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

by Rivvy Neshama

  Part Seven

  * * *

  SACRED SPACE.

  SACRED TIME.

  You want the whole world to be

  your sacred space, and it is.

  But we forget, so our sacred space

  is a reminder.

  THE MAGIC HOUR

  Dawn and dusk, some believe, are the best times to pray. They do seem to have a holy aura. Especially dawn, when birds are singing their hearts out and the day smells fresh and clean. And dawn announces something else: the Magic Hour.

  The Magic Hour earned its name from photographers, who love to shoot at this time. It’s the first and last half hour of sunlight, starting just before the sun rises and just before it sets. Sometimes it lasts longer, sometimes it’s shorter, and sometimes, on cloudy days, it doesn’t happen at all. The truth is, you can’t pin down magic. But what is certain is that when the sun is close to the horizon, it casts a soft golden light on everything you see, causing the Magic Hour to also be known as the Golden Hour.

  The first time I saw it I was in college. It was a late afternoon in autumn, and I was walking across campus, kicking leaves with my friend Karen, who suddenly said, “Look!”

  I turned to look back at the Gothic towers of our dorm, and everything was suffused with a warm golden glow. The old stone buildings and clusters of fir trees looked clearer yet softer, like a picture in perfect focus but shot through gauze.

  “Wow,” I said. “Is this what the world’s really like? Or is it just an illusion?”

  Karen muttered something about how the subjective mind can never know objective reality. We were both “phil” majors, and that’s how we talked.

  I don’t remember what we decided, but I do know this: The effect at its fullest only lasts a few minutes, yet it’s always worth seeking. For the Magic Hour is not only the best time to pray or take photos; it’s a time to step out, bask in the light, and be a witness. On most days, what you’ll see is a world lit up and resplendent, its glory and magic revealed.

  And all you have to do is be there.

  ZEN VIEW

  It was a long, hot day in a long, hot summer. I noticed without surprise that all the flowers in our garden had died, and the only color besides brown was the green of their drooping leaves. It was also the day that our friend Sarah was being operated on for brain cancer. And that morning, in some worrisome synchronicity, my mom found a lump on her breast and I found a hard, suspect lump in my cheek.

  My goal was to stay positive: to hold Sarah in the light, have faith in her healing, and believe that Mom and I would also be fine. I had come to the garden to feel uplifted, but it looked so dreary I only felt worse.

  Perhaps some deep watering will help, I thought, this being a chore I enjoy. It instantly connects me to each plant and allows me to notice how they’ve changed. So I grabbed the hose and began. And as I started watering all those drab, flowerless plants, a curious thing happened. First, I spotted some wild daisies. Then I found tiny yellow asters hiding behind some dusty leaves, while off to the side, the first pink blooms on the Rose of Sharon had just opened, so soft and lovely they made me sigh. Why, it’s a lovely garden, I thought, but subtle. You have to move around to see it. You have to find the zen view.

  I first heard about the zen view when John and I were building our house (a time of dreams and nightmares, as anyone crazy enough to do this knows). Someone lent us a tome entitled A Pattern Language: Towns, Buildings, Construction, written by a group of architects and urban planners. The authors had studied design and building in cultures throughout the world, searching for the underlying principles, the archetypes that work and endure. Then they distilled these into patterns to help others create the ideal town, city, or home.

  In that crazy, intense time, John and I read the book avidly and talked in patterns, hoping our house would be harmonious, that it would truly be a home.

  One of the patterns the authors encourage is the zen view, which is fleeting and restrained. Not for them those picture windows looking out at showy mountains that you stare at all day long. They prefer that you follow a path from your door and maybe enter a courtyard, where, through a narrow slit in a stone wall, you catch a distant sighting of those same mountains. The zen view is something you glimpse in passing and that comes as a surprise—to wake you to the moment and a flash of hidden truth.

  So today I enjoyed a zen view of our midsummer garden. And when I walked along the driveway, I found another zen view in our meadow: a sleeping fawn half-hidden by tall grasses. My spirit lifted as I remembered the spaciousness of life.

  Back in the house, though, my thoughts soon returned to Sarah in the hospital and Mom’s lump and mine, and all my fears revived. I could feel them in my stomach, churning away.

  Then something happened that made everything shift. The doorbell rang and it was Marianne, a fellow member of our Friends of Darfur group. She had come to pick up yard signs we’d recently made. I always liked Marianne. Her down-to-earth manner and dry humor helped our group stay real. On this hot day, I offered her a cool drink, and when she asked me how I was, I answered “Scared,” as my eyes began to tear.

  “What’s happening?” Marianne asked kindly, and I told her—about Sarah, Mom, and me. I didn’t know her well, but maybe that’s why I opened up. And when I stopped talking, she opened up too.

  Years ago, she said, she was in Quebec when her heart stopped. They rushed her to a hospital for emergency surgery. Then she went into a coma and they flew her to Los Angeles, not really believing she would live. But all the time she was conscious, she found herself saying a prayer from her childhood, the Hebrew prayer Sh’ma: “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One!”

  “It was so strange,” Marianne said in her matter-of-fact way. “I was never religious before then.” She looked at me and shrugged. “I don’t know what made me say that prayer. But I know that’s what saved me.”

  Now, I can’t say my dark feelings never returned that day. Yet I knew a sense of grace would also return, indirectly and when least expected. Like the first blooms on the Rose of Sharon, or the sleeping fawn, or Marianne. It’s the way our world works, the way it was made, with a zen view waiting to show us the light.

  A SACRED SPACE

  The first time I saw a “sacred space” in someone’s home was in the 1970s. I was visiting my friend Mary in Cambridge and she said I could stay over—if I didn’t mind sleeping on a mattress on the floor of her “meditation room.”

  “No problem,” I said. For those were the days when I attended retreats at Zen monasteries, where the beds were so hard I was almost grateful when the bells woke us up to chant before dawn.

  No bells at Mary’s. Just a room that looked restful: soft white rug, the noted mattress, and some candles. The emptiness of the room was soothing. It invited me to empty my mind.

  But having a sacred space in your home doesn’t require a whole room; it can evolve in a simple space. A bookcase, window, or corner can easily become the site for creating altars or tableaux of meaningful objects and images, ones that resonate for you.

  Larger spaces can become places to pray, meditate, or rest in, if they offer privacy and quiet at least some of the time. My sacred space is in an alcove off our bedroom. I often pass it without looking. But once I sit down on the prayer rug, light the candles, and begin to meditate or do yoga, I forget the larger room behind me and I’m back in my sacred space. I guess it’s what I bring to it—my intention and practice—that makes it feel sacred. And by creating an inspiring environment, my intention and practice have deepened.

  Some people may already have a sacred space in their home but not think of it that way. For my mother, it was her kitchen table, next to a wall of family photos. “When things are troubling me,” Mom said, “I go there and sit. Then I have a cup of coffee and think things through until I’m feeling better. I never thought of it as my sacred space, but I guess it is.”

  Other people find their sacred space outdoor
s: a bench with a view in their garden or a hidden grove in a nearby park.

  And some people, like our neighbor Brian Spielmann, have enough space to create a dedicated shrine room with Buddhist hangings—an uptown version of Mary’s meditation room-cum-mattress. Brian goes there to meditate or make offerings, and he goes there every day.

  “You want the whole world to be your sacred space,” he says. “And it is. But we forget, so our sacred space is a reminder.”

  A SACRED HOME

  John and I wanted our whole home to feel sacred, so we nailed on our doorpost a mezuzah: an encased parchment scroll inscribed with prayers from the Torah. It’s a Jewish tradition to protect families and to remind us, as we come and go, of the sacredness of world and home.

  (“Sacred, schmacred!” my dad mutters in heaven. “If you’re Jewish, you hang a mezuzah. End of story!”) Right.

  Another way we made our home feel sacred was through its design. We built arches between rooms, because we liked how they looked and felt. I later learned that in some eastern countries, walking under an arch is considered a mystical passage. We also put in skylights, which let in sunbeams and moonlight and connect us to the natural world.

  To feel more connected to the house itself, we walk through it barefoot or in slippers, having made our home shoe-free. It felt strange at first. But now I find that just by removing my shoes at the door, I begin to feel this space is special. It makes me feel special too.

  (“Good,” my dad says. “But me, I’ll wear shoes.”) Sure, Dad, whatever.

  Then there’s feng shui, an ancient Chinese practice. It’s a way to bring good energy into your home and life—through proper placement of objects and colors and the harmonious use of water and wind. For us, it was a last resort. Because of the ghost.

  It all started with the contractor, who said he’d help build us the house of our dreams. He seemed perfectly skilled and honest, but he was neither. Every day something broke or gave us problems. And when his budget ran out, he did too—but not before telling me the house was haunted and blaming that for all that went wrong.

  Now, I never really believed in ghosts, but his words stayed with me, like a curse. And once we moved in, the energy of the house did seem, well, askew. Which is why we asked Sawada, a Buddhist monk we knew, for help.

  Buddhists believe in a ghost realm and have ceremonies for blessing homes. Sawada came in his saffron robes, sat on the floor with John and me, and chanted prayers in Sanskrit. When he was done, I asked if the ghosts were gone. “No,” he said, “but don’t worry. I made them Buddhists!”

  Okay, I admit it: Buddhist ghosts sounded friendlier. Still, I wanted them out.

  So I read three books on feng shui, and following their guidance, we totally cleaned and decluttered our house and blessed it—with the help of Jeanne V., our friend and neighborhood shaman.

  Jeanne led us from room to room while banging her drum and saying “Be gone!” to scare off ghosts and other bad sorts. “House blessings,” Jeanne explained, “let you clean your house on an energetic level.” Then she lit some sage, waved it in every corner, and said, “Just like temple keepers, we need to keep purifying the space where we live.”

  (While all this clearing and cleansing was going on, I could hear my dad chuckling above, “Fung shway, Oy Vey! I was hocking her to clean her room since she was ten!”)

  Another neighbor who helped harmonize our home—and kick out the ghosts—was Laurelyn, a feng shui consultant. “Once you create sacred space,” she said, “the walls of your home become more permeable, so nature and magic can start coming in.”

  We followed most of her advice, and our house really did feel lighter, more flowing, ghost-free.

  But the best thing she taught us was this: When you open your house to others with love, that’s when your home becomes sacred and blessed.

  (“You got it!” says Dad. “Now you’re cooking with gas!”)

  ONE HOLY DAY

  I met John for dinner at Shanghai Gourmet. Like most restaurants that call themselves “gourmet,” it’s anything but. The food is fair and a little bland, you pick up your order when they call your name, and the seats in the booths are patched up with tape.

  It wasn’t until we sat down to eat that I remembered it was Sabbath. For many years, each Friday, we’d been lighting candles and blessing the wine and bread. It made that time special and lent an aura of peace.

  “It’s Sabbath!” I said, feeling sad we’d forgotten.

  “No worries,” John replied. And my good Church of England husband pulled out from his jacket pocket some wrapped-up bread, a votive candle, and a tiny wine cup half-filled with Manishevitz. We lit the candle and the blessings began.

  Friday nights, when I was young, meant dinner at Nana’s. The table was set with a white lace cloth, a dish of black olives sat between the Sabbath candles, and tall crystal glasses held ginger ale with ice—the sharp kind of ginger ale that fizzed into your nose. Everything was always the same; everything felt like a ritual. Sometimes we’d get there early and find Nana scrubbing the house. She did it so intently, I thought this was another ritual. Just one more part of keeping Sabbath. I still think so. And when I clean our house well, especially on Fridays, it seems to take on a glow, and I do too.

  You don’t have to be Jewish to keep Sabbath, and it can be any day you choose: one day each week, sundown to sundown, that’s set apart by the way you spend it.

  For a few years, I honored Sabbath by fasting, which almost always makes me high. Then I considered making Saturday a day of silence, but alas, I’m a talker, and talkers talk. What I did stop doing, though, is work. And that gives me the gift of time: to sit and do nothing, to call people I’ve been meaning to call, or to immerse myself in nature.

  Judaism considers Sabbath the most important holiday of all. It’s a time to give thanks for the creation of the world, a day to celebrate with joy, rest, and holiness. For me, the holiest part is at sundown, when we light the candles and say the blessings.

  When my kids were young, we kept a simple Sabbath: The table held two candles, which I lit and blessed. Then Tony blessed the wine, Elise blessed the hallah, and I blessed the children. With the three of us standing, I placed my hands lightly on their little heads—on Elise’s bouncy curls and Tony’s silky straight hair—and recited the prayer in Hebrew and English: “May God bless you and keep you. May God cause his countenance to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you, and grant you peace.” Something about that blessing felt so good I’d almost cry.

  Now, with John, I end by saying this: “May the light from these candles come into our hearts and into the world.”

  That’s what I said at Shanghai Gourmet, just before we ate our chow mein.

  Part Eight

  * * *

  SOUL FOOD

  I’ve always felt that food is sacred.

  At first, I thought it was a Jewish thing.

  Not only because we love to eat, but because

  we celebrate our holy days around the table,

  with special foods for each.

  MRS. ZIMNOSKI

  AND HER VEGETABLES

  When I lived in Manhattan, I spent time each summer at a farm in eastern Long Island. The farm was a refuge for me, a balance to my life in the city. It was a place to dream in . . . with cornfields, wild flowers, and a road you could walk on forever. And each year, before I’d leave, I’d visit Mrs. Zimnoski, an older woman who lived one farm away.

  Sometimes I believed the visits were for her. She must be lonely, I told myself. Twenty years a widow. But no matter why I went, I always left feeling better, carrying home her just-picked tomatoes.

  Each visit was much like the other. I’d walk past her vegetable garden, ring her kitchen door, and peer through the window to see her approaching. Short and buxom, she’d be wearing a large flowered housedress and holding a broom or wooden spoon since she was always busy doing something—cooking, tending her garden, or cleaning the house. Soft gr
ay curls framed her sun-wrinkled face, and bifocals gave her round eyes a look of constant surprise.

  “Whoooo?” she’d call out, her voice rising in question. Then, opening the door, she’d exclaim, “What! Missus!” and we’d collapse into hugs with her chirping like a bird.

  Born in Poland, but living here since she was ten, she still spoke with a heavy accent and mixed her “he’s” and “she’s” with confusing abandon. It was like being at the opera: I’d get the drift of her stories, but they were clouded in mystery, never fully known.

  When I’d take Tony and Elise along to see her, she’d always find cookies still warm from the oven and tart cherry juice that was cold from the fridge. “I tell you story,” she’d say to them, “of when I been little goil.” Then she’d furrow her brow and squint her eyes before recounting pieces of her childhood: growing up on a dairy farm in Poland, meeting Russians and gypsies, witnessing a war. And although my children understood her even less than I did, her excitement and laughter soon had them laughing too.

  Sometimes I’d take my friends there to meet her, and she’d be so pleased to have all this “young” company that she’d serve each of them a glass of her dandelion wine. “Is good?” she’d ask eagerly, as they savored its honey-lemon taste. “Mmmm,” they’d respond and ask how it was made.

  It was a story I never tired of hearing: Mrs. Zimnoski, every spring, bending her small, stout body and picking with fingers gnarled from arthritis hundreds of dandelions from the fields nearby. Then, carrying them home in buckets to her kitchen, where she’d boil and ferment them to create her old-time brew. It was an image I cherished, for it let me know that no matter how bad the world might seem, something good and right was enduring—and nearby.

  Although I’d known her for more than a decade, we never spoke of inner things; we didn’t even use first names. It took years of visits to learn that she was christened Marcella, but since she insisted on calling me “Missus,” I always called her Mrs. Zimnoski. Only once did she ask me anything personal: