We walk around all day with hungers bubbling up inside us: hunger for success, and for love, for security; hunger to be seen, to connect, to matter. We go about our days, walk the city, our hungers clawing at our insides. And then amidst all of these more intangible hungers, there are sparks of hunger pains that can be more easily answered. To have people walk through my door, and be able to satiate one of their hungers? To be able to soothe, satisfy, nourish? It’s endlessly gratifying.
I like the quiet of cooking alone, for one. Of entering the kitchen as I please, of not catering to hungers other than my own. Of catering to my own hunger. Not taking into account likes and dislikes, timeframes and constraints. There’s a selfishness to it, yes, and it’s one I’m beginning to relish.
The pace is different. I enter the kitchen when I begin to crave something- whether it’s seven or eleven. And I make something simple, quick, fresh. Tomatoes are a recurring theme: cherry tomatoes with lots of cilantro and a big, sloppy kiss of zaatar-spiked labneh; cherry tomatoes with small cubes of sheep’s milk feta- delicate, impossibly creamy- topped with torn basil; big juicy tomatoes sliced thickly and wedged between slices of mozzarella. The bowl gets drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and that’s dinner: fast, fresh, juicy. Read more…
From my balcony I have a direct view of this big sprawling roof complex. It’s like its own little village- small shanties on the roof, a big dilapidated swing set, things growing all tangled and wild, what looks like a makeshift kitchen. Lots of people come in and out onto this roof, emerging from different entrances. In a corner, they raise doves. The doves swarm up, fly a little distance across the street, come back. Most of the day they lounge on the slanting red tiles of a neighboring roof. I wonder about control. Letting go, leaning into trust. Relaxing into the present. The air raid sirens have stopped, and their threat has lifted from the city. Yet, danger haunts the city like a lover, its scent lingering. Read more…
So, beloveds. My divorce is official, and I’m picking up the pieces in Tel Aviv, surrounded by family and friends, who have been such a source of support and comfort. Remember that apartment I told you about earlier this summer, with the impossible skyline? That’s where I’m living at the moment, and I don’t think I will ever tire of the view- it’s like having a private screening to the magic of this world, and people, it’s nonstop. I feel very, very blessed. I also feel very, very blessed to have you, dear readers, to share my journey with. Thank you for being here.
When I moved to New York with Yaki close to two years ago, I never would have imagined that I would return to Israel, so soon, and alone. And I never would have imagined finding myself in Tel Aviv, and liking it as much as I do. This city? It has my heart.
At sunset, I walk down twisting streets towards the beach, and walk along the shoreline, the warm, foamy water twirling around my feet. The sun sets rapidly now, trailing quickly through the sky, pulling oranges, reds, pinks as it dips. A sailboat with big puffy sails drifts slowly past; little girls in pink bathing suits dig at the sand with a yellow plastic shovel; Jaffa juts out with its palm trees and greenery, the edge of the city crawling into the ocean. The water laps softly at the sand, and the ocean looks like a huge, warm, temperate bath. Read more…
The week before I left for France, doubts crept into my mind. As I was sitting in bed late at night, wondering if I should indeed go through with this- go to a village deep in the South of France, for three weeks, with complete strangers- I received an email with the pickup details, which mentioned, in passing, that we would be taken to a supermarket upon our arrival, but needn’t stock up on eggs or tomatoes which we could get from a neighbor, or water, which we could from the village well. Also, we would be able to buy local honey and trout in a nearby village. Um, seriously? Packing my bags.
Settling into the village deep in the lush green mountains, nature felt so abundant, a thick blanket wrapped snugly around us- we could just extend our hands and pluck figs, blackberries, grapes, elderberries; chestnuts and walnuts littered the ground; carpets of nettles crept around corners; mushrooms sprouted in the woods. There’s something so reassuring in seeing sustenance growing all around you, in knowing that your basic needs for survival are so easily within reach. Nature felt calm and benevolent, like resting your head in your mother’s lap. Read more…
Over the last year and a half I’ve been so focused on the question of my marriage, that it felt as though my heart constricted, zeroing in on it. I’ve been looking inward, and analyzing, questioning, deliberating. In the village of Labastide-Esparbairenque, Occitan for “fortified city beneath the cherry blossoms” (is that not a line of poetry?!), it feels like I’m stepping outside, placing my heart in my hand- gently, gingerly- and giving it a long, luxurious, cleansing bath in all of this beauty.
There are moments when I feel overcome with grief, with disappointment, with how terribly daunting this separation can feel at times, and I take myself by the hand, and step outside and take in the quiet beauty surrounding me, in great big gulps: the way the light plays on the grape vines, the way it warms up before sunset, turning everything golden. I let this beauty, these little things, ground me in the present, in gratitude for being here, for being able to witness it all. Read more…
