49 toward the Omer

malkhut shebmalkhut

I did not know, forty-nine days ago, that the road would lead me home. I know I’ve arrived, because even if the days continue, I no longer feel need to keep count. That’s why I call the stars by name, God says, tell them numbers at random as lullabies.

48 toward the Omer

yesod shebmalkhut

She stands, eyes closed,
before him, facing us, and sings,
and we, invited, sing too, from the start,
and because of this, she doesn’t have to end
by going back to the beginning.
I don’t need to know where he’s gone.
He passed on his spirit while living.

47 toward the Omer

hod shebmalkhut

In order to be present for someone else, I’ve got to be present for myself. Exactly, God says. Is that what tsimtsum, what hester panim, is about? Nah, God says. For me, there is no myself and someone else. But isn’t that—? I say. Hush, God says.

I take the keys I will lose in two days and go to Walgreens, show myself I still exist in more than one place. There was evening, there was morning, the forty-seventh day. The plans and the prep were done, the dishwasher and all of its dishes.

46 toward the Omer

netzach shebmalkhut

The task today, at least this task, is easy enough: water the areas of grass seed, ten minutes each. The two of us take turns, folding the hose over upon itself to stop the flow, moving the sprinkler, releasing, waiting. In the evening, the thunderstorms come.

45 toward the Omer

tiferet shebmalkhut

Ohio. The family gathered outside in three units of two chairs each is ready for bed, but there is still wood on the grate, and there is no plan for dousing, and I don’t want it to burn down alone without warming anyone, and she

stays here with me. We go inside, get grape juice and spices, bless you. It is hard to get shadows onto my palms from this angle. We sit again, the Big Dipper above us between the trees. Fires don’t die, I say; they get released.

44 toward the Omer

gevurah shebmalkhut

Ohio. I hear noise, watch the rest of the toads jump into the water along the neighborhood road, all except for one, who stays on the bank. I want to stay, too, but the dog pulls us on. You could have stayed, God says.

On the next loop, I sit on the asphalt as the five of us talk, look up at the couple who left still-warm homemade pizza in aluminum foil in the garage for us last night. Nothing, everything, remains to be known, don’t you think?

43 toward the Omer

chesed shebmalkhut

We had already planned the trip, and now we know why we are going, though the real reason hasn’t changed. We are gentle with ourselves in the morning. We had already packed some black clothes. We sweep the floors. We water the seedlings.

42 toward the Omer

malkhut shebiysod

I told you that I expected to feel a bit romantic and melancholy walking back home, but I feel a different kind of good. A great rush overhead causes me to look up, see a full God’s wing’s worth of rustling leaves.

A great rush overhead causes me to look up, see a full God’s wing’s worth of rustling leaves. I cannot imagine leaving, start scouting out the next tree, stay until I know this continues with me—this already is continuing with me.

I cannot imagine leaving, stay until I know you continue with me—you already are continuing with me. I told you that I expected to feel a bit romantic and melancholy walking back home, but this is a different kind of good.

41 toward the Omer

yesod shebiysod

Can you hear me now? God says. Yeah, I say. Great, God says. No need to catch me up; the connection was laggy but then everything you were saying came through super fast. Zoom does that, I say. Yeah, God says.

40 toward the Omer

hod shebiysod

On the way back from dropping off a roll of toilet paper at my neighbor’s stoop I check on the bachelor buttons I transplanted two days ago, learn a difficult way that the ones remaining will benefit from daily watering

39 toward the Omer

netzach shebyesod

Casting about this morning for a sound that can surround as I take responsibility for finishing up some progress notes before the next session, I almost turn on Pandora radio, instead open the windows, let the birds hold me.

38 toward the Omer

tiferet shebyesod

We lean on the wood railings of the plank bridge over the Mill River in the forest loops of Amherst’s portion of the Robert Frost Trail before circling back to her house along the road not yet taken

37 toward the Omer

gevurah shebyesod

I put on what I want to put on, your “don’t you think that’s a little low-cut for shul?” from ten years ago still in my head, but today my shul is everywhere and I am through

we learn Midrash Tanchuma with our breaths covered sitting a discreet distance from each other on the low stone wall along the sidewalk along the grass along the curb along the street that connects our two houses

what makes time with you time that I like is that time exists in our words the same as between them, which maybe allows space to exist in us the same as between us, all together, apace

36 toward the Omer

chesed shebyesod

The kind enthusiasm of Steve, then Katherine, then Sharon, who together spend two hours and twenty-six minutes on the phone with me today trying to help my computer and the network understand that they could connect—

as evidenced by the fact that Firefox at least was having no trouble—and what wonder, after reboots and screenshares and diagnostics and retries, to find that all we needed to do was switch network location

from “Automatic” to “Home,” click “Advanced,” then “TCP/IP,” then “Renew DHCP Lease.” DHCP—Dynamic Host Configuration Protocol, which should have been giving me an address. Sharon gives me a high five by saying it. “By default,”

the User Guide she emails me states, “your Mac uses the Automatic location, which automatically provides settings for any network ports that it detects are available.” “It was probably hung up on the network location of

you were there,” she says, meaning New York City on March 7 in the evening, the last time a text message I sent showed up on my computer screen. Now here, shall we pick up again?

35 toward the Omer

malkhut shebhod

And this was the drop that did it: the screen half-fills with muted horizontals, subtractive primary color verticals. Blessing in disguise, I keep saying. My hastily purchased external display shows everything remains below the surface.

34 toward the Omer

yesod shebhod

These both exist: this first hyssop seedling green above the dirt, seed case still stuck to cotyledons; catching up on paperwork that will only ever be completed enough to not be behind on paperwork

and what would it mean to be apace with you, like Chanoch? I pick the wax from my ears; it will regenerate in time for next week’s inquiry. Eternity knows no vector, God says,

only points, concentric and fractal. I think everything can be reduced to distance, proximity, I say. Sure, God says. But when measuring how far you are from me, don’t forget to check behind you.

33 toward the Omer

hod shebhod

there is nothing but for to be with you as we plop, plop, two separate raindrops, throw hands of spray into the air, release ourselves into the pooling wideness of all to come

32 toward the Omer

netzach shebhod

In high school I received an essay back where I’d written about not knowing what to write about and the teacher gave me an A for mechanics and a C for content

with a comment “do you know how many times I’ve read an essay about this?” and this teacher was great and momentous and also I wish I had known how to say

you’ve been teaching high school English since my mother went to this high school—but this is my first time here—what you perceive as common, cliché, is for me direly particular

31 toward the Omer

tiferet shebhod

In the room that is, because it’s Sunday, more second bedroom than office, I, dancing, look at the Zoom screen, see that my arms are not on level with my shoulders,

that I am taller than I think myself to be. I forget about a client, having scheduled them on a Sunday without writing it down, and write down, unconfirmed, next week.

I go downstairs to switch washer into dryer; the thirty-minute cycle has one minute left for an unknown number of minutes. I walk outside to wait. The hammock’s web holds me.

30 toward the Omer

gevurah shebhod

We sing Mizmor L'David on the white couch by the spotted plant where I can't tell if the shorter stalks I am noticing for the first time are new growth
or bits that kind of died long ago. Goodness has been pursuing you all the days of your life, God says. When are you going to let it catch up?

29 toward the Omer

chesed shebhod

And today is the day that there is not enough time for this and that and now there is dinner and there are friends and I acknowledge it all

28 toward the Omer

malkhut shebnetzach

I tell her that I don’t feel I’ve earned a foot rub. What would you have to do to earn a foot rub? she says, rubbing my feet.

Their neighbor bordered two gardens with bricks found under the soil where the building had been. The second pothos given us by our friend prepares a new leaf.

I enter the kitchen to find the dishes that I had suggested maybe if I did them that would make me a human worthy of a foot rub already done.

The parsley and rosemary get their plastic pots today, and I run late to a stoop breakfast, later move seedlings from porch to porch to follow the sun.

I realize that I finally have forgotten to remember that driving to get somewhere quicker is an option. I sense that this forgetting is another kind of remembering.

27 toward the Omer

yesod shebnetzach

In the morning, I follow my mother's counsel, nudging more topsoil around each tomato seedling in the egg cartons before we talk on speakerphone as I shower.

I take a quiet late lunch on the second floor porch. Prop my feet. Watch a bird across the street enjoy a driveway puddle before flying somewhere.

26 toward the Omer #2

hod shebnetzach

My brother counsels me on seedlings. I don’t know if mine are flopping because they’re too cold or too dry or too wet, I text him.
Put them outside for a few hours a day, he texts back. Let them get some wind in there it’ll strengthen the stems by stressing them.
Great thank you. What if it’s too late!! I guess it won’t be too late for all, I text. It isn’t too late, he texts back;
They’re just floppy cause they’re babies. Babies are floppy, I think, and I smile, and I water them some more, and I start to trust again.

26 toward the Omer

hod shebnetzach

She paints, and I paint too, and I get handed back myself, just as I have been. I apply new layers to let old shine through.

25 toward the Omer

netzach shebnetzach

Sometimes it is hardest to move forward when forward is still felt as behind, although perhaps this is where the most honor can be found.

24 toward the Omer

tiferet shebnetzach

Talking with my mom on the way to the co-op, which is closed for Heroic Staff Day, I learn that we are intergenerational overplanters.
Tilling the soil in front of one garden bed before seeding marigolds, I touch worms, curious. Two pots of rooibos tea last all day.
I miss you when we don’t talk, especially on days like today, with all here quiet and good. I start knowing what I seek.

23 toward the Omer

gevurah shebnetzach

Our friend can’t go to France, so she goes to France here. She brings us along—group discount. Bonne Fierté! we shout out
from our curbside café. The accordionist plays. How timeless the day, and how situated. We dance in the street, scarf held between us.

22 toward the Omer

chesed shebnetzach

This head aches with lack of sleep and losing track and holding sadness and knows the only way through sadness is through
the only way through this poem is through is the head hurt slowly moving down to mouth with jaw relaxing to open
the fingers hold the poem, the tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth but is not parched, it’s a humid mourning
Springtime comes full bloom, something blooms from the edges of my arms, someone pulls me to more open posture from my armpits

21 toward the Omer

malkhut shebtiferet

Finally, you are how you want to be, and finally, I am how I want to be, and these physics...balance.

20 toward the Omer

yesod shebtiferet

The fear a fuzz on the threads between us, the spun strands resolute—a rope with tensile strength, not compressive—

19 toward the Omer

hod shebtiferet

all of these true, beautiful: the beets, peeled, heartlike, on the cutting board; her hands, red with beet;

our kitchen dance, me wearing a black sweater, not worrying where hands fall; me putting down the phone, committed, flawed

18 toward the Omer

netzach shebtiferet

A new pothos leaf has started to grow through the center of a stem stump from months ago

17 toward the Omer

tiferet shebtiferet

It’s balance within balance, not a balancing act, God says. What if the plates fall? I ask.
It’s okay, God says, it’s just plates. But some plates are people, I say. God sighs big.
You’re not a plate, God says. No people are plates. If you’ve made any people into plates,
unplate them. How do I unplate them without them falling? I say. Tell them that you’re sorry,
God says, for making them into plates. Then figure out what plates you hold together. But what,
I say, if I drop those plates? Oh, child, still grieving one, God says, go to bed.
In a second, I say. I wanna go check on the plants first, the ones from earlier,
remember, on the porch? See whether the water’s done them any good. All right, God says, smiling.

16 toward the Omer

gevurah shebtiferet

napping on the sunporch next to my seedlings in their egg cartons in the cookie trays—

That could be my poem! I say to her. It could be your poem, she replies.

It’s actually one of mine, God says. They’re all in public domain, but attribution is polite.

15 toward the Omer

Chesed shebtiferet

In line for the grocery store, a man I might recognize more without the mask

maybe recognizes me—and how do I judge, from a distance of four people by

six feet and with no mouths to go by, whether our repeated looks are a yes

or a sign of at least one person being confused? A head nod could've worked,

I realize afterwards, to diffuse any concern on his part, even if it would not

have resolved anything, and while the person in the car at the intersection last Sunday

helpfully affirmed that I have a fine ass, it's time to practice my eye smiles

14 toward the Omer

malkhut shebigvurah

I dream of France, of all places, and of a love I’d met before,
according to the dream, and of you, dear you, flying ahead on a broomstick

13 toward the Omer

yesod shebigvurah

when struggling to connect, don't underestimate the power of a knock knock joke

which after all is about one person uncertain if the other is safe
and another person hesitating at first to share their full name or need

oh, then, the tendril of a knock, knock, coming from the other side!

12 toward the Omer

hod shebigvurah

I didn't know my heart before I heard "bye, I'll miss you"--
my neurons continuing our mirror game well past the bows and handstands

relearning again another response to power than fight, flight, freeze, fawn: meet

11 toward the Omer

netzach shebigvurah

Finally, today, the phone becomes me, as perhaps it had to.
A child makes it happen, using hide and seek, how children
create hereness out of almost nothing, test it, prove it true.
"Stay quiet," they whisper to my Zoomed image under the pillow,
and I do, until another person home finds me, phone, again.

God, is being known through your vessels just as exhausting, exhilarating?
How psyched are you for us to return to your office
where we can play catch together in all our infinite dimensions?

10 toward the Omer

tiferet shebigvurah

I call my parents from my bike to tell them
that I’ve raised my bike seat by half an inch
because I’ll love when they agree this is a milestone

9 toward the Omer

gevurah shebigvurah
In continued memory of Sylvia Greenfield Moses, z”l
and with gratitude to Joanna Macy and the Work That Reconnects

As we others in Council listen to little plant
on the tall desk by the window who proposes,
on behalf of all house plants, a yearly ritual
where humans bring them outside to be a bit
with the Big Dirt, little plant will listen too—

none, to speak, needing another sun to turn moon

8 toward the Omer

chesed shebigvurah

Not the walls along the road, blocking out
or hedging in, but the road itself, sure,
unfurling before my gaze each way I turn—
this, and only this, will keep me safe

7 toward the Omer

malkhut shebchesed

I didn’t know what it would be
until it happened, which is how I
wanted it to be. And this poem,
God says, what is happening right now?
Well, I say, I didn’t expect you
to show up quite like this. I’m
always here, God says. It just took
some time this time around for you
to not wait for the right moment.

I'm glad you're here, God, I say,
but I still want the memories, they
were almost back with me, can you
help me find them? Okay, God says,
here they are, in no particular order:
Mask. Bike. Neighbors who do not come
when you sing outside. Other neighbors' backyard.
Sunlit porch. Magnolia tree. Mopping. Her reading
today's Omer learnings to you from three

separate books. You've met her, I say.
Of course I've met her, God says.
Haven't you? I thought I'd meet myself
first, I say, and God is silent.

6 toward the Omer

yesod shebchesed

before they dance the water droplets—
their poised form on the rock
facing the river, sticks held waiting

5 toward the Omer #2

hod shebchesed

I tell him that I’m
worried it would hurt him
to ask him to remain
focused on me while I
write but instead he says
No one’s ever asked me
to connect this way before

he then tells me in
grad school when clients didn’t
show he wrote a poem
called “let me help you
or I’ll smash your brains
to bits” caveating that he’d
write a different poem now

maybe I could call this
“I’m here not ignoring that
you’re not ignoring me even
when it’s like I’m ignoring,
because you know I’m not,
and this is called connection,
the reason we both entered
this doxy.me and this world,
thank you and you’re welcome”

5 toward the Omer

hod shebchesed

These long hairs on the
bathroom floor are not mine—
I comb in the shower—
but I’ll sweep them up,
just as she will clean,
as she notes, the drain

4 toward the Omer

netzach shebchesed

I fold napkins, think
of writing you that,
even if you were
to respond that it’s
not actually too late
for you, it actually
might be too late
for me, and don’t

3 toward the Omer

tiferet shebchesed

barefoot, seated, leaning
against the supports
for one of
the two iron
handrails for the
concrete steps leading
generally from our
front porch to
the front walkway
to the sidewalk
with the more
forward of the
two local outdoor
cats newly having
found your lap
on the lawn
as you visit
from the house
on the corner
that just three
weeks ago I
didn’t know was
where you lived
(it would have
required at least
me knowing that
you exist but
when a person
is gone those
who are left
rearrange), I pour
five more peanut
M&Ms into my
hand from the
bag I’d found
some days ago
in the pocket
of a raincoat

2 toward the Omer

gevurah shebchesed

At the
tables of
my family's
gathering I
lean slightly
back to
find a
pillow of
outstretched arm

1 toward the Omer

chesed shebchesed

the
braided
orange
anklet
breaks
pulled
in
one
direction
by
my
thumb
that
intended
to
remove
just
sock

I
didn't
know
when
I
knotted
it
on
why
I
did
so

did
not
know
its
meaning
chosen
or
unchosen

did
not
know
when
it
would
be
time

now,
released
(from
what?),
I
don't
know
what's
next
and
am

content

Pre-Pesach poem 5780

Pre-Pesach 5780:
Scavenger Hunt
in the Age of Telehealth

Find something round,
find something that makes you happy,
find a window,
find a book.

Find your feet,
wherever they are.
Find the tip of your nose.
Find each shoulder, each hip.
Find one of your favorite memories.

Find a thing that's broken.
Find something deeply well.
(You're allowed to double-count things.)

Find two things different today from yesterday.
Maybe, as you start out,
it's just your clothes
and the clouds outside.

Find something purple-pink.
Find one thing everlasting.

4.8.2020