Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Ringing in the New Year

I used to feel naked without my rings.

Turquoise, carnelian orange, matte gold, silver, and sea-green together formed a playful palette of colors against the monotonous peach of my hand.

They weren’t the kind of rings I’d take off at night or switch to match my outfit or even put on the counter to wash my hands. My rings were a part of my hand.  Albeit large and bold, they worked with fancy and casual attire, always adding a touch of personality to the ordinary.

I used to reach out my hand when greeting someone new and would often hear, “wow, what special rings! What’s the story behind each one?”

I’d go on to explain how I bought the big turquoise one at a Tibetan store in The Village after High School graduation; how the one that looks like a puzzle ring (but actually isn’t) is from California from my first solo-visit to my sister; how the gold-and-silver-engraved thumb ring is from a Tel Aviv crafts fair; how the green sea glass ring—that my mom made me swear to never lose—is from my grandmother whom I never met.

I’d explain how it’s made of “Roman seaglass” found on the beaches of Israel many decades ago. I’d show them the engraving under the pendant—made in Israel—a small detail that excited me every time I noticed it.

These tiny pieces of silver - of replaceable material - gathered meaning from years of wear-and-tear and experiences-turned-stories, embedded in the rings’ dents and scratches.

wearing (most) of my rings

sporting the roman seaglass ring
Wearing 5-6 rings at a time was always the rule and removing them—the exception.

The only time I would (willingly) take them off would be before yoga class, which often necessitated ring-free hands. After the class, I’d put them back on instinctively, because seeing my hands bare was an unusual experience.  

The first time I unwillingly took my rings off was during my enlistment in the Israel Defense Forces.

It sounds silly.

You volunteered to join an army and then complained about removing your rings?

The truth is, I really hated taking off my rings.

Along with my style, language, and general freedoms, the army just had to strip me of the last (external) thing that reminded me of my individuality: my rings, dammnit.

I remember how naked my fingers were during a ring-free, month long basic training, and how afterward, during the Education Course, my fellow soldiers and I gained the privilege (!) of wearing two small rings, which immediately made me feel “fancier” and more “stylish” in my saggy green attire.

Naturally, when the army ended, I went back to my ring-wearing, genie-pants strutting self.

Leora’s back again! She’s free!

And I didn’t waste a second of my newfound “freedom.”

Immediately after completing a yoga training course in India, I prepared to actualize another dream of mine–hiking the National Israel Trail.

For two months, I spent my days walking 12-25 kilometers – through deserts and forests and valleys and mountains—and my nights around the bonfire, playing music and cooking dinner over the fire.

Optimistic, I started the hike with all of my rings on.

I quickly learned that rings, dirty outside living, and sweltering heat do not go together.

Indeed, after just one week in the desert with rings, my fingers were covered in rashes from sweat and blew up to the size of sausages from the heat.  

Inevitably, I took them off.

In retrospect, this was a small part of a bigger process that I was going through—namely, returning my natural self—a process characterized by minimal showers (replaced by springs and streams), no bathrooms (replaced by rocks and bushes), no makeup (replaced by sun-kissed cheeks), 5 items of clothing (lots of hand-washing), and one backpack of possessions.

I felt incredibly free—from societal expectations, from materialism, and from a “need” to express my inner self through some external display. Though I occasionally missed proper showers and “dressing up” (primarily on Shabbat), the benefit of this rawness was a sense of inner peace and strength that no material object could provide.
As such, it is not too surprising that Alon came into my life at this very real and vulnerable place in my life.
We met on the 3rd day of the hike in the southernmost part of the desert.

I was with a group of hikers called “Walk About Love,” and he, with 3 friends from his Moshav (small agricultural settlement) in the north. We exchanged smiles, noticing that we were both slightly lost, miles from the campsite, and the sun was intimidatingly low in the sky.

We introduced ourselves and during the 5-minute conversation, Alon teased me about the battalion I served in, since he happened to have served in the “rival” battalion. 

The second time we talked was on a bus. 

My hiking group (“The Walk”) had organized the bus in order to skip a specific part of the hike for logistical reasons, and Alon and his friends hopped on for the ride.

I was after almost a week of not showering and had just run through some enormous sand dunes. There was a huge crack in my lower lip that (I felt) could challenge the grand canyon, and my lips in general were peeling all around the edges. 

To my embarrassment, Alon noticed and offered me some natural chapstick that smelled of sage. I remember feeling surprised that someone of the male species wanted to talk to my straw-haired, sweaty, peeling self, and actually seemed a bit interested, too.

Oh, the miracles of the desert!

After that encounter, Alon and I continued to run into each other throughout the trail until our meetings became intentional, thanks to the spotty cell-service in the open desert. 

It went a little like this:

Our first “date” was a 10-hour hike up and through desert mountains, during which we covered your generic first-date topics such as life, death, religion, south park, racist jokes, and life goals and dreams.

The following “dates” looked rather similar—as in, walking for hours on end—while the backdrop became increasingly green as we made our way north.

But will this trail-romance make it in the big city? And, which city? We both wondered.

Neither of us had a clue of what would become of us after the trail.

After all, we were “homeless” and jobless.

I was applying for jobs while on the trail, hopping off for the occasional interview, and Alon had just applied to university.

We walked with uncertainty about the future, but with wholehearted, full dedication to present.

Perhaps the only thing we could be certain about was that the next trail marker would tell us where to walk. 

At the very least, I thought to myself, he’ll think I’m prettier in civilization after a shower or two.


Fast forward to late September—6 months after we met in the desert and 4 months after we “officially” began dating.

A return to urban life meant a return to ring-wearing life, not to mention a return to four-walls, technology, responsibility, and showers!

Alon and I were driving up north to his Moshav, where we were celebrating Rosh HaShana with his whole family.

It was my first time celebrating a holiday with his family, and I had no clue what to expect.

Every year, since living in Israel, my holidays have looked different – from secular homes, to hippie-religious-settlers, to friend-led potlucks, I’ve experienced a wide breadth of Israeli society through the medium that Jews do best – meals. 

This past Rosh HaShana, I was lucky to have meal after meal with the Peretz family.

It was a Rosh HaShana glued to Shabbat, making it a very long and phone-less weekend. (Wednesday night – Saturday night)

Eat. Pray. Rest was the motto and we followed it religiously.

So, when the second meal came and passed, we went upstairs for a much-needed nap.

Hours later, I sat up in bed and peeked my head out the window, noticing that it was a bit before dusk – that magical hour when the first chilly breeze rolls in.

Wrapped cozily in white fluffy blanket, I was content staying in bed for the rest of the afternoon, while Alon insisted on taking a walk.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” Alon pressed.

Despite my food-coma induced laziness, I rolled out of bed and got dressed, realizing that walking off  lunch would be a good idea.


It was late afternoon when we stepped outside and took the usual route to Mizpe Yahel, our favorite lookout point in Moshav Sarona.

He knows the place like the back of his hand—I thought to myself as we got closer—passing the familiar farmers, his horse-riding teacher, and the neighbors. Every house we passed had a corresponding family name and memory, like the stable where he used to ride horses and the surrounding fence that he and his friends painted in middle school.

With each step, I understood with greater clarity how every square meter of the Moshav is tied to a specific memory of his. I wondered if someday, I too will feel a sense of home in Moshav Sarona, who’s name is just one letter away from my mothers’ (in Hebrew).

The thought occupied my mind as we walked, skipped, and ran through the fields of wheat and corn until we arrived at “our spot”— the lookout point that had become our go-to havdallah location, where we’d exchange blessings for the coming week.

This time, as the sun set, we sat under an olive tree and reminisced on the past year.

Getting released from the IDF. Backpacking through Spain, Portugal, America, and a yoga teachers’ training in India. Hiking all of Shvil Yisrael. Meeting Alon on the Shvil. A month of wandering around Israel as a madrichaSubletting in Jerusalem. Studying at Pardes. Starting work at Hartman Institute in Jerusalem.

Alon’s year was filled with transition as well, from working on a Kibbutz to TLV city-life and from Shvil Yisrael trail to preparing for mechanical engineering studies at Tel Aviv University.

Summing up the year helped me realize that my travelling and wandering instilled in me the desire for planting roots and grounding. It helped me understand life’s natural ebb-and flow of stability and transition and therefore, learn to accept it.

I understood that finally, I felt ready to plant roots in Israel.

Alon and I sat together hand-in-hand, in gratitude, and gave one another blessings for the New Year.

Though the tone of Alon’s voice hinted it to me, my jaw hit the floor when his New Year blessing came, and with it – a box with a diamond ring inside.

Hatinasi li?” He asked, in formal Hebrew.

It took some time to process the shock.

The rush of excitement, nervousness, and joy came over me like a wave.

Of course, I understood in context that he was proposing. But then came a fadicha (embarrassing moment) that only my fellow new immigrant friends can relate to—that is, not understanding Hebrew at the most critical moments.

Indeed, I learned how to say “will you marry me” in Hebrew during my actual proposal.

With subsequent laughter and tears, I replied with an “of course,” while Alon put the ring– which fit surprisingly well—on my ring finger.

Perhaps a part of me knew this would happen when I decided to leave the house that day without my rings.

Something in my gut had said probably not, but maybe.

And, since Sept 21, those 5 rings sit neatly in my purse.

Now, my right hand, which once looked bare with nothing on it, is natural and feminine and mine.

And my left, which bears a diamond ring that I thought I’d never have (I was never so into shiny rocks), holds a new meaning.

This new “mature” look on my hands doesn’t indicate a loss of personal identity, but rather the transition to a life of partnership.

Now, I look at my hand and see the rectification of materialism. I see how the whole of this ring is greater than the sum value of the stone and the weight of the white gold.

Now, I know that value must come from the inside out, and not the other way around.

And when it does, its physical appearance will shine with the same beauty from where it came.

The day after the proposal

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Miracles, Monkeys & Chai

~ The Beginning ~

“You are like a fruit,” said our Indian Yoga Philosophy teacher, rather matter-of-factly.

“When you will ripen – when you are ready – you detach from the tree. You remove yourself gracefully and allow the cycle to continue.”

I internalized the words of my wise teacher. 

The rest of the group let out a “mmmmm” noise, that sound of re-remembering a kernel of wisdom you always knew.

We sat cross-legged with straight-spines in Bamboo Hall, the burgundy-carpeted room in which we spent most of our mornings, afternoons, and evening hours, practicing asanas (postures), meditation, pranayama (breathing technique), and studying yoga philosophy. Lined along the walls were banners with proverbs, one of which read: “There are only two ways to be happy: minimize your needs and harmonize with your surroundings.”

I smiled, noticing the connection between the lessons of the day: the fruit falling naturally, the banner proverb, and remembering the need to” let go” in each yoga posture.

Of all the teachings from my many teachers in India, this one stuck with me in a deep way.

I think the imagery helped. Not only did it remind me that every law of nature is also a law of spirituality, it also reminded me of the interconnectedness of life.

Fruits so beautifully symbolize essence of letting go…of harmony. When the fruit is ready it falls off seamlessly, with no force.

I realized in that moment that this is how I want to live my life—with this ease, grace, and patience—in harmony with my surroundings, which I know only comes from letting go of expectations, doubts, and attachments to specific outcomes.

This concept of non-attachment is one of the building blocks of this yogic lifestyle; specifically, the 5th of the 5 yamas, which are the ethical, moral, and societal guidelines for the practicing yogi.

When first learning the concept, nonattachment sounded like indifference, which we all know is dangerous.

Nonattachment, however, is the opposite of indifference.  

Indifference is passive and letting go, or detaching, is active. Indifference is “I don’t care” and letting go is feeling whole with the fact that we are not really in control.

Personally, I’ve felt the liberty that comes from peeling off the layers that form around the true self when I “attach” to things, whether it is a label, a stigma, or even a common thought pattern.

When I successfully peel off these layers, I feel an enormous clearing of emotional blockages that prevent harmony and true connection.

Interestingly, India is one of the least and most harmonious places.

When picturing India, people either imagine the overcrowded, poverty-stricken streets of Delhi or the peaceful ashrams tucked away in the Himalayan mountains.

Indeed, before coming to India, I wondered how harmony could exist in a place with so much polarity. 

My first rickshaw ride
From the eyes of a western-raised Westchester gal, the streets, at first glance, feel like utter chaos: you walk down the street to hear incessant honking, face near-death by rickshaws, scooters, and cars speeding by, bypass multiple cows, a pack of hungry monkeys, and take in a big whiff of cow dung, masala dosas, and burning trash. 

Naturally, on my first day in India, I faced that inevitable culture shock. 

I was the only westerner for miles in the middle of Bangalore. 

Carrying my huge lime-green backpack, I lingered awkwardly on one side of the street, contemplating how on earth I will cross it to get to the Chabad house. The street was unusually wide and filled with speeding cars, rickshaws, scooters, and cows.

There was no crosswalk in sight. 

I watched with awe as a group of Indian men calmly walked in front of the moving vehicles. 

I had no choice but to do the same. 

I took a deep breath (as the people behind me stared - probably very entertained) and stepped into the street.
Step after step, I observed with amazement how the rickshaws, motorcycles and cars stopped as I crossed the jam-packed street. It was at once terrifying and (retrospectively) empowering. A proper initiation to life in India.

In that moment, I decided that my motto for this leg of my post-army trip would be:  “be fearless, not stupid.”

Relieved, I entered the Chabad house, spoke with the Rebbetzin (who proceeded to call me crazy for crossing the street), dropped off my huge bag, and ventured into the city. I had the entire day to kill before my 11 pm sleeper bus (overnight bus) to Hampi.

I spent the day touring around the botanical gardens, the downtown city center, finding a spontaneous yoga class and drinking chai with a new European friend. 

While eating my first meal alone, I scribbled in my journal a few observations from that morning: 

1.     A father and his 3 daughters riding on ONE tiny scooter. They waved at me as I stared, amazed.
2.     A friendly shopowner who watched someone try to scam and then explained (with true care) “don’t take riks. Don’t take any riks” (risks).
3.    Realizations: 
·      There is need no real need for silverware, toiletpaper, or even toiletbowls. A hole   in the ground will suffice.  
·      Yoga in India is not fluffy or sugar coated (my first class was humbling).
·      Things in India work themselves out in a magical, mysterious, miraculous way. 

By 8:30 pm I was still deep in a chai-filled conversation with my new European friend. When I noticed it was getting late, I hopped on a rickshaw back to the Chabad house. In the back of my mind, I knew I soon had to travel downtown, alone, to get to the bus stop by 11 pm. The thought was unnerving.

So, during my bumpy, speedy ride back to the house I did what your average person would do in an unsettling situation –

I prayed.

I didn’t recite anything specific from my siddur (prayerbook).

I just closed my eyes and asked for a bit of help. I desperately wanted company for my way to Hampi—at least at the bus stop. I was unsure what would happen, because that entire day in Bangalore I met only one tourist (the European) and spotted a handful of others on the street.  

So, when I arrived at the Chabad house that evening, I was ecstatic to hear Hebrew from outside the apartment, coming from the mouths of two young, Israeli men. As soon as I arrived, one of them said, “you must be Leora.

Surprised, I said, “ummm…yes, actually! How…how did you know?

“We saw your name on the bag. Yours is the last one here. Good think you came now because they are closing their doors now.”
Sunsets in Hampi mountains
Relieved, I ran in, grabbed my bag, and immediately asked, “where are you guys headed?”

“Hampi,” they replied.

I let out a sigh of relief, “YESH. ME TOO! What bus stop?” I asked.

“Anand Rao Circle.”

“ME TOO! What time?


"Thank you Hashemmmmm!"

I had found my first two guardian angels in India.

We all split a Rickshaw and began the arduous journey to Hampi. And one sleepless night later on the “sleeper” bus, I arrived (at 5 am, before sunrise) safely in my first India destination.

The remaining 2 weeks in Hampi and Goa was a recipe for your average visit to India:

 ~ 65 scooter rides through the mountains, the villages, and a few gypsy neighborhoods
      ~ 25 new Israeli friends
·      ~ 10 masala dosas (YUM)
·     5 sunrise meditations atop mountains made of boulders
·      ~ 2 seconds of being surprised that almost all the signs are in Hebrew
·      ~ 1 full sick day in which I dropped at least 1 kilo
·      ~ 1 standoff with a pack of water buffalo who were also trying to bathe in the same river (true story)
·      ~ 1 beautiful Shabbat @ the Jewish house filled with Carlebach melodies, dvar torahs, and motzei-shabbat jamming
·     1 million bioluminescent, glowing sea plankton that completely blew my mind (In Goa)
·      ~ 1 helluva wacky, intense, action-filled time

While these first two weeks in the south were filled with spontaneity and change, the real intensity came when I ventured north to begin my yoga course—the  second chapter of the India journey.  

~ A Friendly Reminder ~

Ganga River in Rishikesh
The adventure began with one quick flight to Dehradun and one long, windy taxi ride up and through the mountains. 

The ascent to the city felt oddly familiar—like ascending to Tzfat but with a completely south Asian, unfamiliar twist.

I was instantly entranced by the clear, bright turquoise water of the Ganga river; by the aromas of incense through the street; by the orange-robed babas and the rambunctious monkeys lining the Lakshman Jhula bridge.

I had arrived in Rishikesh.

Though a bit jostled by the sudden change of environment (Rishikesh is a more bustling place than Goa and Hampi), in my gut I knew I picked the right city to learn yoga.

By day 3 in the new city, the daily schedule at World Peace Yoga School began and I lost track of the days.

In the afternoon break from class, I strutted down the street to the local clothing & tapestry shop I had visited the day prior. It was around 3:30 pm. The owner – who knew I was Jewish and from Israel – said to me excitedly,

“Leora my friend, sababa! Shabbat Shalom!”

With an excited yet confused expression I answered him…”aw, gee thanks! But it’s not Shabbat yet!”

“Isn’t it Friday?” He asked, his head cocked to his shoulder.
Instantly, my stomach twisted and I realized he was right. Friday had arrived sooner than expected and I wasn’t ready for Shabbat.

It was the first time in two years that I didn’t think about how to prepare for Shabbat, and who had to remind me?

Naturally, a random Indian shop-owner.

I hurriedly dashed out of the store to scan the streets for tea light candles. I had 20 minutes before my next class, and I knew I wouldn’t have time afterwards to buy candles before Shabbat.
Rishikesh monkey

Though I couldn’t get my hands on tea lights, I found a pack of the classic tall white candles and figured I’d find a way to light them. I had to.

Miraculously, I made it back to class on time and during my next break, led myself in a solo Kabbalat Shabbat & candle lighting on my balcony. The stares of passerbys didn’t stop my one-woman-service.

In fact, in only reinforced my dedication to Shabbat rituals. In that moment of embracing Shabbat on my own, in the middle of India, I felt more connected than ever. 

There was something about owning and internalizing my Jewish practice that made it all the more special.
I continued to light those candles on the balcony throughout the course and something mysterious always happened—after coming back from class, they would disappear, leaving no melted wax residue.

That means every Friday, someone saw my candles and removed them (I was on the ground floor).

Perhaps they though I was a ritualistic pyromaniac—I will never know.

But every Friday, as the locals lit their fire ceremony (puja) by the Ganga river, I lit my own on my little balcony…and something about these two fire rituals coinciding felt extremely right.

~ Holy Cow ~

On the Himalayan mountain peak
It was 6:00 am, and we just finished watching the sunrise on one of the highest mountain peaks in the Himilayan foothills. We were all still on a natural high from the yoga and meditation session that the head teacher, Yogi Vishnu, led for us.

Before heading down the mountain, Yogi Vishnu invited all the students to walk into the local temple.

He suggested, in a nonchalant fashion, that we ring the bell, enter, and then bow down to the statues inside.

Now, to everyone else, that was a normal request—it’s a gesture of respect in the Hindu temple.

But I was frozen. My heart sunk for a minute and jaw dropped when I realized what was staring back at me: a golden calf.

That’s right. When the Guru invited the group to bow, I was staring face-to-face with a statue of a golden cow.

The symbolism couldn’t have been more in my face.

While everyone else entered the temple, rang the bell, and bowed, my internal Jewish security system beeped out of control and I abstained.

One of my friends asked why I didn’t go in, and I explained how Jews in the past gave up their lives to resist bowing to statues/idols…to avoid breaking one of the holy 10 commandments.

I explained that bowing to a statue is actually a bigger deal than it seems.

My friends could sympathize—and weren’t judgmental for a second–but couldn’t really understand; for in that moment I felt 24 years of Jewish education suddenly come to life.

The feeling was like the moment before a (near) car-accident. When I heard the words “bow down” I felt myself slam the breaks. Though the car didn’t spin out of control, I was 10% jostled and 90% grateful that my breaks still work.

~ Nations, United ~

**Names changed for anonymity**

So, why exactly are you becoming more religious? You were in the ARMY? Why Israel?

I was faced with these questions quite often during my yoga course.

Although everyone asked with respect and good intentions, some of the questions unintentionally raised political issues. And since I was the only Jewish/Israeli person in the course, I was solely responsible for answering questions from the “Jewish/Israeli” perspective.

These questions became more controversial when discussing them with two of my friends on the course: davka my left-leaning, middle-aged German friend Frederick and my Muslim-Lebanese friend Amira.

Though I did by best to share my personal story and to transcend the political sphere, there was nevertheless a blatant difference of perspectives. And inevitably, as soon as the discussion got a tad political, the energy shifted in the room.

The following day, I got the chance to speak with Frederick again; but this time, we spoke after 2 minutes of silent eye contact—in the context of a dynamic partner mediation. After a minute of standing in silence, eyes locked, we simultaneously began tearing up, until streams of tears rolled down our cheeks.

We held hands in a moment of unity and understanding.

He told me about the deep healing that still needs to be done between Germans and Jews and I nodded, speechless. Though I don’t mainly associate Germany today with the holocaust, it is clear that remnants of guilt, heaviness, and darkness remain even amongst the grandchildren of Germans.

In that moment I felt lucky that Yoga brought us together.

~                          ~                            ~

With my Lebanese friend, Amira, the moment of healing looked a bit different.

We were lying in our final resting position (savasana) at the end of yoga class. The student-teachers of the day were walking around the room, offering to each student an aromatic head massage. (The perks of yoga school…)

When my turn came, I was pleasantly surprised by the lavender-scended, soft hands on my scalp. The hands moved gradually to my third-eye center (the point above and between the eyebrows) and I quickly felt a vibration come through me.

I knew was receiving a healing and also, from whom.

When the class was over, my eyes met Amira’s from across the room. A smile on both of our faces, we acknowledged that something real just transpired. We gave each other a warm embrace and from that point on, tensions were replaced by love.

We exchanged some phrases in Arabic and in Hebrew, found commonalities in our faith and began building bridges between our worlds.

~    Like Fruits of a Tree    ~

Jai Jai shiv shambo. Shiv Shiv Shiv Shambooo, Mahadev Shambo. Mahadev Shambo. Jai jai shiv shambo…

My fellow yogis sang this hauntingly beautiful mantra with focus and devotion.

It’s a popular mantra and song that can be heard daily in the streets of Rishikesh. The song is essentially praising “Lord Shiva” of the Hindu tradition.

Though our teachers emphasized the distinction between yoga and religion, there were certainly Hindu influences in the teachings. Understandably so – after all, we were in India.

[Note: Throughout the course, I made an effort to separate Hinduism from yoga by abstaining from chanting certain mantras without knowing their meaning, by not making references to Hindu Gods, etc. I was, for the most part, confident in my abilities to distinguish between the two. It was one of my apprehensions and reasons for studying yoga in India. While I could have done a more ”western” course anywhere else, I chose to go right to the source of yoga – India – and do my own sifting. ]

After sitting in the group and just listening to their voices, something inside me told me to leave the room. The words of the mantra repeated over and over in my mind, and I realized I needed to sit outside and get a new song stuck in my head.

I sat in the courtyard and basked in the sun, soaking in the fresh air and sweet smells of flowers around me. I repeated the sh’ma prayer to myself and took a few deep breaths. After a few minutes, my yoga teacher exited the room, sat next to me, and asked if I was ok. I told him about Judaism and about certain restrictions we have about engaging in other faiths’ rituals.

“With total respect for the Hindu tradition,” I said, “I’d rather watch from the side, not participate.”

My teacher respected my adherence to Judaism and my talking to him about G-d. 

Realizing that I was OK, he returned to the class, and I was happy for the mutual understanding. Though the minute he left, the tears came.

I felt a deep longing for Hebrew, for prayers in my language, and for Israel. I felt the diaspora like a void in my heart – I was a stranger in a strange land. 

Yet, at the same time, I was grateful for my longing. It reminded me that although my spiritual home lies in Judaism and Israel, I can feel home wherever I am simply by connecting.

So as the tears rolled down, I picked up my pen and notebook. What came out was a stream of consciousness that turned into a poem, comparing the human body and spirit to a tree.

A few days later I decided to share the poem with the class, as a pre-practice meditation.

That day, when looking at the Hebrew calendar, I realized that this poem came through me (unknowingly), on tu’ B’shvat, the Jewish “new year” of the trees.

I suppose I didn’t miss the holiday after all. 

~  Back to Roots  ~

I touched down at Ben Gurion airport on March 1st still smelling of incense.

While the plane was taxying, I peeked out the window and saw the Israeli flag on the tail of an El-Al plane.

I nearly burst with excitement.

After a wild 3.5 months, I was home.

I didn’t need anyone to wait for me at the airport with a sign. I didn’t need a welcome ceremony, or even a house or a plan.

I felt a new calmness—a new sense of ease in the country I’d come to know and love.

*         *          *

Ripe as a fruit that falls from the tree, I let go.




With the land

From which I came.