How difficult is it to count, really? We learn how to count as little children, and it's really not hard at all. We start with the number one and we move on from there.
Why then is it so difficult to count the Omer? All you have to do is to count the days between the first day of Passover and Shavuot. There are 49 of them. What could be simpler than that?
And yet, I for one -- and many others, I'm sure -- find it hard to do. It isn't the act of counting -- that's easy. It's remembering to count, each and every evening, that is the problem.
I can't think of another mitzvah that has so many constituent parts, each of which is necessary to be done properly for the mitzvah to be fulfilled. Just think: you can remember to count the Omer on each of the first forty-seven days, but if you forget to count on the eve of the forty-eighth day, then you don't recite the brachah (blessing) before counting the Omer on the eve of the forty-ninth day. That seems awfully unfair to those of us who find it difficult to keep to a schedule.
And yet, maybe that's precisely the point. After all, when it comes to activities that really matter to us, we don't forget to do them regularly. We eat regularly. We sleep regularly. We go to work regularly. It seems clear that if we (that is, I) thought that the counting of the Omer was as essential as those, I wouldn't have trouble remembering to do it.
So there's a lesson here.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
A Public and Private Anniversary
Last week, I observed an unusual anniversary. December 8th, 2010 was the 30th anniversary of the assassination of John Lennon. Articles appeared in the newspapers. Interviews with musicologists and historians of the Beatles appeared on the radio. John Lennon's death was not, of course, a source of celebration for me, but hearing about it, I couldn't help thinking about a significant event in my own life, that had taken place on that very same day.
December 8th, 1980 was a clear day in Boston. Shortly after 8:00 am, I was on my way to work. At the time, I lived in Somerville, near Inman Square in Cambridge, and worked as a math and science teacher at the Commonwealth School in Back Bay (a lovely neighborhood in Boston). I was single, though I had recently met someone with whom I had gone out several times. We had met in October, purely by chance. I had gone to services at a "havurah" near my home, looking to meet someone. The person I was looking for (a mystic would say, "I thought I was looking for") never showed up, but Elana did. And we hit it off very quickly. Talking together seemed very natural. We went out on a few dates, and I had even met her parents. Ordinarily, this would never have happened so quickly after meeting someone, but Elana and I were getting along so well, and Elana's parents happened to be visiting Boston for Thanksgiving weekend, ... so why not? My encounter with Elana's parents went well. Indeed, everything about my relationship with Elana seemed to be going well. And why shouldn't it? Elana was attractive, intelligent, caring, and sensitive. It was hard to believe my good fortune.
By public transportation, getting to school from my home in Somerville took almost an hour. It required a bus to Harvard Square (or a twenty minute walk), a subway across the river, a second subway to Copley Square, and a short walk to the school. But by bicycle, I could get to work in considerably less time, and get some exercise as well. So on clear days, that was my preferred mode of transportation.
I remember that day very well. It was clear and bright. It was a little chilly, but I was dressed warmly enough. I bicycled, as I always did, from my house to Mass Ave (Massachusetts Avenue) near MIT. I was probably only ten minutes from work at that point, and yet I never got to work that day. Suddenly, as I was passing in front of MIT, someone opened her car door and I was smashed between the door and a passing truck. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the street. I opened my eyes to find someone speaking to me. I remember how incredibly handsome the man looked, and how clear and bright the day seemed. "I'm a doctor," he said. I then closed my eyes, and opened them again as I was being wheeled into the hospital emergency entrance. A beautiful woman appeared in my field of view. She placed a clipboard in front of me and lifted up my hand to help me "sign" my name. I can't recall doing anything more than scribbling, with her help, something somewhere before I closed my eyes again. The next time I woke up I was in the ER. An oxygen tube was attached to my nose. Gosh, that feels good, I thought, as I breathed in that oxygen. (I didn't know at the time the extent of my injuries; I didn't realize that the oxygen was helping me avoid taking deep breaths, which hurt.) Then the oxygen tube fell down from my face. "His oxygen tube fell off," I heard someone say. "Oh, he doesn't need it anymore," came an irritated response, from someone who looked and sounded like a doctor. I closed my eyes. "Oxygen!" I groaned. "Oxygen!" Before I knew it, someone had put the tube back into my nose.
There is much more to be said about that day, and the days that followed. I remained in the hospital, nursing my broken bones (I had rib, hip, and spinal fractures, but did not require surgery) for 31 days. I don't beleive that anyone could remain hospitalized for so long these days. Elana was by my side almost immediately. (When I was wheeled into the hospital, I was asked who they should call. I told them to call the Commonwealth School and tell them that I was not going to be showing up for work that day, and also to call Elana.) There's no question in my mind that there are few better ways to get to know someone than to spend time in a hospital together.
Starting with the second day, I began to have visitors. One of them brought me flowers and told me the news about John Lennon. I recall not feeling particularly moved by the news (I was on painkillers at the time), but I also recall realizing that, no matter how much time elapsed, I would always know on what date my accident took place. Sure enough, each year, as December 8th rolls around, I hear Beatles music on the radio, and I remember a special day that I share in common with John Lennon. His life, of course, came to an end that day. Every day of my life, since then, has been a gift.
December 8th, 1980 was a clear day in Boston. Shortly after 8:00 am, I was on my way to work. At the time, I lived in Somerville, near Inman Square in Cambridge, and worked as a math and science teacher at the Commonwealth School in Back Bay (a lovely neighborhood in Boston). I was single, though I had recently met someone with whom I had gone out several times. We had met in October, purely by chance. I had gone to services at a "havurah" near my home, looking to meet someone. The person I was looking for (a mystic would say, "I thought I was looking for") never showed up, but Elana did. And we hit it off very quickly. Talking together seemed very natural. We went out on a few dates, and I had even met her parents. Ordinarily, this would never have happened so quickly after meeting someone, but Elana and I were getting along so well, and Elana's parents happened to be visiting Boston for Thanksgiving weekend, ... so why not? My encounter with Elana's parents went well. Indeed, everything about my relationship with Elana seemed to be going well. And why shouldn't it? Elana was attractive, intelligent, caring, and sensitive. It was hard to believe my good fortune.
By public transportation, getting to school from my home in Somerville took almost an hour. It required a bus to Harvard Square (or a twenty minute walk), a subway across the river, a second subway to Copley Square, and a short walk to the school. But by bicycle, I could get to work in considerably less time, and get some exercise as well. So on clear days, that was my preferred mode of transportation.
I remember that day very well. It was clear and bright. It was a little chilly, but I was dressed warmly enough. I bicycled, as I always did, from my house to Mass Ave (Massachusetts Avenue) near MIT. I was probably only ten minutes from work at that point, and yet I never got to work that day. Suddenly, as I was passing in front of MIT, someone opened her car door and I was smashed between the door and a passing truck. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the street. I opened my eyes to find someone speaking to me. I remember how incredibly handsome the man looked, and how clear and bright the day seemed. "I'm a doctor," he said. I then closed my eyes, and opened them again as I was being wheeled into the hospital emergency entrance. A beautiful woman appeared in my field of view. She placed a clipboard in front of me and lifted up my hand to help me "sign" my name. I can't recall doing anything more than scribbling, with her help, something somewhere before I closed my eyes again. The next time I woke up I was in the ER. An oxygen tube was attached to my nose. Gosh, that feels good, I thought, as I breathed in that oxygen. (I didn't know at the time the extent of my injuries; I didn't realize that the oxygen was helping me avoid taking deep breaths, which hurt.) Then the oxygen tube fell down from my face. "His oxygen tube fell off," I heard someone say. "Oh, he doesn't need it anymore," came an irritated response, from someone who looked and sounded like a doctor. I closed my eyes. "Oxygen!" I groaned. "Oxygen!" Before I knew it, someone had put the tube back into my nose.
There is much more to be said about that day, and the days that followed. I remained in the hospital, nursing my broken bones (I had rib, hip, and spinal fractures, but did not require surgery) for 31 days. I don't beleive that anyone could remain hospitalized for so long these days. Elana was by my side almost immediately. (When I was wheeled into the hospital, I was asked who they should call. I told them to call the Commonwealth School and tell them that I was not going to be showing up for work that day, and also to call Elana.) There's no question in my mind that there are few better ways to get to know someone than to spend time in a hospital together.
Starting with the second day, I began to have visitors. One of them brought me flowers and told me the news about John Lennon. I recall not feeling particularly moved by the news (I was on painkillers at the time), but I also recall realizing that, no matter how much time elapsed, I would always know on what date my accident took place. Sure enough, each year, as December 8th rolls around, I hear Beatles music on the radio, and I remember a special day that I share in common with John Lennon. His life, of course, came to an end that day. Every day of my life, since then, has been a gift.
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