On a Birthday

 

A couple of days ago, it was my birthday. And while enjoying it as much as I could, I also thought about time, how it flies without us noticing it.

When we are young, we cannot wait to “grow up”, to have our own lives, to be “independent”, not to be told what to do every step we take…Little do we know…

We are so focused on the lives of the adults around us and trying to mirror them, that we don’t pay attention to or realize that childhood and adolescence are among the most precious periods of our lives.

Now, I just watch the years go by and I find myself asking more and more often all kinds of ridiculous philosophical questions I have no answers to.

But I don’t want to contemplate the fragility of life, the inevitability of death, or our mission on Earth. I want this time in my life to be about being grateful for the people I have in my life, for the things I’ve achieved and for the dreams I still have.

I want this time to be about the things we do for the people we love, and the importance of spending as much time with them as possible.

I want it to be about the past that brought me here, the present I have to live and the future I hope to have.

Because there is enough pain and suffering and heartbreak in our lives each and every day. And I think that, from time to time, we need to take a breath.

In order to be able to move on.

 

“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.

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.

Until I Get To Be Me

 

I am tired, so tired of all of this. Weary and drained. Fed up. Had enough.

Oh, did I offend you? Did you want something nice and cheery and motivational, to help you deal with the crap in your life? You’re in the wrong place, pal. I don’t do any of that. Not today, anyway.

Today I write of pain and disappointment, disease and anxiety, anger and frustration, fatigue and anguish. And so many more feelings that fight to be acknowledged.

I feel like all I do these days is fight something or someone, real or imagined. And I am just tired. Sometimes I think I fight with myself and it is not a pretty sight. I don’t have a very good opinion of myself, so I hurl obscenities at me and try to make myself small and insignificant. And I keep bringing up the mistakes I’ve made, the stupid things I did, and I try to humiliate myself and make me suffer.

Sometimes I think I am my own worst enemy. Sometimes I wonder if I am my best one.

When I was young, I used to harm myself.

In order to mute what I felt inside I had to make the physical pain louder.

Not that it helped.

Pain is pain is pain.

And now I have the scars to remind me.

I am so tired.

And I would like nothing more than to lie down under a mighty tree in a deep forest somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains in Romania.

To feel the soft wind on my face and to listen to the sounds of nature: leaves rustling, birds twittering, millions of insects, tiny constellations buzzing in the warm air.

To push my cheek to the ground, to smell the rich moist aroma of the earth and the fresh, green scent of the grass.

To soak the soil with my tears and for the moisture to reach the roots of the tree and then to erupt with the sap in the leaves and to be dried by the sun.

I want to lie there and forget about everything, to rest until I don’t remember who I am anymore, to be born again, new and untainted, not as myself, but as something special, remarkable. A flower, maybe. Or a strange bush. A medicinal plant. To ease and to sooth. To nurture.

And then to begin again. And again. Until I get it right. Until I get to be me.

At Sixty, I Am Still Waiting For An Explanation

 

 

 

I am sixty years old and I still have no idea what is this life that I, we, have to live.

Is it a miracle or a curse?

I remember when I was pregnant with my daughter I had an ultrasound, the first one. What I saw then on the machine’s monitor – a cluster of cells, beating to their own rhythm and the technician telling me “Look, it has a heartbeat” – it looked like a miracle to me.

When I look at my husband, at all the other patients sitting quietly in hospital rooms, when I see him, them, suffering, it looks like a curse to me.

Why are we born if from the first second we breathe in air we are headed towards death, towards nothingness?

Why exist at all if the sole purpose of our existence is non-existence?

And don’t tell me all that bullshit about journeys and roads and experience and ascension.

Because it is not real.

Because it is not it.

We live and work, we build and create and heal and, in the end, nothing comes out of it.

Life is struggle and pain and suffering and for what? To what end? Heaven? I don’t think so.

I’ve seen so much during my existence on this Earth that I cannot be fooled anymore.

The religious people say that life is simply a transition to…to where? Why?

If all this would be that simple.

I once asked my uncle, who was a priest, about life, God, Heaven, Hell, Universe, us. He shoved me a walnut and said;” Do you see this walnut? This is your mind. And God is so huge that your mind cannot contain Him, cannot comprehend.”

Yes, he was a clever man, my uncle. But I wasn’t convinced.

I wanted to know why I had to live this daily battle. What is to learn? What is to understand? Do we, as human beings contribute with our so-called lives to something bigger, something important?  I would like to think so, to imagine myself as a part of something significant.

But I am skeptical. I don’t know anymore. I mean, I want to believe because otherwise it is really depressing to think that all this will simply end some day and we still won’t understand why.

The truth is, we don’t know anything. We never did. None of us. We just fool ourselves that we do, that we are on this mission to unfold the meaning of life. Because, otherwise, why live?

We are small and so not important and we try to occupy our existence with petty, despicable actions in the name of…What? The immortality of the soul? Perhaps. But do we really have souls or are we simply blood and flesh machines?

I don’t know. I don’t know anything and it is late and I am tired.

I watch the numbers on the clock and I feel time slipping through my fingers.

Twenty-Seven Years, One Suitcase, and a Life I Never Expected

 

Today marks our 27^th wedding anniversary and as I sit down to write about it, I still cannot wrap my mind around it…27 years…where did they go?

When I met and then later, agreed to marry my husband I didn’t know that my life would change almost completely. And not because of the marriage, no. Because, unbeknownst to me, I would embark on a journey that would change my life. Naïve as I was, having been born under a communist regime that liked to keep us ignorant and uninformed, I didn’t have any idea what would mean to me to travel and settle myself across the world. For love. For having someone in my life. A partner.

I arrived in a country that was different from anything I had known or imagined. Different religion, different customs and holidays, different language and totally different climate.

How do you build a family when everything around you is strange and unfamiliar?

It wasn’t easy, I must confess. But, in a sense, it forced me to try and make it work, because I had already chosen this life and I was determined to make the best of it. It is easy, when things don’t work in a marriage, to just pack one’s bags and leave, isn’t it? It is more difficult though when leaving is not an option. Because then, you have to find a way to get by, to cope.

If someone ever tells you that marriage, partnership are easy, don’t believe them, they’re liars. Marriage, as any other human relationship is complicated and not straightforward. Sometimes you are facing certain situations that make you think “I’m done” and then you step back to gain a bit of perspective and try to find solutions instead of just walking away.

After 27 years of marriage, I can tell you, marriage is hard work. Compromises. Good days and bad days. Decisions that have to be made. Kids that must be raised and educated. Tears. Joy and sorrow. Money. Responsibility. Words that elevate and words that hurt. And some days, just putting one foot in front of the other.

And the real test of a marriage doesn’t come during good times. No, it comes during bad times, when you have to grit your teeth and try to survive, to come out of it (mostly) unscathed.

And that’s marriage for you.

So, happy anniversary to us, to our struggles and our moments of happiness, to everything we built together and, I hope, to many more years to come.

Adventures in … Carrefour

 

 

Everybody was so, so happy when Carrefour, the French retail chain came to Israel… We thought maybe we’ll have variety, lower prices, better services, high quality goods... Well, that’s not what happened. There weren’t many brand products and all the other stuff they sold in their super-markets was the same as everywhere else, only more expensive.

We have a mini-market in our neighborhood, among Russian delis and shops. For 27 years, since I’ve moved here, I’ve been shopping there. They are close, while the big supermarkets are usually in the outskirts and I don’t drive. The place had a lot of owners, before becoming a Carrefour branch.

I go there mainly because I have no other choices around, I know the place and everybody who works there and they have a bomb shelter – very important these days.

Like every Israeli neighborhood shop it has its daily struggles. I mean, there is always some “drama”. Not enough cashiers, not enough smaller trolleys, no milk, the watermelon is too expensive.

But today, oh, today it was absolutely crazy. First of all, the shop was messy as usual, with huge crates full of merchandise smack in between the aisles so it wasn’t possible to pass through. They always do this, they unpack the merchandise at noon, when it is already full with shoppers.

I was waiting in line to get my stuff scanned.

Woman: “Excuse me, do you have a Carrefour card?”

Me: “Yes, I have”.

Woman: “Could you buy these two jars of spaghetti sauce for me, on your card? They are on sale if you have a card. I’ll pay you back cash”.

Me: “OK, no problem”.

But, we soon discovered there was another lady who was after me in line and in front of the lady with the jars. So, I had to wait for the cashier to scan her stuff. But…before she even started, an old man with a cane and two packs of cheese moved in front of her.

Man: “Can I scan these? I am in a hurry, I have to go to the hospital”.

Everybody agrees.

Man (to the cashier): “And while you’re at it, bring me a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes.”

SAY WHAT???

Everybody protests.

The line is getting longer and longer. The cashier has to leave her seat in order to bring the man the cigarettes (they are somewhere else entirely in the shop).

The man pays and says: “Where is the customer service here?”

Cashier:” Why? What’s the problem?”

Man: “I want to complain about the high prices you have at Carrefour”.

Everybody begins speaking at once.

“Why didn’t you someplace else if it is expensive here?”, somebody asks.

“You aren’t in a hurry any more”, adds somebody else.

The cashier, on the PA system, asks for help. Nobody comes.

A nice young woman convinces him to go somewhere else to buy stuff if he is not pleased with the prices.

The man leaves. The cashier resumes her work. The woman after me has three carrots, one zucchini, one kohlrabi, one fennel, two pots of yoghurt, a bag of pasta and some other small items. She pays and leaves. The woman with the sauce jars finishes too, and gives me the money she owes me. 12 effing shekels. I would’ve gone home instead of waiting for one bloody half an hour.

Finally, I exist the shop. The nice young woman in line after us had to wait to pay for a quarter of a watermelon.

 

 

She Really Gets Me, But No Arts and Crafts

 

Today, my daughter and I talked about death. Mine, more exactly. We were in my bedroom, trying to tidy up the mess a bit and she said:

“Mum, please, before you die, just get rid of some of your stuff, O.K?”

I told her no way I am going to throw away my stuff while I am still alive and that she can get rid of everything after I die and not before. But she was: ”Oh, mum, I couldn’t…I couldn’t just throw your things away. You know what? I’ll burry you with them…”

I reminded her that I didn’t want to be buried, you know, in a grave, in the ground. She promised me some time ago she’ll arrange for me to be cremated.

So I added: “You can send me in style. Put me on a raft, on the Sea of Galilee, with my fake jewelry and my candles and my skincare and set me on fire”.

“Mum, I cannot do that! It’s illegal”.

And we laughed and laughed…

“Ok, then cremation it is.”

“You know that the ashes of a cremated body can be stored for a long time. I’ll keep you at home. In a jar.”

“Listen, no crazy stuff with my ashes, Ok?” I replied. “No arts and crafts and stuff like that. Don’t put me in places I wouldn’t like to be. Just take me to Romania. Scatter my ashes over the lake at Valea Draganului. Or bury me under a tree, in the forest near the lake.”

“How am I going to get you there?” she asked, practical, as usual.

“Well…after I die we’ll have to improvise… just dress me nicely, put me in a wheelchair and take me on a plane. Tell them, I’m sorry, my mother is sleeping. Problem solved.”

We laughed until we were breathless. And then we cried.

She really gets me, my daughter.

Random Thoughts in the Morning

 

Today, I am drinking my coffee alone, my husband went to the hospital because he is still unwell. The treatment he receives and all the medication that comes with it makes him nauseous and hurting all over. A good friend, the best, actually, took him, because he cannot drive in his condition. Before he left, he told me- “You stay at home, it will do you good”. In a sense, it’s true. Each visit to the hospital steals a piece of my soul. So much suffering, it breaks my heart.

So, I told myself I would sit for a while with a cup of coffee and clear my thoughts. Only, my thoughts refuse to be cleared. They ask for my attention, like little kids in a crowd, jumping and shouting:” Take me! Me! Me! I am here! Analyze me! Ponder on me!”

And so, instead of sitting calm and serene and do a little meditation, I hyperventilate while chasing my thoughts, trying to tame them, because now , when they had my attention, they started running away from me.

I won’t tell you everything that goes on in my head, no way. Even I don’t know what is really going on in there most of the times. A huge party of over-excited ideas, like teenagers when they first have alcohol; a funeral of good intentions, lines from the books I am reading, fragments of poems I want to write. And worries, worries like an army of buzzing bees relentlessly chasing me; and here and there the fluttering of butterfly wings – good thoughts, usually drowned by the noise of the other annoying insects...

Usually, all these attempts at clearing my thoughts, of cleansing and cleaning leave me frustrated because even if I manage to solve one problem, while patting myself proudly on the shoulder, other problems appear instantly. Annoying bitey ants.

Well, my cup is empty. Didn’t clear my head at all.

Ready for a new day.

Nobody Cares

 

 

The world is not a good place for me right now. My husband isn’t feeling well – they say the treatment is working but he is still in a lot of pain and discomfort. It breaks my heart that I cannot to anything to help him. I listen to him, I give advice, but that’s all I do.

My daughter has her own problems; there is a lot of grief and tears and all I can do for her is to listen and give advice when asked.

That’s me, the great listener and giver of advice! Goodness, it destroys me completely, this.

Outside our home, the whole world has gone mad. Literally. The amount of craziness going around is overwhelming. It feels like a conspiration of mad clowns decided to conquer the planet.

We have these neighbors who, from time to time throw this huge parties. When I say parties, I mean they gather on their balcony, all their friends and family and God knows who else and take out their speakers and take turns singing. Well, not exactly singing, more like the sounds dying wild animals would make. Sorry dying animals, no offense intended.

I try to cope with my existential problems, my husband is in pain, my daughter cries herself breathless and outside my window the jungle howls into a microphone.

The world has gone off the rails. The amount of carelessness, callousness, insensitivity, and shamelessness -along with every other synonym the dictionary can provide, is at times, unbearable.

I try to mute the noise, to hide from all the insanity, but they really creep in through my defenses.

What the Hell happened to us?

This question has been haunting me for some time, now. When doctors shrug their shoulders, when passers -by look on the other side and nobody does their job the way they should.

The truth is, nobody cares. Our reality has changed. People had changed, or they were always this way but now it shows more clearly on their behavior. I don’t know. I looked for answers in books, TV programs, words said by clever people. In my opinion, they don’t have a clue either.

But what really hurts the most is not the fact that nobody cares. Because that’s not entirely true. Some people care. They care so much they lose sleep over stranger, family, over stray cats and the state of the world.

The problem is caring doesn’t solve problems or stop pain. It can’t quiet loudspeakers, cure illness or wipe away tears. It simply means that while others walk past, someone stops. Someone listens when nobody else does. Somebody keeps showing up even when the room is empty.

Today, that someone is ME.

I say nobody cares.

But I do.

The Resurrection

 

On how a manuscript came alive but didn’t eat me

 

It’s three o’clock in the morning when a strange rustling sound wakes me up. After listening attentively for a couple of minutes, I am almost sure I’ve located the source of the noise - under the bed. I sigh…I’m certain it is Pitzi again, playing with the dust bunnies that live there. But no, Pitzi is asleep on the pillow next to mine, his paws in the air, tail twitching.

That noise again! It is definitely getting louder and coming from under the bed. I lower my face to peer into the darkness…I squint, my vision is not that good in the dark…I blink…And I see a corner of a white page emerging slowly from the “Sugar Plum” collection box from Sabon where I kept the manuscript of my book.

What is happening?

Now more pages are materializing from the box, one after the other, dragging themselves across the floor, like a rustling white river of printed words.

I stand on my bed looking down. It seems that my own abandoned creation decided to stage a rebellion.

Pitzi is still sleeping peacefully. I hope he’ll wake up because of the noise and maybe seek vengeance on the attackers.

And out of nowhere, I hear a faint whisper: “Whyyyyyy? Whyyyyyyy did you abandon me, Ramonaaaaaaa?”  The raspy voice is getting louder:” Why did you put me under the bed in that box smelling of cinnamon and burnt sugar, together with the plastic Christmas tree and the artificial flowers?”

“I am sorry”, I reply.

Am I talking to some pages I once called proudly “my book”? Am I still asleep and this is a nightmare?

“I am sorry”, I say again. “But you know how busy I was…”

“No”, it interrupts me. “You bought books, you read them!” it finishes in a higher, indignant note and with a papery huff.

“You know how many problems I had. You know I was sad and depressed and lonely. The books helped”, I press on.

“Well, I could have been your companion and friend”, it replies bitterly.

I don’t know what to say. Of course it was right. I had no excuses to abandon it like that. Yes, I had a million bad things happening to me, my life wore me down to the bone, but still…I felt ashamed. So ashamed.

“I am sorry”, I say again, like a broken record. “I am going to fix it”.

“If you’re still willing”, I whisper.

I get down from the bed, paying attention not to step on any pages. I kneel on the floor and gather them holding them to my chest. The familiar scent of old paper and ink wafts around me. I get up and stride to my desk, putting the pages on it. I then spend some time smoothing them down, putting them in the right order.

And I take a deep breath and I say: “Now, where were we?”

 

Replanting a Garden After Years of Neglect

 

Replanting a Garden After Years of Neglect

On rediscovering creativity after years of neglect and how some seeds survive beneath the weeds

 

Twenty years ago I’ve put a part of myself in cold storage. I tried to revive it some years afterwards, but the experiment failed. And so, a part of my soul remained in stasis. Like in those sci-fi movies when you see bits of people floating in big plastic tubes filled with green liquid. That's how it felt. My alter ego. The creative piece of soul. The writer. The dreamer. The gardener – planter of ideas and reaper of harvest.

In a sense, I was dead. My soul was dead. Until, one day, when suddenly and out of nowhere I decided to defrost myself. To give myself another chance…And I did it. It was a slow process, thawing a part of myself that was frozen for so long…It felt like walking through a barren, deserted place that once was a beautiful and lush garden. Now? Only weeds and some feeble plants here and there…a small sunflower and some withered wild flowers.

How does one replant a derelict garden after years of neglect? What could survive after such a catastrophe?

A few ideas, some words here and there, a forgotten manuscript in a box under the bed.

During all this time while I left myself to wane, to rot, things have changed in the outside world. People I knew disappeared, communities just shriveled and went away. Meanwhile, new ideas, new fellowships formed. And truly? It feels more like a jungle than like a deserted garden. Paths I once knew and followed simply disappeared. New plants have appeared and old trees have died…

The work of replanting a forsaken garden will not be easy. But if I begin with a few seeds and seedlings, if I will tend and care for them, I hope a new garden will appear. Maybe different, definitely smaller because I don’t have that much time anymore, but definitely a place where things will grow.

And do you remember that butterfly with a broken wing that I found near Emmaus and brought home? It will be there, too.

Invisible Summer - The Beginning

 

Sunday

I have to go outside today, to take care of some important documents. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed at home. It’s summer and it’s already hot outside, and it’s not even noon.

I smear sun-protection all over myself.

The first thing I see outside our building is the overflowing garbage bin. They haven’t collected it in almost a week. Is there a garbage-people strike?

Under the unforgiving sun, the stench is unbearable.

On the road, a cleaning machine thingy putters away, doing nothing for the dirt.

There are a lot of people outside. The coffee shops took out on the sidewalk their tables and they are packed. Everybody speaks loudly, about prices and politics. Does anyone go to work these days?

The sidewalk is dirty.

A cat, black and white, a Zorro look-alike face, is waiting near the butcher shop’s door.

A man is looking for his dog, I think, shouting his name. Or his child?

I do some shopping. Mainly milk because there is a shortage of cottage cheese and yogurt, only God knows why. Maybe they want to raise prices again.

The cleaning machine thingy has caught up with me. It still doesn’t clean anything.

Near our building the garbage didn’t magically disappear.

I enter the coolness of the apartment. Klara watches me obliquely with her yellow eyes. “Where have you been?” Pitzi opens an eye and then promptly goes back to sleep.

I turn on the TV. A terrorist attack. One dead, five injured. The perpetrators were two Israeli Arabs.

 

 

The Village's Idiot

 

Sometimes I feel like the village's idiot. As if I am not able to think for myself, to do things without being patronized. Everyone seems to know what's best for me. From politicians that want me to believe I am free, to my husband that scolds me whenever I want to buy something -"You have enough plants, we don't have the space"- or even clean the house -You are cleaning again?! Didn't you clean last week?"- to my daughter, who rolls her eyes at me whenever I tell her something she doesn't agree with.

Yes, I know - I don't have a doctorate, nor am I a successful business woman .I fought tooth and nail to finish my degree, to built something for myself. But, as things in life don't go exactly as planned, I had to leave everything and become what people like to label a "stay- at- home mom", a "homemaker", whatever term is acceptable now. 

And yes, I did it on my own volition, nobody forced me to do it. At the time, I felt I was the one who could give my daughter the best start in life, the best education. Why pay somebody else to do it? And be dissatisfied about that, later. I had seen, from the inside, how the system works. I am not sorry for my decision. My daughter is living proof I did it right.

But, that decision had cost me a lot. My financial independence. My independence - full stop. I became always the one that was available, no matter what. The one who did everything, all the time. And usually, I didn't complain. I told myself I had made my peace with it. But, sometimes - God - sometimes I feel I am going to explode!

As I get older I realize that, by nurturing everyone else, I set myself aside. And by setting myself aside, I taught others to do the same. 

So, I rebel from time to time, in small ways. I go on buying sprees. I write poems. I stay up all night reading. Small things - but they feed the illusion that I am the master of my own life. 

Which I am not.

 

Who Am I?

Did you ever ask yourself this question? And more - Who am I? What defines me? What is my role in this world? Did I fulfill it?

When we are young we don't question ourselves like this. When we are young, we have dreams and aspirations and we think life is just this straight highway, no bumps, no crossroads no should I turn left or right? But life is not that simple, life has ups and downs and dangerous curves and crossroads and accidents and stop and go back. Stuff like that. And somewhere along the road, we begin doubting ourselves. Am I on the right track? Did I take the right decision? When I look in the mirror, do I see the person I wanted, I dreamt to see?

Oh, when I was young, I had so many dreams, small ones and big ones and I was so naive. I thought that if I wish something hard enough it is going to become real. And I wished and I fought for my dreams for a long time. At one moment, I thought I had it, that even it was so hard and so difficult I could do it, I could see it to the end. But, at least for me, it wasn't meant to be. 

Then, again, after a while, I thought I found the answer, one more dream to fulfill. And again. It ended. Heartbreakingly. How many times did I fall and rise again? I don't recall exactly. Many times. Did I learn anything from past experiences? 

I was a laborer, a student, a journalist. A writer. A mother. A wife. A teacher.

Small victories, big fuck-ups. Many tears, deception. Sometimes, sunny times and then a huge storm.

So, what do I see when I look into a mirror? Am I the person I imagined myself to be? I am not sure. I don't think so. Maybe I am too critical of myself. Maybe this is the best I could ever be. 

Or maybe, who knows, I have one more dream in me...