Every time I go away from home I expect to get a bit homesick. I miss Andy, my kitchen, my bed, my bathroom, the comforts, the Tivo, Coolidge Corner, my gym, etc. The thing I was most nervous about this time was missing my school. While I do feel some longing for home and Andy, the thing that can bring a tear to my eyes in an instant right now is thinking about HC having orientation, all the new students who I won't meet until December, the shabbaton, the elul term, the teachers, my classmates.
It began on Thursday when we used Pardes's video-conferencing to talk to our class back home. They were eating breakfast. Oh--and apparently there is a new caterer who is amazing and makes eggs and hashbrowns! no fair! Anyway, there was something about seeing the 6 people back home sitting in the classroom all together and not being there that really got me. They were telling us about their schedule and just trying to find a time to have another video-conference with them reinforced just how different our experiences are going to be this semester.
I am sad to feel like I am missing out on something really amazing even though I am in Israel supposed to be having all of these great experiences. The summer was awesome, but my transition to Jerusalem has been difficult. It feels meaningless and pointless. As I sit in Cafe Hillel using their free wifi to write this blog post, I can't help but think that it isn't any different that sitting at JP Licks in Brookline--except that the menu is in Hebrew. The people around me are mostly speaking English. I just ordered a hot chocolate--okay, they made it Israeli style by melting actual chocolate in milk, but other than that, not so different.
I feel like everything hinges on the learning here. I don't have the community I want, I don't have my boyfriend, I don't have my usual comforts, but if the learning is great than it will be worth it. Still, I am worried that the learning at HC is just as good (if not better) and that there really is no point to me being here. I need to find something redemptive. I also worry that when I get back it won't feel like my school anymore with all of the new students and the collective experience of the coming semester.
As I read through the orientation materials, I couldn't help feeling like I would rather be studying with Jane and Jonah and Ebn and Or and Sharon and Allan and Natan and Dan and working on the tefilah committee and planning community time. I was really involved in a lot of the planning of orientation and shabbatonim in the past and now it feels like it is all going on without me. It is. And it sounds even better than the previous years. One thing I can say that I'm looking forward to is getting back and enjoying watching new people step into leadership roles and getting to enjoy the fruits of their labors. I just hope that my time in Israel has its rewards too.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Poems
I originally wrote these poems in Hebrew, so if they sound a bit contrived in English that's why. I'll try to upload the pdf's of the Hebrew for those of you who can read them that way
Shai (which means gift in Hebrew)
You were three when you returned to the States from Israel
I was so happy
And then it became clear to me that some things had changed between us
You weren’t “my baby” anymore
You didn’t want me to feed you a bottle and fall asleep in my arms
You had learned to speak, but in a language that I didn’t understand
So I too learned Hebrew
And you didn’t know it then, but it was a huge gift to me, Shai
You loved “boy things”
Trucks
Batman
And whenever we were driving in the car with your mom and we saw a tractor
She would say, “Shai, look what it is! A tractor!”
And you would be so happy, even if you had been crying the minute before
Now you are big, with a low voice, and if you wanted to, you could grow a beard on your face
And you’re starting university soon
And I am in disbelief
And now you are in the States
And I am in Israel
When I see a tractor, I am not happy, but scared
Because now “they are trying to push the Jews into the sea” with tractors
But after I pass it safely, I am happy, because I’m here, in Israel
And I wonder to myself: Would you be able to read this poem today?
Would you understand it?
Holy Place
They built the Tel Aviv Hilton on top of an old Arab cemetery
At least that is what our Jaffa tour guide told us
Now the tourists sleep on broken bones
But they can’t really feel them underneath the mattresses that were brought in from the U.S.
I see them, the tourists, off in the distance
But my eyes keep returning, returning
To the minaret that is in front of me
And the Arab houses that they have turned into galleries for jewelry and art
Across from the kindergarten that we destroyed there is another mosque
It’s not clear to me if people still pray there
But there is a sign next to the gate that says: “holy place.”
And if you look closely
You can see that they white-washed over the words “please don’t piss.”
I once wrote about the stones of Jerusalem--
How they are so slick from years of hands and feet on them--
Our Holy Place
And I wrote that if the tourists walk in just the right way
They will wind up with pieces of thousand-year-old souls stuck in their shoes
Today I am thinking about the souls of those whose graves lie under the Tel Aviv Hilton
I hear them screaming from inside the sewers
Mixed in with all of the piss and shit
Raging
Because someone decided that it is allowed to piss on a holy place
Shai (which means gift in Hebrew)
You were three when you returned to the States from Israel
I was so happy
And then it became clear to me that some things had changed between us
You weren’t “my baby” anymore
You didn’t want me to feed you a bottle and fall asleep in my arms
You had learned to speak, but in a language that I didn’t understand
So I too learned Hebrew
And you didn’t know it then, but it was a huge gift to me, Shai
You loved “boy things”
Trucks
Batman
And whenever we were driving in the car with your mom and we saw a tractor
She would say, “Shai, look what it is! A tractor!”
And you would be so happy, even if you had been crying the minute before
Now you are big, with a low voice, and if you wanted to, you could grow a beard on your face
And you’re starting university soon
And I am in disbelief
And now you are in the States
And I am in Israel
When I see a tractor, I am not happy, but scared
Because now “they are trying to push the Jews into the sea” with tractors
But after I pass it safely, I am happy, because I’m here, in Israel
And I wonder to myself: Would you be able to read this poem today?
Would you understand it?
Holy Place
They built the Tel Aviv Hilton on top of an old Arab cemetery
At least that is what our Jaffa tour guide told us
Now the tourists sleep on broken bones
But they can’t really feel them underneath the mattresses that were brought in from the U.S.
I see them, the tourists, off in the distance
But my eyes keep returning, returning
To the minaret that is in front of me
And the Arab houses that they have turned into galleries for jewelry and art
Across from the kindergarten that we destroyed there is another mosque
It’s not clear to me if people still pray there
But there is a sign next to the gate that says: “holy place.”
And if you look closely
You can see that they white-washed over the words “please don’t piss.”
I once wrote about the stones of Jerusalem--
How they are so slick from years of hands and feet on them--
Our Holy Place
And I wrote that if the tourists walk in just the right way
They will wind up with pieces of thousand-year-old souls stuck in their shoes
Today I am thinking about the souls of those whose graves lie under the Tel Aviv Hilton
I hear them screaming from inside the sewers
Mixed in with all of the piss and shit
Raging
Because someone decided that it is allowed to piss on a holy place
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
hirhurim (musings)
I especially love the pool at the "country club" that I joined here. I put country club in quotes, because even though that is what they call it, it's more like a cross between a really mediocre gym and a public pool. The pool is actually really lovely. The workout room (called the kosher room in Hebrew) is small and dinky. The guy who works there is hilarious. I can just picture him as a drill sergeant in the army. Every time I go there he says "tank you very much, nice to meet you" but it sounds like he's actually saying "why do I have to put up with stupid, wimpy American girls in my gym." Anyway, I like the pool.
On my way back from the pool, feeling cool and refreshed, I heard a minyan davening the kedusha. I looked up and there were about 10 men squished on a small balcony. The nusach (tune) was the same, but slightly more exotic sounding. I knew pretty quickly that it was a shiva minyan. Why else would they be davening at someone's house? Then I noticed that down on the ground level the patio was filled with people. One observation was that it must be nice not to have to worry about having a minyan of people who know how to pray. On the other hand, it was only men. In any case, I felt bad for the family and wondered who the person had been, what had happened, etc.
One interesting this about this summer has been the juxtaposition of emotions. I wouldn't call them mood swings, because my mood has stayed steadily happy. I feel like my life is going well, I'm enjoying my everyday existence and I'm feeling grounded. However, sprinkled amidst that happy mood is my recognition of the pain and suffering going on around me. The homeless men sleeping on cardboard outside the bus station, the refugees from Sudan and Eritrea who are seeking asylum in a country that doesn't really want them and is trying to segregate them into the northern and southern parts of the country, the crowded "kindergartens" of the foreign workers and just the general fatigue of the city. Noticing these things makes me sad and it's an interesting kind of sad, because it is a sympathy sadness. It is also shortlived. Again, I wouldn't describe this as a mood swing, but more as a peppering of sadness in an otherwise sweet kugel mood.
I must be getting tired. I really wanted to write about the rest of the Talmud classes with Ari which have now come to and end and the people who are leaving the program, who will be greatly missed, but that will have to wait for now. So I'll just say this: Jill, Ellie, Alissa, Billy and Meredith--may your journeys be blessed with continued learning, may you encounter people and things that challenge (makshe) you and may you have what it takes to respond to (mefarke) them. Please stay in touch.
On my way back from the pool, feeling cool and refreshed, I heard a minyan davening the kedusha. I looked up and there were about 10 men squished on a small balcony. The nusach (tune) was the same, but slightly more exotic sounding. I knew pretty quickly that it was a shiva minyan. Why else would they be davening at someone's house? Then I noticed that down on the ground level the patio was filled with people. One observation was that it must be nice not to have to worry about having a minyan of people who know how to pray. On the other hand, it was only men. In any case, I felt bad for the family and wondered who the person had been, what had happened, etc.
One interesting this about this summer has been the juxtaposition of emotions. I wouldn't call them mood swings, because my mood has stayed steadily happy. I feel like my life is going well, I'm enjoying my everyday existence and I'm feeling grounded. However, sprinkled amidst that happy mood is my recognition of the pain and suffering going on around me. The homeless men sleeping on cardboard outside the bus station, the refugees from Sudan and Eritrea who are seeking asylum in a country that doesn't really want them and is trying to segregate them into the northern and southern parts of the country, the crowded "kindergartens" of the foreign workers and just the general fatigue of the city. Noticing these things makes me sad and it's an interesting kind of sad, because it is a sympathy sadness. It is also shortlived. Again, I wouldn't describe this as a mood swing, but more as a peppering of sadness in an otherwise sweet kugel mood.
I must be getting tired. I really wanted to write about the rest of the Talmud classes with Ari which have now come to and end and the people who are leaving the program, who will be greatly missed, but that will have to wait for now. So I'll just say this: Jill, Ellie, Alissa, Billy and Meredith--may your journeys be blessed with continued learning, may you encounter people and things that challenge (makshe) you and may you have what it takes to respond to (mefarke) them. Please stay in touch.
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