Jerusalem, Again

Jerusalem again, Hadassah Hospital.

Again I get sucked into this universe of pain and healing, of hope and despair, of tears and smiles. I feel its gravitational force, making me a tiny planet orbiting around it, over and over again.

I sit in the garden in the hospital’s inner courtyard and watch people coming and going, a colorful tapestry of faces and bodies and expressions against the blue of the Jerusalemite sky. A mosaic of personalities, young and old, Jews, Muslims, Christians, speaking every language in this Tower of Babel of almost magical cures and recovery.

In the face of pain and sickness we are all equal. We are all the same -frightened, hopeful, searching for empathy, for a kind word, for a sliver of trust.

The same sun warms us. The same wind dries our tears.

We are the same and yet, we feel so different. 

We build walls for us. We look for things that divide us. We crawl over each other backs to reach for something – we are not even sure what… maybe just to be the ones who can say,  I am better than you.

And then we congratulate each other about how righteous and brave we are.

Maybe some day we will understand this.

That we are the same. In birth and in death, in happiness and sadness, in elation and desperation, even in love and hate.

The boundaries, the fences, are of our own making. The differences, our inventions. To keep us separated, to weaken us. To lead us like sheep.

At Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital I don’t see different people, separated by religion, place of birth or social status. I don’t see Muslims or Jews or Christians, Buddhists or Zoroastrians.

I see humanity, in all its colors and shapes.

And beliefs.

And the crows agree with me.

Clever birds.

Way clever than us, puny humans.                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 

Peace and Quiet, While it Lasts

 

 

When I woke up this morning, I had a strange sensation that something was not quite right…

But what?

Oh, it was the SILENCE.

No cars zooming under my window, no buses, no garbage trucks banging, no shouting.

Blessed, pure, wonderful SILENCE.

And then I remembered. It’s Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. The day when the Jewish people fast for 25 hours in order to ask God for forgiveness for their sins.

I love the silence of Yom Kippur. Well, at least until all the kids get outside with their bikes, rollerblades, skateboards, anything with wheels, really. But until they come out onto the streets in droves, talking loudly and shouting, I have a couple of hours of clean, unadulterated silence.

I get to drink my coffee without the background chorus of a big, busy city.

But even though I love the peace and quiet of this holy day, I have some not-so-nice memories of it from over the years.

Back when we didn’t have a hospital in our city, Maya had a strange proclivity for getting sick during religious holidays, especially Yom Kippur.

You can read about it in my post from that day.

https://aloneinholyland.blogspot.com/2011/10/rather-adventurous-yom-kippur-atonement.html

Thankfully, she was OK in the end. Just a bad case of rotavirus combined with whooping cough.

Yes, seriously.

We now have a brand-new hospital here in Ashdod.

Although, if I think about it logically, how exactly are we supposed to get there on Yom Kippur, when there is no public transportation and no cars are allowed on the streets?

This is Israel. Full of contradictions.

 

 

The Place Where My Heart Grows Quiet

If you know me, personally or through social media, you know that I am a Christian living in Israel.

 

I cannot say I am a religious person. I believe in God but I have my own views on religion and dogma.

 

Nevertheless, sometimes I feel the need to gather my thoughts, to reflect on life, to feel closer to the Divine. And while Israel has plenty of Christian places of worship – perhaps some of the most important ones in Christianity, I longed for something quieter, less touristy.

 

And so, I found Emmaus-Nicopolis.

 

I think it was more or less 18 years ago, on an Easter night, when some friends took me to the small church near Canada Forest. I remember the service was in French. The church was full and I sang “He Has Risen” with people I didn’t know but felt a spirit of camaraderie with.

 

Since then, I have returned to Emmaus many, many times. Whenever I found myself in turmoil, or when times were hard and my soul needed to be soothed, I always found my way to the small church on the top of the hill.

 

There, where in summer the cicadas go crazy and the heat undulates in the distance and where in winter the grass is so green, I felt a closeness to God I had never felt in all the big and famous churches I had visited over the years.

 

I always return from Emmaus with a heart that’s quieter, more settled, more understanding.

I am thankful that such a place exists. I am thankful that that the nuns and monks that live there accepted me and received me with open arms. Even the dog, Bianca, and she is not the friendliest of pets.

 

I don’t think you have to be Christian to enjoy the peace and quiet of Emmaus. Anyone can sit on the bench in the shade, near the pond, and say a few words to the Universal Consciousness that unites us all.

 

 

“It’s Sweltering, Old Boy” (But Not in the Way You Think)

 

 

Today I had to go outside for a chore and I instantly regretted my decision. It was so hot outside I thought I would melt and become a greasy stain on the sidewalk. The air was so syrupy and dense that it was difficult to draw in a breath without singeing my lungs.

The words of the Romanian writer I.L. Caragiale popped into my boiling, bubbling brain:

 “Caldura mare, monser”.

 “It’s sweltering, old boy”.

Little did he know what sweltering truly meant…

The streets are almost empty. Almost nobody is crazy enough to venture outside, stepping right into the mouth of Hell. A few shops are open, mainly selling cold drinks and ice-cream. I enter one of them to cool down a bit.

Thank God for air conditioning.

I go outside again and because the neighborhood is deserted, I have the opportunity to really look at it, while I walk. It is one of the older neighborhoods in the city.

But disappointment has a sour taste…

Everything is so dirty.

From the old buildings to the alleys between them. Plastic bags and paper cups roll along the pavement, courtesy the wind. You can smell the trash cans from a distance, even if you haven’t seen the clouds of flies hovering over them. The earth is dry and peppered with litter. Every shrub, every plant, every bush seems to have collected its share.

I walk through the sleepy streets and reminisce.

This city wasn’t in such a sorry state before, when I arrived here, was it?

I don’t remember clearly.

I remember the streets looking much cleaner, the buildings less dusty.  I don’t think there was this much trash everywhere.

Or maybe then I chose not to see it?

Because I was young and enthusiastic about starting a new life here, perhaps?

Perspiration runs down my back. I congratulate myself for bringing a hat with me, at least I won’t get a sunstroke.

Heat stroke, maybe.

Surrounded by big, grey buildings I feel them emanating heat. With almost no trees and no shade whatsoever, the landscape is depressing and almost alien.

Times are changing.

People are changing.

And here, under the hot, unforgiving sun I came to a conclusion.

 I don’t like it.

I don’t like it at all.

I don’t like where we are headed, as humanity.

In don’t like that even when we talk about progress, we are still the same cave people that bashed each other’s heads in for a chunk of meat.

I don’t like that we have grown complacent and ignorant and plain stupid in a world where stupidity sits on the golden throne.

I know I cannot do much.

Even if “be the change” is a nice mantra, I don’t think it is true.

Una hirundo non facit ver, said the romans.

A swallow does not make a spring.

I cannot be the change even if I willed it with all my heart.

And I have many examples to give, but I will stop here.

I won’t tell you about me cleaning the area around the garbage can because it was full of shards of glass after somebody shattered some windows nearby. And I did that because I didn’t want the street cats to get hurt.

Nobody ever followed my example. On contrary, they continued dumping trash everywhere, just not in the bin.

I won’t argue with my neighbor that smokes in the building, filling the halls with acrid smoke that permeates everything.

I won’t ask people not to crowd into the elevator because it might get stuck.

I will just stand aside and watch them destroy every last bit of hope I had for my fellow humans.

Because, one way or another, we are doomed.

And I won’t be that change anymore.

I won’t be that swallow anymore.

Because it doesn’t mean anything.

Not anymore.

How Are You?

 

When people ask how are you, do they really mean it? Do they really care? Or is it just some sort of social convention, but nobody actually gives a rat’s ass about you or your life?

So, when people ask me this question, I plaster a fake smile (real or virtual) on my face and I answer, verbally or in writing, I am well, thank you.

And I wish you wouldn’t ask me this if you didn’t care for an answer.

I can’t imagine what people actually expect you to answer. They assume you are going to tell them the truth about how you really feel, how you truly are? Are you going to pour your soul out and tell them everything?

 I don’t think so.

I don’t think they care enough to actually listen to what you have to say. Many times, the question is thrown at you while they are already walking past you, so what do they expect? That you are going to run after them, shouting about your latest achievements or failures?

I don’t think so.

And anyway, I am not going to burden some random acquaintance with the story of my life and the myriad problems I face.

Because, by God, my life is such an entangled mess lately. I am going through such a strange period.

I can see and feel that I am getting old. And like all new things, it scares me, because I don’t know what to expect.

Pain? Arthritis? Cataracts? Wrinkly skin? The feeling that you are losing your marbles, your stamina, your muscles? Bigger, floppy ears? Chin hair?

When we’re young we don’t think about old age. It is something so remote that it feels as though it will never happen to us. Or, if it does, it will somehow be different.

But it comes to all of us in the end, surprising us in the most unpleasant ways.

Your body starts betraying you. Your mind is not as sharp as it used to be. Your skin is dry and crepey and not so firm. Your hands are full of age spots.

And surprise! You hurt your shoulder when you lift a ten-kilo watermelon.

Of course, it is not all doom and gloom.

Old age can feel…liberating.

I mean, I stopped caring what people think, for starters. You know, what will the neighbors say? stuff.

I speak my mind. I wear whatever pleases me, even if it is a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt and holey jeans. And the colors don’t have to match, either.

I truly don’t know how much time I still have on this Earth. I am pretty sure I will spend half of it, if not more, worrying about my family and world peace. 

But I will try and spend the other half doing the things I love to do.

I am sure that from time to time I’ll shrug and ask myself Why bother?

Because even if I am old and I still haven’t found out the secret of life and afterlife, I can still lie on the beach at night, on the warm sand and watch the stars and galaxies being born and dying.

I can still listen to the waves of the sea, like a never- ending, soothing lullaby.

And even if I can’t say or write deep philosophical things like the Dalai Lama, I can still enjoy a good book and a pumpkin-spice-flavored coffee. I can still watch my cats chase butterflies in their sleep.

And marvel at the baby pigeon that just hatched in a small plastic basket hanging from my clothesline.

Life is good.

Life is bad.

Life is a mish-mash of tragedies and comedies, all at once.

We are the scale that tries to find equilibrium. We are the tightrope walkers with no safety net.

But who cares?

We have the wings of our own imagination.

Where I Go When the World Is Too Much

A couple of days ago something not very nice happened to me, I received some bad news. I won’t tell you what news, that’s not relevant at the moment. I will just say that rejection hurts and I will stop here. I am more disappointed than hurt, to be honest, but it will pass, eventually.

This time, instead of feeling sorry for myself and swimming in the sea of self-pity, I went shopping on the world wide web and bought myself some books. And afterwards, I started reading India Holton’s The League of Gentlewomen Witches and I laughed so much and so hard I snorted my tea.

So yes, maybe I live sometimes in an imaginary world populated by enchanted libraries, wizards, flying castles and lady pirates, but it is my way of coping with reality.

I remember one summer when there wasn’t too much to do. I wasn’t that young as to be sent outside to play with friends so I was bored and lonely. And then I discovered a cabinet whose lower part was crammed full with books. I don’t know why or who had put them there. What I remember is that I sat down in front of the cabinet, I took a book and I began reading. And during that summer, I read all the books inside that piece of furniture. And just like that, the long, dull summer became something magical. It was the first time I discovered that a book could open a door and take me somewhere else.

And so it went on.

Because most of the time nobody really paid attention to what I was doing, I continued reading.  I decided I wanted to spend my life surrounded with these enchanted things. The books in our home, the books at the school library and the ones at the city library, too. I devoured them. I was unstoppable.

And I have been living with them, inside them ever since. Filling myself with other people’s words and sentiments until I couldn’t feel my own.

You know what Heaven looks like to me? A huge library. If I close my eyes I can see it so clearly in my mind. Endless shelves. Quiet corners. Big windows with comfortable window seats. Armchairs, chairs, whatever I fancy. Rooms with books for different moods: classical, a dark gothic wing for Dracula and Frankenstein and Anne Rice. Shelves upon shelves of cozy fantasy, another room for beautiful deluxe editions. And of course, an enchanted cat wandering between them. What a dream! To be able to read whenever I wanted, for as long as I wanted. No chores, no hospital visits, no long nights of anxiety, no bad thoughts.

Books helped me my entire life. I have read myself safe and sane so many times.

When life would be too much, I would disappear in a book for a while.

So, a few days ago I got upset because of some news I received.  I sat down and wrote about it. And then I read a book. And then reality was manageable again. 

Buy a Bed, Sleep on The Floor

I used to love IKEA. Going there shopping used to be a nice way to fill a couple of hours. And I always bought something, even if I didn’t really need it. Now? Not so much. It became too noisy. Too crowded. It is summer, so if they have nowhere to go, nothing planned, the parents take their kids to IKEA. It is like a huge playground for them. The parents peruse at will, relaxed, while their kids run amok on the floors, screaming their heads off, stumbling on furniture and tripping everybody. It is a mad house.

And don’t get me started on the cafeteria The prices are good, so it is always super-packed. And dirty. And loud. And the workers there have the most bored, tired faces in the history of giving you the empty cups to make your own coffee.

We needed to buy a bed. But if you’re not young enough or fit enough you will have to look for somebody to help you lug the big pieces of furniture on your flatbed cart. Preferably an employee you will find after long minutes of walking though the labyrinth that is IKEA’s warehouse.

Then, you need to somehow push your trolley laden with the huge boxes towards the costumer’s service because you want them to be shipped to your home and assembled there. You have to wait for more than half an hour because, even if there are eight counters only two, at some point one, at some point no one is working them.

Finally, you are called at the counter where the employee is telling you that yes, we will deliver your bed in a couple of days but, the person that needs to assemble it will come in the middle on September. At first, you think you didn’t hear it right, but no, here it is. Middle of September. I mean, SERIOUSLY?

You don’t have enough staff? By God, hire some. I think you, as a big company can afford that.

What is supposed to do somebody who bought a bed until the aforementioned piece of furniture arrives? Sleep on the floor? Go to a hotel? Go to relatives? Better still, go on a vacation? Look for somebody else to put together the bed? You know how it goes with IKEA’s furniture. It is like Lego, so you need skills and imagination.

I think the long “contract” they made me sign when I bought their services should include some suggestions regarding what a client should do while waiting for the assembling of the blasted furniture.

What can I say? If one tries to buy furniture from some other shops, it is a bad experience. The furniture is ugly, expensive and not practical. So, IKEA is still the best choice. But it doesn’t mean it should be the worst scenario.

 

The Things I Cannot Write About

 

I will to begin by telling you this: I cannot write therefore I am going to write about not being able to write.

I think it happens to all of us who live by words. There are days when our brains refuse to produce publishable pieces. For different reasons.

For me, it is the fact that I cannot write about the things that I am going through lately. Let me rephrase it better: I wrote about them, but they are too personal to be shared, so they will remain somewhere between the covers of my hidden notebooks, the ones meant for my eyes only.

And this puts a lot of pressure on me. I worked hard to revive this blog and I am afraid I will lose it again; it will disappear into the silence that deafened me before. And I don’t want it to happen. I love this tiny corner of the internet where I can come once in a while, sit and ponder on memories, ideas, past events, feelings. And share them with you.

So, you can understand my fear. I don’t want to fade away again, after I found myself anew. I don’t want to abandon this piece of soul of mine that kept me going all these years.

Believe me, I want to come here and shout from the top of my lungs everything I cannot share in writing. But I won’t.

I want to come here and tell you how difficult it is to be me, and complain and cry. Maybe I will. But not today.

Today I feel like all the doors around me are closed and I am trapped in this hollow place, with no light, no windows. Only walls and nothingness.

So, I’ll sit down here, on the cold hard floor. And let all the trapped feelings circle around me like hungry wolves.

And if you want to sit with me for a while, do it. If not, look, there is one door opening. Close it gently behind you.

The Cockroaches Are Not The Problem

 

Today I was so angry. So, so angry. Like a toxic cloud, the anger descended upon me. It was triggered by a stupid thing, an announcement tapped on the building’s door about a disinfection that will take place someday next week. For the cockroaches.

It happened so many times in the past. They came and did whatever they do and for a while the air would choke me and then I would find dead cockroaches all over our building, on their back, feet in the air. The survivors would try and sneak in our apartment, to the delight of our cats, who would chase them, play with them and then, of course, kill them.

I hate cockroaches, just like everyone else. But, look around, so much trash everywhere.

The first thing you fell when you enter our building is the smell of mold, of things rotting away in corners. Nobody knows what really lurks in our basement. People drag their trash bags from the elevator through the lobby, leaving a wet streak of slops. Sometimes, they throw the trash bags from a distance, missing the trash can altogether, the litter spilling everywhere. Nobody ever cleans it. In the summer the stench is unbearable.

Sometimes the sewerage is clogged because people throw all kind of stuff into their toilets, from diapers to clothes.

On the third floor it is impossible to pass through. There is a bike there, chairs and lots of carboard boxes. In case of a fire, a death trap. On the fourth floor, a broken, I assume, washing machine, a couple of small tables with pots filled with dead plants. And a heartfelt thank you to our neighbor who stopped smoking. Congrats! Before that, he used to throw on the window the still burning cigarette butts. Many of them landed on the roof of our car that was parked under his window.

There is so much filth and neglect around us.

Nothing works. The elevator is broken almost all the time, the water doesn’t have enough pressure to reach the upper floors. But we decided to wage a war against cockroaches. Not for a minute to ponder and ask ourselves why do they love our building so much. According to some tradition or other, it is forbidden to throw bread in the bin, so people put plastic bags filled with bread on the lid of the trash can or on the ground. It stays there until it rots. But they determined the cockroaches are to blame. Who knew?

We decided to kill the cockroaches. Their bodies will litter the staircase and the lobby for many days afterwards because nobody will bother to sweep them. We’ll feel a sense of righteousness every time we will look at them. We exterminated the roaches, they’ll say. While, in one corner, they are already scuttling. They would survive an atomic bomb, did you know?

 

Another Sunset To Witness

 

 

I thought a lot after writing and publishing my essay about old age, about old people, about the fear of growing old. I thought about the inevitable, about humiliation, about illness, about frail bodies and minds.

But then, my perspective shifted, like looking through a child’s kaleidoscope into the light.  Suddenly, the same pieces formed an entirely different picture. And I realized that while getting old is still a bother, it is also a privilege. 

Yes, maybe you are losing your marbles and the control of your bladder, but you can still see your family around you, growing and flourishing.

You need help to walk to the nearest park and your vision is a little blurry, but you can still smell the freshly cut grass in the morning, listen to the birds singing like crazed gramophones.  You can still fell the warmth of the sun soothing your weary bones and the deep lines etched across your face.

There are days when you forget what month it is, perhaps even what century. Yet you can still enjoy today, with all its moments, happy or sad.

And while your hands are old and veiny, mapped with a constellation of age spots and trembling just a little, you can still caress the cheeks of your children and grandchildren. You can still hold the hand of the one you have loved for decades, equally old and bony, while watching a movie, even if you forget its name the moment it ends. The memory of that touch will linger on your papery skin.

And as long as your nightstand still holds, beside the medication, eye drops and an array of face creams, a stack of books, a dried flower your daughter gave you, and books, notebooks and jars full of pens and as long as a cat still sleeps beside your head, chasing butterflies in his dreams, you are not giving up. You still have another sunset to witness, another tear to cry, another pumpkin-spice coffee to enjoy.

For all the small pleasures that remain, however many or however few, life is still worth living.

So, I understand now.

When I see their ancient bodies and hear their croaked voices, I won’t ask myself What are they still doing here? Because I understand now.

For every leaf that falls, every creek that murmurs, every blade of grass, every second and every eternity, it is worth it.

 

Not Yet

 

 

The last visit to Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital was supposed to be less depressing (if a visit to such a place can be called less depressing). My husband’s treatment was scheduled for the afternoon this time, so there weren’t as many patients in the department.

But we still had to wait, because there were fewer staff members, too.

Waiting is how you spend your time in a hospital.

Waiting for your turn for blood tests, for treatment, for your appointment with the doctor.

Nobody is in a hurry and most of the staff is speaking in hushed tones. At least until the woman across the room starts shouting into her phone arguing with her daughter, that she isn’t raising her own daughter properly.

You finished one appointment, only to wait for the next one, for another test, another consultation. 

In between I try to read but I always end up watching the hospital’s life unfold in front of me.

People of every age, color, religion, social status.

Illness forgives no one.

The endless trickle of people, some walking briskly through the corridors, others merely shuffling their feet, gets me thinking about old age.

Why do we have to go through it at the end of our lives? Why can’t we leave quietly while we are still young and strong?

Or better yet, why don’t we have it backwards?

Why don’t we arrive in this world as old people and then grow younger and younger with every passing day until we disappear into the clouds of Heaven or the pits of Hell?

I watch frail old bodies, barely able to walk, yet still clinging to life.

One more step.

One more day.

Why?

I look at my own hands.

Old woman’s hands.

I am getting old.

Fortunately, I wear trainers, so no one has to see my ageing toes.

Old age is such a humiliating burden.

Not yet.

Not yet, young polite nurse. I don’t need you to hold up my trousers because you took my belt on the way to the MRI machine.

Not yet, young cheerful doctor. Please don’t make silly jokes while you guide me through the corridor as I stumble along, pretending not to notice how unsteady I am.

Not yet.

I don’t need you to lift a cup of water to my lips because my hands tremble too much to hold it.

I don’t want anyone tending to my old, failing body. Not when they roll their eyes after leaving the room. Not when they laugh behind my back because I am not able to pronounce my words properly anymore because my dentures no longer fit.

We never think about this when we are young.

Why would we?

We believe we are strong and independent, with quick feet, steady hands and clear minds.

We never imagine what we might become.

A collection of trembling bones.

Weak muscles.

A mind slowly disappearing, lost in pain and memories.

I am terrified of old age.

Sometimes I think it would be better to leave while I still can walk without a walker.

 

When Did Summer Become Such a Burden?

 

Saturday morning. I open the window and a wave of humid, hot air hits me square in the face, taking my breath away.

“I won’t be going outside today”, I say to myself and quickly close the window.

When did summer become such a burden?

Back when we were kids, the word summer had an almost magical connotation. Summer meant vacanta mare – the summer break, “the big holiday” as we called it. It meant freedom and friends, days filled with fun and games and peeling skin on our shoulders and noses.

Summer meant waking up to cool, fresh mornings that smelled like buni’s washing drying on the line, eating a quick breakfast and then running off to my friends and neighbors. There I would spend my days, returning home late in the evening, dusty and tired but with a sense of accomplishment.

The same was true for my siblings, too. They would run wild through the streets and parks of our neighborhood, like a band of untamed natives. We were unsupervised most of the time and if you happened to be the adventurous sort, like my brothers, summer also meant countless accidents that ended up in cuts, bruises and sometimes even broken limbs.

I was happy during the summers of my childhood. I would go and stay with my great-aunt and then my days would dissolve into long reading sessions beneath the apple trees in her orchard, supervised by her cats. Summer with my great-aunt also meant long afternoons splashing in a huge wooden barrel filled with water warmed by the sun. I can still remember the smell of the wet staves – briny and woodsy, with just a hint of smoke.

Once a week, my great-aunt would place her wicker basket over her arm and we would walk to the farmer’s market just at a stone’s throw from her house. She would march determined between the concrete stalls where the farmers displayed their produce, searching for the best fruit at the best price. She loved to bargain, my great-aunt.

Then we would return home with her basket filled with fuzzy peaches, shiny orange apricots, fresh vegetables and sometimes a huge, dark-green watermelon, almost too heavy to carry.

The summers of my childhood were endless days of wonder and discovery, of real and imaginary adventures.

There are so many beautiful memories that is impossible for me to hold them all in my mind, at once.

But, if I stay still for a while and listen carefully, they will come back to me, one by one. And I will write them all down, making them real once again, if only for a moment.

I Am a Blur

 

 

Lately, the days pass so quickly one after the other they are all a blur. I am a blur. I feel like my edges are smudged, the image I see reflected in the mirror is not clear. I don’t recognize me anymore. I am not me. I am a blur.

And I feel this toxic cloud surrounding me, sending its tendrils towards me, sucking all my strength, my will, my everything.

I am a blur. An image you see in the window of a train, inconsistent, an impression that lasts a few seconds and then it’s gone.

I am a blur. A cloud of tiny insects, annoying for a while, buzzing and flying around your heads. But then a strong wind just blows them away.

I am a blur. A lonely figure in the desert, in the middle of a sand storm. Now, I’m here. You blink and I’m gone.

I am a blur. A lonely light in the dense fog on winter mornings.

A single beat of a wing.

One breath of a tree.

The sight of a setting sun.

I am a blur. Inconsistent and fragile. Forgettable.

Soon I’ll become a shadow, no blood will flow through my veins, just pain, acute and unbearable pain.

And after a while, tired and beaten I will transform into a stain on the sidewalk. No life, no feeling, just a smudge of lost humanity.

Somewhere Between Bean Dip and Plum Butter I Found My Way Home

 

No matter what I am doing these days, whenever I am in the kitchen cooking or cleaning, my memories come rushing in and I find myself in a different kitchen, the one of my childhood back in Romania.

A few days ago while preparing fasole frecata (white bean dip), the image of buni – my grandmother appeared very clearly in my mind. Sitting at our old, battered kitchen table, waging a war against the beans, as usual. We didn’t have any modern or fancy kitchen utensils so the beans had to be mashed with a wooden spoon or better yet, with a fork. I am sure we didn’t have a potato masher. In our house mashed potatoes were prepared with a fork, too.

So, if you wanted a smooth dip you had to confront de beans with strength and determination. It was also a good way to vent your frustration, to work on your anger issues.

But no matter the way, the result was always the same: the smooth, nutty dip that we ate with caramelized onions spread on enormous slices of dark bread.

Today I bought plums, we have here this type – purple and huge but pretty dry inside, I buy them to make plum jam, a feeble imitation of the jam from home. But the plum jam has nothing on the champion of all fruit preserves: magiun de prune (plum butter).

I don’t remember if buni used to make us magiun. I think it was a too slow and too long process even for her and she didn’t have the time or the energy. We didn’t really care about it, because she made us jams and compote from all the fruits she bought at the farmer’s market. During long late-summer days, our kitchen was full of sweet aromas and glass jars that waited to be filled with buni’s concoctions.

Magiun de prune could be bought at the grocery store in autumn, when they used to put a big wooden crate on the counter and the saleswoman would sell us slices of magiun that she cut with a straight, thin wire. We watched her work, our mouths filled with saliva, making the wait seem longer and the magiun even sweeter. Because sweet it was. With a hint of tartness, it was dark purple, almost black and it painted our teeth and we laughed with out mouths open and the people in the grocery store would hush and tut us with low voices and judging looks. Not that we have a care in the world.

Why all these memories now, I keep asking myself? Am I getting old and gaga? Or maybe it is my mind’s way to protect itself and me from the present reality?

Not all my memories are happy. But, fortunately, the bad ones are hiding somewhere deep in my memory and I don’t have any intention to go looking for them.

For now I am perfectly content to dwell on the days spent with buni in the kitchen or on the summer afternoons eating watermelon with my siblings, challenging each other who spits the seeds the farthest.

The kitchen is quiet again, the plum jam is ready. I spread it on the bread, taste it and somewhere, for a little while, buni is still sitting at the table across me. And she says, with half a smile: “Eat up…and don’t talk with your mouth full”.

Whenever It Strikes, I Will Be Ready

 

 

Why does my inspiration strike me at the most inappropriate of times?

While I am cleaning the house, my thoughts go round and round in my head like a crazy carousel. I have to stop whatever I am doing at that precise moment, look for a pen and some paper and write everything down.

While I am sitting with my husband at the hospital surrounded by pain and suffering, something or someone catches my attention. Tears fill my eyes and I hear the words whispering to me.

While I am in bed, dead tired, the moment I close my eyes and drift to sleep, ideas like demented Jack-in-the-Boxes just pop into my consciousness. Good bye, sleep!

While I am walking home from the supermarket, laden with shopping bags, an interesting image appears in my mind. I have to stop, put down the bags and type it into my phone.

Because I am not losing another image, another idea or another sentence. Not again.

 It happened to me too many times in the past. I let those moments slip and they were lost forever.

So, I don’t care if I burn the food or forget the clothes in the washing machine, I will catch those thoughts and bring them to life on the paper, instead of leaving them trapped in my mind.

And if Pitzi the cat tries once again to sleep on my keyboard I will coax him down with a tuna snack and will carry on writing until I have nothing left to say.