The Omer

I have to say it was a great experience counting the Omer this year. I learned a lot. And I also felt that in a way it's what I've always wanted to get out of therapy and never had. Because it was like homework. Literal, physical, actual emotional homework. I mean, talk therapy is great, but I always get a little bit frustrated after talking for an hour, and then hearing almost nothing back, or just a regurgitation of everything I just said. And then, okay, I'll see you next time. Write a check for $120. But, you see, what I always wanted from my therapists was homework. They never gave it to me, and I never felt like I got anywhere. But this year, I decide to start doing Judaism, and I got what I always wanted - for free!

All I had to do was go home, pray every night, think about the meaning of the specific sefirah I was supposed to concentrate on, and then either do the activity that was suggested, or come up with my own. And I made an effort to do it every time. In fact, sometimes, if the day was coming to an end, I would start to panic a little if I felt I hadn't yet fulfilled my obligation for the day. One day this happened, as I was walking home from choir rehearsal of all places (yes, I still sing in a church choir - at least for the moment). It was a Wednesday, which meant it was the day of Tiferet, and I think it was Tiferet of Yesod, bonding.

I was walking down to Powell Street station, and as I passed the Walgreens window, I thought to myself, I'd really like to give a homeless person a bottle of water. I don't want to give them money, I want to give them something meaningful and sustaining. Something that person actually needs. The thought passed and I kept walking. Less than a block later, as I approached the station, I noticed a young-ish black woman in a wheelchair outside a pizza store. She didn't have a cup or anything, she was just asking for help. There were a lot of people on the street, but she looked right at me, wearing my bright orange coat. Can you help me, ma'am? Please? She looked right into my eyes. It was like she knew what I had just been thinking. And her voice was insistent, desperate, hungry. Buy me a slice of pizza, ma'am? I was a little freaked out. I gave her an apologetic look, kept my hands in my pockets and kept walking. I didn't see how I could possibly buy her a slice of pizza. But then it was also like G-d had heard my thoughts, and here was this person, not just begging for change, but asking for a specific thing, and asking it of me, and it was up to me to say, ok, I'll do it, or no. She didn't know who I was. She didn't know what I was thinking. But there was something about her. Something different. Unabashed. Not trying to get anything. Just hungry. Her voice stayed with me. Echoing in my brain. It was high-pitched. Almost childlike. And I had walked away from her. I could have done it without saying anything. Just given her the pizza and walked away. But oh, no, I was in a hurry. And there I was, in the subway station, waiting for my train. And I waited 10, 15 minutes. No train. Every other line passed by except the one I was waiting for, and crowd was gathering of all the other people waiting for the train. 20 minutes. 25. It was again uncanny. I thought - and I know this isn't really true - but it felt like, I'm responsible. G-d doesn't want me to leave this place until I've done what I set out to do. So I became determined. I left the station and went out to go and find the woman. But when I got there, the pizza place was closed she was gone. What could I do? I walked back up the street and figured I would just give something to the first person I came to. Luckily, in San Francisco, the odds of coming across just such a person are high.

At the next light, there was a frail black woman crumpled at the foot of the light post across the street. I looked in my wallet. All I had was a $5 bill. I took it out, folded it up in my hand and walked with purpose. I gave it to her. Thank you, she mumbled. She looked at what it was. She looked at me, her eyes filled with amazement. Thank you, her toothless mouth said to me again, sincerely. I gave a small smile and a nod and walked away. Just turned around and went back to the station. I waited only a few minutes for the train and I was home. As I approached my door, I felt better. I felt clear. I had done my job. Now I could move on to the next sefirah. But I had done something for the woman. Who knows what she did with those $5, but maybe it will give her a different feeling. Maybe it will be a story she can treasure, having gotten just once, maybe something more than little scraps and pennies. But something that can maybe give her dignity. I have to wonder, what was it like? Was I an orange-coated angel for her?

The next day, when I took some of my paintings to a small store, I sold them, for a total of $50. And even though I know there is no real correlation, it seemed to suggest that when you give, wholeheartedly and purely, with no thought of the cost to you, you open your heart and are more able to receive. In this case, ten-fold, but always more than you give.

And even though I might have done something for her, perhaps in the end, she - and also the young black woman in the wheelchair - was the real angel to me.