Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles by Rivvy Neshama (best books to read for young adults TXT) 📕

“Thank you so much,” I said to the man in Sri Lanka who helped me reconnect to the internet. “That was really helpful. You told me what to do in ways I could understand.”

And when he responded “I’m happy to be of service,” I felt like I was in a Jimmy Stewart movie from the ’40s, and I hung up feeling good.

In fact, the more I say thank you, the better I feel, so I say it whenever I feel it. If I look up at the mountains and spontaneously say “Omigod, it’s so beautiful,” I remember to add, “Thank you!” Or I’ll be out to dinner with friends and feeling so happy in the moment that I’ll silently pray, “Thank you for this food, these friends, and this wonderful life.”

The whole world is sacred, and we connect with that sacredness when we give thanks.

So have a grateful day. Better yet, have a grateful life.

How we suddenly are reminded

that we pass this way but once,

and are expected to give thanks

as best we can.

—STAN GROTEGUT

A GOOD NEIGHBOR

“Hi, neighbor!”

That’s how Jack would greet us, from the first day he moved in. If we saw each other over the backyard fence or passed each other on the street, he’d always say “Hi, neighbor!” with a cheerful voice and a big smile. It made me feel good to hear him—and to see him too. Handsome and lanky, Jack looked like a cowboy.

My mother often said that if everyone just took care of their own little corner, this world would be a wonderful place. I thought of that when Jack died. He was only fifty-three, but he left a big corner behind, and he took care of it all right.

KC, his wife, held a memorial service in their yard, a glorious labyrinth of brick paths and gardens, playgrounds, and artistry—all created by Jack, with the help of KC, their family, and friends. Many people spoke at the service, and they told of Jack’s kindness and generosity, his work ethic, and zest for life. Some spoke of great meals or great fishing trips they shared with him. And I spoke of what he taught John and me about being a good neighbor.

It’s a funny thing about neighbors. You might get to see and hear them more than anyone else in your life. And if you’re lucky, like we were, you learn from them too.

Truth is, I was kind of envious of Jack. He seemed so happy, so giving and alive, that it was easy to feel like a dark blob beside him. But the good thing about envy is, it points you where you want to go.

Sometimes on weekends, around 7 a.m., we’d hear noise outside, and I’d ask John, “What’s that?”

“It’s Farmer Jack,” he’d say, “working in his garden.”

Well. We’d soon get up out of bed and start working in ours. And as we watched Jack create wondrous things in his yard, we started fixing up our own. Put rose bushes in places we had previously ignored and planted more vegetables.

Jack would often drop by, offering bags of his new potatoes. The most delicious potatoes we ever ate. And when he’d create objects of beauty, such as exotic birdhouses, he’d carve a design on their back side as well, so we’d see beauty too.

KC and Jack and John and I started having grandchildren around the same time, one after the other. We’d hear them playing joyfully with their grandkids, and we watched them build a playhouse, sandbox, and swing. Hmm, we thought, maybe our grandkids would have fun in a tent.

Whenever Jack and I were both working in our yards, he would give that big shining smile, say “Hi, neighbor!” and stop to talk. We’d chat about vegetables and life. I’d ask him for practical advice. He seemed to know how to do everything. And he’d ask me to recommend the most romantic places I knew for him to take KC to on her birthday. Once, when I complained about the hot summer, Jack taught me about whole-house fans, helped us find one, and insisted on installing it himself. That was Jack.

The last time we saw him, just a while before he died, Jack was busy planning and living and talking excitedly about a boating trip ahead—despite being debilitated by cancer and the drugs he took to fight it.

So what did we learn from Jack? To enjoy. Be generous. Grow vegetables. Work hard. Create beauty. Be romantic. Have adventures. Love your family. Help your neighbors. And strive to be the brightest, most vibrant spirit you can be.

I said that Jack taught us how to be a good neighbor. But really, he taught us how to live.

Recipe inspired by Jack Rietveld,

December 7, 1953–May 24, 2007

“_ _ _ _ IS CLOSER THAN YOU THINK”

Back in the days when I would get stoned, I liked to get stoned with Norma and David. Norma would bake these amazing chocolate prune cakes, which we’d consume in two minutes once we were high. And now and then, David would utter something profound. Of course, when I was stoned, everything seemed profound. “It’s raining out,” someone would say, and I’d go “Wow!”

Well, one stoned night, David proclaimed that everyone in their lifetime gets the same amount of pain, but some people get it in one lump sum, while others get fragments spread out through their years.

“Wow!” I said. “That’s profound.” I wasn’t sure if it were true, but I learned, soon enough, that we each have our cross to bear.

My cross is anxiety, deep anxiety, and, worst of all, panic attacks. They first appeared in my thirties at a time of transition, when things seemed unknown, overwhelming, and dark. My marriage and family had broken up, and I had just signed up to go back to school. When the first attack hit me, I was on the subway at Times Square, and I feared my heart would burst or I was losing my mind. It felt