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

by Rivvy Neshama

  Doing the best at this moment puts you in the best place for the next moment.

  Whoa! I immediately switched my focus more onto what Jeanne was saying and less on my travails, which I was waiting to tell her.

  It was a karma wake-up call, and a hopeful one at that. You can change in an instant—and so can your life—moment by moment by moment.

  DO A MITZVAH.

  WHAT’S A MITZVAH?

  When I was young, I didn’t know what a mitzvah was. I only knew from the way my mother said it that it was something big.

  “Aunt Sally is sick again,” I’d say. “I guess I should go see her. But it’s snowing and I have a report to finish and Aunt Sally’s always grumpy—”

  “See her,” my mom would interrupt and then add with enthusiasm, “It’s a mitzvah!”

  She made a mitzvah sound special, even jolly. Visiting Aunt Sally?

  I now know that mitzvah, a Hebrew word, has many meanings. First off, it means “commandment, divine law, or the fulfillment of same.” But it also means “connection” and has come to mean “a blessing.” How does a commandment become a connection and blessing? It works like this:

  While we are always connected to our divine source or higher self, it’s when we follow the divine laws that we get to feel and express that connection. Spirit asks, we respond, and our lives become blessed.

  There is no lack of opportunities to feel this connection since the Torah is chock-full of commandments. Along with the Big Ten—Thou shall not steal and the rest—there are 603 others. Some tell you what to do: Leave a corner of the field uncut for the poor. Return a lost object. Others tell what not to do: Don’t hurt orphans. Don’t bear a grudge. And they refer to all aspects of life since all of life can be made holy. It’s even a mitzvah to make love with your mate.

  But over the years, mitzvah has come to mean simply a good deed, any good deed. And doing mitzvot is considered the way to live a good life and find happiness.

  The idea that good deeds may be the path to happiness is not just a religious concept but might be ingrained in our DNA. Scientists have discovered that altruistic actions often lead to a happier, healthier life. One study even shows that giving to charity affects the same part of our brain that is stimulated by sex, drugs, and money (which sounds like the lead-in to one of my father’s jokes: “So this guy says to me, ‘Hey, mister, you got a dollar?’”).

  Now, for many years, I didn’t know these laws or studies, but I always knew when I was doing a good deed, and that always felt great. And when you do a mitzvah, you not only feel blessed but are blessed—often watched over and guided. That’s what happened to me when my father died. My sisters, who live in California, and John and I in Boulder immediately made plans to fly to Philadelphia for the funeral. Still, there would be a few days before then when our mother would be alone, and I was the only one who was able to go right away. I was also the only one who, at that time, suffered anxiety attacks if flying solo. But thinking of Mom all alone made me book the ticket.

  I packed my security items—prayer beads, spiritual books, and a cheesy love novel—kissed John goodbye, and walked with fear into the plane. Once seated, I began to pray: Please God, don’t let me have an anxiety attack, let me be okay. Then I looked around and saw that the plane was half empty. So once everyone settled in, I decided to change my seat. Row 9, my lucky number, was totally free. I first tried 9E but then moved to 9A, a window seat that seemed to draw me to it. I buckled up and said a silent prayer of thanks for having the whole row to myself.

  Just then, amid announcements of takeoff, a latecomer, looking upset and disheveled, burst in. He viewed his ticket to find his seat and sat down right next to me. With all these empty seats, he had to have 9B? Why did I leave 9E? I opened my cheesy novel to read, hoping he’d leave me alone.

  But that was not to be. He was clearly geared up and started to talk. “Good book?” he asked.

  “Supposedly,” I answered, a little embarrassed to be reading it in the first place.

  “The Bridges of Madison County,” he said, viewing the title. “Is it about bridges?”

  “No,” I said, more embarrassed still. “It’s about love.” Sensing his need to talk, I put the book down and looked at him more closely.

  His face was unshaven, his clothes were rumpled, and he was holding a tattered brown notebook. Its title was penciled in: “Job’s Journal.” He’s looking for work, I thought, and hasn’t had much schooling. He doesn’t know it should be “Jobs Journal.”

  “Are you looking for a job?” I asked, nodding at his notebook.

  “No,” he said, and smiled wanly. “I changed my name to Job, after Job in the Bible. You know, the one who suffered more than any man should bear.”

  Then he told me his own story and I understood why.

  Like Job, he had been stricken with loss, one after the other. But unlike Job, a man of faith and integrity, his had been self-inflicted—through ego, betrayals, and lies. Once a youthful idealist, he was now, he acknowledged, notorious and loathed. He had lost everything—most of all, his character—and despite his efforts to redeem himself, he felt beyond redemption because his actions had destroyed the lives of others. Even so, I sensed hope in his present endeavor: as a clown who entertained children in hospitals.

  The plane was lifting into the sky now, and I felt my hands begin to sweat. But my fellow passenger was compelling, and we continued to talk.

  It was when I told him about my dad that I suddenly noticed and remarked, “Your eyes are so much like his, it’s strange.” Dark brown slanty eyes with the same twinkle, sadness, and depth.

  “What’s your name?” he asked and then told me his, “Matusow. Job Matusow.”

  “Matusow?” I repeated. “That was my dad’s mother’s name, Helen Matusow.”

  We soon discovered we were cousins, distant cousins who had never met.

  Job looked at me with my father’s eyes and said softly, “Your dad is still with you.” And I knew it was true.

  Which is why when Aunt Sally calls, sick and grumpy, and it’s snowing outside and I have work to do, I go and see her. How could I not? It’s a mitzvah.

  THIS BEING WINTER.

  THIS BEING HUMAN.

  It’s snowing. Again. I sit upstairs at my desk, staring at my laptop. John emails me a photo he just took from a downstairs window. I instantly delete it. Snow scenes that charmed me a month ago have now lost their charm. Outside, all is white under a gray sky. Inside, I sense a grayness descending. The newspaper says, “Cold and unsettled weather will continue into early next week.”

  Right. Cold and unsettled. That’s how I feel.

  Where’s the lovely calmness I was enjoying just last week? The hopefulness of new beginnings that came with January and the new year? Why this disharmony, this feeling out of sorts—with myself and with others? And why are moods so inconstant, so shifting, so, well, unsettled?

  I pour a cup of Yogi tea and read the message on the tea bag: “An Attitude of Gratitude.” Humph.

  Think, Rivvy, I urge myself. Remember the recipes that uplift you, that lead you to a sacred life.

  So I stumble through the alleys of my mind and review what I’ve already written. Sometimes I remember whole stories: “For Days When It’s Hard to Feel Grateful.”

  Other times it’s enough to recall just a title—“This, Too, Shall Pass”—or an ending quotation: “Come, come, whoever you are . . . Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times . . .”

  Ah yes, I say, reassured. This is life, and I’m only human.

  And then I remember a saying I know: I forgive myself; I’m only human. I forgive them; they’re only human. I had originally included it in an early draft of this book. But my friend Helen, who was one of my first readers, said, “Being human is no excuse.”

  So I took that saying out. And yet, when I’m feeling edgy, guilty, angry, or down, I often find myself repeating those words, and they help me settle into a better pl
ace. Being human is not an excuse—it’s just the truth. And when I say these words of forgiveness, I feel a sense of relief and more compassion—for myself and for us all.

  But what does it mean to be human, only human? To accept the winter of our soul along with its spring-like moments and ecstatic summer? I think Rumi, the Persian poet and Sufi mystic, answered that well in his poem “This Guest House.”

  “This being human is a guesthouse,” Rumi wrote, and every morning, a new guest arrives—“a joy, a depression, a meanness.” Welcome them all, Rumi said, even “a crowd of sorrows,” for each one teaches us, clears our house, and makes us ready for whatever comes next.

  Remembering his poem helped me accept this day of darkness. Then I went downstairs, stepped out into a world of whiteness, and saw a single black bird fly across the gray sky, making me smile . . . and yes, feel grateful.

  The woman who strikes the gong

  For morning meditation—

  The woman who sits—

  Is the same woman who

  Throws rocks at the peacocks

  For entering the garden,

  Hitting her neighbor’s car instead.

  —ELLEN STARK, 2019

  A WAY TO DANCE

  A funny thing about the spiritual is how often it’s physical. It’s not about leaving your body but being fully in it. Then, with a little help from grace, your energy merges with the energy around you, and you are fully present, fully alive.

  For me, this alchemy happens when I deeply engage in the following:

  Walking, simply walking, and seeing things I never see from a car.

  Free dancing with the music, myself, and the room—and the sky as well, coming in through the window.

  Making love, making love, making love!

  Circle dancing with the Sufis, swaying, whirling, and chanting, chanting the names of God.

  Hiking on trails where I feel myself guided as I look for each marker painted on trees and follow that path through forests and glades until reaching the place where I first began.

  Dancing the hora at Jewish weddings, all holding hands in a swirling circle as the klezmer music gets louder and faster and the bride and groom are raised high on chairs.

  Bicycling down country roads, passing farms and wild roses, and watching the world go by like a movie.

  Doing yoga, especially outdoors, when the birds are singing, a breeze is blowing, and it becomes, more than ever, meditation in motion.

  Square dancing so fast I can feel my heart beating, and my cheeks get red and hurt from smiling. Faster and stamping, doing the reel, so everyone dances with everyone else. Bow to your partner, bow to your corner, a way to honor each person you pass.

  In each of these, I feel the ecstasy of being. And each of them is a way to dance.

  To dance then, is to pray, to meditate,

  to enter into communion with the larger dance,

  which is the universe.

  —JEAN HOUSTON

  TIKKUN OLAM

  When our country was at war in Vietnam, there was march after march in a movement for peace. Each time, it seemed, more people came marching—parents and children, students and workers, hippies, seniors, and nuns. The last march I went to, in Washington, had a crowd that stretched farther than you could see, and our hope was rising along with our numbers.

  In May of the year when that war finally ended, a celebration took place in Central Park. Joan Baez was there, and so were countless others. It was a communal explosion of sorrow and joy, and there was comfort in knowing we each played our small part.

  But years later, when our country was more secretly involved in a civil war in El Salvador, I found myself marching again. This time the rally was at Columbia University on a cold winter day, and there were fewer than eighty of us there. I didn’t know anyone, and most people were much younger than I was. Instead of feeling communal, I felt out of place, and wished I’d stayed home where it was cozy and warm. Then they started chanting:

  What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!

  The same words we had chanted so many years before at so many marches. A shiver went through me; I was back where I belonged. At the same time, it felt sad and ironic to hear the same old chants and wonder when, if ever, war would end.

  The rally leaders directed us toward the streets, and an older man holding a peace sign passed beside me. He was a well-known New York activist, and we had met at rallies before.

  “Here we go again,” I said, smiling but discouraged. “How much longer do we need to do this?”

  His answer was simple: “Until there’s no more war.”

  In Kabbalah lore, there’s a myth of creation, When God first made the world, it says, he poured divine light into clay vessels to make everything shine with holiness. But the vessels were fragile and they shattered, trapping sparks of light beneath pieces of clay.

  Some say that’s why God made people: to find and free the holy light. Others say God always meant to leave the world imperfect so we could work with him, as partners, to perfect it.

  Isaac Luria, a sixteenth-century mystic, first told this myth. He said it explained our collective task: tikkun olam, a Hebrew term that means “to heal or repair the world.” In Jewish tradition, this can mean working for peace and justice, or fighting for the health of our planet, or doing whatever we can to spread the light.

  Where to begin?

  Wherever you’re drawn. The world has no lack of problems.

  What can we do?

  There’s something for everyone. Even signing a petition can make a difference and let you feel the power of community.

  How long do we need to do this?

  Until the world is healed.

  Tikkun olam.

  HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL?

  My sister Susan is new to Facebook. She’s a big executive who works very hard and never has time for such things. But one day, not too long ago, she went on Facebook, joining the nearly three billion people who preceded her, and, like the rest of us, was slyly drawn in.

  At first, she was just a blank avatar who did some likes and shares. Next, she posted some photos from her smart phone—and a profile picture of her gorgeous self. And then she found the “WHO YOU ARE” tests. You know, the ones that ask which color or animal or number you like best and then tell you Who You Are (or Who You Were in a previous life!).

  I rarely if ever do those tests. Partly because that would force me to face how much time I waste with stupid things on Facebook. I’m also a little nervous that I’ll get bad results. While Susan always gets and posts things like “Your heart is red. You are full of passion, kindness, and love,” I might get “Your heart is dark. You need to think more of others.”

  Well, yesterday she called me and we were chatting away, and then she went for the kill. “I did another one of those tests on Facebook,” she said. “And they told me that I’m a very rare person. I see the glass both half empty and half full!”

  Wow, I said. I didn’t even know that was an option. I thought the world was divided into two: those who see half empty and those who see half full. And I feared I often fall into the former. Sure, there are days when I feel such joy and gratitude that the glass feels brimming. But lately, when several friends have died or are seriously ill, when so many young people feel lost, refugees are drowning, the whole planet seems endangered, and I nonetheless feel overwhelmed by my own small problems . . . I take the half-full days as a blessing.

  Then I thought about it some more and one of those bulbs went off over my head. “Susan!” I exclaimed. “That’s it! That’s the answer! The glass is both half empty and half full! And we need to see both!”

  Yes, some of my closest friends have died, and I fear losing others. But my love and appreciation for each of them grows stronger. And so does my realization that we are all dying, which can lead to depression or a greater love of each day or both: half empty, half full.

  Yes, I know young people who have lost their way and
are deeply suffering. But this opens my heart. And if I reach out to help, there is the joy of connection, and there is hope. Half empty, half full.

  Yes, so many people and countries are in crisis, and some lost souls are shooting others for confusing reasons, and politics have become a gladiator sport, and our beloved Earth is in trouble.

  But I just saw a documentary of a man’s love for his dying dog and the dog’s love for the man.

  And the California condor is returning, along with the brown bear, gray wolf, and flying squirrel.

  And my grandsons and I spent an hour on YouTube watching straight and gay folks make surprise, over-the-top marriage proposals in public while their friends and family danced in the streets like some Debbie Reynolds/Gene Kelly movie from the ’50s, and it all made me cry.

  And there are daily acts of kindness. And the first flowers of spring. And the warmth we feel when we smile at a stranger and they smile back.

  And, as Hemmingway wrote, the sun also rises. It’s a quote from the Bible, Ecclesiastes. “The sun also rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it arose.”

  So yes. The glass is both. Half empty and half full. Always was. Always will be.

  It was a trick question.

  SPEAKING SPANISH IN MEXICO

  I was going to list the things I do that make my life feel sacred, things like painting, tutoring, and playing the guitar. Or watching the moonrise and speaking Spanish in Mexico. Things that lift me out of my self, into connection, and often into a state of joy.

  Then I realized that this would be my list, and what makes them sacred is doing things that I love. So your list might be, well, whatever connects you with your passion and love. And when you do what you love, you feel love. It’s that simple.

  Let the beauty we love be what we do.

  There are hundreds of ways to kiss the ground.