Mountaintop: Counting The Omer

On a mountaintop in Vermont, I stood in a circle with four other women. We had gathered in a great room with high-raftered ceilings and walls of glass to meet each other. I faced the stone fireplace, where Andrea, our facilitator, had placed a few logs. They burned red and smelled of pine.

“Welcome, everyone,” Andrea said, her voice gentle and soft. “It’s good to finally meet you in person and be together.” Andrea’s muscular shape reminded me of a Labrador retriever.       In preparation for our week together, she had asked us to email her a photo and a few words describing ourselves—“if you’re comfortable with that.” She included our photos and description in a welcome packet we each got when we arrived. I had taken a selfie headshot in the rental kitchen and described myself as an “environmental consultant.”

“Tonight, we’ll begin the Counting of the Omer,” Andrea said. “As you probably know, sundown marks the beginning of a new day in the Jewish tradition. But first, do you have any questions before we take our afternoon hike?”

“Backward, as usual,” Tracy said, twisting her mouth in a half smile. “I mean, come on. Why does evening begin the day? Why?” Tracy was the tallest one in the group. Her oversized shirt hung on wide shoulders. In the welcome packet, she’d described herself as an “attorney for social justice.”

“But is it really backward?” Dot said, a petite woman with crewcut blue hair. Dot had written that she was an “art therapist who is not Jewish but curious.” She stood with her feet pointing out in a ballerina’s second position. “Hebrew reads left to right,” Dot said, flipping her hand. “That’s backward for English readers, but not for Hebrew readers. The British drive on the left side, not the right. Who says what’s really backward?”

“True that,” Tracy said.

I listened. Why did evening start the day? In the Bible, darkness preceded light, but in my marriage, light had preceded dark. Did that mark the end? I sighed thinking this.

“There’s the biblical passage,” Andrea said in her gentle way. “It basically says: And it was evening and it was morning, the first day.”

“That’s ambiguous,” Tracy said. “If evening came before morning, the first day, then evening existed before the day.”

“But it was evening and it was morning,” Dot said. “So, it’s like they came attached—evening and day—as one entity starting the first day.”

Tracy had a point. On the other hand, I wondered if the wording implied that morning couldn’t exist without evening.

“Very abstract,” Dot said. “Though evening is mentioned first—”

“Very Jewish, this splitting of hairs,” Tracy said, scrunching her shirt tail. “Switching gears, I do have a practical question.”

“Of course,” Andrea said.

“Could you translate what an omer is? The booklet you gave us says it represents an offering of barley from the harvest, but how much barley? And does it matter how much?”

“Exactly what I was wondering,” Dot said.

“Thank you,” Andrea said, smiling in a serious way. “In recognition of the beginning of the harvest season, the Jews were instructed to bring an omer of barley to the temple as an offering of gratitude to God. Some have defined that measurement—or omer—as an amount that is enough barley for one person for one day. In other words, it’s not exactly the same measure for each person.”

“Fascinating,” Dot said. “My measure is different than your measure.  I’m counting how much is right for me? That’s the real question.”

“Yeah. I love that,” Tracy said.

I found it fascinating too, but I wasn’t ready to speak. I breathed the piney scent of the fire. The fourth woman, Wendy, also remained silent. Wendy’s limp ponytail hung down the small of her back to her waist. In the welcome packet, she’d described herself as “a mother.”

“Thank you for your questions,” Andrea said.  “I believe the meaning will take shape for each of us as we proceed with our counting over the next seven weeks. Does that help? We’re here to hopefully gain some insights.” She opened her arms. “Our time together is entirely what you choose to make it. Perhaps engage in whatever way is most comfortable, to make Counting the Omer your own.”

“Thank you,” Tracy said.

“Of course,” Andrea said. “And now, before we go on our hike this afternoon, I’d like to invite you to take a moment to center and breathe.” She spoke slowly. “Over the next five or so minutes, close your eyes, if you feel safe to do so, and let your arms hang loose at your side. Perhaps you might also begin to feel your bodies in space in this room.”

I closed my eyes and let my arms dangle.

“And as you take a deep breath in,” Andrea said, in her slow-moving voice, “perhaps you can feel your back expanding as you allow your breath to fill your spine and arms, your fingertips, your legs, and feet.”

Perhaps. The word sounded intentional, as if Andrea were using it as a softening agent. In my breathing, the room grew silent except for the fire simmering. My fingers became air, my arms weightless.  “And as you inhale and exhale,” Andrea said, “perhaps take a few more moments to appreciate the time you’ve given yourself to be here, breathing out any tension you may feel in your neck and shoulders, your torso and hips.”

I dropped my chin to my chest and closed my eyes. In the lodge, the room grew warm and humid. I heaved a deeper breath and heard someone’s jagged exhalations.

I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, Ezra had texted this morning before I left. The octopus stirred in my stomach. I wanted to forgive him, but the pain had nestled deep, ready to defend against any insult. Perhaps Ezra was right. Perhaps I would never have it in me to forgive him.

Perhaps. What did that say about me?

The fire snapped. The vents from the heating system hummed.

Was there an Omer for sorry? For pain? For forgiveness? When I told him I was going away on a retreat, he had said, “I’m sorry. I hope it helps. I love you.”

What kind of love? Worn-out love? Pity-love? Sorry-for-hurting-you-love? Married-to-you-for-so-long-kind-of-love?

How could Ezra hand me a box of candy when he got home that night—such a pathetic offering. Twelve chocolates individually wrapped in gold foil. The next morning, I dumped them in the kitchen sink. I pulverized them in the disposal.

How long?

What difference does it make? One month or a year? I did it.

“And when you’re ready,” Andrea said, “open your eyes and take your time to gather what you need for our hike.”

Not ready, I kept my eyes closed. I wanted to stay in this quiet bubble that Andrea had formed.

“When did you start?”

“Last October. Never for dinner,” he said, his voice rushing, as if that signified something.

“And no sex. I made that clear from the start. I drew the line.”

“What line? Clear from the start? What are you saying? That makes no sense.”

On this mountaintop, tears rolled down my face. I heard someone padding down the hall. Had it come to something as idiotic as a box of candy? Had I become that insignificant?

Had he?

Where else?

It doesn’t matter.

It does to me. Where?

The Perfect Slice.

You mean that Italian place I said I liked and asked if you’d been there before, and you said you had? It was Dierdre Burnes, wasn’t it?

Yes.

Where else?

That’s enough, he had said. I’m done. I’m not telling you anything more.

No! I had coughed up a mouthful of tears, kicked a tennis ball across the kitchen floor, screamed.

In the lodge, I heard more voices in the hall. I opened my eyes.

Andrea smiled at me.

“I need to get my shoes,” I said.

“Take your time. We’ll see you outside.”

I headed back to my bedroom for my winter jacket and boots. All the bedrooms fed off a long connecting hall. Mine had twin beds, a night table, a reading lamp, and a bureau. I presumed the other bedrooms looked similar. Andrea had placed my welcome packet on the table. The small booklet included our retreat schedule for the week: three meals a day, yoga, daily hikes, nightly recitations of the Counting of the Omer, and fireside discussions, plus unscheduled times for breaks and rest. On the seventh day, everyone would return to their homes to continue counting, using online prompts for the remaining forty-two days. In the packet, Andrea wrote to think of this week as a launching pad.

Outside, in the cold, the group gathered around Andrea and headed to the trailhead. On the mountaintop, we could see miles of undulating hills, evergreens, and sky. It was humbling. I felt as small as a sparrow and imagined the firs scooping me up in their arcing, snow-frosted limbs.

We followed in line. Andrea first, then Tracy, Dot, me, and Wendy. I welcomed the frigid air on my face, the tingling on my cheeks. I used my arms for balance, taking careful steps.

It was stupid, he said.

Unkind. Selfish. Hurtful. Ruinous.

I’d rejected his refusal to tell me more. Little crumbs he offered—“trickle truth”—an article called it. A form of withholding truth. Lying by omission. So, I kept copies of Ezra and Dierdre’s romantic texts that Jim Burnes, Dierdre’s husband, gave me. I considered burning them on the gas stove at the rental, but folded the two pages into a business envelope for safekeeping, in case I needed them as proof for a divorce.

Was there an Omer for safekeeping?

Andrea stopped often to make sure we stayed close together.

The snow-packed trail curved, flattened, and spiraled around the mountainside. We walked in silent single file down and up, and around, our boots shuffling, our lungs collectively huffing. Someone cleared their throat, a bird called out, a wing flickered overhead.

Ezra referred to his emotional affair as an “it” as if “it” lived outside of him. Maybe it did. But it lived inside me now, an awful, moving thing that chewed on my intestines, caused ravenous cravings for sex. Bore an octopus in my chest.

Mate Guarding. A way to repossess what you had lost and feared losing again.

Mate guarding.

Cheating.

Lost.

Emotional affair.

Ugly words.

Now here I was, fleeing my marriage, following a trail that threaded between tall firs and white birches, and short scrubby bushes, seeking words of revelation and grace—from whom? From where? My old friend, nature, and perhaps, for the first time in my life, from the old biblical stories, offering symbolic applications for managing life.

In a few hours, the Counting of the Omer would begin the forty-nine days—starting on this second night of Passover when the Jews fled Egypt. The Counting ended on the holiday of Shavuot, which marked the moment when Moses climbed Mount Sinai and received the word of God, then brought the commandments back down to the Jews—who were drifting in the desert, hungry, tired, riddled by second thoughts.

What had they done?

What had I done?

Unsure of their future.

Unsure of mine.

Full of doubts.

As I walked the snowy trail in the cold, I measured my steps, watching for icy patches. I tucked my chin inside my hood and breathed hard, my breath shooting out whitish puffs; my mind skipping over images of Dierdre Burnes’ face that I’d seen online: her square chin, flattish nose. Her tomboyish, short hair and pale blue eyes. She was sixteen years younger than Ezra. I found that online, too.

“You went for a younger woman,” I’d said to Ezra. It had dawned on me that Ezra had himself become a cliché—older man flirts with younger woman.

“That had nothing to do with it.”

Hurt.

If age had nothing to do with it, then it meant facing a more difficult truth: He had sought emotional comfort and ease with someone else because he had stopped seeking out those things with me. Oh, Lord. Help.

Up ahead, Andrea stopped at a higher elevation and called down to us.

“Everyone doing all right?”

“I’m gonna sleep tonight,” Tracy called back.

“This is the steepest stretch,” Andrea announced. “Take it as slow as you need to.”

Leaning into the slope, my face inches from the granite slab, I wondered how the massive rock had come into being, settling here to provide me with a foothold. What drama had occurred millions of years ago in a pinpoint of time—so immeasurable and distant that it made the Jews’ trek across the desert three thousand years ago seem recent by comparison, and my own life, an inconceivable blink.

Crouching, I could hear the others panting as I crab-walked over the boulder, grabbing onto crevices in the rock. Then, standing, I caught my breath. Wendy groaned and came up beside me, and together we joined the others where the path leveled at the top again. Oh, what a view! We walked over to the ledge and lined up to gaze at the steep valley below. I put my mittened hands in my pocket and imagined leaping into the bright blue sky, wings spread, floating and diving on invisible currents, circling for something warm and alive.