Day 235: 36

36 is a special number in Judaism. In Hebrew numerology, the two letters that spell chai, meaning life, add up to 18. So, 36 is double chai. It also translates into lamed vav. 

Jewish tradition holds that, in every generation, there are just 36 individuals alive in the world whose goodness, justness and humility redeems the entire human race in the eyes of G-d. These are the Lamed vav. 

They are not known in life as one of the 36, to themselves or others. In fact, if somehow it is revealed to them that they are one of the lamed vav, they are forbidden from making it known. And, of course, they wouldn’t anyway, because their goodness and humility would prevent it. 

It is said that the true goodness of these souls is only revealed after death, when the overwhelming number of people they impacted come together in mourning and people are finally able to see just how many lives the special soul touched. 

Jewish tradition says that when one of these hidden tzaddiks dies, their goodness and righteousness in the world is amplified instead of diminished, as every life they have touched goes forth and has a positive ripple effect on countless other lives. 

On this day, three years ago, my friend Mike turned 36. He had reached that magical age. He had attained that mystical number. 

At his memorial service less than three months later, the rabbi said what everyone who knew Mike had already been thinking. That the world had lost a true lamed vav tzaddikim. That one of those 36 souls was gone. 

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Mike and I met in the summer of 2002 on my first trip to Philadelphia. Over the years, we shared many meals, in our home or his or out at restaurants. I teased him about girls enough that he compared me to his mother. We talked about all the things: our families, our friends, our work, the state of the world, the Eagles. 

In 2018, Mike was single-handedly responsible for saving Jesse and my marriage (a long story for a much later time), and not because he sent us flowers for our anniversary, although he did that one year, too. 

Aside from his kindness, his humor, his gentleness and generosity, what I remember most about Mike was his intense listening. This intense listening translated into an amazing ability to make one feel heard—and I know from all the people who shared stories at his memorial service that it wasn’t because I was a special friend. It was because I was a person, and that was how Mike treated people, as a matter of course. 

Mike once told me I had a beautiful voice. 

I was loading up the dishwasher and singing along to Adele after dinner, one night when he was dying. It was toward the end. That last summer. 

I had made tofu with rice and veggies, and he ate heartily and enjoyed it, which was fairly surprising considering the amount of medication he was taking at that point. During dinner he said he had good news and bad news. 

The bad news was that they were stopping all treatment except those meant to make him comfortable, because there was no hope of those treatments being effective. The good news was that his appetite had returned and now he could drink beer. 

He delivered both pieces of news with equal weight and import. 

That’s what Mike was like. He was matter of fact about his situation, realistic perhaps to a fault. He was honest and articulate about how scared he felt and he faced his mortality head-on with arresting bravery

And even then, in the midst of dying, what he was still mostly doing was listening.  

He told me I had a beautiful voice. “It’s weird,” he said. “I’ve never heard you sing before.”  

This has always stayed with me. Mike was an amazing jazz pianist with an impeccable ear, so I took it as a true compliment. But more than that, Mike was saying he heard me. And he wanted to hear more. 

He wanted me to sing, to use my voice, to speak my truth into the world.  

I am trying. 

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Mike was also uniquely gifted at staying present in the moment. This, in addition to his deep listening, was part of what made him such a talented jazz musician, such a wonderful improviser. 

After hours and hours of intentional practice, careful, thoughtful memorization, learning chords and patterns and themes and variations, when he was making music with others he focused intently on what his bandmates were playing, without anxiety or concern about what he would do when it was his turn. Then, when his turn came, he took all that practice and muscle memory and applied it to riffing off whatever he had just heard. He went with the flow and something beautiful inevitably emerged. 

Coincidentally, today would also have been the 99th birthday of beloved children’s artist and illustrator Ashley Bryan, who died in February. Yesterday, I wrote a reflection on his painting Cannot Reach it Yet, which beautifully grapples with life and death. 

Ashley Bryan, who was said to be always surrounded by children and singing, made gorgeous, wildly intricate block prints. Yesterday, as part of an author study on Bryan, I also learned how to make one. 

Initially, I was intimidated by the process of carving an image into the block, which had the texture of soft cheese, and I was inclined to throw my hands up and not try. I thought, “I’m not good at art,” “I can’t think of anything to draw” and I employed all manner of resistance to avoid trying something new. 

But, I stayed with it. I stayed in the moment. I started small with one idea: a sun. Then I added a peach tree, a picnic table, a paper and pen, and finally, a path—because the person about to sit down and write had up and decided to go for a walk. 

I improvised some, a little swirl here, adjusting the plan there, and I let myself go, finding I enjoyed the time I spent carving, creating negative space, removing boogers (yes, a technical term) from my block. 

And in the end, something beautiful did emerge. 

It’s not how I expected. Truth be told, I can’t figure out why the tree I drew on the left side printed on the right, but it is beautiful nonetheless. 

I think Mike would have been proud of my improvised block print.

I think he would have laughed today when I abandoned my gluten free-vegan food in favor of a lobster roll and curly fries. Because it was Mike’s birthday, and because Maine. 

All day today I have thought about how much richer my life is because Mike was in it. The way he made people feel because he cared about them—and if he knew you, he cared about you. 

36 years were heartbreakingly, impossibly too few for those of us who loved him. And yet, within those 36 years, Mike created millions of moments of love, joy and connection. More than many of us offer or receive, even in a lifetime decades longer. 

He stayed inside those moments of connection. He really lived there, settling in. He spread those moments from the inside out with bravery, honesty, love, humor, fun, and a nonzero amount of pot, but mostly with unhurried, deep listening. He stayed in the flow of life and made people feel seen and heard. Those were his special gifts. 

Today I have been reflecting on all the ways Mike’s legacy and spirit lives on in me, and Jesse, and our children, and Mike’s sister, his nephew, his mom, and a truly astounding number of family, friends and colleagues. 

I have been considering all the ways my story is inextricably tied to his and my life was made infinitely better because he was here. 

John Green wrote, “Some infinities are bigger than other infinities.” 

Michael, my friend, your infinity goes all the way on.