Israel 2

At a concert in several languages I could not understand,
a friend interpreted the following story told by the singer
to make meaning of the next song. There are too many layers
to be counted, a veritable trifle of confusion.

My uncle was a gentleman to the end. He visited his wife three days before her death in the hospital, dressed impeccably. She was losing her hair, only 35 kilos and hadn't been out of bed in months. He walked in, took off his hat in respect, and said to her, "Yahel, if you weren't my wife, I'd take you dancing and ask you to marry me." So should we all.

All I could think is did her veins stand out? And so,

he began singing in, the gutteral "Ch" noises calling to
someone to explain. I could not, so I sad, eyes welling up,
hoping this translation in strings, and notes, and songs
and salt made enough sense. I wondered when someone
would want to take me dancing. In a wave of fanfair,
cigarettes and words that made meaning to everyone
but me, I could only think about myself. A sea of together
and one note, atonal and confused. What if this song
was joyful, and all I could do is be a million miles

from my plastic seat and cry because of a picture on a bookshelf
of two people sitting on the moon? He, too, would have
taken her dancing. What if this song was a funeral dirge
and all I could hear was Pachabel from forty-six years ago?
She too, wore a crown, but self-proclaimed. But what if
this was the perfect song, to sing about our whispering moment
at the Mill and I didn't know?

Then the final note was sounded and amidst the claps,
which surely meant thank you, I whispered todah, which
was the only word I knew.

Wailing Wall.

I thought I would come home from the Wall
asking myself, "Where is my God?" And,
like Santa, did He receive my notes for what I would like

for life? Instead, I come back, laden with presents
to ward off the evil eye, like a pagan princess.
I come back to no new messages (of course

everyone knew I was prostrating myself
and could not be reached.) But, as I turned my back
on thick tomato sauce and walked with purpose

away from a wall of margins and lines, I now
wake up too early and wonder if I am too building
a rock on high ground, in order to fall. It is convenient

the lining up of stones amongst the three powers.
It is convenient that the cradle of civilization
was the site of all important events. The same could be said

of my kitchen table. But no one will build a shrine
around it. Except me.

Back from Israel.

I loved the trip--I loved Israel. I loved being somewhere unique to me but so not unique to the world around me in my daily life. It was hot, but there was history and a strange juxtaposition of hot pants and orthodoxy. Finally, I loved the coming home. Nothing is quite as fulfilling as that last two minutes of a plane ride when all you can think of is how wonderful it is going to be to sleep in your own bed and eat your own food. Nothing makes you appreciate the ordinary like a break from it.

However, I would very much not classify the trip as a vacation. Without a doubt, this was NOT a vacation. I came back more confused about my religion, my God, and m beliefs than I have ever felt. For the first time, I was challenged in that arena. Moreover, it was a lot of lectures, a lot of thinking--the kind of thinking I haven't necessarily done since I left school. Either way, I didn't come back refreshed or relaxed but, thankfully enough, I'm pretty sure I'm over the jet-lag.

Now, it all returns with a rush. Who to call? When to go into work? What to do next? How to do it? I feel slightly overwhelmed with a project at work. And I'm trying to book a venue, and find a time to go to DC and do 10,000 other things before I go back to work. I'm pretty sure that they're not all going to happen, not in the slightest. But, that's alright in the end, I think.... Either way, I return.