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

by Rivvy Neshama

  And then she told us that when Hal was dying, he was very stoic, but she felt his sadness in some of the last words he spoke: “Our world is so beautiful,” he said. “How can anyone bear to leave it?”

  I sometimes wonder why we’re here, all of us, living on this planet. Most likely, there are many reasons. But one of them, I’m sure, is this: to see the beauty, to savor it, and then create our own. That’s how Hal lived. And that’s how he died.

  With beauty before me, may I walk.

  With beauty behind me, may I walk.

  With beauty above me, may I walk.

  With beauty below me, may I walk.

  With beauty all around me, may I walk.

  In old age wandering on a trail of beauty,

  lively, may I walk.

  In old age wandering on a trail of beauty,

  living again, may I walk.

  It is finished in beauty.

  —A NAVAJO PRAYER

  Part Four

  * * *

  TO FORGIVE IS DIVINE

  When we forgive, we return to our center,

  where things on a good day feel just right.

  LOOKING FOR GOD

  IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES

  I was wrestling with night demons, reliving a fight I’d just had with a friend. In the darkness of the hour, I saw her as cold, scary, and attacking, and myself as hurt, innocent, and ready to strike back. “See God in everyone,” I thought, an adage I once read—written by some monk, I bet, who lived in a cave, with no friends or family to deal with.

  I mean, seeing God in everyone isn’t something I easily do. The first time it happened was in the ’70s on the New Jersey Turnpike, when Barry and the kids and I stopped for lunch at a Howard Johnson’s.

  The kids were cranky and fighting, tired from the long ride. I was cranky too, muttering about fast-food chains and how there’d be nothing here I’d like and I’d rather starve. The waitress, who had a beehive hairdo and whose name badge said “Pat,” smiled broadly and handed us menus.

  Well. The special of the day was key lime pie. Now that just happens to be my favorite dessert. Still, I grumbled, it would probably be all chemicals and taste like that too. It’s just a stupid “Ho-Jo’s,” what do you expect?

  But I took a chance and here’s the truth: It was the best key lime pie I ever ate. Cool, tart, and a crust like butter. I savored each bite, and as I did I looked around. What I saw were families: all sizes, all races, laughing and eating, squabbling and alive! A wave of love washed through me, and I suddenly saw God everywhere—in that pie and in Pat and in everyone in the room.

  Right. But you can’t just make that kind of thing happen. And on this dark, restless night decades later, I sure wasn’t seeing God in my angry friend. Forget God. I wasn’t even seeing anything good.

  Then I thought of something the Dalai Lama said, something about remembering the good in the person you’re angry at, the things you like.

  With that in mind, I began to remember my friend’s humor, her empathy, and how she was there for me when I was sick. Soon, she didn’t seem so scary or bad. In fact, she began to look again like my friend.

  Seeing God in everyone isn’t easy. But when you see the good in them, you’re halfway there. And the funny thing is, what you see is what you get. You just need to know where to look.

  WHAT THE DALAI LAMA SAID

  There are few things that feel worse than being angry at someone, and few things feel better than forgiving them. And yet, I sometimes find it hard to forgive—especially when I know I’m right. What helps are these words from the Dalai Lama.

  When His Holiness came to Boulder, John and I joined two thousand others to see him and hear him speak. He looked just like his pictures: same bald head and bushy eyebrows, same gold and crimson robes. What surprised us, though, was his laugh—a happy, almost goofy giggle interspersed throughout his talk. It seemed a little odd at first, like, Is this the Dalai Lama? But soon, it seemed transcendent and had me giggling too. And while I’ve forgotten much of what he said, I’ll never forget the brilliance of his smile. We felt he was smiling right at us; most likely others felt the same.

  He spoke of many things that day, including forgiveness. But in the end, it was his joyful laugh and radiant smile that made us feel blessed to be in his presence.

  A few years later, I found these guidelines for forgiveness offered by the Dalai Lama. I’m not sure where I read them, so it’s my words telling his thoughts as best as I recall them. Still, that’s how recipes get passed on, right?

  THE DALAI LAMA’S RECIPE FOR FORGIVENESS

  When you’re very angry with someone and having trouble forgiving them, do these three things:

  Consider why you think the person did what they did that is bothering you. Given all that you know about them, what could have provoked or motivated them to do this? (Besides the fact that they’re one bad dude.)

  Recall a time when you did something similar. (This one’s disturbingly easy.)

  Think of all the good things about this person, the things you like. (Harder with some folks, but worth a try.)

  Finally, His Holiness reminds us that forgiveness is a gift we give to ourselves. When we’re angry, we feel miserable, physically and emotionally. When we forgive, we return to our center, where things on a good day feel just right.

  And if you doubt the Dalai Lama, consider this: Research confirms that “forgiveness interventions” are good for the heart, can relieve pain and depression, and enhance the quality of life among the very ill.

  It’s enough to kill the charge I get from any righteous anger.

  A DAY TO REMEMBER

  One September, John had a sports-writing assignment in Salzburg, Austria, and he asked me if I’d come along. I immediately envisioned The Sound of Music, the film that was made there, where the actual story took place. Sure, I said, recalling pastoral scenes in which Julie Andrews ran about singing with a bunch of towheaded kids.

  Then I found out that the week we’d be there included one of Judaism’s holiest days: Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year and Day of Remembrance, when we recall what we did in the year gone by and remember our divine source. In Boulder, I spend this day alone in the mountains, praying for forgiveness and forgiving others, because Rosh Hashanah is also about forgiveness, clearing the way for a fresh start. But in Austria, I thought, I’d spend the day in a temple. I went online to search.

  What I found was that Salzburg’s history included virulent anti-Semitism—especially in the 1400s and during the Third Reich—and its once vibrant community of Jews was now reduced to about a hundred. Of course. I had forgotten the dark story beneath The Sound of Music’s jolly songs: a tale of Nazism engulfing a city and its people.

  I now felt a responsibility to attend Salzburg’s only remaining synagogue in solidarity. But I also felt a growing aversion and no longer wanted to go. I wondered how it would feel on a Jewish Day of Awe to be in a city once proud to declare itself “judenfrei,” free of Jews. I worried that I wouldn’t open my heart in forgiveness at a time when we’re asked to forgive. Which is why, before we left Boulder, I went to a preholiday talk led by Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, a renowned ecumenist, and his wife, Eve Ilsen.

  I really liked Reb Zalman. He was the beloved father of the Jewish Renewal movement. He was also a Hasidic master with a zest for life and a sense of humor that was heimishe (the Jewish version of folksy). And Eve, his rebbetzin, was a gifted teacher with her own comic flair. So I told them my concerns, and they were deeply empathetic, for Reb Zalman was raised in Vienna and fled from the Nazis in 1939. They advised me to spend most of my time in Salzburg just looking at people and noting what I saw. Try to look without preconceptions, they said. See them as real, as human. See the good and the bad.

  It was advice I followed. And what I generally saw were amiable people whose tastes were curiously similar to mine. They love to hike and polka (one of the few dances John and I can do together, galloping across the fl
oor), drink beer and listen to Mozart (good choices both), and eat marzipan (which I love, even when it’s brown slabs like we bought in a shop there and polished off at dinner). And they seemed rightfully proud of their golden city with its winding river, whimsical gardens, spires, and domes. I also saw some people who seemed cold and aloof, and I learned that many Salzburgers, like many Austrians, were not ready to face the darker side of their past.

  On Rosh Hashanah, the iron gates in front of the temple were locked. There were armed, unsmiling policemen on guard, and they asked me in German for my ID, since another synagogue in Austria had recently been bombed. It felt strange and chilling. For a moment, I felt like other Jews must have felt facing Nazis.

  But once inside the temple, I began to feel at home. The small congregation seemed happy to have one more congregant, and the Hebrew prayers we sang were the same ones I sang as a child—the same prayers chanted by Jews all over the world for thousands of years—and some even had the same tunes. I also noted that while most people there were friendly, a few seemed . . . cold and aloof.

  Later, I hiked up the town’s small mountain and smiled back at the Austrians descending, who greeted me with a hearty “Guten morgen!” There were two I remember still.

  One was a lost Austrian or German tourist, who held out a map and asked me questions in German. “I speak English, only English,” I said, amazed that he thought this dark-eyed Jewess was one of them.

  The other was a handsome, white-haired man, who looked a little older than I. When we passed each other on the trail, he smiled and stopped to talk. He was a Salzburger, he told me in perfect English, and for a few minutes we walked side by side, enjoying each other and the sun-kissed day. I liked him. I sensed his goodness, and he felt familiar.

  When I reached the top of the mountain, I sat on the grass, looked down at this beautiful city, and was grateful to see its citizens as people, simply people, human and real. Then I did my rites of forgiveness. And on that Rosh Hashanah in Salzburg, I came to a place of peace.

  RITES OF FORGIVENESS

  The rites I did on that mountaintop in Salzburg were the same ones I do each Rosh Hashanah in Boulder, the ones I learned decades ago from Shakti Gawain.

  Shakti’s many books include Creative Visualization, in which she teaches ways to transform our lives and ourselves. One exercise she suggests that I never forgot deals with forgiveness: forgiving others and forgiving yourself. I’ve changed and adapted it over the years, but this recipe comes from Shakti. It’s a powerful exercise that can be very healing. When I’m done, I feel lighter and often find myself crying. You can do it any time you want or need. I do it once a year, on Rosh Hashanah.

  Before I start, I find a quiet, sheltered place where I won’t be disturbed by people or phones. If it’s a nice day, I like to hike up the foothills, sit under a tree, and begin.

  FORGIVING OTHERS

  Write down the names of anyone, living or dead, who hurt you or whom you’re angry with. Next to each name, jot down briefly what he or she did or what you’re angry about. (Sometimes I skip the writing and just start with step 2.)

  Close your eyes, relax, and visualize each person you’re angry with, one at a time. Imagine yourself telling them why you feel angry or hurt, but adding that you now want to forgive them and clear up your relationship. See how they respond and what they say. Then, if and when you feel ready, look into their eyes and say something like, “I forgive you and bless you. Be happy and go your way.” Repeat this process with each person on your list.

  When no more people come to mind, write down or say, “I forgive you and release you all.” Then you can tear up the paper and throw it away.

  It might be hard to forgive some people the first time you do this. But if you continue to do the exercise now and again, things should eventually feel resolved. It helps to remember that this ritual is for your own well-being. Still, it might help heal the other people too.

  FORGIVING YOURSELF

  The same exercise serves to ask for forgiveness. This time you write down (or picture) all the people you have hurt or would like to ask forgiveness from. Then, with your eyes closed, visualize yourself asking each person, one at a time, for forgiveness, hearing what they say, and receiving their blessing and release. When you feel the process is complete, you can affirm “I forgive myself, now and forever,” tear up the paper, and throw it away.

  True, forever is a long time. But you can do these rites as often as you need.

  Part Five

  * * *

  FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS,

  LOVERS AND STRANGERS

  The more I learn about our world,

  I sense a kindness at its core.

  And it seems that all species

  instinctively know

  how to take care of each other.

  DO YOU GIVE TO THE ONES

  WHO ARE DRUNK?

  My son, Tony, who lives in Manhattan, keeps some change in his pocket when he goes out walking. That way, he has something to give to the people he passes who ask him for help.

  “Do you give to the ones who are drunk, who may use it to buy more beer?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s not for me to judge them or how they’ll use it. You give from compassion to people in need.”

  So now, when I remember, I keep change in my pocket too. It helps me look forward to outstretched hands that I sometimes used to resent.

  In Judaism, giving to the needy is considered by some sages to be the most important commandment of all. It’s called tzedakah—which often translates as “charity” but truly means “righteousness.” It’s simply doing what is right and just.

  Maimonides, a medieval rabbi and philosopher, writes that there are eight levels of tzedakah, and one of the highest is to “give to the poor without knowing to whom one gives and without the recipient knowing from whom he received.”

  But something special happens when you’re face-to-face on the street. It’s a chance to really see each other and your shared humanity, and both giver and receiver end up feeling good. I feel especially good if I give with a smile and wish them good luck.

  Maimonides also writes, “Even a poor person who lives entirely on tzedakah must give tzedakah to another.” Which reminds me of our friend Julia Dean.

  Julia teaches photography around the world, but this story happened when she was a struggling artist in New York. It was a snowy winter day with a biting wind. Julia still remembers it because she walked home forty blocks in the cold, not having enough money for a bus.

  “I was ten blocks from my apartment,” she says, “when a man huddled in a doorway held out a can filled with change and said, ‘Lady, you got any money?’ It hit me that I didn’t, I didn’t have any money, and I started to cry. He looked at me and then held out the can again and said, ‘Lady, you need some money?’”

  THE BALLAD OF PAM AND RENATO

  Pam and Renato fell in love. It happened in Mexico, where they then built a home, Casa de Pamela y Renato. Each of them came from a troubled past and had lived their share of sadness. Pam was about ten years older than Renato, but their souls were similarly young and old, and they were both, above all, free spirits. Having finally found each other, they felt, well, ecstatic.

  It was hard not to feel a little envious around them. Their love and passion were palpable, their joy in life boundless. They did cartwheels and headstands on the nude beach near their village and took photographs to capture it all. That’s what they wanted most: to capture it all.

  So they made a list of a hundred things they would do together before they died. Far-off adventures. Spiritual journeys. Ways to express their love: prosaic things like learning acceptance, and poetic things like studying the Kama Sutra’s sixty-four arts of love, which include magic, mimicry, and practice with bow and arrow (along with more erotic pursuits, such as slowly feeding your lover grapes).

  The last time we saw them together was when they returned from a year in India, visiting
all the places tourists are warned away from and finding gurus who drove taxis on the side. We were in Mexico on vacation, renting a casa next to theirs.

  Some months later, Pam drove Renato to the Puerto Vallarta airport. He was flying to San Francisco, where he worked as a firefighter. He took the Alaska Airlines flight, the one that crashed into the Pacific Ocean. There were no survivors. He was thirty-nine.

  I later wondered how many things on their list they had managed to do before he died. But then I decided it didn’t matter. Just making the list together was a blessing of their love.

  BUDDIES ON THE PATH

  When I was a kid and went to camp, we had a buddy system when we swam in the lake. Every five minutes the lifeguard would blow her whistle and you would find your buddy, grab her hand tight, and hold your hands up together. It was a way to make sure no one drowned.

  Well, it helps to have a buddy on the spiritual path too, and mine is Ellie. I call her when life seems too dark or too much, and she reminds me of the wisdom that can save me from drowning. We try to meet every Friday at four, and if we’re at Ellie’s, we sit on Indian blankets in her Spanish-style home, light candles on the altar, and make room for Tashi, her black Labrador mutt.

  Sometimes we play music together—Ellie on dulcimer, me on guitar—and then meditate. Sometimes we talk about problems we’re having with our family or mate and then help each other see the other side and act from a higher perspective. And sometimes we pray.

  Recently, we skipped a Friday when Ellie and her partner, Annie, went to New Mexico on a Quaker retreat. Before they left, they were wondering, Did they really want to spend their vacation meditating, praying, and discussing their spiritual life in small groups? As opposed to, say, swimming in Cozumel and drinking margaritas?