Do You Believe in Arty?

G-d, if you want to get technical

Many people would rather take a cold plunge with a polar bear than hear about G-d, Jesus, the Divine, the Word….

What if I said, “Let me tell you about Arty?”

But first--

There are moments when I just want to chuck it all, as in, “Personal growth and development.” It can be exhausting.

I eat anti-inflammatory foods when sometimes I just want to have a McDonalds French fry, I journal in iPhone notes until my thumbs fall off and meditate like a monk without the hoody robe-- if I take one more deep breath I’ll puke.

So why would I give all this up when it actually staves off anxiety, depression, rashes, stomach aches— just about every side effect listed in the ads for Zyrtec? Because I’m tired of being high maintenance—asking the dinner hostess if she can please provide foods that are free of dairy, corn, soy, gluten and processed sugar. I’m stressed about the expense— a half gallon of fresh carrot juice is $16!— and I just want an ice cream cone made from cows milk and sugar. (Except that the thought of one makes my stomach twist in a knot.)

Can Arty help?

I believe in the big guy, Hashem, force of Love, Divine energy, the Almighty, all righty?

I still have crappity crap health issues so why am I bothering with my 3 hour¹ grocery shopping, 2 hours² of listening to a sitar and flute while a soft voice tells me, repetitively and relentlessly, to relax? Why am I spending hours listening to new age podcasts and reading about all the ways I can manifest getting more paid subscribers? (Hint hint.) When in fact, what I really need is a t-shirt that says, Disgruntled Manifester.

If I’m a believer then all I really need to do is pray, right? Wrong. Gong. Hong Kong. (Notice how I fore-went, fore-with the other rhymes that might make you squirm?)

I’ve come to realize that prayer only works when Arty thinks it’s right for you. Which essentially means I’m making excuses for Him.

Yeah, my business went bankrupt because Arty thought I needed to learn a lesson.

I was wicked sick with Covid. But— Arty knows best.

My sister-in-law died when she was 27 because, well, uh, hmmm, He has his reasons?

Making the Case for Arty

Here’s the divine rub. When I’m awake at 2am stressing, without Arty, that stress is hundred times worse. Whether or not Arty waits for us at the pearly gates, the belief alone, here on this planet, sure does take a load off the solar plexus. It’s not my fault Taylor Swift earns more than two hundred thousand firefighters. Blame Arty. See? Feel better?

Climate change? It’s in His hands. (But of course, we need to do our part.)

Hubby finding work? G-d’s got this. (But obviously, yes, hubby is networking his butt off. Arty doesn’t endorse laziness, except on snow days.)

A divided world? Arty has a plan. (But we desperately need Aretha’s favorite word. She even spelled it out for us.)

Remember that adorable movie Knight and Day with Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz? There’s a scene where Diaz gives Cruise a “with me, without me” choice.

With Arty.
Without Arty.

Good News! Arty is coming!

I picture the first (or second) coming like a party. There are people drinking wine, making friends, making enemies, maybe a few folks were dragged here. A bunch have been to a soirée like this before but somehow ended up here again; they’re pissed. The party crashers always have a good time. Then there’s that guy doing drugs in the bathroom, a couple making out, another fighting about the drive over— there was a stop sign at that corner. No there wasn’t. People of all different colors, shapes, sizes and preferences. Then there are those who think Arty will be showing up. They just don’t know when. He’s late again. They know Arty will get the party going. Others say, “You think He’s really coming?” and “Just be patient, Arty’s a busy guy.” But many who have heard about Arty say, “Nah. He doesn’t exist. He's a myth… This party sucks…” And they think the folks who are waiting for Arty are weirdos.


I remember the moment I knew there was an Arty

Hubby-Jeffrey and I did in vitro fertilization to get preggers. Jeffrey and I joked that it took 3 people to get me pregnant. Me, Jeffrey and Gary— the dude in the lab who picked out the pre-embryos that would be inserted back inside me.

Our twins were born 3 months early-- 27 weeks gestation. Dylan and Samantha were 2 lbs. I had bought ground beef heavier than them. But upon my first glance at their tiny bodies, in their isolettes, tubes and wires protruding from their veins, a machine breathing for them, I knew it wasn’t me, Jeff and Gary who created them. It was Arty. They were my miracle muffins.

Chuck it all

It's 8am and I want to forego meditating, we’ll send out for Chick Fil A tonight, screw journaling. The moment passes. I find a somatic healing meditation, I add ingredients to the grocery list for dairy free ice cream, I’ll slice potatoes tonight, roasting them, and tell myself they’re French fries, or, I’ll be hubby’s sous chef, he’s become a master with the Wok—because of me, because of my intolerances--I haven’t had Chinese take-out in 9 years—and what Jew doesn’t eat Chinese food?

When the serene voice tells me to imagine a future I want, I see a life filled with family and great health. I journal again, with arthritic, hyper mobile thumbs and type this essay making oodles of mistakes because of my essential tremor in my right hand, but it’s easier than handwriting, and I tell Arty, “I really appreciate this device that helps me punch words into it.” (Meanwhile, Jeffrey nudges me to try talking to the magic machine instead).

P.S. How do I know that it’s not blasphemous that I gave Him a cute name? Arty has a great sense of humor otherwise He wouldn’t have created gnomes, Velcro wallets and me.

This piece was inspired by

Debbie Weil

who wrote a beautiful ode to

Alex Dobrenko`

In her comments section she asked for suggestions to help her and Alex with anxiety. While I mentioned all the earthly tasks of personal growth and development I completely forgot about Arty. Maybe I fretted that they might have a creation cringe. I’m apprehensive that you, dear reader, might wince with worry.

Thoughts? Answers? Prayers?

1. Do you believe in Arty? If not what’s your secret?

2. Did you pray for the Eagles or the Chiefs? Arty surprised us all. Hehe.

3. Are you a disgruntled manifester? Would you buy that t-shirt?

1. I don’t really spend 3 hours in a grocery store, except maybe Costco, because of the lines.

2. Maybe not 2 hours of meditating but I’ve been close.