I just got back from my first cruise and a lot of people had questions about how it went in general, and specifically how it went as a kosher consumer. My husband and I traveled with family on the Celebrity Millenium on a seven-day cruise of Alaska's inside passage (note: I found this blog, which details one passenger's experience of our cruise day by day, if you want photos of more details, and if my arms allow, I'll write my own reflections later).
Our biggest concern about this cruise, hands down, was the availability of food that meets our dietary needs. We keep kosher, and in addition, I don't eat gluten or sugar. Moreover, I have to weigh my food to treat my binge eating disorder -- meaning that combined foods don't work very well for me, i.e. I do much better with fish, potatoes, veggies than with a fish stew. If you just ask a cruise line for "kosher meals" you will get the disgusting airline meals. We weren't willing to cruise with that as our sustenance, so we upgraded our meal plan to Celebrity's Premium Kosher meals. These were strictly kosher, frozen, catered meals substantially upgraded from the regular
airplane food that they serve you if you just specify that you keep
kosher. Celebrity charged an extra $17 per meal per person for this
service, but that airplane food is barely edible for anybody, and
definitely does not work with my food plan, so it was worth it to us.
We had a whole hassle before our trip when we learned, quite by accident, that Celebrity had dropped their vendor for Premium Kosher meals. Panic ensued. Friends who have cruised have assured me that the ship's kitchen would cook fish double-wrapped in aluminum foil for kosher consumers (this would allow us to eat food cooked in an oven where non-kosher food is also prepared), but when we called Celebrity customer service to ask about this, they told us that this was up to the discretion of each ship's crew. Crap!
When we got on board with a ton of packaged food, we went straight to Guest Services to register our concern. We ended up meeting that night with Executive Chef Jason Baynor, who told us that "the most important thing" to him was that we were happy and satisfied. We worked out a system where they custom cooked our lunches and dinners for us every day; they actually have a portion of their kitchen separated with police-line-type tape that is covered in tin foil and reserved for kosher food, which we saw on a tour of the galley kitchen. Even better, they had brand new pans that they reserved for our use. For days, we ate delicious variations of fish, gluten-free starches, and veggies. When I got sick of fish, I ordered an omelet, and then Jason asked if his sous chef could make us Indian curries in the new pots, and that is where the fun began. For three nights, we had Indian feasts of fish curries, rice, vegetable curries, and naan made from rice flour, which was surprisingly delicious. Furthermore, Celebrity bakes all of its own bread on board, and the ice cream is made from milk, cream and flavors bearing reliable kosher supervision. Lucky David!
For kosher consumers contemplating a cruise who wouldn't be comfortable with this type of unsupervised kashrut situation, you have a decision to make: if you are one of these travelers who truly doesn't care about food and just wants to see the sights, you may be ok on a cruise. For me, I would have been furious and resentful choking down the airline food, and it would've ruined my trip. You've probably heard that a big part of cruising is the food. This is true, both in the sensual pleasure of it and the social aspect: you spend a lot of time socializing around food on a cruise whether you're with people you know, or with strangers. This is an important part of cruising culture, and I would be doing a disservice to pretend like our dining arrangements weren't important. They were huge in our enjoyment of our travels.
Chef Jason and his crew went way out of their way to bend over backwards to gladden our tummies and satisfy our complicated dietary needs. In fact, on two different nights, other diners in the dining room asked our waiter why they didn't see what we were eating on the regular menu and asked if they could get it too (answer: no). The last night of the cruise, I was speaking to the restaurant manager, who actually works on many different Celebrity ships, and he told me he knows his colleagues on the other vessels would be happy to do the same thing for us. Having this issue resolved so satisfactorily definitely means that we would be willing to cruise again, and truth be told, it was an issue of God giving us an outcome much better than we could've ever imagined for ourselves: the first night on board we had some of the remaining Premium Kosher food and it was less than premium. We ended up with delicious, freshly cooked food made to order! The staff was way more than grudgingly helpful; they seemed genuinely concerned and interested in making our dining experience good. The head maitre d', Lazar, whom I wanted to invite to live with us, told us that he was learning about kashrut (the noun form of "keeping kosher") to better understand his kosher clients. Interestingly, Lazar is Serbian Orthodox and said that his religion has many of the same restrictions as kashrut, such as requiring that you drain the blood out of an animal before you eat it. The point is, they really cared.
In other oceanic food news, weighing my food was difficult on the ship, as both the motion of the boat and the magnetic interference made both digital and spring-loaded scales less than accurate. I just had to do the best I could at any meal, and some were definitely smoother than others. The bottom line is, I didn't eat compulsively, and if you have been on a cruise, you know what an accomplishment that is! It is literally a 24-hour food fest; you can get pizza or a steak in the middle of the night at no cost to you. I attracted more stares than usual with my food scale, but the
truth is, I'd rather be stared at for weighing my food than for being
twice the size I am now. There were some shockingly obese people on the ship. Far from feeling condemnation, I just felt sad, because they were truly limited because of their size. I am so grateful that because of my recovery in OA-HOW, I am pretty darn average looking and am not limited by my body weight. David and I went dog-sledding on a glacier in Juno. The company that organizes this charges a hefty surcharge for people weighing more than 280 pounds. Given that my top weight was 250, I was close to that a few years ago. Someone who previously went on this excursion joked with me to "not lie about my weight" (they weighed you there, so that wasn't an option anyway), and I am so unbelievably grateful to not be at a weight where I'm even tempted to lie about it. Weighing all my food so precisely is a huge pain in the ass sometimes, but for me the choice truly is between that and being back at 250 pounds, or more. There is no question for me which is worse.
Showing posts with label religious. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religious. Show all posts
Friday, July 20, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
The Power of Positive Thinking
I am coming up on five years of back-to-back abstinence in OA-HOW, a structured way of working the Overeaters Anonymous (OA) program, a Twelve Step program for people wrestling with any food-related compulsion. In OA, abstinence means "refraining from compulsive overeating" or other compulsive food behavior like anorexia or bulimia. In HOW, we put a lot of emphasis on abstaining from negative thinking, which is really hard for me. I am by nature, negative, and the brain does a lot to try to protect us from future heartache; one of its main ways of doing this is by anticipating the worst to "inoculate" us from bad things happening in the future. Of course, this is erroneous, because we just end up suffering twice: in the anticipation of the bad event, and then, if/when the bad event happens.
Pesach (Passover) has always been a miserable holiday for me. It is hard for any observant Jew: imagine preparing for Christmas and moving at the same time. There is a tremendous amount of work to prepare for the holiday, some of it very labor intensive. Even though my husband David carries most of the heavy lifting, I still do my fair share, and the necessities of the holiday preparation -- cleaning, shopping, cooking, entertaining, and staying up late -- really pushes all of my buttons. It activates my chronic pain in a bad way. All of this means that I usually approach the holiday with a lot of dread and negativity. This makes me miserable, but worse, it also erodes David's enjoyment of the holiday.
I have been getting deeper into my mindfulness practice, and I think I am growing weary of the suffering I cause myself. Pain in life is inevitable, but more and more I am clearly seeing that I am the source of most of my suffering. Stress happens, of course, but the stories I construct about what I am experiencing are truly the cause of my misery. There is a massive difference between pain and suffering. So, in an attempt to cut down on my suffering, I decided to try something different for Pesach this year: abstaining from negative thinking, just like my Twelve Step program advises me to do.
I wasn't sure I could successfully keep a positive attitude, but I was determined to try one day at a time. To my surprise, I was quite successful. To my amazement, it made a tremendous difference to the quality of my holiday. Yes, I am still exhausted. Yes, I am still in pain bad enough that it requires narcotics to manage it, which I hate taking. But I have enjoyed this holiday more than any in the past. I was more productive. David said, "You have gotten more done, with less pain to yourself, than you ever have in the time I've known you." My OA sponsor said, "I can tell how much calmer you are." Even my body bears the fruits of my efforts: this is the first time in a decade I haven't had my telltale Pesach cold sore, which is a stress response.
This has made for an infinitely sweeter holiday. It is is profoundly meaningful for my faith -- it is the story of God rescuing the Jews from brutal slavery in Egypt, ultimately leading to our redemption and giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. This year, freed from the excessive negativity and crap stories I tell myself, I was able to relax and enjoy the holiday, both for what Hashem (God) did for the Jewish people, but also what Hashem did for me: leading me out of food addiction to a saner, freer existence. I used to dread Pesach because I was so driven by the compulsion to eat, I couldn't stay away from non-kosher food, or chametz, leavened food prohibited on the holiday, for even eight days. It was torture. This was a problem for me since adolescence.
To an outsider, it seems like I do a lot of extreme things for my recovery program: I weigh and measure all my food, yes, even in public, even when it's embarrassing. I make at least four telephone calls per day to other fellows in recovery. I do a daily reading and writing assignment. Most importantly, I work the Twelve Steps, which are simple but never easy. Yes, all of this takes time, and I do not always enjoy it, to say the least! However, when I reflect on my greatest blessings of recovery, it becomes clear why this is so worth it. Yes, losing so much weight is amazing. But living with integrity is priceless. Knowing that I won't have to go binge on non-kosher foods during Pesach, or the other 51 weeks of the year -- and end up hating myself for it -- is the biggest blessing. Recovery has given me integrity: my insides match my outsides. No more outwardly living an Orthodox lifestyle, while binging at Burger King, praying no one sees me (and again, hating myself for my "lack of self control" -- I know now that this was the cunning, baffling, and powerful disease of addiction, as the book "Alcoholic Anonymous" describes it). Living my values, having God redeem me from slavery to food addiction is truly priceless. Is my daily OA work worth it? Hell yes!
Pesach (Passover) has always been a miserable holiday for me. It is hard for any observant Jew: imagine preparing for Christmas and moving at the same time. There is a tremendous amount of work to prepare for the holiday, some of it very labor intensive. Even though my husband David carries most of the heavy lifting, I still do my fair share, and the necessities of the holiday preparation -- cleaning, shopping, cooking, entertaining, and staying up late -- really pushes all of my buttons. It activates my chronic pain in a bad way. All of this means that I usually approach the holiday with a lot of dread and negativity. This makes me miserable, but worse, it also erodes David's enjoyment of the holiday.
I have been getting deeper into my mindfulness practice, and I think I am growing weary of the suffering I cause myself. Pain in life is inevitable, but more and more I am clearly seeing that I am the source of most of my suffering. Stress happens, of course, but the stories I construct about what I am experiencing are truly the cause of my misery. There is a massive difference between pain and suffering. So, in an attempt to cut down on my suffering, I decided to try something different for Pesach this year: abstaining from negative thinking, just like my Twelve Step program advises me to do.
I wasn't sure I could successfully keep a positive attitude, but I was determined to try one day at a time. To my surprise, I was quite successful. To my amazement, it made a tremendous difference to the quality of my holiday. Yes, I am still exhausted. Yes, I am still in pain bad enough that it requires narcotics to manage it, which I hate taking. But I have enjoyed this holiday more than any in the past. I was more productive. David said, "You have gotten more done, with less pain to yourself, than you ever have in the time I've known you." My OA sponsor said, "I can tell how much calmer you are." Even my body bears the fruits of my efforts: this is the first time in a decade I haven't had my telltale Pesach cold sore, which is a stress response.
This has made for an infinitely sweeter holiday. It is is profoundly meaningful for my faith -- it is the story of God rescuing the Jews from brutal slavery in Egypt, ultimately leading to our redemption and giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. This year, freed from the excessive negativity and crap stories I tell myself, I was able to relax and enjoy the holiday, both for what Hashem (God) did for the Jewish people, but also what Hashem did for me: leading me out of food addiction to a saner, freer existence. I used to dread Pesach because I was so driven by the compulsion to eat, I couldn't stay away from non-kosher food, or chametz, leavened food prohibited on the holiday, for even eight days. It was torture. This was a problem for me since adolescence.
To an outsider, it seems like I do a lot of extreme things for my recovery program: I weigh and measure all my food, yes, even in public, even when it's embarrassing. I make at least four telephone calls per day to other fellows in recovery. I do a daily reading and writing assignment. Most importantly, I work the Twelve Steps, which are simple but never easy. Yes, all of this takes time, and I do not always enjoy it, to say the least! However, when I reflect on my greatest blessings of recovery, it becomes clear why this is so worth it. Yes, losing so much weight is amazing. But living with integrity is priceless. Knowing that I won't have to go binge on non-kosher foods during Pesach, or the other 51 weeks of the year -- and end up hating myself for it -- is the biggest blessing. Recovery has given me integrity: my insides match my outsides. No more outwardly living an Orthodox lifestyle, while binging at Burger King, praying no one sees me (and again, hating myself for my "lack of self control" -- I know now that this was the cunning, baffling, and powerful disease of addiction, as the book "Alcoholic Anonymous" describes it). Living my values, having God redeem me from slavery to food addiction is truly priceless. Is my daily OA work worth it? Hell yes!
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Waking Up Is The Hardest Part
"You are getting your PhD in grief." -- My mom, to me
In the last ten months I have lost my father and two children. I can say, definitively, that for me, waking up is the hardest part of grieving. I have always -- for better and for worse -- sought refuge in sleep, so even in the midst of tragedy, I am a sound sleeper. There is little worse than waking up from a deep sleep, and in those first flutters of consciousness remembering, "Oh, shit. That was not a dream." David and I found out on February 27 that this baby, like the one last summer, had not made it. I woke up the next three days sobbing when I realized the memory of the miscarriage wasn't some messed up nightmare, but our reality. I had this same exact experience in the week or 10 days following my dad's death: wakefulness, consciousness, heartbreak.
February 27 was a day of sickening deja vu. Being at the radiology clinic almost 11 weeks pregnant, a pessimist and worrier of the highest order hoping that my bleeding would turn out to be the spotting that about one-third of women experience in a pregnancy. I knew the minute I saw the ultrasound that we were in trouble. Again. You then have to endure the worry for your spouse, the "I'm sorry's" from the doctor, the getting out of the clinic and into your car while sobbing or trying not to sob in public, all the while passing women with swollen bellies or children already born. I am so over crying in public now, which is part of the PhD in grieving. My crying comes in waves. Sometimes I'm fine, sometimes I collapse in a heap, and that can be in my kitchen, if I'm lucky, or if I (and others) aren't so lucky, I might be in public. I've learned that the best thing I can do is let it come, wash over me, and then fade away. The more I try to fight it or stifle it, the longer it'll stick around. So I surrender to the crying, even if I look like the crazy person on the bus.
The bad deja vu continued with the consultation with our obstetrician followed by the D&C at Sibley, although this time it was less nerve-wracking since I knew what to expect.
Blimey, what can I say about this? There are so many feelings, all of them personal, though I'm pretty public, if you haven't noticed. One thing I can say with surety is that I am pissed off at God. This is not a feeling that is helped by the rapidly-depleting pregnancy hormones leaving my body; you get postpartum moodiness without the postpartum joy of a kid. I got enraged seeing David pray on February 28. I said, "It pushed my buttons seeing you pray to a capricious, cruel God." He had a brilliant and true response: "You don't know what I'm saying to Him." Someone left us a voice mail in the days after the miscarriage commending David and me on our faith and expressing some envy of it. I was thinking, "Are you fucking serious?!" Me, whose spirituality after this event ranges from giving God the Silent Treatment to cursing at God?
I don't feel bad about this in the slightest, by the way. I think God can handle my wrath, and Yisroel (Israel) doesn't mean "struggle with God" for nothing. I just see this as continuing my Jewish tradition of fighting with God. I have told my Jewish spiritual teachers that I am pissed at God, and they all say, "Sounds about right. You should be." I only went to services on Purim night to support my husband performing in the shpiel; I survived being there by knitting through the entire megillah reading [reading the book of Esther]. It was that or Xanax, kids, and I chose the non-pharmaceutical approach. I was ok there until I recited mourner's kaddish for my father, the memorial prayer for the dead, and became wracked with grief over the child we had just lost. I felt like I was saying kaddish for him or her too, and it completely knocked me off my feet. If I had thought about it before hand I probably could have anticipated this, but I didn't, and it bowled me over. Once again, the crazy lady sobbing in public!
I went to services last night, and approached them with mixed feelings. Sometimes I just took comfort in the familiarity of the melodies and prayers. Sometimes I was the master cynic. For example, singing "Yedid nefesh, av ha'rachaman..." -- "Beloved of the soul, Father of compassion...," I thought, "Seriously? Father of compassion? Try again!" Sometimes I just thought, "You suck, HaShem," even as my heart acknowledged that I don't have all the answers, or access to the master plan, if there even is such a thing. I don't know, nor do I particularly care. My friend said to me of the miscarriage and my anger at God, "Sarah, this is not a matter of God. God wants life. We are fragile, biological creatures, and this stuff just happens." Perhaps she's right.
I have a lot more to say about this, including a pointed post about what to not say to someone who has miscarried! All of it is heartbreaking and awful, though I feel like I am finally coming back to life at this point. Laughter is coming more easily, the tears slightly more infrequently. I am starting to talk to people I was avoiding. I want to blog again; I was so sick during my pregnancy that anything optional went out the window, including writing.
I am trying to balance grieving a tremendous loss in a healthy, mindful way. I'm not avoiding the painful feelings by: staying too busy; numbing out with food, alcohol, or illicit substances; or engaging in self-destructive behaviors. I'm trying to give myself room to take care of myself while not sliding into outright depression. So, yes, I nap when I need to, but I also am getting together with supportive friends, working out as much as I can, and making plans for the future. It is truly a day at a time, and some days are better than others. Heck, some hours are better than others.
I want to close by saying that I am so thankful that David and I haven't gone through this alone. Our friends' and families' practical and emotional support has been invaluable to us. They have cooked meals for us, come to spend time with us, called/emailed/texted us, sent cards and flowers, and just generally been there for us when we've needed to cry, vent or talk. Many of my friends have helped me collect myself when I wanted to haul off on one of the many people who said something heartless to me in my grief. For all this and more, we are grateful. Loss of a pregnancy is hard enough to go through with the support of loved ones. We have so many friends who have miscarried and told nobody, and I can't imagine going through this alone. I'm grateful we don't have to. Love you all.
In the last ten months I have lost my father and two children. I can say, definitively, that for me, waking up is the hardest part of grieving. I have always -- for better and for worse -- sought refuge in sleep, so even in the midst of tragedy, I am a sound sleeper. There is little worse than waking up from a deep sleep, and in those first flutters of consciousness remembering, "Oh, shit. That was not a dream." David and I found out on February 27 that this baby, like the one last summer, had not made it. I woke up the next three days sobbing when I realized the memory of the miscarriage wasn't some messed up nightmare, but our reality. I had this same exact experience in the week or 10 days following my dad's death: wakefulness, consciousness, heartbreak.
February 27 was a day of sickening deja vu. Being at the radiology clinic almost 11 weeks pregnant, a pessimist and worrier of the highest order hoping that my bleeding would turn out to be the spotting that about one-third of women experience in a pregnancy. I knew the minute I saw the ultrasound that we were in trouble. Again. You then have to endure the worry for your spouse, the "I'm sorry's" from the doctor, the getting out of the clinic and into your car while sobbing or trying not to sob in public, all the while passing women with swollen bellies or children already born. I am so over crying in public now, which is part of the PhD in grieving. My crying comes in waves. Sometimes I'm fine, sometimes I collapse in a heap, and that can be in my kitchen, if I'm lucky, or if I (and others) aren't so lucky, I might be in public. I've learned that the best thing I can do is let it come, wash over me, and then fade away. The more I try to fight it or stifle it, the longer it'll stick around. So I surrender to the crying, even if I look like the crazy person on the bus.
The bad deja vu continued with the consultation with our obstetrician followed by the D&C at Sibley, although this time it was less nerve-wracking since I knew what to expect.
Blimey, what can I say about this? There are so many feelings, all of them personal, though I'm pretty public, if you haven't noticed. One thing I can say with surety is that I am pissed off at God. This is not a feeling that is helped by the rapidly-depleting pregnancy hormones leaving my body; you get postpartum moodiness without the postpartum joy of a kid. I got enraged seeing David pray on February 28. I said, "It pushed my buttons seeing you pray to a capricious, cruel God." He had a brilliant and true response: "You don't know what I'm saying to Him." Someone left us a voice mail in the days after the miscarriage commending David and me on our faith and expressing some envy of it. I was thinking, "Are you fucking serious?!" Me, whose spirituality after this event ranges from giving God the Silent Treatment to cursing at God?
I don't feel bad about this in the slightest, by the way. I think God can handle my wrath, and Yisroel (Israel) doesn't mean "struggle with God" for nothing. I just see this as continuing my Jewish tradition of fighting with God. I have told my Jewish spiritual teachers that I am pissed at God, and they all say, "Sounds about right. You should be." I only went to services on Purim night to support my husband performing in the shpiel; I survived being there by knitting through the entire megillah reading [reading the book of Esther]. It was that or Xanax, kids, and I chose the non-pharmaceutical approach. I was ok there until I recited mourner's kaddish for my father, the memorial prayer for the dead, and became wracked with grief over the child we had just lost. I felt like I was saying kaddish for him or her too, and it completely knocked me off my feet. If I had thought about it before hand I probably could have anticipated this, but I didn't, and it bowled me over. Once again, the crazy lady sobbing in public!
I went to services last night, and approached them with mixed feelings. Sometimes I just took comfort in the familiarity of the melodies and prayers. Sometimes I was the master cynic. For example, singing "Yedid nefesh, av ha'rachaman..." -- "Beloved of the soul, Father of compassion...," I thought, "Seriously? Father of compassion? Try again!" Sometimes I just thought, "You suck, HaShem," even as my heart acknowledged that I don't have all the answers, or access to the master plan, if there even is such a thing. I don't know, nor do I particularly care. My friend said to me of the miscarriage and my anger at God, "Sarah, this is not a matter of God. God wants life. We are fragile, biological creatures, and this stuff just happens." Perhaps she's right.
I have a lot more to say about this, including a pointed post about what to not say to someone who has miscarried! All of it is heartbreaking and awful, though I feel like I am finally coming back to life at this point. Laughter is coming more easily, the tears slightly more infrequently. I am starting to talk to people I was avoiding. I want to blog again; I was so sick during my pregnancy that anything optional went out the window, including writing.
I am trying to balance grieving a tremendous loss in a healthy, mindful way. I'm not avoiding the painful feelings by: staying too busy; numbing out with food, alcohol, or illicit substances; or engaging in self-destructive behaviors. I'm trying to give myself room to take care of myself while not sliding into outright depression. So, yes, I nap when I need to, but I also am getting together with supportive friends, working out as much as I can, and making plans for the future. It is truly a day at a time, and some days are better than others. Heck, some hours are better than others.
I want to close by saying that I am so thankful that David and I haven't gone through this alone. Our friends' and families' practical and emotional support has been invaluable to us. They have cooked meals for us, come to spend time with us, called/emailed/texted us, sent cards and flowers, and just generally been there for us when we've needed to cry, vent or talk. Many of my friends have helped me collect myself when I wanted to haul off on one of the many people who said something heartless to me in my grief. For all this and more, we are grateful. Loss of a pregnancy is hard enough to go through with the support of loved ones. We have so many friends who have miscarried and told nobody, and I can't imagine going through this alone. I'm grateful we don't have to. Love you all.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Retreat Morning Schedule
So, how did I spend my semi-silent retreat? This one was a little unusual in that usually retreats either allow speaking, or they're conducted in silence. In this one, we were in silence from 9 p.m.- lunch the next day, with silence always maintained in the dormitories. Most people spoke during the non-silent times, but a few retreatants chose to maintain their silence and the group respected that. Here was our weekday schedule through lunch, with some explanation. The afternoon and evening schedule will be my next post.
6:00 a.m. Wake up: Because I was fighting for a spot amongst eight other women in a tiny bathroom, I roused myself around 5:45 a.m. to allow adequate time to use the bathroom, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I'd dress and mosey over to the main lodge, where all of our retreat activities took place. I had a couple of glasses of water and a cup of coffee, in silence, before I settled on my meditation cushion.
6:30 a.m. Meditation (aka "Sit"): This was seated meditation. Some people sat on cushions that they brought. Others fashioned impromptu meditation seating with pillows, blankets, towels and yoga mats. Some people always sat on chairs, and people who spoke with instructors about it first were allowed to meditate laying down, if appropriate. I had to do this, especially by the end of the day: my back isn't strong to begin with, and the 3-4 hours of seated meditation we did every day really took its toll on me. The first night I was there, I needed a narcotic to calm my pain enough to sleep. The original purpose of yoga asana, poses, is to give yogis the strength they need to sit in meditation for hours. I never really understood that until this retreat!
At one point I asked an instructor when would be a good time to leave programming to lay down on my heating pad to soothe my back and neck pain. He said, "What would keep you from bringing your heating pad to meditation and laying on your back?" I said, "Nothing!" As someone who has chronic pain, I have learned how to meditate laying down. I have tricks to ensure I don't fall asleep, like not practicing this way when I'm too sleepy, keeping my eyes only 3/4 of the way shut, putting my knees together, or holding my hands in such a way that if I fell asleep I would jerk to attention. I think I only came close to falling asleep once in this position. My preference is to sit on a meditation cushion with blankets supporting my knees, but I utilized the cushion, a chair, and laying on my yoga mat at different points in the day, depending on what my body needed. Usually, I started the day upright and ended up laying down late afternoon before returning to a chair or cushion again.
7:15 a.m. Chanting: One of the most amazing gifts that came to me from this retreat is the knowledge of how much chanting moves me. This is a common Eastern spiritual practice, but instead of Sanskrit, we chanted Hebrew. We did three chants from the morning blessings in the schacharit service (see below) every morning, and then did a few other chants based on other Jewish sources. There was something tremendously powerful about living in an intentional, albeit temporary, community, our voices joining together in praise of God. Four things resonated with me: the meaning of words we were chanting, the beautiful tones of the chants we were singing, the group nature of the activity, and the vibration of my voice inside my body. All of those elements combined to make it a powerful spiritual technique for me.
At home, I have continued my chanting practice after my morning meditation, and although it's not as potent as it is in a group, it's still useful. It's a meaningful way for me to give thanks to God and to set my intention for the day, and the verses have become mantras for me. Sometimes I'll find myself humming them throughout the day, which of course reminds me of their meaning. Verses from schacharit like, "My God, the soul You placed within me is pure," are things I need to remember, especially when I get drawn into the Trance of Unworthiness. Reminding myself that God made me in God's image is one antidote to the Trance.
7:30 a.m. Shacharit: This is the Jewish morning service. Other than on shabbat [sabbath], all of the prayer services were silent, so people could pray in the style most appropriate for them. We had a huge range of religiosity from people completely a-religious and Jewishly uneducated, to people who were Orthodox and had learned in yeshivot for years. I think it was easier to have unstructured prayer time than to try and conduct a service to make everyone happy, and that kept us in our silence, which was particularly nice after a night of silence and 30-45 minutes of seated meditation. During prayer time, some people prayed, some went to get cups of coffee, and others did yoga or meditated.
8:00 a.m. Breakfast (silent)
9:15 a.m. Sit & Instruction: The instruction was basically Vipassana (insight) meditation 101, where the instructors explained the basics of meditation. The first day they gave instructions on posture and using the breath as an anchor. Other days they talked about using alternate anchors (like sounds or sensations), how to handle emotions that came up during meditation, etc. We also had instruction on topics like the five hindrances to meditation, which will certainly come up in most people's meditation, and some of the antidotes to those hindrances. We covered the traditional Buddhist lovingkindness (metta) meditation; I didn't love the way the teachers taught that one, but since I was already familiar with it, I just practiced the form I'm more comfortable with.
When I went to Tara Brach's talk and guided meditation class the other night, I loved that she led us in a body scan and relaxation exercise before we started to meditate. It really provides a nice transition from "up and active, engaging with the world," to "on my cushion now, settle down." I need to start incorporating this in my home practice, and if I had experienced it before the retreat, I would've let the leaders know on my evaluation form that this would've been awesome.
9:45 a.m. Walk: this was walking meditation performed in the room we were using. It's just another form of mindfulness where instead of using breath or something else as an anchor, you are very focused on your feet hitting the floor. After 45 minutes on my butt on a cushion, I was always very eager to walk. I really zoned out and got into this, and I could see why Thich Nhat Hanh encourages this so enthusiastically (there are videos on You Tube of Hanh and others teaching this). I have tried to make one of my daily dog walks one where I practice walking meditation.
10:00 Sit
10:45 Yoga: The daily asana practice was so amazing it's getting it's own post later.
11:45 Sit + Group Interview: For more details on what transpires in group interviews, please see my earlier post.
12:30 Eating Instructions: This was only on the first day of retreat, but it was instruction in mindful eating. The teachers passed around a bowl of different foods, including different types of nuts, raisins, and granola. The guy with major food allergies practiced this with an apple. We were instructed to first smell the food; touch it to the lips; put it in our mouths and slowly move it around, seeing how it tastes and feels in different regions of our mouth. It was really enlightening for me to see how mindless my impulse to swallow is: the teacher said, "notice the impulse to swallow," after I had already swallowed my raisin. Oops! After mindful, deliberate chewing and experiencing all these bites of food had to offer, we were instructed to swallow in our own time.
I had heard of this "raisin meditation," and after hearing a friend's jeering review of it, I was skeptical. However, I liked it and found it put me in the right head space to both of my daily silent meals in mindfulness. After all, that was the point: not just not talking for the sake of not talking.
12:45 Lunch (silent)
After leaving dining hall, continue silence or enter speech.
6:00 a.m. Wake up: Because I was fighting for a spot amongst eight other women in a tiny bathroom, I roused myself around 5:45 a.m. to allow adequate time to use the bathroom, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I'd dress and mosey over to the main lodge, where all of our retreat activities took place. I had a couple of glasses of water and a cup of coffee, in silence, before I settled on my meditation cushion.
6:30 a.m. Meditation (aka "Sit"): This was seated meditation. Some people sat on cushions that they brought. Others fashioned impromptu meditation seating with pillows, blankets, towels and yoga mats. Some people always sat on chairs, and people who spoke with instructors about it first were allowed to meditate laying down, if appropriate. I had to do this, especially by the end of the day: my back isn't strong to begin with, and the 3-4 hours of seated meditation we did every day really took its toll on me. The first night I was there, I needed a narcotic to calm my pain enough to sleep. The original purpose of yoga asana, poses, is to give yogis the strength they need to sit in meditation for hours. I never really understood that until this retreat!
At one point I asked an instructor when would be a good time to leave programming to lay down on my heating pad to soothe my back and neck pain. He said, "What would keep you from bringing your heating pad to meditation and laying on your back?" I said, "Nothing!" As someone who has chronic pain, I have learned how to meditate laying down. I have tricks to ensure I don't fall asleep, like not practicing this way when I'm too sleepy, keeping my eyes only 3/4 of the way shut, putting my knees together, or holding my hands in such a way that if I fell asleep I would jerk to attention. I think I only came close to falling asleep once in this position. My preference is to sit on a meditation cushion with blankets supporting my knees, but I utilized the cushion, a chair, and laying on my yoga mat at different points in the day, depending on what my body needed. Usually, I started the day upright and ended up laying down late afternoon before returning to a chair or cushion again.
7:15 a.m. Chanting: One of the most amazing gifts that came to me from this retreat is the knowledge of how much chanting moves me. This is a common Eastern spiritual practice, but instead of Sanskrit, we chanted Hebrew. We did three chants from the morning blessings in the schacharit service (see below) every morning, and then did a few other chants based on other Jewish sources. There was something tremendously powerful about living in an intentional, albeit temporary, community, our voices joining together in praise of God. Four things resonated with me: the meaning of words we were chanting, the beautiful tones of the chants we were singing, the group nature of the activity, and the vibration of my voice inside my body. All of those elements combined to make it a powerful spiritual technique for me.
At home, I have continued my chanting practice after my morning meditation, and although it's not as potent as it is in a group, it's still useful. It's a meaningful way for me to give thanks to God and to set my intention for the day, and the verses have become mantras for me. Sometimes I'll find myself humming them throughout the day, which of course reminds me of their meaning. Verses from schacharit like, "My God, the soul You placed within me is pure," are things I need to remember, especially when I get drawn into the Trance of Unworthiness. Reminding myself that God made me in God's image is one antidote to the Trance.
7:30 a.m. Shacharit: This is the Jewish morning service. Other than on shabbat [sabbath], all of the prayer services were silent, so people could pray in the style most appropriate for them. We had a huge range of religiosity from people completely a-religious and Jewishly uneducated, to people who were Orthodox and had learned in yeshivot for years. I think it was easier to have unstructured prayer time than to try and conduct a service to make everyone happy, and that kept us in our silence, which was particularly nice after a night of silence and 30-45 minutes of seated meditation. During prayer time, some people prayed, some went to get cups of coffee, and others did yoga or meditated.
8:00 a.m. Breakfast (silent)
9:15 a.m. Sit & Instruction: The instruction was basically Vipassana (insight) meditation 101, where the instructors explained the basics of meditation. The first day they gave instructions on posture and using the breath as an anchor. Other days they talked about using alternate anchors (like sounds or sensations), how to handle emotions that came up during meditation, etc. We also had instruction on topics like the five hindrances to meditation, which will certainly come up in most people's meditation, and some of the antidotes to those hindrances. We covered the traditional Buddhist lovingkindness (metta) meditation; I didn't love the way the teachers taught that one, but since I was already familiar with it, I just practiced the form I'm more comfortable with.
When I went to Tara Brach's talk and guided meditation class the other night, I loved that she led us in a body scan and relaxation exercise before we started to meditate. It really provides a nice transition from "up and active, engaging with the world," to "on my cushion now, settle down." I need to start incorporating this in my home practice, and if I had experienced it before the retreat, I would've let the leaders know on my evaluation form that this would've been awesome.
9:45 a.m. Walk: this was walking meditation performed in the room we were using. It's just another form of mindfulness where instead of using breath or something else as an anchor, you are very focused on your feet hitting the floor. After 45 minutes on my butt on a cushion, I was always very eager to walk. I really zoned out and got into this, and I could see why Thich Nhat Hanh encourages this so enthusiastically (there are videos on You Tube of Hanh and others teaching this). I have tried to make one of my daily dog walks one where I practice walking meditation.
10:00 Sit
10:45 Yoga: The daily asana practice was so amazing it's getting it's own post later.
11:45 Sit + Group Interview: For more details on what transpires in group interviews, please see my earlier post.
12:30 Eating Instructions: This was only on the first day of retreat, but it was instruction in mindful eating. The teachers passed around a bowl of different foods, including different types of nuts, raisins, and granola. The guy with major food allergies practiced this with an apple. We were instructed to first smell the food; touch it to the lips; put it in our mouths and slowly move it around, seeing how it tastes and feels in different regions of our mouth. It was really enlightening for me to see how mindless my impulse to swallow is: the teacher said, "notice the impulse to swallow," after I had already swallowed my raisin. Oops! After mindful, deliberate chewing and experiencing all these bites of food had to offer, we were instructed to swallow in our own time.
I had heard of this "raisin meditation," and after hearing a friend's jeering review of it, I was skeptical. However, I liked it and found it put me in the right head space to both of my daily silent meals in mindfulness. After all, that was the point: not just not talking for the sake of not talking.
12:45 Lunch (silent)
After leaving dining hall, continue silence or enter speech.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Reflections on an Intense Day
If I had to rate my Wednesday on a scale of 1-10, I'd give it a 9. We buried David's grandmother yesterday. She strongly influenced me, and I wrote about my deep feelings for her here. She died at the end of October, but because she was having a funeral with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery, and the men and women dying in our current wars get first priority (rightly), this was the soonest Grandma could be buried. My in-laws were staying with us; they are perfect house guests, but having any house guests comes with challenges, so the week was already not normal for us. Tuesday night was Grandma's wake at a funeral home. The closed coffin was in the room with us, and it was mostly like a party without any food or drinks. People laughed and caught up with relatives they haven't seen in a while. A few people told mostly-funny stories about Grandma.
Since I didn't react emotionally to the coffin in the funeral home on Tuesday, I was surprised by the cry that welled up in my throat on Wednesday morning, when we arrived at the church for her funeral mass, and I saw her coffin draped in the American flag, lying in the back of the hearse. The cry left my throat by the time her pallbearers, her grandsons, had carried the coffin into the rear of the sanctuary, where the priest covered the casket in a cloth the same color and with the same pattern as the ones on his vestments.
Grandma was a devout Catholic (she was even a member of the perpetual adoration society), so I was glad that she had a service that reflected her beliefs. However, it was a little surreal on many levels: first, the fact that with the exception of one Grandma's sons (and his wife), the rest of the family are ex-Catholics. There were not very many people taking communion at this mass. But what really made it surreal was how antithetical the tone/content of the mass was when compared with Judaic beliefs and philosophies about death. There was a lot of liturgy talking about what a happy day it was, and much to my shock, included a lot of hallel (!!!), in English, of course. Hallel is a Jewish prayer composed of Psalms 113-118 that is said on joyous occasions like Jewish holy days, or Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the month, when we welcome the new moon. Hearing it said at a funeral was the spiritual equivalent of having a bucket of ice water tossed on you. It really highlighted the difference in religious philosophy between Christianity and Judaism: Judaism thinks that death sucks and finds no joy in it whatsoever. This is one of the reasons that it is in poor taste to send flowers to Jewish mourners. That said, I think the mass was a fitting way to say goodbye to Grandma, and it certainly would have met her approval. All of her granddaughters who were in town for the funeral participated in the church service, and my mother-in-law delivered a lovely eulogy.
It was perfect weather for a funeral: cold and rainy. The rain turned to hail during the short ceremony at Arlington. Attending a military funeral is intense in its own right; I can't imagine someone not being moved by it. I started to cry, again, when I saw the horse-drawn limbers and caissons -- I should've taken David's advice to bring two handkerchiefs instead of my one, which was soaked half-way through the mass. The firing of rifles, playing of taps, and folding of the flag covering the casket -- all by other sailors who performed perfectly and in unity even as they were pelted, hard, with hail, was profound, but not as profound as the relief of Grandma finally being buried next to Grandpa, and her son, Michael. One of David's cousins handed out roses, which we all laid on the coffin as we touched it and whispered hurried goodbyes; they were hurried because Arlington officials want you away from the grave as soon as possible. As soon as the service is over, they ask you to return to your vehicles. I really liked that option of going up to the casket, and it's one I've never had at a Jewish funeral. As a Jew, it feels deeply wrong to me to leave a casket above ground; people at a Jewish funeral all pitch in and shove dirt on the coffin. It felt weird to me at Grandpa's funeral to walk away from his casket, and it felt weird to me yesterday. As soon as the family cleared out, Arlington's crew was there to lower the casket and fill in the grave.
It was touching to see Grandma's kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren support each other and celebrate her complicated, but authentic life: a life really devoted to service of God, her family, and her country, probably in that order. After the funeral, we gathered at David's cousins' house, which felt satisfying, but soon we had to brave the storm to go home. A 22 minute drive took us two hours, but thank God, we made it home safely. To say that the day was emotionally draining was an understatement: we all had headaches and sore eyes from crying all day, and by 9:30 p.m. I felt like I had run a marathon.
Today has been all about rest and revitalization. My massage therapist and I mutually agreed to cancel my appointment today. I showered, prayed, meditated, did my physical therapy exercises, roasted a chicken and brussel sprouts for dinner, took Kacy on a short walk, did one load of laundry, took very few phone calls (although I chatted with my sister for almost one hour), and watched "The Girl Who Played With Fire" on my Netflix instant que. Oh, and now I'm blogging. And that's it! I needed to have a self-care day to decompress from the tensions of the week. I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, which might be the subject of my next blog post.
Since I didn't react emotionally to the coffin in the funeral home on Tuesday, I was surprised by the cry that welled up in my throat on Wednesday morning, when we arrived at the church for her funeral mass, and I saw her coffin draped in the American flag, lying in the back of the hearse. The cry left my throat by the time her pallbearers, her grandsons, had carried the coffin into the rear of the sanctuary, where the priest covered the casket in a cloth the same color and with the same pattern as the ones on his vestments.
Grandma was a devout Catholic (she was even a member of the perpetual adoration society), so I was glad that she had a service that reflected her beliefs. However, it was a little surreal on many levels: first, the fact that with the exception of one Grandma's sons (and his wife), the rest of the family are ex-Catholics. There were not very many people taking communion at this mass. But what really made it surreal was how antithetical the tone/content of the mass was when compared with Judaic beliefs and philosophies about death. There was a lot of liturgy talking about what a happy day it was, and much to my shock, included a lot of hallel (!!!), in English, of course. Hallel is a Jewish prayer composed of Psalms 113-118 that is said on joyous occasions like Jewish holy days, or Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the month, when we welcome the new moon. Hearing it said at a funeral was the spiritual equivalent of having a bucket of ice water tossed on you. It really highlighted the difference in religious philosophy between Christianity and Judaism: Judaism thinks that death sucks and finds no joy in it whatsoever. This is one of the reasons that it is in poor taste to send flowers to Jewish mourners. That said, I think the mass was a fitting way to say goodbye to Grandma, and it certainly would have met her approval. All of her granddaughters who were in town for the funeral participated in the church service, and my mother-in-law delivered a lovely eulogy.
It was perfect weather for a funeral: cold and rainy. The rain turned to hail during the short ceremony at Arlington. Attending a military funeral is intense in its own right; I can't imagine someone not being moved by it. I started to cry, again, when I saw the horse-drawn limbers and caissons -- I should've taken David's advice to bring two handkerchiefs instead of my one, which was soaked half-way through the mass. The firing of rifles, playing of taps, and folding of the flag covering the casket -- all by other sailors who performed perfectly and in unity even as they were pelted, hard, with hail, was profound, but not as profound as the relief of Grandma finally being buried next to Grandpa, and her son, Michael. One of David's cousins handed out roses, which we all laid on the coffin as we touched it and whispered hurried goodbyes; they were hurried because Arlington officials want you away from the grave as soon as possible. As soon as the service is over, they ask you to return to your vehicles. I really liked that option of going up to the casket, and it's one I've never had at a Jewish funeral. As a Jew, it feels deeply wrong to me to leave a casket above ground; people at a Jewish funeral all pitch in and shove dirt on the coffin. It felt weird to me at Grandpa's funeral to walk away from his casket, and it felt weird to me yesterday. As soon as the family cleared out, Arlington's crew was there to lower the casket and fill in the grave.
It was touching to see Grandma's kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren support each other and celebrate her complicated, but authentic life: a life really devoted to service of God, her family, and her country, probably in that order. After the funeral, we gathered at David's cousins' house, which felt satisfying, but soon we had to brave the storm to go home. A 22 minute drive took us two hours, but thank God, we made it home safely. To say that the day was emotionally draining was an understatement: we all had headaches and sore eyes from crying all day, and by 9:30 p.m. I felt like I had run a marathon.
Today has been all about rest and revitalization. My massage therapist and I mutually agreed to cancel my appointment today. I showered, prayed, meditated, did my physical therapy exercises, roasted a chicken and brussel sprouts for dinner, took Kacy on a short walk, did one load of laundry, took very few phone calls (although I chatted with my sister for almost one hour), and watched "The Girl Who Played With Fire" on my Netflix instant que. Oh, and now I'm blogging. And that's it! I needed to have a self-care day to decompress from the tensions of the week. I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, which might be the subject of my next blog post.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Shomeret Duty
Last night was my first time acting as shomeret at the mikvah since I fell seriously ill in early 2007. A mikvah is a Jewish ritual bath composed of tap and rain water mixed together. It is used at various transition points, such as after a woman's menstrual period, before marriage, and as the final step in conversion to Judaism. A shomeret is a woman who witnesses another woman's immersion to make sure she is completely covered by the water and has correctly prepared her body pre-immersion. Some mikvaot [plural of "mikvah"] have paid shomrot [plural of "shomeret"], but the one at my synagogue is completely staffed by volunteers. Participation is critical, because an immersion usually isn't valid unless it is witnessed.
I was struck last night by how gratifying this service is. Women using the mikvah may be vulnerable; some of them are desperate to conceive, and others may be using the mikvah for the first time after a miscarriage. I'd argue that anyone using the mikvah is a little vulnerable, since you're naked in front of a peer for a short period of time. There can be a lot of emotion caught up in mikvah use as well; I believe there is a conspiracy of fantasy among Orthodox Jews when it comes to discussing taharat hamishpacha (the laws of family purity, which govern when you can be physically intimate with your partner). There are many books talking about the "gift" of taharat hamishpacha to your marriage, usually all along the same lines: your marriage will be revitalized by the regular cycle of abstaining from sex. When you are finally able to make love again, it'll feel like the first time, and other bullshit along those lines. I'd love to write a real-life manual for Orthodox women, which would include the following:
*You are most likely to be amorous during the time that you're forbidden from having sex
*You will resent the assumption that you will have sex on your set mikvah night. Furthermore, since you can only go after dark, you will be too tired to have sex after a long day at work followed by preparing for immersion and actually running the errand itself.
*Going to the mikvah will usually not be the ultra-spiritual experience promised in books on taharat hamishpacha.
I think this would be a self-published book, as I don't see Feldheim Publishers picking it up. I don't mean to be negative; my feelings about using the mikvah have waxed and waned over 14 years of use, and there are some really beautiful things about it. I just resent the rose-colored glasses that color traditional forums that discuss this topic.
Anyway, back to shomeret duty. For the reasons mentioned above and many others, I feel like the quality of a woman's mikvah experience can be the difference between her choosing to follow this mitzvah [commandment] or not, or the difference between her finding it tolerable or not, and I think the quality of her shomeret has a lot to do with that. Last night, I felt like by being pleasant, hopefully soothing, and respectful of women's privacy to the degree that I could be, I made a difference in the quality of their experience. I think being a shomeret carries a lot of privilege with it: at the very least, you make a routine errand pleasant; at the most, perhaps you give positive energy to someone who hopes to conceive that month. I was grateful to be able to be of service in this capacity.
Ironically, one of the women who immersed last night said, "Weren't you one of the people who started this mikvah?" I said I was the president at the time it opened. She went on to effusively thank me for my work and say how much she enjoys using this mikvah. That really touched my heart, especially because she identified herself as non-Orthodox. To me, that is really a mark of success for what the D.C. mikvah has accomplished: if people from outside the immediate religious community feel comfortable there, we must be doing something right.
In an odd twist on this, my ability to give service in this capacity is dramatically tied to my recovery from food addiction. There are minimum observance requirements for shomrot stipulated in Jewish legal texts, and one of the most basic is that the shomeret keeps kosher, which means adhering to Jewish dietary laws. Most of the members of my synagogue keep kosher kitchens at home, but don't fully keep kosher, meaning they eat food prepared in non-kosher establishments (I try not to have judgments about this, until otherwise-smart people go to great lengths to convince themselves that their fish is not being handled by the tongs that are toasting the BLT next to it. Or that their vegetarian pizza cooking in the 600 degree oven is segregated from the pepperoni and sausage pie one tray away. As someone who worked in food service, I can tell you this is laughable). Because most of my synagogue members don't strictly keep kosher, we have trouble finding qualified shomrot in our community.
When our mikvah opened in July 2005, I was still leading an outwardly Orthodox lifestyle, but bingeing almost daily on non-kosher food. I came to a crossroads: was it more important to spend a lot of money at Burger King and feel guilty all the time about my hypocrisy, or could I actually make something in my life more important than food? Because that's what I'd have to do if I wanted to give much-needed service to the mikvah. I chose to put the needs of my community above my own desires, which happened to be soul-killing, and that dovetailed nicely with recovering from my food addiction. I make no promises about not eating in non-kosher restaurants "forever," but for today, I'm sticking with that choice, and I'm glad I made it.
I was struck last night by how gratifying this service is. Women using the mikvah may be vulnerable; some of them are desperate to conceive, and others may be using the mikvah for the first time after a miscarriage. I'd argue that anyone using the mikvah is a little vulnerable, since you're naked in front of a peer for a short period of time. There can be a lot of emotion caught up in mikvah use as well; I believe there is a conspiracy of fantasy among Orthodox Jews when it comes to discussing taharat hamishpacha (the laws of family purity, which govern when you can be physically intimate with your partner). There are many books talking about the "gift" of taharat hamishpacha to your marriage, usually all along the same lines: your marriage will be revitalized by the regular cycle of abstaining from sex. When you are finally able to make love again, it'll feel like the first time, and other bullshit along those lines. I'd love to write a real-life manual for Orthodox women, which would include the following:
*You are most likely to be amorous during the time that you're forbidden from having sex
*You will resent the assumption that you will have sex on your set mikvah night. Furthermore, since you can only go after dark, you will be too tired to have sex after a long day at work followed by preparing for immersion and actually running the errand itself.
*Going to the mikvah will usually not be the ultra-spiritual experience promised in books on taharat hamishpacha.
I think this would be a self-published book, as I don't see Feldheim Publishers picking it up. I don't mean to be negative; my feelings about using the mikvah have waxed and waned over 14 years of use, and there are some really beautiful things about it. I just resent the rose-colored glasses that color traditional forums that discuss this topic.
Anyway, back to shomeret duty. For the reasons mentioned above and many others, I feel like the quality of a woman's mikvah experience can be the difference between her choosing to follow this mitzvah [commandment] or not, or the difference between her finding it tolerable or not, and I think the quality of her shomeret has a lot to do with that. Last night, I felt like by being pleasant, hopefully soothing, and respectful of women's privacy to the degree that I could be, I made a difference in the quality of their experience. I think being a shomeret carries a lot of privilege with it: at the very least, you make a routine errand pleasant; at the most, perhaps you give positive energy to someone who hopes to conceive that month. I was grateful to be able to be of service in this capacity.
Ironically, one of the women who immersed last night said, "Weren't you one of the people who started this mikvah?" I said I was the president at the time it opened. She went on to effusively thank me for my work and say how much she enjoys using this mikvah. That really touched my heart, especially because she identified herself as non-Orthodox. To me, that is really a mark of success for what the D.C. mikvah has accomplished: if people from outside the immediate religious community feel comfortable there, we must be doing something right.
In an odd twist on this, my ability to give service in this capacity is dramatically tied to my recovery from food addiction. There are minimum observance requirements for shomrot stipulated in Jewish legal texts, and one of the most basic is that the shomeret keeps kosher, which means adhering to Jewish dietary laws. Most of the members of my synagogue keep kosher kitchens at home, but don't fully keep kosher, meaning they eat food prepared in non-kosher establishments (I try not to have judgments about this, until otherwise-smart people go to great lengths to convince themselves that their fish is not being handled by the tongs that are toasting the BLT next to it. Or that their vegetarian pizza cooking in the 600 degree oven is segregated from the pepperoni and sausage pie one tray away. As someone who worked in food service, I can tell you this is laughable). Because most of my synagogue members don't strictly keep kosher, we have trouble finding qualified shomrot in our community.
When our mikvah opened in July 2005, I was still leading an outwardly Orthodox lifestyle, but bingeing almost daily on non-kosher food. I came to a crossroads: was it more important to spend a lot of money at Burger King and feel guilty all the time about my hypocrisy, or could I actually make something in my life more important than food? Because that's what I'd have to do if I wanted to give much-needed service to the mikvah. I chose to put the needs of my community above my own desires, which happened to be soul-killing, and that dovetailed nicely with recovering from my food addiction. I make no promises about not eating in non-kosher restaurants "forever," but for today, I'm sticking with that choice, and I'm glad I made it.
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