Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles Rivvy Neshama (best short books to read .TXT) 📖

I tried to befriend it, as some Buddhists advise, but for me, anxiety was no friend. The friends I did find, most gratefully, were prayer (“Dear God, please help me be okay”), and Ativan (anxiety pills), and sometimes both (“Thank you, God, for giving us Ativan”). I also found, as so many have, that the depth of your pain can deepen your journey, your connection to others and to something beyond.

The panic attacks eventually stopped, the anxiety diminished, and the fear became fear about fear. Yet it’s always there like a hidden wound that can take me by surprise. Which it did, years later, at a dance class in Boulder.

John was away working in Europe, my mind was adrift in worries, and bad dreams had left me ungrounded. To make things worse, it was a drop-in class, and no one I knew had dropped in. I looked around but found no smiles and remembered words my friend Karen once said: “There’s something strange about strangers, you know?” So, there I was, heart beating faster, pins and needles up my back, and surrounded by strangers.

Then I noticed some writing on the whiteboard on the wall. With a light blue marker, someone had drawn the Hindu symbol for Om and written: “_ _ _ _ is closer than you think.” The first word was too faded to read. It looked like it had four letters, but no, I thought, it must be “God”: “God is closer than you think.” A message, perhaps, to assure me: Nothing to be scared of—God is here.

I looked around the class again, and this time a young woman with spiky pink hair gave me a big smile. Yes, I thought, God is here and in everyone, even strangers.

Back in that darkest time of my life, I often leaned on the kindness of strangers, and I learned two things. First, most strangers really are kind (“Are you all right, miss?”). And when I in turn was kind to strangers (“Can I help you carry that?”), the shadow around me would momentarily lift, and I’d remember again that I once knew joy.

At the end of class, I walked up to the whiteboard to read the message more closely. The first word was half erased, but it clearly had four letters, began with “L,” and appeared to be “Love.”

“Love is closer than you think.”

There are many names of God, perhaps thousands.

The one I like best is Love.

COME, COME, COME TO THE FAIR

Street fairs . . . fiestas . . . county fairs . . . parades . . . Events so full of life they almost seem transcendent. Perhaps that’s why so many saints’ days are celebrated in Mexico. It’s hard to visit a village there without some festival occurring. “Señora,” a man in Sayulita once told me, “this is what life is about—musica, dancing, familia, and friends!” Maybe he’s right.

What strikes me most at these gatherings is how nearly everyone looks happy. The streets overflow with families and food, music and lights, and all kinds of people wearing all kinds of clothes: cowboy hats, tie-dye, fairy costumes, and beaded jeans. I walk around dazzled by the energy and find myself smiling at strangers—and they’re smiling back.

When my kids were young and we lived in Manhattan, I took them to street fairs on 94th Street or Columbus, and our excitement would build when we heard the music a block away. Once there, they would run to the amusement rides and I would run to sample the hot tamales, Chinese dumplings, and funnel cakes with sugar: a United Nations of food! We paid gypsy-hippies to paint our faces with stars, and there was magic in the air.

I especially enjoy these gala events if I’m traveling through another state or country. In Salzburg, at St. Rupert’s Fair, I sat with locals at a picnic table, drinking Austrian beer, and soon we were chatting together as we watched young children ride an old-fashioned, hand-painted carousel that used real horses—imagine!

And at a carnaval in Mexico, John and I once dared to ride the junior roller coaster. We were the only adults on it, and we screamed the loudest and got the sickest. All the parents watching were laughing at us, but in a friendly, simpatico way. It made me see one truth so clearly: Participation is your ticket to life.

That’s why I used to look down on parades. Passive watching, I thought, no interaction. I considered them boring, only to be endured on Thanksgiving for the sake of the kids. Until one summer morning, when beau George took me to a Puerto Rican Day parade on Fifth Avenue.

We stood right against the rope, so close we could see the sweat on the men as they played their Latin songs on trumpets and horns. Then high school marching bands came marching up the street: drummers drumming, young girls waving their native flag, women dancing in long pink and green folk skirts. So much beauty in their brown faces and Spanish eyes. So much pride in who they were. So much noise!

“Kind of wakes you up, doesn’t it?” George asked. And I knew he meant all of it, not just the noise.

Street fairs . . . fiestas . . . county fairs . . . parades! These are sacred community events. And you’re invited.

SOMETHING ABOUT ANGELS

One of the pleasures of staying at a friend’s summer house is choosing a book from their well-leafed favorites. Peering into the bookcase at Barry and Tina’s Long Island farm, I found a bevy of alluring titles. Then I spotted Patchwork Planet, by Anne Tyler, and took it with me to read at my favorite beach.

It’s a little beach on the Peconic Bay, and it feels old-fashioned. There are no frills other than a teenage lifeguard. The waves are gentle enough that children play in the sand by the water. And nearly all the women are stout and wear skirted bathing suits (I think they’re mostly Polish,