And there are daily acts of kindness. And the first flowers of spring. And the warmth we feel when we smile at a stranger and they smile back.
And, as Hemmingway wrote, the sun also rises. It’s a quote from the Bible, Ecclesiastes. “The sun also rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it arose.”
So yes. The glass is both. Half empty and half full. Always was. Always will be.
It was a trick question.
SPEAKING SPANISH IN MEXICO
I was going to list the things I do that make my life feel sacred, things like painting, tutoring, and playing the guitar. Or watching the moonrise and speaking Spanish in Mexico. Things that lift me out of my self, into connection, and often into a state of joy.
Then I realized that this would be my list, and what makes them sacred is doing things that I love. So your list might be, well, whatever connects you with your passion and love. And when you do what you love, you feel love. It’s that simple.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kiss the ground.
—RUMI
ONE LAST SONG
My mother, Irene Feldman, was a singer. She once auditioned in New York for Irving Berlin, who offered her a gig that very night. But she was young and scared and went back to Philly—to be a housewife, raise three kids, and star in such synagogue specials as Porgy and Bess. Two of those kids, sister Susan and I, shared her aspirations, which we displayed at an early age by singing show tunes at dinner. Susan went on to make it to Broadway. I just went on. But I went on singing, a way to open my heart.
It wasn’t until I moved to Boulder that I first attended a singing party. Helen and Allan often had them at their house in the mountains. They would make copies of the songs for that evening, though anyone could start a song they liked.
One night, near the winter solstice, I went there with Paul and Jeanne, even though I had the winter blues and was not in the mood for singing (in fact, I was thinking, Oh puleez!). But I was in the mood for drinking. So once we arrived, I poured a glass of Bailey’s, sat near the fire, and listened.
Some of the people sang solos, which were pleasant to hear, but mostly we sang together, which raised the energy much more. It felt good to be with people and not have to talk—just everyone together, singing. Especially rousing were old-time favorites (“She’ll Be Comin’ ’Round the Mountain”), gospel music (“Amazing Grace”), and top hits from My Fair Lady.
When we bundled up to leave, Helen told me, “I’m glad you came. I could tell you were a little sad at first. The singing did you good.”
And as we drove down the mountain, Jeanne said, “Singing is healing.” I nodded and thought of my mom.
When my mother was eighty-eight, she entered the hospital for a second go at experimental heart surgery that had almost killed her the first time. Her three daughters—Susan, Judy, and I—all flew in to be there. As Mom waited to be taken to the operating room, we sat together on her bed, and though she looked small and frail in her hospital gown, she seemed strong in spirit. Stronger than I felt, for sure. I was scared and didn’t know what to say to her in those pre-op moments. After all, the doctors had been clear: It was a gamble; she could die.
I wanted to say something meaningful, words that were worthy of maybe being my last, but still sounded upbeat and reassuring. An impossible task. So instead of talking, I started to sing—a takeoff of “Frère Jacques”—and my sisters soon joined in:
Reenie Feldman, Reenie Feldman,
We love you,
Yes we do,
You’re our dearest mother,
There could be no other,
One like you,
We love you.
Mom loved it. So much so that when we finished, she sang to us. It was a song she had performed at age five at a movie theater talent show: “Me Without You,” a Betty Boop kind of ditty. She followed up with a lively Yiddish love song, “Sheyn Vi Di Levuneh” (“You’re as Beautiful as the Moon”).
Susan caught it all on her BlackBerry, and then an intern came to take Mom away. As he wheeled her out on the gurney, headed for surgery, she blew us kisses until out of sight.
This time, the operation worked. But Lord, had it failed, what a good day to die.
Right, Mom said, but what a great day to live.
Irene Feldman
Irene Feldman died peacefully in her apartment on November 14, 2018, at the age of ninety-seven. She was the beloved daughter of Ellis and Rebecca Dashevsky, the beloved wife of Bernard S. Feldman, and the beloved mother of Susan, Judith, and Rivvy.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
It’s hard for me to believe that my book has been out in the world now for more than six years. (It’s even harder for me to believe how many years I’ve been out in the world!) On launching this new edition, I’d like to share with you all a letter I wrote to my readers one year after my book first appeared.
November 2014 Dear Readers,
It has been a year now since Recipes for a Sacred Life came out, a year in which we met, or met anew, through my book. It feels so much longer; the year was so full.
There was the amazing joy of the book being published, eight years after I first began writing it.
There were the magical mornings and evenings of meeting you at readings, where together we created a sacred space.
There was the delight (and relief!) of receiving beautiful reviews and
