One Friday night, there is a gentle knock on my front door—so gentle, that I almost don’t hear it. When I step out onto the front porch, I see Benjamin, a young Jewish neighbor who has come to ask for my help. I live in what is known as an eruv in West Denver, an enclave with defined boundaries in which members of the Orthodox community can more easily observe the complex rules of their religion. I’m not sure how or why but years ago, my Jewish neighbors unofficially designated me the Shabbats Goy, which means that I’m a non-Jew who is often called upon to perform certain small tasks that are forbidden by Jewish law during the Sabbath. From sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, the use of electricity is prohibited, so my duties usually involve the simple flick of a switch. This time, I follow Benjamin to his house anticipating the subtle clues which will circumspectly guide me to the task at hand. According to Talmudic law, to ask someone to complete a task is as egregious an offense as actually doing it.
We enter the house which is full of family members either sitting in the living room or studying scripture at the dining room table. Benjamin leads me into the kitchen and casually mentions that the slow cooker on the counter was previously set on high. I look at the dial and notice that it is set on low so I turn it back to the high setting and look at Benjamin who grins at me conspiratorially and nods in satisfaction. He thanks me and formally presents me with a bottle of Zinfandel wine which I try to refuse.
“It’s not necessary”, I protest.
“Yes” he pushes the bottle at me, “it is. We’re very appreciative.”
So I graciously accept the wine thinking it best not to mention that I’m a recovering alcoholic. Clutching my gift, I wish the family a blessed Passover as I leave and walk home smiling because I am so grateful to live in a neighborhood where this unique religious tradition survives. But what makes my neighborhood so distinctive is that it not only accommodates the Orthodox Jewish community, but boasts a much broader cultural and economic diversity as well. In 1986, after separating from my second husband, I bought a lovely old brick house from an elderly Jewish widow. I was drawn to the inner city neighborhood because it was centrally located, but was also refreshingly different from the homogenous middle-class suburb in the foothills outside of Denver where I had lived during my marriage. I found the melding of Hispanic, Jewish, blue-collar and yuppie cultures exciting and the wide tree lined streets and brick homes charming.
My soon to be ex–husband caustically asked, “How can you live down there with all the thieves and drug addicts?”
I dismissed his opinion as narrow minded, but once I got settled into my new community, the charm wore off and I soon discovered that living in West Denver is not for the faint of heart. The police helicopter regularly patrolled the neighborhood at night, shining a bright shaft of light intrusively into my windows. I spewed when I heard loud music or worse, gun shots late at night. Prostitution was a thriving business on nearby West Colfax Avenue and I often found used condoms in the alley behind my house. Every time my next door neighbor parked a dilapidated truck on his front lawn, I cringed in embarrassment. Between tattooed bikers, incessantly barking dogs and a crack house two doors down, I felt like I was trapped in a darkly humorous Fellini film. I stood it for six years before putting my house up for rent and fleeing, vowing that I would never live in West Denver again. But after seven years of exile, during which I wandered the world, I decided to move back to my house so that I could fix it up and unload it for a profit. I did fix it up but twelve years later, I’m still here, passionately in love with my urban niche. I could claim that there are different people living here who have improved the neighborhood, but that is only true to a point. I attribute the shift in my attitude not only to my world travels but also to the inner changes that I’ve experienced as I advance through the lessons of my Earthly class room.
While I’m still not fond of loud music and barking dogs, I appreciate the authentic and vital energy created by the diversity that has organically evolved in my community over time. I have learned that it’s better to focus on the common thread of shared values that binds us together as neighbors, such as family loyalty, fierce individuality, and a respect for age old traditions. It’s still a quirky and eccentric little neighborhood, but then I’m a quirky and eccentric person and the more compassion I have for my own human foibles, the slower I am to judge others. If it’s true that my outer world is merely a reflection of what’s going on in my inner world, then I’m more at home here now because I’m more at peace with myself.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Change is Normal
This morning as I go to check my e-mails, I discover, to my annoyance, that my Internet service has been ‘improved’. It is my opinion that the old system was perfectly fine, but then, no one asked me. I curse and swear as I try to figure out how to access my e-mail, but after fifteen minutes of acute aggravation, I am forced to call tech support. I navigate through the automated menu with gritted teeth and get put on hold forever before finally hearing a cheerful human voice which identifies itself as "Hello, I'm Ivan-how-may-I-help-you-today"? As the voice named Ivan patiently attempts to guide me through the new steps of the system, I maintain a running commentary on how inconvenient and confusing it is.
“But, we added all of these extra steps to protect you”, says Ivan earnestly, “We did it because we love our customers.”
By now, I’m so firmly entrenched in my victim swamp that I need to put a face on my tormentors.
“Who thought this whole thing up anyway?” I demand irately.
“Why, the developers did.” Ivan promptly replies.
Immediately I envision a group of twenty somethings all hopped up on 5 Hour Energy drink, plotting how they can have a little fun with us technologically challenged civilians.
“Well, the only thing they’ve helped me to develop is a giant headache” I snap back.
Ivan apologizes profusely again. I manage to mutter insincerely that I know it’s not his fault.
In a soothing voice he probably acquired in “Dealing with Hostile Customers 101”, he calmly assures me, “I promise you’ll get used to it. Change is normal.”
Tell me about it. I’m sure I could teach my buddy Ivan a thing or two about change. I’ve been in transition for at least four years during which time I commuted to California to earn a master’s degree, changed careers, and got married. The only aspects of my life that have stayed the same are my cats and my 12 year old Subaru. I’m not complaining because all of these changes were self-imposed at the prompting of a strong intuition which insists on nudging me into the unknown. Even when an unexpected change has come from left field, there has not been a single lost contract, failed relationship, or disappointing outcome that hasn’t contributed to my wisdom and growth. On some level, I have always understood that change is an evolutionary force which keeps me moving forward into ever greater levels of expression. What I sometimes don’t handle so well is the discomfort and grief of letting go of the old as I’m making the transition into new territory. When my husband Frank and I made the decision to live together in my house a couple of years ago, I was a catatonic mess for the first few weeks after he moved in. I had cherished living alone in my female sanctuary and my ego kept harping that I was too selfish and inflexible to accommodate another person in my space. I would have been happy to maintain separate households indefinitely, but I would have skunked myself out of the full experience of intimacy--football games on Sunday, smelly gym socks, upended toilet seats, and all. I’m happy to report that marrying my guy has proven to be one of those elegant choices which has greatly enhanced my life and supported my growth.
The process of changing careers, after almost forty years in the broadcast industry has gone somewhat smoother because I’ve been intent on entering a life of service as a lay chaplain and am willing to pay the price of admission. I gave up my old career with only a tiny bit of whining; managed to survive the culture shock of being thrust into the alien environment of a hospital; and have labored through yet another year of agonizing self-scrutiny without having a nervous breakdown. The only snag is that employment in this field continues to elude me, but I know there are no short-cuts, so I’m trying to regard this time in the neutral zone as a gift of rich creativity and introspection.
Lest I should be lulled into thinking I have it all figured out, along comes the e-mail drama to remind me that my funny little habits are like a minefield riddled with active mines that have the potential to explode in my face and destroy my peace if I let them. From the level of upset I am feeling over the disruption of my internet service, it is painfully apparent that my daily routines are a stronghold for my ego-my ever faithful colluder in upholding the illusion that I have control of my life.
I guess I should be grateful for this opportunity to defuse one more landmine in my consciousness. Next time I sit down at my computer, I’ll say the Serenity Prayer and forgive myself for behaving like a rabid dog.
“But, we added all of these extra steps to protect you”, says Ivan earnestly, “We did it because we love our customers.”
By now, I’m so firmly entrenched in my victim swamp that I need to put a face on my tormentors.
“Who thought this whole thing up anyway?” I demand irately.
“Why, the developers did.” Ivan promptly replies.
Immediately I envision a group of twenty somethings all hopped up on 5 Hour Energy drink, plotting how they can have a little fun with us technologically challenged civilians.
“Well, the only thing they’ve helped me to develop is a giant headache” I snap back.
Ivan apologizes profusely again. I manage to mutter insincerely that I know it’s not his fault.
In a soothing voice he probably acquired in “Dealing with Hostile Customers 101”, he calmly assures me, “I promise you’ll get used to it. Change is normal.”
Tell me about it. I’m sure I could teach my buddy Ivan a thing or two about change. I’ve been in transition for at least four years during which time I commuted to California to earn a master’s degree, changed careers, and got married. The only aspects of my life that have stayed the same are my cats and my 12 year old Subaru. I’m not complaining because all of these changes were self-imposed at the prompting of a strong intuition which insists on nudging me into the unknown. Even when an unexpected change has come from left field, there has not been a single lost contract, failed relationship, or disappointing outcome that hasn’t contributed to my wisdom and growth. On some level, I have always understood that change is an evolutionary force which keeps me moving forward into ever greater levels of expression. What I sometimes don’t handle so well is the discomfort and grief of letting go of the old as I’m making the transition into new territory. When my husband Frank and I made the decision to live together in my house a couple of years ago, I was a catatonic mess for the first few weeks after he moved in. I had cherished living alone in my female sanctuary and my ego kept harping that I was too selfish and inflexible to accommodate another person in my space. I would have been happy to maintain separate households indefinitely, but I would have skunked myself out of the full experience of intimacy--football games on Sunday, smelly gym socks, upended toilet seats, and all. I’m happy to report that marrying my guy has proven to be one of those elegant choices which has greatly enhanced my life and supported my growth.
The process of changing careers, after almost forty years in the broadcast industry has gone somewhat smoother because I’ve been intent on entering a life of service as a lay chaplain and am willing to pay the price of admission. I gave up my old career with only a tiny bit of whining; managed to survive the culture shock of being thrust into the alien environment of a hospital; and have labored through yet another year of agonizing self-scrutiny without having a nervous breakdown. The only snag is that employment in this field continues to elude me, but I know there are no short-cuts, so I’m trying to regard this time in the neutral zone as a gift of rich creativity and introspection.
Lest I should be lulled into thinking I have it all figured out, along comes the e-mail drama to remind me that my funny little habits are like a minefield riddled with active mines that have the potential to explode in my face and destroy my peace if I let them. From the level of upset I am feeling over the disruption of my internet service, it is painfully apparent that my daily routines are a stronghold for my ego-my ever faithful colluder in upholding the illusion that I have control of my life.
I guess I should be grateful for this opportunity to defuse one more landmine in my consciousness. Next time I sit down at my computer, I’ll say the Serenity Prayer and forgive myself for behaving like a rabid dog.
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