Week 10

My hoop wobbled on my right shoulder and rocked back and forth against my thigh as I biked back down Rothschild Boulevard from my weekly hoop dance class.  Weaving between pedestrians and bikers, I slowed down at the busy sushi kiosk.  Bats dropped out from the trees on either side of the pedestrian path, snatching invisible insects from the air, and merging seamlessly back into the treetop foliage as I blinked.  Nearing the apartment I will have lived in for almost 11 weeks come Tuesday, I passed through the hovering mist of fountain as it tumbled and rose in the freshly autumnal air.

Over the next few days, I'm packing to leave this apartment and move.  I sit here, shuffling through a pile of papers: the tel (archeological mound) of my aviv (spring - though it's actually fall semester, it feels like my personal spring, my time of growth).  I go through layer after layer of this tel and sort out what I discover: handouts from different classes I've attended - my weekly beit midrash session on Eros at Alma, Aviva Zornberg's shiurim on Bamidbar... ; receipts from items I've purchased during my time here - a bike helmet, groceries, a camelback... ; schedules - from the dance studio, gym, and yeshivot I've joined... ; maps the person I'm renting from made for me - with her favorite cafes, bars, and dance venues marked on them... ; name tags from conferences and objects that remind me that magic exists -

Week 9

The Thai woman sitting next to me on the sheirut today from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv intermittently broke into song, or perhaps it was one long half-uttered prayer triggered by the driver's heart-stopping halts.  Occasionally, I could hear the synthesized sound-byte of a mechanical camera, and eventually located its source - in the front seat, every two seconds during our departure from Jerusalem, someone was taking indiscriminate snapshots out his window: highway - click, hill of apartment buildings - click, prefabricated macolet - click....

A week ago, I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to Hevron.  Knowing it was in my bag - perhaps a bit smashed, warmed by the heat of the day - provided some comfort as I gazed at spray painted Stars of David on sealed front doors of Palestinian households, leading to an empty street and an empty market place.  My mind turned these images over and over, trying to fit them into previous categories of experience, into more comfortable memories - but instead historical photographs of Jewish stores on kristallnacht came to mind...a mind, mind you, careful about not conflating other narratives because of how sticky and problematic that becomes.  Much like my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Week 8

As the tiny strip of land between Egypt, Jordan, Syria and the sea began to lose the sun in its myriad mountains, hundreds upon hundreds of cranes began to call to each other even more loudly and urgently.  My parents and I were in Hulu Valley to watch the fall migration.  I reached up, plucked a eucalyptus leaf, rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger to release its scent, and handed it to my mom.  She breathed its cleansing perfume and it disappeared into her hand.  When we finally arrived at the best observation area in the valley, I saw three birds walking on water: each time their legs touched it, their bodies hovered fully above it.  "Those birds are walking on water!"
My dad didn't believe me.
"Some birds can do that!", I stated, impatiently - though I was mostly trying to convince myself.

*

The ways I've gotten to know people here have been mostly incidental: on Tuesday, I went to my landlady's parents to drop of the rent.  Though I've never met Noa, I've now slept in her bed, used her olive oil, read her dispatches from India...and had tea and cake with her parents.  I listened to their

Week 7

As I lifted my hands to my eyes with two tea lights flickering in front of me and began to recite the blessing over the candles, my voice broke.  Alone in my apartment, the soothing, earthy smell of tears uncurled inside my nose, and a wet, blurry heat into my eyes.  Crying isn't easy for me, and my voice sounds so strange when it happens, like it's coming from a hidden chamber beneath my diaphragm.  I keep choosing to reenter this cellar in the roots of my soul, rather than stand on the rooftop and listen: though I was about to meet Assaf to go to Shabbat services, I stood in the darkness of my cupped hands, doing my best to listen to these malachim, these divine messengers, as they explored my cheekbones and settled for my beard.

The next evening, I biked along stretches of highway to Petach Tikva, where I met Dafna, a friend of many friends, and an organic farmer.  She showed me the park she grew up with, a refuge on days she ditched classes as a child, now a place to rest from working the land.  And as we walked through its rose garden, I actually heard the sound of silence.  A wild new sense of presence pushed through the white, delicate shell of absence: ma nora ha makom hazeh!

Last night, the roving headlights of motorists lanced the night with uncharacteristic violence.  I