49, 48, 47…
The opening moments of Passover are behind me, and I’m left with a sense of something momentous having passed with it. There’s a dryness in my mouth and heaviness in my gut that has nothing to do with the matza I’ve consumed.
…46, 45, 44…
I’ve traveled out of Mitzrayim (“the narrow place”, the place which may once have been big enough for me, but which became constricting); I’ve run pell-mell through the gauntlet of nature’s forces, chased by the demons of my past to emerge out into vast unknown desert where I apparently must wander. Without a guide, I will easily lose my way.
…43, 42, 41, 40, 39…
Each day, each step, is a single drum beat, counting out a steady rhythm of moments. The days of the Omer, marking time from Pesach to Shavuot, also note the potential for the transformation of the rough, low-quality barley of my soul into a pure, humble, chometz-free offering.
…38, 37, 36…
Where will these days take me? I feel like I need to have a plan, even as I know that anything I expect to happen most likely won’t. But without a goal, what would keep me moving at all?
…35, 34, 33…
Do I know where I want to be? Is it even possible for me to imagine how this geography and community will shape me? What opportunities will be presented to me? Which ones I’ll be brave enough to take advantage of? Who, of those around me will be persistent enough to overcome my fear and doubt?
…32, 31,…
Still…
Even if, 49 days from now, I look back and say “I had no idea I’d end up here”, I still must start the process, if I expect to get anywhere.
…30, 29, 28, 27…
Originally posted here.