Twelve years ago, in staccato breaths, my sister came home to our bachelorette apartment and told me she’d had a breakthrough at a Kabbalah establishment in Manhattan over the loss of our mother. She’d been taking courses for a few months and in a private meeting with the Rabbi, at his suggestion, Jas simultaneously screamed and tapped her heart chakra when she heard a crack and felt a gush of pain. In that instant all her buried emotions erupted forth-- things she’d never allowed herself to feel. Then she felt forgiveness, acceptance, and finally peace.

It all sounded so hokey, and yet, I couldn’t help feeling envious. I wanted to experience this gushing forth of emotions. I signed up for the course, “The Game of Life,” along with my brother, Greg, who was also moved by Jas’s story, and Greg’s soon to be wife, Lauren. Tuesday nights, we carpooled into Manhattan together, rode the elevator up the five-story building, and scribbled furiously in our notebooks as Rabbi Jehudi with his thick beard and tailored suit stood at the head of an all-white room with blue upholstered pews and a gold stenciled ceiling, and explained to us-- and the sixty other emotionally-stunted people who’d paid a few hundred dollars for the course—that we couldn’t play “the game of life” well until we’d learned the rules.

Rabbi Jehudi instructed us how to “scan” the 72 Names of God: by running our finger from right to left over a photocopied chart of Hebrew letters, which Moses apparently used to split the Red Sea, and which, fortunate for us, included all the “sequences of DNA consciousness” that could provide healing, success, protection and fulfillment in all aspects of our lives, and help us reverse our natures so that we could become proactive beings, and resist our selfish natures. 

It took yogic concentration to keep a straight face, but I somehow managed, even with Greg’s elbow jabbing at my side.  With the rest of the class I ran my finger over the laminated page from right to left, blocking from my mind that I did not read Hebrew, and focusing on the idea that the visual connection was what counted.

Whether it was because I’d skipped dinner, or because I was less cynical than I’d thought, I can’t say, but in that instant, what I can only describe as a zap of electricity coursed through me, and I was all but sold. 

Following the class, I rode the elevator downstairs to the bookstore and on the recommendation of Rabbi Jehudi, purchased the Zohar for $350.00 for total protection. The clerk suggested that I buy another set for work, considering that there was a twenty-five percent discount special running. Sounded like a good idea to me, too. While I was at it, I purchased some sage candles to cleanse the negative energies in my house, a couple of books and CDs to get caught up with Jas—and hopefully speed up my “cracking-gushing” process—and $26.00 for a few inches of red yarn that that a “Hevrah,” a full-time volunteer, tied around my wrist as she said a prayer of protection to ward off the evil eye.  

I signed up for another course, and another. How could I not? At the end of each class, the Hevrahs swarmed upon me.

“What!? You’re not signed up for Astrology 101?  We’re moving into Leo. You need to make the connection!” “What!? You’re not signed up for Twelve Steps to Everlasting Love?” Don’t you want to meet your soulmate?”

After a few months of this, I started going to Shabbat at the Rabbi’s house in Queens. The room was split in half with folding partitions. Thirty women sat on one side, forty men on the other. The men wore all white. The women wore wigs and skirts. I was told that the separation had little to do with anti-feminism; if anything, women were thought to be on a higher spiritual plane, and men were the lowly beings who sorely needed to hear the prayers—without the distraction of looking at women.

 My twenty-eighth birthday, I spent dipping myself into a Mikveh tub which was located at the establishment in Manhattan. The room was a sort of spa, with lockers, showers, and a small round pool. Jas stood at the edge with me, and scanned the prayer that was taped to the wall. We dropped our towels and immersed ourselves in the magical water, dunking our heads twenty-something times, and letting the water absorb all of our negative energy. Afterward, I felt lighter, and lightheaded. I also couldn’t stop laughing. What the hell were we doing?

And yet, for the occasional head-rearing of self awareness, I had grown as superstitious as the rest of the establishment. The basic premises of the classes-- that I needed to take responsibility for my life, and that everything is cause and effect-- weighed heavily on me. What had I done to warrant locking my keys in my car during a snowstorm? What did it mean that I’d cut my finger while chopping onions? Was this rash on my arm really due to gossiping (as all skin conditions apparently were… leprosy, for example was the direct result of having an “evil tongue”)? What could I do to rid my life of chaos? 

 I wanted to correct my “tikkun,” or “soul’s correction” that I’d inherited from my parents and from my past lives.

I think now that there is a reason that for centuries only mature scholars were supposed to study the Torah; the layman confronted with such mysticism was supposed to go crazy. Especially the layman who has a tendency toward addictive behavior.

For $2,000, I booked a room and meal package at the Marriot Marquis for “Rosh Hashanah Event 2000.” Thousands of people from all parts of the world attended, including, of course, Madonna, (as well as Marla Maples, and Monica Lewinsky). I tried not to get “reactive” while looking for folding chairs for Jas and myself since groups of women—clearly experienced at this event--had draped scarves over rows and rows of chairs to hold their place for hours, the inconsiderate way people hold chaise lounges at the pool while they spend hours sightseeing. I breathed deeply when I returned to my own “saved seating” to find that my scarf had been tossed to the floor and settled into the very back of the room, where for eight hours, I would scan the Zohar, and rock back and forth. Every few hours, we broke for mini-feasts, where, again I tried not to get reactive, as attendees, needing some release from the event, attacked the pastry carts, and sandwich boards like savages—myself included.

During the blowing of the Shofar, I closed my eyes to let the sound of the instrument “wash” over me to “cleanse and redeem” me.

As the Shofar mooed, I leaned my head back and saw a speck of blue light. It grew to the size of nickel and began to pulse like a very large heart. During the next feast, the Hevrahs patted my shoulder and congratulated me. Blue was healing light, and I must be on a high spiritual plane to see such light.

Was I feeling better? To be honest, I wasn’t sure. To know if Kabbalah was working, the Rabbi had said in class, just take stock of your life. Have you changed “your movie?” My movie was pretty much the same since I’d started Kabbalah. I was still way too susceptible to outside influences, although I fancied myself wiser and more evolved. Also, that unpredictable sadness still crept in from time to time, and left me stunned. At the beach, watching a mother and daughter walk along the shore together—seeing the way their hips and calves were shaped the same, the younger and the older versions of the same woman-- I lost it.  Forget about the time I got sucked into “Terms Of Endearment” not knowing anything about the film, but seeing the cast, decided to give it a try. That movie left me emotionally maimed for days.

Driving to the work one afternoon, I decided to give it my best shot. I rolled up my windows, screamed and tapped my chest. Nothing happened. Nothing cracked open. Deciding that my technique was lacking, I called the establishment and arranged a private meeting with the Rabbi; he wasn’t available but his wife, Rebecca, also a teacher, offered to see me later in the week.

Sitting at her desk, littered with picture frames of her five children, Rebecca played with a strand of her brown wig, and listened to my complaints about my mild depression with a scowl on her face. When I finished, she spoke in shrill, high-pitched voice.

“So what? It’s all about you.  Stop thinking about yourself.  Go do something for someone else.”

 “But,” I resisted, feeling tears well up, “It hurts that my mother passed when I was so young.”

“Well, why did you choose to come down to a mother who would die?”

“Excuse me?”

“You knew she would die. So why did you choose her? What lesson does your soul need to learn?”

“I…I’m not sure,” I stammered.

“Well, if you want to find out, start doing for other people. Stop focusing on yourself, already.” 

I began “tithing.”  Hearing that the establishment was scouting Long Island for a spot to open another location, I offered the café I owned at the time as a place to hold classes. The café’ was primarily a night spot, and so in the mornings, Rebecca ran a womens’ group on Tuesdays, and Rabbi Jehudi used the place for an office on the other days. I gave him the key, and the alarm code, and when he told me he really needed a laptop, I gave him my computer. A few weeks later, when he told me that the PC didn’t have really have the functionality he needed, I gave him $1100 towards a MAC.

Jas also held meeting and classes at her hair salon in the evenings. Suddenly there were fifty to sixty women in the community of Bellmore and Wantagh wearing red strings on their left wrists. One day, as I was getting my hair done, I saw that a group of younger employees at her salon—the shampoo assistants—were wearing orange strings on their right wrists. I asked one of them about it, and she told me that they had formed “Hallabbak”—Kabballah backwards. Like Kabbalah, Hallabbak had its own rules, like gossip as much as you can. I cracked up laughing, and for a split second saw how utterly ridiculous and cultish Jas and I must have seemed. Then I went back to believing that the poor assistants’ souls were in danger.

 At the establishment, I took more classes: the study of irises, auras, palms and faces. The Rabbi showed photocopied faces of strangers. Could we tell which faces were humanitarians, and which were SS Officers? The humanitarians had perfect symmetry to their faces. The SS Officers had asymmetrical faces, and too much sclarel show-- too much white showing in the eyes—a telltale sign of a murderer.

From there, I squinted and stared at unsuspecting people, at the bank-- the movies, the diner-- and tried to get a glimpse of their auras.  (The most effective way to do this was to stare at a person as he stood against a white wall, since auras have many colors). On dates, I studied lines on mens’ faces-- as well as my own (my forehead lines showed sexual issues)—and tried to discern who would be a spiritual mate, even though Rebecca had told me, that women were the spiritual pioneers in the relationship, the “vessels,” to receive the “channels.” The bigger the vessel, the more spirituality a man would channel. Take the most spiritual woman and pair her with an unspiritual man, and you have a far better match than an unspiritual woman and a spiritual man, who would have no chance against her evils. Lucky for me and my future mate, I was spiritual. Plus, I learned one day while wearing flip flops at the Center that I would naturally be the dominant person in my relationship anyway since my secondary toe was longer than my big toe.

 I volunteered for Meal on Wheels, Big Brother Big Sisters, and Fish, a senior citizen driving program. I mailed money orders to people anonymously, planted trees, mailed checks to any organization who asked for a donation—it was, after all “an opportunity to give,” and never walked through Manhattan without spare change and singles in my coat pockets.

I tried not to look at the moon, so as not to absorb its selfish energy; that celestial body, I discovered, represented “Desire For the Self Alone,” a nasty phrase at the establishment. I gave my cats attitudes. A few years back, I had rescued them from a pound, and had actually felt charitable about it, but after learning that cats were selfish creatures, I regretted it. Dogs, one of the Hevrahs told me, were much better animals, energetically speaking.

One afternoon, Jas called to apologize for forgetting to leave her half of the mortgage, and told me to write the check myself from her checkbook. It was then that I saw how many, many thousands and thousands of dollars she had been giving.  Seeing those numbers back to back, something did not sit right with me. I called Greg and told him that I was starting to suspect that the three of us might be brainwashed. 

“Starting to suspect?” He laughed, and mimicked a robot, “I Am Not Brainwashed. Must Give More Money Or My Soul Will Melt.” 

The first of the three of us, he had no choice but to disentangle himself; as struggling musician back then, he simply couldn’t afford to keep up.

   I went next. The money issue was certainly a huge aspect of my reluctance to continue-- though I have since learned that not all Kabbalah institutions charge; in fact there are many ways to study Kabbalah for free. I just so happened to pick a place that placed a great deal of emphasis on money. My problem was that I had somehow lost my own voice in the process.                                   

September 11^th would shake me loose. On that morning as I was waiting for the Tuesday womens’ group to start, Rose, one of the group members, walked in and told me to turn on the radio. I did.  Then I rushed to Greg’s apartment, the nearest place, to turn on the television. Dumfounded, we sat together that afternoon, like the rest of the country.

 The following week, Rebecca showed up to the café’, and gave the womens’ group her take on 9/11. She told us that for some time now, New York City had been a vortex of selfishness, self absorption, and intolerance, and that everyone who died called their death into their lives. I looked around the room, and saw the faces that were having a hard time with that interpretation. I was definitely one of them. While I still had respect for the core principals of the study, it was time to stop deifying others and trust my own thoughts—however selfish they may be.

What have you been sucked into?