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Novels by Mary Marcus
New on the Blog
Jew Bu Parvenu
I’ve been reading a lot of Pema Chödrön lately. In case a gentle reader hasn’t been exposed, Pema is the American Buddhist nun, a foremost student of the Tibetian meditation master, Chögyam Trungpa and best selling writer of Buddhist aphorisms. In fact, I would say, she’s the Oscar Wilde of Buddhism. She’s so smart, she’s so witty, she rocks, she rolls, she gets the mot juste. And because of her, I have learned to practice, somewhat, the ingenious art of Tonglen, which basically means, breathe in what you most fear, most hate, have the strongest negative feelings about, breathe it in deeply and then exhale its opposite emotion as a way of distancing your thoughts from your behavior. And of course, your thoughts from your thoughts! I practice Tonglen a whole lot with my darling husband who drives me absolutely nuts. And it often helps. Instead of saying, “You idiot, you boring lamebrain, you white male who is now repeating the story I have heard you tell eight thousand times,” I try if I can catch myself, to breathe in frustration, and to breathe out patience, humility, gratitude. I was having a minor spat with my son on the phone a few weeks ago and initiated the breathe in, how unappreciated I feel you ungrateful child, and breathe out gratitude, confidence. calmness……. And it worked with being a mother too! The thing with Tonglen is, it actually does put some air in between you and your very negative feelings, that is, if you can catch those negative feelings in the nick of time. Nip them thoughts in the bud...Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Beware of the dirty old man at the yoga studio, the one who takes advantage of the hug-y New Age environment to hit on every woman he can get his hands on. You’d think if he read the newspaper or watched the news, he wouldn’t keep on doing this, but you would be wrong! I’ve been dodging the advances of B. for years now. I used to see him three times a week, when he was loitering after his 2 o’ clock gentle class and I was arriving for the 4:15 level 2-3, I used to frequent. I was sort of amused by him in the beginning. He kept his hands to himself, I knew he was flirting, but I thought it was mildly ok. He’s clever, he’s from New York replete with old fashioned Bensonhurst accent (for which I’m a sucker) and so elderly, I felt no physical threat. I remember too, standing in line with some forty-something yogis before class one day. The two guys were bemoaning the fact that the twenty-something yoginis thought they were too old and wouldn’t accept dates. We made a joke of it. I confessed the only guy lately who flirted with me attended senior yoga at 2 PM. Just wait, I told the guys, this is LA and it gets worse! We all laughed! Then, one day, old B came up behind me and thrust the front of him, into the back of me, put his arms around me and I was so shocked, I turned around to his leer, drew myself up–shot him a dirty look and walked off. I stopped...Flo
I’ve been attempting to stream the funeral of Flo S. What an idea, a live stream into one’s past! Our families were friends back in Shreveport a zillion years ago. The S’s had three children, just like there were three of us! The kids were friends, the parents were friends. I’m getting picture but no sound. Flo wrote me after she read a blog I wrote about Chuck, her son who died of AIDS twenty-five years ago. The funeral service is being streamed from B’nai Zion Temple where I went to Sunday School in Shreveport, Louisiana eight million years ago. The Rabbi’s a she! And she’s brandishing a guitar. Our rabbi was bald and I only remember him brandishing the Torah and telling us tales about the lampshades the Nazis made out of Jewish children. I never liked going to the temple. I was afraid of the rabbi, for one, Mama was a self-hating Jew and I was always loyal to my mother. Self-hating or not we always had brunch on Sunday (the gentiles had dinner). And our brunch always included smoked fish of some kind and bagels. These were obtained at the deli counter of a grocery store called Weingartens (sounds Jewish—yes?) and were located off to the side to separate them from the bologna, the liverwurst, the ham, the rolled turkey, the potato salad. The Jewish side of the deli had half a dozen kosher salamis, a few very dead smoked fish with milky eyes, some desiccated slices of lox, a couple of jars of herring in cream sauce and little squares of Philadelphia cream cheese. As I stare...
The New Me
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