Nettles, lemon, water, honey

Nettles, lemon, water, honey, stirred together with the back of the spoon— this the ashes of puposeless fire, like to like, to sweep it all through.

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.