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