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A first High Holy Days as a resident of Israel.
As I write this, I’m sitting in front of my computer, surrounded by 102 boxes, dust bunnies fluttering around in disturbed repose, dislocated from every bookshelf, corner and hiding place.
All our worldly possessions are packed in brown corrugated boxes; our entire home is condensed in various packages marked ‘fragile’ and ‘handle with care’ and ‘stand upright.’ You’d think those boxes are describing me. It’s a humbling and emotional experience, to see your accumulated furnishings and memories reduced to cubic feet. Mind you, it isn’t that I’m attached to material possessions per se; it’s just that this particular move is bigger and grander than anything contemplated before. For all practical purposes and by most standards, the decision to leave San Diego, our home and our current way of life came unexpectedly.
The seedling for the idea was planted ages ago; it just took this long to germinate. I remember the first time I set eyes on the walls of Jerusalem.
Back then, I wrote about that experience: “It hits me at the windmill. The evening sun shone its copper pale onto the walls of the old city that shimmers in shades of pink, gold and cream. I am in Jerusalem.
I am in Israel. I am in the beginning of it all…I am finally here. Three days into the trip, looking out over Mount Zion, the sublime experience that is Israel finally hits me with its mystery. And I cry. Fat, slow, wet tears slide down my cheeks. I don’t bother to wipe them off.
…It’s my turn to say hello to this profound place for my first time. Except, it feels like I’ve been here before, like I have a cellular memory of the Holy Land. If there is such a thing as reincarnation — and I’m inclined to believe so — then we’ve all been here before. How else to explain the effect of this centuries-old hilltop city that has captivated peasants, the pious and kings?” How else indeed does one explain certain things, like the desire to go back ‘home’ to a place I’ve never lived? From that first moment when I saw the old-city walls, I had a sense I would return from more than a visit. Someday, somehow, Israel beckoned, much like Judaism did, although the two are not fully synonymous. Remembering that afternoon, which felt as emotional as this one does, I feel those same tears flowing, salt and Water mixed with bittersweet. By the time you read this and the Jewish New Year has begun, we will have started our new life in Israel.
Aliyah. Moving the whole family to Israel. It is both an impossible feat and extraordinary dream.
In moments like this — the big transitions — it is the little things that stand out. I’m crying over my yoga ball. I really want to take it with us, and since everything is charged by volume when you move overseas, I find myself slowly releasing the air out of it. That air’s been in there five years. Five years of stretching, and yoga-ing, and moving, seeping out in a musty hiss like my cries. The stale air sucks the wind out of my own lungs. I need to breathe, need to breathe, need to breathe to stop from feeling this way.
It isn’t like we are leaving from San Diego; this move is because we are going to Israel. Believe me, if I could, the distance between these two worlds would be miniscule; say, a short ride up the coast.
In my heart they pulse side by side.
Nicholas, ever the precocious son, is all thrill and games. “Wow! Where is everything?” he asks after spending the day with our nanny, Courtenay. She took him out for the day so we could manage the movers and keep him from summertime boredom. He runs throughout the house, poking the boxes with a stick. He’s my hunter-gatherer, though not much of the latter is going on anymore. Everything’s already been collected, and the movers are on to the next step — loading the truck.
We sit on the lawn watching them. Combined, these men have moved hundreds of families, and we are just their latest job. They aren’t hardconditioned, and they show sensitivity when I cry. One smiles and says, “You aren’t on the plane yet. Save some strength for your goodbyes.” Then he gives me respectful space so I can ignore his suggestion.
Four years ago, I was just a single mother converting to Judaism, wondering where this Jewish journey might take me. The San Diego community became my second family, giving me the opportunity to fall in love with a whole tribe, to write and sing and praise and, yes, sometimes critique what being Jewish meant to me. Who could predict how this journey would go? That the experience would culminate in this — moving my family of four to Israel, where a huge extended family awaits with their own tears of joy and acceptance? I’m the daughter-in-law bringing their son back home, two grandkids in tow. I’m also the daughter leaving her own non- Jewish family behind, and for that, there is no complete peace. Dad is 80 and in poor health.
Will I ever see him again?
“Next year in Jerusalem”: We say those words at every simcha, and now those words really ring true. This year, my fifth High Holy Days, we will be in Israel, and for that it stands out as special.
Each Jewish New Year has meant something to me, and I remember them all distinctly. I haven’t experienced enough for them to be a blur. From the first year, where I fasted the entire day, my young son by my side, both of us feeling fresh and new; to the next few at Ohr Shalom and Congregation Beth El, with my new partner by my side; to the year I was pregnant with Taliah and didn’t have to fast. This time I have no idea what to expect, only expectations of being further surprised and connected to my Jewish identity.
This experience of being both inside and outside is common among converts. We didn’t grow up knowing all things Jewish. Our absorption is fast, intense, dynamic and thoughtful. It is a conscious awakening that comes with a price, and a gift, and sometimes these are the same thing. For the foreseeable future, being Jewish in Israel means I will no longer feel like the stranger in my own family, separated by culture, belief and the big holidays. Instead, we will just be separated, and I’ll be the stranger in a new land. Part of me wants to be open to missing them, and the other part is afraid of what that means.
My husband and I have been talking about what frightens us most. On this we agree: Taliah Will be fine. At 18 months — she is so new and fresh and excited about the world and surrounded by love on two continents — everything is pure joy for her. Nick is entering first grade, just as his Hebrew-to-be classmates will be learning to read and write. His brain is still pliant enough to absorb a new language and culture, plus he has a dozen cousins his age and with his energy level excited to welcome him into their mini-tribe. His challenge: integrating into a new school system and coping with the pangs of missing his biological father. My mother’s heart hopes his stubborn and strong-willed streak will serve him well in a land where tough kids are better understood and appreciated. Israel breeds strength by necessity.
A good friend asked me, “How will you fit in with the women and the bombs?” I understand her question that may sound naïve to those who know Israel differently from how she is portrayed by the media, but my friend speaks from the heart. Since I don’t know much Hebrew, I’m thinking I just won’t worry about either — what folks might say about my artistic, sensitive ways, or about those damn frightening border skirmishes and the like. I’ll play naïve myself for the time being. The way to keep my sanity will be the way I’ve always found it, through writing and taking really long afternoon naps and enjoying some good dark chocolate when the urge hits.
Hudi, my rock and partner, is going back to the land he fled 20 years ago.
Never did he imagine returning, nor did his family expect this occasion.
They credit me with the decision to move, though his smile is slightly apprehensive and theirs is full of joy. I married into a big family. The Eshel clan extends throughout Israel; we will make up the ‘Galil’ contingency, which means visits to the Knerett, views of the Mediterranean, hot summer days, cool wet winters and regular visits from my in-laws. I’m counting on the expansive views and extended family to help ease us all into our new life and New Year.
“What will you do?” people ask.
“I will be a writer and a mommy,” I reply. Two things that mean the most to me but always seem to get the short end of the stick after corporate America, the dishes, the bills and responsibilities.
“And Hudi, what will he do?” He will do what he has always done. He is like a cat with nine lives and a Jack-of-all-trades. You don’t move to Israel if you think too long and hard about those sorts of details. Don’t misunderstand what I mean; we Considered the logistics, but even in light of the facts and a small savings, it requires a tremendous leap of faith to take your family around the world. We rely on the inherent belief that the universe is taking care of those details; we just have to put our intentions out there and let the rest take care of itself.
So far it has. Every hurdle has been overcome, and let me tell you, there were some doosies. The Jewish Agency for Israel and Nefesh B’Nefesh require a lot of paperwork — a mount-of-olives pile — to approve our application for aliyah and grant us assistance for our move to Israel. Never Mind the average, everyday transitions one may encounter during a move: selling cars and furniture, finding homes for pets, saying goodbye to family and friends. And the move. I watch them load the rest on the truck and drive off with our belongings, knowing it will be a few months before we are reunited with all our worldly possessions. I release them all in my heart, just in case. Everything that really matters is still with me. Nicholas plays by my side, my husband and daughter are nearby, and I feel safe. By the time you read this, we will be gone.
When we arrive in Israel, Hudi and I agree that we are taking a very long shluf on the hammock before we do another thing. And then, when we are well rested, we will pick ourselves up and smile and say a prayer of gratitude that our feet are in Israel and our hearts are with all those who have helped us make this dream come true. Rest assured that we miss our family and friends in San Diego. Know that you are welcome to visit. We hope you do.
Our house has a guest room in it. But just in case you can’t, we wish you a Happy New Year. May you have an easy fast, and when you say ‘Next year in Jerusalem,’ may you really mean it.
Written by Tinamarie Bernard
Modern Ahavah columnist, San Diego Jewish Journal and Top-rated writer of sex, conscious love, intimacy and relationships http://www.examiner.com/x-2593-Modern-Love-Examiner
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