Waiting for our grapes to ripen.
Had you told me, when I first saw this dead-looking stick poking out of the frozen concrete covering our backyard, that one day grapes will grow on it, I would laugh (bitterly, I suppose). It was six months ago, our first Canadian winter.
As you can see, I am now a member of the JCC’s fitness club. From now on, this blog is going to be what I’ve always dreamt it to be: a North American woman’s blog; enough with the existential worries (“life in Israel is much more existential”, told me a father at the nursery) and lousy taxi rides.
My dear readers! Spring has come, and we spend a lot of time outside, and feel damn GOOOD. From now on this is going to be a North American woman’s sort of a blog. My only worries will be: the amount of laps I completed at the pool, the building of my muscles (especially those under my arms, which need extra work), arranging play dates for Daniel, a book here, a movie there, and that’s it. My blog. A North American woman’s sort of a blog. Oh how I envied those while living in the Middle East! And here I am! Doing laps at the gym while counting Daniel’s play dates for the week. This is the (normal) life! And whoever is reading this in Israel, here’s what I think: try it; you will like it, you will see!
No more borders no more exploding buses no more demonstrations no more right wing extremists blocking your main roads no more holly places no more soldiers no more guns no more violence.
Just laps. And play dates. A North American woman’s sort of a blog.
Water was everywhere; flowing, pouring, streaming, gushing. The ice and the snow were melting. Underneath them one could see remnants of life, frozen in time; old newspaper, an ice-cream cup, a pink plastic spoon.
The melting snow exposed the brown color of the earth and the pale green grass. Her eyes, used to the monochromatic colors of winter, were overwhelmed by the discovery of color. The world in Technicolor. She almost expected to see MGM’s lion roaring at her from the sky.
She felt the beat of a new life. She felt the blood gushing in her veins, underneath her skin. She examined her muscles in front of the mirror. She felt strong and alive.
It just has to be spring.
I feel so fortunate; meeting such lovely people, listening to their stories. “So why did you come here?” this inevitable question triggers the narratives. We all seem to share the same ambivalent feelings towards our homeland.
We are all home sick.
The lovely people that I meet empathize with my newcomer’s struggles. They share with me their own stories: “Every evening of our first five months here I looked through the window with despair, thinking to myself: what have I done?” said Ann quietly, measuring her words. “I never felt at home in Germany”, said Thomas, “I was so lonely in the first year, every day I planned to leave on the next”, said Nilli.
The lovely people that I meet give me advices, share tips, console me with the same words: “wait for spring before you make any decision”. Or: “the spring and summer are really lovely here. It is all green and lively. Wait for spring”.
All these lovely people that I meet share the same longing; they long for home and family. They long to belong. They all try to analyze and decipher the rules and codes of their adopting country and its natives. Lack of family and childhood friends generates a feeling of compassion for their fellow humans. The discovery of new worlds and the need to learn many new things creates a child-like openness to the world.
For myself, the dragon at the top of the tower, it feels odd to belong, all of a sudden, to a community.
The outsider’s society.
Sometimes I feel like a prisoner.
The boy and his mother were the sole survivors of a sunken ship. The empty house was their island. The boy adored his mother and she adored him. With his sword, he protected her against monsters and dragons. He was her knight, her warrior, her savior.
No one entered the empty house. The boy had a vague memory of another time and place, with plenty of sun and people getting in and out of the house, guests who used to play with him and admire him. Sometimes he would say: “I wish to visit this or that, please take me there”, or “Can this or that visit me?” But seeing his mother’s eyes clouding, he stopped asking.
From time to time they did have company; on the computer’s screen he saw his grandmother, or his uncle, moving, talking to him. “I miss you” he would tell them knowingly, “but I live far far away, you would have to take a plane if you wanted to visit me”. And they blew out a kiss for him, on the computer’s screen, and he grabbed it in the air saying, “I’ve got it”.
The beautiful boy and his mother lived on an island. No one entered the empty house. They would play games, invent stories and kill dragons. Sometimes she would feel sad and he would comfort her, hugging her in a manly manner, saying “I love you mother”, or fly in the air wearing his yellow Superman cape in order to make her laugh. He adored her, and she adored him.
Living in an empty house. Two mattresses and a chest drawer are the only furniture in the house. I wonder through the empty rooms. I miss performing the simple every day acts; sitting on the sofa, stretching my legs. Going to the library, choosing a book, leafing through its pages. Watching a film on the TV screen.
Living in an empty house. We use our belonging as an extension of ourselves. They represent us; the library shows what is inside my head, the furniture demonstrate my good tastes. The photos on the walls illustrate my creativity.
And on the other hand; living in an empty house reveals how little do we really need in order to exist; two mattresses on the floor, our clothes, a closet – to put the cloths in, food.
Our belongings are our anchors in this life. They are an extension of us. We see ourselves in them and they represent us to the outer world. Caged inside our heads, we need them to communicate, to represent us. Without them we feel a bit lost.
I do miss sitting on the sofa and stretching my legs.
It was so cold. And she was so tired, struggling with the snow, with the stroller in the snow, getting in and out of the house was a trying procedure by itself with all the layers of clothes, and snow pants and gloves and shoes and the bright carpets mustn’t be stepped upon with the wet boots and she left the hat in the other room and had to take off her boots and enter the house again to look for it and doubted that she will ever be able to leave the house.
But that day the sun was shining, and Daniel spoke with the children at the nursery for the first time, asking, “Do you want to play with me?” and played with them in the snow, in the sun. And for the first time she thought: “maybe I can live here, in this cold city, after all”.
The sun was shining and she felt her tired limbs melting, just like the ice on the rooftops.
She went to the basement to do the laundry. She was exhausted. The move was difficult. The former tenants didn’t complete their move by the time they arrived. The house was filthy. She missed her home. They had no furniture, not even a fork and knife. They went to eat at a local pizza joint. The neon lights were like knives, blinding, wounding her soul. She walked in the cold crying. She couldn't stop.
The day after, they went to Ikea and bought a few things for the house; Yellow curtains, a green carpet for the child’s room, cups and frying pans. The painters came and turned the brownish walls into white. One wall in each room was painted with a bright and cheerful color: yellow, light-blue and lime-green. She liked yellow. It cheered her up.
She went to the basement to do the laundry. She only went there once before, while looking at the apartment with the agent. She didn’t like the place. It had the esthetics of a thriller. It reminded her of Se7en. She could almost hear the victims' screams. But she had to do the laundry; she went down the stairs. She saw a door. She opened it, the door opened with a squeak. She could hardly breath. Behind the door was a bathroom, its tub filled with muddy water. Terrified, she looked at the mirror. She saw the image of a bearded man staring at her, his eyes wide open. She screamed, and then fainted.
From our window.
A day of new beginnings; Uri’s first day at his new office, Daniel’s first day at his new nursery, Hadas’s first day as a parent at a co-op nursery.
How will I ever remember all those strangely pronounced names? Names from Korea, names from Malaysia, France, Spain, names so odd that I can’t even figure out their origin? And didn’t I just introduce myself and shake hands with Sara (oh, that’s easy, I can remember that!), Amina’s mother, again, after doing exactly the same thing yesterday?
Uri’s feelings are mixed: they need the dough, and the job’s interesting, but he liked his long vacation, and he misses Daniel and Hadas.
Daniel is exhilarated; he’s been waiting for that moment for eternity, so it seems to him. Being in the company of children, making friends, doing lots and lots of nonsense, like swirling and falling on the ground and getting up and falling again and laughing, things that grown-ups just don’t understand.
Hadas is self-conscious.
Check out Joe's amazing best of the year photo.
Sebastian Haffner: Defying Hitler: A Memoir
A VERY important book. Autobiographical notes written by an Aryan German describing the rise of Nazism from a (seemingly) insider’s point of view. An incredible insight into the nature of us, humans, that raises countless questions. Would we resist too?
Marjane Satrapi : Persepolis : The Story of a Childhood
A wonderful autobiographical graphic novel about growing up in Iran during the Islamic revolution. Reading it was a unique experience for me.
W. G. Sebald: Austerlitz
A masterpiece.