Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles by Rivvy Neshama (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📗

To feel more connected to the house itself, we walk through it barefoot or in slippers, having made our home shoe-free. It felt strange at first. But now I find that just by removing my shoes at the door, I begin to feel this space is special. It makes me feel special too.

(“Good,” my dad says. “But me, I’ll wear shoes.”) Sure, Dad, whatever.

Then there’s feng shui, an ancient Chinese practice. It’s a way to bring good energy into your home and life—through proper placement of objects and colors and the harmonious use of water and wind. For us, it was a last resort. Because of the ghost.

It all started with the contractor, who said he’d help build us the house of our dreams. He seemed perfectly skilled and honest, but he was neither. Every day something broke or gave us problems. And when his budget ran out, he did too—but not before telling me the house was haunted and blaming that for all that went wrong.

Now, I never really believed in ghosts, but his words stayed with me, like a curse. And once we moved in, the energy of the house did seem, well, askew. Which is why we asked Sawada, a Buddhist monk we knew, for help.

Buddhists believe in a ghost realm and have ceremonies for blessing homes. Sawada came in his saffron robes, sat on the floor with John and me, and chanted prayers in Sanskrit. When he was done, I asked if the ghosts were gone. “No,” he said, “but don’t worry. I made them Buddhists!”

Okay, I admit it: Buddhist ghosts sounded friendlier. Still, I wanted them out.

So I read three books on feng shui, and following their guidance, we totally cleaned and decluttered our house and blessed it—with the help of Jeanne V., our friend and neighborhood shaman.

Jeanne led us from room to room while banging her drum and saying “Be gone!” to scare off ghosts and other bad sorts. “House blessings,” Jeanne explained, “let you clean your house on an energetic level.” Then she lit some sage, waved it in every corner, and said, “Just like temple keepers, we need to keep purifying the space where we live.”

(While all this clearing and cleansing was going on, I could hear my dad chuckling above, “Fung shway, Oy Vey! I was hocking her to clean her room since she was ten!”)

Another neighbor who helped harmonize our home—and kick out the ghosts—was Laurelyn, a feng shui consultant. “Once you create sacred space,” she said, “the walls of your home become more permeable, so nature and magic can start coming in.”

We followed most of her advice, and our house really did feel lighter, more flowing, ghost-free.

But the best thing she taught us was this: When you open your house to others with love, that’s when your home becomes sacred and blessed.

(“You got it!” says Dad. “Now you’re cooking with gas!”)

ONE HOLY DAY

I met John for dinner at Shanghai Gourmet. Like most restaurants that call themselves “gourmet,” it’s anything but. The food is fair and a little bland, you pick up your order when they call your name, and the seats in the booths are patched up with tape.

It wasn’t until we sat down to eat that I remembered it was Sabbath. For many years, each Friday, we’d been lighting candles and blessing the wine and bread. It made that time special and lent an aura of peace.

“It’s Sabbath!” I said, feeling sad we’d forgotten.

“No worries,” John replied. And my good Church of England husband pulled out from his jacket pocket some wrapped-up bread, a votive candle, and a tiny wine cup half-filled with Manishevitz. We lit the candle and the blessings began.

Friday nights, when I was young, meant dinner at Nana’s. The table was set with a white lace cloth, a dish of black olives sat between the Sabbath candles, and tall crystal glasses held ginger ale with ice—the sharp kind of ginger ale that fizzed into your nose. Everything was always the same; everything felt like a ritual. Sometimes we’d get there early and find Nana scrubbing the house. She did it so intently, I thought this was another ritual. Just one more part of keeping Sabbath. I still think so. And when I clean our house well, especially on Fridays, it seems to take on a glow, and I do too.

You don’t have to be Jewish to keep Sabbath, and it can be any day you choose: one day each week, sundown to sundown, that’s set apart by the way you spend it.

For a few years, I honored Sabbath by fasting, which almost always makes me high. Then I considered making Saturday a day of silence, but alas, I’m a talker, and talkers talk. What I did stop doing, though, is work. And that gives me the gift of time: to sit and do nothing, to call people I’ve been meaning to call, or to immerse myself in nature.

Judaism considers Sabbath the most important holiday of all. It’s a time to give thanks for the creation of the world, a day to celebrate with joy, rest, and holiness. For me, the holiest part is at sundown, when we light the candles and say the blessings.

When my kids were young, we kept a simple Sabbath: The table held two candles, which I lit and blessed. Then Tony blessed the wine, Elise blessed the hallah, and I blessed the children. With the three of us standing, I placed my hands lightly on their little heads—on Elise’s bouncy curls and Tony’s silky straight hair—and recited the prayer in Hebrew and English: “May God bless you and keep you. May God cause his countenance to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you, and grant you peace.” Something about that blessing felt so good I’d almost cry.

Now, with John, I end by saying this: “May the light from these candles come into our hearts and into the world.”

That’s what I said at Shanghai