Several years ago, as I was swing dancing with a very dear friend, he suddenly stopped, looked at me, and said, “Who’s leading this dance — you or me?”

I started to protest, realized he was right, laughed, then let him lead. It’s a bad habit. I set my sights on a goal and then go for it. More than once my tenaciousness has been likened to a bull in a china shop. I don’t intentionally mean to be so focused, it just happens. Remember that annoying girl in high school who just did the group projects because she felt she could do it better than anyone else? The one who felt it would just waste time to explain it to the other members of the group? Yeah. That was me. Sad, but true.

I’d like to think that I’ve mellowed since then. That I consistently value the contributions of others. And graciously realize that I’m not always right. I’d like to think.

I was out swing dancing again last night. My partner tried to turn me in a way I wasn’t expecting to be turned. I started to protest, then realized this was his dance. He was leading. I relaxed my body, keeping just enough tension in my arms for him to be able to guide me, turn me, twirl me. I readjusted my expectations to be completely open to his dance, to his lead. He led me across the floor, pulling me close then spinning me out. I could feel laughter bubbling up inside me, a byproduct of pure joy that comes from doing something you love. As the music ended, he dipped me and the laughter spilled out in waves. A simple reminder that every now and then you have to trust someone else to take the lead.

As I turn my key in the lock, I wonder if I will walk into an apartment covered with fine, white dust, an apartment spotlessly clean, or something in between. I hesitate.

I turn the key and push open the door. Hm. Seems clean. I walk in. There, on the shiny, dust-free hallway table, is a beautiful purple orchid. What?

I open the card. “To brighten your day. Just wanted to say thank you for your patience. I hope you’re happy with our work. Have a great day.”

I can’t help but smile. Flowers make me happy. Surprises make me happy. Unexpected happy endings make me happy. And my apartment is clean.

This morning the workers came before I left for work. “Good morning,” I greeted them as they came into my apartment, carrying buckets of tools and other unfamiliar stuff. “So, how much longer do you think it will take to finish this job?” “Oh, just today, miss. Today, finish.” I smiled. “Great! And then, you will clean, right? There is so much dust…” The woman smiled at me. “You have a feather duster? You just dust, dust, dust and it’s all clean.” I smiled. “No, no feather duster. Maybe you can clean? Here, let me show you the cleaning supplies.” I showed her where the rags were, the Clorox, the Pine Sol, the Pledge, a cleaning product for any job. She smiled. “Okay.”

I left for work. For some strange reason, I don’t think she’s going to clean.

I hate being sick. I hate being sick. I hate being sick.

I hate the feeling of wanting to do something and not having the energy to do it. I hate the feeling of wanting to eat and not having an appetite. I hate the feeling of lying down, exhausted, and not being able to fall asleep because I’m feeling too miserable.

I normally just ignore the feelings of sickness, reckoning it will eventually go away. It usually does. This time, however, it didn’t. It struck back with a vengeance.

I came home early from work today, something I *never* do, because I was so exhausted. I entered the apartment. The workmen were here, working on replastering the newly created walls. They obviously had also been sanding, but had neglected to put any plastic up. An incredibly fine, white dust covered *everything* in my apartment — the floors, the tabletops, the books, the wine bottles, the piano, everything.

I felt so run down I couldn’t even muster any emotion. No anger, no disappointment, nothing. I ran my fingers over the surface of a table and looked at the layer of grayish white dust on my fingers. I looked at the workmen. “Seriously?” They stared at me. I stared at them. I walked into my bedroom, shut the door, and crawled into bed.

When I returned home to my cozy apartment from the silent meditation retreat, I noticed a funny smell. Had I forgotten to take out the garbage? No. Had the recycling gotten wet? No. I walked around my apartment, searching for the funny, somewhat familiar, smell. In the living room I stopped. The wall was bulging. Oh, no.

I called my landlady. “Hi there, it’s Lori. I just got back from vacation. Remember a couple of years ago when the radiator in the apartment above me burst a valve and water leaked all in my walls and we had to tear them out? Yeah… it’s happened again. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

Call me crazy, but I would think replacing a radiator would be cheaper than ripping out walls and re-plastering every couple of years. Just a thought.

or “How I Spent My Christmas Vacation”

Back in September, while traveling in India, a colleague told me she was going to spend her Christmas holidays sitting a 10 day silent meditation retreat in the foothills of California. I was intrigued. I asked a few questions, and next thing you know, I was on the internet, signing up for the same course.

Three of us carpooled there on Friday, December 21. As we drove, we noticed the unusually beautiful amber afternoon sunlight. The leafless trees projected a glorious starkness against the visibly chilly air. Someone remarked that it was the winter solstice. We all agreed it was an auspicious beginning for our next ten days.

As per the website, I didn’t bring any reading, writing, or otherwise distracting materials. By day 3 I was chiding myself for being such a rule follower. Ugh. What I would have done for my journal. I challenged myself to keep a mental journal for 10 days.

Day 0: Pre-Orientation
I learn the schedule.
4:00 am — wake up bell
4:30 – 6:30 — meditation
6:30 – 7:15 — breakfast
8:00 – 9:00 — group meditation
9:00 – 11:00 — meditation
11:00 – 11:45 — lunch
11:45 – 1:00 pm– rest and individual question time with the assistant teacher
1:00 – 2:30 — meditation
2:30 – 3:30 — group meditation
3:30 – 5:00 — meditation
5:00 – 5:30 — evening tea (notice, I didn’t say “dinner”)
6:00 – 7:00 — group meditation
7:00 – 8:15 — evening discourse
8:15 – 9:00 — group meditation
10:00 — lights out

Seriously? We’re meditating for 10 1/2 hours a day? I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I thought there would be more rest breaks. Or something. The most I’ve ever meditated at once is, oh, about 30 minutes. Okay. I can do this.

We’re informed we are expected to keep noble silence during the duration of the course. Not only shall we not speak, we also shall not make any non-verbal contact with other meditators. No touching and no gestures allowed. We’re asked to focus on the ground.

There is complete segregation of men and women.

Day 1
I am nervous I will oversleep. I wake up every hour, on the hour, all night long. 4 am arrives and I am exhausted.

Within the first half an hour of meditating, my legs fall asleep. Oh, no.

We’re supposed to be focusing on our breathing. I focus on my breathing for about 10 seconds and my thoughts start wandering. No, wandering is not an apt term. My thoughts remind me of the twister in the Wizard of Oz. Swirling, violent, random, and coming at me with tremendous velocity. Stop it!

Tea time. New students are allowed a piece of fruit and a cup of tea. Old students are allowed a cup of tea, no milk products. I feel guilty as I eat my apple and the old students silently sip their herbal tea.

As I lay down to sleep, I notice someone has scratched ten tally marks into the cinder block wall, much like you see in prison cells. I find this very funny.

Day 2
Today my legs do not fall asleep, they simply exude pain. My mind is beginning to settle down. I can focus on my breathing for maybe, oh, 30 seconds before it starts wandering. So many people from my past visit. Former boyfriends, family members, colleagues, I keep reminding myself to focus on my breathing.

As I leave the meditation hall at 9 pm, I notice there is a brilliantly luminous full moon. I stand in awe. After living in the city for so many years, I’ve forgotten the truly awesomeness of a clear nighttime sky.

Day 3
On the way to 8 am meditation, I notice a doe (a deer, a female deer, ray, a drop of golden sun…) standing in the field. I stand silently. She looks at me. I look at her. I continue to walk and she continues to graze. This makes me happy.

During the videotaped lectures, the teacher, SN Goenka, an Indian man with a heavy accent, keeps saying “In a chair! In a chair! In a chair!” What the hell is he talking about? We’re all sitting on cushions in the meditation hall and there are no chairs in sight. I make an appointment with the assistant teacher at noon. I ask her to explain why he keeps telling us to sit in a chair. She looks at me, puzzled. I repeat the words, using his accent. She laughs. “Eneccha. A Pali word meaning change. Everything will change. Nothing is permanent.” I leave, somewhat disappointed we’re not getting chairs to sit in.

We leave the meditation hall at 5 pm to find a heavy fog has settled. It’s beautiful, it’s mystical, it’s magical. I’m happy.

In the dining hall, someone accidentally bumps into me as I’m preparing my tea. This is literally shocking. Waves of energy ripple through my body. I now understand why physical contact is not allowed.

As I’m walking back to the dorm at night, there are several women in front of me, walking, flashlights shining in front of them. I feel a sudden urge to play flashlight tag. Somehow, I don’t think this would be welcomed. I resist the urge to tag someone with my beam of light. I refrain.

Day 4
Today is Christmas Day. I wonder if the others know it is Christmas.

I finish breakfast early. I return to my dorm to rest. People seem to ignore the sign on the door that says “Please shut door gently”. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown accustomed to complete silence. Maybe it’s because it’s day four and I’m feeling slightly agitated. Every person who comes in lets the screen door slam shut then closes the wooden door with unnecessary force. I almost break noble silence by screaming, “DON’T YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THE WORD GENTLY? GEEZ!” but decide better of it.

I walk to the meditation hall at 8 am. I’m irritated. I’m not sure why; I just am. I sit. Pain shoots up my back in torrents. The angrier I get, the more the pain intensifies. The thoughts in my head run along these lines: What the crap am I doing here over the holidays? Why did I think this was a good idea? Why am I subjecting myself to such torture? This is stupid. Oh yes, focus on my breathing.

At lunch we are served marinated tofu steaks. Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding. The meals up until now have been all in all delicious. All vegetarian and all super fresh, super organic produce. Today we have marinated tofu steaks, mashed potatoes, rice. This is my Christmas dinner? Ugh. I do not feel grateful, peaceful, or otherwise good natured towards my fellow human beings.

The schedule is slightly different today. It is Vipassana Day. We have focused on our breathing for 3 days, this afternoon we will learn the Vipassana meditation techniques. In the hall we listen to a pre-recorded lecture. I’m feeling slightly uncomfortable. This feels slightly cult-ish. If anyone passes around Dixie cups of Kool-Aid, I’m not drinking.

Day 5
I leave the dorm at 4:15 am and walk into gently falling snow. SNOW! Snow. Yay. Winter. Quiet. Solitude. Beauty. I am happy.

I once again experience intense pain in my legs while sitting the 4;30 – 6:30 am meditation. I know the lesson we’re supposed to learn is that nothing is permanent, everything passes. Even with physical pain, if we sit long enough, this intense pain will dissipate. It also will dissipate if I just move my leg to a new position. Can’t I do that? Evidently not. Ugh. I get up, expecting to limp to breakfast. The pain has disappeared. Hm. Maybe there’s something to this after all.

I use the time during the “rest” period from 11:45 to 1:00 to get some exercise. There is a pond on the property; I walk around it. The other meditators are walking slowly, contemplatively, lifting each foot thoughtfully and placing it in front of the other. I speed walk past them. Move out of my way, people, this is my exercise time. I’m not feeling particularly contemplative.

At tea time, I realize there is honey for the tea. I chop up my apple and drown it in honey. Mmmmmm. At first bite, I am immediately transported back 30 years to fall in the mountains of North Carolina on the Blue Ridge Parkway. We would stop on the side of the road to buy honey from locals. I am happy.

Day 6
Another angry day. Why am I here? Why am I doing this? Why aren’t I in my comfortable home in San Francisco? The pain in my legs and back is almost unbearable. Twice I get up and leave the meditation hall because I can’t stand the pain any longer.

Day 7
Once again, I wake up to snow. This has an immediately calming effect upon me.

During the morning meditation, the teacher calls the new students up in groups of 5 to check in with us. How are we doing? Do we understand what we’re supposed to be doing? I’m the first she asks. Yeah, I guess I get it. I’m having a hard time feeling the “flow” of energy that are described during the discourses. She encouragingly tells me to keep working on it, it will come. The woman next to me is Miss Meditation Overachiever. She tells the teacher she not only feels her breath, but it connects straight to her heart and opens it, full of love for all human beings. Seriously? This may be the most annoying thing I’ve heard. Ever. I almost break noble silence and hit her.

I’m ready to talk. I miss reading. No one would have noticed if I had smuggled a book in. Why am I such a rule follower?

The tally marks on the wall beside my bed don’t seem so funny anymore.

Day 8
Another angry day. Why am I here? This is ridiculous. Why am I subjecting myself to such pain? I’m not getting it. In the lectures and discourses, they keep talking about not craving the pleasant feelings that overcome you. What are they talking about? All I’ve had all course is pain. Pain, I tell you, pain. And the woman sitting 8 inches behind me is cooing. Once again, I have an overwhelming desire to turn around and punch her. That wouldn’t be very karmic. Oh, wait. I’m supposed to focus on the present. Okay. Present. I’m here at a beautiful location in northern California at the base of the mountains. I’ve seen ridiculously bright stars almost every night. I’ve seen deer, and squirrels, and birds. Woodpeckers (which I inexplicably find amusing) surround the center. I have the luxury of spending 10 days in complete silence. Okay, life is good. I focus on my breathing once again.

At tea time, I realize I can switch it up and have have an orange and half a banana. I’m ecstatic. As I’m eating, I hear myself saying (in my head):
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Aren’t you glad I didn’t say banana?

I realize it’s probably time for me to leave. I’m starting to find myself amazingly entertaining.

Day 9
We’ve been challenged to meditate continuously — while walking, while resting, while eating. While I’m walking back to my dorm after breakfast, concentrating on the sensation of the cold against my skin and the motion of my feet as I’m walking, I suddenly feel a force approaching me. I look up to see a stag, running towards me at full speed. I’m paralyzed. It passes about 18 inches in front of me. Whether from fear, or from the force of its motion, I tumble backwards. I wonder if it would have been acceptable to break noble silence if I had been run over by a deer. I decide yes.

Day 10
Today we learn loving kindness meditation. I’m not feeling very loving, or very kind. I’ve just spent 10 days in utter and complete pain. I don’t feel any of the lightness or nobleness that they keep referring to in the lectures. What have I done?

We are allowed to speak to other meditators today. And I don’t want to. After the morning lecture, I find a rock, near the edge of the property, and sit in the sun and cry. And cry. And cry. And suddenly, I feel the lightness. I get it.

Day 11 — Post Course
As I was preparing to leave, older students asked me how my first experience was. They want to know if I would sit another course. I know this 10 days was a good thing. I know that I will be a kinder, less reactive, more compassionate person because of this course and continued meditation practice. But right now, I’m still too close to the pain. “Ask me in 6 months,” I reply, with a compassionate smile.

Okay, so at the risk of soundly completely and ridiculously cliche, I’m writing about traditions. I don’t have many. I moved away from all family in my early twenties and with that away from the rituals that accompanied the holidays.

A few years ago, I decided to host a gingerbread house decorating party. What could be better? Close friends, over for a Sunday afternoon of cocktails and ridiculous amounts of sugar ingestion. Yum.

And today, I realized, inadvertently, I’ve started a new tradition. It was my fourth year of having friends over. Each guest brings their favorite bag of candy. I bake gingerbread houses and lots of gingerbread people. We gather and build a couple of houses (usually after several attempts of collapsed failures — this year it took the expertise of an engineering graduate from Carnegie Mellon to make the house stand…), drink copious amounts of champagne and eat ridiculous quantities of dumplings and hor’s dourves. And candy. Lots and lots and lots of candy. People’s departure times directly correspond with the amount of willpower they have. Those with little (who consume awesome magnitudes of sweetness) leave early. Those who have slightly more willpower stay later. And usually everyone is gone by 8:00 pm.

And again, at the risk of sounding completely cliche, I realize how lucky I am. How lucky that I live in a country where we can create sugary confections just because we can. How lucky that we have the luxury of gathering, just to be social. And with that knowledge, I’m truly thankful. And that’s the best tradition of all.

I don’t wear much make up, but I’m a sucker for beauty products. Guarantees thicker hair? Ordered. Clear skin? Check. Whiter teeth? All over it.

So when I saw the advertisement for a product that guaranteed longer eyelashes, I was ecstatic. It being the day after Thanksgiving, I called the salon to see if they were open before hoofing over to purchase the magical product that would make my lashes the envy of Twiggy.

Me: Do you have the eyelash product in stock?
Her: Yes.
Me: Awesome. I’ll be right over.
Her: I’m not open today.
Me: Oh.
Her: Well, is this an emergency? Do you have to have it today?

This gave me pause. To me, emergencies involve blood and possible broken bones. You know, the life or death type stuff. I wondered how having (or not having, as the case may be) thicker eyelashes could possibly be considered an emergency. Not being able to come up with a reasonable sounding justification, I thanked her and told her I’d see her next week.

After a ridiculously satisfying Thanksgiving dinner, we are sitting on the couches, drinking wine, carrying on individual conversations, when I hear someone say, “If you’re not boring the person you’re speaking to, then you’re just not passionate enough about the topic.”

I look around the room and wonder what people would describe as their passions. I have some guesses but out of curiosity, I pose the question to the entire room, “So what is it that you’re completely passionate about?”

One person talks about bikes: different types of bikes, bike parts, bike resources, bike races, biking legends, bike clothing, bike bags, biking records, local bikers.

Another talks about photography: lenses, cameras, lighting, subjects, how to order rare cameras, how to change the lighting (with duct tape), films, where to buy film, his first camera, shutter speeds.

Another talks about sewing machines: old versus new, sergers, computerized machines, buttonhole makers, bobbins, thread weight, garment construction on various machines, valuation of antique machines, machines found on eBay, Bay Area fabric stores.

And yet another talks about mushrooms: varieties, how to grow them, composting, poisonous versus non-poisonous, recipes, mushrooms around the world, festivals, kits.

I’m a curious type of gal. But none of the above topics are ones that I would say I’m particularly passionate about or interested in. However, the conversation tonight was scintillating. Hearing someone talk about something that they truly believe in, that they absolutely love, is a joy. The questions flow naturally, the conversation doesn’t lull. And I learned a little more about fungi, photos, bikes, and buttonholes.

I sit down at the outdoor café in Phnom Penh, glad to have the shelter of the porch; it’s just begun to pour down rain. I breathe in the heat and the humidity. I love this city. The waiter brings me a menu. I smile and thank him. “Where are you from?” he asks. I smile and tell him the United States. He appears shocked. “The United States? Really? The way you look and dress, I thought you were from India.”

Now it’s my turn to be shocked. I’m dressed in western clothes — jeans, t-shirt, and scarf. I don’t feel I look particularly Indian. I’ve had people guess I was from Greece, Italy, Spain, Canada, Israel, but never India.