On most mornings, I go to the gym and then to church. I know, I'm a total freak but in my defense it: a) started during Lent, b) is right on the way to work, c) has the correct timing to still get me to work early, d) is easier than reading the Bible alone and e) feels like the perfect way to start the day.
This morning's first reading was about the Israelites who were sent to scout the promised land and came back with fears about the race of giants that was already living there. “We cannot attack these people; they are too strong for us.”
The elderly priest who presides over the 6:30 a.m. mass is prone on more days than not to tell a joke just to see if we're awake yet or comment on how amazing it is that we're all there so early in the morning. (It really is packed on most mornings. Who knew?) Today's random comment was my favorite, "They were afraid of the Amalekites, Hittites, Jebusites, Bud Lights and Amorites." The best part was that he just keep preaching as if the Bud Lights really were part of this race of huge, veritable giants.
I do believe, however, if there really was a giant race of Bud Lights living there, it wouldn't have taken most men 40 years to enter the promised land. Right? We could have saved a lot of time that was otherwise spent wandering the desert with nothing to eat and drink but manna and water. God provided Moses with a staff to bring forth water from rocks. Surely he would have also provided a giant bottle opener, no?
I'm not sure why, but I've been thinking a lot about the concept of art lately -- maybe because so many of my friends are artists from painters and illustrators to musicians, dancers and tattoo artists.
Art.
So it caught me a little by surprise when meditating on the Lord's Prayer a few weeks ago that the word ART stood out in the first sentence -- transitioning in my mind from a Middle English second person singular conjugation of the verb "to be" to a somewhat verbified (yes, that's what I said) noun. As defined in dictionary.com: the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
And then I remembered this verse from Isaiah 64:8, "But now, O LORD, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand."
At the end of yoga classes, the teacher typically puts his/her hands in prayer pose, bows to the class and says, "Namaste." It's a Sanskrit word that loosely translates to "The divine in me honors the divine in you." The students reciprocate the bow and sentiment.
It is a beautiful practice and reminder that God lies within each of us.
Last weekend, I was reading a book entitled Soul Prints written by Rabbi Marc Gafni that I grabbed from the free, discard shelves at our library. In this book, he states that "shalom" not only means "peace" but also in the Kabbalistic understanding of language conveys a wider intent--specifically, "The divine point within me greets the divine point within you." Wow. Really?
Early the same evening, after reading that point, and pondering its significance, I attended Catholic mass and couldn't help but notice the similarities. The priest says "The Lord be with you" and we respond "And also with you." Sometimes it's more elaborate (e.g., "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all") but the response is the same, "And also with you."
Later, the priest states, "The peace of the Lord be with you always" and again we say, "And also with you." We then offer each other a sign of peace by shaking hands with everyone around us and saying to one another, "Peace be with you." Every week, bar none, this simple gesture reminds me of my grandpa Jack who always turned to us and said, "Shalom."
What an honor, right? To acknowledge the divine peace and presence in the family, friends and strangers among us. Although I've been performing this act my entire life, until last weekend, I had never fully appreciated the beauty.
Namaste.
Or, as the great spiritual leader Obi-Wan Kenobi once said, "May the force be with you."
The weekend is over again. How does this keep happening?! Acupuncture? Check. Swimming? Check. Life by Keith Richards? Check. Superbowl fun? Check.
At the end of the typical weekend drive-a-thon, I ended up at my mom's church last night. (Note #1: Kevin, you can stop reading right now. Note #2: Mom, sorry for not calling. Hopefully you went earlier! Came home from Bristol, dropped the snowboard gear in the garage and kept going.) Sometimes I am overtaken with emotion during church services. Yesterday was one of those days. (Glad you weren't with me?) A young soloist, maybe high school aged, sang the Voice of Truth during communion. She looked and sounded like an angel.
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth.
Later Jennings, celebrating the Packers' win, cameras everywhere, confetti flying, says to the FOX interviewer, "To God be the glory."
(Yeah, I hear ya hon. God hates the Steelers.) Even though I know that most of us cannot stand when famous people thank God during awards shows or game day wins, it always takes me by surprise. And I love it. As we say, somewhat robotically, in church week after week, "It is right to give Him thanks and praise." I don't gotta problem with that.
There's a church on the way to my sister's house that posts pithy, thought provoking maxims on their lawn sign. I always slow down to read them. Yesterday's read, "Joy is not the absence of problems but the presence of God." Love that.
This is how I start my day. Not every day but many. Usually I have the pool to myself. Today I shared it with a tiny woman who looked to be in her early 80s. At 5:30 a.m., she was already doing laps. When I entered the steam room at 6:30 a.m., she was in there, lying on the tiled bench, stark naked. (Another missed Photo Per Day opportunity. Too steamy. Ha.) She was facing the wall with her back/butt facing me. I wondered if I will be that carefree when I'm her age. For now, I'll keep my swimsuit on. It's in everyone's best interests.
Usually when I do laps, I meditate on the Lord's Prayer. I recite a single verse per lap and I focus on either a single word or an entire phrase. "Our Father. Our Father. Our. Not just mine but all of ours." I sometimes throw in a few Hail Marys for good measure because I think Mary is pretty awesome.
When I'm done, I float in a swimmer's savasana of sorts and relax. Today, after prayer, while floating like a bloated corpse, my brain was flooded with an old Squeeze song from when I was in college. While I don't think the writers intended it for God-like purposes, it really amazed me.
Take me I'm yours for dreams are made of this. Forever there'll be a heaven in your kiss.
As my boss is considering (nay, planning) a move to CO to be closer to her eldest daughter, I have a year to reinvent myself. Find a new job. Open my own business. Become a rodeo clown. Perhaps move to a new city.
A year of soul searching. Prayer. Divine intervention. Miracles.
The July-August 2010 issue of the Harvard Business Review contains an article entitled "How Will You Measure Your Life?" with this golden nugget:
"People who are driven to excel have this unconscious propensity to underinvest in their families and overinvest in their careers—even though intimate and loving relationships with their families are the most powerful and enduring source of happiness."
I want to thrive. Professionally. Personally. Help people. Touch people's lives. Make the world a better place. Pollyanna Pittsford. (I just wanna dance.) And I want to be with my family more than I am now.
The other night Stinky's breathing became more labored but she was still purring and snugly. The next day, she began to deteriorate quickly so the hubby called the vet who thankfully makes house calls.
Yesterday afternoon, I picked the kids up from school early and headed home to say goodbye. It was sunny and warm so we found both hubby and cat outside in the garden. Stinky was sniffing the flowers, gnawing on the grass and roaming around. As she was rubbing against the pine tree in the side yard, I sat down beside her and began to pet her. She then laid down in the warm sunshine next to the tree and simply hung out with us as we all continued petting her. It was very peaceful.
When the vet and his assistant came, she wasn't even scared. Without even getting up, she let them pet her. We agreed to give her the shots outside: the first in a vein to numb her and the second in a muscle to put her down. She put up a bit of a fight with the first shot so I placed her on my lap. I then held her, pet her and whispered to her as they put her to sleep.
It was the perfect ending for the perfect cat. Sitting in the warm sunshine surrounded by her family who loved her.
We buried her by the ring of pink flowers that is just starting to come up -- along with her Stinky bowl that I painted with my girlfriend Darlene in NJ one weekend many moons ago. I couldn't bare to ever see it again.
And then the kids and I read Psalm 23 aloud. She will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Goodbye my little love.
1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
3 he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
4 Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, [a]
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
6 Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
It's Holy Week. So what does that mean? Christ vs. the Easter bunny. Anguish vs. pastel baskets. Death vs. coloring eggs. Joy vs. hunting for eggs. It's such a tug-of-war between the extraordinary vs. ordinary. Pretty much just as it was back in the day, right? A carpenter? From Nazareth? A king riding into Jerusalem on a donkey? What the french, toast.
For me, I need to take the time, as I've been attempting to do throughout Lent this year, to reflect more deeply on the meaning of Easter.
That our God walked among men. What? Un-friggin-believable. (Truly unbelievable, to many!) He used to come in a cloud or a burning bush and scare the hell out of people. This time he joined us, taught us, fed us and loved us.
That, like Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Isaac (and then some), God gave his only son to atone for our sins. And Jesus fully accepted his death on the cross for us. What? Is he crazy? (No, he's just a failed prophet, cite some.)
That, after the tomb was found empty, Jesus appeared not only to his disciples -- in a closed and locked room nonetheless -- but also to hundreds of people thereafter. But not like Casper the Friendly Ghost. He ate and drank with them. They felt his wounds. What? Is is a resurrection even possible? (It might happen, tsshyeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt.)
If I were attempting to create a world religion, I don't think I would have my star character killed. I would have him dramatically rescued at the last minute. Perhaps a light-filled ascension right from the cross, like being lifted into an alien spaceship, with a bit of a "Ha! Told you so!" thrown in for good measure. Dude, that was really him? Man did we screw up.
Instead, darkness came over the land. The earth shook and the rocks split.
Also, I wouldn't write that he came back to earth -- especially since the first texts were written roughly 30 years after his death. Or, if I were making it up, I would have changed the dateline so that people couldn't refute my ridiculous claims. Yeah, it all happened 200 years ago. Too bad there isn't anyone around to chat about it.
But, much akin to idiots claiming that the Holocaust never occurred even when survivors are still living to this day, these texts were written when the people who actually saw the risen Lord were still alive and could back up the claims. That's way better than saying you were at Woodstock. And trust me, if someone published a book today making crap up about events at Woodstock that never took place (like the *fact* that Jimmy Hendrix actually performed in neon pink wig and floor length YSL ballgown), I guarantee people would not buy into it.
So what gives?
As Christ was entering Jerusalem and people were screaming "Hosanna in the highest," he said, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out." Luke 19:40
Even without anyone shouting, all of creation testifies to his glory.
As I continue to ponder my existence, dread (more and more) the pending work deliverables, feel increasing angst over my so-called career, look forward to becoming a nun in retirement, and pray for immediate salvation in the form of a new career that suits me and my passion (albeit poorly defined) and pays the bills, I found my new friend Thomas Merton via My Life with the Saints.
From a young drinker/partier to hermit/monk. My soul mate.
I also found this prayer from his book Thoughts on Solitude that perfectly sums up my current anguish filled prayers.
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
It's the best years of your life they want to steal
You grow up and you calm down
You're working for the clampdown
In my quest to make 2010 the "Year in Miracles," I attended Catholic church on New Year's Day with my mom to kick-off the new year in style. Who, outside of those in Vatican circles, knew that it would be dedicated to the the Blessed Virgin Mary? Certainly not I. (Probably my mother.)
The experience made me reflect on a conversation I had over dinner with my evangelical church going, kismet girlfriends during which one friend was visibly upset about her cousin praying to the saints (given that it's a form of idolatry).
I started mulling over how we can pray directly to Christ but we often ask our friends to pray for us, too. Isn't that what Catholics are doing when saying the Hail Mary? Asking for intercession on our behalf? Pray for us sinners now and at the time of our death.
Not exactly. The difference is: they're dead.
Can the dead hear our prayers? And pray for us?
Given that I haven't the first clue about what I'm even writing here on this topic, I found a book that looked like an interesting Protestant take on the matter: The Lure of Saints: A Protestant Experience of Catholic Tradition. I've only just begun reading but, so far, it seems to be a very evenly weighted, deeply faith-based approach to the important role saints play in Catholicism tempered with some of the more troubling aspects of devotion to them.
Akin to increasing my knowledge of the faith while sponsoring my girlfriend Misty to become a Catholic a few years back, this book is leading me to a greater appreciation of my upbringing in the church. (Writing it must have done the same for the author as he has a blog called Almost Catholic and apparently joined the church in 2009.)
So, in honor of saintly trinkets, would it be in bad taste to wear this belt sold by Rochester's own Lucky Nahum at Always Get Lucky? I thought it was kind of cute and not at all sinful . . .
What I heard on the radio this morning (thank you Jennifer V!):
My girlfriend's "Aunt Dolly" died last week. She wasn't just a peripheral figure, she played a major part in raising the entire family -- taking three of the four daughters into her home in the burbs when their section of the city became too wild and woolly to attend school safely. She also took in a million of their friends and/or random strangers (including traveling "hippies from CA") and gave them tea, dinner and a place to sleep as frequently, and as long, as needed.
Even at 96, she was the center of every party (as are her nieces, no surprise) and never, in the 20+ years that I've been friends with these women, have I been to one of their parties, or to a mutual friend's party, where Aunt Doll hasn't been present. Until Saturday afternoon, that is.
Fittingly, her eulogy on Saturday morning was, by far, the most wonderful tribute I have ever heard. I cannot do it justice here because I'm sure I'll get the wording wrong and obviously cannot replicate the voice/tone in which it was delivered but I have never laughed so hard at a funeral in my life or cried buckets of tears of happiness for a life well lived. She deserved the best.
The theme of her eulogy was that she was not cut from the same cloth as many of us. She didn't gossip, was not judgmental, always made room for friends and had a heart as big as Denver. Apparently she constantly broke out into song, too, which I never knew before but now wish I had. Simpatico! Her favorites? Amazing Grace (me too!) and Achy Breaky Heart (hey, she was old). She also loved, more than anything, to go to church. A woman after my own heart.
The best part of the tribute was when Anthony, my girlfriend's husband, said something akin to the following in his deep, oratorical voice. (Although his version was much better, I captured the essence, I hope.)
"When the girls asked me to give the eulogy, I said, 'No problem; piece of cake.' I guarantee any one of you could come up here and say fabulous things about Aunt Dolly. But here's what's noteworthy: I bet not one of you could think of anything bad to say about her. Now that's something to celebrate! Think about that for a moment. Better yet, let's test the concept.
We'll start with me. I'm sure there are those of you out there who would call me an accomplished man (Note: He's an M.D.). A spiritual man even. Others, on the other hand, might say I'm a pompous ass.
What about my lovely wife? Passionate personality; life of the party! Yes. But many of you might also say, 'loose cannon.'
My brother-in-law? You may call him an excellent multitasker who is able to accomplish more in one day than the rest of us in a week. I say 'classic case of ADD.'
How about Tom here? While some may say, 'Brilliant man. Well versed in many, diverse areas,' others would say, 'Unfettered hedonist.'
Now try it on Aunt Dolly. See? There's only one side of the equation: warm, happy, non-judgmental and loving."
That snippet only scratches the surface of what was said that day. What a fabulous send-off. And all true. I cannot think of one negative thing I could even dream to say or think about her.
That's how life should be lived -- and how death should be celebrated. We'll miss you Aunt Doll.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
Last night, I had the house to myself for the first time in years. Yes, years. Myself. Alone. The hubby had a gig, the older kid was at a sleepover and the little one was unexpectedly invited next door to watch a movie. OMG. What to do? I was invited to the neighbor's house for wine but decided to take advantage of this epic, possibly once-in-a-lifetime event and do something that I'm not normally allowed to do: take control of the remote.
As monkey bundled up to trudge across the front yard, I hugged him and said, "I am 100% madly, passionately in love with you. Just so you know." He replied, "I just farted. Just so YOU know." Ah, yes, it's going to be good to be home alone.
I decided to watch (finally) Milk. Not that I was surprised given the movie's rave reviews but, wow, Sean Penn's performance was unbelievable. Charming, moving, arresting, loving, inspirational and tragic.
Yet, as I watched all of the Anita Bryant footage, some of which I vaguely remember from my childhood, I couldn't help but wonder if any of my Bible study girlfriends had seen this movie. I love them but we frequently differ in our points of view. (Case in point: They wanted to get together to pray during election night while keeping Fox News on in the background. Fox News? Thanks but no thanks.)
Having grown up in a liberal, somewhat tree hugging, left-leaning family and been taught to respect others (except Richard Nixon), I bring a radically different outlook to our small group. While I listen and really do understand their point of view (i.e., that throughout the Bible, God threatens to destroy entire sin-filled cultures and we can chose to live by his laws or by ever-shifting cultural norms that increasingly accept deviant behaviors), I still have a hard time reconciling the issue -- especially when some of my close friends are gay.
I turned once to an ex-coworker and asked him to explain (which he did along the lines of the aforementioned rationale). In response, I stated, "But no one asks to be gay; they're born gay. How can that make it wrong?" He responded, "No one asks to be a child molester either. Does that make them okay, too?" Touche.
Some of my Bible-toting girlfriends would say, "Love the sinner, hate the sin." I kind of like this response because Jesus hung with prostitutes, tax collectors, etc. and he loved them. And he loves me with all of my many issues. Who is to say that anyone else's sins are greater than mine? But when I tried that line on for size with my girlfriend Laurie who lives with the love of her life, Mary, she asked, "So do you think that living my life in a committed relationship with my soul mate is really a sin?" Good question. Do I? Really? I don't think so. But the most important thing for me is the following quote from Matthew 7:5 "You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye."
In other words, I need to focus on myself and living my life in the best manner possible. The hell with everyone else (just kidding). To that point, there is a Facebook group which sums up my current leaning, "Against Gay Marriage? Then Don't Get One and Shut the F* Up."
Last night I went out to dinner at Good Luck with a old friend from NYC who was in town on business. Very, very nice to see him.
A few hot toddies later, I was at home, fast asleep, when I received a call from my coworker Jennifer. Apparently my boss had missed her connecting flight to the Roch and had taken a flight to Syracuse. If she arrived before midnight, there would be a rental car waiting. If not, she would be SOL.
As the quintessential enabler, with a direct view of the tremendous stress my boss is under, I offered to pick her up. Thankfully, my husband steadfastly refused because a) I would be driving during the wee hours of the morning when my body is more accustomed to sleeping, b) the snow/road conditions were not optimal and c) uh, I had been drinking! Hello.
This morning Jennifer was (kindly) blaming my boss' dependency on me. "If you didn't cater to her every whim, she wouldn't expect it." Alas, she's right. So in honor of my codependency and the "year in miracles," I penned the following and have vowed to pray it every morning at my desk.
* * * * *
Dear Lord,
Thank you for the innumerable blessings you have provided us.
Please guide us today and every day so that we may:
Do your will
Serve you, each other and our clients to the highest degree possible
Honor you and each other in all that we do
Respect/value one another’s opinions, skills and capabilities
Live our lives with the utmost integrity
Maintain a healthy work/life balance and boundaries
I decided recently that I don't believe in miracles enough. Sure, I read about the big ones, like raising people from the dead, in the Bible and hear about more current phenomena through friends (e.g., an acquaintance's miraculous healing from stage IV cancer) but I haven't really allowed myself to believe that they can happen to me. So I decided to dedicate 2010 to the art of discerning the real miracles that occur in my everyday life.
The first book I read this year, Either You're In or You're In the Way, was the perfect backdrop to this mission. As it states on the Miller Brothers' website, it's "the amazing story of how--without a dime to their names nor a single meaningful contact in Hollywood--they (identical twin brothers) managed to write, produce, act, and direct a feature film in under a year starring four-time Academy Award-nominated actor Ed Harris and a cast and crew with 11 Academy Awards and 26 nominations."
It's a well written account not only of how their dedicated effort, hard work, long nights, constant struggle/worry, etc. paid off but, more importantly, how the universe conspired to bring them the right people (e.g., actors, financiers, door openers) to help them make their dreams come true. It is truly inspirational, highly motivational and basically unreal. It is not by any stretch of the imagination a book about religion, faith and belief but, because I am who I am, I read it and thought, "God is amazing."
Now I simply need to gain a broader understanding of the role that God plays in my life and to be more thankful for his presence. Oh, and securing a role with Ed Harris would be fabulous.
I spent Monday evening with my bible study girlfriends and our kids filling shoe boxes with goodies for the homeless at the Open Door Mission (hats, gloves, socks, toothpaste, etc.). I spent Tuesday night with the kids at Cub Scouts as they filled plates with cookies for local families in need -- four dozen of which the hubby baked himself. (Thank you!) And I spent last night with my church girlfriends (a.k.a. the Kismet girls) enjoying one another's company over dinner. It was a nice, quiet, fun-filled evening in the midst of the snow covered Christmas rush.
This morning I was thinking about the holiday season and how people across the faith spectrum rally together to make the world a bit brighter for each other and for those in need. While I recognize that there are people of all backgrounds and faith traditions who devote their lives to helping others, I also recognize that Christmas often brings out the best in those of us (e.g., me!) who need a little more prompting. It's the time of year when non-believers and believers alike will give a bit more of themselves than they do throughout the year. When churches are SRO. When people go out of their way to share a little token of their appreciation with others. When we deck the halls with boughs of holly and share a glass of wine with our neighbors. (Mind you, the latter half of that sentence is a nightlycommon ritual in our neighborhood regardless of season.)
During any other time of the year, you can tell most people that you're a devout Buddhist and they'll think it's cool because we're trained from a young age to welcome, nay embrace, all religions (as we should). On the same token, at any other time of the year, you can tell most people that you're a devout Christian and they'll think you're a simpleton that needs a crutch. Born again Jesus freak. So I ask, why the double standard?
At this time of year, however, we can say "Merry Christmas" to others and it's not considered offensive. Is it because the holiday is sanitized? Because it's associated with Santa and gift giving and not with Christ? Our savior?
I wish that radical acceptance of people's beliefs, regardless of faith or sect, would be widespread year round. And I wish that radical change of my own behavior, my desire to give more to the world and dedicate my life to God, would be my driving force year round and not just on the occasional night out in December.
I want the spirit of the season to fill my very being every day of my life.
I seem to have a habit recently of quoting one of the hubby's musician friend's Facebook comments but yesterday he wrote (about Rochester), "The music scene is as good as ever, thanks to the die hard spirit that comes from this cold, shitty area, that everyone endures and comes to celebrate. Bring it on Old Man Winter!"
Blue collar poetry at its finest and I agree: Bring it on. Masses and masses of snow. Hot toddies in front of the fireplace.
This morning was just gorgeous. I could see for miles as I drove through the countryside. Snow was covering the trees and lightly falling from a pale blue and muted pink early morning sky. It truly felt like a dream.
Our family's latest Sunday ritual involves whining the following line repeatedly: Do I have to go to church?
Last Sunday, I said to Son #1, "Maybe you could attempt this week to listen to the sermon because it's usually pretty interesting."
He responded, "I tried that last time. It was so boring that I began praying to God that he would knock me out. Hit me over the head. Anything so I could black out and then come to again when it was over."
It served as a nice reminder to me of why God doesn't answer all prayers.
I decided to cease drinking for 40 days in a bit of a self-imposed, spiritual quest. I felt convicted that if I'm seeking clarity from God, I need to respond in kind. I'm fairly certain that it would be difficult for Him to provide keen insight if my mind is dulled by Pinot Noir.
Like management consulting, the best work in the world (i.e., God's, of course!) will go unheeded if there is not a dedicated receiver at the client site (i.e., my addled brain).
So I'm cleaning up my act with the hope that I can gain some lucidity regarding my so-called career. Whereas, to co-opt a term that my pastor uses, there's a bit of a "God on demand" quotient in this pursuit, I understand fully that there is no guarantee that I will achieve anything more than my current state of angst-riddled ambiguity. But I have faith. And there's no foreseeable downside to this effort that I'm aware of.
It's been only 10 days thus far and counting. Yet here's where I find it alarming: like going without a cigarette when you first quit, I have recently found myself craving a glass of wine or a dirty martini. Worrisome, no?
Last night, I went out to dinner with my girlfriends and for the first time -- since high school?!-- I didn't have a single drink with them. Every once in a while, throughout the evening, I would get a pang of desire followed by internal bartering (e.g., just one sip will be okay). Thankfully I didn't cave. And we had a blast.
At the end of the night, my girlfriends suggested that if I really want some spiritual insights, I should begin smoking peyote.
