Hail Satan!

Do you own an article of clothing that you hesitate to wear in public? Perhaps it’s that “oh-so-comfortable,” decades-old, faded cotton sweater. After a thousand wash cycles, the fabric is as soft as silk, and the few tiny holes and stains shouldn’t be that noticeable. After all, I’m just going to the grocery store. Or maybe it’s an item possessing both sentimental and historical value, like my 1969 “New York Mets World Champions” shirt. That particular item of clothing has not been worn since the Mets’ most recent World Championship (1986, in case you don’t follow baseball), but is lovingly preserved in a drawer like the sacred relic it is.

Several months ago, a friend presented me with a t-shirt that I only just wore in public for the first time yesterday. There are no holes or stains – it’s brand new. When my friend gave it to me I was overjoyed and grateful, delighted by the colorful design and cheeky text, as well as by the thoughtfulness of the gift. “It’s perfect,” I said with a laugh, “you know me too well!” On a black background is a large image of Baphomet in pastel colors, and a caption that reads, “Satan respects pronouns.”

Though some might not recognize the illustration, most people would instantly associate the goat-like image with the Devil, even before reading the words directly below. But in case anyone had doubts about the identity of this horned creature, the word “Satan” pretty much gives it away.

The First Amendment of the Constitution notwithstanding, we live in a country steeped in Judeo-Christian (or just Christian if you happen to live in a “fly-over” state) tradition, and I would not hesitate to guess that the vast majority of people, even if not religious, would draw negative associations with the name or image of Satan. (I prefer the more obscure designation of “Baphomet” for the horned fellow, but then as you’ve probably already guessed I’m a bit contrarian.)

My hesitation for wearing this shirt in public comes not from a personal hostility towards Satan (I have no such feelings), but from the strange looks or even enmity of those I might encounter outside the privacy of my home. More importantly, I fear that the phrase “Satan respects pronouns” might be completely misinterpreted as meaning the exact opposite of what this t-shirt represents. For me, the shirt emphatically proclaims my alliance with LGBTQ+ people, but some folks who read the slogan might interpret it as anti-LGBTQ. If Satan respects pronouns, then pronouns must be bad. It is a sad commentary on the state of American culture wars, that even a part of speech is now vilified by some on the right.

Yesterday, the only reaction to my shirt was a positive one, an affable “He does” from the dog-walker I encountered on my neighborhood excursion. The young man seemed pleasant enough, but I had to make sure I had found a kindred spirit by politely confirming that like me, he was pro-LGBTQ, and had no particular animosity towards Satan. We engaged in a brief, friendly conversation, and I discovered to my surprise that I had met a fellow member of The Satanic Temple (TST). Now before you jump to any wild conclusions, we don’t “worship the Devil” or eat babies. As explained on the TST website, this non-theistic religion focuses on benevolence, empathy and advocacy, and views Satan as a figurative symbol of resistance to tyrannical authority, not as a literal deity. Their irreverence towards religious norms aligns with mine, and I fully endorse their “Seven Fundamental Tenets,” none of which involve human sacrifice or other acts of evil-doing. You may not agree with their pro-science, pro-choice stance, but I assure you that TST members undertake noble pursuits, as their mission statement proclaims.

I don’t generally engage the fellow New Yorkers I pass on the sidewalk with more than a “Good morning,” but then I’d never met a fellow Satanist before. I petted one of his charges, a sweet-tempered golden retriever, and not wanting to further delay him while he was working, wrapped up the conversation. We both went on our ways with a smile, a wave, and a cheerful “Hail Satan!” 

WHAT IS LOVE?

What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me no more...

What is love? Is it emotion? Is it amorphous? Is it something tangible, with a physical presence? Or perhaps it's merely a biochemical/mechanical reaction in the human brain with no sentimental significance at all.

Deep philosophical questions -- but isn't that what blogging is all about, for me anyway...? These are the questions that keep me up at night, that sometimes enthrall me, sometimes torment me... 

*****

At the end of January, just a few months ago, I had to say goodbye my companion, my housemate, my fur baby, my sweet angel... my Dexter. 

We had lived together for almost five years, and Dexter was the first pet I had owned in decades. Having grown up with cats I always thought of myself as a "cat person." Then I married a man who was allergic to cats but had owned dogs when he was younger. (This was not our only difference -- my late husband was a diehard Yankees' fan and I'm a lifelong supporter of the New York Mets.) But I digress... 

We had always talked about getting a dog someday when we both retired (though I'm primarily a cat person, I love dogs too). We even discussed breeds and names... a yellow Lab named Molly, perhaps...? Then I lost my husband to cancer in 2005 -- he was only 56 and I was now a widow at 44. Fast forward fifteen years and I'm living in an apartment in Manhattan, retiring from a long career in finance (a little earlier than I'd planned) and then there was this pandemic going on...

A few months later, after settling into my new life as a retiree -- or should I say as a "free woman" -- I decided it was now time for a housemate, a furry companion. I briefly "toyed" with the idea of getting a miniature dog, an apartment-ready, little fur baby that I could carry with me everywhere. But no, I knew I was a cat person at heart, and besides that, even tiny dogs were too much work.

So Dexter entered my heart and my home. He was a rescue kitty, about three years old when I adopted him, according to the vet's estimate. I'd lived with cats before, as a child, teenager and young adult, when I still lived with my father. Doris, an affectionate Siamese, was "my" cat, and I loved her very much. But venturing out on my own, in my early twenties, I decided to leave Doris with my dad, and since I didn't move far away, I could visit her anytime I wanted. Then I met my future husband (who was, as I said, allergic to cats) and the rest is history, so to speak...

But back to my beloved late companion, my fur baby, my angel... my Dexter. It's only been a few months and I'm still grieving.  I couldn't even compose this blogpost without tears in my eyes as I typed...

What is love? It is many things. It is people, it is community, it is life. But for me, one of those things that it will always be is Dexter.

 

The impermanence of things....like baseball rosters

It has been a tough few weeks for Mets' fans. First, outfielder Brandon Nimmo was traded to the Texas Rangers. Brandon had been a Met since his Major League debut in 2016, and was cherished by teammates and fans alike for his enthusiasm and clubhouse leadership. Next we lost Edwin Diaz, a Met since 2019, who signed as a free agent with the World Series Champion Los Angeles Dodgers for $69 million over a three-year contract. Edwin, a three-time All-Star, was the Mets' esteemed closer, and fans always cheered along with his iconic entrance song, BlasterJaxx & Timmy Trumpet's "Narco," as he jogged in from the bullpen to save a game.

But the crushing blow came only days later when first baseman and Mets' all-time home run leader Pete Alonso (aka "Polar Bear") signed a five-year, $155 million deal with the Baltimore Orioles. Pete was a home-grown hero, having signed with the Mets in the 2016 MLB draft, and played his entire career with our team, whom he represented five times as an All-Star.

When this news broke, Mets' fans were in turmoil. Many of us anticipated this disastrous development since we knew that Pete was a free agent and had only delayed the inevitable by signing a one-year contract with the Mets the prior year. I followed much of the moaning and groaning on social media, as some so-called fans vowed to abandon the Mets, furious with team management for not making an attractive counter-offer to try to keep Pete in Queens.

For me, this was a hard pill to swallow, though I'd been through similar misfortunes many times before. A life-long Mets' fan, I was used to disappointments, the Mets' 2025 season being a prime example. (We had the best record in baseball mid-season, only to falter in the second half, missing the playoffs by one game.) The present pain recalled my disappointment a year earlier, when the Mets failed to resign fan-favorite infielder and Latin music star, Jose Iglesias. Jose's brief but memorable Mets' career was highlighted by his chart-topping single, "OMG," which became the theme song for the Mets' miraculous playoff run in 2024.

I've written prior blogposts about baseball, particularly musing on the phenomenon of being a devoted fan to a team whose roster changes every year, as favorite players are either traded or become free agents and sign with other teams. I've lived through shifts in ownership and management, at times displeased with the direction the team is taking. But I remain a Mets' fan through thick and thin, feast and famine. I don't know if anything will shake my fervor and loyalty. 

But shifting tides and sometimes unwelcome change are facts of life's many facets. "Nothing lasts forever, but the earth and sky," as the song goes. As I age, the impermanence of things becomes ever more apparent. I have often been averse to change, though I am on occasion happily surprised when an unexpected turn of events results in an upgrade. I dislike the platitude "change is good," simply because that is not always the case. Way beyond baseball, our country and world are constantly repositioning and evolving, and one has to learn to either adapt or rebel. Though I'm not religious in the conventional sense of the word, I sometimes need to remind myself of the wisdom of Reinhold Niebuhr's Serenity Prayer. Permanence is illusive, as I crave something solid and steady to hold on to. Like a revolving door, people move in and out of my life -- loved ones pass on, friends move away. I've been retired for five years, and my career in finance is now in the past. However, I still refer to my former employer of thirty-seven years as "we" instead of "they," more often than not. So what remains steadfast and true? My principles, my honor, and my conviction that human beings are capable of great things, as well as of evil, and that we must take care of each other and of our planet, for there is no Planet B. 

The treasures of devotion

 A few days ago, I visited one of our New York City treasures here in Manhattan on "Museum Mile." I had learned that an exhibit at The Frick Collection, entitled "To the Holy Sepulcher: Treasures from the Terra Sancta Museum," was closing the first week of January, so I hurried and bought a ticket. I had not visited this museum in many years, and it had recently reopened after a years-long renovation. I remember visiting as a high school student many decades ago, when I had the good fortune to study art history, igniting a life-long love of art. (One high school summer I worked as an intern at the great Metropolitan Museum of Art, but that story will have to wait for another blogpost.)

"To the Holy Sepulcher: Treasures from the Terra Sancta Museum" was a stunning collection of more than forty religious objects on loan from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. 

Among the items were jewel-encrusted gold and silver altar pieces, reliquaries, and sacred vestments from the 17th and 18th centuries, gifted to the Church by wealthy patrons, monarchs and emperors from across Europe. To say that these pieces were fabulous would not do them justice -- I was in awe. But aside from the beauty, artistry, scale and immense intrinsic value that these objects possessed, I was captivated by their magnificence, and imaged myself as an ordinary worshiper in one of these very Catholic countries several centuries ago. Like my own ancestors (who were probably peasants or laborers) the common folk of Europe must have been entranced by these holy treasures, which lifted them from the drudgery of their meager existences into the ecstatic realms of religious devotion as they attended weekly Mass. 

This 17th or 18th century peasant or laborer was likely exposed to only one religion, and attended weekly indoctrination sessions -- I mean devotional services -- at their local church or cathedral. It became clear to me as I mused that becoming an adherent to the Catholic faith was practically inevitable for the vast majority of the population, peasants and nobility alike. Only the highly educated  would have been exposed to other belief-systems, and even fellow Christians of the Protestant or Eastern Orthodox persuasions would have been looked at askance. Jews, Muslims and non-believers were under constant threat of persecution. And I'm not just picking on the Catholic faith; Protestants and Eastern Orthodox observers were likewise guilty of intolerance, and religious persecution and violence, as were adherents of Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism in their realms, to name but a few. 

Having been born in the latter half of the 20th century, in a pluralistic society, and in a mixed religion household, my outlook has evolved very differently. My mother was raised Jewish (but not very) and my father Protestant (but not very). My family of upbringing always had a Hanukkah menorah and a Christmas tree this time of year. The only formal religious education I received was at the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture. As a teen and young adult, I explored several religions, mostly the various Protestant faiths of family members and friends.  Decades of exploration and introspection have led me to my current identity as an Ethical Culturist-Unitarian Universalist agnostic and a secular Jew. Had I been born in a different place and time, my religious outlook would likely have been very different.

A modest proposal for peace

 

I am neither a political scientist, nor a military expert, but as a citizen of the world, witnessing the mayhem that has been going on in the Middle East, particularly in Israel and Palestine, I've determined that my opinion is as valid as anyone's, and since this is my blog, I'm going to lay out a framework for peace that may or may not actually work.

The Middle East is home to various religions: Islam (both Sunni and Shia), Christianity, Judaism, Druzism, the Baha'i faith, Sikhism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Zoroastrianism and more. There are subsects of these major religions, and the adherents vary greatly in degree of devotion and practice. Additionally, there are many ethnic groups who inhabit the region, including Arabs, Turks, Persians, Egyptians, Kurds and Jews to name a few. Putting together a comprehensive framework for the entire region would be a Herculean task, and I am not going to attempt it. For the purpose of this blogpost, I will focus on the ongoing conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. Please forgive any hubris that may be inferred from my humble attempt to tackle this vast subject. But there has been so much turmoil and destruction of late that by putting fingers to keyboard, I am at least able to vent a little of the vexation, even if no one is listening.

I have long advocated for a two-state solution for Israel and Palestine. The Palestinian people (whose name is derived from the word "Philistines") have inhabited the region for millennia, and are as entitled to a homeland as the Jews. While I support the State of Israel, I believe it must be modified in order to embrace its non-Jewish citizens in a more inclusive way.

So here's my modest proposal. There would be two countries: Israel and Palestine. They would each be a sovereign state, but would be members of a binding federation, and rights would be enshrined in their respective constitutions. The current inhabitants of the territories of Israel and Palestine would have freedom of movement, and have the ability to choose which country to retain citizenship and live in. The State of Israel could retain its current symbols such as the Magen David flag, national anthem ("Hatikvah"), and menorah emblem, if the majority so wishes. Non-Jews who chose to be citizens of Israel would have absolute freedom to practice any religion they choose, including no religion, and would have all of the same rights as Jews. The official languages would be Hebrew and Arabic.

The State of Palestine would have similar laws and rights including absolute freedom of religion. The flag could remain the current one (black, white, green and red). I don't know whether Palestinians have a national anthem; if not they can choose one. The official languages would be Arabic and Hebrew.

People of other faiths, such as Christians and Druze, currently live in Israel and Palestine. I don't see the feasibility of creating separate countries for those groups at present -- let's settle the issue of those who identify as either Israeli or Palestinian, regardless of religion, for now. A Muslim can choose to be a citizen and resident of Israel, and a Jew can be a citizen and resident of the new State of Palestine, if they so choose. 

The "Federation of Israel and Palestine" would have reciprocal agreements on issues of defense, immigration, and economic aid. They could create an entity similar to NATO with a commitment to mutual defense, but each country would have their own military and law enforcement personnel.

Issues such as national borders would have to be negotiated and worked out, but I think an approximate reversion to the pre-Six-Day War borders could be a starting point, with most of the territory of the Gaza Strip and West Bank becoming the new sovereign State of Palestine. Jews would continue to have the "right of return," as would Palestinian exiles and refugees, many of whom currently live in Jordan. 

I know this skeleton of a plan does not solve all of the conflicts and we will never get 100% agreement on the concept or details. There is no way to please everyone, but fairness must prevail. Both sides have legitimate grievances against each other, but for this to work all past wrongs must be swept away and we must start with forgiveness and an almost clean slate.

Please don't comment, "This is never going to work," or "But they instigated it," or "We were here first." I'd rather focus on positivity, and the minute chance that a lasting peace can be achieved.

Is my cat Jewish?

 

One of my earliest blogposts here explored the question: "Am I Jewish?" After decades of introspection, I've come up with a response to myself, and the short answer is "yes." The longer answer is "yes, but it's not my religion." 

Today, as I was "oy veying" (as I often do), I turned to my cat, Dexter, and asked him, "Are you a Jewish cat?" Now that may seem silly or even irreverent, but as you probably know if you've been following my blogs, that's kind of the way I think about lots of things: absurdly and irreverently. But even in silliness, there often lies truth. Another of my posts dealt with the apparently wacky question of whether cats are preferable to boyfriends, yet even this query was not meant entirely in jest. 

Of course, Dexter did not respond to my question, at least not in any way I could interpret. Despite his affectionate glance in my direction, I'm quite sure he did not grasp my meaning, unless his understanding of English is better than I'd assumed, or cats are able to read minds, which I highly doubt.

The query, "Are you a Jewish cat?" was probably meant more for myself than for Dexter. So I thought about it for a few seconds. Well, his mother (that's me) is Jewish, so according to matrilineal descent, Dexter must be Jewish too. But then I'm not his biological mom, and I imagine that rabbis may differ on interpretation. Dexter was a rescue kitty, so I know nothing of his biological ancestry, not that it would matter anyway. Felines have no religion, and I doubt that Halakha even broaches this subject. 

Though this line of inquiry serves mostly as self-amusement, the mental exercise does point to a deeper meaning: What is the nature of religious identity, and does it hinge on genetics or belief? The more pious folks in my family will sneer at the absurdity of this question. Those on the Christian side would balk at the suggestion that one can inherit religion. They believe that salvation requires acceptance of a creed, (i.e., you can't be "born" a Christian; you must be reborn). Most of the Jews in my family are either Reform or non-observant, so they'd probably be amused along with me at the thought of a Jewish cat. As my faithful blog followers are well aware, I often address the question of religion, sometimes in an irreverent way. I do not mean to be disrespectful, nor do I wish to ridicule. Few topics are "off limits" to me, and if anyone is offended they can merely stop reading, or can leave a negative comment. Free speak rules supreme at "Musings and discoveries..." !

Is happiness all it's cracked up to be?

 

Are you happy? We've all been asked this question in various forms throughout our lives, and I've asked it of myself as well. But instead of smiling (internally or externally) when the subject is brought up, I cringe, and I've begun to explore why that is.

When I'm feeling at my optimal level of mental health, I prefer to use words such as contentment, satisfaction and peace instead of happiness. "Happiness" feels too difficult to achieve, and it would put more stress on me to attempt that lofty goal, because I don't believe I can realistically reach it.

I have suffered from mood swings -- usually mild but sometimes more intense -- for decades. It's probably in my genes since bipolar disorder runs in my family. I have utilized mental health professionals as needed, and for me, the healthiest state of mind is one of calmness and fulfilment. I wouldn't go so far as to say I am "at peace with the world," but there is a sense of relaxation and ease, and occasionally, a faint smile may even appear on my face.

Happiness on the other hand feels like a challenge, and I'm more comfortable lowering my goals and expectations. Of course, this is just semantics, but I'm a writer and word choice can be powerful, even when used solely for internal dialogue. I do experience joy on occasion, but maintaining a long-term state of happiness doesn't feel right for me. It's like having a smile on my face at all times, blissfully existing as if there are no cares in the world. I do not agree with Pangloss's philosophy, that "everything is for the best, in this the best of all possible worlds." Such a level of bliss feels inconsistent with my inner being; I'm too much of a realist.

Life is a highly personalized journey, and I would not dare discourage others from achieving true happiness, if that is a meaningful and relevant concept for them. For myself, however, tranquility feels more within my grasp.  Browning's "Andrea del Sarto" and I will just have to agree to disagree, but each to his own, as long as we don't trample on each other's toes.

The inside and outside worlds: a nitrous-oxide-induced-revelation

A prior blogpost of mine dealt with the phenomenon of achieving philosophical epiphanies while under the influence of a mood-altering substance. No, I haven't revisited the dentist since my prior post, but the revelations at that visit were so numerous that I had to divide the discussion into separate, concise blogposts. (Stay tuned for further sagacious insights.)

As discussed in my prior post, the nitrous oxide I inhale while sitting in the dental chair has the effect of freeing my mind of trivial worries and cares. Slowly, I relax into a deep, meditative ocean of mindfulness, and open to remarkable revelations. 

One idea that flowed through my consciousness was that all that we experience can be divided into two categories: the inside and outside worlds. As the dentist and hygienist worked in my mouth, my interior world was flittering with activity. Thanks to the application of nitrous oxide, the physical sensations in my mouth were not unpleasant, and I can say that I almost enjoyed them. This dental office had thoughtfully provided a television for their patients to watch and listen to, and the comfortable reclining chair increased the tranquilizing stimulus. 

As uncanny thoughts and images danced in my brain, I reminded myself that neither the dentist nor the hygienist could read my mind, so my "inside world" remained completely private. All that anyone else can perceive is transmitted through physical actions and audible words -- that which is perceivable by others is the "outside world." My skin is the metaphorical barrier between these two realms.

I have found this to be a useful way of categorizing thoughts and experiences. I admit to being a little insecure at times, and often worry too much about what others may think of me. I may have a hypersensitivity to being judged, perhaps because I was bullied as a child and adolescent. There are even some things I hesitate to discuss with my psychotherapist, because I deem them embarrassing. She probably has "heard it all before" and would not be shocked or judgmental. Generally, with her as with others, I am a fairly open person and there are few evil things I have done, or wicked thoughts I've entertained, during my lifetime. I wouldn't say that I'm an "open book," but most of my "chapters" have already been published. (How do you like that literary allusion? It's almost as if I'm trying to promote my one published novel which is available in print and eBook format at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers! 😏)

If I feel embarrassed or ashamed, I remind myself that others cannot read my mind, and confession, while "good for the soul," is not always required. Some secrets I will probably take to my grave, and no, I'm not going to share them with you either.

THE PLEASURE-PAIN CONTINUUM...

 ...OR HOW I DISCOVERED THE MEANING OF LIFE IN A DENTIST'S CHAIR.

I have my most profound thoughts about twice a year, sitting in my dentist's office, with a nitrous oxide mask over my nose. Since I don't partake of marijuana nowadays, even though it's legal, my semi-annual dental appointments are my only opportunity to get high. (I do drink alcohol on occasion, but it doesn't have the same effect. I'm more likely to fall asleep after a couple of drinks, than to experience nirvana and become open to the secrets of the universe.) The high I get from nitrous oxide is much more intense than any affects I feel from alcohol, and probably approximate that of recreational drugs. It's been too many decades since I've indulged in any of those, so I can't really make a precise comparison.

One of those profound thoughts, which I was blessed with just the other day, was a concept I'll call the "pleasure-pain continuum." I'm sure I'm not the first person to conceive this idea, but it feels worthy enough for me to share with you.

All sentient creatures have the ability to experience both pleasure and pain, though only humans have the vocabulary to discuss and analyze it. Pleasure and pain is a continuum, and since we cannot literally feel someone else's pain or pleasure, we've come up with ways to describe and communicate it to each other. Patients in hospitals are often asked to rate their pain level on a scale of 1 to 10. For me, the worse pain I've ever experienced was following a medical procedure many years ago. I was hospitalized for a couple of days, with a morphine drip attached to my arm. I'm fine now, and though it's hard to reconstruct that sensation in my brain (probably a good thing), I do remember how miserable I was for those few days.

Though not everyone has been hospitalized or had a serious medical condition, most of us have had the "pleasure" of sitting in a dentist's chair. I'm a bit of a chicken when it comes to pain, so I'll happily take Novocain or nitrous oxide when offered. If I want to describe the epitome of pain, dentistry provides a useful lexicon that most people can relate to. To me, having an extraction, filling or root canal without pain medication of any kind, is the worst pain I can conceive. Being drawn and quartered (like criminals were in the old days) is probably even worse than any dental procedure, but I have no reference point to that level of pain. I can only imagine it and I don't want to. 

The other end of the continuum is pleasure, which is a lot easier to focus on. Many people use erotic imagery to describe the ultimate experience of ecstasy, and I've even used the word "orgasmic" to describe non-sexual pleasures, such as the most delicious food I've ever eaten. We all know what pleasure feels like, but it's different for each of us. For some, sexual pleasure is the pinnacle, while for others, it may be an enjoyable experience like a fabulous concert, an exquisite work of art, a perfect sunset at the beach, a succulent filet mignon, a luscious dessert, or just the warm and loving companionship of friends and family.

But what does all this have to do with "the meaning of life" as I've suggested above? I've always been of a philosophical bent, and have pondered this question most of my life. I remember a certain period in my late teens and early twenties when I was obsessed with finding the meaning of life. I explored various religions (read my other blogposts on that subject) and at times felt like I was having an existential crisis. As I've gotten older, and hopefully wiser, I've come to believe that as interesting as the subject may be, too much philosophizing about arcana can be detrimental to one's mental health, and I'm unlikely to discover the secrets of the universe until I'm on the other side of the grave, if then. I've previously blogged about the dangers of introspection, and remind myself that I should make the best of the life I have now, since this may be the only one I have. 

My nitrous oxide induced conclusion, at least while sitting in the dentist's chair, was that we may never know the meaning of life, but what we can know and understand is the life we are living right now, and that all of our emotions, sensations and experiences lie somewhere along the pleasure-pain continuum. It is primal, existential and universal. Even my cat Dexter understands this, though he doesn't have the words to communicate it. I know he feels pain, when I accidentally step on his tail, and his purring, kneading and nuzzling when I pet him  suggest pleasure, or whatever the equivalent is for a cat. None of us know, but all of us feel. I think we should savor life as best we can, and experience joy in whatever form is meaningful for each of us.

Reflections on the life and death of President Jimmy Carter

 

GRIEF

SOLEMNITY

DIGNITY

HONOR

RESPECT

SERVICE

PATRIOTISM

PRIDE

PEACE

BEAUTY

LOVE

AMERICA

The Ghost of Greenwich Village

I'm usually down in Greenwich Village about once a week, where I volunteer for "God's Love We Deliver." I live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and take the 1 train about 20 minutes to Houston Street most Fridays. Recently, during my 5 minute walk from the subway to God's Love at Sixth Avenue and Spring Street, I encountered a presumably homeless person, completely covered in what looked like a white sheet. It was pretty cold out, and I remember thinking that the white covering couldn't have provided much warmth. I did not take a photo, partly because I needed to get where I was going, and partly because I didn't want to take off my gloves to snap a picture with my phone. I also felt it would be disrespectful because I couldn't get their permission. I take pictures along my wanderings in NYC and farther afield all the time, and often post them on Facebook. I just kept walking, but the image of this "ghost," likely a freezing homeless person, remained in my mind for some time. If I'd had the presence of mind and the person was not fully encased in the sheet, I might have stopped and asked if he or she would like a cup of coffee or some food. But I chose to leave the "Ghost of Greenwich Village" alone. Hopefully, he later got something to eat and a chance to warm up.

"Murder" in the kitchen...

 

...or how my holiday cookie-making became a baking disaster!

I'm not handy in the kitchen, unless we're talking microwave, not oven. At this point in my life, I've accepted my limitations, or rather, my preferences. Yes, I can cook or bake in a pinch. I can read a recipe and follow directions. I'm a widow, and before, during and after my marriage, many people (usually well-intentioned relatives and friends, and less so my late husband -- maybe because he knew me best of all) would encourage me to flex my culinary muscles, and even send me cookbooks or suggest recipes.

 

Today I accept myself where I'm at, know my strengths and weaknesses, and am not ashamed of my lack in interest in food preparation. Domesticity has never been my strong point, but I'm better at math than many of my friends and relatives who don't work in finance like I did.

There have been rare occasions when I've willingly put on an apron and plunged into the culinary arts, usual when I have a friend staying over who likes to cook. Otherwise, it's reheating packaged meals, take-out food, or very easy dishes like omelets and PB&J. I could probably even cook spaghetti and heat up some jarred sauce if I had the time, interest, and motivation.

When I was younger, I used to bake once in a while, and my mother was a very good cook and baker. However, I don't seem to have inherited those genes. Nowadays, the stove only needs to be dusted off on occasion, and the oven is used mostly to store pots and pans.

A few weeks ago, I participated in a holiday cookie exchange at my place of spiritual fellowship, the New York Society for Ethical Culture. We were encouraged to actually bake for this event, and not just contribute store-bought cookies. I Googled "easy festive cookie recipes" and found one that looked interesting, and maybe even fun! I had nearly all of the ingredients on hand, and only needed to buy more unsalted butter and red food coloring.

The afternoon of the day before the exchange, I donned an apron and set to work. Being methodical in nature, and a bit nervous about this endeavor, I had assembled and arranged the ingredients, hand mixer and other tools on my kitchen counter earlier that day.

Mixing the dry ingredients with a whisk in one bowl was simple enough, and then I set upon combining the butter and sugar in a separate bowl with my hand mixer. Well, lo and behold, the mixer didn't work. I knocked on a couple of my neighbors' doors, but they were either not home or using their mixer at that very moment themselves.

Hand mixer in hand, I went down to the lobby of my apartment building to consult the doormen on whether the mixer was indeed kaput (it was) and to ask if they knew which apartments might be most fruitful in my search to borrow a mixer (i.e., who was home, and who was more likely a baker). I didn't want to knock on sixty apartment doors in search of the elusive appliance. As luck would have it, just as I was picking the doormen's brains, the elevator doors opened, and a neighbor whom I recognized appeared. Long story short, she kindly lent me her heavy stand mixer, which I gratefully carried from her apartment to my own.

Whoever claimed that these are easy festive cookies has a different definition of the word "easy" than I have. I struggled along, trying to follow the directions as best I could, until disaster struck! I accidentally knocked over the tiny bottle of red food coloring on my kitchen table where it pooled and then instantly spilled onto the floor below. 

Cookie making was immediately halted and a frenzied clean up began. My kitchen looked like a murder scene, with the "blood splatter pattern" even reaching my cat's water bowl under the kitchen table. Dexter saw that his mommy was freaking out a little and came to investigate. He sniffed at the "blood pool" on the floor but I shooed him away quickly. I didn't want a trail of red paw prints throughout my apartment.

After the "crime scene" was cleaned up, I wearily returned to the dough. I won't detail every step of this very not-easy process but believe it or not, by midnight or so, I had produced 18 ginormous candy cane cookies that looked pretty good and didn't taste bad either. If you are brave and daring I can send you the recipe, but I will not be making these cookies again. Nor will I ever open another bottle of red food coloring, or any other color for that matter. Any future cookies baked in my kitchen will be colorless, though hopefully not tasteless.

Good King Wenceslaus

Wenceslaus I, Duke of Bohemia, was a real person, and not just the hero of the famous Christmas carol. This morning, I was listening to Christmas songs before venturing out into the cold, on the way to my place of spiritual fellowship.

 

Crossing Broadway in the frigid weather, walking very slowly, in a skirt with no stockings, was an older woman with a rollator. I asked if she would like a coffee, and she said yes, "light and sweet," and a bagel with vegetable cream cheese.

"Good King Wenceslas" played in my head as I waited in line at the bagel shop. I don't usually eat breakfast on the go, but had been running late and hadn't gotten a chance to eat before I left home. As it turned out, I didn't really want a bagel, and had been planning on stopping at a bakery for a croissant and an almond milk latte. 

The line at the bagel shop was longer than usual (a lot of other folks had ventured out into the cold too) and I feared that my neighbor would not be able to wait out in the cold, and might have moved on by the time I paid for her breakfast. 

But she was still waiting patiently at the corner of Broadway and 86th, and then inched her way in my direction with her rollator. 

Years ago, at a different spiritual fellowship, I remember being told that good deeds don't "count" if you tell anyone. They are supposed to be between you and God. After this unexpected detour, I was a little late for the service, and mentioned my good deed to our clergy leader. He gave me dispensation on the spot. So yes, I told another human being, but I don't really think any god or goddess will hold it against me. And of course, I'm telling YOU now, but I've decided that blogging about one's good deeds doesn't diminish them, and might actually inspire YOU to buy a coffee and a bagel for the next stockingless elderly woman you see. 

In case you're not familiar with the Christmas carol, here are the lyrics. I think you'll agree that they are fitting. 

Good King Wenceslas looked out,

on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
deep and crisp and even;
Brightly shone the moon that night,
tho' the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
gath'ring winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me,
if thou know'st it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives a good league hence,
underneath the mountain;
Right against the forest fence,
by Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh, and bring me wine,
bring me pine logs hither:
Thou and I shall see him dine,
when we bear them thither."
Page and monarch, forth they went,
forth they went together;
Through the rude wind's wild lament
and the bitter weather.

"Sire, the night is darker now,
and the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how;
I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, good my page;
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod,
where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod
which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor,
shall yourselves find blessing.

The joys of "throwing out"

In a rare burst of energy and enthusiasm, I decided to tackle my underwear drawers. The "treasures" I was able to finally part with included:

20 year old sports bras in near mint condition.

30 year old silk camisoles and lacy strapless bras that bring back memories of black tie galas, and the sexy strapless dresses I once wore, and of being a bridesmaid long before I was a bride.

Panties in pristine condition, some brand new, that I could still wear again, if I lost 40 pounds.

Socks with "sentimental" value because they have cats on them and were gifts from my sister, but are now dingy and have long lost all of their elasticity.

Really warm and thick socks, from my early twenties, when I wore heavy work boots in the snow, instead of the more practical black Uggs. Those work boots are long gone, but if I remember correctly, they looked something like this:

These are the ones I wear now when it snows, and they're even warmer and more comfortable than the work boots. As far as style... judge for yourself:

I now have much neater and more organized underwear drawers, and threw out enough stuff to produce an entire empty drawer, waiting to be filled again! But nothing went to waste. I brought the two shopping bags full of my old memories to Housing Works, the charity thrift store where I volunteer. We don't resell underwear, unless it's brand new and still in the package, but we send out any donated textiles to be recycled. Someday, my sports bras, strapless bras, panties and old socks will be reincarnated as something useful, and worn again by some needy person.

OY VEY!

I'm in a Facebook group called "Hanukkah" with over twenty thousand members. I was innocently scrolling along, and commenting here and there on a post about holiday trees and menorahs. My comment was that people should put up whatever type of decorations that give them joy, and I got more positive reactions than negative ones. There was a lively discussion on whether Jews should or should not decorate their homes this time of year, especially with what looks for all intents and purposes like a Christmas tree. Are Hanukkah bushes appropriate or are we just co-opting someone else's religious tradition? Does it make a difference if the decorations are in blue and white, not red and green? What if you live in a mixed-religion household? Do you need special dispensation from your rabbi? 

The discussion was getting a little heated, so I jumped from Facebook to Blogger to continue the debate -- with myself -- in a more reasoned and civil manner:

Q: You practice Judaism, right? 

A: Well, not exactly.

Q: Huh? Then why are you in this Facebook group?

A: I'm Jewish, but it's not my religion.

Q: Wait, you're Jewish, but it's not your religion?

A: It depends on how you define "religion."

Q: Religion is what you believe in about God and the supernatural. 

A: That's not how I define "religion."

Q: Oh, so now we're arguing semantics?

A: Seems like it.

Q: But you believe in God, right?

A: A deity is not a meaningful concept regarding how I live my life. I consider myself agnostic, but I lean more towards atheism, or at least non-theism.

Q: Oy vey! So what is your "religion" then? 

A: I have two: Ethical Culture and Unitarian Universalism. Neither of them requires belief in a god or gods and they don't contradict each other in any meaningful way. They really only differ in style and lexicon. In fact clergy members can be both UU ministers and Ethical Culture Leaders simultaneously.

Q: That's weird. So what do you believe in?

A: I believe in lots of things. I have principals that I live by and I know that there is something greater than myself.

Q: Greater than yourself? Sounds like you believe in God.

A: Not exactly. The jury is still out on that one. And what exactly do you mean by "God" anyway?

Q: Oy vey! 

A: What if we call it a "spiritual community" instead of a "religion"? Would that make you happy?

Q: Spiritual? So you do believe in something supernatural!

A: Spirituality does not have to refer to things outside of nature. Spirit is what motivates us, what lifts us out of ourselves to think and act in ways that help others and our planet. Spirituality is what lies deep within, but feels bigger than ourselves. Frankly I don't care what anyone believes in. You can worship the Flying Spaghetti Monster for all I care. What I care about is what you do, not what you believe, and whether you treat others with respect, empathy and kindness.

Q: Okay, that sounds reasonable. You can call it what you want -- spirituality, religion. And it doesn't sound so bad after all.

A: Thank you. 

Q: Go in peace!

A: You as well!