April 24, 2017

Bride to Be

Dresses are slumped over a chair, hangers dangling.

I sit with my coffee looking at these clothes. And then it hits me. My daughter is moving out, leaving home. And she’s not coming back.

Today, these clothes will be moved to a new home that my daughter will share with her new husband two days from now. And when I next see her wearing one of these dresses, she will be a married woman.

And so my daughter’s dresses sit in anticipation while I sit in disbelief. At times, I am so busy juggling the guest list, table settings, photography list, table decorations and place cards, I have little time to think about the depth of the remarkable change that is happening in front of me.

It hits me like a wave, crashing down. And tears fall. I then pick myself up and life goes on, the laundry pile looming, the shopping list growing, the place cards unfinished.

My daughter came into my room last night and cuddled on my bed, just like she always used to. As a toddler, she would run in to show me her latest drawings or share a story about her friends. Spent from the excitement of the day, she would curl up and fall asleep tightly beside me.

And where did the time go? Where is that rough and tumble energized little girl, the one with the dark curls and big brown eyes? My little Tom Boy who once scrambled up trees and somersaulted down hills is all grown up and will be a bride.

She is still beside me, curled up on my bed, a bit stressed from the wedding arrangements and in need of a cuddle.  Yet she is all grown up and is about to be a bride and a wife.

I, the mom of the bride, am able to experience the preparation of a Jewish wedding through her young Israeli, Orthodox eyes. And it is beautiful, meaningful, filled with sweetness.

On Thursday, her closest friends organized a dinner party for her where they baked challah together and sang.

She and her fiance do not see each other for a week before the wedding. Last week, she sat with bows, bags and wrapping paper and carefully made him a gift with a note for each day they would be apart.

Last night, when she was out, her fiance snuck over and delivered flowers for her, a note and a chocolate bar for added sweetness.

We are now two days away. My daughter’s bedroom is almost empty, save for some clothing and her wedding dress tucked safely inside the dressmaker’s bag.

Tomorrow night, we go to the mikvah for her ritual bath and then she is good to go. And go she shall. To her love. Towards a new tomorrow.

And how will I feel tomorrow and the next day? How will it be when I first see her as a married woman?

I love you Aviva and Shaarya. 

I cannot wait to see you both standing under the chuppah and watching you grow together.

Mazal Tov

March 31, 2017

Spotless and Sneezy

There are several signs that spring is in full bloom – a chorus of sneezing, a chamber of stuffed garbage bags and, hopefully, an empty pantry.

Here in Israel come late March, every plant that can bloom is announcing its presence. Even my lemon tree, still bearing the weight of fruit, is able to produce fragrant blooms.
Seeds are a flight in the wind, like little plankton being tossed about. The pollen is abundant. I know this as both my husband and daughter sneeze loudly from allergies, walking around with a box of Kleenex and scratching at reddened eyes.

And as they sneeze, I stuff. I throw everything out that has no use or little use, attacking the bedrooms and bathrooms before I sigh deeply and attack the kitchen. It is my pre-Pesach spring-cleaning and when the mood to minimize, hits, I strike hard.

Starting right after Purim, I make it a goal to clean out every cupboard and then, for dinner, eat everything sitting on the kitchen shelves. I unearth unlabelled items in the freezer and then put together something that looks like a meal.

“What’s this?” my kids ask.

“Guess,” I say, completely unsure about what we are eating.

They wake up in the morning and know that there will be no cereal for breakfast or bread for lunch. I could never bring myself to buy ‘chometz gamur’ with Pesach looming in my brain.

Today, scratching my head and wondering what to make for Shabbat, I took a look at my pantry. It was bare, except for a few lonely, unappetizing items. 

We are now at the last of our chometz, the grain products that I must dispose of before Passover sets in, which is 11 days from now. (I know, 11 days may seem like a decade for some, but since time flies, it’s around the corner.)

I eye the few bits of cannelloni that have been rattling around in my cupboard for months. And I glance at the few pieces of lasagna that did not make it into the last batch. 


 I googled ‘left over lasagna noodles’ and immediately found a recipe for lasagna muffins. I used the rest of my cardboard-like noodles for lasagna chips.

I then eye the graham crackers and the Quaker oats. What to do? I searched for a graham cracker recipe that excludes the traditional marshmallow and chocolate accompaniments  - we are ‘smores’d out after our many campfires this past winter.

And I quickly found a recipe that actually uses both my oats and crackers to create a cookie dough. What a find! Thrilled, I started to create, rolling out a most unusual dough.

Shabbat is almost here and my creations are now sitting on the dining room table.
“What’s this?” my kids ask.

“Ah choo,” my husband pipes in, blowing trombone-like into his Kleenex.

“Guess,” I reply.

Shabbat shalom from our spotless, sneezy home.

March 23, 2017


“The mountains are calling and I must go”
John Muir

Two weeks ago, we finally completed the Shvil Israel, the 1,000-kilometre-long trail that wanders from the Red Sea to the foot of Mount Hermon.

This adventure started when four friends from Ra’anana hit the Israel National Trail near Latrun in central Israel. After three years of intermittent hiking, this has blossomed into a group of now obsessive walkers - complete with a what’s app group of 250 people and the Ra'anana Hikers' web site. 

As I completed my last section of the trail, I was conflicted -  I wanted to finish the hike, yet didn't want it to ever end. I find the farther I walk, the harder it is to exit the trail. 

And this is how I felt as I trudged out of the desert below Mitzpe Ramon; I dreaded the flashing lights, the hard asphalt and the quickened pace of city life. 

With each step, I reflected on our three-year adventure. More than a walking path, our Shvil Israel experience has morphed into a meaningful journey and here’s how:

Appreciating Israel from the Shvil
Having walked the length of this exquisite country, I feel intimately connected to it. Our long drives in the car have renewed meaning when I realize that I have actually walked these huge distances!

And along the way, we met up with locals. Be it people living off-the-grid in remote desert villages, soldiers racing tanks over dunes, Arab kids playing in the streets, Druze men savouring coffee, Bedouin women herding sheep, Tel Avivians in a serious game of beach badkot or kibbutzniks driving tractors through fields.

In the middle of a desert wadi or lunching on a cliffside, we ran into other hikers – some foreigners clutching their Shvil guide books, others seniors rekindling their camaraderie on the trail.  We ran into singing school children on field trips and saw animated Masa Israel guides inspire high school kids with a love of their land. 

And as our hiking poles clicked, the geography slowly transformed. We walked through space and time, seeing caves dating back to prehistoric man, Roman aqueducts, Nabatean fortresses, and remains of towns dating to biblical times. The Tanach became alive as we walked past the place where David fought Goliath. We passed the remains of Lakish, the second largest city in Judea, destroyed by Nebuchanezzer in 586 BCE. He then set his sights on Jerusalem and we all know what happened next.

Walking. Watching. Listening. Touching history. We developed a profound appreciation for the exquisite land of Israel.

Nature on the Shvil
Each and every hike offered a unique glimpse of nature. We learned how to dodge cows, whispered to horses, and glimpsed ibexes out for an afternoon snack. We saw camels ambling freely, blending perfectly into the rocky desert. After ascending a summit, we would sit to revel in the views. Eye level with eagles, we could hear their wings beat as they soared.

We walked through blooming deserts, marveled at anenomes poking out of crags in a rock. Up north, we ran through meadows of wild flowers that surpassed us in height, crossed orchards of flowering almond trees and around gnarled 1,000-year-old olive trees. 

We explored caves and swam in the cold water of desert oases. When camping out, we gazed at stars over brimming a black velvet sky. We walked through sandstorms, braced windstorms, heat, rain and saw lightening

Shvil Nirvana
Imagine a day of complete solace. Leave your worries at home, carrying your essentials on your back, then place one foot in front of the other. Your phone may tucked in your pocket but it is there just to take photos or to help you navigate.

Turn your back away from honking cars and plunge into wilderness where poles rhythmically click along the path. This is life at its simplest.

In the past three years, our walks have accompanied our personal worries and joys. Our group often shared life’s challenges and offered advice and assistance.

On a personal level, I feel as if the trail offers calm, a sense of being centered and it strengthened me. I often walked alone, entering my own shvil meditation.

The path accompanied me when my mother was ill with cancer. And when she passed away, the trail was there to help me grieve.

Shvil  Growth
The shvil has strengthened us all physically. As we completed more sections, our leg muscles became stronger and toned. Our feet hardened, enabling us to walk farther and ascend higher heights.  Our minds learned endurance as we completed longer and more challenging paths.

We learned how to map read, navigate trails and deal with getting lost in the wilderness. We also adjusted to the fiercer elements of the shvil, enduring incredible heat without shade, pounding rain and windy days where sand pummeled our faces.

We pushed our personal limits by facing personal phobias such as fear of heights. After grappling with tenuous-looking bars carved into cliff sides, searching for footholds that simply were not there and ascending long dangling ladders, we felt like adventurers. And at the end of the day, we loved every piece of the challenge. Mid life, how many of us really push the envelope?
Shvil Friendship
What started as one hike and four people bloomed into friendships with others from different towns and countries. As a result, the dynamics on the trail are constantly changing, giving every hike its own flavor.

Laughing non-stop being like little kids after falling knee deep into mud; singing around a campfire; dining under the stars; getting hopelessly lost then finding our way while working as a team. This is shvil friendship.

Shvil Culture
After many walks, we have developed our favorite shvil snacks and energy foods. We became connoisseurs of shvil markings, those orange, blue and white stripes. We analyzed the color order, obsessed over the stripes’ direction painted on rocks and trees and huddled beside the markers, maps in hand and fingers pointing in all four directions.

We even had a mascot, my muddy Golden Retriever TJ, whose photo appears more than any other on our website. TJ walked most of the shvil,  and because of his herding instinct of running form the front to the back of the back endlessly, he probably tripled  the mileage. He even did tricky descents in a harness.

We developed a ‘Poles ceremony’ stating our intentions and gratitude at the start of a hike. Thanks to Professor Mark, we looked forward to our ‘Mark moments’ with a minute of silence in a scenic place. This enriched our being in the now and appreciating the astounding nature around us.

I loved every step of this journey and admire everyone who participated –waking up at three am to get to the start of a trail, positioning cars, then walking over 20 kilometers in a day is quite the feat.  I look forward to more hikes. My poles are itching to head out again!

February 27, 2017

If Ra'anana Were Rivendell...

 I’ve heard it said that Israel is a dangerous place. People from abroad have visions of a war-torn country, of simmering conflict, of injustice. They imagine a barrage of gunfire, thunderous tanks and shattering explosions.

Well, this is not exactly a precise description of Ra’anana. At least, not in terms of large weapons. In Ra’anana, we have another danger to contend with – and these new weapons are deadly. The assaulters are scary, negligent, belligerent and out of control. Civilians are scared to go out and the government will not protect us.
This new weapon is the electric bike. They have been sold here for the past few years and now every teen and pre-teen is driving one. Recklessly. As these kids do not have a driver’s license, they have no idea about traffic laws, yet they behave as a car and as a pedestrian, weaving across intersections onto sidewalks then back into the roads.

The typical electric bike rider travels without a helmet (or with their helmet dangling coolly on the handlebars), with a friend tucked in the front or hanging off the back. They neglect every law, whipping down one-way streets the wrong way, cutting through traffic circles, driving without any lights at night and talking on cell phones and smoking. They can get up to hefty speeds, enough to injure and kill pedestrians.  In 2015, four people died and 480 were hurt in biking accidents in Tel Aviv alone.

These bikes are in every city and town across the country and have become such a menace, the Knesset passed a bill outlawing these bikes to children under 16 years old. They also mandated that these cyclists must wear helmets and have lights at night.

We all breathed a sigh of relief when this bill was passed, hoping the scourge would be controlled. As of May 1, 2016, there would a 250 NIS fine given to those who broke the law. But when we saw young kids continuing to ride through the streets of Ra’anana, brazenly breaking the law, we asked the city what was going on.

The mayor’s office said they had no authority to stop them and that it was the police department’s problem. The police department said no, it was up to the city. So we became stuck in a dangerous, bureaucratic mess.

However, even if the police were to take this on, the task would be impossible: our city of 85,000 residents has been assigned by the state a piddling 7 police officers. They are already over worked with crime and traffic accidents.

I get so worked up about this issue, I thought I would appease my anger by attending a meeting of the Ra’anana Concerned Residents (RCR)  to understand what is being done.

I sat down in a room filled with animated people, mostly Brits and South Africans with a smattering of Israelis and Americans. The meeting started with the chairman first pointing out that they were happy to have the deputy mayor present.

“And where is the mayor?” some heckler called out.

The chairman threw up his hands then announced that although they invited the police, no police representative was here tonight.

 “Boo,” the crowd screamed. Bad police! (With seven police staff in a city of 85,000, I calculated the police were too busy to show up.)

There was a small presentation updating us on what was not being done and then they gave the microphone to the deputy mayor who proceeded to talk about posters and education and parents.

This was not the right approach, according to this crowd.

“Boo.” Bad mayor’s office. The audience was getting worked up and one elderly South African woman stood up and begged for a translation into English. Someone grabbed the mike and began to explain, but then someone else cried out, “That’s now what the deputy mayor said. That's your interpretation.”

“We don’t want to hear you talk. We want to know what the mayor’s office is saying.”

The evening deteriorated from here on. People grabbed the microphone and used the floor to complain, tell their own horror stories about encounters with bikes and propose their own solutions. These included self-policing, chaining up the bikes, closing the bike stores and insisting on driving tests and licenses for the bikes. (An amazing tax grab that any Israeli politician should relish.)

One adorably proper British woman explained how in England, the schools test children right in the schoolyard and only after they pass their bicycle test are they allowed to ride to school.

No electric bikes in Rivendell.
How sweet. And how impossible. This is not an English shire nor is it Tolkein’s Rivendell. This is the Middle East where there is no logic or law – should I let this Brit in on this?

The evening felt more like a therapy session than a constructive meeting.

There was so much frustration among the citizens, it is a shock the deputy mayor was not assaulted – and most of the people at this meeting were caring, law-abiding South African senior citizens. If they had good aim with their canes, they would have thrown them.

The meeting disintegrated and I went back to my car grumbling, more frustrated than ever.

As I pulled out onto the road in the pitch dark, I spied an electric bike coming my way. The rider had no helmet and no bike light. He was going the wrong way on the road. I let him pass, trying to calm my road rage, watching him cross a traffic circle the wrong way and cut sharply onto the sidewalk.

I shook my head and gripped the steering wheel. It is a miracle that more riders and pedestrians have not been killed or injured by these bikes.

On an administrative level, this issue is added proof that the very existence of this country is a miracle. For a first-world country, this place often feels like India on steroids.

Here is my solution to the scourge, thanks to Google and the gentle Dutch.