Thanksgiving in Israel

Thanksgiving morning: Israel.

I'm sitting in hebrew class learning a new category of future tense conjugations, but all I can think of is home. I did the math: if I left for Tel Aviv right after class, dropped my savings and took the next plane to New York, there was a chance that I could be home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. "Why not?" I thought, laughing as I imagined the chaos that would break out upon my arrival. Three dogs, and one Mom jumping and crying for hugs; Dad's profanity filled version of "You'll never guess who's at the door"; and my smirking brothers, because my accomplices would have known all along. (Hey, someone would have had to stall dinner in case I was late.) I could study on the plane, spend the next three days overeating with my family, and return in time for my midterm on monday.

"Oh right, my midterm is on monday." Responsibilities started to sink in and the prospect of a last minute, surprise trip home for the much anticipated "Thanksgivukkah" began to fade. Wiping out my savings didn't sound like a great idea either. I left class homesick, and a little heartbroken with the heavy realization that this would be my first Thanksgiving away from home.

So what's an American to do when they can't be home for the holidays? When the country they've chosen to call home doesn't collectively eat themselves into a tryptophan induced turkey-coma at the end of every November, kicking off an entire season devoted to food and family?

They make the best of it.

They hold on tightly to their family traditions, because that's all they've got. Tradition gives them a sense of home--a sense of belonging, and identity. It gives them a compass to navigate through the dark seas of loneliness, and find some source of light.

As I prepared to face the task of whipping up a chocolate cake and my first pot of stuffing, the music of my childhood filled my head and my heart, for my memories of holiday cooking are all accompanied by soundtracks. Whether it was Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, or some scratchy classic rock coming out of my parent's old turntable--it never mattered. My mother and I would chop vegetables, and dance through the kitchen while the dogs followed at our feet. Which is why, this year, I sang along shamelessly to the Tenth Anniversary Dream Cast recording of Les Miserables while I baked. In my tiny Jerusalem kitchen, with the window open and Colm Wilkinson hitting notes in the upper stratosphere, I began to feel better.

But the mind is a powerful thing, and smell of chocolate chip cookies mingling with the crisp air of late November lingered in the recesses of my memories. I used to wake up early to bake cookies with my mom, and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. We'd comment on the musical acts while trying to get as many cookies in the oven as possible before my Dad and brothers came out to ravage the dough. The warmth of these memories rushed through me as I began the stuffing, and the pangs of homesickness hit me even harder than before.

So, I made the best of it.

My brother has a fancy little device hooked up to the TV back home, which allows you to watch your home channels from anywhere in the world. I logged into his account, and turned on the parade. The camera panned over 34th street, over the massive crowds of cheering (freezing) families, the marching bands, and extravagant floats. Al Roker laughed his way through the crowds wearing a fedora and a smile, while the hosts discussed whether the wind would allow the balloons to fly. The music erupted, the marching bands came to life, the balloons lifted off, the parade started, and I was suddenly crying. My heart was heavy as I wondered what was going on back home. But tears quickly turned to laughter, as Broadways best sang and danced down 34th street. "Pippin! The Sound of Music! Matilda!" I texted my mom as each act came on. It wasn't home, but it was close. And then the channel changed.

Assuming it was a glitch in the system, I watched as the channels climbed and finally settled on my brother's favorite TV show. "Impossible..." I thought, as I switched it back to the parade. The cast of Pippin was still doing their thing, but not for long, because I was suddenly watching Toy Story 3. I laughed and quickly changed it, but in a matter of seconds Buzz Lightyear was back. My brother had declared war, and we were engaged in a full fledged Channel Battle from across world. After pleading my case, and thirty minutes of intense warfare, I finally won.

With my brother, and homesickness both defeated, I finished cooking and left for dinner where I found myself in a room full of expats, all looking for a taste of home. The smell of turkey lingered in the air, and I felt a rush of love for the friends and strangers gathered around me. We came from so many different backgrounds, and for some, this would be their first Thanksgiving. Our differences didn't matter though. We each longed to share a brick of the foundation that our families had given us, and a warm cloud of nostalgia settled in the room as we each shared our traditions. Some were quirky, some were routine, some were outright hilarious--but they represented home. One girl from China smiled as she said "This is my first Thanksgiving, and I've just come to eat all the turkey with you!" We cheered for the Newbies, laughed with the seasoned pros, and ate ourselves silly as we insisted to the non-Americans that it was Thanksgiving tradition to overeat. As the food hangovers began, the evening came to an end. We hugged, laughed, and sleepily rolled ourselves out the door. It sure felt like Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, my family was getting ready to celebrate their version of "Thanksgivukkah" (complete with Pilgrim + Indian yarmulkes) on the other side of the world. I began to feel that loneliness sinking in once again. I wanted to be home, plain and simple. I felt lost--and then my phone rang. For the next 89 minutes, I was passed around between my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas, parents, brothers, and dogs. And then Skype was ringing. I was placed at the head of the table, so I could see everyone. They waved, shouted, ate, tossed turkey at the screen, held some beer up to the camera, and then sent me around the table. From over 5,000 miles away, I was still a part of my family's Thanksgiving dinner. And while nothing can quite beat being home for the holidays, as long as you have your traditions...your foundation...the roots of your life, you will never be too far to find a little taste of home.

 

Pilgrim and Indian yarmulkes

Family in New York

Friends in Jerusalem

 

 

 

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Outside The Box

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

--Albert Einstein

 

Your child's imagination is at risk. Their ability to think outside the box, or rather, climb inside a cardboard box and fly to the moon, is fading.

I'm a writer--not a teacher, not a parent. I live in an infinite number of imaginary towns, cities, and worlds; on an infinite number of planets, in an infinite universe. In the morning I swim from the depths of my mind to the surface, where light dances off the glistening waters as I discover where I will live for the day. As I wander through my new world I meet all kinds of bizarre creatures. They teach me about their world, and then suddenly there is a spark. It's scary at first, but I was taught to trust that instinct and follow it wherever it leads me.

Some children are not so lucky.

Today, children go through a rigorous course study in order to prepare them for state mandated tests. The materials they are given to read all serve a purpose. And with such an intense curriculum teachers can't make time for creativity-they barely have control over their lesson plans. It's all pre-written, by the state. We are not creating "thinkers." We are creating test takers, and workers. Some of the world's greatest thinkers lived in a time where there was no such thing as standardized testing. They had the freedom to live in their imaginations, and as a result, created incredible things. They read the classics, and learned about the world through literature. This generation will know how to study, but will they know how to listen to their own creativity? Will they be able to trust their spark, and follow it? Albert Einstein said "Logic will get you from A to Z; imagination will get you everywhere."

At the 2012 Society of Children's Book Writer's and Illustrators Winter Conference, a panel member told a room of nearly one thousand writers and illustrators to adjust their material to fit the new core curriculum standards. I was appalled. I looked around the room to see if anyone else had actually just HEARD what this woman had said, and watched in horror as attendees nodded their heads, scribbling furiously as though she had just given them some secret formula to becoming a successful writer.

I will NEVER adjust my writing to meet the needs of state mandated materials. When we talk about making "adjustments" to our writing to fit the needs of the state curriculum, we are walking on a very thin, very dangerous line. "Authors, write what Big Brother tells you to write." Once we cross that line, we create a generation of children who don't know how to read for pleasure. They read, wondering what material in the story they will be tested on. We are depriving them of the glorious freedom of roaming the endless shelves of libraries, selecting a book and falling into a new world.

I spent last year touring elementary schools reading my book, "The Gray Days", and leading imagination workshops with students. I asked students to close their eyes, and listen to my words as I led them through a visualization exercise. The exercise brought them from familiar territory, their bedroom, into an unfamiliar realm as they were asked to to imagine a staircase appearing in their bedroom. It could go in any direction, be made of any material, and lead them anywhere. They would then spend a few minutes living in the land their staircase had brought them, before returning to their bedroom, opening their eyes, and rediscovering reality.

Upon opening their eyes, I asked them to write or draw whatever they saw. A handful of kids began immediately. Others hesitated. Some sat, looking at me, their eyes wide with terror. One child whispered to me, "I think I did it wrong." After assuring the class that there was no right or wrong answer, a few children picked up their pencils and bowed into their notebooks. But one boy stands out in my mind. After five minutes of watching everyone else write and draw, he looked at me, afraid. With his eyes on the floor, he explained that he had not seen anything in his imagination. He had been afraid that it would be wrong, and therefore did not allow it to take him on a journey. He didn't trust his instinct, and was afraid of the creative spark. I worked with him for ten minutes, guiding him through his own imagination. What we finally came up with was a description of his bedroom, and the sounds of what was going on downstairs. "Progress." I thought. At least he was able to see, and hear something.

As children shared their stories with me, I found that most of them could not step out of their realities. The staircase they described led to their attic, where they found boxes of stuff. When I asked them to climb inside a box to see where it would bring them, most described a box of old stuff. They were wrestling with themselves, struggling with the need for approval and the need to imagine. I continued to assure them that there was no wrong answer, and this prompted some more daring stories. A handful of kids wound up in the ocean, or in space. One bright-eyed girl told me about her upside-down staircase that had a trapdoor which opened to the sea, where she swam with lions. But I will never forget the boy who told me he was afraid of his imagination because it was wrong.

J.M. Barrie said "The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it." We must encourage children to fly in the realm of imagination. We must teach them to trust their own creativity. Imagination is an endangered species. If we continue down this path of education, it may become extinct. What does that world look like? Let's save imagination, before it's too late.

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Guest Piece

Hey all!

I've been blessed to have the opportunity to write my second guest piece for The Rothberg International School Official Blog. It was published a few days ago, and you can find the piece on their page:

http://rothberg.co.il/spending-the-holidays-in-israel/

Enjoy!

The Thrill of Living

The mountain winds rush through me as I gaze out over the lights of Jerusalem. It is a new year. The shofar has echoed through the valleys, and re-awakened my soul. We've fasted, we've prayed, we've rejoiced. Now, it is a time for new beginnings.

Since I arrived here, every day has been a new beginning. Each morning, the thrill of living shakes me out of bed, and sends me, flying, into the brilliant dawn. I expected the Holidays to be the same. But the past two weeks have flown by in a whirlwind of reflection, loneliness, sadness, joy, and celebration. Rosh Hashanah came and went. I spent it with family, but missed home. I missed the familiar sights, and smells. I missed hearing my Cantor's perfect tenor, leading the congregation to a new level of spiritual awareness through song and prayer. I missed the english pages in prayer books. I kept thinking "back home, we do this. Back home, it's like that." And then I would realize that I came here for new experiences, and a great joy would flood through me. The thrill of living would be back, and I'd feel grateful for whatever new experience I had been blessed with.

But it wasn't enough. I struggled to maintain that level of joy. I felt lost, and somewhat unfulfilled by how I had observed the holidays.

On Yom Kippur, hours before the sounding of the shofar, I walked to the Old City with friends. As I approached the Kotel, my heart began to race. The air was buzzing with spiritual awe. You could sense the weight of everyone's prayers, dangling in mid-air. I felt humbled to walk among them, and began to feel the depth of my own thoughts settling into my heart. The thrill of living had fluttered it's way back into my soul. The promenade was scattered with people, anxiously awaiting dusk, their empty stomaches growling in protest. We were hungry, tired, and hot. As I observed the crowd, I realized that we had come from all walks of life to welcome the New Year. We had all willingly deprived ourselves of nourishment throughout the day, and now we all stood, humbled before God, at the Holiest site in Israel. We were the same. We were all exactly the same. I felt my heart begin to swell with love, and then it suddenly occurred to me. I was standing before The Kotel on Yom Kippur. I stopped in my tracks, and inhaled my surroundings. As the sweet air filled my lungs, my heart split open, and a great love for everyone and everything around me spilled out. I felt whole. Every molecule of my being was filled with love. I exhaled, and continued walking towards the Wall.

Women embraced the ancient stones, channeling prayers through their fingertips. Men began to dance, their voices raised in prayer. And there I stood, among it all. My soul felt as if it could burst. "Yes!" I thought, "this is what I was waiting for. This is what I was craving." I joined the women, embracing the Wall as if it were an old friend. "Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha'olam shecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higyanu lazman hazeh."

Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.

Tears streamed down my face, as I whispered my prayers, shared my soul, and opened my heart.

Then a mighty cry broke through the night. That blast, the call that rouses the spirit, and churns the waters of consciousness shook us from our prayers. It echoed through the valleys of Jerusalem, and our bodies absorbed the sound as it moved through us. Time stopped. We were soaring. We were alive. The blast of the shofar pulled us from our slumber, and sent us, flying into the new year.

And then I recalled how only two days before, I had stood in silence with people from all over the world to mark the twelfth anniversary of the September 11 attacks. I was so young, and my world had been shaken by evil. I thought about how beautiful that morning had been, and how none of the victims had known it would be their last.

Then the shofar sounded again, and it brought me back to life. It demanded my attention, grabbed me by my shoulders and shouted "Live, fool! Witness the universe. See, understand, weep, and celebrate. You have one moment. Go, live!" It's cry echoed in my mind, it's message sank into my bones. I felt peace in my soul. I felt cleansed. Prepared. Ready to begin a new year, with a new awareness of the beautiful miracle of my existence.

On the walk back to the student village to break the fast, I felt as though I were flying. My stomach was empty, but my heart was full. I was overjoyed, and overwhelmed by the sheer wonder of everything around me, and I realized that when you look at the world with your heart, instead of your head, you see more. There is more beauty, more joy, and more love. As I move forward into the New Year, I can see a world of possibility. Friends, I wish you only joy in this new year. Joy, love, beauty, wonder, success, happiness, and everything that comes along with it. Look at the beautiful things in your life. The miracles. Seek the extraordinary, in the ordinary. Let the winds of change move through you, and tickle your soul. Let it make you dance. And seek joy. Always, always seek joy. Embrace this new year, and all the potential it offers.

Chag Sameach, everyone!

9/11 Memorial, Tashliech Service, Walking through the Old City on Yom Kippur

 

 

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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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