The First Ten Commandments

It's seems to me that Jews who read the Hebrew Scriptures, par'sha by par'sha each year sometimes think the huge non-Jewish part of  the Judeo-Christian world is unduly satisfied with the first ten comandments; whereas they--we--have to deal with six hundred and three more (less those, of course, which are impossible to follow today, because they involve a temple and an altar and some still-volatile lighter fluid).

Yet, this past Saturday at services in my synagogue, we had an evocative discussion about, among other things, the "first ten." And it came to me--I'm ashamed to admit, for the first time--that these are more than "starter" commandments. They provide a fairly complete guide to living a good life. By which, of course, I do not mean "the" good life, as in one with expensive accouterments. I mean a life lived with awareness that one is only one among many; a life in which we listen as well as talk; a life in which we share some of what we have with those who have less;  a life in which we love without a list of pre-conditions; a life in which we honor our elders, no matter how old they are; a life in which we teach the young mainly by example; and a life in which we show gratitude to God for everything--violets and Bach and all the greens grass grows in and the helpful criticism of a good friend and church thrift shops and the Frick and the color of Roman buildings and ripe nectarines and the Sea of Galilee and the poems of George Herbert and cherries every June and the thrillers of Alan Furst and Middlemarch and Mitsouko perfune and people who know how to make ailing computers work again.  For a start. And, dear-God-how-could-I-leave-it-out, for 72% chocolate.

Well, my list is long and could be a lot longer, but to my point: beyond gratitude to God for all life's pleasures, there is gratitude to God for the first ten commandments, which if we take each one to heart and mind and spirit, offer us guidance enough to live a good life.

I vote for the sanctity of behavior over observance every time. I suspect and, yes, pray that God does, too.

Amen.

Romance Times Three

He had a peg leg and an ace up his sleeve.  His name was Timothy Angus Jones, and I had been given his phone number. I almost didn't call, because the other connection Martha and Quentin had in mind for this, my first trip abroad, turned out to be so rude to the waiter during our lunch that I coudn't bring myself to see him again--even though that meeting might well have included tea with Bernard Berenson. A once-in-a-lifetime chance walked away from because I was taught that manners count most when you are dealing with people who are not in a position to tell you to go to hell.

So I only phoned Timothy because I was unexpectedly lonely in London. I told him who gave me his name and where I was staying. And he, after perhaps forty-five seconds, said a cool goodbye. Not only didn't he ask me out, he didn't ask me anything. I sat staring at the phone in disbelief. Mind you, the friends who had recommended both these men had excellent manners. About Timothy, moreover, they had said that he was "the most charming man in London."

The phone rang. Gingerly--phones were not to be trusted--I picked it up. Again quickly, Timothy Jones asked me to lunch that very day--in less than two hours!--without offering any explanation for his behavior either time. (Of course he did, eventually, but that's not an essential part of this memory.)

Well, he was the most charming man in London. Not that I had many with whom to compare him, but when--if--you meet a man that charming, you just know there aren't twenty more like him within any city's limits.

So charming was he that, halfway through our lunch, he invited me to meet his mother. No, he wasn't that smitten--or foolhardy. His mother was Enid Bagnold. (If you don't know what she wrote, you should...well, actually you do know one of  her books--or at least the movie. But she wrote better books and terrific plays.)  When I asked for and got permission from my boss at Crown Publishers to extend my stay in London, Timothy also invited me to stay in his flat. I already knew there was not a guest bedroom. Or even a futon. (Did they or even the word exist back then? No matter.) I moved in.

The next three weeks were a fantasy for this girl from the Bronx. We did visit Enid Bagnold--and her husband. Timothy's father was Sir Roderick Jones, all five-foot-three of him wildly delightful and not merely because he chased me around their gazebo.  That night, at dinner, when Sir Roderick joined the table, he turned to me and said, "Miss Stein, my children do not revere me enough. What shall I do?" And I, twenty-two and dazzled but not enough to keep my mouth shut, said, "Sir Roderick, if they revered you any more, you'd have to be in a mausoleum."

That visit was more flull of romance than I dreamed possible, or experienced again. But I am not greedy. Falling in love with Timothy, his mother, and his father--and having all three reciprocate my enchantment, well, once was enough.

  

My Favorite Place

For as long as I can remember, my favorite place has been on a beautiful old carousel horse going up, down, and around. Coming upon one during an outing, I have at times embarrassed a friend who thinks carousels are exclusively for children--and a parent, if needed by the wee ones. Frankly, I think that carousels, like Jonathan Swift, are not for children. To a child, it's just another form of being lifted up. That's my theory, anyway.  Whereas to me a carousel is a grand trip around a safe world: the gorgeous horse I'm on, not terrifying, the way real horses are; the music reliably old and without hate for anyone. And I can let go--not the easiest thing for me to do.

That reminds me of an experience I had during my first trip to England. A new--brand new--invited me to drive down to Rottingdean to meet his parents. They turned out to be titled, and for good reason. But that part of the story is for another time. After a long, late lunch, all gathered in one of the cozy living rooms. Conversation began and ebbed and soon everyone retired to his or her own thoughts--or none. Seated beside the fireplace, something came upon me, a kind of half-dream state. Totally unfamiliar. As I leaned back into the chair and my feeling of ease grew, it--very slowly--tiptoed into my head that this was what being relaxed felt like. My virgin experience. I was twenty-two.

So: carousels and one of the three connected Jones houses in Rottingdean make the list of favorite places cherished memories. (Although if anyone reading this wants to drive me to a carousel I haven't been on,  I can be ready in twenty minutes.) But my all-time favorite place is one I have never visited. Nor, if you're reading this, have you. I have no idea what it's like--I used to think it was either where I would get all my questions answered; or, still better, have no more questions. But now...I want to be surprised. You listening, God? That would be heaven.    

The Real Trouble with Procrastination

Everybody says it's bad, except the folks who are both honest and know it pays off.  Some work done before you're ready, such as washing the kitchen floor, is an excellent idea--because unless you're a mop, there's never a good time to wash the kitchen floor. If, however, the work you've got to do is paint or write or sculpt or build a new computer program, it may be a good idea to wait until your mind signals that it's prepared to focus 100%. I am definitely not saying that you should wait for your muse to show up--she may be on a jaunt to Finland--but only until you can concentrate on the project at hand. Then do not delay. Get to work.

Still, there is, as the title of this little post suggests, a problem with procrastinating even when the work to be done calls for serious focus. And the problem is, some days the only way to achieve focus is to face the adversary--the blank screen--and stare back at it until your fingers start writing SOMETHING. Or stare at the canvas...or fiddle with a program you have already developed and see if you can get it to cough up an ancillary idea.

In other words, if you have a craft or an art or want to grow up to be Steve Jobs, there's no point in procrastinating because you can't clock out for good, you just can't. Might as well start work now, since it IS
your work that's waiting.

There is one--but only one--out. Go wash the kitchen floor. After that, your real work will remind you of Eden.

To Chocolate

Better think of this as a conditional ode. And love shouldn't be conditional.  Though, of course, it usually is. If it were not, I would have stayed married even though my husband found it silly to carry my handkerchief in his jacket pocket when we went out. I did require that. In fact, I thought that not having to carry my own handkerchief when I was dressed up was the best thing about being married. (I may have mentioned that once or twice, which might explain why he did not fight the divorce.)  But this talk is not about my former/late husband and me, it's about chocolate and me, and all the two relationships really share is, well, that "me" part.

Let's get my confession out of the way. Chocolate is getting increasingly expensive. And that doesn't seem to affect my behavior. I satisfy my lust for chocolate regardless of the escalating cost of a decent bar. And they do add up. No modest square  or two of Ghiradelli or Godiva 72% after dinner satisfies my hunger. One square leads to another, and any number of good intentions are forgotten in the pleasure of a thin square of dark chocolate on my tongue. (I did mention 72%, right?)

Let's just say that I am not a person who carries moderation to extremes. All one or two squares satisfy is my asking myself why I cannot resist starting that bar--when I know the answer.  Other relationships cost more, that's why.

And it's true, most of the time chocolate and I have a delicious relationship. Still, there are times I feel a need to be alone. At peace. I figure it's the abbess in me. Anyway, it's my need from time to time not to be involved with chocolate that brings me directly to why I laud chocolate only conditionally. I would praise its dark sensual taste without reservation, praise in rhyme its ability when thin enough to melt on my ready tongue, its glide down my throat--well, not conditionally, if it only didn't call to me in its siren voice every time I walk by the kitchen.

I never said I was ready to relinquish my independence.