Category Archives: It’s a New Day

To Every Season

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My backyard takes me back to San Antonio so often. And never more so than on an overcast autumn day. I’m not sure why that is. First of all, my backyard doesn’t look anything like my childhood backyard in San Antonio. Second of all, why autumn? Maybe only a channeler or re-birther or some other New Age witch could help figure those conundrums out.

Meanwhile, let me tell you about my backyard.

 

We planted fruit trees in a rush of exuberance. Apples, pears, almonds. Wow! Our first home after dozens of rented apartments. Our first declaration of permanence in Israel. Sort of  like having all those kids in a flush of love and as a declaration of our commitment to each other.

Several years we put in a vegetable garden, right in the middle of the yard where there was the most sun. Healthy, organic food to nurture our growing family. No chocolate spread and sweetened chemical juice for our kids.

We hung wind chimes to create a feeling of harmony and serenity.                    

We planted wildflowers one year, domesticated flowers other years, spices yet other years. An infusion of orderly color and practical usefulness.

We set up a composter and three large plastic containers, one for paper, one for glass and one for plastics, to be among the few people in our community to actually recycle. Ever the conscientious, ecologically-inspired good citizens of the Earth.

But backyards, like kids, like marriage, like us, don’t often turn out exactly according to plan.

The fruit trees, now almost 30 years old, quickly became a tangled mess of wayward branches, the fruit mostly feeding birds and worms. There are wooden trellises here and there and gardening tools leaning against a tree as remnants of the vegetable gardens which invariably gave us a few tomatoes before sizzling in the Israeli summer. You can see the wind chimes if you search among the overgrown trees but they’re way too deep to actually be heard. Wildflowers sometimes pop up to surprise us but domesticated flowers and spices have long been replaced with funky green plants which are the only ones hardy enough to survive. Our composter and recycling bins are usually full in anticipation of the next step.

In short, my backyard is a reflection of life…at least mine. It’s comfortable and flexible and accepting of the vagaries of my care. We’ve grown into each other. I love the abandoned trellises and wild trees. I love running into a wind chime unexpectedly and hearing its lovely melody. I love walking out to feed organic waste to my composter.

I love how my kids are each exactly themselves. Quirky. Interesting. Ideas, directions, dreams of their own. I love how my relationship with each of them has grown into something comfortable, flexible and accepting of the vagaries of my attention…and theirs.

    

As for the perpetually almost-overflowing recycling bins, the gardening tools leaning every which way by the gnarled almond tree and crazy green plants of unnameable species lining our porch, that’s what takes me back to San Antonio, especially on autumn days.

I think of it as Southside San Antonio, though I’m no longer at all sure that it was the south side or if that’s one of those unreliable memories. It was where my less genteel friends lived. Not those girls with the big hair who actually had debutante seasons. Not my cheerleader friends or the boys in madras shirts with fruit loops on the back. Nope, these friends had yards full of history. The car up on blocks that someone had thought they’d fix someday, the broken tools or machinery or household appliances laying around haphazardly waiting for repair, the big German Shepherd who always looked fierce but was good for a romp on the grass. These friends wore cowboy boots, drove souped up Mustangs and didn’t figure on a college education.

(You knew this kid, too, right?)

I used to love going to their houses. Ah – the freedom and lack of complication to be found there in their yards.

And now I have a yard like that.

Almost every morning, rain or shine, I toss around bread for birds to come visit my backyard. It’s become a feeding station for them. On nice days we have breakfast out there and watch them fly into the wild, overgrown trees – such a great protected shelter for them – until they start coming down, one-by-one at first until they feel safe, and then whole messes of them pecking and performing for us. On days when the weather forces us inside, I stand by the window over the sink and watch them enjoying my Southside San Antonio backyard as much as I do.

My backyard is a whole world. Is yours, too?

 

 

Who me? Retired?

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Here’s a word for you. Close your eyes and tell me what pops into mind.

RETIREMENT

   

                
Kind of a big word that brings to mind wonderful things for some people, frightening things for some people and just bafflement or confusion for yet others.

It’s one of those words that is barely part of our vocabulary for the first 50+ years of our lives. Sort of like thinking that our parents have sex when we’re 10 or thinking about smoking causing actual d-e-a-t-h (as in: our own) when we’re 17 or thinking about Alzheimer’s while having that toke when we’re 25 (if you haven’t thought of that one yet…sorry…you know the one about the postcard that the Jewish mother sends her son – “Start worrying. Details to follow.”).

I closed my company at the end of 2010. I used to have three offices in two different continents with 3 worker bees in one of them (sort of like having triplet toddlers but that’s another story).

Then I had two offices but no employees and that was even busier.

Now I suppose I technically have one office but since I do less and less having anything to do with public relations or fundraising, it’s sort of a misnomer…or a fiction…or, let’s face it, sort of a lie.

It reminds me of something Ram Dass wrote in his wonderful book, Still Here.  He wrote that many men in their 70’s and 80’s (yes, it is sort of gender-specific for his generation, maybe for mine, and maybe even for my children’s) still “go into the office” (that’s how they put it) and talk about their indispensable-ness (please overlook that not being a word) because that’s the only identity they have and cling to it fearing that the only alternative is the guy in the robe with a scythe in his hand.

 

 Well, I didn’t think that owning up to having retired from the work I’d been doing (foreshadowing) meant that I’d have to start watching out for The Grim Reaper (as if watching out for him helps – an aside here with a great story about the guy who caught a glimpse of TGR and ran to his friend to borrow a horse to ride to the next town over to hide out until the coast was clear in his hometown. His friend ran into TGR who said he had no time to stand and chat because he had an appointment with someone in the next town over.)

I just didn’t think about it at all. Who me? Retired?

Back in the olden days when our 5 children (finally) stopped moving back into the house “just for a month or two”, Gershon and I looked at each other over our morning coffee and fresh fruit one day and realized that we had an “empty nest”. Yikes! Lo! and behold, there followed a year of adjustment until we wiggled this way and squished around that way and looked at each other over our morning coffee and fresh fruit one day, smiled, and realized that our “empty nest” had evolved into a comfy home for two.

So just the other day, scroll up to see that I closed my office in December 2010!, I realized that I’ve retired from public relations and fundraising. I looked back over the last 18 months of playing spades online, watching American TV series from iTunes, a brief stint doing yoga as a  volunteer in a senior’s day care center, piddling in the garden, starting a blog (ahem), spending more and more time with my grandchildren and reading alot and thought,

 “Hey, I’m retired! And wasting this amazing, promising, potentially exciting time of life called retirement when I’m a lucky dog to have gotten here in good health (minus a few aches and kvetches), with most of my brain working (I still don’t know the multiplication table beyond 6), a life partner I still like to have around (most of the time), enough money to keep the proverbial wolf from the door even without becoming one of those sad older women who sell cosmetics in the drug store and…never mind, this sentence has GOT to come to an end.”

My cluelessness was pretty pathetic given that (1) I’d already decided to take a 2 year yoga instructors’ course for certification and had been getting up at the crack of dawn (I’m not a morning person unless loving those morning hours of sleep can be called being a morning person) once a week since November to be able to teach yoga in places that require insurance, (2) I’d decided not to agree to meet with new potential clients “just to listen to their ideas” and (3) I’d been checking out a Transpersonal Psychology course in the US to get certified to go back to doing therapy.

Hmm. Sure sounds like someone who knows she’s retired from what she was doing professionally for a couple of decades. Like anyone who read that paragraph and knows that I’m approaching 60 would figure it out. But the person living it…i.e. ME…hadn’t figured it out yet.

You might ask yourself what the Sam Hill difference it makes what I call it to myself? (you probably wouldn’t say “Sam Hill”, though, unless you were born before 1920)

Well, I guess it DOES make a difference because once I realized that this is “RETIREMENT” (ay yai yai), I knew I had to make the most of it and stop playing those stupid games online and doing so much of all the other wasteful things I’d been doing. In spite of what all those meditation teachers say, escape isn’t all bad. It’s great within proportion, imho, with “within proportion” being the key words in that sentence. But many of my days had lost that proportion.

So now I’m taking a closer look at what I’m doing with my time.

Part One reminds me a little of a lecture I heard Sylvia Boorstein give years and years ago about Right Speech. One of the many very wise things she said in that lecture is that it’s important, before letting words out of one’s mouth, to do a quick speech scan (my term for it) –

  • What’s your motivation for saying it?
  • What’s your intention?
  • Will what you’re thinking of saying actually help realize that intention?
  • Is the other person open to hearing it right now?
  • Is this an appropriate forum?

And, in case you’re thinking that people would never say anything at all if they had to go through all that before speaking, yes, someone in the hall DID say that to her and her response was to say, “Could be. And then there would be more silence in the world. And wouldn’t THAT be nice!”

But back to the point.

Now I’m trying to institute that kind of “action scan”. Before planning my day, and as I go through my day, I try to remember to ask myself those questions and only if my motivation and intention are positive, if the action will actually help fulfill my intention, if I think the action will be received as it’s intended and if the forum is appropriate will I follow through.

Part Two of my realizing the reality of this new stage in my life is matching my values with how I fill my time. Choosing what I want to fill my time with by examining how different activities correspond to my values.

I value family – so I try to visit with my grandchildren who are an hour’s drive away once a week and my granddaughter who’s further away every other week. I try to let my kids know that I’m thinking of them. Sometimes just with a text message. I try to remember the things I can do so effortlessly that Gershon appreciates so much. It took me 15 minutes to make some dinner to bring for him to eat before the movie the other night when he met me after a 2-hour workout at the gym. (p.s. One of the worst movies either of us has ever seen – “This Must be the Place” – what could Sean Penn have been thinking? – be sure to give it a pass!)

                     

I value friendship – so I try to keep in touch with my friends. Valuing their friendship often means respecting that they AREN’T retired. Sometimes an email is a better reflection of valuing friendship than a call or a visit. And I try to develop new friendships with some of the people I meet.  Remember that Audrey Hepburn movie where she says she couldn’t possibly be friends with Cary Grant until one of her current friends dies? I think I used to come across that way (though, sadly, without the long neck and big, beautiful eyes) and am trying to remember to make a change.

I value my health – body and mind – so I’ve re-committed myself to including at least an hour of serious exercise in five days of my week, meditating every day (at least a little bit), reading soul and mind nurturing books and actually filling some time going to doctors to check out all those pesky things I’ve been passing off as annoying but “only a part of getting older”.

      

I value altruism – so I’m dedicating part of my time to actually doing the things I’ve been thinking would be nice if someone did.

I value financial security – so, yes, I’m training to be a yoga instructor with much broader possibilities of income and, even though the Transpersonal Psychology certification in the States turned out to be too expensive, I’ve found and registered for training right here in Israel next year to be able to get back into doing therapy.

But, even though this blog is all about me, it isn’t really about me. It’s about the bogeyman of retirement. What is it? What does one do with it? Is it the end of the productive part of our lives? When do we do it?

Gershon has taken to asking retired people we meet on our travels, or even in Israel, what they do with their days. At first most of them sort of answer in some glib way but he always follows up with, “No. REALLY. I really want to know what you do with your days. Start with when you get up.” And they usually comply…and comply…and comply.

Many people, it turns out, do something pretty full time but don’t usually get paid for it. One man we know took over as director of a large volunteer organization in the health field. Gershon’s reaction is that it doesn’t count as retirement. That he’s working full time…just not getting paid for it. My reaction to his reaction is to laugh. What’s retirement? It’s whatever you make it.

So there it is. And why should it come as a surprise to anyone? Retirement is just exactly like the rest of life. We can just put away all that baggage we’re carrying – from the past (What’ll people think of me if I don’t DO anything? Maybe I’ll become brain dead if I don’t DO something! What’s the importance of my life if I don’t have a job? Am I too young to retire?) and the future (Will I have to eat cat food if I quit my job? Will I have anything to talk about? Will I be bored if I don’t have a job to go to everyday? ) – to recognize what’s here right now. And then we can experience the joy and adventure of this stage of our lives.

I don’t mean to make it sound easy. It isn’t. But, then, that’s the very first of those 4 Noble Truths. Just a quick reminder – the fourth clues us in that there IS a way. Choose Life.

Traveling for Six Weeks with ONLY my Husband

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About ten years ago a friend came to try on some dresses of mine to wear to a wedding. A few of them looked GREAT on her. She ended up not borrowing any of them and when I asked her why, adding how good they looked on her, she explained that she prefers not to attract attention to herself. She dresses nicely but, in fact, once I considered it, with much fewer colors and “fashionable” new thingamagiggies on her clothes than some of my clothes.

An eye opener for me. I’d always just assumed that every woman tried to make herself as attractive as possible, within her particular social group’s unspoken rules. Not so, it seems.

This year another friend, noticing some highlights I’d put in my hair, said she, too, had put highlights in her hair for one of her kids’ weddings, having been persuaded by her hair stylist, but was happy when they grew out. I asked innocently, “Didn’t they look good?” She answered that, well, yes, she’d gotten quite a few compliments but she prefers for her hair to look “okay” and not attract compliments.

A re-enforcing “ah-ha” moment. Sooo, here it was again. That difference in basic behavior from what I (no longer by this time) assumed to be generalized to the population of women.

All this to say that when my husband and I began to talk about our upcoming 6-week travel adventure to South America and New York City, I was less surprised to learn that the idea of 6 weeks both away from home and routine AND with my husband, was an adventure whose positive effect on one’s life was not necessarily generalized to the population of couples.

Men who work with Gershon expressed surprise, “What?!? SIX WEEKS with ONLY your wife? Why would you want to do such a thing?”

Women were also quite vocal in telling me that the heat and humidity of the Amazonian jungle (not to mention the mosquitoes, leeches and occasional lack of hot water), the cold of the Patagonian glaciers and, yes, being with ONLY my mate for six weeks was of dubious enjoyment in their minds. (putting it mildly!) One friend went so far as to ponder aloud whether we would be speaking to each other when we returned.

Once upon a time I’d thought that the excitement and adventure of experiencing different cultures and seeing the beauty of God’s wonders was something everyone dreams of. But, this particular trip being the sixth or seventh Gershon and I have taken, I long ago learned that leaving one’s daily comfort zone is not something many people take lightly. The personal discomfort and anxiety level being too high a price for all that excitement and adventure.

One friend put it well when he said that he preferred to see the glory of foreign flora and fauna from the comfort of his living room – the National Geographic tv station is just fine for him and there are always DVDs.

Okay, here’s a news flash – Being with “only” my husband for six weeks is a bit of a challenge sometimes.

But it’s not because of my companion being my husband.

There probably isn’t anyone I’d rather travel with. I can only wish for everyone a partner who is as mellow, go-with-the-flow, enthusiastic, considerate and happy-to-be-on-the-road as my husband.

Nope, the only reason it’s a challenge for me is because of ME!

I have a hard time being with ANYONE 24/7.  I’m happy as a clam having a few hours, minimum, of private time, all to myself, every single day. So six weeks of 24/7 with anyone requires planned “alone time” and some deep, meditative breathing from time to time.

Probably the secrets to traveling for a long time with one’s partner are the same secrets which hold the key for long-time relationships in general and, ultimately, all relationships, including with oneself.

  • Non-violence – don’t aggressively try to dominate and control, yourself or others
  • Truth – be honest about and respect who you (and others)  are
  • Don’t steal – don’t take away from one place to compensate another – physically, emotionally or interpersonally
  • Don’t envy – don’t compare yourself or others to an ideal or to fellow travelers
  • Moderation and renunciation –  try to do, say and experience everything in proportion

“Hmmm…sounds suspiciously like the “yamas” of yoga”, she said blushingly.

Oh! That’s another secret of retaining my enjoyment (and composure). Taking time out for yoga and meditation practice brings a little bit of home, comfort zone and gratitude with me wherever I go.

Because, after all, wherever you go, there you are. Ommmmmmm…

 p.s. I got complaints about the writing style of “Addictive Behaviors” – “too heavy”; “not like you”; “didn’t get a chance to read it”

 So here’s a lighter, more like me, opportunity to read, blog. Happy Spring everyone!

Patience and Determination; forgiving myself

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Yom Kippur – probably the most serious day on the Jewish calendar. A day of introspection to take self-inventory, acknowledge all the places you’ve fallen down in being the person you want to be and resolve to make the changes you need to make.

Synagogues and temples fill up all around the world. People dressed in white with somber faces. There’s an earnestness in their prayer.

Notice I said “their”…hmmmm…yep, I’ve barely been in a synagogue on Yom Kippur in years. Our community shul is in my backyard. Well, right across the street from my backyard. I can hear the davening and the blowing of the shofar from my kitchen. And, yet, I haven’t walked in there much since I finished saying kaddish for my father almost 25 years ago.

My father was a community Rabbi. I hear that things have changed over the past few decades, but, when I was growing up, the Rabbi’s wife and kids were an unspoken part of the contract between the Rabbi and his congregation. We all had to tow the line. We were examples of correct Jewish life in a town which couldn’t support a kosher restaurant and in which most social events and interactions took place on the Jewish Sabbath when we couldn’t participate.

My father was from a rabbinic family. Nine generations of Rabbis, or so the story goes. He was the black sheep because, although he was certified as an orthodox Rabbi, he became a conservative community Rabbi instead of orthodox. To his hassidic, Israeli father, who had been the head of a yeshiva, my father was a minimally better Jew than his brother who had married a shiksa and for whom he and my grandmother had sat shiva. So suffice to say that my father had his own issues with Judaism.

Looking back from my own life perspective of living in a community where people take joy in their Judaism, I understand how the stern, unemotional Judaism of the home in which I grew up created obstacles to my own Jewish observance. Every Shabbat, every holiday, three afternoons a week and Sunday morning – all filled with restrictions and none of the incredible beauty and spiritual fullness I’ve seen in my Israeli community’s observance.

And all carried out in our glass house under the scrutiny of my father’s employers.

So, no, I don’t join in the davening on Yom Kippur or any other day. It’s all too fraught with darkness for me.

But over the past 20 years an apparent need for spirituality – the seed of spiritual growth – has been watered and nurtured in a constant and persistent manner. An unconscious patience and determination took advantage of every opportunity, every glimmer of interest, to lead me to a softer, kinder relationship with spirituality.

Patience and determination. They go hand-in-hand.

Patience without determination can mean mediocrity, settling for less, never becoming the person you want to be and could be, never having the influence for good in your own life and the lives of others that you might.

Determination without patience can mean aggression, violence, insensitivity to yourself and those around you, hurrying ahead, constantly pushing, mowing down the fragile buddings of beauty in your path.

Patience without determination may lead to frustration, sadness, regret.

Determination without patience may lead to disappointment, self-flagellaltion, isolation.

I’ve been harsh to myself for the past couple of weeks. Critical of my lackluster pre-Yom Kippur state.

Always before I’ve justified my lack of formal Jewish observance in knowing that pretty much every day is a day of introspection and self-inventory for me. Pretty much every day for the past 20 years or so has been a day filled with spirituality and filled with God. But this year I’ve felt removed from that place.

Not that it’s never happened before.

As is truth for so many aspects of life, I see my spirituality and partnership with God in terms of waves. Waves that come in and go out. Just as I wouldn’t try to grab onto a wave and hold it constant and I wouldn’t try to make a wave rise and come toward me (what could come of that other than failure and frustration?), so I don’t try to force spirituality to reside in me. I encourage it with reading and music and meditation and yoga but, ultimately, I am like the ocean – providing a welcoming home but knowing that waves come and go in their natural rhythms.

But it’s never happened before around Yom Kippur.

So for quite a few days I felt irritated with myself, disappointed and impatient.

And then, yesterday, on my morning walk, I listened to one of my favorite teachers, who has regrettably few teachings available, Phillip Moffit (www.dharmaseed.com look for his Oct. 24, 2010 talk), speaking about patience and determination. And then saw in an email post I subscribe to by Rick Hanson (http://www.rickhanson.net/writings/just-one-thing) about having compassion for yourself.

I didn’t have that “Poof, you’re spiritually enabled” moment that I might have wished for but I felt immeasurably kinder toward myself and more able to recognize my oceanness and my spirituality’s waveness.

And, so, I’ve shared with you below a short “compassion for yourself” exercise after having done it myself a time or two. Maybe you’re being kind to yourself anyway these days. No worries, there’ll be days for which you’re happy to have saved it.

Sending prayers for your inscription in the Book of Life…and the book of spiritual nourishment and personal growth…

* Take a moment to acknowledge your difficulties: your challenges and suffering.

* Bring to mind the feeling of being with someone you know cares about you. Perhaps a dear friend, a family member, a spirit, God . . . even a pet. Let yourself feel that you matter to this being, who wants you to feel good and do well in life.

* Bring to mind your difficulties, and imagine that this being who cares about you is feeling and expressing compassion for you. Imagine his or her facial expression, gestures, stance, and atti­tude toward you. Let yourself receive this com­passion, taking in its warmth, concern, and goodwill. Open to feeling more understood and nurtured, more peaceful and settled. The expe­rience of receiving caring primes circuits in your brain to give it.

* Imagine someone you naturally feel compassion for: perhaps a child, or a family member. Imagine how you would feel toward that person if he or she were dealing with whatever is hard for you. Let feelings of compassion fill your mind and body. Extend them toward that person, perhaps visualized as a kind of light radiating from you (maybe from your heart). Notice what it’s like to be compassionate.

* Now, extend the same sense of compassion toward yourself. Perhaps accompany it with words like these, heard softly in the back of your mind: May this pain pass . . . may things improve for me . . . may I feel less upset over time. Have some warmth for yourself, some acknowledg­ment of your own difficulties and pain, some wish for things to get better. Feel that this com­passion is sinking in to you, becoming a part of you, soothing and strengthening you.

Nemaste!

Discovering America

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America gets a bad rap abroad.

Speaking as a semi-ex-pat who visits the big cities in the United States frequently but has lived in Israel for over 30 years and seldom has occasion to be in the smaller towns and rural areas of America, I was in for a big surprise when I ventured out of California and into Nevada and Utah in September.

First, if you’re sitting in a big city in the United States and have little contact with anyone who doesn’t sit in a similar place, you may not even know that elsewhere in the world you’re thought to have questionable values, unruly children (if you have children), little or no knowledge about anything outside your city limits and to be clueless about any of your above traits.

Okay, now, I have good friends living in the big cities of America so I know that not all of the above is true of everyone geographically near you but I have to admit to basically accepting much of that criticism for many people in your situation.

I recently went to a family wedding in Oakland and stayed in Berkeley, one of my favorite university towns, for Labor Day weekend. One of my favorite university towns only because I don’t have to live there. I used to live there in ancient times (ps it hasn’t changed much) but left Northern California when I tired of trying to get re-acquainted with my friends every month as they totally shed one persona for another.

Late Monday night I flew to Las Vegas, my planned jumping off point to go hiking in the canyons of Utah, Bryce Canyon and Zion Canyon.

Las Vegas.  I had thought I might enjoy a little gambling – the glitz and sparkle of the man-made wonders of the world; The Venetian Hotel, The Luxor Hotel (complete with pyramids) – and had planned my trip to come back to Las Vegas for all that on the weekend. But while walking through the lobby (read: casino) to get to the hotel registration desk I began to hear a loud whisper in my ear warning of my mistake.

It went something like this:

OMG! Cigarette smoking is allowed here? And what’s with all these sleazy people who look like miserable zombies? Yikes!

Followed by:

Is this another “old person” reaction? Have I totally lost my sense of fun? Hmmm. Doesn’t look like anyone’s actually having fun. 

Up bright and early to make my getaway. More or less made a beeline for the parking lot through all those not-so-happy-time gamblers. There were many more of them at 8 a.m. than there had been at 2 a.m. but they still didn’t look very happy. I noticed when grabbing some breakfast that plenty of them had children in tow so I guess they don’t think of Las Vegas with its gambling and, ahem, other sports, as sleazy or shameful.

Personally, it all seemed like America at its worst to me…or at least not a very pretty side of glory, glory hallelujah. But this blog post really isn’t a rant about Las Vegas.

The drive to Zion Canyon put me immediately in a different frame of mind. As soon as I broke free of the construction-entangled highways of Las Vegas I found myself breathing easier and more deeply.

Crusing down a ribbon of highway, I was surrounded on all sides by open, rolling desert savannah with mountains in the distance to my right and to my left.

It went on for miles and miles getting more and more beautiful as I traveled further away from the city. I’m a big fan of the desert in all its many variations and soon was singing along with the golden oldies radio station.

By the time I pulled in at The Dream Catcher’s Inn just outside of Zion Canyon the world seemed like a kinder place. One of the owners suggested that even though the sun would be setting in another hour or so, it would be a good idea to go on the Park shuttle to get an overall idea of a plan for the next day. So off I went.

In the parking lot of the park before getting on the shuttle I ran into a young couple who asked that I take their picture together with the gorgeous mountains in the background. After I’d taken a couple of photos and they’d checked to make sure the pictures were okay (he told me that she’s sensitive about her (miniscule) thighs. Sigh) he enthusiastically told me that they’d gotten engaged 20 minutes ago and I was the first to know. We chatted about their news and my own 37 year marriage for a bit. I wished them a good life as we parted. Nice kids.

The Shuttle was one example of the U.S. national parks’ exemplary organization for handling large numbers of people in the most efficient and ecologically sound ways.  At every stop along the way there are (clean!) bathrooms and spigots to fill water bottles so that people only carry in one plastic bottle and no tissues or toilet paper.

The sunset over The Court of the Patriarchs (three peaks names Abraham, Isaac and Jacob) was peaceful and pretty. The ringtail cat sighting was exciting (they’re rare). Laying on a low-lying wall at one of the stops and gazing up at the spectacular night time sky, as suggested by the shuttle driver, was wonderful (I didn’t want to head back but was afraid I’d miss the last shuttle back to town).

But even though every time I thought I couldn’t possibly see anything more gorgeous than the last amazing, breathtaking sight,  I came around the bend to see something even more mind-bogglingly beautiful, this blog post isn’t about God’s handiwork (He so outclasses anything Humankind has come up with so far).

“So what the Sam Hill is this blog post about?” I can hear you asking. (you may have substituted another word for ‘Sam Hill’.)

It’s about America. It’s about Americans. It’s about major misconceptions about both.

I was travelling, hiking, horseback riding alone.  

There are some really great things about doing all that with other people – especially people you love and find interesting. But there are also some really great things about going it alone.

For me, anyway, I find that I think more and I talk to strangers more when I’m alone. And, usually, first I think more and then I talk to strangers more so the conversation can be simple, “how ya’ doin’; where ya’ been; where ya’ from; where ya’ goin’ next” conversation but it can also be “I’ve been thinking about how people must’ve lived and felt back when this area was pretty much unpopulated. What do you think they were like?”

And then there’s alot more just plain eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. Something to keep in mind when you see someone sitting alone who looks like she’s reading a book.

And that’s what this blog post is about. The wholesome people who visit and live in the Western States of the US of A.

The teenagers who actually speak to older people and actually listen to them with respect.  

The waitress in Hurricane,Utah, who works to pay for the upkeep of her horses and the couple in Springdale who spoke to me about past vacations – all hiking, camping or skiing with their entire family – and the mountain marathon runner from Southern Utah University who chatted with me in Dixie National Park while she waited for her teammate to show up and pass her the baton. She mostly spoke about her college organization’s volunteer activities for children with special needs and her upcoming wedding.

In Bryce I spoke with an elderly couple from Minnesota as they rested on a  bench along the sunrise hike trail. They were with a group of 12 retired  couples, all with recreational vehicles, who were travelling together across the United States. As we talked, another couple in their group came along and we all shared hiking experiences in between long minutes of companionable silence.

At Hoover Dam a woman from South Carolina struck up a conversation with me about the ingenuity and work ethic that went into the Dam Project.  Later, over coffee, she told me about the two children from Guatemala she had adopted when they were 3 and 5 and how proud she was to be at her younger son’s college graduation in June. She showed me pictures of them with her hiking in the mountains near their home. I traveled in Guatemala a few years back and she pondered the wisdom of, perhaps, making a trip there with them. None of them had been back since she brought them to the plane upon adoption.

There were many others who made me proud to be an American and gave me renewed hope for the future of the land of my birth.

It’s true that many of the conversations made me sad for an America whose economy is not only bad but unimproving and sadder about the resulting disappearance of the optimism which typified my youth and university days. Several people spoke of losing their jobs and securing a new position more than a year later…at a lower salary. A few mentioned that our children’s generation is the first to have no hope for a better life than that of their parents…or even equally good.

As an Israeli I nurtured an inward smile at the disillusionment with President Obama which I heard over and over again from Democrats, Republicans, those who voted for him and those who voted against. But as an American I despaired together with them in the reasons for their disillusionment – the high rate of unemployment, family businesses closing down, a “new” health plan which leaves so many worse off than before. (I continue to be shocked how many Americans make significant life decisions based on where they can find the best health care coverage.)

If you’re old enough to remember, there was a human interest show of heartwarming and nostalgic vignettes about simple Americans on CBS news in the olden days.  It featured Charles Kuralt and lasted for a quarter of a century, airing for the last time in 1992, just five years before Kuralt died in 1997 from complications of lupus at the age of 62. The popularity of the show surprised the decision-makers at CBS and even Kuralt himself.

I met some people worthy of a couple of minutes of Mr. Kuralt’s time on my recent wanderings and it’s a great feeling knowing that so many of them are still out there almost 20 years after Kuralt closed up shop.

Might I dare to hope that they make up the majority of Americans?

Good news for your brain

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The good news is that we can change the actual physical structure of our brain to make our lives easier, with less anxiety, less fear and less negativity.

The bad news is that it takes attention and effort…and the job is never done.

Recently I came across Dr. Rick Hanson, neuro-psychologist, www.rickhanson.net, and listened to the first two parts of a four part series of lectures called “Taking the Good” (www.audiodharma.org) about positive thinking research primarily out of UW/Madison’s Waisman Institute for Integrative Health (www.investigatinghealthyminds.org).

While the purists among us might want to read/listen to the research at its source, I found Dr. Richie Davidson’s rendering dry, unnecessarily long and boring, while Dr. Hanson takes the same information and makes it interesting and easy to listen to and comprehend.

The short version, without all the science about neurons, neuro-transmitters, and impressive-sounding names of brain sections, (which is fascinating and definitely worth listening to) is that we can create and fortify new neuro-pathways with mental exercises.

That while we’re wired to live by an emphasis on negativity (those laid back, it’s-all-good type animals and humans became someone’s dinner while the fearful, careful, anxiety-ridden became our grannies and granddaddies), we can carry out exercises in positive thinking 2-3 times a day for a couple of minutes each time, and thicken right up our left frontal lobe, creating a life of more personal comfort, altruism and even stave off Altheimer’s.

As some Canadian neuroscientist said “the neurons that fire together, wire together.”

Used to be we thought our brain cells died off all the time leading inexorably and inevitably to a feeble old age. Turns out that we do, indeed, lose 10,000 brain cells a day (and 10,000 for every alcoholic beverage…yikes!). But we can also add new brain cells and, actually better yet, expand the ones we have left.

Hanson describes it sort of like this – When there’s a forest fire, after awhile there are lots of little saplings. A decade later those saplings haven’t become an equal number of big trees. They’ve thinned out. The remaining trees, though, are not only way taller but have branched out with their branches reaching to each other in an”arborization” effect.

That’s what our brain cells do. But only through brain exercise.

Luckily, we all get lots of brain exercise without making a conscious effort. There are billions of synapses that send trillions of messages daily. Wiggle your big toe and you’ve sent hundreds of thousands of messages in a flash.

Our brain never rests. Not even when we’re asleep.

But there’s brain exercise and there’s brain exercise.

Wiggling your big toe is great but research has shown that meditation is greater.

What do I, with my daily meditation practice,  have in common with a Tibetan monk who lives in a monastery and a Christian contemplative nun who lives a life of service? We all have three areas in our brains which light up like a campfire when seen on an MRI slice. The area responsible for executive decisions, the area where enjoyment of reward shows up and the left front lobe with self-awareness and positive sensations.

Aside from the usual meditation practice of quieting thoughts to be present in the here and now – what Hanson calls stage one “let it be” and stage two “let it go”- research has shown that a practice of stage three “let it in” can make those brain changes to improve our lives vastly.

What do we let in? We let in positive thought to counter our great-great-grandparents fear of the tiger who doesn’t exist (we still don’t want to ignore the tiger who does exist) and antidote thought to counter holes of lacking from our early development. And we practice both daily to keep those neurons firing and wiring.

Positive Thought Practice

1. Choose a positive experience from today or yesterday and think about it

This can be something as small as a kind word from someone, completing a task you’ve set for yourself like washing the car, or as huge as getting a raise or getting pregnant.

2. Move the experience from your mind to your body

Let your thought become the feeling associated with it. Does it translate into a smile? A feeling of an expansion in your chest? A relaxation of your brow and other face muscles?

3. Let the thought and feeling sink more deeply into you and stay with it for a minute or two.

We have a tendency to have negative thoughts pop up to the surface. “Yeah, but washing the car is something I should do much more regularly.” “Yeah, well, the job won’t last because I probably won’t be able to fulfill her expectations.” Just note what comes up and bring the positive thought and feeling back into the foreground.

Antidote Thought Practice

We all have at least one narrative of “not enough” from our formative years. Not enough love. Not enough recognition. Not enough power. And it becomes a theme for how we react to our lives and the events and people in them.

A meditation practice can help us slow down, take a deep breath, and respond differently.

Neuroscience has now shown that we can also do exercises to change the physical structure of our brain to direct our reactions toward a new neuropathway.

1. Think of the hole of whatever was lacking (most of us know what it is but if you don’t, just choose “not enough love” since that’s a generic fallback that’s true for almost all of us) and then choose an experience from today or yesterday that shows the exact opposite and think about it.

If your particular hole has to do with not having been seen/recognized by your family of origin or your peers, you might think about a conversation with someone wherein they really “got it”.

Or if you felt powerless, perhaps you can call to mind a few of the decisions you made today which were totally your own.

Let the hole remain in the background while the positive opposite stand firmly in the foreground.

2. Move the positive experience from your head to your heart; from thought to feeling. Like the “positive thought practice” but take along the hole of lacking in a much smaller dose.

3. Let the thought and feeling really sink in and hold it inside for a minute or two. Note all the thoughts that arise, often thoughts of negativity, and the feelings, often of sadness, getting choked up, or of fear or anger.

The hole may gape ever larger and threaten to swallow up the positive. Pay attention but return it firmly to the background.

I’ve been talking about all this to the women in my Monday night yoga and meditation group. A few of them have taken it to heart and are trying to do their brain exercises 2-3 times a day. It will be interesting to see if a few months of it make a difference, or as Hanson says, the difference that makes a difference.

And now I have to go…it’s time for my brain exercise.

For Better or for Worse But Not for Lunch

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My husband had an uncle who lost his job at some point. Apparently he couldn’t find another and couldn’t face the disgrace of not having a job. Every day he got up, got dressed like usual, took the lunch his wife packed for him and left the house as if he were going to work. Every day for years. Until he could “safely” say he was retired.

They say that men define themselves by their work and women don’t. I’m thinking maybe they had in mind an earlier age in time.

I think I basically retired.

I’ve never had a normal job – well, when I was pregnant with our oldest daughter who just turned 35, I worked for The State of Wisconsin updating licensing for nursing homes. You don’t get much more normal than that, I suppose. Punched a clock, checked paperwork all day and could’ve made more money working at MacDonalds.

But generally speaking, I’ve always had jobs where I’ve made my own decisions, kept my own hours on a per project basis and noone really knew what I was doing or where I was doing it.

When I was in college I worked for a labor union – long since defunct – whose regional offices were 300 miles away in Chicago and national offices were in New York. My job was to show a strike film to rank-and-file around the state of Wisconsin. In 6 months I might have shown that film 3 times. It’s a family joke to this day.

But I turned into a responsible person at some point and  worked harder and put in more hours in my self-devised frameworks than lots of people do in the places where the clock gets punched.  No dropping the pencil mid-sentence at exactly 4 o’clock for me.

I planned building projects and supervised them going up on virgin hills. I took SOS calls when electricity went out in the middle of the night or contractors threatened to walk off the job. I spoke to the press at the sites of terrorist attacks, political rallies and at dramatic turns of events of all kinds. I solicited philanthropic funds all over the world.

Wow! I’m even impressing myself!

And then, about two years ago, I stopped.

It didn’t happen in a day, or a week or a month.

I started screening my calls from the media, taking only those from the largest agencies that I couldn’t ignore. I started skimming the newspaper, checking only one or two news sites and only once or twice a day.

All those articles about lowering your tension levels by giving up reading the news? They’re true. Ahhhh! How nice not to know. And what do we know from reading the news anyway? As Mark Twain said, “If you don’t read the newspaper, you’re uninformed. If you do read the newspaper, you’re misinformed.” Wise man.

I had stopped taking on new clients several years previously  in theory. I turned theory into reality. Slowly but surely, my “current projects”  finished up and became past clients.

I’d begun listening to dharma podcasts and found myself, more and more, listening to them on my morning walk instead of listening to music. And the music I listened to at the end of the podcasts changed. Until one day, or over a period of several months, I came to the realization that the principles had been soaked up into the very fabric of my thinking, feeling and  behavior and the calming music had become my music default.

I found a yoga class I loved and found that yoga added to meditation added to dharma equaled a peaceful happiness that served me and all those around me well.

Sounds idyllic, right?

There was this one little cloud on the horizon. When people would ask that question “So, what are you up to these days?” I heard myself hedging. Making the 3 clients I still handle sound like a real job. Embellishing the help I give a friend who’s directing a big project in the Galilee and the Negev.  Hinting at a busyness that, in actuality, has more to do with travelling around the country to see my granddaughters than anything else.

Had I become Gershon’s Uncle Sam? Metaphorically taking the packed lunch off to “as if” work every morning? Was my definition of myself really that dependent on my work and the status of what I do as I perceive it in the eyes of others?

I practiced the other night answering that question differently. No hints of greatness or fame. Her: “So, what are you up to these days?” Me: “I’m doing alot of yoga and meditation.” Her: Those are the main things you’re doing?!?”

YIKES!!

Me: “Yep.”

Oh, so proud of myself. I did it. I stopped packing my lunch. I retired.

Now I just have to worry about how it’ll be when Gershon retires. You know the adage – “For better or for worse, but not for lunch.”

Here and Now in the Shuk

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Thursday is one of my favorite days of the week.

When I open my eyes on Thursdays as 6 a.m. approaches, my body decides for me whether or not to head out on my usual hour walk through the misty valley and up the little mountain near my house. Lately I’ve been trying to remember to say the morning blessing of gratitude for waking up to another day and sometimes that 30 seconds is just enough to fight off the temptation to close my eyes and roll over again into that blissful morning slumber.

By 7:15 the house smells like fresh-ground coffee and there’s freshly sliced fruit on the table – the best in the world. My husband is the morning chef, like his father before him and our older son, who’s continuing the tradition.

After our morning schmooze, I’m out of the house by 8:30 to get to my weekly hour and a half yoga class in Jerusalem. After trying yoga about a dozen times in various studios from California to New York to Jerusalem, I’d about given up on it when I happened onto Rachel’s class. Wow! She does a holistic yoga which includes special breathing and stretches which ease my relatively inflexible body into delicious poses.

Most Thursdays I round up our younger son from the beautiful new Supreme Court Building where he’s clerking and we go to the nearby Mahane Yehuda Shuk for lunch.

Rafi lived just 3 blocks from The Shuk for his last two years of law school and acquired a love for The Shuk to rival my own. He and I wander The Shuk, buying a few things but mostly soaking up the sounds and the colors.

The one place we never miss is Oz the fish monger’s basta. Oz is the very quintessence of basterionarim. A grumpy middle-aged Sephardi guy who always has a 3-day growth of dark beard and a scowl on his face. Despite the demeanor, now that I’ve been buying fresh fish there once or twice every week for a year, he hurls endearments my way instead of insults.

Oz's Father Helps Out at Oz's Basta

“Where’ve you been, Mami,” he shouts when I’ve been out of the country for a few weeks. Or “I’ve been saving two of my most beautiful trout for you, Metuka Sheli.” (my sweet one)…and he has.

Further on is “my” spice man. The smells and colors…nothing compares. I often wonder how he supports his family selling 100 grams of mustard seeds and 200 grams of cardamon. But there he’s been for the past 30 years I’ve been coming to The Shuk. And like most of the basterionarim at The Shuk, he probaby inherited the basta from his father.

Most of the basterionarim in The Shuk have little education. Many of them did not complete high school. Alot of them are rich. Their day begins before dawn and they work hard all day. They’re as honest as the day is long (maybe a tad less honest with tourists). You can trust their word. They’re good to their clients…though they probably don’t call it customer relations.  Oz isn’t the only one who “saves” his best produce for his preferred customers. Sometimes they tell shoppers they’re out of something only to pull that same something out of the back room for their regular clients.

My husband markets fruit to wholesalers, some of whom also have bastas at The Shuk. We’ve gotten to know many of them very well and are invited to their family simchas (family events). Often there are tables and tables of just men…basterionarim. Their wives aren’t encouraged to go out alot but if they do come along they’re always amazing to look at. Dressed like celebs with the kind of high heels it’s suicidal to fall off of. Danskos are so much more comfortable but, oh!, those high heels are to die for.

One basta I frequent for vegetables is owned by an Arab man who is a 2nd generation basta owner. His son works alongside him every now and then – but rarely. We talked about it one day and he sounded a little bitter. He said that he’s not willing for his son to live the life he lives. In spite of his wealth, he said that he regrets not having an education, and is determined that his son (who loves The Shuk) will go to university and do something else with his life.

I get that. It’s a hard life. I’m happy that Rafi is clerking at The Supreme Court instead of getting up at 3 a.m. to stack fruit, dealing with thousands of people a day who want everything a little bit cheaper and falling into bed exhausted at the end of another 15 hours of physical labor.

But The Shuk is still one of the things that make Thursdays one of my favorite days of the week.

What a variety of colors , shapes, smells and sounds! What a variety of humanity passes me by as I wander! What an abundance of the blessings we find here on earth!

“Halva – al ha-sakin!” (halva slices cut fresh) “Agvania b’shekel!” (only one shekel for a kilo of tomatoes)

If I’m given my choice of the top ten places I want to be mindfully in the here and now, Mahane Yehuda is definitely on the list.