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

by Rivvy Neshama

  Of course, pray! Pray for guidance. And sooner or later, it always comes. But to hear it, you need to listen.

  It was Ellie who taught me about Listening Prayer. She lent me a booklet, Expectant Listening: Finding God’s Thread of Guidance, written by a Quaker, Michael Wajda, who explained it like this: “Many of us develop daily spiritual disciplines to seek God’s guidance more fully. It is my experience that in seeking, we find. In listening, we hear God’s messages. That’s what I mean by ‘expectant listening’: Listening to hear God’s messages.”

  Ellie said to do it any way you want. You can just sit quietly and lift your heart—maybe ask a question, maybe not—and then listen for that still, quiet voice. Sometimes Ellie hears it right away, sometimes later. But what amazes her is how often she hears it now that she’s listening.

  “It’s funny,” Ellie said. “All my life I’d been looking for someone who’d really listen and understand me, and all that time that someone was inside me. I don’t know if it’s God or me or my higher self. But you know what? It doesn’t matter.”

  So I tried it too, and sometimes I hear the answer clearly and feel touched by spirit. Other times, I hear nothing at all, yet still feel touched by spirit. Which reminds me of the Christian who told his pastor, “I pray and pray, but I don’t get an answer.”

  The pastor replied, “Your prayer is your answer. It’s that very longing within you that connects you to the divine.”

  Reb Zalman taught me to talk to God. Ellie taught me to listen. But most of all what I’ve learned is this: Prayer is a way to be with God. It’s the path I was searching for long ago, with a few million others who were looking for light.

  BIRTH, MARRIAGE, AND DEATH

  “So,” Mom asked me, “are you done with your book?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Just a few things to cover.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like birth, marriage, and death.”

  Mom laughed, but I didn’t.

  Aargh! Three weighty topics. Too much to write. And that’s why I kept putting it off.

  Then I thought, Why not lump them together? I know, kind of cheap. But really, birth, marriage, and death are so sacred, what more can I say? Only this: Make each ritual truly yours.

  When our friends Lori and Tom asked me to marry them (Colorado being one of those “whatever” states), I began to read up on weddings in different cultures. What I learned is this: They all follow a template, like a symphony in four movements. And it’s that way, too, with ceremonies for baby naming or honoring the dead: Each has its own rhythm, purpose, and form, ripe with rituals that have lasted forever.

  Rituals are like ladders: They can take you to a higher place. If you feel aligned with them, they will lend you their light, or you can alter them to make them your own. You do this by finding your way, your words, right from the heart. When that happens, a window opens, and everyone present is touched with grace.

  I felt that grace at the naming ceremony for Tony and Cindy’s son Brendan, our first grandchild, when friends and family sat around him and blessed him, while Cindy’s uncle played on the piano a piece he had written in Brendan’s honor.

  I felt it too when John and I got married and the shaman who helped us write the ceremony had everyone present say together, “John and Rivvy, we now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  And I felt it at our friend Sara S.’s deathbed, when several of us gathered, lightly put our hands on her, and softly sang the lullaby “Angels watching over me, my Lord.”

  That same feeling was present at the funeral for Mom’s late-in-life partner Len. After the burial, those closest to Len drove to his daughter Karen’s house for lunch. At some point, the young rabbi asked us to form a circle with our chairs and then share, if we wished, stories about Len. Some of the stories made me laugh, some made me cry, and for the first time I thought, Now I know Len.

  I felt grace again when Elise was in labor with Eli, her firstborn, and Joe (her husband) and I (her mom) stood by her bedside, counting through contractions and holding cool cloths on her forehead—even though she had initially claimed, “I might want my mom there, or I might want my husband there, but there’s no way I can handle both of you at once!” I, too, had worried about how it would feel. But what I felt was grace.

  I felt it once more when John’s mum was dying and we flew to England to be with her. In the hospital by her bedside, I didn’t know what to say. Then John started talking about the chocolate sponge pudding Mum made when he was young, planting beans in their garden, and her summer frock with pink flowers . . . and that got her remembering too and saying, “We had some happy times, didn’t we, dear?”

  When we got home, after Mum died, we made an altar on our mantle, the way the Mexicans do on their Day of the Dead, and the way our friend Sarah does each year on the anniversary of her father’s death. We placed Mum’s picture in the center, along with roses, a candle, and chocolates, the kind she liked. Then we added ceramic miniatures of flowers, a lamb, and a watering can—things that felt like England and gardening and reminded us of Mum. And when we lit the candle, it all came alive, with an aura reflecting her spirit and life.

  In truth, I feel grace at all weddings, births, and deaths. It’s more than the words or the rituals. It’s simply the essence of love.

  So yes, Mom, the book is done.

  Well, almost.

  PICTURES AND WORDS

  It was a time of slowness. John and I were building our house, or rather, beseeching the contractor to show up and get it built. And back in Philadelphia, my father was slowly dying. Each afternoon after work, I’d sit in the meadow in front of the slowly rising house, watch the sun go down, and think about Dad.

  My dad and I never spoke much about feelings. In fact, we hardly spoke at all. He was from that generation of fathers who worked hard, came home for dinner, and let the mother do the talking. But I wanted to tell him before he died how much I loved him. I didn’t know how much until he got sick. In my adolescence, we had a rough time, with lots of yelling and fights. I wasn’t shy expressing my anger, and now I needed to express my love.

  When I thought about that love, it came to me like this: how much fun he was and bursting with life . . . the way he looked, so big and handsome . . . how he’d bring us hot fudge sundaes and excitement when he came home from work . . . his courage and irrepressible humor while facing a devastating disease . . .

  I’ll make him a book, I thought, a book of those moments. So I bought a small unlined journal and began to draw pictures and write simple prose, like a picture book for children.

  “My father has big happy cheeks and warm brown eyes that twinkle,” I wrote on page one. Then I drew a sketch of his happy, big-cheeked face.

  “My dad is a teller of tales and a singer of songs. He played the ukulele and sang ‘The Big Feet Blues’:

  I’ve got the big feet blues

  Don’t know what to dooz

  Get up in the morning

  Can’t put on my shoes.

  “Summers with Dad: He took me to Phillies games, where we cheered and ate hot dogs with wonderful mustard . . . On July 4th he grilled the best cheeseburgers I ever tasted and drove us to see the best fireworks . . . And when I was really young, he played with me at the seashore and held me up to jump the waves.”

  On it went, memory after memory, page by page. Sometimes I cried while I wrote it, but it made me laugh too, and it was working: The pictures and words were holding the love to honor him and say thanks.

  My father, who rarely wrote or phoned me, sent me a letter when he received the book. He said he was “reading and rereading it” and that “reliving all the things we had done together” made him feel young. “I will cherish it forever,” he wrote. “I love you very much.”

  He died seven months later. Now I read and reread his letter. I will cherish it forever. I love him very much.

  Part Ten

  * * *

  THIS, TOO, IS TRUE


  You can change in an instant—

  and so can your life—

  moment by moment by moment.

  JOY

  “What are you writing?” my daughter asks, as we walk to the beach holding towels and pails and holding on to the hands of her two young sons.

  “Little true stories,” I say. “Recipes for a sacred life.”

  Elise gives me one of her knowing looks and gestures toward Eli and Isaac.

  “You should write about your grandchildren,” she says. “They’re sacred.”

  SUMMER 2009

  In the glow of the setting sun, Eli, just four, and Isaac, almost two, race in circles on the dirt driveway by their farmhouse while I vigorously chase them. Round and round we run, all laughing nonstop, as if this is the funniest thing in the world. And whenever I pause, gasping for breath, Isaac looks at me appealingly and says, “Maw! Maw!” Then we’re off again, round and round, running and laughing.

  Jenna Rose, at five and a half, tosses her long hair—shiny and golden like her mother Cindy’s—and asks if she can brush my shorter, darker tresses. She kneels behind me on the bed and brushes with long, slow strokes. “I’m making it grow longer,” she says earnestly, and it feels so nice, as if my hair is truly growing with each stroke of the brush.

  I’m sitting on the sofa reading Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, a favorite book from my childhood, to Tony and Cindy’s son, Brendan. Tall and lanky, he just turned seven but still leans into my arms like a kitten when we read. He likes the book—“Not as much as Harry Potter,” he kindly explains, “but it’s good too.” He curls up happily and gently strokes my arm, and I feel the warmth of him and our love.

  John walks over to the driveway to join the chasing game, pitching Eli and Isaac to a near-ecstatic state. Round and round we run, belly laughing, until loud honking sounds ripple above us, moving through the sky. “Geese!” Eli shouts. “Geeze!” Isaac shouts. And we all stop and gaze upward, like a moment of prayer.

  There was a time in my life that seemed so painful, I feared I was falling apart. So my mother came to New York to be with me and help me take care of my kids, her grandkids. “Hang in,” she said. “Be strong. Because the good times will come back, I promise, and you want to be ready.”

  KINDNESS—RANDOM OR NOT

  Many years ago a book came out called Random Acts of Kindness, and soon there were bumper stickers all over VWs imploring you to do the same. Next came a random kindness website, a random kindness foundation, and—no surprise—a random kindness movement. But even with this overdose of random kindness (that no longer seemed that random), it always inspires me to hear stories about people who do something spontaneous, generous, and compassionate—without witnesses or acknowledgment.

  One story I enjoyed was about a man who put extra coins in meters for cars parked near his own, especially those about to expire. I liked picturing people’s faces when they came out to their car and saw they’d been saved by a mysterious stranger. I bet he liked picturing that too. But what made it extra nice was he didn’t need to see them or be seen himself or thanked.

  Sarah and I were talking on the phone about doing good things without talking about them and why that seems to be the higher way . . . but how some things you just have to tell. She then promptly told me one she had done, and we decided it was okay just telling me, as we often decide it’s okay just me telling her.

  Then she said that over the weekend her teenage son, Dane, told her that he tries to do one random act of kindness each day.

  “That’s cool,” Sarah said. “Like, what do you do?” “Mom, I can’t tell you. That would kind of negate it, you know?”

  “Oh, yeah. But do you really do one a day?”

  “I try to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mom!”

  Be kind whenever possible.

  It is always possible.

  —THE DALAI LAMA

  FOR DAYS WHEN IT’S HARD

  TO FEEL GRATEFUL

  So there I was practicing gratefulness, and on good days, no problem. “Oh thank you for this lovely sky. And my dear family. And thank you for my loving husband, John.”

  Then, when the dark days came, I would struggle to feel gratitude but find it forced and phony. I’d be praying, “Thank you, God, I’m really grateful for this lesson . . . or challenge . . . or, um, chance to grow . . .”—but I wasn’t. What I wanted to say was “Help! Make things better! This is so not okay!”

  Then I found a little book by Richard Carlson: Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff . . . and It’s All Small Stuff. He wrote that the happiest people he knew were hardly happy all the time. That’s encouraging. In fact, they could really get down. All right! The key seemed to be their awareness that bad times and bad moods will come. So rather than fight them, they just accept them and wait for them to pass—yeah, but bad times can get worse and drag on and—and they pass a lot quicker, Carlson added, if you accept them with grace.

  Ah, now I got it. It was like finding the missing piece of a puzzle. Good day, be grateful. Bad day, be graceful. Be grateful, be graceful, and on it goes.

  SLOW

  As time seems to move ever faster—and quantum physics suggests that it is—we’re moving faster too and multitasking to keep up. But one July day in our warmest summer, the house was so hot I could barely move, and it was a challenge just to focus on one task. So I slowly emptied the dishwasher. Then I slowly cut flowers outside and arranged them in vases indoors. And when my mother called that evening, I listened to her without simultaneously checking my email.

  What I realized was this: When I slow down, I feel truly connected with the task or object or person at hand.

  Connected with the peacock-patterned dishes from Czechoslovakia that I took out of the dishwasher and put away while remembering my nana who had passed them down. Connected with the orange, pink, and coral zinnias I’d arranged while noticing how each color set off the other in a soft yet vibrant way. Connected to my mother, to what she was saying and the feelings beneath.

  Once again I was reminded that connection is the path to sacred living, and doing one thing at a time—slowly—is one way there.

  THE SOUNDS OF MUSIC

  In my twenties, when I vowed to live intensely and experience everything, I spent most of my weekends at the movies. On Saturdays, there were double features, and I once sat through three films by Jean-Luc Godard (or maybe I just saw Breathless three times).

  What gave movies an edge over life? The soundtrack. I imagined how much better life would be if it only had a soundtrack. Even the hard parts could be softened with a few violins.

  The universe was clearly attuned to my thoughts, for some years later the iPod was born. Till then, we settled for stereo. I remember when stereo first came out and a friend taught me how to find the best spot in the room to get its full effect. If I needed more proof of the magic of music, that was it—there was one spot where it all came together just right.

  Music is like prayer: I forget how powerful it is and how quickly it can lift me. The highest I ever went was in Venice, Italy, with John. In a small, golden-lit chapel, a group of inspired musicians played Vivaldi concertos as we sat and listened in awe. Or maybe it was walking into a rock concert in Rye, New York, just as Janis Joplin was belting out “Piece of My Heart”—with such power and passion I can still hear it.

  Another gift of music is its synergy: It can make anything feel more sacred and fun—cooking, eating, or making love. And while it often brings me into the moment, it can also pull me back to the past. Listening to “oldies but goodies” or folk songs from the ’60s, I relive first love: the pleasure and pain, marriage and babies, dreams and loss . . . and I get to see the movie that’s the movie of my life.

  So of course I bought an iPod.

  My kids were impressed, knowing my discomfort with anything high-tech. They were less impressed when I kept it in its box for two years, along with the digital camera and other gadgets I seem unable to comprehe
nd. Then Joe, our sonin-law, came to visit, connected the iPod to my computer, and taught me how to upload and download.

  The weekend Joe left, I sat in my office and filled the iPod with every CD we owned: Sly and the Family Stone, Bach’s Brandenburg concertos, West African drumming, the Beatles. Soon I was rocking in my chair to Paul Simon singing “Graceland.” I grew misty hearing Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza. And when the theme from Evita came on—“Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”—I was crying too.

  Higher and higher I went as I played Mozart . . . Dylan . . . John Denver . . . Aretha . . . and Mexican music that made me get up and dance. Ray Charles was next, singing the blues, and stamp-your-feet gospel took me straight to God, I swear it.

  I spent that whole day alone in my office, uploading, downloading, crying, and dancing. And when I went downstairs to make a pie, I turned up the speakers in the kitchen and living room, plugged in the iPod, and clicked on a medley Paul H. had made for us: Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, and, as a bonus, Louis Armstrong. Louis was singing “What a Wonderful World.” It felt as achingly sweet as love.

  When John came home, he heard the music from upstairs, downstairs, and all around us and said, “You’ve got music everywhere.”

  Which is what I always wanted, a soundtrack for my life.

  Music washes away from the soul

  the dust of everyday life.

  —NED ROREM

  FORTUNE COOKIE KARMA

  Jeanne and I walked to the Pearl Street Mall and had dinner at a new Asian restaurant—very hip, very Thai, very Boulder. But when the waitress brought the bill, she gave us the same old fortune cookies from the Chinese restaurants of my youth in Philly. The fortunes, however, were on a whole new level. Instead of “You will be rich and famous and travel to many countries,” I got this: