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.

When shaking someone’s hand I’d often hear, “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 East Village after High School graduation; how the one that looks like a puzzle ring 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; and 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 sea glass found on the beaches of Israel, decades ago. I’d show them the engraving under the pendant—made in Israel—a 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 five or six them at a time was the rule, and taking them off, the exception. I can only remember two scenarios in which I would take them off: before a yoga class and before netilat yadayim—or handwashing—a prelude to the blessing over holy challah bread.

~~~

 Nov 9, 2014.

My draft date to the IDF.

A day of signing papers, getting shots, and shimmying awkwardly into stiff, olive-green uniforms that are always too loose or too tight. 

I don’t think anyone can forget that day.

The day naive 18-year-olds subscribe to an institution that “teaches” them how to walk, talk, dress, and express themselves.

I remember that first day—how the officer yelled at me to take off my rings, and the twinge of loss I felt when taking her order.  

I remember how naked my fingers were during a month-long basic training, and how later, 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.

I remember wearing all of my rings when it was still prohibited—two months before my release—in minor rebellion and excitement for my upcoming freedom.  

Somehow, when my actual release day came and I appeared at my base in a flowery dress, hands adorned in turquoise, silver, and sea glass, I didn’t appreciate the hands that helped me cut through my army ID card. I had acclimated to civilian, ring-wearing life already and was just ready to get out.  

~~~

A few months after my release I found myself removing my rings once again, this time, in the middle of Israel’s desert.

For sixty-five days, I spent my daylight hours trekking 15-25 kilometers on the Israeli National Trail– through desert and forests and valleys and grassy mountains—and my nights around the bonfire, strumming my guitar and cooking dinner over the fire.

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

I wore them for about two days, until the heat blew up my fingers to the size of sausages and sweat left itchy rashes under my rings.

Alas, once again, the rings came off.

But this time, when I removing them, I felt it was a part of a deeper process. Along with my rings, I shed layers of superficiality, of dependence, and of ego.

During those two months, my showers were springs and streams; my bathrooms: rocks and bushes; my makeup: sun-kissed cheeks; and my entire wardrobe: three shirts and two pairs of pants.

Unburdened by possessions, I felt free.

Free from societal expectations, from belongings, and from a “need” to express my inner self through an external display. 

Though I occasionally missed proper showers and “dressing up” for Shabbat, this rawness, this sense of returning to my natural self, brought a calm to my soul—a much-needed breath of fresh air.

~~~

I met Alon on the third 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 in the north. We exchanged shy smiles, noticing that we were both slightly lost, miles from the campsite, and the sun was intimidatingly low in the sky.

            “Oh, you were in 402,” he said in a sarcastic, flirtatious tone, noticing the battalion symbol on my army hat.

“I was in 55,” he continued, “but no worries.”

“Oh well,” I replied, returning his teasing words with a wink.

I was pleasantly surprised. What are the chances of meeting someone from my  “sister” or “rival” battalion in the middle of nowhere?

But before we could exchange information, Alon’s friends continued on—and he followed—disappearing  into the sandy distance.

~~~

The second time we spoke was on a bus. 

My group had arranged the bus to skip a part of the trail, while Alon and his friends hopped on for the ride.

I was after almost a week of arduous, sweaty hiking, had not showered, and had sand in every crevice of my body. The crack in my lower lip reached painful depths and my mouth was peeling all around the edges. Alon took the seat across from me and, noticing the crater on my lip, offered some natural chapstick. Mildly embarrassed, I said yes. I remember how soothing it was—this sage-scented chapstick—a small desert miracle.

Perhaps the real miracle was that someone of male species wanted to talk to my straw-haired, sweaty, peeling self, and actually seemed a bit interested, too.

Or was I hallucinating?

We spoke about our interests and philosophies on education until the bus dropped us off. Another brief encounter, I thought. And this time, we probably won’t see each other again.

Fate, so it goes, had another plan in mind.

Alon and I continued to run into each other throughout the trail until our meetings became intentional, thanks to the spotty cell-service that enabled a text of “hey” and “I’m five kilometers from you” every few days.

~~~

Our first “date” was anything but ordinary. In fact, it wasn’t even intentional.

I was, as usual, late to get my act together in the morning.

When I heard Alon’s voice from a distance, something told me to join him and his friends for the days’ walk. Or at least I’ll start the hike with them, I thought, and see how it goes.  

Our day together turned to weeks, though not every day was spent side by side. During our walks, we covered most conversation topics, from big questions like religion and faith to the subliminal messages imbedded in our beloved childhood T.V show: Spongebob.

Step by step and joke by joke our relationship evolved as the backdrop became increasingly green, making our way up 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 both “homeless” and unemployed.

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

And although we carried the weight of uncertainty about the future, we walked 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 go. 

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—six months after we met in the desert and four 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 to celebrate Rosh Hashana–the Jewish New Year with his family. It was my first time celebrating a holiday with his family, and I was anxious yet excited for the events to unfold.

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 the wide breadth of Israeli society through the medium that Jews do best – food. 

It was a Rosh HaShana glued to Shabbat, making it a very long and technology-free weekend. 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 a white fluffy blanket, I was content staying in bed for the rest of the afternoon.

“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.

~~~

We took the usual route to Mizpe Yahel, our favorite lookout point on the Moshav.

He knows the place like the back of his hand—I thought to myself as we passed the neighbors, farmers, cows, and of course, the neighborhood cats and dogs.

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.

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.

In my head I recalled the major events of my year: Getting released from the IDF; Backpacking through Spain, Portugal, and America; completing a yoga teachers’ training in India; hiking all of Shvil Yisrael; meeting Alon on the Shvil; a month of bussing around Israel as a madricha; subletting in Jerusalem.; studying at Pardes; starting work at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem.

Alon’s year was filled with transition as well, from working on a Kibbutz to Tel Aviv 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 grounding. It helped me understand life’s natural ebb-and flow; how transition begets stability and then stability begets transition.

And after a year of constant transition, I felt ready for stability.

I was ready to finally grow roots in Israel.

~~~

We sat together, hand-in-hand, exchanging 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.

Boom.

“Wait, is this real?” I asked, “Are you for real?!”

I took a few moments to process the shock.

Then, 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—an embarrassing moment—to which only my fellow new immigrant friends can relate.

“Wait, can you repeat what you said again?” I asked Alon with an awkward laugh.

He laughed at me. I laughed at me.

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

Soon, my laughter turned to tears as I replied with an “of course,” and 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 other five rings.

My mind had said probably not but my gut said maybe.

And since Sept 21, these five others rings sit untouched in my purse.

~~~

Today, I no longer feel naked without my rings.

Every morning, I put on my engagement ring—not out of a need to be recognized by others, but for what it symbolizes.

A ring, like any circle, is infinity; it has no beginning and no end.

I hope that this ring will always hold this symbolism.

I hope it will remain a physical reminder of love—of pure, infinite love—and will stay with me for years to come. Amen.

boasting some of my rings

sporting the roman seaglass ring

The day after the proposal