Israel Post #1

Thumbing through the tattered sheets of my four-page Israel itinerary, I feel a great sense of ambivalence. The document—strewn with Hebrew catchphrases, scribbled messages, and my Aunt Tzipporah’s phone number in Israel—dictated my life for ten days, and I didn’t want to let go of what that paper represented for me, so it remained in my purse until now. The sheets, now rumpled and ripped, were taken out and nestled in a drawer of memorabilia, but only for safekeeping. If the itinerary were more durable and compact, I’d keep it beside my driver’s license and social security card; those simple items that define us. It’s been nearly three months since I landed in Tel Aviv and traveled to Jerusalem, where I experienced that complex, yet effortless feeling of belonging. Within me lies vacillating forces. My longing for Israel competes and clashes intensely with the satisfaction, solace, and appreciation that fills me each time I reminisce about this special place. While I love words, and search endlessly for the right ones to describe this experience, there most certainly is a spirit of Israel that can only be felt. And I felt it immediately, along with a newfound connection to myself.

An exotic blend of humanity gravitates toward the weathered stone remnants of the Second Temple of Jerusalem on Shabbat. Young orthodox mothers donned in modest dark clothing push baby strollers through the swarms of people to make their way to the Kotel (Western Wall). An elderly woman with dark almond eyes adorns her shoulders with a talit walking into the bright and blue air of dusk. A group of Israeli soldiers join hands as they march toward the center of the stone piazza. The sunken head of a child catches my eye. I watch as her delicate chin makes its way closer to the nape of her neck. She trembled before the wall as tears rolled down her face. Worshippers of every type imaginable extend their arms forward—gingerly placing their palm to the Western Wall— touching something that is so immensely prevailing and powerful.

Moments before I reached out to lay my own hand on this ancient symbol of resiliency in one of the most sacred sites on earth, I looked around. I closed my eyes and savored the energy, the feeling, and admired what stood before me. And then I listened.

Hebrew song combined with the sound of children’s laughter, prayer, weeping, clapping, and dancing, along with still silence, to create this symphonious echo of life’s emotions. There was such a mix of clamor. I heard the sound of joy, sadness, despair, hope, tranquility, graciousness, anger, pride and so much more. That is where I felt something remarkable. For me, it was the confluence of human emotion. As I stood before the Kotel, I felt this outpouring of feeling. Israel is a place where the full spectrum of human emotion can be felt to the most intense degree. During my first days in Israel, I was able to feel engulfed in the vastness of the world, witness the passion that can come alive in all of us, and value the potential to feel connected.

Following my trip to Israel, I came across a quote that resonated with me. “Places have the power to transform—people, nations, even ideas,” Bruce Feiler writes of Israel in Walking the Bible: A Journey by Land through the Five Books of Moses. As I examined Israel and felt it through political, historical, spiritual, and emotional contexts over ten days, I know just what Feiler means.