Manna toward the Omer (49 toward the Omer)

One final day between giving and receiving, a walk with the beloved, don’t have what to say (it is meant to be this way, the flower breathes—and then there is nothing left but everything, the wind carrying seed, the time between, no healing needed, presence like a whisper)

48 toward the Omer

yesod shebmalkhut

My love mows across the flowers and almost cannot. Some days, writing is neither where it starts nor where it ends. I know, God says. You think I could have done all this without dancing a little first? God, sometimes, I say, I imagine I’m dancing with you.

Me too, God says, except for this—neither of us is pretending, are we? We’re not a dream anymore, are we? And were we ever just that? I hug the new thrift store rocking chair close once more before letting go, think, a hold for that which holds

47 toward the Omer

hod shebmalkhut

My hair moves along with the leaves—the same wind blows it. My heart leaps along with yours—the same upwelling fills it. I did not know I could be trapped until the door closed. I did not know I could be free until I opened it.

46 toward the Omer

netzach shebmalkhut

Movement grows around the rocking chair. A squirrel and a robin take turns on the same stump. A little bird with a big song looks up, throat exposed. A chipmunk comes up onto the porch, approaches, leaves. I go inside. The dandelions slowly turn into dandelions.

45 toward the Omer

The bamboo on the corner of my desk by the window stands tall, and I am overcome. Downstairs, there is street noise to protect my back, a holding kind of chatter. The chair does not reject me. I can stay as long as I’d like.

44 toward the Omer #3

gevurah shebmalkhut

Forest returns to either side of us. Have I told you, I tell her, that one of my great sadnesses is the way that roads cut through habitats? I want you to know, I tell her, that that is one of my great sadnesses.

44 toward the Omer #2

gevurah shebmalkhut

Are you bringing anything back with you? the customs officer asks. Just a friend’s lasagna, I say. As we talk with the man running the farm stand outside the Port Byron rest stop, a yellow jacket lands on a glass jar of bee pollen.

44 toward the Omer

gevurah shebmalkhut

WE CATER THE BEGINNING AND THE END, proclaims The Schmaltz’s sign. ASK ABOUT PLATTERS FOR A SHIVA OR BRIS. We eat bagels and gravlax surrounded by wet chairs on wet tables. God is still there, I say, gesturing toward a there and meaning it.

43 toward the Omer

chesed shebmalkhut

Less queasy from eating lamb cholent at ten the night before after a lemon currant scone and decaf latte, I sit alone for a minute at the outdoor table, watch her water the cafe’s daffodils from the bottom of her newly broken Nalgene

42 toward the Omer #3

malkhut shebyesod

The dove sighs inside the wet stomach. What are you doing here? the big fish says. I don’t know, the dove says. Do you have anywhere I can rest for a minute? I swallowed a nice branch yesterday, the big fish says.

42 toward the Omer #2

malkhut shebyesod

The most
honest way
to speak about
a bris, to get to the
heart of it, is to start
with the faces of those
who are watching, the
ones who seem to
have started it all
who from now on
are watching

42 toward the Omer

malkhut shebyesod

Anyone want to lead Psukei dZimra? she asks, and I do, so I do. How good to praise God, to face forward and trust that the others are still there, to prepare for those who don’t even know it—and know it.

41 toward the Omer

yesod shebyesod

The hyacinth has been slumped, heavy with its wilted flowers, for some time now, and it’s only after we move that I realize the stem has broken. I give leave to compost it all. Oh, hyacinth, if I had only understood.

40 toward the Omer

hod shebyesod

Even—especially—as the foundation of the world shakes and yawns open: when the five-year-old putting on a play for you and your housemates on the front porch instructs you to close your eyes, you close your eyes.

39 toward the Omer

netzach shebyesod

The five-year-old fairy calls out to the teenager across the street whose cat was hit by a car last week: You’re a fairy! No, he says, I have homework. You’re a fairy who does homework! she says.

38 toward the Omer

tiferet shebyesod

Here in this rocking chair on the back porch, I sense freedom and fear it. I hear me ask myself, Who is it that is afraid? The wind says, Don’t worry, you won’t go anywhere we haven’t gone.

37 toward the Omer

gevurah shebyesod

Things that I learned were always in me to do: one—parade down the sidewalk flying a kite made of printer paper and wrapping paper; two—say glitter to the front door every time I go through

36 toward the Omer

chesed shebyesod

I did not expect this room of young adults in a nest of blankets and pillows who lean against each other and hold hands while laughing and crying and yawning, but here we are, thank God.

35 toward the Omer

malkhut shebhod

I show up at shul to find that shul is over then start walking to the parade to find people along the way who tell me the parade is over then walk to the fairground

to find that all is well there. I borrow sunscreen and share my ziplocks of pita and cubed watermelon and cubed kugel. My socks do not quite match the rainbow, but they are close enough.

34 toward the Omer

yesod shebhod

I stand in front of the tomatoes. Those look great, he says from over my shoulder, and reaches to get some too. I thought at first that you might be a plant, I say,

as if people are hired by the coop to talk up the produce, and as if he would have been one. We come across each other again among the bulk spices, then he leaves.

I notice a sheet of paper on the ledge, an intricate grocery list, and think it is probably his. I wait to go after him. I take long enough that I am still there

when he comes back for it. We see each other two more times. It’s just one of those days, I feel compelled to say to him, though I don’t quite know what I mean.

33 toward the Omer

hod shebhod

The friend turned
housemate moves
around finding a
place for their
chimes—which is
how I know that they
are moving around
finding a place
for their chimes—
notes harmonious
even when clanging

32 toward the Omer

netzach shebhod

In the morning, I gather in the morning, breathe it out again. Particles connect with light, seem to disappear, connect with light. The little dog, teething, bites the hem of my dress.

31 toward the Omer

tiferet shebhod

We drive past Hartford to the Merritt Parkway, which I have decided is the Narwhal Walkway. We learn that 15% of female narwhals have tusks. That’s us! I say. That’s us!