Each spring we recount
the Exodus story: leaving slavery,
wandering years, slips
and divine encounters.
Counting blessings
like wheat sheaves, we offer
prayers for seven weeks,
carving space
at the end of each day.
No temple is needed —
just breath,
holy dwelling.
It’s my first time
to take up the rhythm,
keep count,
loosen walls I’ve built
from fear and hurt.
What sweetens this?
Each time I speak,
Shekhinah breathes,
sings out
through all the spheres,
her presence, strength,
expanding heart.
