(The latest in this series about the Birkot HaShachar, the Jewish morning blessings, and the role they might play in helping us – Jews and non-Jews; believers, agnostics, and atheists – live with more gratitude, presence, and even compassion. Part spiritual reportage, part suggested practice.)
At the outset of a hot and humid summer’s day in New York, there’s no imagining that the blessing of which I’m trying to be mindful will lead me to memories of a snowy day in Montreal with my mother, and the gift of vision she brought.*
*The paintings in this blog post are hers.
Baruch Atah Adonay, Eloheynu Melech Ha’olam, Poke’ach Ivrim
Blessed Are You, Source of all that is, who gives sight to the blind
What I do know is that the smile I’m wearing as I descend into the subway on 14th Street is starting to feel forced. Even if a minute ago, it was the real thing.
It started when a red-bearded hipster with a Montreal Expos cap passed me on the sidewalk.
“Go, Expos” I said, with New York spontaneity.
“You know it,” he answered.
Though from Lubbock, Texas, he’s always had an affinity for northern sports teams. He’s “psyched” he’ll be making his first visit to Montreal this fall, though disappointed the season will be over by the time he gets there. He doesn’t seem to know the Expos quit town ten years ago, and I haven’t the heart to tell him.
A moment later, a woman eases her bicycle from the street into Union Square. She’s got huge heart-shaped purple glasses, and a Terrier riding shotgun in a custom-made sidecar. The glasses and sidecar could have cost her fifty dollars or a thousand. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I love her.
But as I enter the steamy, dark subway station, I feel the giddiness leaving. I don’t want it to, so I force the smile for a while, but clinging to it makes things worse, and I reluctantly let go.
Freshly returned to the world from a meditation retreat, and wanting to ease my way back to urban living, I’m taking the A Train to the far northern tip of Manhattan for Inwood, one of New York’s quieter neighbourhoods. 
It promises to be a long and dull ride, except as unpleasantly punctuated by the fighting between the young children across the aisle. But remembering that long and dull are largely states of mind, I try to take an interest in my surroundings.
A woman stretches her arms around the flower-patterned knapsack on her knees to hold a book, pursing her lips as she reads. A man in a green-striped t-shirt is trying to nap, not sure where to rest his thick arms. The Spanish of the adults accompanying the fighting children has a rhythm to it. The more boisterous of the kids is wearing a red tank top emblazoned with the word CRASH. Cool air blows through the train. A couple of women – strangers – sit side-by-side, one with bright pink nail polish on her brown feet, the other with shoelaces the same shade on her white shoes. At 116th Street, the doors start to close, when we all turn towards a high-pitched wailing sound. A bony old woman with fiery eyes is comically screeching eee-eee-eee as she sprints out at the last second, her cane pointed straight ahead to block the door. When she makes it, she grins triumphantly, which seems to give the rest of us permission to smile.
207th Street. The end of the line.
Heading for Inwood Hill Park, I’m befriended by a civic-minded woman stabbing at stray litter with a poker. A refugee from mid-town, she says most New Yorkers don’t know Inwood exists. None of its buildings are more than six stories high, which means greatly diminished anonymity. She says this like it’s a burden, but I’m not convinced.
At the park, I pass a man on a bench, training binoculars on a patch of marshland beside the Harlem River. “Big, isn’t he?” he says of the great blue heron he’s watching, one of a handful he’s been monitoring all summer long.
Walking along the streets, and standing in a courtyard, I’m treated to a piano recital coming from an apartment above. Further along, I stop to photograph the art deco entryway of an older building. A beefy, sallow-faced man, cigarette drooping from his mouth, strikes up conversation. He’s an émigré from Yugoslavia, and the superintendent of the building, which went up in 1939.
It’s nice, he says, but you should see the building from ‘38 where he used to work. Now that is a building. He holds his thumb and forefinger in a circle, and draws them to his mouth for a kiss.
And so it continues. Walking. Exchanges with strangers who stop being strange. Quiet delights, a call to my father in Montreal, distracted thought giving way to more quiet delights.
And I say the blessing…
Baruch Atah Adonay, Eloheynu Melech Ha’olam, Poke’ach Ivrim
Blessed Are You, Source of all that is, who gives sight to the blind
…and then think about it.
About how it reminds me to truly see what’s in my midst.
And how, by bringing God into the conversation, I am declaring that I can’t do it all on my own, and never could.
What is the source of whatever capacity I have for encountering the world, rather than simply walking through it? Much comes from friends and teachers, my father and brothers and other family. Maybe there is a divine source at work. I’d like to think so.
And definitely, a great deal comes from my mother, Rhoda Diamond Blumer (zichrona livracha, may her memory be for a blessing), who passed eight months ago, and has remained on the minds of all who loved her (and we are a multitude).
I flash to a memory of a winter’s day when I was in my forties; it’s the day after a storm and my mother points out how beautiful the trees are with the snow still resting on their branches, cheering up the world. I must have seen this unconsciously, but she explained to me what I’d been seeing.
Always one to make the best of things, my mother didn’t care for winter, but could still create this…
And I think of standing at the airport with her when I was a teenager, telling me how much delight she took in watching people arrive from overseas, and their joyful reunions with loved ones. And of the pride and pleasure she took in Montreal’s Victoria Avenue, with its multiethnic tapestry, suggesting a diverse and tolerant world which she knew in her heart was how things could be. She just had a gift for seeing beauty and possibility in the day-to-day. For me, it often comes with effort – an effort made easier by having my mother for a role model.
And so I am grateful for the blessing that helps me remember the gift she gave me. And still does.
Baruch Atah Adonay, Eloheynu Melech Ha’olam, Poke’ach Ivrim
Blessed Are You, Source of all that is, who gives sight to the blind
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Let’s Get Mindful
- Get out there. And do something routine, perhaps something you do every day. And stop to see, really see, who and what is before you. And because giving voice to things can sanctify them, consider reciting the blessing:
Baruch Atah Adonay, Eloheynu Melech Ha’olam, Poke’ach Ivrim
Blessed Are You, Source of all that is, who gives sight to the blind
- If you like the idea of doing this, but aren’t quite taking it on, assign yourself a time or two in the day, and go for it.
- Stop. And reflect on the forces – human, divine – that have enabled you to see what you might otherwise have missed. Sanctify your good fortune by saying a blessing, either poke’ach ivrim/gives sight to the blind or one of your own.
- Are you looking for a way to volunteer your time or money? Is a cause related to providing others with proper eyewear the answer? Call it God, or God working through you, or you just being a human, and be grateful you’re in a position to help.
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Lorne Meets World 