything that can shuts down as soon as it begins sticking to the ground, sometimes sooner.

Well, I was thrilled, of course, although suddenly I wished I had practiced a bit more. But I was very glad that I had ended my kids' second snow day by regaling them and their friends with the last page of the Vivaldi while they enjoyed an afternoon snack at the kitchen table. It wasn't much work, but it was better than nothing.

I thought the rehearsal was productive; the conductor worked hard to help us sound like we were playing early 18th century music instead of a just a repetitive series of notes and phrases, and we responded fairly well to his instruction. He told us he'll be sitting and playing harpsichord when we perform, rather than standing on the podium, so that in authentic baroque style, we will not have a conductor per se. He will lead us from the keyboard by nodding to us now and then, but we will really need to listen to each other to stay together. I found myself happily looking forward to the experience of playing the piece as a period chamber ensemble would, and even wishing that we could perform it standing up, as they did in Vivaldi's day, and as the conductor says he did at conservatory.

Near the end of the piece, I played the solo again, missed one bar in the middle, kept going, and otherwise did okay. When I came up for air, Laura was smiling at me and Suzanne paid me a compliment, presumably surprised that I had survived it a second time, and even improved a bit.

I was pretty pleased with the evening, except that it went too quickly and I felt a bit sad for a moment when rehearsal ended, suddenly realizing we had not rehearsed the Nimrod variation in the Elgar. Just before I went to stand up, the conductor appeared at my side and said, "I need you to be concertmaster for the Vivaldi, when we perform it, OK?" Taken aback, I deflected the compliment by blurting "because I'm here?" and he replied "well, we've just done too much work on it at this point." I gave my assent, trying not to look too gleeful, but I'm not sure why.

Because I really am quite thoroughly gleeful. Will is still the concertmaster, of course, but I get to sit in my favoite chair for the piece I would have chosen to, if given the choice. Which is a pretty wonderful turn of events for me. So, now I have some work to do, to make sure it is also wonderful for the rest of the orchestra, for Suzanne, oh, and for the audience, too.

If the Maestro is reading this, thank you for your confidence in me and for giving me this opportunity.

If you are not the Maestro, and you are thinking that you might like to attend the concert, it will be given on Sunday afternoon, March 7, at B'nai Tedek on Kugler Mill Road in Kenwood.

And now, I'm off to an audition, of a non-musical variety! Have a great day, folks.

today's gratitude

is just for the fact that my children get along so well, and for so long, without my intervention. If they did not, this would have been a much longer, much more challenging day. Home from school, they spent time sledding down our gently sloping backyard, helped me shovel the driveway, and then entertained a friend, together, for about 4 hours in the basement.

I was able to work and actually accomplished a great deal. How far we have come from the day my in-laws gifted us a hockey table because they so desperately wanted to find a way to distract the children away from me, to have more than a moment's conversation. The boys still love to do things with me, but they really don't mind anymore if I'm just around somewhere, doing my own thing.

Oh, I'm just talking about Sam and Isaac. Max, my first born, was out sledding on the golf course with his girlfriend, then over at her house, where they ordered Chinese food to be delivered to them through the snow, and watched a movie. My, how time does change things.

today's gratitude

I am just so thankful to be able to sing. I'm not being immodest, but I know not everyone is as fortunate. I don't think I should have been a recording artist, and I honestly wouldn't want to pay to listen to me warble, unless I'm on harmony. I don't have the anywhere near the richness or sweetness, silkiness or huskiness of the voices I really admire. But to be able to belt the second verse of Joyful, Joyful, over and over again, while doing dishes and laundry, to be able to modulate up by a whole or half step with every repetition of it until I hit the top of my range, to know that in so doing I am presumably not annoying anyone in my house terribly, to be able to sing from my heart and not only hold a tune and hit all the right notes, but also to be able to feel and convey emotion while expressing myself through the combination of words and music - well, it is just very satisfying.

Cruzan Musings

My friend, Tamara, is from Cincinnati, but she wants to get married in St. Croix. Whenever people mention St. Croix, I say I grew up there, although not in the way people imagine when they hear that phrase. But still, it is true. My first real memories of family vacations are of winter breaks at the Buccaneer resort. I definitely have a treasure trove of memories from that place, beginning with the concrete classical statues posed outside the guest rooms, which our parents told us were our babysitters.

I learned to play golf and tennis at the Buccaneer, from great pros. I learned backgammon, at age 8, from some professional gamblers, Barbara Jean and Tunky, of Las Vegas, whom I met at the bar. I discovered the Beatles there, too, at age 9, along with limbo and crab racing. I also learned the importance of high SPF sunblock, and to go inside when a red rash would appear on my hands late in the morning, and to wait until the sun was not so strong before going back outside.

As the years went by, and my family returned again and again, I also discovered Haitian art, Rastafarians, reggae, emeralds, Marimekko, batik, barracudas, jelly fish and fire coral (and also the idea that when you get back into the boat, it's helpful to pour whiskey on the wounds from these), as well as marijuana, fresh coconut milk, kahlua and rum.

My family visited probably three or four times before my parents decided to buy a condo on St Croix, after which we would still visit the Buccaneer to eat lunch and then digest it on the beach. I'm not sure exactly when I started drinking alcohol, but I know it happened on St. Croix and involved a lot of fruit juices. Bloody Mary at brunch, Pina Colada by the pool, Banana Daquiri as you came off the eighteenth hole, Planter's Punch and Calypso Daquiris at dinner - we drank all day long and I know that is why I gained five pounds every time I spent a week there. Surely it wasn't just the key lime pie or the danish butter spread on fresh corn bread before dinner.

Once we had the condo, I was part of the Island community, not just a tourist. I learned that some people dropped out of the rat race to sell stuff in St. Croix, and that growing very fat and wearing only muumuus every day was also an option, and that my parents disapproved deeply of both these choices. I found myself in St. Croix twice each winter between the ages of 12 and 16. During college, I went a few more times. During Spring Break, freshman year, my father chaperoned me and my estranged roommate, Yoon-Sun, with whom I gave a classical piano and violin recital at the legendary local night club, Club One North. Once, just once, my ex-husband and I vacationed there with my parents and six month old baby, Max, who marked the occasion with his first swim in the condo pool, his first dip in the Caribbean, his first steel drum concert, and his first solid food - melon, papaya, guava.

Soon after, following my divorce, my parents told me to use the condo whenever Max's father took him away from me for a week, and so it was that I came to have my post divorce fling with the bartender at our condo's restaurant. When I first met my husband, Paul, I brought him to St. Croix with me. We lit Hannukah candles every evening and my presents to us were a horse back ride through the rainforest, snorkeling at the reef, and all sorts of wonderful Cruzan adventures. Paul was a good sport each night while I played violin and sang with a number of local and visiting bands in and around Christiansted, and seemed to enjoy getting comped drinks and meals and meeting my fans. We made love together for the first time in St. Croix, after sharing breakfast on the patio and a swim in the sea.

Paul and I returned to St. Croix one year later, during our engagement, and though I brought my violin, I don't think I played or sang with any bands; I just wanted to be with Paul. We played tennis, drank tequila, ate sashimi, sailed on a catamaran at sunset, shot pool, and bought Haitian art for ourselves and the members of our wedding party.

I wanted us to have our wedding in St. Croix because of our history there, and also because I love how my hair responds to the humid Caribbean sea air, turning all wavy and wild, but I let my parents talk me out of it. Over the course of the next three years, we added two more babies to our family. We were supposed to have met my parents in St. Croix with Max and one year old baby Sam, but then the planes hit the Twin Towers and Delta rerouted our flights through Atlanta and San Juan and we cancelled our trip.

A couple of years later, I broke up with my parents. I remember that while my sister was on the outs with them for three and half years, they told me DO NOT GIVE THE CONDO KEY TO YOUR SISTER! I still have my key, but I'm sure they have changed the locks, and I will probably never see the island again. It is far too time consuming and expensive to get our family there from Ohio, but it will certainly always hold a very special place in my heart.

My friend Tamara is a graduate student, as is her fiance. They have entered a dream wedding contest sponsored by Crate and Barrel which prize would enable them to marry memorably and in style at the Buccaneer without incurring the awful debt. If they do win, and they take my family along for the celebration, maybe Paul and I will renew our vows while we are down there. To help make this happen, you can vote for Tamara and her fiance, Jason, at ultimateweddingcontest.com/entries/21954. The couples with the most votes will then enter a judging round. If they get that far, I believe they will win. Please help them to have that chance.

Soul stuff

Our soul takes on a set of challenges for each lifetime, and when we are doing the work our soul has signed up for, people observing us tend to say we are "on our path". I think we can know within ourselves that we are on our path when we find we are fully engaged, when we say we feel so alive, energized, motivated or inspired.

But when, thanks to our being human, we stray from the path, or lose our way, I think that our soul either gets bored or frustrated or whatever, and 'checks out' to some degree while waiting for us to get back on track. We are here to develop ourselves, to evolve on a soul level, and when we are either not connecting with others from our soul group (who are here to work alongside us) or we are missing or ignoring messages, signs from the spirit world...then we are not doing what we came here to do. I think this is where the sensation of numbness comes in (more fully felt when it ends), and also what enables others to observe "you are becoming less yourself" or "you are shrinking from the person I once knew you to be". People told me this when I was dating my ex-husband, but I didn't listen. Now, looking back, I don't see the marriage as a mistake, per se. I had to do my work at my own pace; I still do.

It can be overwhelming to come back from being numb. Think about how your frozen fingers feel when they thaw out after a snowball fight - it hurts!! But it is our natural human state to be full of feelings, and it's exciting! That must be why souls continue to come back to Earth, for the passionate experience one can have here.

For me, it was my son's birth, and my relationship with him that brought me back from a state of numbness. And the way I was able to be with these two people - father and son - was so different, and I struggled with the awareness of that sad disparity until finally I recognized which way was best for my soul, and had to let go of the other. Immediately upon separating, I drew an entirely different type of person to me, and I made new friends, which I had not done for years. People said I looked much younger than I did in the wedding album that had been created over six years earlier. I ceratinly felt more attractive than I had in a very long time.

I had a very emotional time adjusting to being fully engaged with life again. At first, it was a roller coaster. I swung from manic to despairing and back again quite often, and did a lot of emotional eating along the way. But eventually, I leveled out somewhat, and quieted down enough to be able to recognize one of my soulmates when I looked him in the eye.

And since then, I've had excellent company on this adventure called life, adding other wise and familiar souls (in the new bodies of Sam and then Isaac, as well as older bodies of new friends) to my circle as I roll along. I laugh and cry just about every day. And I am loving every minute of it.

the origins of Valentine's Day

For those of you who have been cursing Hallmark all these years, here is the story:

Valentine's Day originates from Third Century A.D. Rome.

Emperor Claudius II banned marriage when he observed that men were refusing to leave their wives and join the army. Valentine, a priest, believed in love and marriage so much that he refused to follow the law and continued to marry young lovers in secret. For this, he was sentenced to death. Before Valentine was taken from his prison cell to be executed, he left a note behind for his fair maiden which he signed, “Love from your Valentine”. On February 14, 269 AD, Valentine became a martyr for his belief in marriage and love. Thereafter on February 14, people would honor the sacrifice Valentine made by exchanging poetry and love letters on this day.

I'm not suggesting we should martyr ourselves for love, but doesn't this shed a whole new light on the custom? As for Hallmark, I do think handmade Valentines are best...

today's gratitude

Where do I begin?

Well, all I'll have time to share today comes from my yoga practice.

At Shine in Hyde Park, the chant we intone at the beginning of each class is so beautiful that I want to share it with you. Today, since we were focusing on the second chakra, source of our personal sweetness, we chanted together while envisioning our words as honey dripping from our lips.

This reminded me of a Dan Nichols song my kids and I sing about the Torah: let us soak it up, let it all sink in, sweet words of Torah, sweet as honey on our tongues. But that's a whole other blog entry for another day ;)

Here, for right now, is the chant from Shine:
OM
Namah Shivaya Gurave
Saccidananada Murtaye
Nisprapancaya Shantaya
Niralambaya Tejase
OM

...which means "I offer myself to the Light, the True Teacher within and without, Who assumes the forms of Reality, Consciousness and Bliss, Who is never absent and full of peace. Independent in its existence; It is the vital essence of illumination."

Yeah!

Beautiful!

If you can, you should come and be part of that some time.

Anyway, according to the chakra system, our lower belly is the locus of the energy which connects us to other people, our center for giving, wanting and receiving love. The energy we radiate towards others comes from our second chakra, our root chakra, located between the navel and the pubic bone. Its Sanskrit name, which I've now forgotten, means sweetness. When we radiate sweetness, we invite sweetness; a good lesson.

I am grateful for this morning's gift of 90 minutes during which I was guided to learn about and focus my mind on this energy source while being led through some very beautiful and powerful poses by Wendy at Shine. A highlight for me was when we all held ourselves in "dancer's pose" (body horizontally balanced above one leg, with the opposite foot curled in the hand behind the back, while the hand on the balancing side extends forward) and another was a similar asana, rooted in triangle pose, from which we were instructed to tip over and visualize the self as a sugar cane bow, bending to launch an arrow of sweetness into the heart of one we love.

By the way, the bracelet I wear that facilitates my holding all these wonderful balancing asanas is from Power Balance Technology. So many people ask me about it that I thought I'd put that on here. You can buy it directly from the manufacturer or on ebay or amazon.com. I wear a size medium. It comes in many different colors, and basically, it enhances your body's cellular communication. I can't explain the patented science behind it, but if you have two minutes when you see me, ask for a brief demonstration and you can decide whether this is something you want to add to your basic wardrobe. No, they don't pay me to do this, but they SHOULD! ;)

Namaste, each and every one of you beautiful people, and have a great weekend.

today's gratitude

I am so excited and grateful today to have this artwork added to my beloved yoga mat. A local artist, Radha, recently traveled to India where she observed women performing an ancient pracice of creating art out of wet drippy sand on the shore, only to have it washed away by the tide. Mothers have evidently been passing these ritualized sand drawings down to their daughters for ages, and Radha decided to capture the images and make stencils from them. She stenciled a set onto my yoga mat, one round design to represent each of the seven chakra. I just took it home, stood on the base chakra and performed some basic asanas; I can already sense how this artwork will deepen my practice, my awareness. Just from my first two minutes of exploration, I observed how these beautiful ancient designs align with the corresponding part of my body as I hover, stretch and otherwise move myself through the space just above my mat. Let me know if I can get your mat to Radha; she prints a unique set of stencils on each mat, either in all white or in the seven colors of the rainbow. ($15/$25 plus shipping and handling ;))

today's gratitude

was interrupted by the need to call the plumber and then withdraw the majority of the money in our checking account in order to pay him.

No, that is not exactly true. Before I called the plumber, I had the privilege of waking, feeding and assisting my children and giving and receiving lots of love. I then paid to visit a friend, who made me feel wise, valuable, useful and appreciated, as well as fortunate that I am not currently confronting the dilemma she presently faces. And before I actually had to deal with the plumber, I was able to fill the tank of my minivan with gas for just $2.33 a gallon, which, especially by worldwide standards, is incredibly inexpensive.

I also got to go shopping, and load my cart up to the brim with all sorts of good things, including lovely foodstuffs to serve those of my son's friends who are joining us to watch the Superbowl, a beautiful brie en croute with pecans and fruit, and a very promising bottle of pinot noir to bring to the friend who's cooking dinner for us Saturday night, and even a set of 600 thread count Supima cotton sheets, just because I felt like giving a gift to Hope Springs(I <3 Hope Springs) when I go there for a silence retreat later this month. And lots and lots of soft, fluffy toilet tissue, which is a sure sign that I am living one heck of a comfortable life.

So, the fact that my checking account is now basically a yawning void and I must continue to owe creditors some money that I was about to pay them, is not good, but it is not so terrible, either. We get to continue to enjoy modern plumbing, which smells much, much better than the alternative. But I think I had better return the bed linens, at least until I get some more paid work.

Mural, anyone?

today's gratitude

I feel so deeply grateful today for the opportunity to be here on this passionate planet. With all the many challenges we face here, it is still such a special place. We are surrounded by nature in all its awesome power and beauty. We are able to experience so many pleasures through our five senses, and to create pleasure for others. We can find so many ways to be useful, to be of help to our fellow human beings. What a rich experience is ours for the taking.

I continue to challenge myself to be more self aware, less driven by ego, less defensive, and more open to the opportunities for learning which are constantly available to me. I continue to challenge myself to stop and listen, to be still, to look within, to receive help and guidance.

Remember to enjoy your time here, friends. Love one another. Be of service. Be good to yourself. And be grateful.

Rehearsal on film

This photo is the happy result of an acting job I didn't get. I was recently submitted for consideration for a very small part in a comedy about a composer. While corresponding with the liaison from the film production company, I mentioned that I play the violin. One thing led to another and the end result was that the film crew came to our orchestra's beautiful rehearsal space at KK b'nai tzedek, and filmed our rehearsal to use in the film. This is one of several still pics from the shoot that was sent to me from the production company. We - the Seven Hills Sinfonietta - will be performing at B'nai Tzedek on March 7, 2010. The program will include Vivaldi's second concerto for flute and orchestra, a 1951 poem for flute and orchestra by Charles Griffes and Elgar's gorgeous Enigma Variations.