#Omer, Days 34 and 35, heading into Shabbat

Here's what I'm noticing most these days -

Life is not what I expected. Life is. That’s the deal. It’s bumpy and messy and scary and happy and joyous and perplexing, in infinite variety and subtlety. And most of all: changing. I get to participate in that. I get to do it well and fuck it up, find moments of grace and spar with demons of my own devising. In the midst of pain or doubt or joy or hope, it is not so dark: I am not so alone, as long as I put one foot in front of the other.

I get to find God, every day. I can be made whole, every day. I can be healed, every day. None of this comes naturally to me. It is still easier, at times, to disconnect than to willingly open up my heart. If I can just commit, just trust, just forgive, just love, then I would know I was in the presence of God.

But I have known God’s grace, and I have felt joy and love, and so I struggle gladly to be human, every day.

Shabbat shalom to all I love and hold so very dear xo

#countingtheomer #shabbat #expectations

I Will Carry the Rain: a poem for the Counting of the Omer

I will carry the rain
in all its gentle letting down.
I will let it run through me,
so that it waters all my secret places,
and watch each drop
fall from my fingertips,
to wash over the earth,
Mother of us all,
and holy.

I will carry the rain,
and gather her waters,
and walk shoeless
among my mother's bounty,
towards the mountain of fire and ash,
whose voice is thunder,
and heart is mercy
and binding is love,
and holy.

Omer, days 13 through 16, give or take:

I've had better weeks. I've had better days. Of course, the converse is also true: I've had worse weeks, and certainly much worse days. Let's face it - life can get really crappy sometimes. I am grateful to have learned the gloriously annoying lesson of "this, too, shall pass," and I barely even grit my teeth when I say that.

There was a time that I felt as if I had to climb a ladder in order to get to crappy. There was a time I lived in the land of forever for ever bad thought or feeling or day I had. The good stuff was always fleeting; the bad stuff was eternal. I knew it. I'd gather all my crappy baggage and crawl into that crappy neighborhood that lives inside my head, and I'd set up camp near the busted out buildings and tumbleweeded vacant lots, ready for, well, forever.

I knew, more than anything else, that I would feel just as crappy and bad and sad and lonely and less-than tomorrow, and the next day, and the next week and month and - you get the picture. I was a tragic figure, ready for my close up.

So, it's been a crappy week in a year or so of crappy weeks. There've been some good times hidden in these days. Some of them brilliant and filled with light and wonder. There has been joy, and play and gifts unimaginable - not necessarily anything big and grand. Often quiet and unlooked for, like opening a forgotten box wedged into the back of your closet, only to find a press of dried cornflowers and the squidgey marks of a tiny, brightly colored handprint made just for you. Mostly though, there's been a lot of crap strung between those glory days.

And it's ok. I'll take all the crappy days, along with the good ones. I've been around long enough to know that sometimes, those days are one and the same. Take the other day, for instance.

It started off well enough. Oh-dark-thirty is quiet. The cat waits for me to start moving so that she can climb onto my chest and purr for a while. Not a bad way to start a day, even wishing it were closer to six than to three, even wishing she'd lay with her head facing me instead of my feet. Coffee is next. And the poking and prodding with several needles of varying sizes. It gets tot he point where you really can't feel it anymore. One of the tiniest gifts, to be sure. If I wanted to get all spiritually, I could stretch it to a big one - thank you, God, for the grace of better living through chemistry and technology, and access to all the medical miracles that sustain me. Too many people are dying because they don't have it nearly so good as me. Peapod delivery in the barely-lit morning, and the boy is up like a flash, putting the groceries away before I can even wake him and "ask" which we both know is more command than ask, but we like to be polite about it. Hey - this day is kinda looking up, yeah?

Breakfast of cheerios and banana and milk - and really, can there be a more perfect breakfast? No, there cannot. It's my go-to, ever since I was pregnant with The Boy, nineteen-plus-a-smidge years ago. CNN is on in the background - we are so close to some drastic upheaval, I can taste it - even as I worry about the unintended consequences that might flow from all of this turmoil and nastiness and change. Studying at the table, the window open behind me. Mostly spring. It's a great frikkin day.

The boy left, CNN gives way to MSNBC. This textbook is boring as all get out. Time for hummus and chips. Time to take a nose dive on the kitchen floor. The hard, ugly red-Spanish-tiled kitchen floor. For some reason, I mumble "nonononono" as I go down. I've been doing that a lot - falling and mumbling "nononono!" as if my comment will magically stop the falling from happening. It has the exact same effect when the cough starts to attack me, or my legs and feet start to cramp: none at all.

And I thought the carpeted dining room floor was uncomfortable yesterday. Ha!

Well, at least no broken bones this time. Small favors. The day begins to spiral downwards. It can be like that, you know? No matter the lessons I've learned over time, about chance and crappiness and joy and God, I can careen madly down that hill at breakneck speed, in a heartbeat. Forever comes awfully fast in my world. Instead of class, I was looking down the long tunnel of staying home to nurse my fear.

But today, oh today! There was a gift. There was grace. There was love. These were the lessons of the day: stuck in my aloneness, in my fragile body and overwhelmed spirit. It began with a text. Specifically, mine to a classmate, to let her know I wouldn't be in class. Her response was quick.

"Are you ok? Do you need me to come over? Please say yes if at all necessary."

Do I need someone to come over? To do what? Stare at me? Watch me be fragile? Pity me? "Thanks," I texted back. "I'm ok; freaked a bit, but ok." Nothing to see here, folks. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.

The phone rang. "I'm coming over." Then she hung up.

And she came over. She hugged me and talked to me. She asked what I wanted. She asked what I needed. She waited for me to answer every question. I was surprised (not really) that I still have no real vocabulary for this - no true ability to articulate what it is that I want or need. She was gentle and loving and patient. She asked what I wanted for lunch. "I can get it," I said. "What can I get you?"

I refused to let her see my need. This Fixer of Broken Things cannot - will not - be fixed.

"Don't be silly! I came to help you," she said.

Ugh. I hate showing vulnerability. I hate that I need. "I hate being so weak," I mumbled. Like my insistence that a "nonononono" will keep a thing from happening, I cling to the belief that all my various ailments and complaints are subject to my will alone, while I tamp down the fear that all my vulnerability makes me less than and my need will swallow me whole and drag you down with me.

"Oh honey! I didn't come over because you needed anything. I came because I love you,"

And there it was - clean and clear and filled with such exquisite beauty - love. Not because of. Not in spite of. No qualifiers at all. Just love.

There's a lot of crap in my days. My weeks. Months. I carry it with me, as burden and badge of honor both. It is comfortable, a known quantity. It is exhausting, really. But there are these moments, skipping and slipping through all that curious dross of mine that lift me and set me free, that remind me that there is love, unfettered, unbound.

For all the moments, every single one of them, let me say, amen. For the lessons - all of them, but especially for this gift of such breathtaking grace, let me say, thanks.

Omer, day 7

Omer, day 7

As I stare at the mess that is my kitchen, and I contemplate the discipline of cleaning it, I feel the overwhelming abundance of my life, the grand fullness of it.

And there, nestled in the midst of all that fullness, also lives the general chaos of life - of my life in particular - the chaos that is the opposite of control, the essence of crackling, crumbling, overwhelming fragility.

Abundance and fragility. With every breath: love and fear, full and sere, abundant fragility.

Once we were slaves, now we are free, to face liberation and redemption, the wilderness and the known, the leaving behind and the moving towards. Desert, water, life and war.

An intricate dance, abundantly fragile, in precarious, exquisite balance.

Shavua tov to all I love and hold dear xoxo

Omer, day 4 (and 5, there at the end)

Time is difficult.

It seems as if there is either way too much of it or not nearly enough. Half the time, I feel as if I'm straddling some wildly bucking beast, trying to hold on for dear life, sure that I'm losing the battle.
The other half of the time, there's a huge expanse of forever falling away from me, and every step I take leaves me farther away from its end - trapped by Xeno's paradox, in which I can only reach the halfway point from here to anywhere, never the end.
Of course, there's also the other other half - where I'm paying attention to something else entirely, and time slips by before I notice, and by the time I do, it's too late. I don't exactly know what it's too late for, not always, but I get a nagging itch to chase after it, to capture it back (as if I had passion of it in the first place!).
Time is so difficult, I end up with three halves of it.

Thing is, I spend so much time looking for it, chasing it, trying to bend it into submission, I run the risk of missing the time that is right here. See, I always want it to be the Big Moments (can't you hear the capital letters?), those grand entrance kind of timestimes require horns and huzzahs, perhaps even parades and confetti.

Even that grand expanse thing, that endlessness of forever time thing - it's the twin side of the same coin. Time isn't slow or boring. I make it stretch and grow until it blots out the sun. It's so big and endless, I still miss the stuff at my feet, the time that is right at my fingertips.
I forget the beauty of the right now. I forget the depth of small moments. Oh sure, it's not all profound and exquisitely joyous. Ugh. That would be the fourth half of the difficulty of time. No, the right now is just that - here, unfolding with or without drama (the "with" would be the completely within the moment kind, rather than what I slap on from outside of any particular moment of time, reeking of sweat and desperation).
One of the gifts of counting the omer, of this time of mindful intention, is that I can, once again, right-size my relationship to time. It is neither bucking bronco or infinite expanse. I can stop chasing all the other moments, stop killing time or wasting it.
I can be in this moment, this here, this now.
And with that, day four flows into five of the omer. Welcomed to now.

Gathered Family - a poem for the Omer, day 3

You are the gathered family,
the one found along the way,
not necessarily the one
of bones and blood; met, probably,
before time was measured
in hours, or days,
but merely collected,
like rain in a bucket.

Long past this now,
these hours, this day,
when hearts sigh, and grieve,
and all your gathered family,
we found ones who have loved you
since before time was counted,
we will carry you with us,
a sweet memory of gathering,
of finding along the way,
and blessing.


for my Aunt Donna,
zichronah liv'r'cha

Omer, day 2

Omer, day 2

Breathing is not my strong suit these days. You'd think that after almost 57 years of doing it - most of those years and months and weeks and days, almost every one of those hours and minutes, doing it absolutely unconsciously, just a simple in and out, again and again and again - you'd think I'd be pretty good at it.

You'd think wrong. I'm actually pretty bad at it. There are moments when I'm not quite sure that there will be a next breath, that I will never stop coughing long enough to breathe in again. For the past few months, I've a tendency to cough so hard that I pass out. That's happened while sitting, while standing, a couple of times while driving. Thank God the worst thing that's happened as a result is a broken toe and a couple of metatarsals. Needless to say, Nate has gotten plenty of practice driving, and I've had to learn how to be a passenger.

I'm on a boatload of meds. Mostly, they seem to have had little to no impact on the asthma. They've had a huge impact on my ability to sleep more than 3 or 4 hours, and if you're ever looking for a sure for weight gain method, I have your answer.

This is, of course, the tip of my healthcare nightmare iceberg. Needless to say, I've been down and distracted of late. I've been feeling overwhelmed and just this side of hopeless.

And then, miracle of miracles - a shift. Nothing has changed, not really, but yesterday - a tiny bit of ease. Feeling a tiny bit of hope that, if I won't ever be "cured;" then perhaps I can manage, maybe even be a little ok.

So of course, last night, an asthma attack. A bad one after not having had one in a week or more. At least I didn't pass out. Yay for small favors.

Is that my new bar - at least I didn't pass out? Ugh. I am discouraged and exhausted and yeah, even a little bit anxious. Dammit - I just started driving again, since I haven't passed out in more than a month! Do I have to take away my own driving privileges again?

And there it is. Yes, I'm worried about my health. Who wouldn't be?! Various parts of my body are freaking around their edges, breaking or grumbling under the strain of time. Lucky me.

But. Always a "but."

My biggest concern - at the age of almost 57, all I can do is... wait. Keep doing what my docs suggest. Take my meds, even when I start to maybe feel better. Listen. Ask for help. I get to be a passenger, get to be taken care of, get to not know. 

Still.

I hate that. All the control I insist I have, that I cling to, until I have those little half moon marks in my palms from where my fingers have dig into the skin - it's the worst kind of illusion, because the only person I can fool (and not very well at that) is me.

Time to be a passenger. Time to be carried. I suppose there are worse things than that, yeah? I suppose this old control freak can find a bit of grace, even in that.

#countingtheomer

Omer. Day 41 (give or take)

This is my favorite question: what do you carry with you, and what do you leave behind? Sometimes I change up the verbs, just a little, to bringing and taking away, respectively. A subtle shift, to be sure, but all part of the grand scheme just who the hell am I,  and just who the hell to I want to become?

I am the sum of all my baggage - carried, dragged, dropped. left behind and taken back.

Sometimes the weight of it all is crushing. And sometimes, when the wind is just right, and the scent of green is in the air, and I am feeling brave and grateful daring and fierce and bold (or any combination thereof; you get the point), there's no weight at all. I freely offer much of my baggage, all the weighted measures of stuff and ideas and hurts and pains; lost loves and lost jobs, missed opportunities and failed connections - all of the stuff that binds me, tethers me to a present I can only see through the funhouse mirror of my past (so not really a present at all) - and I let it all go, leaving it lie in a muddled heap.

This is my altar. I'm pretty sure, when I drop it all in that heap, and I set it on fire, it makes a pleasing odor to God. I'm just as sure, when it's time to move on, every single thing that went up in smoke, that released me from the bondage of my self, and my past, it's all there, ready for me to pick up again, just as bright and shiny and unscathed as it was before my metaphorical sacrifice.

It's mine, to carry it all again until the next holy bonfire.

Of course, there's a whole bunch of other stuff I can choose to pick up and carry away - things like faith, or courage, or joy. And yes, there are infinite variations of despair and anger and sundry slings and arrows of cruel misfortune that can be distracting and enticing. And yes, I have gone that route more often than I care to admit. There are times I swear I didn't do the picking, that these nasty little packages leaped up and stuck themselves to me of their own accord, really they did.

If I'm honest - and now's a good time to cop to honesty - I did the picking and the plucking and the sticking, all by myself. Ugh.

Still, there are times I go against type, and I choose the weightlessness of joy!

Things is - this carrying and leaving and taking away - this is a thing I can do every single day. It knows no season. It is unbounded by time. In every moment, I can choose, again and again and again. These days, the counting-of-the-omer days, it is a mindful trudge, a careful inspection and collection of the junk I lug around with me. I am grateful for the mindfulness. Messy as I am, I like frames, and this is a particularly good one.

So. What is it that I carry with me? What will I leave behind? What will I carry with me as I walk to the next altar, the next mountain? Today - just for this moment, this breath, I will sit for a moment, my treasures laid out before me, a sky of pewter and pearl above me, casting dull shadows on the lot. I will sit, and rest, and hope - hope that when I move on from here, I remember to let slip the boxes of pain and fear, so that I have room for a bit of joy, a bit of beauty, a bit of grace.


PS - I've written a couple of poems in the past, that relate to this post. You may want to check them out here:

What I Brought: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2013/05/what-i-brought_13.html
And Fly:L https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2015/04/and-fly.html
To This Moment: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2015/03/to-this-moment.html
Hineini: https://staceyzrobinson.blogspot.com/2014/04/hineini.html

Omer. Staring at 40 from the land of the 30s

This is a week of abundance and lying fallow,  of blessings and curses.

Here's my confession,  realized just now: I rarely know the difference between these seeming opposites. There are times I cling to the things I *know* are abundant blessings, only to find, somewhere down a twisting road, they are the very things that hold me in place, that drain me,  leave me barren.

And there are times that I run from what I know are curses and find out just how wrong my suppositions (and actions based on those) are.

And sometimes, I happen to be right at all - blessings are blessings, curses are curses, all's right with the world.

It's a crap shoot.

And here, on this leg of the journey, nearing the end, so close you can almost taste it, almost kiss it, it is Shabbat again.

And maybe,  just maybe, everything I *know* about that holy, sacred place - is wrong. Maybe what I bring to it, because of what I know, changes it, makes it something it's not. And maybe,  if I let it be, let it come and wash over me as it will, rather than grasping for it, pulling it close,  holding it in motionless place -

I have no idea how to finish that, except perhaps to give thanks for the blessing of not knowing and letting be.

Shabbat shalom to all I love and hold dear xo

#shabbat
#counting the omer
#omer

Humility is a Blue Flame - for the counting of the Omer

Humility is a blue flame,
dipping into indigo
and edged in black,
It is cool water
that flows in small
ripples and puddles
at my feet.
It is balm
for a weary soul,
and a heart that
cannot find its
rhythm, that is
lost a bit,
that is chipped
a bit.

It is blue flame,

And when I stand
too close to that flame,
and the waters rise
like a torrent,
and I am battered
and beaten
in the wake of
my weakness,
compassion comes,
a grace of blessing,
lifting me from
my humiliation
to stand

near the blue flames
and cool waters;
the balm of humility,
the breath of compassion,
Whole.

Omer. Day 24

I write a lot about breath.I am made breathless, I say. Breathe, I remind myself. I am a creature of metaphor, I guess.

And this - not sure if it's partial metaphor or maybe mostly concrete, but I was taught, along about the time I started writing about breath, that that very breath that moves me and lifts me and separates me (even as it connects me) from (to) you, is, in fact, the truest pronunciation of the name of God.

I like to think that every breath I take is a prayer, a hymn made up of God's very name.

Truth be told, I love that idea.

So you will understand how odd it is that I sit here in the hospital, breathing with no small amount of difficulty. I have asthma. It's not the wheezy kind; I cough. Not just a delicate, puffed "ahem," but a full-on,scare the little kiddies (and myself), hacking, gasping, will-she-make-it kind of cough.

I wonder, if my breath is the name of God, when I struggle to take the next one, when I can't take the next one, have I lost God in that moment? Is that the physical manifestation of my struggle with God, a counterpoint to my metaphoric wrestling match with the Divine? Maybe.

But you know, when I can finally take in the breath that has eluded me, a great, gawping whoosh of air - oh, there is benediction in that, truer and more pure than any prayer I have ever offered.

And with that one great breath, I am filled.

Omer. Day 23 (and a few toes, maybe an ankle's worth into Day 24)

I found an old Facebook post, written a couple years ago, a reflection for the Omer, Day 26. I love to see the drift of days and counts over the years, that odd dance the Jewish and American calendars do. For this day alone, Facebook tells me I've written on Days 19 and 39. Today I'm contemplating Day 23 (which is all to quickly slipping into Day 24).

The post started with a phone call from a friend. For the life of me, I cannot remember which. How horrible, to have been so moved by connection with a friend that I felt compelled to write about it, and now, just a couple of years later - nothing. I have guesses, but they are hopefully imaginary at best (so wishing to know, I can almost see a face through that fog, grasping at anything that feels reasonable, knowing full well I'm provable wrong).

The gift is still true, still real and powerful. It feels both heavy and light at the sane time. I am bowed, not bent, with the grace of it, still. And so I offer it again, a reminder to me to pay attention to the gift of kindness and love,

Last night ended with a phone call. An old friend. We've drifted, and our relationship has morphed pretty significantly over the past decade or so. Still, we are connected in ways that are profound and forever. I am amazed that I am in a place to be able to name it thus.

His question, when you translate it into its base components, was "Who am I? Have I always been this, or have I changed?" He told me, after asking his question in a little more PG-rated version than I've written here "This is hard. I'm asking for honesty. I trust you."

I cannot imagine a more important question. It is the heart, I think of everything I seek, every word I've ever written: who the hell am I? And then the cascade, all flowing from that single point, reflected and refracted to infinity, each one catching the light and bursting with hope (and desire, and fear). Have I changed? Where do I fit? Do you love me? Am I ok? What will happen? What will be? How can I-- ? When will I-- ? What if I-- ?

I cannot imagine a more treasured gift. "I trust you." There was a time not many would have (could have) said that to me with any real honesty. But here was this person saying "I give you the power to hurt me; I trust that you will be gentle and kind."

I bowed under the weight of that. Was silent for a moment, to honor that gift and give thanks for it. Someone asked me once to define "love." I cannot think of anything more true than "I give you the power to hurt me, and trust that you will not."

This is the gift, the truth, the weight and the grace of it. I am so very grateful for this drift of time and ritual that has reminded me of it once again.

Omer. Days 11 through 22

I have not forgotten the count.

I swear I have not (or, as my mother would always say when making a sacred promise or needed to emphasize the truth she was about to utter, "Shma.")

Every day, from Day 11 through today, Day 22, I have stopped for a minute or two to be mindful of the day. I have counted it: Today is Day (whatever), which is X weeks and y days of the Omer. Not exactly what the rabbis (and maybe even God) had in mind, but I counted every one of them.

The writing, on the other hand, that's a different story of over-laden plates and procrastination and stubborn perfectionism and even more stubborn paralysis. It's a progression. It's annoying, mostly because I can feel it coming on: first the running of the wheel like a hamster, faster and faster, getting nowhere except winded and slightly sweaty, then on to the horsehair shirt of shame and should, and going full on to staring at the train racing for me as I stand immobile on the tracks, waiting for the crash and juggling all the metaphors with inevitability and aplomb

What's most annoying is that I know this progression. I have been through enough therapy, sat through a one too many AA meetings to be able to identify the exact moment that I get onto the wheel. No. Correction: I can identify with pinpoint accuracy the exact moment that I drag the wheel into place and give it a test spin or three, dust it off and shine it up. Yay me.

And like Scheherazade, I have a thousand and one stories of just why I can't seem to get out of the way of that frikkin train. Some even seem quite reasonable. And, I'd say that 98% of them are even true. But in this stupid drama of mine, truth really isn't the issue.

What is at issue is my fear. Sure, there's a huge dash of perfectionism that goes into it. My use of the delete key and backspace are testament to that. It's not just the essay. It's not just the poem. It's not the paragraph or verse or sentence or grammatical stop. My perfectionism boils down to the word. Every word must be perfect, in look, in sound (out loud and in my head), and the feel of it as I roll it around on my tongue, and taste it on my breath. Which, of course, means that there are a thousand million things that never get written.

And all of this masks the real fear of what if I write something bad? As if I haven't! Trust me, Whatever critique or criticism any of you (whomever you are, and thank you for reading!) may have of my work, trust me: I have ripped every word, and all the spaces between all the words, to shreds, several times over. Every. Single. Piece. Even the ones I secretly really love. They are all grist for the mill of my perfectionism.

And so I don't write (or I write and delete and write and delete in some kind of insane two-step). and the days pile up, and the writing becomes a weight of a thousand years, and the more I don't write, the harder it is to get back to it, and the easier it is to play in the mud of my shame. And at some point, I wait, with no small shred of gratitude, for the train to come.

At least there will be movement then.

Ugh. I am so tired of this little dance. And I know better, that's the stupid thing! I know that it doesn't have to be like this, I know that I can choose another path. I know that I can just sit down and write and let the voices in my head have at it while I play with the pixels. And yet, I choose, again and again, way more often than I care to admit, to trudge that weary path of perfectionism, procrastination and paralysis.

So maybe, as I both trudge that tired old path, and make my way to Sinai, maybe this boulder that I have so willingly and lovingly carried with me all this weary way, perhaps I can leave it by the roadside, so that I come to Sinai lighter and freer and ready.

Shma.

Omer. Day 10

Every so often, I am stopped, almost literally in my tracks, with the deep and sure understanding of just how blessed I am. Most days, I traipse about through my life, oblivious to grace in that take-it-for-granted, life-is-what-it-is, happy-mad-sad-glad, blah blah blah kind of way.

You know, that glide through days that are filled with all the living that gets done. There are bills to pay (or avoid until the notices get slightly nasty). There's the boy, part adult, part locust, part lost at that oh-so-difficult stepping off place, the one that promises dreams and nightmares, adventure and drudgery, a mysterious new world that 18 years of training still has not produced a map for easy navigation. There's the job, and the study, and the writing and the groceries and the dinner-making and wishing you still made enough money to have a housekeeper again. These days, there's the continual flabbergastedness over the insanity that has infected the world, and what the hell - Trump? REALLY?

It's the minutiae of life, all the little pieces that, sure, sometimes morph into medium pieces, and sometimes become unwieldy, but it's all just mostly unnoticed, really just barely under the surface stuff that you move through to get to the next piece, and the piece after that. And maybe I've compartmentalized a lot of it. And maybe there's a wall that's barely visible, almost not there at all really, but the wall has been in place
Ace longer than you can remember, and mostly you just forget it's there and it's so much easier to leave it just where it is than dismantle the thing. I mean, it's not hurting anyone, is It?

You just do your life. Get on with it, and there are some days that seem to shine a bit more than others, moments that sparkle or maybe tear at your heart. They are days that roll into weeks and months and while it sounds a little awful, laid out so badly here, it's not. It's a whole bunch of everything.

It's just, mostly, you don't stop to notice any one thing. You just move.

So, those moments when you are literally stopped - feet planted, eyes open, breathing deeply, and you notice each breath, and you suddenly hear all this sound that certainly had to have been there all along, but now you hear it, it's richness and brash dissonance that fits just so with all those other notes of the day, and you feel this fullness welling up within you, and you know, absolutely know that you are blessed.

And in that exact moment, you can do nothing but drink it in and give thanks,

And so we count 10.

Omer. Day Nine

I'm a bit all over the board to day. Some might say that's a step up for me. I have no idea when I became so discombobulated by life. I used to think I was organized. I am awesome at creating systems. I can color code and categorize with the  best. When I was in grad school, I had a 500 page binder of note cards, all with headers, dub-headers and timeline - for a 20 page paper. So what that the actual writing of the paper got away from me: I was on top of all the tiny, tiny little pieces.

When did I go from keeping on top of all minutiae to making piles that meld into the other piles that have long since toppled into one another, waiting only for me to grow annoyed enough with all the piles to attack them one afternoon, and create brand new, totally separate piles with a bag of paper and other office litter that is too heavy for me to lift. Bonus: I usually do my battle on bright and sunny days, when the air is sweet and the humidity low. My subconscious works overtime to add one more to my list of inanimate object resentment. My sub-subconscious is trickier, and gives itself a high five at finding an appropriate punishment for my procrastination.

I always feel better after these battles - lighter, cooler, able to breathe a bit easier. There is a sense of accomplishment: Ta da! I did it! I vanquished all that paper and mail and evil... Oh wait. It's just paper. There will be no parade in my honor, no confetti (that will remain on mt floor until the next dust up with the enemy). Dammit.

I could promise to change. Have promised to change. To keep the piles low, to set up a schedule, to make a plan. And stick to it. Really I will! But (wait for it) I don't. It is all a piece of the controlled chaos that is my life. Which really, when I lay it out like that, is kinda crappy. Who wants to live a life of chaos - and pretend that it's controlled in any way?

So I write notes and make files. I but boxes and accordion folders in awesome colors. And there's e-calendars and timers and reminders. And I throw most of the junk mail out as soon as I get it. And I at least fold the laundry these days, and mainly hang up the stuff that needs hanging. And the bills get paid mostly before I get passive aggressive robo-call reminders. And there's food on the table and a roof over our heads - and yeah - it sounds as if I'm justifying my crappy behavior. Maybe I am. Or maybe, just maybe, all those piles - even the tumbling ones, are a little smaller than they were a year or three ago. And the chaos is a little less chaotic than it used to be. And the time between doing fierce battle with all the mess (physical, mental, spiritual - pick one) grows a little shorter.

It's progress, not perfection. And I think that, these days, I have chosen to dismantle the biggest of the piles - the most threatening, dangerous and twisty pile: the one I've kept hidden, that holds all the nasty little voices that tell me I am less than, and broken, and beyond repair. It hides the fun house mirror of distortion and lies. I think I'm ready to walk away and finally leave that pile behind.

So, if you ask me, on this omer-journey what do I carry, what will I leave behind, I think the answer is not as mysterious as I once thought.

And so we count nine/

Omer. Day Eight

Ok - so, the cereal post. I swear this one is about cereal.

I was at a yizcor service the other day. I know - it sounds hauntingly familiar, doesn't it? Still, a promise is a promise. Anyway...

I was at a yizcor service the other day. It was lovely. Many of the smaller North Shore Reform synagogues find it a bit of a stretch to gather a minyan on festival days, so a bunch of us have banded together to make sure there are enough of us to pray and sing and mourn. We take turns hosting (though these days, it seems as if there are only two of us who host - though to be fair, one of the synagogues is buildingless (as is my shul), which makes it a little more problematic to play host).

I like the synagogue who hosted us all this round. There's a lot of natural light that spills through the sanctuary. We sit in creaky theater-style seats, and the rabbis and cantors eschew the formality of the bima and sit just in front of us. Some of them (and some of us) wear tallitot. My rabbi always brings his guitar. It is close and intimate. Each of them takes turns, as do the cantors. It's unscripted; as best I can tell, when whomever is "done" with his/her turn, points to a colleague with a "Do you wanna" shrug.

And so it goes. A little Hebrew, a little (bit more) English, a little music, all to fill the soul. We all take a moment to honor the commandment, to set this day apart.

I know, I know - you're still waiting for the cereal. I'm getting to it.

The host rabbi welcomed us all to his synagogue, He is kind and smart and for some reason, I know that his favorite verse is from Psalm 118 - The stone which the builders rejected is become the chief cornerstone. He pointed at the small row of cereal boxes in the corner of the bima. "I suppose you're wondering why there's cereal on the bima, especially since it's still Pesach." He smiled at us, almost daring us to guess. He told us that their tradition was to collect cereal during the Counting of the Omer, one additional box each day. Thus, the first day was one box, the second two, and so on, for all 49 days of the count. "At the end, we'll have collected 1225 boxes."

That's an awful lot of cereal. They donate all the boxes to local food banks. What better way to honor the doing of this commandment - counting out a measure of grain, every day for 49 days, days that are laced with fragility and unsurety? 

I think about our ancestors, who were still getting their feet wet (so to speak) with all the freedom and walking and where's the next meal coming from, not to mention where are we going and when will we get there? So much uncertainty! So much fear. 

For all that, I gotta believe that they would have loved Rabbi Ike's omer counting/cereal collection thing. 

And so we count eight.

Omer. Day Seven

I was at a yizcor service yesterday. It was sweet. Here on the North Shore, there's not always a guarantee that we'll get a minyan, so a handful of synagogues band together on these festival celebrations. Each of the synagogues plays host in some kind of rotation, but all of the rabbis and cantors show up, and we congregants (those who can, those who need). We get a decent showing, all of us together.

I like that: all of us, together.

We rise, we pray, we sing. Probably less davening than in my Zayde's day, but there are more women than in his day as well. At least - more women praying and singing and being, right along with the men. Here, we women count. Here, our voices are heard. We are all a community, and we carry one another. And so there are enough of us all, to ensure that no one mourns alone. I like that, too.

This was the 26th yizcor service since my brother died. I didn't realize just how huge that number is until I typed it out just now. Twenty-six times, not counting all the kaddishes I chanted during the first year after his death.

Twenty-six festivals have passed. In the beginning, I wasn't sure I would get through one. Not that I thought I would die! Not that, no - but I didn't think I could make it through a memorial service without my knees buckling and my throat tightening and my sorrow threatening to dissolve me. And in the beginning, all those things happened, knees and throat and sorrow huger than anything I could bare. And every time - every single time - no matter where I was, there were hands that reached out to hold me, arms that wrapped around me.

I stuttered out the words of the mourner's kaddish - harsh, foreign, not even Hebrew, but Aramaic, so that I almost knew what they meant, almost could say them with ease - and I would hear all around me, the answering amen.

Amen - a word that has its roots in both faith and truth. The rabbis attach considerable power to this tiny (and, alas, often thrown away) little word. Rav Meir believed a child immediately earned his/her place in the world to come upon saying it for the first time. Rashi believed that all the gates of heaven open to one who says "amen" with all his strength. Most of those rabbis agree that no benediction should be orphaned. no prayer should go unanswered or unframed, as it were.

We have a lot of rules about "amen" - when to say it, when not to say it, who can say it and who can't. Of course; we're Jewish. Why wouldn't there be a host of rules? I don't know them all. I know some, mostly in the way we all know a lot of rules - I observed, someone told me some stuff and I think I read something somewhere along the way, and no one is telling me I'm wrong, so I must be right, right? That kind of way.

So, I'm not too sure of the "why" of it, but I think I have the mechanics of it down. The words of the Mourner's Kaddish are said by the mourners; the congregation responds amen - so be it (in faith, in truth, let those words be a testament).

Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash shmei rabba - Glorified and sanctified be God's great name.There can't be silence here. This phrase must be answered. And so the congregation responds, as we have been taught: amen.

And so it went, from festival to festival: I would recite the words of praise to God (because that is the essence of the Mourner's Kaddish - not about death, but the glory of God), and the congregation around me would hold me up, and hold up the words of my prayer, and they would say "amen." Or, at least, if not "they," then someone. My relationship to the prayer changed over the years. How could it not? I went from raw and desperate grief to various shades of sadness.

Then there was a time, not too long ago, when there was no answering "amen." A space of silence before everyone continued on. What? Where was it? Why didn't everyone - anyone - stop and wait and offer? Why didn't I? I'm in mourning, dammit! I have grief. My brother died. Isn't the congregation duty bound, to be present for the mourners, so that no one grieves alone? I was carrying the dead, all of them, and they were getting heavy. I deserved at least that tiny amen to lighten the load, at least long enough to get to the next festival, the next yizcor. Right?

Yeah - I heard it: that whiny, screechy voice that demands constant attention and worship. I so love my self-righteous narcissism. It's attractive, isn't it? That shook my world, more than a little. Who the hell am I, to think I am the one, the only one, to carry the dead? Who even said I had to carry them?

That's the moment it all changed for me. I can carry memory, without having to carry the dead. I can carry those in my community, lift them and lend them strength in their grief, even as I am lifted. I love those who have died no less. I don't need to prove it to them, to myself, to the world around me. I can be kind and generous, just as there were so very many who offered me kindness and generosity. I can be one within my community, no more, no less.

I can answer a benediction. And so let us say
Amen.


In honor of my brother, Randy (z"l)
If you'd like to read about my journey through the first year after his death, saying kaddish, read my essay, Joy in the Empty Spaces)

Omer. Days Five and Six

What is it about intimacy that makes my spine stiffen, just a little.

And who am I kidding - there are times when my spine is so stiff that my body would crack in half at a gentle puff of air in my general direction, 

I've been thinking about this since I chanted Torah last week - the part where Moshe stands naked before God, after all the calf and the murderous rage and the towering anger, after the breath of forgiveness and the work of second chances - Moshe stands and pleads: let me know you; let me know I have found grace.

Such power in those simple words. Such intimacy in the cry.

Let me know you.

I once hear that "intimacy" can be read "into me see." Normally, I eschew those trite and sacchariney pronouncements. Trust me - if you stick around a 12 step program long enough, you will hear some kind of anagrammatic saying for just about anything. Most of them are cute, maybe even thought-provoking once. Sadly, they get bandied about far too often, so that they lose their meaning. For me. I'm sure that, for many, they are veritable life preservers, and many cling to them through the storms and rough waters of recovery. I'm sure I've treaded water with one or two of them myself. 

See into me. Know me, warts and all. See me - and don't head for the hills, appalled at what you find. 

So I stand, a little breathless, a little scared, like a deer in the proverbial headlights - so ready to flee, to hide. But for this, for the fragility and openness of these days of counting, I stand before you and ask to know you, to know that I have found grace.

For the omer, days five and six

Omer. Day Four

The first shabbos in the wild lands.

I cannot imagine grappling with the enormity of That! I mean, really - first the fleeing, then the Sea, finally on dry land - but with, as I do imagine it (and I'm OK with my own contradictions, thank you) a thousand questions of who and what and where and why. And the kids being kids, and there are animals to be calmed and cared for, and tents to be set up and thank God for the manna - that's one load off the plate! There are creaky joints and calloused feet and tired bodies that really just want to plop down on some ground and sleep for a year or two.

But...shabbos. 

A couple of years ago, someone sent me a video - the liberation of Bergen-Belsen. It was April 20, erev Shabbat. The dead had not all been buried. There were still people dying "in broad daylight" says the narrator. But shabbos was nearing. The British chaplain organized a kabbalat Shabbat service - and for the first time, in perhaps a decade, it could be celebrated without fear. 

At the end of the service, the people there sang Hatikva - The Hope. After all they had been through, all they had suffered and lost, even they could sing about hope and celebrate Shabbat. Amidst all of the horrors of the camp, they could stop - even for a moment, even for a day - to find space within themselves to welcome the Bride. Even then, they could sing.

Once we were slaves. Now we are free.

And so we count four. Shabbat shalom. 

If you'd like to hear this amazing recording, follow this link. https://youtu.be/syUSmEbGLs4

Omer. Day Three

There are a few rules when it comes to counting the omer. There's a prayer, and a time, and rabbinic rules about what happens if you forget.  If you're into kabbalah, there are daily and weekly themes and meditations. For example, Day Three of the omer is Tiferet of Chesed- the beauty of love, loving kindness.

I wonder what our ancestors, those original omer counters, the refugees who fled the narrow places and actually witnessed the Signs and Wonders, who were stopped by a Sea and followed a woman with a tambourine, who were afraid and lost faith and were forgiven and were bound, this time to God in the desert, at (maybe under) the mountain - I wonder what our blessed ancestors would think of our more modern practice of counting.

For them (as I imagine it must have been, from my presumptuous and privileged position of 21st century modernity), this time really was a time of fragility, of unknowingness. They faced a huge void of unknown! They'd been slaves for generations. They were dependent on an unseen God, and maybe they remembered their vaunted  relationship, but - c'mon, who could blame them if they didn't? Their leader had been a Prince and a shephard - what the hell did he know about leadership, or the wilderness or survival? What would they eat? How would they drink? Where were they going?

How lovely, that, these days,  we can go on a spiritual odyssey. We can wrestle with beauty and love and God. We can dream of fragility and plenty and loss. We can put one foot in front of the other, on this journey from slavery to freedom, binding to binding and open ourselves to revelation and light. 

But in this time, in this place, on this third day of counting, I can't help but think of those who must journey, those who must flee, those for whom the entire world is fragile and fractured, so that the very ground is unsure and tomorrow is a million miles away. 

I think, perhaps, we may still be mired in the Wilderness. 

And so we count three.