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

and most folks were walking briskly to stay warm. When we reached the open space in front of the chapel, next to one-thousand-year-old dwellings made from mud and straw, we fell into clusters and a circle of sorts, and a buzz of excitement began to grow.

Church bells rang, and as if on cue, huge bonfires were lit, one by one, filling the black sky with golden flames and the sweet smell of burning pine. In the fires’ glow I saw families and elders, all chatting, laughing, and smiling hellos. And there, right across from me, was Robert Mirabal! He looked just like the picture on the front of his tape—long black hair, leather boots—and he held a young child wrapped warmly in his arms.

Then the fires shot up around us, blowing soot in my face, and I moved aside but stayed close enough to still feel their heat. I had never seen so many fires, nor any this high. It was almost frightening, yet exciting. It felt timeless and primal.

Just as the excitement was reaching its peak, from the courtyard of the church, the procession began: A painted wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, dressed in bridal white, was carried on a dais for all to see. Around and around the church folk carried her, slowly and reverently, while men behind them beat hand drums and chanted native chants. Next came the tribal dancers in headdresses and masks. Illuminated by the blazing fires, they stamped their feet to the droning rhythm played by musicians who followed. Last of all, the carolers came, singing in Spanish and their native tongue of Tiwa.

There is no electricity within the village walls, but the flames from the fires leapt high in the darkness as we huddled together, like a family, in the cold. “It’s about the sun returning,” I heard someone say. “It gives us light for the new year,” said another. It’s Christmas, it’s native, it’s solstice, it’s magic.

Looking back, it all feels like something I dreamed. But it happens every Christmas, and one year we were there.

HELLO TO DAD, NANA,

UNCLE BOB, AND . . .

Every morning, after greeting the sun, I give a big hello to my ancestors as I look up at the southeastern sky. Why there? I’m not sure, but that’s where I picture them hanging out. Some days my thoughts go just to my dad; some days to Rebecca, the grandmother I never knew but was named after; and sometimes I think of them all and say hello to each. There are a few I like a lot better now than I did when they were alive. That’s the thing about death: You start to miss everyone after they’re gone.

On some mornings, I thank my departed family for what they gave me—a memory, talent, or trait—and that alone recharges my love. When I’m feeling lost, I ask for their help: for courage, faith, or my dad’s sense of humor. I also ask them to guide my children and, just as often, bless friends who are sick. I guess they’re my own band of angels, ones I have real ties to.

These morning “hellos” are a way to honor my ancestors, to remember them and feel their presence in my life. At the same time, I gain a sense of connection to the vast, unseen realm they’re now in, which somehow lessens my fear of death. And maybe, just maybe, when I die, they’ll be there to greet me in the southeast corner of heaven. What can I say? I like Hollywood endings. What I’m hoping for is that God does too.

MEDITATIONS ON MEDITATION

I often think about meditating when I’m meditating. Like, Wow, this is cool, I’m really meditating! Of course, that instantly ruins it. Well, here are some thoughts about meditating, which I might have had while meditating.

It’s nice to light a candle and ring a chime when I begin. It helps me enter a sacred space.

Michael Bernard Beckwith, founder of Agape International Spiritual Center, suggests saying this when you start: “I’m here to wake up.” And return to that thought when your thoughts go astray.

Meditation is not just this ancient ritual or hippie-guru kind of thing. It’s also prosaic and down to earth. I mean, you’re just sitting there, you know? And it’s practical, like a good housecleaning, a cleansing of the mind.

I’m always reading books about meditation, and they always tell me the same thing: Meditate! It’s the path to peace—not to mention Nirvana and a sense of the divine. Yes, yes, I nod. I’ll do it! But then, instead of doing it, I read more books about it. So for thirty years, I’ve been a student of meditation: sometimes sitting daily, sometimes once a week . . . but always up for another book.

Yet despite this predilection, a certain peace has managed to creep into my life. There are even moments of feeling, just as the books promise, the openness and spaciousness that some call God.

We sit on the ground with humbleness. But we sit up straight with dignity, since our body is the temple of our soul.

I used to hold off meditating until I was in a meditating mood: calm, serene, a little saintly. Well, some weeks I’d be waiting a long time. So I started taking my angry, worried, fearful self to the pillow. Not easy—some Nirvana! Still, the more I learn to just sit with my feelings, the more compassion I gain for myself, and the more compassion I feel for others. See? It all works out.

I once read that prayer is you talking to God and meditation is hearing God’s answer. For me, both feel as if I’m phoning up the Source, making a connection—Hello, God, are you there?—and then, if I’m there, resting in God’s grace.

Breathe in, breathe out, keep watching your breath. That’s the way I first learned to meditate. It’s called the breath-awareness meditation, which was part of the Buddha’s teachings. Breathe in, breathe out, feel your breath where it enters