Never Done: I had a sleepover with a dog
I don't think a dog ever spent the night in my house when I was growing up, and I have never lived with a dog in all the years I've been on my own. The few times a friend has brought a dog along on a visit, the dog has stayed outside. Of course I've stayed in many homes with dogs -- but that is completely different from having a dog stay at my place.
Mich came to Brooklyn for the weekend and brought her sweet (and somewhat cowering) pit bull Tsippy with her. At first it was hard for her to find a place to stay because all her close friends have cats. She couldn't stay with me because Josh is allergic to cats and dogs (which is one of the reasons we don't have cats.) but then, as it turned out, Josh isn't home this weekend, so I texted Mich and asked if she wanted to stay with me. She asked -- what about Tsippy? And I wrote back, "When the cat's away ..." to which she promptly responded, "The pit bulls play!"
And so we made a plan, and when I got home Saturday night, they were there waiting for me. Here's the ethical question part. I didn't tell Josh in advance. I didn't want to give him something to worry about. Instead I set it up so that Tsippy wouldn't go anywhere with carpet and wouldn't get on the furniture. When she is gone, I will vacuum a lot, which frankly needs to happen anyway. And maybe this will really sound like justification, but Josh is usually the vacuumer in the family, and so maybe it will all turn out to be an excellent gift for him -- that he will come home to a very vacuumed apartment. Justification? Or ethical decision? When is it better to not say something? When is it better to say something?
In Catholicism, there are many kinds of sins -- two of which are sins of omission and sins of commission. If this is a sin, it is a sin of omission. But I'm not sure it's a sin at all. I know for a fact that Josh would love for me to have some close time with Mich. He would definitely see it as a silver lining to the events of this week. What I am counting on is that what he doesn't know won't hurt him -- and also that once he's back home I'll tell him. Also, I am practicing the mide (middah) of Silence: Reflect before speaking. Which, admittedly, is sort of an easy mide to use to justify not telling someone something. But also, it's true -- I am reflecting before speaking, and really thinking through all the implications of saying something or not, and when is the best time to, and what to say, and why I would say it. Which is something I don't do enough. I tend to blurt things out first, and then regret them later. So for what it's worth, I am holding back this time (only sort of not, of course, since you are reading this) and choosing to be silent, in order to give my sweetie some piece of mind. You know how the Car Talk guys sometimes ask people to check back in with them later, to see how their advice was? I feel like I should check back in with my blog readers later, to let you know if this was a good decision on my part. In the meantime, what do you think?
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I met Alan Morinis and other folks from the Mussar Institute
Never Done: I met Alan Morinis and other folks from the Mussar Institute
I don't think I've ever expended as little energy getting to an event that I would have gone to great lengths to attend. At 7 PM, after a long and at times taxing day at work, I stood up from my desk, left my office, walked down one flight of stairs, and took a seat in the beys midrash. (Beys midrash means, literally, house of learning -- and at the JCC is a lovely room lined with Jewish texts.) I was there for a lecture called, Seeing Your Life as a Soul Journey: An Evening of Mussar with Alan Morinis.
The seat I chose was near the back, but when I got a text message from Dana that she would be coming very late, I moved to a closer row where I could leave her a seat on the aisle. Before the lecture started, suddenly -- right behind me in my new seat -- a woman tripped over someone else's cane, and simultaneously fell down and spilled her water and her plate of fruit. She was OK, and the first thing she wanted to do was clean up. I offered to do that for her, because although she had not badly hurt herself, I remember what it feels like to almost hurt yourself badly, and your heart needs some time to stop racing, and your soul needs a bit of time to realize you're actually OK. (Or, in some cases, that you're not.) So I cleaned up her spilled fruit, and a couple other women did too, and I threw it away, and I got a bunch of napkins to dry off the chair where the water mostly landed. (If this feels like a mundane description, just hang in there -- it's going somewhere.) As I blotted up the water, a woman who was sitting nearby said to me, "We were going to sit there."
OK. Many things went through my head at that moment. I admit, most of them were sarcastic. Instead of saying any of them, I chose Silence: Reflect before speaking, and continued to clean up. Then she said, "There are four of us." It seemed to me that she was complaining about the fact that there was water on a chair she wanted one of her friends to sit on, and that she wanted me to do something about it. I don't think there was any way for her to know I work at the JCC, and in fact I wasn't cleaning up the water as a JCC employee, but as a person thinking about Cleanliness: Let no stain or ugliness on our self/space and taking responsibility for our collective space. So my mind went to a bunch of judgmental places about this passive woman who expects other people to clean up for her, when it occurred to me that I don't actually know what is going on for that woman. Maybe she's wearing a brand new silk dress that would get ruined if she sat on a damp chair. Maybe she hasn't seen the people she's with for years, and it's truly her priority to spend time with them. We really don't know what is going on for others. Then I decided to move the chair instead of mop up the chair, so I picked it up, and I asked the woman to move some other chairs over so I could put this chair a row behind. It was just like one of those games we had as kids -- where you move squares one at a time until you get them in the order you want. Only she couldn't see how to get where we were going, and she was moving chairs in a way that would only shuffle the wet chair among her four friends, and not remove it from her row. Finally I was able to describe to her what she would need to move in order for me to put the chair down, and while this was happening, I suddenly remembered that when I was at the Dan Bern concert, a woman moved her wobbly chair to another table instead of removing it from the hall, and then another woman sat on it and it broke, causing her to fall to the ground. I remember writing that I could imagine myself as the person who just moved the wobbly chair elsewhere instead of completely removing it from the room, and that I was going to heed that lesson and try to take complete (not partial) responsibility for the spaces I use from here on in.
So there I was, holding the chair, having this memory, and noticing that if I put the chair down where I am about to then someone else might get a wet tush. I looked up to see how to remove it completely, when I saw that a man was reaching out his hands to take the chair from me, and I could tell that he saw the big picture, and was going to remove this chair from the line of duty. I handed him the chair, I thanked him, and I sat. (I later found out that this man was Michael, the Executive Director of the Mussar Institute.)
All this, and the lecture hadn't yet started. And more -- I got the woman who had fallen a replacement plate of food, and when I sat down, I thought again -- as I often do -- about what it means to be so deeply predisposed to be in service to others. This was a situation in which I had nothing else to do but sit and wait, and helping her was in no way taking away from a somehow more interesting life activity. But there are certainly times in my life in which I default to service to others when I have not yet taken care of my own basic needs. Since I do have that tendency, and the Mussar practice is deeply about service to others, it's no wonder that I am drawn to it. But the practice also has at its core a thoughtful examination of the balance between the needs of self and others. To borrow a common analogy, if you don't put on your own oxygen mask first, you won't be able to assist others with theirs.
Speaking of which, I actually have to go to work, and can't take the time to write about Alan's actual lecture, beyond to say that it focused on three aspects of the soul -- neshome, nefesh, and ruakh -- and the importance of tending all three aspects. Neshome is the pure, brilliant, clear essence of our humanity. Nefesh is our character traits -- anger, patience, humility, passivity. And ruakh is our spirit. Neshome just is -- it's the part of the soul that cannot be sullied. It's often most evident in a new born, who without language or pressing appointments, is purely human. Nefesh can get out of balance. We can be too angry, too humble, too patient, too impatient. It is the work of a Mussar practice to keep this in balance. Ruakh can also become sick -- if we have too little energy and our spirit is tamped down, we are depressed. If we are over-energetic, and can't calm down enough to focus, our ruakh is also out of whack. The heart of Alan Morinis's lecture was that our Mussar practice is one of seeing our own and other people's neshome, and working to keep our own nefesh and ruakh in balance -- largely by being in service to others.
I don't think I've ever expended as little energy getting to an event that I would have gone to great lengths to attend. At 7 PM, after a long and at times taxing day at work, I stood up from my desk, left my office, walked down one flight of stairs, and took a seat in the beys midrash. (Beys midrash means, literally, house of learning -- and at the JCC is a lovely room lined with Jewish texts.) I was there for a lecture called, Seeing Your Life as a Soul Journey: An Evening of Mussar with Alan Morinis.
The seat I chose was near the back, but when I got a text message from Dana that she would be coming very late, I moved to a closer row where I could leave her a seat on the aisle. Before the lecture started, suddenly -- right behind me in my new seat -- a woman tripped over someone else's cane, and simultaneously fell down and spilled her water and her plate of fruit. She was OK, and the first thing she wanted to do was clean up. I offered to do that for her, because although she had not badly hurt herself, I remember what it feels like to almost hurt yourself badly, and your heart needs some time to stop racing, and your soul needs a bit of time to realize you're actually OK. (Or, in some cases, that you're not.) So I cleaned up her spilled fruit, and a couple other women did too, and I threw it away, and I got a bunch of napkins to dry off the chair where the water mostly landed. (If this feels like a mundane description, just hang in there -- it's going somewhere.) As I blotted up the water, a woman who was sitting nearby said to me, "We were going to sit there."
OK. Many things went through my head at that moment. I admit, most of them were sarcastic. Instead of saying any of them, I chose Silence: Reflect before speaking, and continued to clean up. Then she said, "There are four of us." It seemed to me that she was complaining about the fact that there was water on a chair she wanted one of her friends to sit on, and that she wanted me to do something about it. I don't think there was any way for her to know I work at the JCC, and in fact I wasn't cleaning up the water as a JCC employee, but as a person thinking about Cleanliness: Let no stain or ugliness on our self/space and taking responsibility for our collective space. So my mind went to a bunch of judgmental places about this passive woman who expects other people to clean up for her, when it occurred to me that I don't actually know what is going on for that woman. Maybe she's wearing a brand new silk dress that would get ruined if she sat on a damp chair. Maybe she hasn't seen the people she's with for years, and it's truly her priority to spend time with them. We really don't know what is going on for others. Then I decided to move the chair instead of mop up the chair, so I picked it up, and I asked the woman to move some other chairs over so I could put this chair a row behind. It was just like one of those games we had as kids -- where you move squares one at a time until you get them in the order you want. Only she couldn't see how to get where we were going, and she was moving chairs in a way that would only shuffle the wet chair among her four friends, and not remove it from her row. Finally I was able to describe to her what she would need to move in order for me to put the chair down, and while this was happening, I suddenly remembered that when I was at the Dan Bern concert, a woman moved her wobbly chair to another table instead of removing it from the hall, and then another woman sat on it and it broke, causing her to fall to the ground. I remember writing that I could imagine myself as the person who just moved the wobbly chair elsewhere instead of completely removing it from the room, and that I was going to heed that lesson and try to take complete (not partial) responsibility for the spaces I use from here on in.
So there I was, holding the chair, having this memory, and noticing that if I put the chair down where I am about to then someone else might get a wet tush. I looked up to see how to remove it completely, when I saw that a man was reaching out his hands to take the chair from me, and I could tell that he saw the big picture, and was going to remove this chair from the line of duty. I handed him the chair, I thanked him, and I sat. (I later found out that this man was Michael, the Executive Director of the Mussar Institute.)
All this, and the lecture hadn't yet started. And more -- I got the woman who had fallen a replacement plate of food, and when I sat down, I thought again -- as I often do -- about what it means to be so deeply predisposed to be in service to others. This was a situation in which I had nothing else to do but sit and wait, and helping her was in no way taking away from a somehow more interesting life activity. But there are certainly times in my life in which I default to service to others when I have not yet taken care of my own basic needs. Since I do have that tendency, and the Mussar practice is deeply about service to others, it's no wonder that I am drawn to it. But the practice also has at its core a thoughtful examination of the balance between the needs of self and others. To borrow a common analogy, if you don't put on your own oxygen mask first, you won't be able to assist others with theirs.
Speaking of which, I actually have to go to work, and can't take the time to write about Alan's actual lecture, beyond to say that it focused on three aspects of the soul -- neshome, nefesh, and ruakh -- and the importance of tending all three aspects. Neshome is the pure, brilliant, clear essence of our humanity. Nefesh is our character traits -- anger, patience, humility, passivity. And ruakh is our spirit. Neshome just is -- it's the part of the soul that cannot be sullied. It's often most evident in a new born, who without language or pressing appointments, is purely human. Nefesh can get out of balance. We can be too angry, too humble, too patient, too impatient. It is the work of a Mussar practice to keep this in balance. Ruakh can also become sick -- if we have too little energy and our spirit is tamped down, we are depressed. If we are over-energetic, and can't calm down enough to focus, our ruakh is also out of whack. The heart of Alan Morinis's lecture was that our Mussar practice is one of seeing our own and other people's neshome, and working to keep our own nefesh and ruakh in balance -- largely by being in service to others.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
I went to a lecture about the Golem legend (and I didn't ask a question)
Never Done: I went to a lecture about the Golem legend (and I didn't ask a question)
When I met my writing partner Steve, he was working on a great screenplay -- an urban teenage golem story. A golem is a figure in Jewish mythology -- an animated creature made from clay, that is often used for protection. Also when we met, I was working on a vampire jazz romantic comedy. We were fast friends. First we rewrote my screenplay, and then we rewrote his. Or maybe it was the other way around. In any event, we made each others' work better, and that's why we still write together. (We haven't sold the golem script yet, but we should. It's our best work, and someone should make that movie.)
A couple weeks ago, Josh saw that there was a lecture on the golem legend at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research and let us know. We made a plan to meet for dinner first, to do some screenplay business (about which I've been negligent since I started my JCC job.) The lecture turned out to be great. The lecturer, Curt Leviant -- a Jewish studies scholar, novelist, and Yiddish translator -- had a wonderful mastery of his lecture, and especially of his Q and A session. He did a great job of both being the expert and also making us realize how much we already knew, and leading us up to the point at which he knew more than us, so that we would welcome him to step through the door and tell us all about it. I was mostly thinking about what he was talking about, but a little bit I was thinking about how he did this -- and what it might mean, from a mussar point of view, to be a good teacher and to remove ego as much as possible, and to think about the burden of the other -- the other being the people listening to you.
I really started thinking about the burden of the other when we got to the Q & A session. Just the other day I read this NY Times piece about how to ask a good question at a public event. (1. There is no such thing as a two-part question. 2. If you have a genuine sense of curiosity, you're probably on a good track. 3. If you feel a sense of pride in yourself for thinking of your question, it's probably better to let someone else have the mic.) I had a burning sense of curiosity. I had a real question that I wanted to know the answer to. I didn't feel rushed, just curious. Eventually someone passed me the mic. But then all sorts of other people got called on before me, and by the time I could have stood up or spoken up, I decided that even though I was genuinely interested to know what Leviant would say to answer my question, I didn't feel the level of drive I would have needed to muscle my way into the public space. And when I handed the microphone over to someone else, and they used the time to grab attention to themselves, I knew I had made the right decision -- because even though the answer would have been interesting to me, I'm not sure it would have been all that interesting to other people.
There is a mide (middah) of Silence: Reflect before speaking. Maybe I'll write a comment on the NY Times online page of the story on public questions. But, um, I will have to reflect carefully before I do.
When I met my writing partner Steve, he was working on a great screenplay -- an urban teenage golem story. A golem is a figure in Jewish mythology -- an animated creature made from clay, that is often used for protection. Also when we met, I was working on a vampire jazz romantic comedy. We were fast friends. First we rewrote my screenplay, and then we rewrote his. Or maybe it was the other way around. In any event, we made each others' work better, and that's why we still write together. (We haven't sold the golem script yet, but we should. It's our best work, and someone should make that movie.)
A couple weeks ago, Josh saw that there was a lecture on the golem legend at the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research and let us know. We made a plan to meet for dinner first, to do some screenplay business (about which I've been negligent since I started my JCC job.) The lecture turned out to be great. The lecturer, Curt Leviant -- a Jewish studies scholar, novelist, and Yiddish translator -- had a wonderful mastery of his lecture, and especially of his Q and A session. He did a great job of both being the expert and also making us realize how much we already knew, and leading us up to the point at which he knew more than us, so that we would welcome him to step through the door and tell us all about it. I was mostly thinking about what he was talking about, but a little bit I was thinking about how he did this -- and what it might mean, from a mussar point of view, to be a good teacher and to remove ego as much as possible, and to think about the burden of the other -- the other being the people listening to you.
I really started thinking about the burden of the other when we got to the Q & A session. Just the other day I read this NY Times piece about how to ask a good question at a public event. (1. There is no such thing as a two-part question. 2. If you have a genuine sense of curiosity, you're probably on a good track. 3. If you feel a sense of pride in yourself for thinking of your question, it's probably better to let someone else have the mic.) I had a burning sense of curiosity. I had a real question that I wanted to know the answer to. I didn't feel rushed, just curious. Eventually someone passed me the mic. But then all sorts of other people got called on before me, and by the time I could have stood up or spoken up, I decided that even though I was genuinely interested to know what Leviant would say to answer my question, I didn't feel the level of drive I would have needed to muscle my way into the public space. And when I handed the microphone over to someone else, and they used the time to grab attention to themselves, I knew I had made the right decision -- because even though the answer would have been interesting to me, I'm not sure it would have been all that interesting to other people.
There is a mide (middah) of Silence: Reflect before speaking. Maybe I'll write a comment on the NY Times online page of the story on public questions. But, um, I will have to reflect carefully before I do.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
I Went to Don't Tell Mama (and heard Karen T sing)
Never Done: I Went to Don't Tell Mama (and heard Karen T sing)
My thinking about the mide (middah) if Silence: Reflect before speaking has been developing all week, and reached new level of insight at a cabaret class performance at Don't Tell Mama. I went to hear my friend Karen sing a set of 3 songs, along with five of her classmates who also each sang sets of 3 songs. During the first four performances (Karen sang fifth) my mind was aflutter with judgment. Judgment about people's voices, their song choices, their outfits, their stage patter. I was aware enough of my judgmental thoughts to keep my facial expressions neutral to positive -- and I certainly didn't lean over to my friends give voice to any of my negative thoughts. But I was thinking them, and at some point I realized that they were loud, and that I was not controlling them, and that the mide of silence could be well applied to my own thoughts before I even get to my own speech.
What's really going on when my mind is fixating on the tone of pink on a woman's dress? Is it trying to distract itself from the shrill quality of her voice? Or the sustained flat notes? I know that sounds catty and judgmental, but it's actually a real question -- am I trying to stop focusing on one negative thing -- about singing -- by focusing on a different negative thing? What if I would instead focus on what a sweet and supportive crowd it is, or her pretty cheekbones? Would that perhaps make me less uncomfortable about the weaknesses in her performance? All this was going on in my mind when my friend Karen took the stage.
And as soon as she did, my mind chatter stopped. Karen was riveting. Her first few notes were easy and confident, and as they grew into a soulful rendition of Good Mother -- a 1994 hit by Candian singer-songwriter Jann Arden I somehow had never heard. Either it was her grounded charisma combined with her fluid yet strong voice combined with her transcendent song choice (Strange Fruit and Love is a Battlefield) and her patter about the nexus of race, enslavement and Red Lobster that chased the negative chatter right out of my head, or it was because (and I understand that this is ethically problematic) I care about Karen more than I care about the other singers. I guess either way, what I'm saying is that I was experiencing something more interesting and more important than the inner critic -- love and friendship and genuine involvement in the performance -- and it just silenced my mind.
So how do we silence the mind when it's louder than its surroundings? I'm thinking probably a practice of mindful appreciation, like I alluded to earlier. If the voice is flat, can I appreciate the song? If the song is dull, can I appreciate the dress? If the dress is garish, can I appreciate the intention behind wearing the garish dress, or the progress I assume the singer has made, or the lights, or the heymish and supportive atmosphere in the room? In other words, I think there is always something positive to pay attention to, and I think that with practice, I should be able to raise the volume on that voice, and mute the judgmental chatter.
My thinking about the mide (middah) if Silence: Reflect before speaking has been developing all week, and reached new level of insight at a cabaret class performance at Don't Tell Mama. I went to hear my friend Karen sing a set of 3 songs, along with five of her classmates who also each sang sets of 3 songs. During the first four performances (Karen sang fifth) my mind was aflutter with judgment. Judgment about people's voices, their song choices, their outfits, their stage patter. I was aware enough of my judgmental thoughts to keep my facial expressions neutral to positive -- and I certainly didn't lean over to my friends give voice to any of my negative thoughts. But I was thinking them, and at some point I realized that they were loud, and that I was not controlling them, and that the mide of silence could be well applied to my own thoughts before I even get to my own speech.
What's really going on when my mind is fixating on the tone of pink on a woman's dress? Is it trying to distract itself from the shrill quality of her voice? Or the sustained flat notes? I know that sounds catty and judgmental, but it's actually a real question -- am I trying to stop focusing on one negative thing -- about singing -- by focusing on a different negative thing? What if I would instead focus on what a sweet and supportive crowd it is, or her pretty cheekbones? Would that perhaps make me less uncomfortable about the weaknesses in her performance? All this was going on in my mind when my friend Karen took the stage.
And as soon as she did, my mind chatter stopped. Karen was riveting. Her first few notes were easy and confident, and as they grew into a soulful rendition of Good Mother -- a 1994 hit by Candian singer-songwriter Jann Arden I somehow had never heard. Either it was her grounded charisma combined with her fluid yet strong voice combined with her transcendent song choice (Strange Fruit and Love is a Battlefield) and her patter about the nexus of race, enslavement and Red Lobster that chased the negative chatter right out of my head, or it was because (and I understand that this is ethically problematic) I care about Karen more than I care about the other singers. I guess either way, what I'm saying is that I was experiencing something more interesting and more important than the inner critic -- love and friendship and genuine involvement in the performance -- and it just silenced my mind.
So how do we silence the mind when it's louder than its surroundings? I'm thinking probably a practice of mindful appreciation, like I alluded to earlier. If the voice is flat, can I appreciate the song? If the song is dull, can I appreciate the dress? If the dress is garish, can I appreciate the intention behind wearing the garish dress, or the progress I assume the singer has made, or the lights, or the heymish and supportive atmosphere in the room? In other words, I think there is always something positive to pay attention to, and I think that with practice, I should be able to raise the volume on that voice, and mute the judgmental chatter.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
I spent 15 minutes following Twitter
Never Done: I spent 15 minutes following Twitter
And I concluded that I should follow more people and then do it again. (I put "follow" in italics to indicate that I meant Twitter follow and not just randomly follow.)
Here are the reasons why I wanted to spend some time on Twitter. I have been thinking a lot about how Egyptians used Twitter to bring about radical change, and how it's been used as a political news source and a rallying tool across the world. I have a Twitter account, and a couple weeks ago I started tweeting my daily Never Done blog post titles, and I follow some people, but until today I actually never took the time to look to see how people actually follow Twitter -- where and how tweets come in. It seems important to me to understand how one of the most significant social networks of our times works. I mean, what if we were suddenly engaged in a revolution? I'd want to know where to go to topple some statues!
The other thing that happened is that Anthony Weiner admitted he did in fact tweet lewd (are there any other kind?) photos of his cock to a student. And I just wanted to see -- why would someone tweet a cock shot? I thought Twitter was by nature a public social media forum, so this made me realize there must be a private message function like there is on Facebook.
And as I trolled Twitter and watched the tweets roll in, I started thinking about this week's mide (middah) of Silence: Reflect before speaking (or tweeting.) I think a lot about what I write in these blog posts, since they go out publicly, and I have in fact once written something I later regretted. (I guess one regret out of 260 posts is actually doing pretty well.) Where I have a harder time with the Silence practice is when I am actually speaking. I have a tendency to blurt things out when I am socially off-balance. I did it just yesterday, despite the fact that all week long I've been thinking, reading, and writing about Silence. I think what happens is that once I realize I would be better off not saying something, I've already given some signals (usually preamble) that I'm about to say something, and then it feels really socially awkward to stop. But I actually think (just realizing this now as I write) that this is the path I should follow; the next time I realize I am about to say something I might not want to, I should just stop and face the awkward social silence.
Maybe Anthony Weiner and millions of other Tweeters would like to try the same.
And I concluded that I should follow more people and then do it again. (I put "follow" in italics to indicate that I meant Twitter follow and not just randomly follow.)
Here are the reasons why I wanted to spend some time on Twitter. I have been thinking a lot about how Egyptians used Twitter to bring about radical change, and how it's been used as a political news source and a rallying tool across the world. I have a Twitter account, and a couple weeks ago I started tweeting my daily Never Done blog post titles, and I follow some people, but until today I actually never took the time to look to see how people actually follow Twitter -- where and how tweets come in. It seems important to me to understand how one of the most significant social networks of our times works. I mean, what if we were suddenly engaged in a revolution? I'd want to know where to go to topple some statues!
The other thing that happened is that Anthony Weiner admitted he did in fact tweet lewd (are there any other kind?) photos of his cock to a student. And I just wanted to see -- why would someone tweet a cock shot? I thought Twitter was by nature a public social media forum, so this made me realize there must be a private message function like there is on Facebook.
And as I trolled Twitter and watched the tweets roll in, I started thinking about this week's mide (middah) of Silence: Reflect before speaking (or tweeting.) I think a lot about what I write in these blog posts, since they go out publicly, and I have in fact once written something I later regretted. (I guess one regret out of 260 posts is actually doing pretty well.) Where I have a harder time with the Silence practice is when I am actually speaking. I have a tendency to blurt things out when I am socially off-balance. I did it just yesterday, despite the fact that all week long I've been thinking, reading, and writing about Silence. I think what happens is that once I realize I would be better off not saying something, I've already given some signals (usually preamble) that I'm about to say something, and then it feels really socially awkward to stop. But I actually think (just realizing this now as I write) that this is the path I should follow; the next time I realize I am about to say something I might not want to, I should just stop and face the awkward social silence.
Maybe Anthony Weiner and millions of other Tweeters would like to try the same.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I attended Adult Education
Never Done: I attended Adult Education
I've been meaning to Adult Education go for months, because the talented writer and wonderful guy Jim Hanas is a co-curator. Tonight, when I finally had a free evening to go, I found I wasn't in a very social mood, so I sat at the bar in the back, and took it all in anti-socially. (Sorry Jim! Sorry Alexandra!) Adult Ed bills itself as Brooklyn's Useless Lecture Series, and in fact, when I walked in a little bit late, Charles Star (the very funny stand-up comedian/lawyer host whose website I can't find, and so I can't link to it) was presenting a lecture about remixing Garfield cartoons. I think.
The theme of the evening (and it seems there is a theme every evening) was Remixed. I was drawn in by the advertisement for Doogie Horner's lecture: U.S. Presidential Rumble: Wrestling with History. If all the U.S. Presidents fought each other, who would win? (You may be thinking Benjamin Harrison, but he's eliminated in the second bracket of round four.) And I wasn't disappointed, although I had to wait til the end to find out that the Final Four came down to Abe Lincoln vs Teddy Roosevelt*, and George Washington vs. James Monroe.* The starred contenders won, and in the battle between Roosevelt and Monroe, you might be surprised to learn that Monroe came out on top. If you want to know why, you're going to have to buy Doogie's Book, Everything Explained by Flowcharts, not because I can recommend it (I can't) but because I don't remember why Monroe beat Roosevelt, and it's all in the book.
But before Doogie, we had Sara Taskler's satiric School of Doc: How to make Your Documentary Financially Successful, which, while essentially accurate, really was useless, and hilarious. She made a documentary about balloon twisting, and taught us how to make balloon dogs. Mine came out lopsided because she would say things like, "Pinch it at 1 inch and twist it three times, and I would, and then I would look up, and she would have pinched it at 3 inches. I was sitting next to a guy at the bar whose dog came out even worse than mine, and he reassured me that mine, and I, was OK. Three acts later, I found out that was Doogie.
Here, look at my balloon dog:
This is the first time I put a photo in the MIDDLE of a blog post, and then kept going. (Shehekhianu!) And this is a good time to look at the picture of the dog, actually, because the next lecture is about the Political Economy of Music Sampling, and while it's arguably interesting and Nate Harrison is super smart and has big qualifications, it was also good that I had a balloon dog to play with while he was talking.
The other filling to the sandwich was a guy named Kirby Ferguson, who is working on a project called Everything is a Remix, which is really about the essence of creativity. Which again, was actually interesting, but it sometimes happens that when you're feeling anti-social, you're also feeling anti-intellectual. And plus, it's gotta be hard to be squeezed between balloon dogs and presidential wrestling matches. Which seems like it should be a metaphor for something, but truth is, I don't know what. Hmmm. I guess my mood hasn't shifted much yet.
I appreciated Adult Ed. I liked how short the lectures were, and how funny, and how useless, and yet how deeply based in actual knowledge and scholarship. Next month the theme will be Cuisines of the World, or something like that, and they are still looking for lecturers. I wonder if I have anything useless to offer...
I've been meaning to Adult Education go for months, because the talented writer and wonderful guy Jim Hanas is a co-curator. Tonight, when I finally had a free evening to go, I found I wasn't in a very social mood, so I sat at the bar in the back, and took it all in anti-socially. (Sorry Jim! Sorry Alexandra!) Adult Ed bills itself as Brooklyn's Useless Lecture Series, and in fact, when I walked in a little bit late, Charles Star (the very funny stand-up comedian/lawyer host whose website I can't find, and so I can't link to it) was presenting a lecture about remixing Garfield cartoons. I think.
The theme of the evening (and it seems there is a theme every evening) was Remixed. I was drawn in by the advertisement for Doogie Horner's lecture: U.S. Presidential Rumble: Wrestling with History. If all the U.S. Presidents fought each other, who would win? (You may be thinking Benjamin Harrison, but he's eliminated in the second bracket of round four.) And I wasn't disappointed, although I had to wait til the end to find out that the Final Four came down to Abe Lincoln vs Teddy Roosevelt*, and George Washington vs. James Monroe.* The starred contenders won, and in the battle between Roosevelt and Monroe, you might be surprised to learn that Monroe came out on top. If you want to know why, you're going to have to buy Doogie's Book, Everything Explained by Flowcharts, not because I can recommend it (I can't) but because I don't remember why Monroe beat Roosevelt, and it's all in the book.
But before Doogie, we had Sara Taskler's satiric School of Doc: How to make Your Documentary Financially Successful, which, while essentially accurate, really was useless, and hilarious. She made a documentary about balloon twisting, and taught us how to make balloon dogs. Mine came out lopsided because she would say things like, "Pinch it at 1 inch and twist it three times, and I would, and then I would look up, and she would have pinched it at 3 inches. I was sitting next to a guy at the bar whose dog came out even worse than mine, and he reassured me that mine, and I, was OK. Three acts later, I found out that was Doogie.
Here, look at my balloon dog:
This is the first time I put a photo in the MIDDLE of a blog post, and then kept going. (Shehekhianu!) And this is a good time to look at the picture of the dog, actually, because the next lecture is about the Political Economy of Music Sampling, and while it's arguably interesting and Nate Harrison is super smart and has big qualifications, it was also good that I had a balloon dog to play with while he was talking.
The other filling to the sandwich was a guy named Kirby Ferguson, who is working on a project called Everything is a Remix, which is really about the essence of creativity. Which again, was actually interesting, but it sometimes happens that when you're feeling anti-social, you're also feeling anti-intellectual. And plus, it's gotta be hard to be squeezed between balloon dogs and presidential wrestling matches. Which seems like it should be a metaphor for something, but truth is, I don't know what. Hmmm. I guess my mood hasn't shifted much yet.
I appreciated Adult Ed. I liked how short the lectures were, and how funny, and how useless, and yet how deeply based in actual knowledge and scholarship. Next month the theme will be Cuisines of the World, or something like that, and they are still looking for lecturers. I wonder if I have anything useless to offer...
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Appeal to the gods of NYC housing
Never Done: I got L to talk, R hugged me
Josh and I drove to Yonkers for another teen panel -- the panels where You Gotta Believe! hires youth in the foster system to talk with prospective parents about what it is like to grow up, live, survive in the foster system. We went to this particular panel because there are a couple kids we knew would be there -- one (R) we both wanted to see again, and one (L) whom I had met, but Josh had not yet.
It is such a delicate thing, to go meet these young people a second and a third time. On the one hand, I am getting much more relaxed with them, so we are actually getting to know little things about each other. On the other hand, as much as I might like to parent a particular child, there is so much beyond my control in this situation -- are they free for adoption? Has someone else come forward for them? Am I certified yet? -- that I try to be extremely careful not to speak or act in a way that promises anything to anyone. And yet, what are we talking about here, if not promises? Why am I showing up at these panels again and again? Because I intend to make a commitment to one of these kids, and they know it. Delicate, delicate, delicate.
The first time I saw L on a panel, he had the flu and barely said anything. This time, he was in full form, but that doesn't mean he wanted to answer any of the questions the facilitator asked him. But his personality shined through his reticence (or maybe his personality is housed in his reticence) and I was able to start to get a better sense of him. The same delicacy with which I approached the communication last night also applies here; following the guidance of the mide (middah) Silence: Think before speaking, I want to be very thoughtful about what I do and don't write publicly. So without giving any details, I will just say that I am thinking about how to help someone blaze a path to an authentic identity when they are very young and already out, but without supportive parents, and so defiantly out.
A good hour into the panel, R turned to all the parents and asked why we are here. When it came around to me, she wanted to skip me because she had already heard me (at previous panels) say what I'm there for. But other people in the room hadn't heard, so they asked if I could talk. I asked her permission, since she had taken the facilitation, and she laughed and said it was OK. So when I said my piece (Josh already has kids, I don't, I want to parent, always assumed I would adopt, got to an age where I didn't want a baby anymore...) L snapped to attention, and said, "You want to adopt?" I said yes, and he said, "Hello!" The facilitator said, "Oh, now you woke up!" and I smiled across the room at him, and fired him a series of questions he had previously ducked and it made him laugh. From then on, he answered all the questions people asked him. It felt good to be relaxed enough to be able to draw him out a bit.
At the end of the evening, after I had asked R her personal story, and after I had spoken with all the other young people one on one, I went to say goodbye to R -- and she hugged me. It was a sweet recognition of our connection that started with a magnetic look across the room, and has slowly grown as I've thought about her, dreamed about parenting her, and have now begun to actually get to know her. Please, gods of NYC housing, find me a great home so I can bring (at least) one of these children home.
Josh and I drove to Yonkers for another teen panel -- the panels where You Gotta Believe! hires youth in the foster system to talk with prospective parents about what it is like to grow up, live, survive in the foster system. We went to this particular panel because there are a couple kids we knew would be there -- one (R) we both wanted to see again, and one (L) whom I had met, but Josh had not yet.
It is such a delicate thing, to go meet these young people a second and a third time. On the one hand, I am getting much more relaxed with them, so we are actually getting to know little things about each other. On the other hand, as much as I might like to parent a particular child, there is so much beyond my control in this situation -- are they free for adoption? Has someone else come forward for them? Am I certified yet? -- that I try to be extremely careful not to speak or act in a way that promises anything to anyone. And yet, what are we talking about here, if not promises? Why am I showing up at these panels again and again? Because I intend to make a commitment to one of these kids, and they know it. Delicate, delicate, delicate.
The first time I saw L on a panel, he had the flu and barely said anything. This time, he was in full form, but that doesn't mean he wanted to answer any of the questions the facilitator asked him. But his personality shined through his reticence (or maybe his personality is housed in his reticence) and I was able to start to get a better sense of him. The same delicacy with which I approached the communication last night also applies here; following the guidance of the mide (middah) Silence: Think before speaking, I want to be very thoughtful about what I do and don't write publicly. So without giving any details, I will just say that I am thinking about how to help someone blaze a path to an authentic identity when they are very young and already out, but without supportive parents, and so defiantly out.
A good hour into the panel, R turned to all the parents and asked why we are here. When it came around to me, she wanted to skip me because she had already heard me (at previous panels) say what I'm there for. But other people in the room hadn't heard, so they asked if I could talk. I asked her permission, since she had taken the facilitation, and she laughed and said it was OK. So when I said my piece (Josh already has kids, I don't, I want to parent, always assumed I would adopt, got to an age where I didn't want a baby anymore...) L snapped to attention, and said, "You want to adopt?" I said yes, and he said, "Hello!" The facilitator said, "Oh, now you woke up!" and I smiled across the room at him, and fired him a series of questions he had previously ducked and it made him laugh. From then on, he answered all the questions people asked him. It felt good to be relaxed enough to be able to draw him out a bit.
At the end of the evening, after I had asked R her personal story, and after I had spoken with all the other young people one on one, I went to say goodbye to R -- and she hugged me. It was a sweet recognition of our connection that started with a magnetic look across the room, and has slowly grown as I've thought about her, dreamed about parenting her, and have now begun to actually get to know her. Please, gods of NYC housing, find me a great home so I can bring (at least) one of these children home.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
I went a day without saying something negative or pessimistic
Never Done: I went a day without saying something negative or pessimistic
Except that one time the following sentence slipped out: "That's ridiculous." I had just heard a story about a family that hid the fact from their son that he was adopted, and before I knew it, I said that aloud, full of judgment. But the rest of the day I totally did it. It wasn't too difficult, but it took a high level of awareness. For instance, when I was talking about a job I am applying for, I almost said that I'm unlikely to get it, but caught myself. And after seeing a highly praised, highly hyped, underwhelming movie, I was reduced to talking about the cinematography. And early in the day, I wanted to discuss with one person the pros and cons of revealing something to someone else, but I wasn't sure if talking through the cons was negative or pessimistic, so I opted for not having the strategic discussion. I wasn't sure that was useful, but it was interesting to notice how it felt to just not say it. (It felt incomplete, but I'm not sure it was less useful than talking through the potential negatives, because they might be obvious and not really need to be illuminated. On the other hand, they might not be obvious, and I might have chosen to under-strategize and under-communicate, neither of which are particularly helpful.)
One of the strangest parts of the day was that I had barely slept the night before -- I had gone to bed at 11PM, but had lain awake until almost 3AM, and I chose not to talk about that with anyone, because I couldn't imagine talking about it without sounding, and being, negative or pessimistic. And you know what? People who know me well could tell I was very tired, so it's not like I needed to tell them. And if people couldn't tell, I realized it didn't really matter all that much. And that, I think, is the power of the practice. People don't really need to hear me complain, and the things I want to complain about really might not matter all that much.
I think the hardest part of the experiment (I can say what was hard because the experiment is over) was that I felt like I went through the day without my old friend, sarcasm. Like I was stripped of one of my most essential personality traits. Like I wasn't being my genuine self. Like I couldn't be funny. Because I think my humor is often fast humor -- humor that takes a certain level of quick ignition, and this practice slowed me down, and required me to think over every statement, and blanded me out.
So it seems like a continuation of the practice of Silence: Think before speaking, right?
As I write about it, I realize it would be interesting to continue the practice while also reaching for my quick wit, and while noticing if there is place for sarcasm in a day without pessimism.
Except that one time the following sentence slipped out: "That's ridiculous." I had just heard a story about a family that hid the fact from their son that he was adopted, and before I knew it, I said that aloud, full of judgment. But the rest of the day I totally did it. It wasn't too difficult, but it took a high level of awareness. For instance, when I was talking about a job I am applying for, I almost said that I'm unlikely to get it, but caught myself. And after seeing a highly praised, highly hyped, underwhelming movie, I was reduced to talking about the cinematography. And early in the day, I wanted to discuss with one person the pros and cons of revealing something to someone else, but I wasn't sure if talking through the cons was negative or pessimistic, so I opted for not having the strategic discussion. I wasn't sure that was useful, but it was interesting to notice how it felt to just not say it. (It felt incomplete, but I'm not sure it was less useful than talking through the potential negatives, because they might be obvious and not really need to be illuminated. On the other hand, they might not be obvious, and I might have chosen to under-strategize and under-communicate, neither of which are particularly helpful.)
One of the strangest parts of the day was that I had barely slept the night before -- I had gone to bed at 11PM, but had lain awake until almost 3AM, and I chose not to talk about that with anyone, because I couldn't imagine talking about it without sounding, and being, negative or pessimistic. And you know what? People who know me well could tell I was very tired, so it's not like I needed to tell them. And if people couldn't tell, I realized it didn't really matter all that much. And that, I think, is the power of the practice. People don't really need to hear me complain, and the things I want to complain about really might not matter all that much.
I think the hardest part of the experiment (I can say what was hard because the experiment is over) was that I felt like I went through the day without my old friend, sarcasm. Like I was stripped of one of my most essential personality traits. Like I wasn't being my genuine self. Like I couldn't be funny. Because I think my humor is often fast humor -- humor that takes a certain level of quick ignition, and this practice slowed me down, and required me to think over every statement, and blanded me out.
So it seems like a continuation of the practice of Silence: Think before speaking, right?
As I write about it, I realize it would be interesting to continue the practice while also reaching for my quick wit, and while noticing if there is place for sarcasm in a day without pessimism.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
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 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.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, January 21, 2011
An old haircut for a new day
Never Done/tshuve: Got a 30's haircut for my late 40's.
I've never been one to get a haircut and keep it for years, but for a few years in my 30's I wore my hair like this: chin-length in front, razor cut and jaggedy around the ears and back. Since then, I've let it grow shoulder-length and longer, and just once, when I was growing out the hair dye, I cut it very short. I don't mean to sound vain, but I think it's looked good pretty much all these different ways. Except when it was mullet-like in my young 20's and bleached out in my 40's when I was trying to wean off the hair dye, but instead got a Japanese pop star yellow that I ended up coloring over and THEN growing out. But the cuts were good.
I recently grew it quite long, and then got what I hoped was going to be a shaggy Patti Smith-type punkish hair cut, and at first it looked great. Really great. Long, layered, shaggy. But it grew out fast, and I ended up throwing it into a scrunched pony tail all the time, which just looked bland and vaguely matronly to me. So I got it cut. I was going to get it cut on my 48th birthday, but I didn't get it together. I had a 15 minute consultation with the woman who cut it -- Melissa from Pomona. We talked about how to cut gray hair (no razors!), how my wavy hair flips out funny if it's cut too short on the sides, why short short bangs would not work with my front cowlick, and how I wanted her to pretend that my white pieces are colors she just dyed into my hair, and then cut around them to expose them. We considered shoulder-length and shorter. We talked about my pronounced jaw line. I felt that for the first time ever, I had effectively communicated to a new hair cutter -- that she listened and understood and contributed, and that I wasn't rushed or afraid of using too much of her time, and that we were actually on the same page.
And we were. She did a great job. She loved finding the white white pieces and exposing them. She cut a good six inches off, and I didn't end up with nightmares later. (I usually get haircut nightmares after a haircut.) She styled it in a way that had me freaked out, but I came home and stuck my head under the shower, and re-styled it, and it looked great. And it feels many pounds lighter, even though I imagine my hair weighed scarcely 3 ounces. (That is a total guess.)
I wonder if the way I've been practicing and reflecting on the mide (middah) of Silence: think before speaking helped me take my time to talk with Melissa, and I wonder how much our good communication was because Melissa is a good listener, and I wonder how much the two things go hand in hand, which is what I like to think is the case. In any case, I am happy to have an old haircut for a new day.
I've never been one to get a haircut and keep it for years, but for a few years in my 30's I wore my hair like this: chin-length in front, razor cut and jaggedy around the ears and back. Since then, I've let it grow shoulder-length and longer, and just once, when I was growing out the hair dye, I cut it very short. I don't mean to sound vain, but I think it's looked good pretty much all these different ways. Except when it was mullet-like in my young 20's and bleached out in my 40's when I was trying to wean off the hair dye, but instead got a Japanese pop star yellow that I ended up coloring over and THEN growing out. But the cuts were good.
I recently grew it quite long, and then got what I hoped was going to be a shaggy Patti Smith-type punkish hair cut, and at first it looked great. Really great. Long, layered, shaggy. But it grew out fast, and I ended up throwing it into a scrunched pony tail all the time, which just looked bland and vaguely matronly to me. So I got it cut. I was going to get it cut on my 48th birthday, but I didn't get it together. I had a 15 minute consultation with the woman who cut it -- Melissa from Pomona. We talked about how to cut gray hair (no razors!), how my wavy hair flips out funny if it's cut too short on the sides, why short short bangs would not work with my front cowlick, and how I wanted her to pretend that my white pieces are colors she just dyed into my hair, and then cut around them to expose them. We considered shoulder-length and shorter. We talked about my pronounced jaw line. I felt that for the first time ever, I had effectively communicated to a new hair cutter -- that she listened and understood and contributed, and that I wasn't rushed or afraid of using too much of her time, and that we were actually on the same page.
And we were. She did a great job. She loved finding the white white pieces and exposing them. She cut a good six inches off, and I didn't end up with nightmares later. (I usually get haircut nightmares after a haircut.) She styled it in a way that had me freaked out, but I came home and stuck my head under the shower, and re-styled it, and it looked great. And it feels many pounds lighter, even though I imagine my hair weighed scarcely 3 ounces. (That is a total guess.)
I wonder if the way I've been practicing and reflecting on the mide (middah) of Silence: think before speaking helped me take my time to talk with Melissa, and I wonder how much our good communication was because Melissa is a good listener, and I wonder how much the two things go hand in hand, which is what I like to think is the case. In any case, I am happy to have an old haircut for a new day.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I started writing a web series
Never Done: Started writing a web series
And by writing, I mean I figured out what I want to write -- the main character, the other characters, the first season story arc. I've been brainstorming unsatisfying story ideas for a web series for months now, and you know what finally did it for me? Susan Miller has a new web series coming out -- while she already has a successful web series going; and I thought to myself, if she can write two, I can write one.
And then it happened while I was lifting weights at the gym (increased weights, by the way -- I increased everything by 5 pounds again.) I got my idea, came home, and wrote it down. You'll have to trust me on this one. I'm not going to go public with the idea until I get a little further along.
Wow, I just realized how perfectly that decision fits with this week's mide (middah) -- (I swear I didn't plan this) -- Silence: Think before speaking. Rabbi Menachem Mendel Lefin of Satanov, who wrote the Mussar text Cheshbon HaNefesh, posed the question: "Before you open your mouth, be silent and reflect: 'What benefit will my speech bring me or others?'" Of all the mides (middot) it is possible that I have the toughest time with this one. Sometimes I just blurt things out. And then, in an attempt not to, sometimes I become tongue tied and mute.
The idea is to have thoughtful silence, not terrified I'll put my foot in it silence. Sacred silence. The ultimate purity in speech. Protection for wisdom. That kind of silence.
I almost shared my nascent web series ideas here, but then on impulse stopped, in some form of self-protection. Now that I'm thinking about the mide of silence, I'd like to think of it as protection of wisdom, not protection of self. Maybe that shift of focus will help me when I need to take a breath, wait, and think before speaking. We can only hope.
And by writing, I mean I figured out what I want to write -- the main character, the other characters, the first season story arc. I've been brainstorming unsatisfying story ideas for a web series for months now, and you know what finally did it for me? Susan Miller has a new web series coming out -- while she already has a successful web series going; and I thought to myself, if she can write two, I can write one.
And then it happened while I was lifting weights at the gym (increased weights, by the way -- I increased everything by 5 pounds again.) I got my idea, came home, and wrote it down. You'll have to trust me on this one. I'm not going to go public with the idea until I get a little further along.
Wow, I just realized how perfectly that decision fits with this week's mide (middah) -- (I swear I didn't plan this) -- Silence: Think before speaking. Rabbi Menachem Mendel Lefin of Satanov, who wrote the Mussar text Cheshbon HaNefesh, posed the question: "Before you open your mouth, be silent and reflect: 'What benefit will my speech bring me or others?'" Of all the mides (middot) it is possible that I have the toughest time with this one. Sometimes I just blurt things out. And then, in an attempt not to, sometimes I become tongue tied and mute.
The idea is to have thoughtful silence, not terrified I'll put my foot in it silence. Sacred silence. The ultimate purity in speech. Protection for wisdom. That kind of silence.
I almost shared my nascent web series ideas here, but then on impulse stopped, in some form of self-protection. Now that I'm thinking about the mide of silence, I'd like to think of it as protection of wisdom, not protection of self. Maybe that shift of focus will help me when I need to take a breath, wait, and think before speaking. We can only hope.
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