No, I’m not in Waikiki, I’m referring to my spanking new meditation practice that’s a vacation all in itself, just without leaving the house.
For ten minutes twice a day, beginning and end, I shut down my mind leaving a mental note…gone fishin’.
It’s weird at first, sitting still, the go-go girl that I am, but after getting the hang of it, I now could easily be an art installation.
By the way, there are no right nor wrong ways to meditate. You don’t need to be sitting on a pillow in a lion cloth in the Lotus position, wooing leg cramps muttering OM till your lips go numb.
A meditational myth if there ever was one.
I sit up in bed with a pillow propped against the wall, my legs out, hands at my side in what I call, Rita Hayworth pose.
No candles or incense, no CD of waves waving in the background bought on Amazon with free shipping while trying to channel Gandhi who I’ll bet too, meditated in his pajamas.
Oh come on, that Speedo he wore was to make a point, but home at the ashram, you can bet Mahatma was comfy.
Does one feel better after a good 10 minute dose of silence? Yes, and sometimes, it even goes longer, like 15 or 20 because, once those chattering monkeys who keep you up at night get the hint, when those baby blues flutter back open, you find yourself, a new girl.
So to speak.
Posted in Culture, fitness, grace, Health, humor, inspiration, religion, words
Tagged Gandhi, Google Images, Meditation, Relaxing the mind, Stress busters
Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement…7:15 a.m.
From sundown to sundown, one fasts in quiet contemplation, repenting for any wrongdoing committed throughout the year.
I’m on the runner’s track headed for home, when I come upon two boys, perhaps 6 and 7, dressed in identical school uniforms: gray wool slacks, navy blazers, the tails of their white button-downs billowing in the breeze…ties undone, tiny, shiny loafers picking up the early light, strolling in what seems to be serious conversation.
You can just see them tucking in those shirts, like pros, a block away from school.
A woman, I assume is their nanny, is walking up ahead. As I get closer, I see she’s not their nanny at all, but their mom, holding a Torah gently in her hands.
We both, at the same time, look back at the two boys.
“Are they brothers,” I ask with a smile she warmly returns.
“Yes,” she says, “close as can be, and as much as they begged, I didn’t want to keep them out of school to go to Temple, even though they insist on fasting like me and my husband.”
“They look like little men,” I say, still smiling, because they did, the way they walked with such purpose, one listening intently to the other.
“Yes, they are little men,” says the mother, “and hope they will grow to be good men.”
Suddenly the littler one calls out, “Mama, I’m feeling, well, I don’t think I can go all day this hungry. Can we stop and get a muffin please?”
“Of course we can Ari.”
“They are still only little men,” she then says to me, with what I can only describe as wistful joy.
“Little men, I love so, so much.”
How’s that for a tender tale.
Posted in Books, Culture, Faith, Family, Fashion, food, grace, humanity, inspiration, kids, Love, New York City, parents, words
Tagged Judaism, Parents raising children, Private New York City Grammar Schools, The Central Park Reservoir, The Torah, Yom Kippur 2019