Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles

by Rivvy Neshama

  Right before we left, I noticed something pinned to her wall—a simple white cloth with red embroidered words: “Sparkle with the Spirit.”

  “The nuns gave it to me,” Rita said.

  They gave it to the right person.

  JUST LIKE ME

  It was one week after Annie’s birthday, and we had invited her and Ellie to dinner. Just as we sat down to eat, the doorbell rang. Since it was a wintry Sunday evening, I wondered who it could be. When I opened the door, I felt the darkness and the cold. A man in his thirties was standing there holding a clipboard.

  “We’re in the middle of a party,” I said, with a dollop of self-righteous anger. Then I felt bad. He probably just needed me to sign some petition—to clean the rivers, or save the prairie dogs, or some such Boulder thing. So in a kinder tone, I asked, “What do you want?”

  “Do you need any patio glass or door panels?” he said, and my anger revved up again. How rude to knock on our door on a Sunday night to try and sell something. “No,” I said in my original tone. “Good night.” Back at the table, I relayed what had happened. “Poor guy,” Annie said. “He must be really hard off to go out on a night like this.” Ellie muttered something about how this recession was hitting everyone. And guilt whisked in to replace my anger.

  “You’re so much more compassionate than I am,” I said.

  Ellie laughed. “Well, we’ve been practicing it lately,” she said, “using Buddhist teachings.”

  “We read something out loud every day from our favorite teachers,” Annie said.

  Sensing that my own compassion needed a lift, I asked them to cut to the chase. So they offered me this guidance that came from Pema Chödrön, the beloved Buddhist nun who brings it all back home.

  “With everyone you meet and every encounter,” Annie said, “you can say to yourself, ‘Just like me.’ Especially if you’re feeling judgmental. So with that guy you just met, you could say, ‘He’s trying to make a living the best he can . . . just like me.’ Or, ‘He needs money . . . just like me.’ Or, ‘He’s self-focused . . . just like me.’”

  I like this. It’s simple, it’s basic, and it works: Buddhism for Dummies—just like me.

  Nasrudin walked into a bank. The teller asked

  if he could identify himself. Nasrudin took out

  a mirror, looked into it, and said, “Yep. That’s me!”

  —A SUFI STORY

  SERVING (PEOPLE) (DINNER)

  One nearly freezing Christmas Eve, John and I volunteered to help serve dinner to the homeless at a restaurant in downtown Boulder. I was a little nervous, afraid we’d seem condescending, or that the people we’d be serving would be depressed, crazy, or angry, or that I’d be my usual klutzy self and spill cranberry sauce all over their laps. But it turned out not to be that way at all.

  The place was festively decorated with silver garlands and red poinsettias. Christmas songs were playing over the loudspeakers, and the excitement shown by our guests inspired me to be the very best waitress I could possibly be. “Would you like more coffee, sir?” “Is everything okay, ma’am?”

  Some of the people looked truly impoverished, just wearing thin sweaters on this very cold night. Others looked like old hippies, not that different from our friends or us (a thought both comforting and disconcerting). And while many were elders, there were also young families holding babies on their laps.

  One woman seemed disgruntled and complained that her roll was hard—which it was, so I got her another. And one man made it clear that I was being overly solicitous—which I was, so I toned it down. But the main feeling was joy, simple joy: among the homeless, among the servers, and among the kitchen help (including John), who were cooking green beans and yams and filling plates with abundance.

  Rushing from the kitchen to the tables to give everyone their turkey dinner and seeing their smiles widen as they received it—“More gravy?” “Oh yes!”—made me want to spend my whole life doing just that.

  It also made me see that under all the details of our lives, we are simply learning to serve each other, no matter what we do. To practice it this clearly was a lesson, and a gift.

  HAVE A GREAT DAY! NOT.

  When I’m in a mood and people tell me “Have a great day!” I want to mutter, “What’s wrong with a nice day or a fair day? Why do I have to have a great day, grumble, grumble . . .” This “great day” greeting is rampant in Boulder markets, most often heard at checkout.

  But one day at Whole Foods, a cool young guy stacking the shelves helped me find rice cakes and said, in parting, “Have a grateful day!” Whoa, that stopped me. Have a grateful day.

  Some people say that gratefulness is the key to a sacred life. Others say it’s the key to happiness. There have even been studies that correlate gratitude with good health, less depression, and a good night’s sleep. Well, yeah. But how do you have a grateful day?

  I think it starts by saying “thank you.” And when I begin each morning with these words, it helps set the tone (at the least, it mollifies my morning blues). It could be as simple as giving thanks for another day or the sound of the morning rain.

  To expand my gratitude, I might follow the lead of Michael Bernard Beckwith, founder of the Agape International Spiritual Center. He suggests that now and then, we pick one day, find something to be thankful for every hour, and express it. I tried this and was surprised that just by having the intention, I actually remembered to do it. Every hour, more or less, I looked around or within, found something to be thankful for, and said it: “Thank you for this peaceful day” “Thank you, blackbird, for that lovely song” “Thank you, John, for mowing the lawn.”

  Since then, whenever I feel a swelling of gratitude or appreciation, I often say it out loud. Sometimes I say it right to the source: “Thank you, trees!” “Thank you, sunshine!” And sometimes I go to the source beyond: “Thank you, Great Spirit, for all this beauty!” “Thank you, Lord, for helping Mom get better.”

  It also helps, I find, to spread my thanks around, even to those anonymous ones who offer tech support on the phone.

  “Thank you so much,” I said to the man in Sri Lanka who helped me reconnect to the internet. “That was really helpful. You told me what to do in ways I could understand.”

  And when he responded “I’m happy to be of service,” I felt like I was in a Jimmy Stewart movie from the ’40s, and I hung up feeling good.

  In fact, the more I say thank you, the better I feel, so I say it whenever I feel it. If I look up at the mountains and spontaneously say “Omigod, it’s so beautiful,” I remember to add, “Thank you!” Or I’ll be out to dinner with friends and feeling so happy in the moment that I’ll silently pray, “Thank you for this food, these friends, and this wonderful life.”

  The whole world is sacred, and we connect with that sacredness when we give thanks.

  So have a grateful day. Better yet, have a grateful life.

  How we suddenly are reminded

  that we pass this way but once,

  and are expected to give thanks

  as best we can.

  —STAN GROTEGUT

  A GOOD NEIGHBOR

  “Hi, neighbor!”

  That’s how Jack would greet us, from the first day he moved in. If we saw each other over the backyard fence or passed each other on the street, he’d always say “Hi, neighbor!” with a cheerful voice and a big smile. It made me feel good to hear him—and to see him too. Handsome and lanky, Jack looked like a cowboy.

  My mother often said that if everyone just took care of their own little corner, this world would be a wonderful place. I thought of that when Jack died. He was only fifty-three, but he left a big corner behind, and he took care of it all right.

  KC, his wife, held a memorial service in their yard, a glorious labyrinth of brick paths and gardens, playgrounds, and artistry—all created by Jack, with the help of KC, their family, and friends. Many people spoke at the service, and they told of Jack’s kindness and generosit
y, his work ethic, and zest for life. Some spoke of great meals or great fishing trips they shared with him. And I spoke of what he taught John and me about being a good neighbor.

  It’s a funny thing about neighbors. You might get to see and hear them more than anyone else in your life. And if you’re lucky, like we were, you learn from them too.

  Truth is, I was kind of envious of Jack. He seemed so happy, so giving and alive, that it was easy to feel like a dark blob beside him. But the good thing about envy is, it points you where you want to go.

  Sometimes on weekends, around 7 a.m., we’d hear noise outside, and I’d ask John, “What’s that?”

  “It’s Farmer Jack,” he’d say, “working in his garden.”

  Well. We’d soon get up out of bed and start working in ours. And as we watched Jack create wondrous things in his yard, we started fixing up our own. Put rose bushes in places we had previously ignored and planted more vegetables.

  Jack would often drop by, offering bags of his new potatoes. The most delicious potatoes we ever ate. And when he’d create objects of beauty, such as exotic birdhouses, he’d carve a design on their back side as well, so we’d see beauty too.

  KC and Jack and John and I started having grandchildren around the same time, one after the other. We’d hear them playing joyfully with their grandkids, and we watched them build a playhouse, sandbox, and swing. Hmm, we thought, maybe our grandkids would have fun in a tent.

  Whenever Jack and I were both working in our yards, he would give that big shining smile, say “Hi, neighbor!” and stop to talk. We’d chat about vegetables and life. I’d ask him for practical advice. He seemed to know how to do everything. And he’d ask me to recommend the most romantic places I knew for him to take KC to on her birthday. Once, when I complained about the hot summer, Jack taught me about whole-house fans, helped us find one, and insisted on installing it himself. That was Jack.

  The last time we saw him, just a while before he died, Jack was busy planning and living and talking excitedly about a boating trip ahead—despite being debilitated by cancer and the drugs he took to fight it.

  So what did we learn from Jack? To enjoy. Be generous. Grow vegetables. Work hard. Create beauty. Be romantic. Have adventures. Love your family. Help your neighbors. And strive to be the brightest, most vibrant spirit you can be.

  I said that Jack taught us how to be a good neighbor. But really, he taught us how to live.

  Recipe inspired by Jack Rietveld,

  December 7, 1953–May 24, 2007

  “_ _ _ _ IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK”

  Back in the days when I would get stoned, I liked to get stoned with Norma and David. Norma would bake these amazing chocolate prune cakes, which we’d consume in two minutes once we were high. And now and then, David would utter something profound. Of course, when I was stoned, everything seemed profound. “It’s raining out,” someone would say, and I’d go “Wow!”

  Well, one stoned night, David proclaimed that everyone in their lifetime gets the same amount of pain, but some people get it in one lump sum, while others get fragments spread out through their years.

  “Wow!” I said. “That’s profound.” I wasn’t sure if it were true, but I learned, soon enough, that we each have our cross to bear.

  My cross is anxiety, deep anxiety, and, worst of all, panic attacks. They first appeared in my thirties at a time of transition, when things seemed unknown, overwhelming, and dark. My marriage and family had broken up, and I had just signed up to go back to school. When the first attack hit me, I was on the subway at Times Square, and I feared my heart would burst or I was losing my mind. It felt that way each time it struck—at its worst, like most things, in the middle of the night.

  I tried to befriend it, as some Buddhists advise, but for me, anxiety was no friend. The friends I did find, most gratefully, were prayer (“Dear God, please help me be okay”), and Ativan (anxiety pills), and sometimes both (“Thank you, God, for giving us Ativan”). I also found, as so many have, that the depth of your pain can deepen your journey, your connection to others and to something beyond.

  The panic attacks eventually stopped, the anxiety diminished, and the fear became fear about fear. Yet it’s always there like a hidden wound that can take me by surprise. Which it did, years later, at a dance class in Boulder.

  John was away working in Europe, my mind was adrift in worries, and bad dreams had left me ungrounded. To make things worse, it was a drop-in class, and no one I knew had dropped in. I looked around but found no smiles and remembered words my friend Karen once said: “There’s something strange about strangers, you know?” So, there I was, heart beating faster, pins and needles up my back, and surrounded by strangers.

  Then I noticed some writing on the whiteboard on the wall. With a light blue marker, someone had drawn the Hindu symbol for Om and written: “_ _ _ _ is closer than you think.” The first word was too faded to read. It looked like it had four letters, but no, I thought, it must be “God”: “God is closer than you think.” A message, perhaps, to assure me: Nothing to be scared of—God is here.

  I looked around the class again, and this time a young woman with spiky pink hair gave me a big smile. Yes, I thought, God is here and in everyone, even strangers.

  Back in that darkest time of my life, I often leaned on the kindness of strangers, and I learned two things. First, most strangers really are kind (“Are you all right, miss?”). And when I in turn was kind to strangers (“Can I help you carry that?”), the shadow around me would momentarily lift, and I’d remember again that I once knew joy.

  At the end of class, I walked up to the whiteboard to read the message more closely. The first word was half erased, but it clearly had four letters, began with “L,” and appeared to be “Love.”

  “Love is closer than you think.”

  There are many names of God, perhaps thousands.

  The one I like best is Love.

  COME, COME, COME TO THE FAIR

  Street fairs . . . fiestas . . . county fairs . . . parades . . . Events so full of life they almost seem transcendent. Perhaps that’s why so many saints’ days are celebrated in Mexico. It’s hard to visit a village there without some festival occurring. “Señora,” a man in Sayulita once told me, “this is what life is about—musica, dancing, familia, and friends!” Maybe he’s right.

  What strikes me most at these gatherings is how nearly everyone looks happy. The streets overflow with families and food, music and lights, and all kinds of people wearing all kinds of clothes: cowboy hats, tie-dye, fairy costumes, and beaded jeans. I walk around dazzled by the energy and find myself smiling at strangers—and they’re smiling back.

  When my kids were young and we lived in Manhattan, I took them to street fairs on 94th Street or Columbus, and our excitement would build when we heard the music a block away. Once there, they would run to the amusement rides and I would run to sample the hot tamales, Chinese dumplings, and funnel cakes with sugar: a United Nations of food! We paid gypsy-hippies to paint our faces with stars, and there was magic in the air.

  I especially enjoy these gala events if I’m traveling through another state or country. In Salzburg, at St. Rupert’s Fair, I sat with locals at a picnic table, drinking Austrian beer, and soon we were chatting together as we watched young children ride an old-fashioned, hand-painted carousel that used real horses—imagine!

  And at a carnaval in Mexico, John and I once dared to ride the junior roller coaster. We were the only adults on it, and we screamed the loudest and got the sickest. All the parents watching were laughing at us, but in a friendly, simpatico way. It made me see one truth so clearly: Participation is your ticket to life.

  That’s why I used to look down on parades. Passive watching, I thought, no interaction. I considered them boring, only to be endured on Thanksgiving for the sake of the kids. Until one summer morning, when beau George took me to a Puerto Rican Day parade on Fifth Avenue.

  We stood right against the rope, so cl
ose we could see the sweat on the men as they played their Latin songs on trumpets and horns. Then high school marching bands came marching up the street: drummers drumming, young girls waving their native flag, women dancing in long pink and green folk skirts. So much beauty in their brown faces and Spanish eyes. So much pride in who they were. So much noise!

  “Kind of wakes you up, doesn’t it?” George asked. And I knew he meant all of it, not just the noise.

  Street fairs . . . fiestas . . . county fairs . . . parades! These are sacred community events. And you’re invited.

  SOMETHING ABOUT ANGELS

  One of the pleasures of staying at a friend’s summer house is choosing a book from their well-leafed favorites. Peering into the bookcase at Barry and Tina’s Long Island farm, I found a bevy of alluring titles. Then I spotted Patchwork Planet, by Anne Tyler, and took it with me to read at my favorite beach.

  It’s a little beach on the Peconic Bay, and it feels old-fashioned. There are no frills other than a teenage lifeguard. The waves are gentle enough that children play in the sand by the water. And nearly all the women are stout and wear skirted bathing suits (I think they’re mostly Polish, and I’m grateful for their presence. They allow me to stop holding in my stomach, which I generally do in a swimsuit).

  Well, I thought, this is heaven: sitting on a beach, letting out my stomach, and reading a book by Anne Tyler. I cherish her books. I even think they’re sacred—in the way she showers all her characters with an almost divine compassion, despite or because of their many quirks and flaws.

  Patchwork Planet is about Barnaby Gaitlin, who is waiting to meet his personal angel. It’s a family tradition, he says. It started with his granddad, who one day met a tall, golden-haired stranger in a grocery store. Her seemingly random words inspired him to find his way and fortune.