42 toward the Omer

malchut shebysod

One minute til nightfall and I've put off writing this all day, though I've written other things, emails and lesson ideas and one list of Things To Do This Summer, but the counting of the days is more inexorable even than prayer

41 toward the Omer

ysod shebysod

Home. The place that predates tefillin. Up too late. Quiet outside of my music, my keyboard-tapping, my nosebreath. Old fears of night when nothing moves. Compulsive touching of doors until they hang just so. The taste of triangled spanakopita, refrigerator-cool, tender.

40 toward the Omer

Maybe I could have a journal that I would only write in on Shabbat and I would only ever open it on Shabbat and I would never let myself make money off of anything in it, assuming that I could

In this long time of inexorable impending revelationstrike I do feel like I'm desertwandering, except that implies not knowing where I'm going, and I do, both that and that even as I walk toward I might be walking away, away

When do thoughts of community and habit and fear and reluctance and promises and even beauty equate to a mountain that I hold over my own head? I'll try to be selfkind until my next Megillahdik acceptancemoment, it always comes

39 toward the Omer

netzach sheb'y'sod

Dad wakes me at 2:45am. Dark. Bathroom, then screen door opens and closes, defined sound in the silence. Watch the step down, they say. I walk my way over stones and through the gate, lie by the pool.

The West Virginia sky is starred with all of the stars. Five sets of eyes gazing up for an hour. The dog sleeps amid blankets. Infrequent streaks, long periods of being. A good time to practice nowness, I think.

Other thoughts gently come. God as a nondirective counselor. I'm not sure what to do, I say. God says, It sounds like you're feeling aimless. Nah, I say, it's more like too many aims, and none quite deep enough.


*Note: the time was 1:45am. Given my policy of not editing after the day of writing has passed during the Omer, I am not changing the original, at least for now.

38 toward the Omer

Tiferet shebiysod

I could write a poem about the beauty to be found in the foundations of one's existence and how much I miss math and creating but I'm too busy playing with my brother's hair so peace out y'all

37 toward the Omer

I sit down (well I'm already sitting, I'm on a plane) to write a poem about doubt and realize that many things feel more attractive right now, like saying the prayer for traveling or taking a nap

Moscow, two thousand and nine. Pasha's apartment. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet before the travel laptop I've forgotten to turn off. A moment upon which nothing and everything depends. The indicator light glows steady. I stare motionless.

If I'm not with You who am I if I am with You who are they if I am with them who are You if I don't know can I be with you if not now when

Once we reach altitude we hit turbulence and the man to my right and I turn to each other and I say We're good even though there is nothing to anchor my words but my own certainty

36 toward the Omer

Late afternoon. A bat ben bat Levi and a ben bat ben bat Cohen daven mincha in turn between the two baby grands in Practice Room 312. Rotating watch over what is nowhere everywhere and always.

She wraps the phylactery straps back into their resting positions as he sinks into a preemptive farseeing wistfulness she notes There will be music outside of the Temple too right he says It's not the same

Beautiful pain, wrenching hope, waiting against wait for the day in Jerusalem where his gifts will spill out of his hands before the stones of the outer wall. Tsimtsum music. Hidden sun allows clouds to glitter.

35 toward the Omer

malchut shebhod

I wonder if I could raise the outer layer of my skin just a bit so I was conscious of its enclosing attribute whether I would feel like I was being held all the time

My newfound soulblanket gives me a tissue for my besnotted nose and I rest in this place where it is safe to cry and the safety is beautiful enough that it leads to more crying

Evan sits at my kitchen table and laundry sits on my bed and books on Catholic liturgy sit in their library-given plastic carrying bags and my tiredness sits as prickles all over my upper arms

Two faces in the recital hall back row a strange surprise with all the matter of factness of I'm your friend that's what friends do and I realize oh that's what it's like I'd forgotten

You people the handlinked farandolae dancing around the rooted trees but on the side of life not of nothingness and actually you're the rooted trees and I'm a dancing thing in the center needing that

34 toward the Omer

Yesod shebHod

Sidewalk, friend, twilight, bushes, coolness, breath, night. Two lines that cross always have that point at which they meet, I say. Is that a poem yet? you ask. It is now, I say now.

33 toward the Omer #2

The person behind the counter at the coffee shop liked my sequins and I liked their hair colors and skirtedness and neither of us contras though we're both the type. We'll get tea.

This dance floor--spinning skirts passing held glances moving bodies splendidly determined and undetermined in distribution--humble acquiescence when you let go to become again one firefly lost to me among the soullights--

a glorious ember sauntering away through the air in amiable aimlessness that however aimless is undeniably awayness--it's not winking out, I tell myself half-convincingly, it's just winking for a very long time