True Ancestor

How to Stay Married Forever

OK, so as of Saturday I'll have been married 15 years, so I'm not really qualified to lecture on this subject. But that's never stopped me before.

I have other good examples to draw from, though, like me True Ann-Sister, who's been with Jacques for about 35 years, all of it on a roller coaster; and the Aged and Revered Parents, who recently celebrated their 66th wedding anniversary. That's as close to forever as I can imagine, in marital terms.

So here are 15 hints I can give you for staying married, one for each year that I've managed not to screw it up.

1. Marry the right person. You can be forgiven for botching this one (after all, I did, the first time around). But if you do botch it, you might as well skip the next fourteen.
2. Recognize that marriage is the Universe telling you that you're not the center of It (see number 6).
3. Admit that the two of you will occasionally be attracted to others -- but resolve not to act on those attractions, especially if you have kids. A friend recently said to me, "I could never have an affair, because that would be being unfaithful to my kids." Even if you don't have kids, your marriage is part of a constellation of relationships. All those relationships will suffer if you have an affair. 
   
4. Make the happiness of your significant other your first thought and action, and last thought and action, of the day.
5. Go ahead and get mad at the other person, but then retreat until you can regain your perspective and your equanimity.
6. Humility is the essence, and the enduring lesson, of matrimony.
7. Become deeply familiar with your love's sense of humor, and play to it a little, every day.
8. Same thing with their appetites for romance, sensual pleasures and whatever other talents they possess. Do all you can to support your love in what they're good at (and here's hoping they're good at the sensual pleasures part).
9. My mom says "Never go to bed angry." I say, "It's OK to go to bed angry. Just be sure to write down your dreams that night."
10. Never underestimate an angry silence.
11. Make most of your gifts imaginative but inexpensive: you don't want to spoil the other person or blow your budget, and you want the really good and expensive gifts to be especially memorable.
12. At least once a year, play a really good practical joke or spring a surprise adventure on your love. Predictability is one of the slow-working poisons of committed love.
13. Love the ones s/he loves. And if you can't -- fake it.
14. Go away on your own every now and then.
15. Serve your love unswervingly through periods of illness and mourning. Nothing kills a relationship like selfishness in a crisis.

Tomorrow is Independence Day in the States, so, in honor of July 4, here's an extra truism:

• Every day is Interdependence Day.

Feel free to chime in with other bromides. We marrieds will appreciate and use all available help.

Happy 4th. Happy Interdependence Day. Happy weekend. Happy Marriage. Shabbat Shalom. Ciao.

--T.A.

Neural Buddhists and the Rest of Us

In the space of a couple of weeks, the New York Times ran at least three articles about how therapy, neurology and the search for spiritual fulfillment are converging. On May 13, the Times published a much-discussed column by David Brooks that ran under the headline "The Neural Buddhists." In it, Brooks noted that "scientists have more respect for elevated spiritual states." The moral: "The real challenge is going to come from people who feel the existence of the sacred, but who think that particular religions are just cultural artifacts built on top of universal human traits . . . Orthodox believers are going to have to defend particular doctrines and particular biblical teachings. They're going to have to defend the idea of a personal God, and explain why specific theologies are true guides for behavior day to day."

Twelve days later, under the headline "A Superhighway to Bliss," Times Reporter Leslie Kaufman wrote an article about Jill Bolte Taylor, a Harvard neuroscientist who experienced nirvana when she had stroke that temporarily silenced the left lobe of her brain.  Dr. Taylor was able to "see that the atoms and molecules making up her body blended with the space around her; the whole world and the creatures in it were all part of the same magnificent field of shimmering energy." The article goes on to describe her electrifying speech at the Technology, Entertainment, Design conference and a subsequent appearance on Oprah. (I've embedded a link to the talk, below, but it doesn't seem to be working. Use the link above as an alternative.)

The moral: "I believe that the more time we spend choosing to run the deep inner peace circuitry of our right hemispheres, the more peace we will project into the world, and the more peaceful our planet will be."

And two days after that, Benedict Carey wrote the lead piece in the May 27th Science Times section. It described how mindfulness meditation is rapidly gaining credence with therapists across a variety of disciplines. Although research doesn't seem to indicate that meditation is universally helpful, the "Buddha-like effort to move beyond language to change fundamental psychological processes" is changing the focus of many therapists from merely reframing thoughts to changing one's relationship to the content of one's thoughts.

It seems that the underlying premise of these articles is that science will help discern the real essence of what religionists have been misunderstanding and exploiting all these millennia -- that by understanding the processes at work within distinct and diverse regions of the brain, we'll be able to put the poetic nonsense aside and get at Oneness the way we might get at a flu vaccine or an endoscopy.

It's an intriguing thought, but in the end, I don't think it'll work out that way. There is a mystery that neither religion nor science can own. Religion at its best celebrates, at its worst exploits this mystery. Science at its best exploits that mystery, and at its worst turns it to deadly effect.

In my mind, neither will ever corner the market on Truth.

I'm writing this in the few moments before the beginning of Shavuot, the Jewish holiday celebrating the giving of the Torah to Moses at Mt. Sinai. We will never know what truly happened to a band of Jews on the run in the wilderness. But if all that happened was that Moses had a stroke, or ate some 'shrooms, and the event had been handed down to us with that narrative, we'd have a religion where we went about inducing strokes and hallucinations in ourselves (some would say this is, in fact, the case).

Thankfully, this isn't what happened. We received the narrative of that event and its aftermath in the form of a system of laws that, according to an intriguing paper by a Maryland undergraduate named Eitan Freedenberg,  "start at a single point and expand into a vast array of wavelengths." That point is Mt. Sinai -- wherever it is -- and those wavelengths are the spokes of law and custom, narrative and ritual that are the bedrock of at least three major religions and much of the moral and ethical framework of modern life.

But sometimes I wonder: if Moses had been Jill Bolte Taylor and taken a detached view of his revelatory experience, would we really be that different? After all, Moses said the word of God is "in your mouth and in your heart, that you may do it" (Deut. 30:14). Professor Taylor says that anyone can choose to live a more peaceful, spiritual life (by sidestepping their left brain).

As the sun sets and Shavuot dawns, I find myself hoping -- praying, really -- that we take advantage of the confluence of these mighty rivers of thought, and ride them to a new sea of wisdom, still riding our rudimentary rafts of choice.

--T.A.

Time to Grow Your Own

From a young age, I fantasized about living on a farm. I decided at about age 5 that, in the summer before I turned 17, I was going to work on a farm. It never happened, so I still dream about it, even though 17 is long gone.

I loved the sight of farms from a young age. I adored the orderly rows of crops, ridged like corduroy, zipping past the window of our VW bus as it made its pokey way along  the highway on long trips. I loved barns. The smell of hay. The idea of coming in exhausted at the end of the day and having a huge meal.

I was idealizing farm life, in a way, but I was a kid. I worked harder at understanding farm life than any other city kid I knew. I got up early every morning to watch the Farm Report on Channel 9, and hear the orotund orations of Orien Samuelson as he read and analyzed the latest commodity prices, and I loved the fact that farmers were watching right along with me.

When I was at summer camp, at around age 13, I told a counselor of my yearning to work on a farm.

"Well, my aunt and uncle will put you to work on their farm in Virginia anytime," Dave said. "But you'd better be ready to work your ass off about 12 hours a day, hurt over every inch of your body, and sit around in the evenings, drinking stuff you shouldn't be drinking and shooting cans and road signs with a shotgun."

I never worked for Dave's aunt and uncle, or any other farmers, for that matter.

I regret it more than ever after reading about the nascent movement of "energy survivalism." It features learning the skills to cultivate energy and food independence, or at least self-reliance, and removing oneself from the collapsing grid of modern excess. The pioneers of energy survivalism may tend to the wild-eyed prophetic types: some anticipate having to fend off hordes of starving disoriented urbanites -- folks who can't grow an herb or make their own latte but who might use their GPS systems to head to the country in search of food, or a least a B&B at which to weather the storm.

I find it pleasingly ironic that, at the possible onset of global upheaval, I'm heading to Divinity School -- and facing a 60-mile round-trip commute to school. A less practical choice could hardly be invented, especially by a person who's been the primary breadwinner in a family with three children, two of whom will be in college next year; especially in a time of rising oil and food prices.

I still can't believe I made this choice. I quake in bed at night and curse myself during the day.

And yet I can't shake the notion that on many levels -- including the practical -- it's a choice I won't regret.

Tomorrow, however, I'm digging a hole to begin a compost heap in the back yard. More vegetables are going in this year.

But face it: I was a city kid, now I'm a suburban dad. I couldn't build a cabin out of Lincoln Logs, much less the real thing. And I couldn't grow a weed without fertilizer.

But farming life, on a smaller scale, may be the wave of the very near future.

--T.A.

Calusa: 1998 - 2008

On this last trip to Florida, my father, aka "Director of Sunsets," did a more than creditable job working his magic at the end of each day.

On Monday, we were joined at sunset by my parents' longtime friend and neighbor, Judy, and her wondrous yellow Lab, Calusa (ka-LOO-sa), named after the Native American tribe that lived on the bay islands and fished the flats of Estero Bay and its tidal estuaries until the late 18th century (the raids of neighboring tribes and diseases introduced by the Spaniards conspired to wipe them out).

It was Calusa's last sunset. The faithful and gentle dog was riddled with arthritis, in too much pain to even sleep, and she was going to be put down the next morning.

Calusa (pictured above with Gabe, in 2002) was one of the great dogs I've ever known. Intelligent, playful, obedient, and heroically helpful to her master, Judy's late husband Ted, Calusa was the kind of dog about which stories and songs are written; the kind that you know has a soul, and whose soul recognizes yours;  the kind of animal for whom mourning is painful and prolonged (is there any other kind?).

On my April trip, Gabe and the One True Wife came with. Calusa was clearly in a lot of pain but still able to walk over to us and greet us smilingly, and loll onto her back for a good tummy-rub. On Monday evening, however, Calusa only reluctantly, at Judy's urging, hobbled off the motorized cart that Judy drove over and that her late husband had begun using after diabetes forced the amputation of his legs. The poor dog could barely walk, and was only able to get comfortable when lying down.

Ted and Judy got Calusa when she was only a few months old, after mourning their previous (also marvelous) dog, Ebony. A year or two later, when Ted was stricken with diabetes, they had no trouble training Calusa to be Ted's "service dog," and she accompanied him literally everywhere, helping and guiding him through life as his health declined.

Judy says that Calusa never recovered from Ted's death. A depression settled over Calusa; then her health began to decline.

In her youth, Calusa would retrieve all day long. I remember evenings of tiring my arm out, hurling a tennis ball toward the Gulf, or hitting it into the water with a tennis racket, Calusa retrieving it tirelessly, joyfully, until darkness fell (you can see the ever-present tennis ball beside her in the photo. You can expand the photo by clicking on it). Gabe played this game with Calusa, too, and they formed a sturdy friendship. Calusa greeted Gabe warmly in April, even though she had seen him only once in the past six years.

Calusa's favorite friend, however -- outside of Ted and Judy -- was my father. With permission from Judy, Dad came out to watch the sunset each evening, a cracker tucked in his shirt pocket, just in case Calusa and Judy came by. Calusa would look to Judy for permission, then come over to my father, staring eagerly at his pocket, and wait for him to proffer the cracker.

"Gently, Lucy," Judy would say, and Dad would extend the cracker, and Calusa, ever the retriever, would take it in her mouth as if she were lifting an egg out of a bird's nest.

On Monday, Judy called my folks to say she would be coming over to watch the sunset with Calusa that evening, and she told them that Calusa would likely have to be put down the next morning. Judy and Calusa were waiting for us when we came out of the house, about a half hour before sunset. With Judy's permission, my mom, my dad and I each gave Calusa a cracker. A day-long, wind-driven haze parted to reveal a glorious sunset, and we all watched, paying extra, gentle attention to Calusa, and to Judy, whose mourning had already begun.

As much pain as Calusa was in, she was still her alert, intelligent self. She eagerly watched dogs walking by on the beach; she gratefully accepted all petting and compliments; but she couldn't stop staring at my father's shirt pocket.

"I'm sorry, Calusa," my dad kept saying, "I gave you all the crackers I had."

Finally, the Sun had paid its parting tribute. By then, Judy was exhausted, and girding for a great goodbye.

We said goodnight to Judy, and to Calusa, trying too hard to be gentle in the face of the momentous. I told Judy that, while Judaism was both expansive and, compared to Christianity, somewhat vague on the subject of heaven, it is felt that people and animals both have souls, and that certainly our souls and the souls of the animals we have loved will meet again. Some Jews would not agree with this theological pronouncement -- it depends, as always, on which Jew you ask --  but my parents later said that Judy took some comfort from it.

Judy beckoned Calusa back up onto the motorized cart, and the two of them drove slowly away, as they had hundreds, perhaps thousands of evenings before.

After they had gone, my father discovered that Calusa kept staring at his shirt pocket with good reason: there was another half cracker hidden there.

"It's just as well," my dad said. "I wouldn't have wanted my farewell to be just half a cracker."

Here's to you, Calusa. We'll watch future sunsets, with crackers next to our hearts, in your honor.

--T.A.

Incremental Apocalypse

Middle Daughter arrived home on Sunday, after her five-month volunteering jaunt through India and Africa. A few weeks ago she was diagnosed with malaria. She immediately upped her anti-malarial medication, and yesterday, a battery of tests showed no sign of the disease. Either she eradicated the malaria with the increased dosage of medicine, or she never had the disease at all. We'll never know.

As I write this, she's under the knife in the chair of an oral surgeon, getting skin scraped from the roof of her mouth and grafted onto a small portion of her lower jaw where, for some reason, she's suffered an almost total loss of gum tissue. She'll be in a lot of pain and a drug-induced swoon for a couple of days; then, we hope, she'll begin to heal in earnest.

From the minute we picked her up at the airport, stories have been tumbling out of her: the fall she took into a ditch in Tanzania, leaving, on the back of her left thigh, the largest bruise I have ever seen; the terror of crossing a street in Delhi, and learning the trick of crossing next to a cow, whose sacred status means it musn't be harmed (and whose size almost guarantees that it won't); the site of a black rhino at the Ngorongo Crater (hey: there's one now!); learning to sleep on trains clutching all your belongings; the deep bonds formed with the kids in the schools in Delhi and in Moshi, Tanzania, where she worked (that's Moshi in the other photo).

And coming home, she was at first delighted, then somewhat stunned at the ho-hum opulence of American life. A bathroom -- all to herself?! A toilet that wasn't a hole you had to squat over?! Heat, and lights, and big, comfortable cars, and television? And sushi?!!

The other night, before Middle Daughter got home, the One True Wife and I went out to dinner with friends who have the largest and most opulent house of any family I know. The friends built this house about five years ago. They told me that their kids now run through the house turning off lights in empty rooms, and scolding their parents for their excesses. It's more than just the cheerily correct PR of the classroom. Kids intuitively understand what their parents cannot or will not grasp: we're on the point of no return. The next little burst of energy into your flat-screen TV, or the switch that illuminates that room full of recessed lights, might be the end of the beginning of the end.

The latest science is clearly suggesting -- and in unusually frank terminology -- that the tipping point in global warming is happening right now.

The will to survive exerts itself spectacularly against spectacular threats -- but when the threat is creeping and gradual, the will may arrive too late.

Our kids know this in their bones. Middle Daughter fears that India will become one giant traffic jam when the bargain basement Renault/Nissan/Bajaj joint venture car begins to pour onto the market at the rate of 400,000 per year. She thinks even cows will become roadkill. And then there's the huge increase in demand for oil that the new cars will instigate.

Gabe is appalled that my Honda Accord Hybrid only averages about 25 miles per gallon. You call this a hybrid? And when are they going to hurry up and produce the Chevy Volt?

Oldest Daughter, she of the Washington, DC, internships and political perspective, thinks the Prius will look like a dinosaur within 18 months, and we should all hold out for better, more environmentally responsible technology.

Two nights ago, at Middle Daughter's craving's behest, we bought sushi from Whole Foods and sat around our ancient analog TV set, watching awful television and enjoying being together again. I thought about where the fish had come from, and the Burmese who could really have used that rice, and the electric meter spinning like a top; I loved having my whole family together again, and stopped, for a moment, wondering when the other shoe would drop.

--T.A.

Season of our Liberation --or End of Days?

When, within the space of a few days, in the thawing Midwest,a wild cougar appears and people are rattled in their beds by an earthquake, it can be safely be said that we're living in interesting times. Need more proof?

• When the Cubs and Sox have near-identical records -- and sit at or near the top of their respective divisions;
• When an African American man and a white woman are vying for the presidential nomination of a major party;
• When the announcement of dismal financial results is deemed by the markets to be good news because the results aren't as dismal as they could have been;
• When a baby with two faces is born,
• And a woman survives a gunshot between the eyes;
• When a man, living with a transplanted heart, kills himself in the same way as the heart donor did;
• When the Pope meets abuse victims face to face,
• A praying passenger is removed from a commercial flight,
• And Jimmy Carter meets with leaders of Hamas;
• When a blind woman makes a hole in one
• And a deaf player scores in the NBA,

well, then, my friends, these are interesting times, indeed.

Chag Sameach/Happy Passover and a season of liberation to one and all --

--T.A.

A cougar in our midst

This morning, we awoke to the alarming news that a cougar had been sited yesterday in a nearby suburb. Later in the day, it was cornered by police in an alley on Chicago's North Side, and when it started to attack, it was shot.

Cougars haven't been seen roaming Chicago in 150 years. I've seen possum skunk, coyote, fox and rabbit in our neighborhood (I initially typed "rabbi." Of course, most of them are domesticated). If I saw a cat this big -- five feet long, weighing about 150 pounds -- I'd want bars separating us. (Note: this isn't a photo of the cougar found here, just the closest thing I could find.)

No one is sure where the big cat came from. Cougars moved west in the 1800s, when development destroyed their habitat; perhaps they're moving back to the Rust Belt now that the West is overrun? Or was this someone's pet, kept illegally and let go when it became too big and too dangerous?

I remember (and my sister or my dad will remember more clearly) that an animal got loose from a traveling circus when we were growing up. Wasn't it an elephant? Or did my imagination enlarge it -- was it "just" a horse? Didn't it come lumbering down 50th street? Wasn't there a kind of Keystone Cops escapade where they tried to corral the poor thing?

Growing up in a city gives you this hothouse perspective on wildlife. You go to the zoo and see the caged animals, and you feel a mixture of awe and pity -- perhaps even a little condescension. You don't realize that you're actually the one in the hothouse. Come upon a truly wild animal, in its element -- which is to say, outdoors -- and you realize how frail and helpless the human animal is, with nothing but its wits and its inventions to protect it, it's bulbous cranium cranking out theories, inventions, intrigues. And weapons.

I remember standing by the glass of the Ape House at Lincoln Park Zoo one summer day about 25 years ago. The Alpha male silverback was in fine form that day, glowering at people and rushing against the thick glass, with a roar. He resented his lack of privacy and his confinement and he clearly hated us. But it's possible he also saw it as a game and was willing to play along. Anyone who stood in a particular spot would get their turn trying to stare this animal down. He'd fix you with his tiny eyes; this look of loathing would come over his face; he'd rush at the glass, teeth bared, roaring. The glass would thunder, and he'd saunter away. The next person would stand in the same spot, and it would happen again.

The unspoken rule amongst those of us who wound up playing this game was that you tried not to flinch when he rushed you. Impossible. He weighed about 500 pounds, and he was quick as lightning.

 

The worst part, though, was the look. The look that told you that you were prey. That you were about to be killed. That he was going to kill you. The look that has made us build cities and enclose ourselves in glass and steel and never look back.

--T.A.

The Lonely Heart

There's something so awful about this story that I can't turn away from it:

A man who received a heart transplant 12 years ago and later married the donor's widow died the same way the donor did, authorities said: of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

My thoughts -- none too original -- in the order in which they occurred to me:

• Only in America ...
• I think about all the Psalms that talk about the heart -- like Psalm 119, which talks about "a whole heart" (v. 2), and Psalm 10, which says, "You [God] prepare their heart," which Rav Kook took to mean, God inclining us heart and mind, body and soul toward the Divine presence. Or Psalm 90, which says, "Teach us to number our days, that we will attain a heart of wisdom." Then I wonder: did this particular heart number its own days?
• Or, put another way: can a heart -- the physical organ -- be inclined toward its own destruction?
• What must it be like to be a woman who's fallen in love with the same heart -- and lost it twice?
• We know that mental stress and heart health are related, but do we know which one determines the health of the other?
• Why is that the people who kill themselves are so often remembered as the selfless ones who would drop everything to help a stranger?
• Will I ever know the answers to any of these questions?
• I need to get back to work.

--T.A.

Studying Like a Kid, Part II

Some months ago, I wrote about the desire to go back to school to really study the workings and the history of religion. I have an active spiritual life, but it's defined by my intellectual curiosity. I felt I'd gotten to a point in my life, perhaps even economically (jury's still out), where I could pursue the study of religion single-mindedly, without dragging my family across the country, or the world, to do it.

So, naively, I applied to two PhD programs in the Chicago area. One -- Northwestern, the one I'd courted more assiduously and set my hopes on -- rejected me. Yesterday, I found out that the other, the University of Chicago Divinity School -- somewhat more prestigious, about twice as far from home as Northwestern, and the institution that set the backdrop for my childhood -- accepted me.

I have a terrible time making major decisions. I have no problem exploring possibilities, but when a possibility reaches some kind of fruition, I seize up. I text-message Oldest Daughter with the news. She texted back: "Daddy: This is not the kind news you text message! Call me when you get this." When I called her, she told me that if I did not go to the U of C I would regret it for the rest of my life.

Annie and Jacques called. Jacques left a message on my cell phone and said, "Congratulations on becoming Chief Rabbi," and then he and Annie dissolved in laughter.

My brother's wife, an Episcopal priest, went to Yale Divinity School. From her I began to learn that some divinity schools are more "church-y" than others, and that the U of C is not a "church-y" divinity school. So that's good.

It's also -- and I know this not just from my past in its shadow, and its reputation, but from asking around -- that the University of Chicago is a fiercely intellectual place. And I'm just not sure I have that kind of energy anymore (if I ever did).

Fortunately, I don't have to decide right now. I can feel good about getting accepted, and go teach my Jewish meditation class, and watch Scrubs with Gabe, be grateful for the opportunity -- and for the chance to let it sink in a little.

--T.A.

Leaping from thought to thought on Leap Day

• It's kind of funny to me that from time to time I get interviewed by people ... as if I knew something! Flattering, amusing and a little scary. The latest is this article on judging people positively in The Jewish Angle, an entertaining and educational Jewish eZine.
• I love the question: If God is all-powerful, could God create a rock so heavy that God couldn't lift it?
• Tzimtzum -- the Divine act of contraction to make room for Free Will -- is the Big Bang thrown briefly into reverse.
• Rabbi Menachem of Chernobyl said the Hebrew letter aleph, being closest to the Divine Emanation, contains such brilliance that it couldn't be approached by the lower levels of existence. So with each letter of the aleph bet, God contracted a little more, until the final letter, tav, which stands for both tiheyeh -- 'you shall live' -- and 'timut' -- 'you shall die.' This last is the level at which we operate -- the lowest, sandwiched between life and death, in the narrow space provided in the realm that has the faintest of Divine emanations. I'm just saying that's a pretty cool idea.
• I didn't know what it meant to lose "spring in your step" until I was about 45. All of a sudden, when I was running, it just hurt. My knees felt like worn-out shock absorbers.
• This morning as I was getting into my car to go to work, I heard a cardinal singing. Nature's great anti-depressant is the first birdsong that pierces the thinning shell of winter.
• The cardinal sang the day after the first Spring Training ballgames were played. Perhaps it knew...?
• Somehow, the Midwest produces days when there are no clouds out and the Sun still doesn't shine. It's not pollution -- it's some kind of collective, meteorological gloom: the reflection of all this frozen slush back up into the atmosphere.
• Scotch seems to be in now. Why is Scotch so in?
• I wonder: if I'm fortunate enough to grow old, but unfortunate enough to become infirm, which kid -- if any -- will look after me?
• I am addicted to the "BrickBreaker" game on my BlackBerry. It's just Pong with better graphics.
• My son told my brother that I'm more like a big brother than a dad. Is that a good thing ...?

Shabbat Shalom.

--T.A.

(DISCLAIMER: many if not all thoughts contained herein are not original in form or content. Author denies any intent or attempt to plagiarize, mimic, lift, nip, tuck or otherwise alter or expropriate the works of other authors without attribution. Offer good while supplies last.)