Be-Longing

On the way to the Dead Sea and Masada, we stopped for the night at a place, a cross between a Bedouin tent and Burningman. This morning, beautiful classical guitar is playing in the background, though last night it was techno-Arab-rave. The acacia trees host a myriad of birds, feral cats march into the kitchen and communicate their desires adamantly, the flies cover the dogs who lie snoring on mattresses in the communal tent. Last night, rain pitter-pattered on the roof, as the boys played 500 Rumi, I looked at a Nargila, the infamous Middle-Eastern water pipe, listening to any whisper of wild stories it might hold. Soft, amber light wrapped the divans, the rugs, the easy chairs, the fire pit, in a lazy, rich, calming hue. I sipped my Turkish coffee nursing my injury. Earlier in the day, my son had climbed an inviting hill so he could view the Judean mountains in Jordan. I was scurrying below him when rocks dislodged and came tumbling down, hitting me in the thigh and welting my finger blue-purple. Rachel made me go to the car and cry. I remembered that I had hardly ever cried in Israel over any hurts - apparently the training for a good soldier-so I indulged her and let out tears from an old well swell. I thought it had dried, like the arid terrain surrounding me. Any rain is welcomed here. But crying connected me to my grief, to the place of belonging and not belonging; to two Universes, two planets, opposing countries, fraternal cultures. There was a loneliness, a sense of disconnectedness, of being lost, like my people had been once, in the desert. How apt. So today, I sit amongst the cornucopia of longings, of not-knowings, of wanderings in the land of what-ifs what-nows and try to breathe in the Negev we so desperately cling to, no matter how desolate.

Are we here yet?

Although we’ve landed here five days ago, it seems that I have yet to arrive. It’s curious. I’ve reconnected to my Hebrew, my family says I use my body to expressively communicate in ways that I don’t do in English. I’ve visited my beloved, complicated, decrepit, old, crumbly house and bomb shelter and my now-fenced-in elementary school. I’ve lived vicariously through my kids as they’ve had Shoko, the cold milk chocolate I had drunk as a kid from a plastic bag, and have devoured the mounds of the candy of my youth. I’ve seen and engaged with old friends and neighbors, whom I have not seen in 17 years, but I feel, well, not so much. I just thought that it would be more intense, that I would feel a plethora, a swelling, of emotions. After all, this is Israel, right? The land of intense and tense people, where food, words, politics, religion and driving are over the top, isn’t it?

Contrary to my popular belief, people are actually pretty mellow. Not many people are leaning on their car’s horn as if they’ve just had a heart attack. It’s pretty quiet everywhere, even in the middle of Tel Aviv. Really. People have been friendly, helpful and, dare I say, relaxed. Is it I who has changed? Have I been trying to uphold the illusion that Northern California is relaxed? I know, I’m on vacation, but still, to see that one of the most garrulous places on Planet Earth is chillaxed, as my kids would say, gives one pause, no?

One of my kids, who is decidedly un-relaxed at home, the one who didn’t even want to come here, and who anticipated the beginning of WWIII being in a car with his parents for two weeks, has been gobbling mounds of hummus with zaatar, pinenuts and tahini with fluffy, hot pita and has informed me that he is not going back. He loves it here. He wants to stay amongst the Bedouin of a tiny village called Lakiya in the Negev and hang. He is cognizant that it would be challenging to live there without basic services, living in an unrecognized, i.e. unsupported, part of Israel, but something has shifted in him. He wants to do a Gap year there! He says that it would give quite the perspective of living without the services we take for granted in the US. This is from the guy who consistently makes fun of me for my gratitude practice. He misses his friends, but now is wondering how to gather all of them and go on an extended trip together. That’s my boy, gathering communities to experience the world relationally. Whoa! It’s so funny. People here who know that he is not biologically my son, are dumbfounded at how alike we are in looks, temperament, expressions. The Universe sure does work in mysterious ways and I am rather mystified today.

Is this my country?

After the bumpiest flight to the other side of the world, where I rapidly became an ultra-orthodox Jew praying mightily to just get to the Holy Land in one piece, we arrived to a beautifully warm, lazy Saturday morning in Tel Aviv. I didn't get teary-eyed. I didn't burst into the national anthem. I didn't kiss the ground. I felt a little foreign. A stranger in a strange land. Where was the excitement, the nerves, the heart palpitations for a country I had left with so many unresolved memories? Not quite yet present, apparently. Where were the bronze, rugged soldiers with their dangling Uzis? Where were the long lines of weary travelers being questioned by stern-faced security interceptors? Apparently, those weren't here either. The Israel I knew must have dissolved into the sands or receded along with the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, the enormous date palms batted their heavy-lidded branches coyly. The signature 90-degree cranes stood, towering over half built, erections, at attention.

We dropped our luggage at the hotel and headed to the beach in an attempt to keep our teens awake and battle the time change. I saw Plumbago, the same flower that had gazed upon me with azure eyes when I was a third-grader and getting paid with fudgesicles for favors I did for sixteen year old Arab boys. We saw feral cats, who didn't look so scrawny now, begging for some love.

As we reached the beach, a familiar, visceral, awaking occurred in my nostrils, the indelible scent of fried sea - salty air mixed with falafel and chips (a.k.a french fries). I was mesmerized and seduced as other delicacies joined in a rambunctious, cacophonous tugging that had coupled with my early longings, reminding me how I had those, temporarily requited by an insatiable wolfing. My brain went into what it thought was a rational monologue about how there are many ways to sustain weight loss and surely some people could have just a plate of hummus, and garbanzo beans sure are healthy, and if I measured the portion, couldn't I just have some? As if this was about weight loss...As if hummus was a contender as my favorite food...As if the possibility of losing my community, my sponsor, my life was just a tiny, inconsequential decision.

Yikes!

I picked up the phone and dialed a fellow, Israeli woman who does what I was doing with my food. Good to know this mantra was drilled into me, even menopause couldn't obfuscate it - Going it alone is never an option. She assured me that this wasn't the first time I had felt this way. It had probably happened in places like New York, the other Jewish city. It had. I had survived that. She reminded me that it will take a few days, but that I will get through it and it will dissipate. It was good to know that I had a lifeline, a preserver to hang onto anywhere in the world. OK, I could now move towards the Shuk, with my family, my innards intact.

There, amidst barrels of shiny olives, freshly-baked oval, sesame breads, pomegranates the size of inflated softballs spilling rubies, I moved into my role as a food-pusher, wanting to stuff my family with all my once-favorite things. I noticed how insistent I had become at having them savor what I could not.

I ingested the vibrant palette of bashful, engine-red tomatoes, the heady fragrance of variegated melon and soft-yellow guavas, the piles of fat, pink radishes, the snowiness of lamb-y goat-y cheeses, the erotic, spread-eagle, purple figs by clicking my shutter, gulp after gulp.

Thank goodness there are many ways to experience abundance.

My son, who never wants to leave home and who had complained about being in a foreign country where no one speaks English (wtf?) told me he was in love with this city and can he please move here? He loved the incessant movement, the crumbling, ancient-ruins-meets-Bauhaus architecture, the people out in cafes at night. I was truly shocked and pleased. This is my country. My son loves my country. There was something that resonated for him. Something that has pulled me back. Something that still, on day two, seems surreal and untethered is touching, reeling us both in ways I have yet to comprehend. I can't wait to see what happens when we actually get to my birth city, Haifa.