Not Building a Sukkah

My daughter, Sarah, moved back to Berkeley just about a year ago. It was right around the High Holy Days. Yesterday afternoon when she called it was about Sukkot, the harvest festival that follows Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. Weeks ago she had asked about our old sukkah and expressed some interest in using it to build the traditional holiday hut at her house. I explained that it was more of a sukkah kit – just a bunch of wood with the potential to be a sukkah. And, at the moment, it was jammed between our house and the fence, probably crawling with spiders and definitely threatening to put splinters into any hands that might dare to touch it.

She was still interested. So now, on erev Yom Kippur, just a few days before she would need to have her sukkah ready for the holiday, she called to say she wants the sukkah. But she doesn’t know if she’ll have time to get it, or build it, or decorate it.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked, innocently. “You could come and get it now. Or at least take a look and see what you’ll need to make it work.”

She said she’d come. An hour later, Sarah arrived. We greeted each other. I admired her new jeans and her phone rang.

Before she arrived I was baking for the holiday. But now the challah dough was rising, so I didn’t really have anything I had to do at the moment. Sarah was standing in the entry hall, still talking with her friend Mimi on her phone. I overhead her say, “Oh, Mimi, that’s so disgusting. I’m so sorry.” But when I made a face that asked, ‘Is Mimi okay?’ Sarah waved me off with a gesture and expression that said, ‘No, it’s nothing, she’s fine.” The conversation continued. I was obviously not part of it. So I wandered outside to find my gloves.

By the time Sarah caught up with me in the backyard I had pulled part of the sukkah out from between the house and the fence. I was covered with spider webs and bits of leaves and schmutz. The piece of sukkah I had found was an ungainly square of two-by-twos held together with triangles of plywood at each corner. Sarah took one look at it and declared it was not going to work. “I don’t know how I could get it to my house without a truck,” she said. “Zoe said she’d help me, but she’s out of town on the one day I’m free to work on it. I don’t think my roommates will have time either. I think I’d just better forget it.”

She helped me put the piece of sukkah back between the house and fence. Now we were both full of spider webs and leaves.

Picking the sticky bits from my hair and clothes, I felt profoundly disappointed. Without realizing it, I had created a whole fantasy in which my old sukkah rose like the phoenix in Sarah’s backyard, complete with table spread with a colorful cloth and covered with holiday food and drink. The roof of my fantasy sukkah was piled with palm fronds and the sides were decorated with garlands of paper flowers, fruit, and leaves. Someone had placed a string of tiny lights around the entryway. (In my fantasy it was nighttime.) There were candles on the table. Everything glowed.

But instead, Sarah and I were standing in my kitchen trying to figure out what to do now.

“When are you meeting Mimi for dinner?” I asked, again, innocently.

“I think we said 5:30,” she said.

“It’s already 4:30,” I said. “And you still need to go to the market?”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to get us something to cook.”

“Well, I guess we should go then,” I said.

We went.

I live just a few blocks from a little business district with a produce market, coffee mart, bakery, butcher, flower stand, and gift store. I love walking there to do errands, even just to buy an onion or a loaf of bread. It makes me feel European.

We walked directly to the butcher shop, bypassing the fresh produce and flowers, although I secretly enjoyed just seeing them as we breezed past. Sarah took a number from the dispenser when we entered the butcher shop and looked at the fresh fish while we waited our turn. “They have Cajun-style catfish fillets,” she said, pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “I’m going to call Mimi to make sure she likes catfish.”

“I don’t know how observant she is,” I offered as she dialed. “But catfish isn’t kosher.”

“She’s not kosher,” Sarah said with a touch of irritation in her voice. Then Mimi answered.

Sarah’s number was called right after she finished talking with Mimi. The man behind the counter asked, “How can I help you?”

Sarah pointed into the cold case and said, “Could I please have two of those catfish fillets?”

I saw a strange look pass over the man’s face. I would have described it as revulsion if I’d been asked in that moment to characterize the expression. I would have been wrong.

“You’re the first person to say ‘please’ since 9 o’clock this morning,” he said. All I could see of him was his face, the case came up above my chest and he was not very tall. I recognized him from other visits to the butcher but I’m not sure he’d ever waited on me before. He wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes.

Sarah and I looked at each other and then back at the man. “Really?” I said. “That’s terrible!”

“Yeah,” he said, weighing the fish as he spoke. “I guess everybody’s just too busy.”

“Well, Mama,” Sarah said half to me and half to the man,” I guess you must have raised me right.”

I reached over to pat her on the back.

“I think the pat on the back should be for you Mom,” the man said. “Don’t you think?”

Sarah paid for her purchased, thanked the man once more, and we were on our way home. We left the butcher shop talking about what the man had said. Are people really too busy to say ‘please’?

Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. We Jews spend the day reflecting on where we fell short in the past year and praying for forgiveness. Many of the readings attempt to remind us that the way we conduct ourselves matters, particularly when it comes to how we treat one another.

I thought about the man behind the counter at the butcher shop this morning as we prayed. Often the difference between being a mensch and being a putz comes down to taking the time to notice the humanity of each person we encounter. A simple ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ acknowledges that, despite our differences, we are all just people on this planet. I may take on bigger challenges as I consider my goals for the coming year, but I also plan to say ‘please’ more often. Nobody who serves people all day long should have to wait seven hours to be noticed.

L’shana tova!

On the Other Side

I can breathe again. I gave my teacher a Pilates lesson and she liked it! I spent the past week obsessed with this lesson. I made at least seven different lists of the Pilates exercises I would teach her. I wrote one on the airplane to San Diego to attend Comic Con. I wrote lists in the special notebook I keep just for Pilates. I wrote them in the margins of the newspaper while finishing breakfast. I typed them and eventually I think I even dreamed them.

When I had finally decided on the 18 different exercises and the order in which I would teach them, I started practicing. I don't have all the Pilates equipment at home, so I had to pretend. My family gave me odd looks when they found me pantomiming how I would move the springs on the reformer from one set-up to another. I not only imitated the motions for each exercise, I also practice giving cues to my imaginary student, out loud.

Afraid I wouldn't sleep, I reviewed my list and revised my notes up until right before I went to bed. Then I got up extra early so I could arrive at the studio with time to practice the entire work-out. I spent over an hour doing the exercises, intermittently checking my instructors' manual and making changes in my set-up notes.

When the time for the lesson finally arrived, I was nervous, but I was also prepared. After about 30 minutes, my teacher said, "You're doing great. Really, you're doing a really good job." I could feel my whole body relax.

There was more feedback, mostly positive, but some constructive comments too. I particularly need to smooth out my patter, get it down to the few really effective cue words for each exercise. But I'm pumped, because it is so clear that I've progressed since the last time I taught my teacher.

I feel great. Which is good, because I gotta get going on my next work-out plan. My teacher put herself on my schedule in two weeks and I want to be ready.

The (inevitable) bump in the road

I've reached a benchmark in my Pilates career. I've just figured out how much I do not know. It's a humbling feeling. Although I have a good working knowledge of Pilates, I am at the very, very beginning of understanding how to apply it to the infinitely variable bodies that exist in the universe.

No two bodies are the same. I knew that. But I don't yet know how to modify and adapt this endlessly adaptable method to meet the needs of the myriad alignments that I see whenever I go anywhere and see any people.

If I see you walking down the street I am looking at the way you carry your shoulders, where your head sits relative to your sternum, if your hips move, and where in your body you seem to initiate movement. Unfortunately, I wouldn't necessarily know what to do with you if I have a chance to work with you.

Okay, I'd probably try to get you in hold your head back from where it hangs forward straining your neck muscles all day. I'd probably try to get you to drop your sit bones down over your heels when you stand and let your sternum float up and out so your shoulder blades could slide down your back a bit. And I'd most likely want you to sit up on your sit bones and lengthen your spine up out of your pelvis when you sit. And I'd definitely try to get you breathing into your rib cage to mobilize your thoracic vertebrae and increase your lung capacity. Yeah, and a bunch of other things, now that I think about it. But at some point it's just a bunch of exercises if I don't know what I am trying to accomplish more globally.

I guess ultimately this is a good thing. I have a lot to learn and I know it.

A Neo Conservative

My bank statement arrived today with a new "look." My first reaction was "Oh no!" It feels like people are constantly changing the way things look. But when I consider the previous statement in the rational light of day - prompted by the raised eyebrows of my eloquently silent mate - I must admit the changes are not more frequent. I just like them less.

Here I am making gigantic changes in my life, but I get my knickers in a twist over a rearranged bank statement. And when I finally looked at it, I had to admit the new format is easier to follow and takes up less paper. In short, it's better.

I fear my initial response to my new and improved bank statement is evidence of my age. I am becoming an old codger, someone who fears and resists change. But that is not who I am. So why the negative first take? I don't have an answer, but I will be on the lookout to see if this is a pattern.

Second time's the charm

I've seen both of my new students for a second time. This feels big because I got a chance to use the information I'd gathered during our first session. I gave my new male client, let's call him Steve, several stretches for his tight back. With each stretch he commented that he felt looser. I was lucky, in a way, because Steve had taken a monster bike ride the day before and was really achy and sore. I probably could have given him just about any stretch and he would have felt better. But I was trying out my theory that his back pain has more to do with tightness in his back than with weak abs. Since the stretches worked I'm now planning to see if I can get him to use a more neutral spine position (maintained by his abs) when he sits at work It felt really good to finally see him smile!

I also got to try out my Pilates in the Park program on my daughter. She was patient with me as I taught her the various exercises and noticed different problems presented by the muddy ground, the varying heights of the picnic tables, the hard benches that are less than conducive to rolling back for ab work, etc. Then we spread out our towels on the little lakeside beach and pretended to be in Hawaii. That was fun.

On the food front, I saw the new film, Ratatouille over the weekend. As a result, I was inspired to try making ratatouille for the first time. Based on the version shown in the film, I sliced the eggplant, zucchini and golden zucchini very thin and layered it in baking dish over and under a sauce made of onions, red pepper, and tomatoes that I'd sautéed in olive oil and pureed in the food processor. It was delicious, if I do say so myself. Next time I plan to roast and peel the pepper first to improve the flavor and texture of the sauce. Yum!

Corn bread and corn pudding

I've gone two days in a row without doing any Pilates. But I did ride my bike to the studio and back today for a total of 10 miles. My wonderful husband accompanied me because I'm a scaredycat when it comes to riding on streets with cars. I insisted on a really terrible route on the way there. He managed to convince me to take a much better route on the way back. Now I think I can do it on my own, especially on a Sunday morning when there won't be so much traffic.

My family came over for dinner tonight. I made corn pudding with freshly picked corn I bought at the farmers' market this morning. We also had a mixed grill of barbecued meats, green beans finished with Moroccan spices and shallots, more of the boy's chili-cheese corn bread, homemade grissini (bread sticks), and oatmeal, cherry, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert. I know, it sounds like a lot of corn. But the two dishes were very different. One was a bread and the other was more of a custard. If we lived before the advent of refrigeration, we'd probably eat whatever is in season, perhaps several different ways in one day, if not in one meal. Certainly there were no complaints from the diners!

Two weeks later

So much for my plans to update at least weekly. I had a grand total of one student during my first week at the studio. But during week two I had three students. One of my new students scheduled a return visit and my second new student scheduled FOUR additional lessons. I also taught my two classes and two private lessons at home. It would appear that I am actually a Pilates instructor.

Today is Friday and I don't teach. My brother is in town from Portland. During our wanderings around the city, doing various errands and window shopping, he told a sales person in a fitness store that I am a Pilates instructor. He made it sound like she should be impressed. That was a first.

The experience of these past two weeks has left me relieved because I still love teaching. After teaching for three hours on Thursday I felt energetic and focussed. Most of my nerves come before I start a session or class. But I got incredibly nervous while teaching one of my new students - a 42 year old man. I forgot how to get someone out of the foot straps on the reformer. I instantly got a hot flash which only made things worse. I started to freak out that my mentor teacher had witnessed my ineptitude. But I managed to pull myself together and move on to the next exercise. A little later when we had finished the session, I was stunned when he bought a package and scheduled four more lessons. I guess he liked me anyway.

I made Afgan-style shish kabob, barbecued sweet corn, and salad for dinner Saturday night. The boys made chili-cheese corn bread from a Cooking Light recipe. Then I went out of town, so the left over lamb just sat there in the refrigerator until I came back Monday night. I made a curried stew with French lentils, carrots, onion, celery, left over sweet corn, and the lamb. We ate it with cucumber and cilantro raita, basmati rice and sweet chutney. Another lovely meal. After dinner I baked some of the oatmeal, chocolate chip, and dried cherry cookies that I had in the freezer. On Wednesday morning I took some chicken out of the freezer to thaw. But we ended up going to see a movie and I didn't cook. That meant I HAD to do something with the chicken Thursday. I made a Chicken Tagine with lemons and olives over Quinoa. We had salad with snow peas, pecans, and cherry plum tomatoes with balsamic mustard vinaigrette. Tonight we had dinner out. I went all out for duck - seared duck liver salad with a bacon-wrapped fig and roasted duck breast and leg over greens and a fantastic corn pudding that I would love to be able to recreate. Stay tuned. I'm hitting the farmers' market tomorrow and I'm going to get enough sweet corn to experiment with!

Now I begin

I began this blog at a turning point in my life. I was about to leave my 28 year career, watch my youngest child graduate from high school, and begin a new life as a Pilates instructor. All that, and more, has now happened. But this is the real beginning point of my new life. Prior to now I was in flux, a state I have traditionally despised. I still had to finish my Pilates instructor training, extract myself from my old job, and execute my son's graduation party. I could not settle into anything like a new routine. I had no firm schedule and a diminishing list of commitments. As a person who is typically over committed and programmed to the bursting-point, it felt weird! Fortunately, I was distracted from the dreaded flux by the threat of a surprisingly major medical intervention. In the end I got the best of all possible worlds because the planned surgery didn't happen but, in the meantime, I was very distracted .

Now I begin. My formal apprenticeship began today. I didn't actually have any students, but that is not the point. I was at the studio as a student teacher, practicing my moves and generally pursuing the knowledge and experience that will eventually make me a kick-ass Pilates teacher. I am no longer in flux.

Delightfully inconsistent

I heard from someone who actually read my blog! I've been including the link at the bottom of a letter I've sent to let people know that I left my job. I only know of of two people who followed the link. Even that minuscule response makes this all a lot more real. So I decided to update.

I met with some public health colleagues yesterday. They were curious about my new career and asked how I came to become a Pilates teacher. Oh boy, you want to be careful when you ask that question. The floodgates opened and, before I finally realized what was happening, I started to gush. It turns out that I am a Pilates zealot. I'm totally into it and I am perhaps a tiny bit deluded that other people want to hear everything I love about Pilates.

I am now convinced this was an incidence of what I have come to call "inappropriate communication syndrome," or ICS. I coined the term to describe a trait that runs in my family. My Dad does it, two of my brothers do it, and now, apparently, I do it too. It happens when the person speaking fails to register the bored, shocked, and/or embarrassed expressions on the faces of those listening. Some listeners inadvertently enable ICS by working very hard to look interested. Typically, these are polite people who do not wish to appear rude by saying, "Whoa, hold the phone, that is enough about Pilates, Peter F. Drucker, your digestion problems, or whatever."

However, as with all crimes against humanity, it really isn't fair to blame the victim. People who indulge in ICS should monitor what they are saying and stop occasionally to see if, for example, the perceived need for deep background on the origins of the "trapeze table" has been filled.

I shall pray for the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Post office

Facing surgery has made me think about writing letters to my husband, son, and daughter. I discussed this idea with my rabbi when we met last week. I asked if it was morbid to deal with my fears this way. It’s not that I need anyone’s permission to write to my loved ones, it just feels like sitting down to write these letters could be part of a cheesy montage in a bad movie. I’m afraid of letting myself get caught up in overly dramatizing this thing. My rabbi thought the letters were a good idea, a way to make a positive ritual from the experience.

The next difficult thing, after deciding it’s okay to write the letters at all, is figuring out which one to write first. I never considered writing a group letter. One of the things I love about these three people is the distinct, separate, and unique relationships I have with each of them. I don’t interact with them as a unit, and I get out of the way so they can interact which each other without my intrusion. I don’t know if this is unusual or not, I just know this is not the way I grew up. I was part of a family that didn’t have time to deal with me as a distinct individual. The most important way I have found to heal from being subsumed into various configurations of my family is by insisting on having one-to-one relationships with the people I love. But, this means I cannot avoid deciding which letter to write first. It doesn’t help that they never need to know the order.

Forced Flux

I met with the Rabbi this morning. I had business to discuss with her concerning a program I am chairing. Then we talked about my "bump" and facing surgery. I've also talked about it with most of my good friends. Talking helps. The more people I tell, the better I feel. Of course, that might have something to do with the people I've been telling. I've managed to surround myself with thoughtful, caring people who know how to listen. This is not an accident, but it is still a bit of a surprise.

I'm in a state of flux. I can't jump whole hog into my new career yet. I'm busy with lots of little stuff, but I'm also slowing down. It's like I'm about to change lanes. First I have to slow down until I see my opening. Then I can slide into place one lane over. But changing careers and launching my son off to college and having this surgery is like crossing several lanes at once, so I gotta time it just right. I'm not usually comfortable in a state of flux, but this feels right and necessary.

More on the "bad patch"

So the bump turned out to be benign. That was the good news. The bad news is it still has to come out. A benign cyst in my salivary gland. How hard can that be to remove? Pretty hard, it turns out. The surgery is tricky because my facial nerve runs right underneath the cyst. The doctor says he has to trace the various branches of the nerve before removing the cyst to make sure nothing gets damaged. Damage to the facial nerve could mean I wouldn't be able to smile, or wink maybe. So it's general anesthesia and about 5 hours of surgery. I have to stay overnight and I don't get to eat anything. My son tells me the anesthesia part is fine - he had foot surgery recently - but no food! I don't like to be hungry. I'm mean when I'm hungry. Okay, I SHOULD be counting my blessings that the bump is benign. Instead I'm worried about missing a few meals. So here's something else - no Pilates! The doctor says I won't be doing any vigorous exercise for a couple weeks. The bright side is I'll have a good reason to go into the studio and do observations, which I need for my certification anyway. So it's all good, as they say. Spin, it's all about spin.

Is it a sign?

Within days of giving notice at my job I started to experience a "bad patch". I'd had an unexplained lump on my jaw - just south of my right ear - for a couple weeks. My GP thought it was swollen glands from a virus. When it got worse over the week following this diagnosis, he decided it was probably TMJ. I asked to see a specialist who took a fine needle biopsy. I had to wait a week to see what sort of cells were populating the lump. Waiting to hear if the lump was something other than a malignant cancer was not pleasant. Then my doctor finally called to say the test was inconclusive because the culture had failed to grow. Now he wanted a CT scan. Fine. But I had to have a blood test first to make sure I didn't have too much or too little of something in my blood that could cause problems when combined with the dye they planned to inject to create "contrast" on the scan. Crap. The whole business was getting tedious. The next day I ran a quick errand to Whole Foods. While exiting the parking lot my car died. I was blocking at least nine cars. Later, after getting my car towed to the shop, I borrowed my husband's car to do some grocery shopping. When I got home with a trunk full of food I discovered I had locked myself out of the house. That night I had to unplug my computer from our home network when it got a virus that, among other nasty things, replaced all my Internet bookmarks with bogus sites. The only good news is our computer guy came over that very evening and took it away for tests. So here's my question; should I reconsider making major changes in my life?

Extra-curricular

Following my bliss into a new line of work feels a bit like having an affair. There's a definite sense of getting away with something at least vaguely illicit. I've traded the secure and steady for the unknown and uncertain; the routine for an unpredictable future. The best part is I risk only my pay check - not my relationship with my adorable and supportive husband. It lacks the whole destructive and hurtful part, so I'm liking it.

Just jump

I've done it. I quit my job to pursue a new career as a Pilates instructor. I'm elated and terrified. Rebecca R., longtime friend and poker buddy, celebrated her birthday today by jumping out of an airplane. No shit, she really did! I feel as if I too just jumped. So here I am, waiting to see if my 'chute opens.