Navigation

Author Archive | Sigal Wilnai

The Ducks’ Stadium, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things

By on October 11, 2014 in acceptance, Body Image, hiking

(Title borrowed from Carolyn Mackler’s fabulous book of almost the same name).

**This blog is dedicated to the USC football team, who my son Uri really wants to win the championship this year, and who have absolutely nothing to do with this particular blog.**

For most of my life, I never obsessed about my weight. This was partly due to the fact that I was extremely skinny as a child, and my grandmother, instead, obsessed about how little I ate.  Even after I discovered food and began to eat a little better, I did not have to worry about my weight, because, of course, I had great metabolism (whatever that really means), and I stayed wonderfully skinny.

This lack of neurosis regarding my weight did not, unfortunately, translate into loving my body. I learned in geometry class about the difference between concave and convex, and realized, to my horror and dismay, that unlike the perfect female human body, I was cursed with a convex belly, while everyone else’s was concave. Fortunately for me, this brought about an attack of a desire to change this unacceptable phenomena, which led to a lifetime of abs work. My stomach remained convex (more so now than ever), but it is likely that the stomach muscles beneath are holding me up till today.

All this remained in something of a status quo until the kids, Dar and I went to Oregon this summer. Do you know that wonderful (and true) statement that says: what you don’t know can’t hurt you? Well, during our visit to the Ducks’ Stadium (initiated by Uri’s obsession with football — doesn’t he know he’s supposed to obsess about his body instead?), Dar took my picture. From behind. With the Stadium in the (near) background. A completely harmless maneuver, you might think, and unlikely to cause any major upheavals in anyone’s life. That remained to be seen while we continued traveling through college-football Oregon, as we made our way back south through Ashland and Shasta, and all the way home, and to the computer, where the pictures were duly downloaded.

As the aforementioned photo came into focus on my computer, I was struck by the realization that while I obsessed about the unwanted convexness or desired concaveness of my stomach, my behind had been busy with her own set of mathematical equations. In her case, exponential multiplication. Oh my god, how did my butt get to be larger than Ducks’ Stadium? So large, in fact, that said stadium looks small and delicate in comparison, despite the fact that I remembered it large and tall! When did this wholly unexpected enlargement occur? And how come all my exercising did not help in keeping this unnaturally overgrown backside at least a little bit from its extreme, surprising, and unforeseen droop?

I once read a romance novel about a woman hiking guide. As her love interest watched her walking about for the first time, he commented on the heart-shape and tightness (really!) of her behind as she walked, with the claim that it was the shape women’s tushies get because of all the hiking. As though the butt size and shape could tell him she’d been hiking all her life! Worst lie I ever heard!!! Let me tell you, at age 42, and after hiking like an obsessive madwoman for years now, all you get from this form of exercise is a big, droopy, and much more rectangular than heart-shaped somewhat flat pillow to sit on. That woman, in the book, must have stood in the butt line when god gave out bodies to people. I stood in the one for brains. So there!

The problem, however, remains. How can I leave the house again, now that the secret of what I look like behind is out, and I know exactly what the people behind me see when they look ahead? Here, again, the fortune (or misfortune) of having a convex belly came to my assistance. After all, for years now, I’ve been able to leave the house knowing what people see when they look at my front. Moreover, having stood in the line for brains (at least somewhat early, even if not as early as some other people in my family, who really got a lot), I am aware of the fact that most of the world actually looks like me, and not like the pictures on Vogue or on television. So I’ve been leaving the house since the summer, and, I’ll confess, most of the time I don’t even think of that large backside I’ve developed over the years, and which, I suspect, is here to stay for all the ones to come.

Yesterday, however, I went clothes shopping with Dar. I wanted something presentable to wear for today’s energy-work open house. And so, I found myself in one of those fitting rooms that has mirrors on all sides, to make sure you can see how fat and droopy all your parts look to other people — which, by the way, seems to me completely unnecessary, since aren’t I buying clothes for myself? In any case, I found myself face-to-face with my butt. Somewhat like the president in Space Balls. Except now, I was prepared. Dar has already shown me what it looks like in the summer, so I couldn’t yell out: “Why didn’t anyone tell me my butt was so big?”

At night, lying in bed next to Dar, I complained about the injustice of having a bottom that is larger than Ducks’ Stadium. I paused dramatically to allow Dar time to disagree, or at least to enthusiastically disclaim. Nothing. I knew he was not sleeping yet, so I held my breath. Surely, now, he would say something. Perhaps: “I love your butt.” That would be acceptable. Or he could say, “Your butt looks totally heart-shaped to me.” Or maybe: “You have the cutest butt in the whole wide world and it’s not at all as large as the Ducks’ Stadium.” He’s in love, right? Surely that’s how he sees me, butt and all?

The silence, however, continued to reign. He was not asleep. I knew that for sure. I could hear his uneven breathing (even breathing, in case you never learned how to cheat your parents into thinking you’re asleep, is a good sign he’s asleep), and he wasn’t snoring yet. Which he does, by the way. Finally, the pressure got to me, and I started to giggle. Well, more like laugh out loud with gusto. It was just too much. Apparently, no matter how much Dar’s in love, he refuses to lie. And the picture did tell all.

And so, I decided right then and there to write this blog and dedicate it to all you lovely women out there who have the same problem as me: when you came into this world, you did not get the body advertised by Vogue. Instead, maybe you elected for brains, or compassion, or love. Maybe you wanted children, or a garden, or to have fun. Now all that remains is to be happy with our decision despite the dictates of fashion. I think, all in all, as long as there aren’t too many mirrors, or too many football stadiums in sight, I manage to feel beautiful, young, slim and fair. And tall.

If you’d like to read my other blogs about body image, here are some links:

In Favor of Belly Liberation

Repainting Body Image

Food! Food! Food!

That Flat Stomach

Peeling the Onion

By on October 9, 2014 in acceptance, inspiration, Poems, Poetry, writing

The poem this morning is for Jeanne, who is helping me peel the onion, and in the process, understand myself.

One day
I know
All these layers
I’m peeling
Will be
Not gone
But ingested
A part of the
Richness
Of me
And then
On that day
That marvelous inner sunshiny day
Writing
Will be
Not a fear
Not a black heavy cloud
Not a choking in my throat
Or a tightness in my heart
But instead
A song
And a dance
Light and free.

It’s All in the Details

By on October 9, 2014 in Poems, Poetry, writing

It’s all in the details, I’m told,
Eyelashes lined up like bamboos in the wind on a blinking eye
Veins sending droplets of water stretched on a leaf
Whiskers trembling on a dog sniffing the breeze
A glint of fiery green on a hummingbird’s wing.

It’s all in the details, I’ve heard say,
The oxygen-sucking scent of a match lighting a dark room
The spicy smell of an orange peeled, tickling the nose
The remembered sea, sun and sand smell of sunscreen lotion slathered on suntanned skin
The pungency of teenager boy, sweaty after a hot football afternoon in the field.

It’s all in the details, some claim,
The touch of a newborn butterfly’s wavering, skinny legs on my hand before it opens its slow-drying wings
The sun rays burning the neckline under my hair as I hike on the trail
A dog’s curvy head, nudging itself under my palm, its short tickling hairs
The ever-cool, scratchy-smooth feel of a manzanita branch in the shade.

It’s all in the details, you know,
Chocolate melting in sweetness down an eager throat
Lemon juice curdling the tongue
Tomato and cucumbers, sliced salad, bursting in a flavor of my grandma’s love,
Papaya, pulpy and velvety, a taste of Hawaii.

It’s all in the details
It is?
But what if
I’m near sighted
My eyes are weak
What if the only details I see are blobs of color
What if I spent the last twenty years too depressed to see anything other
Than fog and blurriness and smooshed up
Somehow
Togetherness of nothing?

It’s all in the details, the experts say,
Scent
Sight
Taste
Touch
Sound
So they say
But what if I can’t taste the trace of blackberries in wine
Or see the golden flakes in a girl’s eyes
Or smell anything in my allergy-stuffed nose that dreads working its neurons
Or hear anything other than a mess of sound in a jazz concert?

It’s all in the details, I guess,
But I’m afraid,
What if
After all these years of depressing my brain
I’m too closed off to see anything other than color blobs
And smell anything other than strong smells (aversion) or weak (blah, but fine)
And touch anything but hot and cold or soft and rough
And taste anything but good or not (chocolate is good)
Or hear anything other than a cacophony of sound (that jazz concert I misunderstood).

And so, part of me wonders
Has there been a depressed writer before (my heart whispers, sure)
Has there been a blind writer before (surely sure)
Has there been a writer who had parts that went berserk whenever writing was mentioned
Whose perfection refused to allow anything other than perfection
Who couldn’t write more than a few words on the page
Whose only way to release the pressure
The earthquake that threatened
The need to express
To write
To tell
Was
This?

Morning Dog Meditation

By on October 5, 2014 in Dogs, Letting Go, meditation

Clearly, the blue mat on the floor is a sign
The heavens have opened and the time has come
An opportunity unfolds that cannot be missed
An propitious moment of canine bliss.

I merely thought I would sit for a while
Let my thoughts pass me by like clouds in the sky
Instead I find myself besieged
By four chihuahuas desperate to kiss.

They come, tails a’wagging, ingratiating looks in their eyes,
Warm tongues searching for my first careless exposing of lips,
Unrolling themselves, belly up, fur inviting,
On top  of my legs and my feet and my hips.

Chico nudges up my hand, Chaim bites my nose,
Percy sits, heart in eyes, patience, gentleness and soul
Nati growls in playful tones, he doesn’t understand
Why, he wonders, am I sitting down but not petting them at all.

I think to myself, don’t be attached, let it go,
Mindfulness is the point, not stillness or eyes closed,
I reach out my hand to caress a dog
And chaos ensues till I’m bowled over, bulldozed:

So many of them, and all of them struggling
To get in the best position for loving
But I, sadly, have but two hands,
I can barely keep up with their popular demand.

Everyone wants to be loved in this family
The puppies, the kids, even the chickens and kitty
There’s no time limit, there’s never too much
Love is the reason we all are alive.

Chaim jumps right up to my face,
Licking and biting my nose and my cheeks.
Chico starts barking, a high nervous bark,
His little claws digging right into my thigh

Chaim and Nati fight for better access, the best spot,
Shoving each other’s head from under my hand,
While Percy gets shoved far to the side,
He practices his best look of pathetic and sad.

I try to stay mindful within this juggle,
As the dogs frantically up their struggle,
Finally, enough, it’s time to lay some laws
My dog meditation obviously has flaws.

I ignore them for a while as they fight and they bark.
Finally, they realize they have a better tactic
As I sit there with my eyes closed, in the back I hear
Their little nails clicking as they each pee right near.

My Television Dukkha (Suffering)

By on September 30, 2014 in acceptance, children, compassion, Letting Go, meditation, motherhood, parenting, suffering

Sometimes I look at my children, and it seems to me they lead very strange lives. They go to school for most of every weekday, leaving home at 7:30am and returning only around 4pm — almost the equivalent of a full-time adult job. Once at home, they need to manage their time between after-school activities, such as basketball and football practice or gymnastics, and their homework, which could take as much as an hour-and-a-half every day. After the homework is complete, oftentimes the kids elect to sit in front of the television, the xBox or their iPads, staring at the screens for hours at a time.

Here’s what my and my sister’s life at their age looked like:

We had school from 8am to 2pm at the longest, often coming home at noon. We had homework, and I sure read a lot, but I spent a lot of time outside, in our garden or the street, playing. I also played the piano. My sister went to jazz and aerobics classes and took karate lessons. But we often played with friends. There was only one channel on television in Israel. For some two hours each afternoon the programming was only in Arabic, and in the evening, it was more for adults. And so, though we watched some television, our life was not focused on it, except perhaps somewhat during summer vacations, when there was more programming oriented to our age. But even then we spent most of the day playing with friends outside, reading (me), or going to the beach and the pool. We did not have a computer till I was in my teens, and even then, games were limited and the internet not invented yet. Our lives were focused on friends and on being outside, and, for me, on books.

When I look at my kids, I wonder what this indoor, screen-oriented life would look like when they’re adults. I worry that they are self-numbing. That they don’t really know what to do with their time other than this digital easy choice. The fear that as a parent I ought to control this better seizes me, and I feel desperate and hopeless at the same time. Somehow, whenever I talk to other parents, they don’t have this problem at all. “We hardly watch television,” one mother told me the other day. “She’s too busy with soccer practice,” said another.

Once school is done for the day, most kids around here head to sports practices, music lessons, horseback riding lessons, and many other after-school activities. Their time is so tightly scheduled that it is impossible to make plans for playdates during the week, and even the weekend is often tough. While admittedly riding horses or playing soccer does sound much better in every way (healthier, more educational, morally more correct perhaps) than watching television, I wonder sometimes if all these activities are simply another symptom of our non-stop society that is so afraid to pause for a moment and get bored.

This morning, I went to meditation practice at Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City. I was tired, and my head kept whip-lashing as I fell asleep and woke up sitting on the pillow. I had looked forward to coming, eager for a half hour of uninterrupted quiet, a half hour of not needing to talk, not needing to do anything, a half hour of simply being in the moment, even if that moment was full of sleepiness. After the meditation, Robert Cusick spoke about the Eightfold Path and how to end suffering (dukkha in Pali). As he spoke, my listlessness transformed itself into a panic about this television issue. I was ruining the kids’ lives. I was not doing my duty by them. What kind of a parent was I? The image of my daughter staring at the television last night came to my mind, and my chest filled with such tightness, such desperation, such helplessness, that I wanted to jump out of my seat, to do anything except experience that.

In my mind, action was paramount. I was going to go back home and sit the kids down for a talk. No more television. Ever. Not on weekdays at least. I was going to talk to Dar about not getting Uri the Playstation he wanted for his birthday. That’s it. No more. I was done with screen time. I was going to be better this time. I’ll make them check-in their iPads in the kitchen. I would be on top of making sure the TV was always turned off. No computer for me either. Possibly not even for Dar. I will let them be bored. It’s better than this digitalization of our life. We’ll go to the pool instead, or I could schedule them some music lessons again. We will be a screen-free home. In my frenzy, I was no longer at the meditation hall. Instead, I was fighting the kids, fighting, in a way, against this awful sin it seemed to me that I was committing against their life.

Fortunately, Robert Cusick’s words interrupted my self-torture, bringing me back to the hall. He was telling a story about something that happened in a class he taught the other day. The class began, he said, with a guided meditation. As everyone was sitting, and he was already guiding them in the meditation, late-comers trickled in. The door opened and closed. Chairs creaked and scraped. Bags thumped down on the floor. Sound was happening, but he noticed some of the meditators were opening their eyes, glancing back. In our heads, he explained, a simple noise transforms into stories: who is coming? why are they late? don’t they know the class started already? don’t they know they’re interrupting the meditation? But it was just sound that was happening. Only sound. Nothing else. The rest were stories that were going on in people’s heads.

As Robert Cusick spoke, I suddenly understood. What was happening for me, thinking about the digital usage at home, was fear — fear that I am not a good enough mother. The rest was just stories that I was telling myself that I thought could happen in a future that hasn’t even happened yet. The need I felt to act, like the need the meditators felt to see who was coming, was a reaction to the fear, but there was no real, urgent need for me to act. If I acted now, I’d be acting from that fear and ignorance, from a place of heaviness and helplessness and despair. Instead, I can do what I’ve heard people talk about countless times in meditation: I can simply be with this fear. I can hold this fear and myself with compassion. I can experience it and see that it is just a fear, even if it does seem to me such a terrible, scary fear. And let go of the need to react.

Perhaps, once I’ve learned to hold my fear (this fear of not being a good enough mother) with compassion, I will be more capable of acting wisely with regards to the television/ipad/xbox situation at home. Right now, I realize I cannot. Right now, any action I take will not really be an action, but a REaction, and as such will probably go the way my resolutions regarding the TV had gone before: to guilt and more helplessness and fear. I have a long way to go in learning to hold this fear. It’s a big one for me. And so, for today at least, I’m not going to do anything except be kind to myself about it as much as I can. I’m going to trust that the sense of urgency I feel is a passing sensation. That this situation (which is largely in my imagination anyways) is not critical. That I cannot build or destroy anything in one day, and that the kids, god willing, will not be quite as irretrievably ruined as I fear by another digital day.

The Rainbow on the Turkey’s Tail

By on September 26, 2014 in inspiration, meditation

Spirit Rock Meditation Center is at once removed and far too close to civilization. It sits close enough to Sir Francis Drake Blvd that traffic always hums, but is also nestled into hills from which several rough trails are cut, climbing out to the ridges around. Perhaps it was leaving my cell phone in the car, the vow of silence, or just the isolation inside the community, but home seemed many thousand miles away, and not a ninety-minute drive across the bay.

Wild turkey dawdled along the road leading from the dining hall to the dorms, seeming not to care about the yogis staring at them. Lizards, less enlightened maybe, skittered in and out of the road, nearly causing accidents that could be fatal only to themselves. These last, especially, were everywhere, either streaking from the bushes or performing their daily dose of push-ups on a sunny surface. They seemed to watch us yogis without much curiosity, as though once they’ve seen one of us, we are all pretty much the same.

Before coming to the retreat, I’d been worried about my ability to sit and meditate for a whole day. I wasn’t sure how I would handle the silence, or the accommodations. And I was worried about breaks for peeing, most specifically because we were going to spend quite a lot of time in nature, and I wasn’t sure if the question would even be addressed.

My worries about the retreat, however, were not more numerous than my expectations. I had noticed, watching people who had come back from retreats or hearing them talk, that participants tend to become a bit addicted to the experience, going back again and again, year after year. I had heard that while the first couple of days were hard, the rest of the retreat seems to pass in a rosy haze of concentration and presence. I also heard that people have all kinds of mystic experiences, such as clearing of past burdens, moments of understanding of past dilemmas or conflicts, and other forms of enlightenment. That all sounded deliciously good to me.

So here I was, in this far-away, humming-with-echoing-traffic retreat center, worrying about details and expecting miracles. Perhaps you can already imagine what happened in the week I was there.

Nothing.

Yes. Exactly, perfectly, nothing.

Turns out, I did not have trouble sitting or walking in meditation. The occasional restlessness, sure, and the occasional sleepiness. Peeing was less complicated than I feared. The silence was softer, less harsh and all-encompassing than I expected (and I may have even enjoyed it as a relief). The accommodations, the bathroom most especially, were clean and comfortable. Sure, I was not crazy about sharing bathrooms with 11 other women anymore, but it was really fine, and everyone was considerate and clean.

I was able to be present some of the time, but presence, or concentration, never became easy, not after two days and not after three days, not for a whole sit or even part of a sit. Throughout the week, I experienced the usual struggle to stay present that I experience at home when I meditate. Some fears plagued me (the most annoying ones being the not being able to go pee fear and the fear that I’ll never hike the PCT, both of which seemed to me huge and petty at the same time), and they stayed on, at some level, throughout the retreat. No really big moments of enlightenment there, or in any of the other dramas of my life.

Quite simply, I just sat there. Or just walked. And that was all.

Toward the last day of the retreat, I started feeling a bit upset. Was I a failure at this too? Did I do something wrong? Perhaps I don’t know how to meditate, after all? Maybe I’m not supposed to just sit here and struggle to be present. Maybe there’s a secret ingredient I’m missing. I grew more and more irritable — no rosy haze for me. The end of the retreat was a relief. I really wanted to come back home.

Safe in the comfort of home, I happened to listen to a Jack Kornfield podcast talk about what inspires us in spirituality. I had watched him every day during the retreat as he was getting lunch. He’d walk mindfully from bowl to bowl, and as mindfully serve himself. He looked shorter than I expected, more Jewish somehow. The noble silence edict, unfortunately, made it impossible for me to go all mushy and tell him how much I admire him and how his books have helped me shift my life. But I sent him thoughts of it, hoping they’d somehow invade his presence of mind.

In the podcast talk, Jack Kornfield told a story about a friend of his who has been meditating for 30 or more years with nothing much happening. The friend had confessed that after a while (the first 10 years especially were hard), he had to come to terms with the fact that nothing was going to happen to him while meditating. No mystic experiences. No enlightenment. After thirty years, however, and reflecting back on his practice, the friend noticed that he had become kinder, more present, and a better listener. More, he said, like himself.

I listened to this story and felt a burden shift. If this is all I can expect to receive from meditation, then it is already more than the whole world. Kindness alone would be enough. Presence alone would be enough. The ability to listen to another fully would be enough. Becoming more myself would be enough. Perhaps, after all, I was not such a failure as a meditator. Perhaps, I was exactly where I most wanted to be: sitting and trying to still the mind into presence, being in the meadow surrounded by other people, all of whom, too, probably just yearn to be kinder, better listeners, more like themselves.

One of the days of the retreat, as the sun was rising above the hills, the turkeys were walking by the road. I paused in my walk down to breakfast to watch them. They walked on the grass, nodding to themselves wisely, pecking mindfully at the ground to search for food. As I watched, a ray of sunshine hit a turkey’s tail and a rainbow formed, flickering, glittering on the feathers in bright colors, as luminous as emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, as soft as just-fallen snow. My heart stopped with wonder. The turkey ambled along, oblivious to the miracle on its tail.

It seemed to me, at that moment, to be the culmination of my life’s work, as though my whole life I had been waiting only for that, the appearance (and then the disappearance) of the rainbow on one turkey’s tail.

One moment it was there, gleaming in the sunlight. Then next, I blinked, and it was gone.

The Tooth’s Way

By on September 4, 2014 in acceptance, Letting Go, meditation, Reiki

I don’t know if any of you have ever had a tooth extracted, but man, does it hurt! It’s been almost a week now, and my tooth — I mean, the space where my tooth used to live — is still throbbing worse than labor pains. I don’t particularly care to take pain meds, and when the oral surgeon prescribed codeine, I blithely (and blindly) refused to take the prescription. I’ve had wisdom teeth taken out before, I declared, and that wasn’t too bad. So how bad could just one tooth be? Famous last words, right?

Instead of the rejected codeine I’ve been using a mixture of tylenol, advil, Reiki, and prayer (to all the different gods I can think of), all of it without much obvious result. I am embarrassed to admit that I also tried crankiness, anger, frustration and self pity. Those, sadly, did not work either. The oral surgeon, on a return visit, was even less helpful, claiming he’d known it would be like this, that my tooth had been badly inflamed, and that it will take at least another week. He proposed the codeine again, which I scornfully declined. No way am I taking codeine now, after a week of pain. I can do this. Sooner or later, surely, this pain must go away.

The most frustrating part of this experiment in pain management turned out to be my expectation that Reiki would help me bear the pain, or rather (in the way my mind figured this) that the Reiki would make the pain disappear. So many people have miraculous Reiki healing stories! Why can’t I be one of them? I wanted the Reiki to close the open wound, heal the sutures, heal the issues beneath, relieve the pain, clear up the inflammation, and make everything all better right away. And when I say right away, I do not under any circumstance mean within a week, and definitely not two.

I was listening the other day to Gil Fronsdal, meditation teacher and the founder of Insight Meditation Center. Appropriately enough, he was explaining sickness and well-being and the way Buddhism views the metaphysics of health. What he said struck me strongly, because I had always assumed that if I got sick then it was my fault somehow — I had failed to deal with some issue, I failed to talk about something which bothered me, or I failed to take care of myself. But Gil Fronsdal said that the Buddha encouraged his disciples not to worry or ruminate about why they were sick or why some trouble has befallen them. According to the Buddha, illness or painful situations come from one of three reasons (and I hope I’m not massacring his exact words or meaning here):

1. Free will, or situations/conditions which we invite into our lives because we want to learn from them. Karma.
2. Accidents which are unrelated to us or to our karma and simply happen in the world (I guess without rhyme or reason).
3. The body’s own function and use (and it sure gets used a lot).

My late tooth, though it did get used quite a bit in 42 years, had an issue behind it, I’m pretty sure. It really didn’t want to leave my mouth. The oral surgeon had to fight to dislodge it. As for me, while he was struggling with the tooth, I called upon the Reiki to help me continue to feel happy and safe during the extraction, and I continue to call upon it to help me heal, not just the tooth, but also the problem behind it. A lot of love is required for this particular one. Inside this tooth were lodged, I think, all my hopes and dreams about having a whole, normal family, about having the kids at home every day, about having the marriage I had wanted. I’ve been divorced nine years, and it has not been easy for me to adjust to many parts of the divorce. I can see how it would really be time for me to release, to let go, to accept, even. Still, the Buddha’s words make me wonder if ruminating on the problem is the way to go. What if I don’t need to worry about the reason? What if I can just let go?

Now that I’ve been attuned (or should I say, ignited) to Holy Fire Reiki®, calling on the energy is much easier than it’s been. Before, I did not quite understand what my teacher, William Lee Rand, meant when he recommended calling on the Reiki for answers. I knew the Reiki came when I placed my hands on someone or on myself — I could feel the heat of it, the prickling of it in my palms — but I could not understand how to call on it for guidance. Now, however, with Holy Fire, the energy comes easily to me. My hands fill with the flame of it, and my heart and abdomen turn warm and safe. In a way, I finally understand that Reiki is not outside of me or inside of me. It simply is me.

Buddhists believe that Ki is the energy of the pool of creation. If so, then we are all made of it. I am Reiki, you are Reiki. Even my cellphone is Reiki (though that does require a leap of faith, seeing as how it seems so radioactive and unhealthy). And if I am Reiki, then all I need is to let go of my beliefs or needs for the healing of my tooth to happen a specific way or in a specified amount of time. I can support the healing by taking some pain meds (or at least support peace at my house by taking the pain meds, which will then probably lead to better healing opportunities). I can support the healing by giving Reiki to myself. But most of all, I can step out of my own way, and allow my tooth (I mean the space where my tooth used to be) to heal the way it needs to happen. Not my way. The tooth’s way. The best way.

A Dream During the Holy Fire Ignition

By on August 28, 2014 in adventure, dreams, hiking, inspiration, Poetry, Reiki

In my dream, I reached mountain summits.
Everest, the Top of the World, turned out
Both warm and cold,
Deprived of sufficient oxygen yet abundant in the essence of life.
Startled to find myself up there,
Without having ever climbed
And frightened of his height,
Clouds merging with snowy peaks,
My heart tightened —
How could I possibly deserve to be up here
So effortlessly?
I retreated as the dream flew me down
And across continents and oceans to

Shasta, magnificent in her aloneness,
Sheer in her glaciers and cliffs,
Her spirit grand and giving,
Filled my heart with health, confidence and joy,
Reminding me, this much is true,
This has already been done.
There I stood, alone on the summit of rock and snow,
Flinging my hands up in triumph,
Awash in the glory of my connection to the mountain
Vibrating to her spiritual song.

I flew north, the dream reminded me
There’s more summits visited —
On Rainier, my tears washed away
Sadness from my heart
Illuminated by the barely risen sun.
Cool and solid, the mountain
Received my tears yet reminded me
Breathe,
Adding himself categorically, without my asking,
First, and not alone, to a new list of
Successes.
My breath, not quite enough,
Left me whizzing, my lungs screaming for more oxygen —
All this crying left me lacking in air,
My heart heavy with the knowledge of the
Burden I had carried for so long,
Overcome by the mountain’s generosity
And the weightlessness of my burden
Now left buried in the mountain’s mantle of snow.

The dream then flew, wings at my back
South and East,
Over low-slung trees
And herds of tiny elephants
A desert, not a desert.
There, lonely on the Serengeti planes,
Kili rose above me, a goddess of freedom,
Surprising me with her majestic ridges,
Making me laugh and sigh with longing.
I strained to see her snow, her glacier,
But so close only the mountain rose,
Like a hump over the plane.
Up here, she whispered, come here next.

I wondered at this influx of mountains
Climbed or unclimbed in my dream, when
Once again the scene changed
To a path, made of a sudden
Into a river, an ocean of sparkling gold
From the rays of the sun,
Leading me,
(So it said in a gravelly, cascading voice)
To joy, with joy;
To peace, in peace;
To love, with love;
A path to path.

I walked, floated down the river, soared overhead,
And found that
There is only love and love,
There is only peace and peace,
There is only joy and joy,
There is only path and path.

An abundance of love,
And that love, nothing like I ever imagined:
Not a consuming love
Or an enfolding love,
Or a holding-on-to love,
But a space
A freedom
A limitlessness
An openness.

In my dream, I reached the tops of mountains,
Touching them with my feet and my heart,
A fire burning
In the palms of my hands.
In my dream, from these summits,
I sent out a message
Of peace and love.

Because, remember?
There is only peace and peace
And love and love
And joy and joy
And path and path.

A Bit of Good Bye

By on July 27, 2014 in adventure, Family, israel, Letting Go

Twenty-four years ago, when I left my family home in Saratoga and flew half way across the world to enlist in the Israeli army, there was only one phone company in Israel, the omnipotent and omnipresent Bezeq. I’m not sure who were the phone providers in the U.S., but one thing I can tell you for sure: calling Israel was extremely expensive. As a result, my parents were only able to afford calling me once a week, and that call, too, was generally not a long conversation.

In order to stay in touch, people wrote letters then, remember that? Except, I don’t really remember letters from my parents either. Mostly, I remember waiting for Friday night so I can talk to them.

Fast forward twenty-four years and we are inundated with communication devices. There is the good old phone, the one that used to be attached to the wall and can now move around the house, or even outside the house, with us, as long as we remain in some mysterious connection with the unit that is, strangely, still connected to the wall. There is the cell phone, that piece of even more mysterious dimensions, that needs no wall unit and can work miraculously from almost anywhere, including, sometimes, the middle of the wilderness.

And we have computers, and Skype, and Facetime, WhatsApp, and social media, and who know’s what else. I surely have no idea of the scope of possibilities, being, in general, of the old-fashioned mindset that it’s nicest to see people face-to-face.

Seeing as how half of my family lives in Israel, however, face-to-face in warm bodies is not always possible. Face-to-face on Skype, though, well, that’s available at the press of the button, as long as some other family member is by the computer, which, in our day and age, most people are.

The world seems to have become a much smaller place, now that we can talk to the other side of it so easily. So I can’t figure out quite why I am so sad that my sister’s family is moving back to Israel. After all, I can see them and talk to them daily on Skype, if I want. I can Facetime with my nieces, or WhatsApp for free. I can follow them on Instagram (as long as they agree). I can be as involved in their lives as I want. All these devices and programs and magic technological advances make it possible for me to be as close to them as I wish, as long as I don’t expect hugs and kisses. Which, let’s face it, teenaged boys and girls often, anyways, don’t like to give.

I’m being facetious, and possibly a bit cynical, but the truth is, I was surprised by how sad I was that my sister and her family are leaving. There was so much drama in our family around it, that I tried to accept their departure as it was, to be supportive and sympathetic. In fact, I may have been so busy being supportive and sympathetic that it didn’t occur to me to examine my own feelings about it at all.

I could write to you a list of what I fear I’d be missing out on now that they have flown away and are on their way to new adventures in Israel. All my fears and worries, sadnesses and regrets. But instead, I thought I’d write what I enjoyed and am grateful to have experienced during their five years here:

Watching the kids grow. For example, my little nephew was 3, I think, when they moved here. Now he is 8. I watched him start to draw and become a quite amazing artist, and learn to read and become an excited reader. My nieces both grew so very tall! One of them loves to read they way I always did. My older niece arrived a girl, and is now turning, magically, into a lovely, musical and intelligent woman.
Celebrating birthday parties together.
Our trip to Yosemite together for Thanksgiving one year.
And if I’m already mentioning that: celebrating the holidays together.
Pool parties at Safta’s pool on a Sunday or Saturday afternoon.
Meeting the entire family by accident at the Farmers’ Market.
Going to Shoreline Lake together for a picnic lunch and boating on the lake.
Taking my nieces, separately, a couple times, for special afternoons just the two of us.
Picking them up, once in a while, from school.
Having coffee with my sister when she could take the time from work.
Watching all the kids (mine and hers) playing together.
Watching the five of them jump on the trampoline.

We had a good time together, living on the same side of the same continent, in the same state, and almost in the same town. I don’t want it to end, though I know that’s just how it is, sometimes. I know I can visit every year in Israel, but I fear it won’t be the same. The girls are getting so much bigger, and will likely have their own activities and friends. We have some time with the little one, but eventually he’s going to grow up as well.

I guess for this change in life, too, all I can do is repeat to myself: It is what it is, and it’s ok.

Since lately I’ve been finishing up my blog post with prayers, I’d like to send some blessings their way too:

I wish you happiness and love in your new-old home in Israel, success and joy in your new jobs and new classes at school. May you be safe and healthy. And may your travels carry you where you want to go, in safety and comfort and joy. A special blessing to all who are traveling today, to all who are making a change in your life. May you find that which you are searching for. May you find peace and love.

We love you. Have a fabulous trip! We will miss you back here, but we want you to be free to enjoy your new life. Have fun!

It Takes Two to Tango

By on July 25, 2014 in israel

I read this morning about the Israeli soldier whose body has not been found. Apparently, (based on evidence which was not shared in the article) the military and rabbinical authorities decided that he had been killed. I cannot even begin to imagine how awful this is for his family.

For someone who rarely, if ever, looks at the news, I’ve been checking the Israeli media site Ynet very often, more than once a day. In this war, I am having a hard time maintaining (or even wanting to maintain) my usual bubble of separation. Ignoring won’t do. The war is very much here.

I grew up, in Israel, on ideals such as, “It is good to die for one’s country,” “where you walk in Israel belongs to you (as a representative of the nation),” and “The existence of Israel is a guarantee that the Holocaust cannot happen again.” I was raised with the knowledge that our army, the Israeli Defense Force, is superior to all other armies, not only in the weaponry/military qualifications/bravery of our soldiers (one soldier of ours is equal to ten of theirs kind of thing) but also in our ethics, our morality, our sense of right and wrong.

Headlines on Ynet let me know that this war we Israelis are fighting is a Just War. “Just” as in justice. It had better be a just war, hadn’t it, if our soldiers are dying for it? If our people have to hide in their safe rooms because of the threat of rockets? If the world is turning its blaming eyes on us? It had better be justified. The alternative does not bear thinking about.

The other day, in talking about this war with a friend, I mentioned my (more than) sadness over the fact that so many Palestinian kids have been killed (the count is not clear, but it looks like it comes to over 200). My friend, Jewish herself, was appalled, and not by the number of kids. “You’re talking to me about their kids! What about our kids who are getting killed?” She asked me, her voice trembling with passion and vehemence. In a Just War, I guess, you do not talk about the number of enemy kids who are killed.

From my perch on the seat of safety, here in the United States, I am saddened by the entire war and its casualties. I am saddened by the situation that caused the war, the ignorance and fear, the hatred that are at its root. And I think, perhaps, admitting those roots, admitting even the minute possibility that this war might not be a “Just War” are too great a pain to bear. Even to suggest the idea that our soldiers are dying for a less than a just and justified cause is intolerable.

War in Israel is an intensely personal thing. It is so small a country that most people live within earshot of the explosion of rockets, everyone had been in the army, and even if no one had died in your family during this war, you need only look once-removed, twice-removed, to find a connection. Everyone is affected. Everyone’s life is changed.

Such a personal army, such a personal war, such a near effect on who we are as a nation, as individuals, as an army — I am not surprised at how vehemently and passionately we defend our army’s every move. Shooting a school must be justified: the Hamas was hiding weapons there. Destroying Palestinian homes must be justified: there are terrorist tunnels leading below. Our very safety, our very existence hangs in the balance. Those who view us as an enemy, who seek to destroy us, must be destroyed. We have NO choice.

The Palestinians, of course, have a choice. They can choose not to hide behind children. They can choose not to hide behind civilians. They can choose to seek peace and not terrorism. But we? We are fighting a Just War. We are only defending ourselves. We have NO choice.

There is always a choice.

I was afraid to write this blog post. Afraid of the anger that would turn toward me if I wrote anything that could (and probably will) be construed as lack of support in Israel in the war, lack of support in our soldiers who are, after all, only once or twice removed from being my children, my brothers. Especially, seated hypocritically as I am, on the seat of safety in the United States, rather than supporting my nation by coming back to Israel. How dare I, a part of me questions, how dare I write this at a time of war, when solidarity of support is so important?

But the truth is, I can support our soldiers and not support the fighting. I can support Israel and Israelis, but not support the war that is done in their name. Truth be told, I do not support any war. My dream is a concentrated effort for peace. My dream is a concentrated effort to improve everyone’s life, Israelis and Palestinians. My dream is a world where no hatred, no fear, no racial division exist. I am allowed to dream. That is my choice. Think of me as innocent or hypocritical all you like. My choice is peace. My choice is a life of love.

Imagine a world in which eighteen-year-old soldiers stay alive.

As this war progresses and the number of casualties on both sides rise, my heart bleeds for all mothers who have lost their child. My heart bleeds for all children in the midst of fighting. My heart bleeds for our soldiers, who are caught in a situation where they are forced to do and witness unspeakable things. My heart bleeds for our politicians who have decided to send the army to war, for their fears and ignorance that have brought them to this decision. And my heart bleeds too for those who believe that terrorism is the only way, whose life is led by hatred, whose thoughts of a solution involve death and mayhem. For that, I am sad for them too.

So once again, I hope, whether you share my feelings about war or not, you will join me in a prayer for peace, peace for Israel and everywhere else in our world:
May we all know peace.
May we be happy.
May we feel loved.
May we be free from pain.
May we be filled with compassion for ourselves and others.
May we find in ourselves the ability to forgive.

My blessings to you for happiness and a long life of peace.

Sigal Tzoore (650) 815-5109