When I was in high school there was the cool mom who gushed about her husband and told us that she married her best friend and they still have the best sex in the world for ever and ever, she was the luckiest girl on earth to have this awesome marriage, vibrant, sensual, satisfying - just look at her and her amazing best friend-husband and the smile on her face and glow on her skin. Years later I heard that she got divorced and my one example of a happy marriage was dissolved.
In college I met an older-than-me distinguished type married couple who whose relationship was based on other than sex and passion. I respected it but totally didn't get it. Didn't want that for myself, I wanted sparks with the friendship and sharing stories and housework and fantasies and love and the kind of lovemaking I imagined would go with all that.
Living in Israel for a year between college and rabbinical school, I became close with a classmate and came to admire her partnership. Finally, I thought I found a loving relationship set in sacredness. I watched them bless each other on Shabbat and wanted that for myself. I observed the calm and respectful way they related, and the deep affection they portrayed. They too have since separated.
I feel like the little chick in Are You My Mother? walking through the world looking for my true model for marriage. Just like the baby bird, I've probably walked right by it, because I don't know what it looks like. Are you my marriage? No, I am the unhappy version your parents endured for 30 years, you do not want me to be your marriage. Are you my marriage? No, you are a bag of secrets and cheating, looks sexy but lacks substance. Are you my marriage? No, you are platonic, stable but dry. Are you my marriage? No, I am a romanticized television version of one, just made up to mess with your expectations, I cannot be your marriage. Are you my marriage? No, I am a lesbian couple, Venus and Venus no Martians in here, I cannot be your marriage.
Even God of the Jewish Bible borrows marriage as the metaphor for the covenant between God and the Jewish people, and that relationship endures drama, betrayal, abandonment and exile. An exception, The Song of Songs portrays the idyllic lovers in the garden with poetry and song, affection and delight. If only we could all stay and play in paradise all day! Not even the Divine marriage is blissful when the partners step out into the real world of stress and temptation. Sure, this covenant is binding and in theory we don't have the choice to walk away. But separation through exile still persists so I still seek the model for reconciliation within the covenant, within marriage.
Baby Bird thought the tractor was his mother until it became scary and lifted him up, up, up off the ground. Oh no! I thought this was my marriage but it is not where I want to be, exclaimed this little chick many years ago.
Oh no! I want my mother, I need my moooothhhhherrrrr, baby bird screamed as the tractor was taking him far, far away. This really is not my marriage, and it is over, I realized way back when in a moment of acceptance.
Please put me down, baby bird cried as the tractor was placing him back in the nest in the tree. I followed my inner knowing through trembles and tremors and got through my divorce. And soon, baby bird was back safe at home. And the little chick flew the coop and found her way back to a new tree top nest, a sweet lake view condo paradise. And it was good, very very good.
I've heard that “remarriage is the victory of hope over experience.” (if you know the original source, please share.) This covenant idea that permeates my Jewish life is so persistant that hope returned eventually. Another chuppah, 4 children, 2 dogs later I sometimes still feel like that chick walking around asking “are you my marriage?” I wish there was a blueprint or an archetypal couple to consult.
Instead there is communication, there is commitment and there is covenant. If, like with the soul's connection to its Divine source, we cannot or do not want to disconnect, we have to keep returning, re-working, re-entering the covenant. Lord knows its not easy. Seriously, God is no expert in relationships and couldn't even write the book on marriage. So I shouldn't feel so bad that mine isn't perfect, there doesn't seem to be a perfect marriage out there. Anywhere. That's life, as they say. That's a shift in expectations, in the definition of covenant. That's a work in progress, always requiring both partners contribution, even when one of them is God.
Covenant is a commitment, an eternal every day choice to connect and accept the blessings and the responsibilities. Paradise is there for inspiration, not to set us up for failure. We count our days, we count on one another, we count on hope that the scary tractor will bring us safely back home to our nest.
After seven weeks of counting, we celebrate covenant with the gift of Torah on Shavuot. Let's consider it an anniversary, time to reconnect and re-enter the relationship however broken or complete it may be today.
Tonight will be the 46th day of the Omer, 6 weeks and 4 days of the Omer. The last Shabbat of the Omer.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Friday, May 14, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
18 - Counting of a Different Kind
Counting of a Different Kind: Anticipating the Omer
written and originally published in April 2009
Last year was different in a whole lot of ways. Every Passover I resolve to succeed at counting the Omer daily. How hard could it be to count 49 days? It starts out easy at the Seder on the second night. Today is the first day of the Omer. All I have to do is remember to say one sentence each day for the next 48 days, those leading up to the next major Jewish holiday Shavuot. Every year I failed; it seems the challenge wasn't big enough or meaningful enough for me to take so seriously. After all Shavuot would arrive seven weeks later whether or not I was counting days.
Last year counting was a matter of life and death. Counting is a serious thing. A superstitious Jewish custom forbids counting people as numbering lives diminishes them. This wisdom came long before the Shoah when the Nazis tattooed numbers for name replacements on our people's arms. At the same time, we encourage community and require ten people gathered for most prayer services, and even three for an official opening to the grace after meals.
In ancient times these days between Passover and Shavuot were a time of uncertainty and a struggle of hope and faith and fear and longing. My ancestors in the wilderness left slavery for a promising yet precarious future and they marched on through the desert motivated by a glimmer of redemption that they didn't fully expect. When we look back today, we know that the reward was the revelation of Torah on Shavuot, but they did not know that. Their grumbling and faltering shows that they barely believed, nor expected a gift of any sort.
One year ago Passover I was in my 25th week of pregnancy with triplets. Most people count months of pregnancy but when you are carrying triplets you actually count days. Zero percent of triplet pregnancies make it full term, and they are so fragile that there is a high chance of spontaneous abortion until you reach 20 weeks. Fifty percent of triplet pregnancies are delivered by 32 weeks, minimally eight weeks premature. Until 28 weeks gestation chances of survival are tiny, and the likelihood of serious life altering complications are great. Every single day the babies stay inside the womb and grow increases their chances for life and for health.
Once the 20 week mark went by I took a breath - just one. Then I looked at the calendar and set my next goal. Instead of the 28 week mark, I would switch to the Jewish calendar, striving to count through the entire period of the Omer and through Shavuot. That would put me at exactly 33 weeks. From there I would reevaluate and set a new goal.
In contrast to years past, all I could do last year was count. I counted another day of keeping my babies alive, another day for them to grow, another day for building fat reserves to keep them warm, another day for their lungs to develop so they could hopefully breathe on their own. Each day in the womb reduces the days in the NICU by multiples.
When we held our first Seder I was 25 weeks and 5 days pregnant with my triplets. I was already confined to home, barely able to walk, triplet heavy with babies. My belly was already the size of a full term singleton pregnancy. Instead of a cloth napkin I used a table cloth. I counted my weight gain. I counted the clothes I outgrew. I counted the vitamins I swallowed. I labored over breath. I had few moments of sleep or comfort the entire pregnancy.
I counted to keep myself going. I did not know how much I could endure nor what outcome would befall me or when. I was at the mercy of fate and fellow. I had no choice but to let people help, to force a smile on my pained face to offer thanks for food delivered, meals served. It is difficult now for me to recount the details and to face the reality that I endured. Triplet pregnancies are amazing and all, but they are not pretty. As my doctor said again and again, bodies aren't made to carry three babies. It is miraculous that my uterus accommodated three babies, yet no cell of my being managed to make it through unaffected.
I went into labor towards the end of Shavuot. Even though I reached my goal of completing the Omer counting, 33 weeks was still too soon. As much as I wanted to meet these babies, I wanted them to grow bigger inside me even if it meant tolerating more hugeness and more heaviness and more hell. If I were to be really honest about the whole thing I would tell you in detail how I lost all my dignity, how vanity and self were decimated as I surrendered moment by moment with determination to do right by these souls.
Writing these words, I cannot continue to be present to the teary memories of those thirty-three weeks and the four days that followed, so I fast forward until Shabbat arrived with an eerie yet elegant air of serenity. The Shabbat Queen surely entered and changed the quality of time as I enjoyed dinner with my husband, step-daughter and father-in-law. The next morning I awoke to silence and sunrise over Lake Michigan. Upon awakening I couldn't predict that counting days was complete and by the next morning and for the rest of my life I would be counting in threes. Counting with confidence in the outcome is relegated to the past. Now I do not expect that just because I am counting the revelation will be granted. Far from simple, when we begin to count we cannot expect we will reach completion. When each day is a matter of life or death, we must count carefully and consciously.
Tonight, Friday April 16, 2010, after Shabbat arrives it will be the 18th day of the Omer. 2 weeks and 5 days of the Omer. 18, chai, life!
Thank you for participating in the Online Omer Counting Community, for reading, for following, for sharing your comments and sharing with your friends. Shabbat Shalom!
written and originally published in April 2009
Last year was different in a whole lot of ways. Every Passover I resolve to succeed at counting the Omer daily. How hard could it be to count 49 days? It starts out easy at the Seder on the second night. Today is the first day of the Omer. All I have to do is remember to say one sentence each day for the next 48 days, those leading up to the next major Jewish holiday Shavuot. Every year I failed; it seems the challenge wasn't big enough or meaningful enough for me to take so seriously. After all Shavuot would arrive seven weeks later whether or not I was counting days.
Last year counting was a matter of life and death. Counting is a serious thing. A superstitious Jewish custom forbids counting people as numbering lives diminishes them. This wisdom came long before the Shoah when the Nazis tattooed numbers for name replacements on our people's arms. At the same time, we encourage community and require ten people gathered for most prayer services, and even three for an official opening to the grace after meals.
In ancient times these days between Passover and Shavuot were a time of uncertainty and a struggle of hope and faith and fear and longing. My ancestors in the wilderness left slavery for a promising yet precarious future and they marched on through the desert motivated by a glimmer of redemption that they didn't fully expect. When we look back today, we know that the reward was the revelation of Torah on Shavuot, but they did not know that. Their grumbling and faltering shows that they barely believed, nor expected a gift of any sort.
One year ago Passover I was in my 25th week of pregnancy with triplets. Most people count months of pregnancy but when you are carrying triplets you actually count days. Zero percent of triplet pregnancies make it full term, and they are so fragile that there is a high chance of spontaneous abortion until you reach 20 weeks. Fifty percent of triplet pregnancies are delivered by 32 weeks, minimally eight weeks premature. Until 28 weeks gestation chances of survival are tiny, and the likelihood of serious life altering complications are great. Every single day the babies stay inside the womb and grow increases their chances for life and for health.
Once the 20 week mark went by I took a breath - just one. Then I looked at the calendar and set my next goal. Instead of the 28 week mark, I would switch to the Jewish calendar, striving to count through the entire period of the Omer and through Shavuot. That would put me at exactly 33 weeks. From there I would reevaluate and set a new goal.
In contrast to years past, all I could do last year was count. I counted another day of keeping my babies alive, another day for them to grow, another day for building fat reserves to keep them warm, another day for their lungs to develop so they could hopefully breathe on their own. Each day in the womb reduces the days in the NICU by multiples.
When we held our first Seder I was 25 weeks and 5 days pregnant with my triplets. I was already confined to home, barely able to walk, triplet heavy with babies. My belly was already the size of a full term singleton pregnancy. Instead of a cloth napkin I used a table cloth. I counted my weight gain. I counted the clothes I outgrew. I counted the vitamins I swallowed. I labored over breath. I had few moments of sleep or comfort the entire pregnancy.
I counted to keep myself going. I did not know how much I could endure nor what outcome would befall me or when. I was at the mercy of fate and fellow. I had no choice but to let people help, to force a smile on my pained face to offer thanks for food delivered, meals served. It is difficult now for me to recount the details and to face the reality that I endured. Triplet pregnancies are amazing and all, but they are not pretty. As my doctor said again and again, bodies aren't made to carry three babies. It is miraculous that my uterus accommodated three babies, yet no cell of my being managed to make it through unaffected.
I went into labor towards the end of Shavuot. Even though I reached my goal of completing the Omer counting, 33 weeks was still too soon. As much as I wanted to meet these babies, I wanted them to grow bigger inside me even if it meant tolerating more hugeness and more heaviness and more hell. If I were to be really honest about the whole thing I would tell you in detail how I lost all my dignity, how vanity and self were decimated as I surrendered moment by moment with determination to do right by these souls.
Writing these words, I cannot continue to be present to the teary memories of those thirty-three weeks and the four days that followed, so I fast forward until Shabbat arrived with an eerie yet elegant air of serenity. The Shabbat Queen surely entered and changed the quality of time as I enjoyed dinner with my husband, step-daughter and father-in-law. The next morning I awoke to silence and sunrise over Lake Michigan. Upon awakening I couldn't predict that counting days was complete and by the next morning and for the rest of my life I would be counting in threes. Counting with confidence in the outcome is relegated to the past. Now I do not expect that just because I am counting the revelation will be granted. Far from simple, when we begin to count we cannot expect we will reach completion. When each day is a matter of life or death, we must count carefully and consciously.
Tonight, Friday April 16, 2010, after Shabbat arrives it will be the 18th day of the Omer. 2 weeks and 5 days of the Omer. 18, chai, life!
Thank you for participating in the Online Omer Counting Community, for reading, for following, for sharing your comments and sharing with your friends. Shabbat Shalom!
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