12/27/2020 0 Comments Becoming Catholic - Part 21976 – When Catherine and I married in 1976, I was under the pleasant delusion that I was simply marrying Catherine. I did not realize that I would become part of Catherine’s very large and welcoming Polish / Catholic family. Ah well, I was young. I would not actually get to know them well until 11 years later when Catherine and I finished our commitment to the Magic Company, and could spend more time with them. However, there is one person who plays a subtle but significant role in my voyage to becoming Catholic, Catherine’s mom, my mother-in-law. Her name was Frances, but we all called her Babci (Grandma in Polish), after her first grandchild Elizabeth, our daughter was born. Babci followed the wisdom of St. Francis (her namesake), “Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary use words.” Babci taught by example, simply by the way she lived her life. I loved Babci from the start. She was surely my second mother. I would sometimes say to her “You are my favorite mother-in-law”. “But David”, she would respond, “I am your only mother-in law”. I would counter, “But that doesn’t mean that you are my favorite. She would laugh and sometimes say, “Well, you are my favorite son-in- law”. I would remind her that I was her only son-in-law. Then we would both laugh. How sweet is that! Babci’s parents both came from Poland and had eleven (11) children. Babci also had five children of her own in eight years, Catherine being the oldest. Babci functioned very well in “orderly chaos”. She worked all her life as a hairdresser whose shop was in her house. Catherine had over 30 first cousins, many of whom lived nearby and visited frequently. Babci and her large family were Polish and Catholic, and going to church was simply baked in. God was in the flowers, the compost and especially the FOOD. For Babci, food was love. She was a marvelous cook both of Polish food and what we now call “healthy” food – vegetables, grains, minimal sugar, yogurt, etc. She was highly influenced by Adele Davis, perhaps the most famous nutritionist in Babci’s era. But as for religious, theological or even Catholic dogma, I do not ever remember even hearing a conversation in all the years I knew her. What I saw was a person who found good in almost everything and spent her life caring for others. More to come on her in future blogs. 1982 – By this time. Catherine worked at the Theatre full time, and we lived about 20 minutes away. Our town had a good school system but it would not be convenient for Catherine to leave the Theater every day, pick Elizabeth up, and then go back to the Theatre. There was a small Catholic School, St. Mary’s, within walking distance of the Theatre. Catherine had gone to a parochial elementary school and was familiar with the type of education offered. We both thought it would offer good basics, not only academically but also as a caring place focused on service to others. Elizabeth had not been baptized as an infant. After we decided that she would go to St. Mary’s, it seemed sensible to us that Elizabeth be baptized to get the “full Catholic package.” All her relatives who lived nearby were Catholic and this would become part of her upbringing. We made an appointment to meet with Father Johnson, the head Priest whom we already knew and liked. In fact, six years earlier when we purchased the Theatre, our group attended a Mass that he said as our “welcoming” moment to the town. Our conversation with Father Johnson was rolling along discussing details of Elizabeth’s baptism and some of the logistics involved. I innocently mentioned that we had been married by a justice of the peace. Father Johnson’s face turned somewhat ashen and he looked directly at Catherine. “Even if David does not know what this means, I am sure that you do.” She nodded in agreement. He explained to me that in the Church’s eyes, we are NOT married. I was feeling a bit jaunty and blurted out “So, are we living in sin? It is quite pleasant.” He took it in stride and said that although it was not required, he would strongly recommend a church blessing of our marriage which would rectify this “indiscretion”. He said it would be better for Elizabeth as she progressed through her Catholic education and all the attending rituals. He explained that the blessing would come after some “pre-cana” (pre-marriage) counseling. I enjoyed our few “pre-cana” sessions. He asked earnest and reaching questions about the type of marriage and the type of parents we wished to be. We were still in the very early stages of our marriage and there really was a lot to consider. We picked a date for both the blessing of our marriage on the altar of the church and Elizabeth’s baptism at the baptismal font in a private section behind the altar. The witnesses for the blessing were two good friends from the Theatre who also became Elizabeth’s godparents. And so it was that another detail of my Becoming Catholic fell into place.
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12/19/2020 0 Comments Becoming Catholic - Part 1So much of my journey to becoming Catholic feels accidental and filled with coincidence. Yet, on looking back, through the window of now, there appears to be a pattern, almost a guiding hand, unnoticed at the time. Was it pursuing me? This series of blogs is an attempt to tell my surprising voyage to becoming Catholic. 1968- I was 21, had graduated college and moved to Boston to “find” my spiritual adventure. I chose Boston because of a particular person (Cesareo), whom I hoped would become my friend and mentor. This indeed did occur, and we stayed in very close relationship for 20 years. He had been brought up as a Cuban Catholic and trained by Jesuits. However, his relationship with Catholicism and the Church was anything but conventional or literal. In fact, from my perspective, his being Catholic hardly existed in my world. Even though in the 1950s and 60s, Christianity and Catholicism accounted for 90% of the people in the United States, I knew nothing about it. I had been brought up in a middle-class Jewish family where 99% of my surroundings and friends were Jewish. My only childhood familiarity with Christmas was one neighbor in my apartment house who always had a present under her tree for my brother and me. I became more familiar with Christmas and Easter in college because my girlfriend was Italian / Catholic. However, our holiday celebrations were all about food, not church. I don’t remember ever actually going to Mass for any reason at all until three years later. I was far more interested in what Jacob Needleman called the “New Religions” and in the spiritual and humanistic traditions that were being explored in psychology. At that time, Cesareo urged me to learn the basics of hypnosis as well as karate, both of which I willingly did. However, I thought it was a bit odd when he suggested that I do a weekend retreat at St. Joseph's Abbey, a Trappist monastery in Spenser Massachusetts, which was two hours from my little apartment in Cambridge. When I called the monastery to make a reservation, I was asked “what is your religion?” “Jewish” I responded. “Are you aware that we are a Catholic Trappist Monastery? I asked if I were still welcome. “Certainly.” I brought some of my Hermann Hesse books with me to the monastery. The monastery was located on the way to the Berkshires and is situated on a very high hill overlooking the entire area. The grounds were breath-taking and it was necessary to follow a long winding road to the top of the hill. When I got out of the car, it was quiet, very, very quiet. I instantly knew I was going to like this place. The retreat gave me the opportunity to be alone, to reflect on my life, to walk and to sit quietly in my room and begin to explore prayer. We were invited to join the monks as they prayed all the offices throughout the day. Father Cletus was in charge of the retreat and he was very kind to me. I was significantly younger than the other people on the retreat and he was intrigued that I was Jewish. We had a few private conversations and he invited me to spend some time with a few of the monks. Although the Trappists are essentially a silent order, they were given permission to speak with the people on the retreat. One of the monks, Brother Leo, I met was about 50 years old and a very simple and gentle soul. He liked painting watercolors and had his paintings hung up all over his room. He was remarkably childlike and open as he showed me his paintings. This was the first time I experienced that some humans actually choose to live a life like this. Another monk that I met was 85 years old. We took a long, slow walk together down to the bottom of the hill. He told me that he had joined the order when he was a teenager, when talking was strictly prohibited. When I inquired what this was like for him, he said that talking was actually far less significant than most people might expect. He also had a quality of thoughtfulness and presence about him with no pretense. Upon my departure, Father Cletus gave me several books to read that he thought I might enjoy. I gave him my copy of Magister Ludi, my favorite book by Hermann Hesse. 1971 – It would be another three years before anything “Catholic” occurred in my life again. I was living at a retreat center in New Hampshire started by Cesareo. Father Cletus had visited and actually baptized the first child born in the community. Many marvelous people from different religious and spiritual traditions would come on weekends to teach us and our paying guests. One of the frequent visitors was a Father Joe, an older Priest who had a very nice way about him. He would do a Mass sharing bread that we had baked. I became interested in communion and found out that an appropriate pre-requisite was baptism. Cesareo told me that anyone who was baptized could baptize another if the circumstances made it necessary to do so. He suggested that our circumstances fit the bill and so, in a lovely little ceremony, he baptized me. This act would have very significant ripples in my life almost 30 years later. The next event on this journey occurred in 1976 when Catherine and I got married. I will start with that on my next blog. 12/12/2020 0 Comments 24 Hours in New York CityAfter I finished my career job in appraisal management in 2011, I was fortunate to attract an interesting side gig. Approximately once a month, for three years, I took a plane to some city east of the Mississippi and audited foreclosure law firms for various banks. I never knew precisely how long the audit would take, so I budgeted extra time, just in case it was necessary. When I flew to NYC to audit a law firm on the lower end of Manhattan, it turned out that I was able to start early and the law firm was very prepared so the audit ended early. I had already booked the hotel for the night and a plane for the following afternoon. This gave me the late afternoon, the evening, and the following morning to explore this part of New York. Let’s call it 24 hours of “free” time. What to do? I knew that my very favorite magazine, called Parabola, that I have been reading since the 1970s, was somewhere in the area. I decided to visit their office and simply say thanks. Also, it gave me a nice endpoint as I walked and “inhaled” the city’s sounds, sights and rhythms. I had no idea if anyone would be around since it was already getting a bit late in the day but that was quite secondary. When I finally reached their building and walked up the stairs, the receptionist told me that they had recently left for day. I left a little “thank you” note. First task accomplished, now what? I have a cousin, Don, who lives relatively close to where I was. I have seen him infrequently since our childhood days when we played as cousins. We have always had a mutual fondness for each other. I called and left a message on his cell. He is a medical doctor and I had no idea of his schedule. I was feeling a bit tired (it had been a long day), so I wished to find a nice space for renewal. St Patrick’s Cathedral was too far away and it occurred to me that there might be a meditation center nearby. Sure enough, the New York Insight Meditation Center was within easy walking. I found the building, took the clanky elevator to the top, 10th floor, and entered the reception area. No one was at the desk when I entered. There was a place to leave shoes and I walked quietly into the meditation hall, a large open space with very high windows and couches along the edges. I was the only one in the room. At that moment, the sun’s energy was flooding the room through the high windows. I found a place on the side, selected one of the couches and sat, breathing in the quiet. Maybe 10 minutes later, a woman entered. She began to do her yoga practice and it was a thing of beauty to watch as she moved seamlessly from posture to posture. Eventually she finished and departed, and soon after, I left feeling refreshed. When I checked my cell phone, there was a warm and inviting message from Don, “Hi Cuz! I would love to see you and have supper together.” I walked to his doctor’s office, and after he finished his work, we walked to his home in Greenwich Village. Don, his wife, Holly and I walked to their favorite little Japanese restaurant. During our chat, I reminisced about attending Stuyvesant High School as a teenager. In my day, it was all boys and focused on math and science. There was also a never- ending smell of rotten eggs because the chemistry lab was located below the entrance lobby. I had read in alumnae letters that the school had moved to a new building. They told me that the new Stuyvesant was actually close to my hotel. I decided I would visit the school. Next morning, as I ventured toward Stuyvesant High School, my walk took me through the Tribeca area. It had all the vibes of being a cool section with posters for festivals, lectures, performances, political action, and lots of coffee places. Entering the school, there was a large area with security guards / police and metal detectors. I spoke to one security guard and told her that I had been a student at Stuyvesant 50 years ago, was in NYC just for morning, and wondered if I might visit. After hearing my tale, she was kind but quite direct that no one can simply wander around or see a class without an escort. We were getting along well by that point so I asked if she could be my escort for a short visit. She laughed and said no but would try to find someone related to the alumnae office. She pointed to a bench in the middle of lobby and told me I could wait there. Thus, there I sat and then wandered just a little for more than ½ hour seeing the students, reading the wall posters about all sorts of school activities and opportunities, including science competitions, political action as well as school spirit. The security guard eventually came over and told me that she could not find anyone to show me around. I thanked her for allowing me to sit on the bench and I was very happy for the experience When I had gone to Stuyvesant, in the early 1960s, the student body was mostly Jewish as was the principal. Now the student body, at least from my informal watching, was mostly Asian. I found it so in keeping with my impressions from India that the new waves of cultures who focused on education could now take advantage of a specialized public school for bright kids. Even the principal was Chinese at that moment. It was just wonderful to see these wide-eyed teenagers, both boys and girls now, with no smell of rotten eggs, with ear buds, bounding through the halls.. I walked back through Tribeca to my hotel stopping for a latte, got a ride to the airport and then home. 12/3/2020 0 Comments India - Traffic in BangaloreOne aspect of India that I loved was its “all at once” attitude. Contradictions were everywhere and in full view. For example, Bangalore was in the midst of an uncontrolled technology boom with building and scaffolding occurring everywhere I looked. But, along the roadside, the poverty was intense. Or, the educational system was quite extraordinary for the top 10-20% of the country, but village life for the majority of the country belonged to a previous century. I felt that the traffic in Bangalore also served as a remarkable metaphor for this “all at once” experience, that it needed its own blog post. I have included a traffic photo but to get the full and troublesome experience, including the sound, go to YouTube Bangalore traffic. From my travels to India from 2002 – 2007, I was, at first, terrified and then fascinated by Bangalore traffic. The Indians drive on the left side of the road. A major road runs through and around the City and has, what appeared to me, six lanes on each side. The lanes are not marked, and there is a sense of a free-for-all, but drivers generally appear to follow certain guidelines. The largest cars, say, SUVs, which was the type of vehicle provided by our hotel with a driver, are apparently entitled to the most interior lane (I will call it lane 6). In lane 5 are regular 4 door cars, then lane 4 are the auto-rigshaws (three-wheelers), then motorcycles, sometimes with a family of 4 people on one motorcycle, then bicycles and non-motorized rigshaws, meaning someone pulling a cart, and in the final lane are walkers, mothers with baby strollers, and also important, cows! To get the full experience, add to this wildness several buses that end up in any lane whatsoever. A basic rule is that if any car (say our SUV) is behind any other car that is not going fast enough (and they never are), our driver honks, not a blaring honk but more like a “beep-beep”, (think the cartoon character “road runner”) and something miraculous happens. The car in front does its best to move over to the left. In general, as the car that was in front of us tries to move over, the driver in the abutting left lane attempts to let him in. This causes disruption and leads to accidents (more on that later). In the meantime, this same “beep-beep” routine continues and cars keep continually moving over. So even though there is not a nasty blaring on the horn, there is so much noise that it is cacophonous. Although this would be more than enough to freak anyone out, this is just the beginning. There are cross roads attempting to enter into the road. On occasion, there are stop lights and even policemen, but mostly not. So, somehow or other, cross traffic cars enter into the melee and get into the action. That includes all the types of vehicles and walkers. I already mentioned that on the most outside lane are people and cows. There is often some scrub grass along the road to entertain the cows. But it inevitably that a cow decides to go from its most outside lane and walk towards the inside lane. It is definitely NOT OK to hit a cow. So, traffic must come to some kind of accommodation until the cow can be brought back to its rightful lane. Cows are protected and revered in India as part of the Hindu tradition. Once I saw a bus that hit and I believe killed a cow. The bus driver was pulled out of the bus and was surrounded by a very angry looking crowd. I don’t know how it ended. During my time in India, I wondered and worried how much worse the traffic would become as the enormity of uncontrolled building continued unabated. In fact, while writing this blog, I read a number of recent stories and articles stating that the traffic in Bangalore may now be rated the very worst world-wide. Yikes! A Car Accident On one occasion, Peter and I took a smaller 4-door car to visit another part of the city. We were in traffic when our driver heard the “beep-beep” from behind and he dutifully attempted to pull over. Either he did not notice the auto-rigshaw on his left or the auto-rigshaw driver did not slow down and let him in, but it was a loud crash. The auto-rigshaw also had people in it. The driver of the auto-rigshaw stopped his car in the midst of insane traffic and got out of his vehicle, furious. That he was not hit by another vehicle was a little miracle in itself, as the cars, motorcycles, etc. swerved around him. His vehicle was definitely damaged and he wanted our driver to pay him. They spoke in Hindi and we could not understand the words but the anger and the gestures were universal. The auto-rigshaw driver would not let our driver get back into our car. He blocked the door and would not leave until he received money. In the meantime, all the drivers behind us had to pull over to the left (somehow) to get by. Lots of honking! Eventually our driver paid the other driver some money, and they both yelled at each other and got back in their vehicles. When our driver calmed down, we asked him if this “method” of resolving accidents was typical. “Oh yes”, he said, “very little insurance. This is just the way we do it.” Categories |
David FeldmanDog walker, Dog Mediator, Father, Husband, Categories |