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

nuns. The last march I went to, in Washington, had a crowd that stretched farther than you could see, and our hope was rising along with our numbers.

In May of the year when that war finally ended, a celebration took place in Central Park. Joan Baez was there, and so were countless others. It was a communal explosion of sorrow and joy, and there was comfort in knowing we each played our small part.

But years later, when our country was more secretly involved in a civil war in El Salvador, I found myself marching again. This time the rally was at Columbia University on a cold winter day, and there were fewer than eighty of us there. I didn’t know anyone, and most people were much younger than I was. Instead of feeling communal, I felt out of place, and wished I’d stayed home where it was cozy and warm. Then they started chanting:

What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!

The same words we had chanted so many years before at so many marches. A shiver went through me; I was back where I belonged. At the same time, it felt sad and ironic to hear the same old chants and wonder when, if ever, war would end.

The rally leaders directed us toward the streets, and an older man holding a peace sign passed beside me. He was a well-known New York activist, and we had met at rallies before.

“Here we go again,” I said, smiling but discouraged. “How much longer do we need to do this?”

His answer was simple: “Until there’s no more war.”

In Kabbalah lore, there’s a myth of creation, When God first made the world, it says, he poured divine light into clay vessels to make everything shine with holiness. But the vessels were fragile and they shattered, trapping sparks of light beneath pieces of clay.

Some say that’s why God made people: to find and free the holy light. Others say God always meant to leave the world imperfect so we could work with him, as partners, to perfect it.

Isaac Luria, a sixteenth-century mystic, first told this myth. He said it explained our collective task: tikkun olam, a Hebrew term that means “to heal or repair the world.” In Jewish tradition, this can mean working for peace and justice, or fighting for the health of our planet, or doing whatever we can to spread the light.

Where to begin?

Wherever you’re drawn. The world has no lack of problems.

What can we do?

There’s something for everyone. Even signing a petition can make a difference and let you feel the power of community.

How long do we need to do this?

Until the world is healed.

Tikkun olam.

HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL?

My sister Susan is new to Facebook. She’s a big executive who works very hard and never has time for such things. But one day, not too long ago, she went on Facebook, joining the nearly three billion people who preceded her, and, like the rest of us, was slyly drawn in.

At first, she was just a blank avatar who did some likes and shares. Next, she posted some photos from her smart phone—and a profile picture of her gorgeous self. And then she found the “WHO YOU ARE” tests. You know, the ones that ask which color or animal or number you like best and then tell you Who You Are (or Who You Were in a previous life!).

I rarely if ever do those tests. Partly because that would force me to face how much time I waste with stupid things on Facebook. I’m also a little nervous that I’ll get bad results. While Susan always gets and posts things like “Your heart is red. You are full of passion, kindness, and love,” I might get “Your heart is dark. You need to think more of others.”

Well, yesterday she called me and we were chatting away, and then she went for the kill. “I did another one of those tests on Facebook,” she said. “And they told me that I’m a very rare person. I see the glass both half empty and half full!”

Wow, I said. I didn’t even know that was an option. I thought the world was divided into two: those who see half empty and those who see half full. And I feared I often fall into the former. Sure, there are days when I feel such joy and gratitude that the glass feels brimming. But lately, when several friends have died or are seriously ill, when so many young people feel lost, refugees are drowning, the whole planet seems endangered, and I nonetheless feel overwhelmed by my own small problems . . . I take the half-full days as a blessing.

Then I thought about it some more and one of those bulbs went off over my head. “Susan!” I exclaimed. “That’s it! That’s the answer! The glass is both half empty and half full! And we need to see both!”

Yes, some of my closest friends have died, and I fear losing others. But my love and appreciation for each of them grows stronger. And so does my realization that we are all dying, which can lead to depression or a greater love of each day or both: half empty, half full.

Yes, I know young people who have lost their way and are deeply suffering. But this opens my heart. And if I reach out to help, there is the joy of connection, and there is hope. Half empty, half full.

Yes, so many people and countries are in crisis, and some lost souls are shooting others for confusing reasons, and politics have become a gladiator sport, and our beloved Earth is in trouble.

But I just saw a documentary of a man’s love for his dying dog and the dog’s love for the man.

And the California condor is returning, along with the brown bear, gray wolf, and flying squirrel.

And my grandsons and I spent an hour on YouTube watching straight and gay folks make surprise, over-the-top marriage proposals