I did that embarrassing thing my grandmother used to do

Never Done: I did that embarrassing thing my grandmother used to do

I remember when I was a kid and we would go out for lunch or dinner at Howard Johnsons with my grandmother, and she would order coffee. Because she knew what was coming. My grandmother would ask the waitress if it was a fresh pot. The waitress would say yes. She would bring the coffee. My grandmother would taste it and call the waitress back because it wasn't hot enough. The waitress would bring a new, presumably hotter cup. My grandmother would taste it, and say it was too strong, and ask for an ice cube to water it down. Then she would taste it again, and ... you guessed it: it was too cold again.

Can you picture how this was for the rest of us? How we would cringe, and apologize behind my grandmother's back? How my mother would try to persuade my grandmother not to -- just not to -- and how my grandmother just didn't seem to be able to stop herself?

Well, I was her today. Sort of. Some friend and I stopped for ice cream at Ample Hills Creamery, whose name is inspired by the Walt Whitman quote: I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine. The flavor selection was gorgeous, and I asked for tastes of three flavors: root beer, maple bacon, and chocolate stout. Right off the bat, I didn't love the root beer, the stout was wonderful, and the maple bacon base was lovely, but there was no bacon in my little bite. So I asked for another, so I could tell if I'd like it. The next taste came with one little piece of bacon, and I really liked the combination, and ordered a small cup. When my cup came and I started to eat, there was so much bacon in each bite that it was just overwhelming. (And I was using one of those little tasting spoons -- not a full-sized plastic spoon.) My friend immediately started to figure out how to share hers with me, but my mind was going in another direction: I was trying to screw up the courage to ask her for a new cup.

It wasn't easy -- a voice in my head told me that TWO tastes should have been enough for me to know whether I would like it. That I shouldn't cause trouble. That I should offer to pay for the second cup. That it would embarrass my friend. But another voice in my head told me it's not good to eat something I don't like, and that it's OK to ask for what I want, and that I am not likely to become my grandmother because of all the years I worked in food service. So I screwed up my courage and I asked. The scooper went to ask the owner, and they conferred for so long that I decided to offer to pay for the new cup. When she came back, I preempted her by making my offer, but she had come back to say it was fine to switch. I wanted to protest, but quickly realized that would be even more neurotic than just thanking her and choosing a new flavor, which is the path I chose.

It was pretty painless (at least it was for me) I think in part because I was practicing the mide (middah) of Calmness: Words of the wise are stated gently. (In this case, the words of the wise were stated gently by and to myself, which is often harder than stating them to someone else.) And I suppose it was also made relatively painless because I was essentially rewarded with wonderful chocolate stout ice cream and a date with friends. Hopefully it was made relatively painless for those around me because I only ate one bacon-filled bite before returning it. And also because I tipped 50%.

I kayaked in Jamaica Bay

Never Done: I kayaked in Jamaica Bay

Growing up in New England, I canoed on lots of ponds and rivers. Mostly we kept our canoe under our house, and easily hoisted it onto our orange Volvo station wagon when we wanted to bring it somewhere, but I remember for a period of time we kept it on someone's land (Barba's?) on Bare Hill Pond, so I could go out on the pond without my parents (before I knew how to drive.)

I canoed well into my early adulthood too; I remember once when I was in my twenties and living in Maine, I was canoeing with a friend on one of the Belgrade Lakes (about 1/2 mile from where I lived) when we paddled over a loon swimming below the surface. It was one of the most beautiful and other-worldly things I'd ever seen -- this was before I'd ever gone snorkeling, and understood what it's like to see the usually-hidden underwater dimension of our world.

Later, once I moved to Oregon, I discovered the delights of kayaking when I spent time on Sauvie Island. I remember the first time I paddled into a shallow marsh, where a canoe could never have gotten without getting caught on the bottom -- and I got to glide up to a bittern on the shore, without disturbing it. Since that day, I've rarely been back in a canoe, but I've gone kayaking dozens of times, always when I leave New York City -- usually in Maine or Oregon. Until Abigail and Josh and I went to the Sebago Canoe Club open house, and got to go out kayaking into Jamaica Bay.

Every year on Rosh Hashanah, I try to go somewhere beautiful and outdoors for reflection, and one year I went to Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, where I remember gazing out at Jamaica Bay and wondering how I could get out there in a kayak. But I didn't pursue it until my Never Done Year, in which ... Mich brought Abigail into Brooklyn Soup Swap, and Abigail and I became friends, and Abigail invited me to Thanksgiving in April, where I met L, who took me hiking on Staten Island, and told me about Sebago Canoe Club. Voila! Getting out and doing stuff helps you get out and do stuff!

Except that it isn't in my back yard, Sebago feels like a big communal back yard with gardens and BBQ and boat storage and a dock. I tried to picture it on a day when it wasn't full of people (like me) checking it out, and then it felt even more like a communal back yard. And if you're wondering why I'm not talking about being out on the water yet, it's because our experience of being at Sebago was mostly about being on land -- we got there around noon, and signed up to go out on boats, and then hung out for 2 hours before our group was called. We hung out on the dock, we ate grilled meat, we sat on the grass, we met people, and finally we were called to get fit with life jackets and kayaks and get out on the water.

The first thing that happened when I got in my boat is that a man put my boat in the water facing the wrong way. I noticed it, but knew it would be no problem for me to back it out instead of paddle out front-ways. But when I got in, he had a little freak out. "Oh no, that isn't right. No, no, not like that." I reassured him that I would be just fine, that I could back the boat out. But it turned out he was trying to tell me that I hadn't gotten into the boat correctly. When I asked him how to correctly get into the boat, he couldn't actually articulate it, and just told me that I would have capsized if I'd gotten in the way I did (contradicting of course the fact that I just did get in that way and didn't capsize.) I told him I'd never gotten into a kayak from a dock before (true -- I've always gotten in from shore, although I've gotten into lots of canoes from docks) and told him I'd love to learn how. Instead of explaining, he got flustered, and pushed me off.

As soon as I got into the water, I was enveloped in a familiar calm. Maybe it was the negative ions from the water, or maybe just the physical memory of immersion, but I felt at home out there -- almost. It felt wonderful, but it looked and sounded urban. We were within sight of the Belt Parkway, with a steady stream of traffic -- and in fact we ended up paddling right under the Belt, as we entered into Jamaica Bay. When we got out into the Bay (and granted, we didn't get too far in) it felt to wild water as Prospect Park feels to wild woods. Yeah -- it felt like we were in a big, wonderful city park. Which, in fact I think we were.

I'm not sure which mide (middah) would be most appropriate to help me accept that I do actually live in one of the biggest cities in the world, and that it's not in fact a wild natural area, and that if I want to live in a wild natural area, I need to move away from New York City, but that if I want to live in New York City, I should probably stop trying to compare the parks and waterways to New England and Oregon natural forests and waterways. Patience? Equanimity? Truth?

Patience, I think: Do not aggravate a situation with wasted grief. Take in the sense of calm, the negative ions. Look out into the bay, and not over to the littered shore. Get qualified to kayak out to one of the islands and see if maybe the human impact is less obvious out there. Take trips out of the city as often as I can, and let them fill my soul for the times I am here.

I practiced this as best I could out on the water. And I did enjoy myself very much -- and practiced looking past the blemishes for the beauty. And just as I was starting to relax into that groove, it was time to turn around and go back.

When I reached the dock and was ready to get out of the kayak, I watched the people in front of me do it, so I could learn if there's anything special about getting out onto a dock. The woman who was helping me could not articulate what she wanted me to do, and kept saying "No, you go like this. No, like this." But she couldn't show me what part of my body she was trying to adjust. Finally, I did what I thought she was telling me, and easily got out onto the dock, but she was not happy with my dismount. I decided to practice Calmness: Words of the wise are gently stated, and Humility: Seek wisdom from everyone, and sat on the dock and asked her to show me what she had tried to show me. She did try, but she still couldn't articulate what she was trying to, so I did not in fact end up learning what she was trying to teach. But at least I didn't get unsettled about it; I just figured that I did something unorthodox, and the sun was out, a breeze was blowing, I had just kayaked in New York City, and I was safely on the dock.

All that clarity and yet so little clarity

Never Done: Broke up with a film project

I haven't yet had a chance this week to write about this week's mide (middah): Calmness: Words of the wise are stated gently. As a new blanket of new snow covers the city (or at least my block, as can be seen out my windows) in calm, I have my chance.

I broke up with a film project, by calm and thoughtful email exchange. It was a mutual break up. It was the first film project I ever broke up with. I am surprised to notice that I don't feel upset about it.

The challenging nature of the project required me to repeatedly clarify what I wanted for myself, and what I wanted for each of the other collaborators, and what I thought the other collaborators wanted for themselves. The mussar practice and va'ad (council) helped me enormously to continually think about the others, their legitimate concerns, and their likely burdens, while also doing the same for myself. And while things were difficult from the start, I was also clear why I was committed to sticking with it, and I was clear about what I could contribute and why I was valuable to the project, and I was clear about what I couldn't contribute. All that clarity! And yet, so little clarity. It's amazing how sometimes we think we are communicating so well, only to find out that we've remained a mystery.

Each week, the mides (middot) have helped me act ethically, each coming from sometimes radically new angles to give surprisingly consistent perspective. (Surprisingly in context of how different it is to approach one situation by considering the ethics of, say, frugality and cleanliness.) But last week's mide -- Silence: Reflect before speaking -- turns out to be an invaluable component of and precursor to Calmness: Words of the wise are stated gently. Because I don't think you can be wise without reflection, and I don't think you can state things gently without first having gone through a period of silence and reflection.

And so with the help of this practice, I was able to think this through, talk it over, listen carefully, gain perspective, and ultimately feel confident that we all made a thoughtful and calm decision. Do I wish it could have been different? Absolutely. Do I regret any of the time we spent together? Not at all. Do I still have the benefit of my clarity? I do, actually, and I hope I can use it to support the project, and the people involved in the project, from outside the project.

I saw past the blemish to the beauty

Never Done: Saw a staged reading of a new opera of Enemies, A Love Story, by Isaac Bashevis Singer, with a new libretto by Nahma Sandrow

This is the second time in as many months that I have written that the thing I had never done before was to see a world premiere of a work that Nahma either translated or wrote, which has a lot more to say about what Nahma is out there accomplishing than what I am, except that I think that supporting and learning from our colleagues (Humility: Seek wisdom from everyone) is a vital part of the creative process. Really. I once took a master class in acting from Marian Seldes in which she spent as much time (literally) teaching about how to be a good audience member as she taught how to be a good actor. I will probably never forget her modeling how to sit in the audience, leaning slightly forward, in rapt attention -- her point being that the job of the audience member is to give as much attention and energy to the actor as the actor is giving to the audience. Her class reminded me that my friend Barbara teaches first graders how to listen, and they practice sitting across from each other making encouraging sounds like, "mhmm" and "oh." (I found this out because when I still lived in Portland I used to go help her take her class apart at the end of the year, and I found a piece of butcher paper with an illustrated three-step tutorial on how to be a good listener.)

This being New York, and the theater community being small, I later found myself in audiences with Marian, where I saw that she does, in fact, sit perfectly still -- fidgetless -- and completely attentive, with an interested look on her face. Unlike Edward Albee, who sat behind me recently during a Public Theater production that I thought was well above average, and also both politically and emotionally ambitious, and also had one of the best raised poor characters I've ever seen on stage, and he alternately slept and complained through the first act, and then didn't come back for the second. I myself usually fall somewhat in between. I aspire to be like Seldes, but I sometimes fight back the sleep, and sometimes I succumb.

I think I was a good (which as I think about it, means that I was an ethical) audience member at Enemies. I wasn't as still as Marian suggests, because I was still fighting off a sore throat, and needed to sip tea, and once to unwrap a vitamin C throat lozenge. But I paid close attention, and I gave the actors my energy and attention. And here's the thing: it wasn't necessarily so easy to do, because even though I was super interested in the libretto and the plotting, and even though a couple of the singers were wonderful, the guy who played the main character swallowed his words, making it really difficult to understand, and the music was ... well the music was ... well the music was ... I hated the music. There, I said it. I hated the music. It made me want to act out. It made me want to whisper judgmental things to the people I was with. But I didn't. (Unless I am right now. Which I am a little worried that I might be.) Instead, I sat and paid attention to the parts I was far more interested in, which took at least five mides (middot) to accomplish: patience, equanimity, humility, decisiveness, silence, and calmness. And diligence too. In the end, I think everyone was the better for it, but I know I was.

I live with someone who does this extremely well -- he sees right past the blemish to the beauty, whereas my mind tends to get stuck at the blemish. (There are some downsides to this -- cleanliness and order are not his strong suits, but they are mine.) I've been trying to get better at seeing the past the blemish to the beauty for years, and have started to see some real progress recently. I'll take my experience at Enemies as a success, and will keep building from there.