Tradition

Tradition. (Yes, I sang it as I typed it. I hope you read it that way, too.) Traditions are gifts, passed down like heirlooms through generations. They link us to our past, and shape our future.

Last week, I decided to prepare Shabbos dinner for my friends. So I hopped on the light rail, and took my first trip to Mahane Yehuda. Note: shopping in the shuk on a friday morning is not for the weak-hearted. I squeezed into the narrow alleyway, wormed my way through swarms of shouting Israelis, and began my quest. It was a sensory overload. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the alleys, mixed with an assortment of exotic spices, herbs, fresh fruit, and vegetables that still smelled of the earth. The colors were rich, and beautiful. Shop-keepers whistled and yelled, beckoning shoppers to their stalls, creating a beautiful caucaphony of sounds and languages. I wandered, amazed at the scene before me, until I finally decided to give my hebrew a try. "Kamah?" I asked, pointing to a bundle of mint leaves. "Shtayim." I handed him two shekels, and with a grin, fell back into the crowd victoriously clutching my purchase.

A few hours later, I began the preparations for my first roast chicken. The smell of dinner floated into the hallway, lingered outside apartments, and slipped under doors. Music spilled into the halls, while laughter echoed through the building. The sun was setting over Jerusalem, and the entire city seemed to glow with the unique warmth that only comes on a Friday evening. I watched, as friends filled the small apartment. Shabbos had arrived. I looked around at the people who I've come to know over the past three weeks, and as they lingered in the kitchen, I felt my heart fill with love. I lit the candles, we said the blessings, and cut the challah. As Rossberg Etiquette dictates, I tossed everyone a piece of the end slice. After my pitiful, yet admirable attempt to carve the chicken, we all sat down to eat.

I sat in awe, surrounded by love, as the sweet mountain air drifted through the open window. We were under Jerusalem's spell. Her golden lights twinkled, as Ofra Haza's soaring voice reminded us how lucky we were to be celebrating Shabbos in Jerusalem of Gold. It was a truly remarkable moment. A dinner that was meant to be for six, turned into a feast for thirteen. I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride as I watched my friends. Everyone looked so happy. The real world had been left at the door, and all that mattered was that we were together. We were laughing, singing, over-eating, and not leaving room for dessert. Which we ate anyway. As I took it in, I began to think about what brought me to that moment, and why I decided to cook Shabbos dinner for my friends. Besides setting my inner Jewish Mama free, (eat, bubbeleh, you're so skinny!) I realized that I wanted to share a bit of home with my Jerusalem family. I wanted to make roast chicken, and toss end pieces of challah across the table. Shabbos has always been a constant in my life, and as I sat around the table watching my friends, I knew it always would be. My mind began to wander, and suddenly I was racing my brother up the driveway of my Grandparent's house.

You can smell the roast chicken from the street. Laughter spills through open windows, and my brother is standing at the door ringing the bell incessantly. Grandpa stands in the entrance, his blue eyes twinkling, even as he hollers at us to "quit that racket!" With a hearty laugh, a big grin, and a bear hug; he says “Hiya Maya!” Through my giggles, I manage to reply “Hiya Grandpaya!”

Once I got that hug, Shabbos had officially begun.

I run through the door, and up the stairs where everyone is gathered in the kitchen. Where the soup is simmering, the potatoes are browning, the vegetables are steaming, and the chicken is roasting. The sun is setting over Long Island, and the entire house seems to glow with the unique warmth that only comes on a Friday evening. The men mosey over to the bar, talking in whispers over glasses of scotch. I join the women, and together we light the candles, watching as the flame jumps from match to wick, dancing under the gentle breath of our prayers. I turn and catch a glimpse of the the men. My brothers stand beside them drinking soda out of plastic cups. I turn back, cover my eyes, say the blessing over the candles, and peek through my fingers. Before me, four generations of women stand side by side, deep in prayer. Their faces glow in the candlelight as they sway to the rhythm of their thoughts. One by one, their eyes are revealed to a choir of Shabbos wishes. Big hugs, smooshy kisses, and the unmistakable clinking of dishes tells us that it's time to sit down. We gather around the table, shouting and teasing until Grandpa takes his place. He bellows "Quiet!", in an attempt to silence the room, provoking us to make more noise, causing him to holler more, causing EVERYONE to make more noise. But once we've all settled, Grandpa, always at the head of the table, delivers the blessings with an enthusiasm that could never be matched.

Over dinner we eat, laugh, sing, tease, and tell stories. Someone eventually knocks over a glass of wine. As we eat, I catch a shared moment between my Grandparents. They exchange smiles from across the table, savoring the insanity of their loud, and loving family. I can sense their pride as they watch us. In that moment, I do not understand the gift they have given me. But I can see it. I can smell it. I can taste it, and I can feel it.

There are fifty-two Fridays in a year. At age 18, I had been a part of roughly 936 Friday night dinners, mostly held at my Grandparents house, which they bought as newlyweds. Their dining room table had witnessed the ups and downs of Rossberg-Family history. But through all of the joys, and all of the tragedies, Friday night dinners remained a tradition. We continued to gather, no matter the circumstances, always with my Grandpa leading the pack. Always with my Grandpa in the chair at the head of the table, reminding us that “it is what it is”, and although God works in mysterious ways, everything happens for a reason.

On June 2, 2006 the chair at the head of the table was empty for the first time. There was no bear hug. No “Hiya Maya!” No hollering, and no teasing. I prayed that night over the Shabbos candles with my Grandma, Mother, Aunt, and cousins. We held on to each other, swaying in unison to our private prayers. “It is what it is”, my Grandpa's final message to us, echoed in our heads. When we finally sat down to dinner, we tried to avert our eyes from the emptiness before us, but we couldn't avoid it. It cut through us, and there was a numbing silence as we prepared to say the traditional Friday night blessings. Who would say them tonight? I glanced at the empty chair. Growing up, that chair was a throne. No one but Grandpa could sit in it. That night it remained empty, a screaming reminder of who we just lost.

My brother stands, and raises his wine glass to begin the blessings. Struggling to get the words out, he puts it down. We all feel the weight of the week, and the eleven of us…eleven, no longer twelve, grasp each others hands. Together, we can get through this. I see my mother give my brothers hand an encouraging squeeze and he lifts his glass once more. “Baruch-atah-adonoi…” I squeeze my Grandma’s hand. “…elohainu melach ha’olam…” She squeezes back. “…borai…” I stare at the empty chair. “P’rei hagafan.” It stares back, it’s gaze burns as it brands itself into my heart. We all take a sip of wine. Nothing can be heard except the sounds of a family in mourning, until the silence is broken by a clap of thunder. It shouts so loud that it reaches our souls and twists our insides. It's been raining since the night we buried him. Comforted by the hollering thunder, we begin our meal. It's as if he's there, telling us to quit moping and eat before the food gets cold. So, we do. And someone still manages to spill a glass of wine. We smile, and laugh. He is with us.

Every week, we came together, but under a different roof. My mother, determined to maintain our traditions, began preparing, and hosting the weekly dinners. We pushed through the sadness, and soon found laughter. Shabbos held us together, and kept us strong. At some point, I stopped counting how many dinners had passed without him, and I soon began to understand the gift my Grandparent's had given us. I began to understand the moment that they shared, as they watched us in all of our insane glory. And I knew that when I made my first Shabbos, I would carry the traditions I learned at my Grandparent's table, and share them with my loved ones.

Seven years later, I reach across the table in an apartment in Jerusalem, and grab the end piece of challah. "Pardon my awkwardness, but it's not Shabbos unless you all get an end piece." I smile. Yes, it's bizzare. But I wouldn't want it any other way. The traditions have passed from my Grandparents table, to my mothers, to mine. I think my Grandpa would be proud.

Tradition

 

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A Promise to The Land

Now that the whirlwind of my first week has settled, I'm beginning to get accustomed to the pace of life here. Yes, even the five hour Hebrew classes. I'm figuring out the bus lines, and when I go into the city with friends, I am starting to recognize streets. I'm slowly learning the ins, and outs of my new home. 

On Thursday night, I went out for a drink with some friends, and was thrilled to discover that a night out in Jerusalem is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Imagine, a road of ancient stone glowing in the yellow warmth of streetlights. One would think that the modern stores, restaurants, bars and clubs would contradict the ancient surroundings, but instead, it melds together, creating a place where the old meets the new. This is a place where you might find a pair of orthodox men walking down the street with a box full of c.d's, and a stereo, blasting their latest jams. Where a Chassidic street-ventriloquist performs on a nightly basis, and circles of friends smoke hookah, surrounding themselves with a soft haze. As I floated through the eternal night, I listened to the music that poured into the street. Musicians were gathered on every corner, and bench, filling the night with songs. It was perfect. People stopped to listen, hypnotized by the melodies that dripped from the strings of guitars, falling into the magic of our surroundings. 

That night, Jerusalem was swarming with birthright groups. Young adults, all experiencing Israel for the very first time. I watched them wander, wide-eyed, through the streets. They wove through crowds, said "slicha" with delight, and toasted their drinks with a hearty "L'chaim!" Soon, they would all be returning to the lives they left behind. But they would return, changed. Israel will have left a mark on their hearts, and in their souls. 

As I watched them, I recognized something glimmering in their eyes. It was love. Love for the land, love for the people, for the sights, smells, and foods. And then I remembered my first time in Israel. I was seventeen, and I spent six weeks here. We toured the entire country, and every day I fell more deeply in love than I thought possible. I felt inspired, and alive. On my last night, I sat on a hill overlooking Jerusalem, and made a promise to the land that I would return. I saw that promise in their eyes. And in their eyes, I saw myself. And then it hit me. I live here. "I live here!" I thought, as the music from the bar spilled into the street, mixing with a language that I am slowly beginning to understand. Sipping my plastic cup of Goldstar, I felt the breeze wrap its arms around me. I was peaceful as I settled into the gentle wind, and into the embrace of my new home. 

My new home. 

I can't help but grin when I say that. I feel as if I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this moment in my life. As though the churning waters of uncertainty have settled, and the dark clouds have cleared.  Every disappointment I've had in the past three years, and every failure, have all led me here. Without them, I wonder if I would have had the courage to take this leap of faith. My heart is happy here. My soul feels like it’s on fire, and I am inspired by everything. Stories surround me, and I can barely keep up with my own thoughts. This place feeds my imagination, and every morning, as the sun creeps through my window, I feel a rush of joy. I wonder who I will meet, and where the day will lead me. I feel as if anything is possible here. That I have no limitations. 

I don't even mind that I've found, and killed two cockroaches in my apartment (unexpected life skill number one), or that I'm being stalked by no less than three stray cats. 

There is always so much going on here, but on Friday afternoons, the whole country comes to a gentle stop with the sound of the Shabbos siren. I like to imagine men, scattered through the valleys and hills of Jerusalem, sounding off Shofars to welcome the Sabbath. Stores, restaurants, and markets all close early. The comforting smells of home cooked meals seep into the streets. It feels like home. Laughter spills through open doors, as families cook together, and guests are greeted with hugs. It's amazing to me that no matter where I seem to wind up for Shabbos, it always feels the same. It is warm, and inviting. It's full of love, laughter, good food, and tradition. I spent this past Friday evening with my cousin's friends. They welcomed me into their home, and we ate together on the balcony. A gentle wind waltzed through the trees, and as we recited the blessings, our voices were swept into the hills. Six voices floated through the night, and become the voice of one people. One people, united in one tradition. I thought about how long we, the Jewish People, have been observing Shabbos; I looked out, saw Israel before me, and remembered the promise I made nearly ten years ago on a hill in Jerusalem. 

I smiled. Everything was as it should be. 

Stalker-Cat

A night out in Jerusalem

Welcome to Jerusalem

I've been in Israel for one week now, and it's been a whirlwind of laughter, joy, confusion, and frustration. There have been amazing moments, the kind where your soul is on fire; and there have been some not so amazing moments...the kind where you get a glance inside yourself through your head, instead of your heart, and wonder "Am I doing the right thing?" But those moments are inevitable. There will be both.

My first night in Jerusalem, I had a picnic with some of the girls I met at orientation. We sat on the quad, shared some beers and enjoyed the perfect breeze. I was awestruck. There I was, sitting in Jerusalem, within sight of the Old City, laughing over beers with my new friends. It was perfect.

The next night, I ventured off campus, to a wine festival at the Israel Museum. With hundreds of wines from all over Israel to taste, perfect weather, and a live band? Oh yes. It was going to be quite a night. The music was brilliant. It caught hold of me from the moment I walked in, and did not let go. I swayed from station to station. My hair was wild, and my turquoise dress hid my feet so that I seemed to float wherever I went. I felt beautiful, and free. Halfway through the evening, I found myself standing on an overlook. The lights of Jerusalem glowed, and I imagined that each light was a little bubble of existence. Within each, a story was taking place. Thousands of stories lit the sky that night, and I saw an eternity of possibility. Soon, the music took over my soul, and my friends and I dashed over to the band where we got lost in the music. I threw my arms into the air, and with a laughter that seemed to escape from the depths of my heart, I was gone. Dancing under the stars on a beautiful night in Jerusalem. Time swirled around us, as the music erupted from the hills. We were everything. We were nothing.

When our faces were red, and our feet sore, we decided to take a break. But before we could get away, we were pulled back by a melody that reached inside our very beings. It felt familiar, as if I had danced it in another life. We ran back to the band, to discover a hora! The circle spun madly, as we broke in, grabbed hands with strangers and danced in whirling circles. The world was spinning, and there was no distinction between friend or stranger. We laughed, we danced, we sang, and when the circle spun out of control, we all fell into each others arms in fits of joy.

It didn't end there.

We went to find the restroom. As we waited online, a woman exiting the stalls began singing Hatikvah (Israel's national anthem). Someone else joined in, and they sang, loudly, holding hands. When they finished, the woman left, and the girl who had joined her in song began clapping a slow beat. It didn't take more than a few seconds for us to figure out where this was headed. She burst out singing Hava Nagila, and soon we were dancing in circles, in the bathroom. It was outrageous, insane, and wonderful. The perfect end to a perfect night.

Class started the next day. My Ulpan is the most intense class I've ever taken. It's five hours/day of hebrew. Straight up, non-stop Hebrew. No english. The first day felt like drowning. You catch on pretty quickly though. It's a great way to teach language. The other day, I got lost on campus. After a wrong turn, I found myself standing on a balcony that overlooks the Old City...with the Kotel in full view. It took my breath away. Suddenly my mind was clear, my worries were gone. I knew I was where I'm meant to be. I suppose getting lost is the best way to find what you're looking for. I feel like that's what I've been doing all this time. Getting lost. Getting found. That's what I came here to do. I guess I just expected to arrive, and for everything to suddenly make sense. For all the fog to clear, and for my life to piece itself together. I should have known better. If the past three years have taught me anything, it's that nothing comes together, just like that. Even though coming here felt like reaching the top of the mountain, it's as if darkness has melted away with the morning light, and shown me the higher, rougher peak ahead. My next challenge. The perfect moments, like the wine festival, and the picnic, make the challenge a joy. And I continue to reassure myself that nothing worth having comes easy. I've been here a week, and it's been wonderful. It's also been lonely, scary, confusing, frustrating, and weird. But mostly? It's been wonderful. I am happy. Truly happy. And I am scared. Truly scared. The adjustment from one way of life to another is more intense than I ever imagined it would be. I miss the comfort of driving down familiar streets, hearing familiar sounds, smelling familiar smells. But then I look around, and I realize that this...the adventure...is all I've ever wanted. I remember how long I've dreamed of getting lost in new places. And then I see the rolling hills, and valleys of Jerusalem. I smell the mountain air. It is crisp and clear. I hear the new sounds, smell the new smells, see the world through a new perspective...and suddenly I know everything is right. I am here.

Today I ventured out to the Old City to visit the Kotel, or what some of you might know as The Western/Wailing Wall. As you approach, you can feel something shifting. It is within you, it is all around you. The world feels different. Your heart becomes open, and full. You feel as if you've been embraced. I've always felt that walking up to The Kotel, feels like walking into the palm of G-d's hand. I have had some rather intense spiritual moments there in the past, and wasn't sure what to expect this time. As I approached it, I felt that familiar warmth spread through my body. A smile crept across my face, and I reached out. Flesh touched stone, and I was lost in a river of prayer. I felt overwhelmingly grateful for the opportunity that I've been given. I will learn everything I can. See everything there is to see, do everything there is to do. I am more ready for this than I've ever been. As I walked away from The Wall, I felt at peace. I felt at home.

I then set off on a mission to find food. I wandered through the labyrinth that makes up the markets and shops within the Old City, as men shouted from their shops "you want to buy something?" It reminded me of the scene from Aladdin, where Jasmine finally gets outside the palace walls. "Pretty necklace, for a pretty lady!" The market is a sensory overload. So many colors, and beautiful things to look at. So many people shouting, bargaining, walking, and shopping. After some wandering, I finally found something familiar. The Cardo. Once I got there, I knew exactly where I was, and where I wanted to go. Instinct? Intuition? Who knows. But I eventually found the spot I had in mind, grabbed a schwarma, and sat down to eat while a very jealous cat sat by my side, demanding I toss her some scraps. (Which, I eventually did.) My first trip to the Old City was an absolute success.

And my first week? It's been better than I ever could have imagined.

Shabbat Shalom, from Israel!

The Kotel

 

The Old City

Wine Festival

 

 

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Shalom, Shalom!

I feel so peaceful right now. I'm sitting in my cousins yard, next to a little fish pond and a garden full of amazing succulents. There are gorgeous trees that I've never seen (one of which is full of fruit that apparently grows bigger than watermelons!) The air is humid, and the sun is strong, but the birds are chirping. Across the garden I can see a single strand of a spiders web glistening in the sun. The wind is whispering to the trees, and I can hear the leaves laughing. It is perfect.

 

Last night, I passed out on the couch halfway through a movie (Brave, which I suppose is appropriate because that's how I've been feeling the past few days). I woke with a start somewhere around 11:30, and dragged myself upstairs, retreating to the comfort of a nice big bed. I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept through the night.

 

I spent my first morning in Israel with my cousin, Gail, and her horse, Michi (Machi?). Now, you should know that I never really outgrew the "I want a pony" phase, so hanging out at a stable was just about as amazing as it could get. After we brushed the horse, Gail had her lesson, and I watched, which was fascinating. I feel like I learned so much about riding, just by watching. Not to mention all the Hebrew I picked up! As I watched, and listened...I suddenly realized that I was at a stable, in Israel. People were speaking around me, and I didn't know what they were saying, but it was cool because I was at a stable, in Israel. I've never ridden a horse in my life, but when the lesson was over, I hopped up, and with Gail's help I was riding in no time.

I was riding a horse, for the first time ever, at a stable, on my first morning in Israel.

 

It's very freeing to pull the rug out from under your comfortable, easy life and do something completely different. I think about how I spent the past three years of my life, and I can't believe I didn't do this sooner. I get a rush when I think about how open my life is right now. Let's break it down: I am in a new country, learning a new language, studying an ancient history. I have missed so many incredible opportunities in my life, because I was afraid to take a chance. I was too afraid to step out on a limb, and let The Universe work it's magic. I finally took the biggest step. I'm here. Now, as doors and windows open for me, I am going to run through, marathon style, with my arms raised in triumph. Universe, work your magic. I'm ready.

 

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Welcome Home

Excuse the brief rambles, but I just wanted to get a few words in before bed. I am here. I made it in one piece, (three if you count my luggage), and am ready for adventure.

 

I'm writing from my cousins house in Rosh Ha'ayin, which is near Tel Aviv. The night looks perfectly peaceful from my window, and there is a sort of magical stillness in the air. It feels like that moment just before something great happens...the calm before the storm. It hasn't quite hit me that I am here. Once I start to get settled, it will probably sink in. But for right now, I am ready for adventure. I can taste it. It is all I've ever wanted, and it is finally within my grasp.

 

Adventure is out there!

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