Burnt Quinoa and A Stamp

It is Elul, a month of introspection and change. We search inside and see where improvements can be made. So I decided to dig deep and change myself from the inside out.

Literally.  

I went on a cleanse, in hopes that a shiny, updated inner me would develop into a more organized, energized, lucid, calm and focused outer me. I first tossed out everything with gluten, then all the sugar. Out went all dairy products and everything that came in a package. My fridge looked like it did the day the delivery man wheeled it in on a dolly.

"Hmm," my mother said to me over the phone. "What is there left to eat?" Well, I must admit, my shelves were bare. My kids went into shock and mournfully opened and closed the pantry doors, hoping a bag of potato chips or a Snickers bar would plop into their pleading hands.

I replenished the shelves with adzuki beans, lentils, amaranth and quinoa. I hoarded sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, pecans and almonds. I baited my sweet tooth with dates and apricots and figs. To my surprise, I was not hungry at all. But I had not really transformed.

Take, for instance, an incident at the post office.  I sent my daughter out to buy a 20 agurot stamp. I had just purchased a similar stamp and I needed another one. Simple, no?  So she goes to the post office, waits in line and is snarkily told that there is no such thing as a twenty agurot stamp and that she should come back when she knows what she is talking about. 

I was cooking for Shabbat, calmly stirring a pot of quinoa, when she came home. She told me what happened and I went beserk. I was incensed that someone would talk to my daughter like this, especially when my daughter was in the right.

Still holding my spoon, I grabbed my car keys and stomped out, wondering how I would give this woman a piece of my mind with a limited Hebrew vocabulary and no grammatical structure whatsoever. A wise person once said that it is best to get mad in your own language, so I could always resort to English. Luckily I remembered to bring ‘Exhibit A,’ the envelope with the famed twenty agurot stamp.

My daughter jumped in the car, pleading with me not to go into the post office. (I am an embarrassment to my children and they constantly beg me not to open my mouth.) "No," I said, waving my wooden spoon and spraying the car with half-cooked quinoa. "This is injustice."

She convinced me to let her go back in there while I waited in the car.  And out she came. Empty handed. 

Turns out another clerk had screamed at her, telling her she did not know what she was talking about-- and she had forgotten to brandish Exhibit A.  I was about to abandon my car and rush into the post office with Exhibit A, but they had just locked the doors tight. It was 12:30 pm and everyone had to rush home to get ready for Shabbat.  Shabbat? My quinoa!I had left it cooking on the stove.

I came home stampless, my daughter hapless and my meal quinoa less. At least I had amaranth in the pantry.

I know I have some work to do. Lots of work. Think I’ll take up meditation next.

I Want to Deposit a Cheque

I want to deposit a cheque. Simple, no? I can usually do this at a “kaspomat’ machine outside the bank. It takes about 30 seconds. Today the machine decides it cannot read my cheque. Hmm. I feel privileged that the bank is actually open. Israeli banks keep such bizarre hours; they are never open to the public for a full day, preferring to work half days with two two-hour afternoon shifts thrown in for good merit.

I walk into the bank and am greeted by cool air. I look around and something is different. People are lounging in chairs outside the tellers. They look like they are in the cinema waiting for the movie to begin. They are all looking at a screen that is flashing numbers. Where’s the popcorn?

A recorded voice then says “A407, wicket 2. C208, wicket 4. In perfect sych, everyone scrutinizes the paper in their hands, their eyes then reaffixing to the screen above. There are news items flashing from HaAretz newspaper, but the Hebrew is so complicated and the speed so fast, I catch only the first word of each headline.

Oh, numbers in the bank. What an efficient idea! I am thrilled at the progress this country is making and go to the machine. It asks for my bank card and then gives me two options to press. They are both in Hebrew. One says Premium. I can understand that but have no idea whether I am Premium. My card does not say Premium and no one has told me I am Premium. The second option I cannot distinguish. I see three Hebrew letters that make no sense to me. מת"ח . I sound them out and can’t even figure out how to pronounce this word. I ask my son who graduated high school in Hebrew what this is. “I dunno know,” he shrugs and returns to the news items scrolling across the screen.

Why does the bank machine outside give me options in English while this main button on this newfangled machine in this attempt to improve banking does not? I feel as if I am at the slots in Vegas and cautiously press Premium. Out slides a number. I then reinsert my card and press the second option. I must cover all my bases. I actually feel clever about my shrewdness.

The voice chimes new numbers. D428 wicket 14. M 604 wicket 12. What? Other letters? Other wickets? I sprint around the bank clutching my numbers and see that each desk has a board flashing with numbers and letters, however I cannot figure which letter belongs with which desk. None of the numbers or letters flashing on their boards have a vague semblance to those on my piece of paper. I go to the back of the bank and see another large line and another teller. More letters, more numbers.

Ten precious minutes pass. I run upstairs to a teller I know and ask her, hoping she will take my poor flimsy cheque and deposit it. She tells me that מת"ח means foreign currency. My logic is turned inside out. Suppose one were to have a foreign currency account; would that not mean that the word  מת"ח should, perhaps, be also be posted in a foreign language? My helpful teller then tells me that I am “Premium” and that I must wait in the line at back of the bank-on the other side of the movie seats.

I join a line. It is not really a line. Some people are sitting. Some are standing. Some are circling the way an aircraft does before it lands. Other hover like an eagle ready to catch its prey. I see letters and numbers flashing on a screen above this teller while everyone clutches at their number. Someone goes to the wicket and I hear her complain. The teller shrugs and says מה לעסות . (Translation: What can I do? There’s nothing to do. I am helpless. I don’t care, so be quiet) I hate this expression and know something is up.

I wait fifteen minutes. I hear some people grumbling and realize that the new system is not working. My logic recoils in pain. If the newfangled system that is supposed to save us time and aggravation is not working, then why are numbers still spewing out, giving people hope? Why is the recorded voice offering us a false sense of order? Why don’t they put a sign on the machine and then smother that voice? Why are there so many numbers and letters in the first place? I then realize I must hold my place in this line or I will never see the light of day.

I wait thirty minutes. The line gets longer. There is only one teller to look after us all. There are many circlers checking out their line butting possbilities. I spy a hoverer who skips a turn in line and walks right up to the teller. My stomach twists. I see an old man who is sitting down trying to get up. He will butt. I just know it. My turn is coming up next and I hate to be rude to my elders, but he came after me. I start to hover and as soon as the woman in front of me walks away, I am there. Ta da!

A woman interrupts me. “I am next,’ she says, indignant, pointing to herself in front of the watching crowd. “Show me your number,” she demands, the accuser in front of a jury. I guiltily unravel my old, sweaty, crumpled piece of paper and she scrutinizes. I am one number before her. She releases me. 

It is my turn. Officially. The bank transaction takes 30 seconds. The entire endeavour has taken an hour.I am frazzled. And mad. And frustrated. I do not enjoy fighting for a place in line or being challenged by rude people. I am belittled for being confused by Hebrew after having lived here for seven years. I feel intimidated. And depressed. I just want logic and order and kindness and calmness.

 I am tired. And my day has just begun.

Riding In The Moment

“It makes my prayers clearer.”

These were the words of Thomas, the trekker who is still walking the Pacific Crest Trail, hiking from Mexico to Canada. (See entry "Where Prayer Is Clear.") These words describe his passion for walking long distances. Alone, his belongings are in one neat backpack: his kitchen, a light-weight pot atop a tiny kerosene burner; his bed, a sleeping bag; and his home, the forests and peaks of some of the most beautiful mountains in the world.

These same words resonate within me. I understand the peace in the simplicity of his life. And I acknowledge the deep spirituality engendered in connecting with nature. Each step offers an opportunity to breathe in clean, fresh air and to be amazed by the intricacy and grandeur of the surroundings.

I hummed these same words as I cycled along a single track trail in northern Israel. Twigs crunched below my tires as the path hugged the mountainside. A deep valley fell below, rising up to the village of Dalton, its fields a patchwork of green amidst the golden grass of a hot, parched summer.  

I pedaled on into a thick pine forest. These trees were once saplings carefully planted by the Keren Kayemet l’Israel; now they tower above, offering me exquisite shade and a cool respite from the blazing sun. 

Suddenly the view opened out onto the lush Hula Valley. Once a swamp teeming mosquitoes and malaria, it is now a green swathe, its pools of water glinting in the sunshine. The white storks that passed above me last night at sunset must now be resting in these cool waters.  

Looking up, I saw Mount Hermon, Israel’s tallest mountain standing at 9,232 feet (2,814 meters). A dwarf compared to other mountains in this world, here in Israel, Hermon dominates the Golan, flourishing snowy slopes from January until May. Today, in the intense heart, Hermon is cloaked by a hot haze.

At the end of the trail, I came to a paved road and start to bike back. Up. And up. And up again. The sun beat down on me. Sweat poured over my brow and into my eyes, stinging my cheeks. I breathed deeply and my heart raced. As I slowly pedaled, my bike creaked as if it were groaning, and I thought of Thomas’ words. I entered into this moment.

Reaching a section of the road with open fields on each side, I felt a breeze. At first it tingled my arms as if awakening me. And then it strengthened, swaying tree boughs and hushing tall, dried grasses.

I suddenly felt Hashem’s presence in  a profound way. And I knew this moment would  be lost to me if I had not been alone; it would have passed unnoticed if I had not been in simplicity and silence--and in nature.  

I pedaled on, fuelled by a profound feeling of gratitude and by a new-found energy.

I pedaled  up in the heat of the day, a wide smile on my face.

As If He Saved An Entire World

Having just written about Israelis on the trail, I feel I have to include this incredible tale of valor and kindness.

On May 19, an Israeli was approaching the summit of Mount Everest. So close to scaling the world's tallest mountain, he was just 250 metres from the peak. 

He climbed along the icy ridge near the summit battling bitter -40 degree celsius temperatures and howling 200-kilometre winds. Yet he moved quickly, the peak finally within his sight. Not only would he realize a dream, but at 24, he was soon become the youngest Israeli on record to scale the heights of the world’s tallest mountain, standing at 8,848 metres high.

Peering through blasting snow, he saw a bundle on the trail clipped to a climbing rope. Stiff and covered in ice, he soon realized it was a body. He checked for vital signs. Nothing. As he trudged up, he saw another body. He then came across a third person sprawled across the icy ridge: frozen, pummeled by icy winds, gloveless fingers blackened by frostbite.

The climber looked closer and recognized this man from base camp. Upon examining him, he realized his friend had no oxygen. He was semi-conscious but still alive.

Other exhausted climbers trudged by in silence, walking blindly around the bodies as if they were mere clumps of snow. Reaching the summit was their singular desire burning in an icy world.

But this young climber had another desire and he acted quickly. He hoisted the semi-conscious man over his shoulders, navigating the treacherous descent with the extra weight. In order to hold him securely, he threw off his own gloves, exposing his fingers to the biting cold. He trudged like this for eight hours. He too had no oxygen and felt light-headed, faint. He wanted to fall, let go, sink into the snow, yet he continued on until he reached Camp IV. 

Upon arriving, he and his companion were airlifted to hospital. They both lived.

Our young hero is Nadav Ben-Yehuda, a young Israeli who finished the army just two years ago and who dreamed of climbing Everest. He had trained for two years to prepare for this moment. But for Nadav, when faced with this situation, there was no dilemma, no question at all: he had to save Aydin Irmak’s life.

Unlike Nadav, Aydin had made it to the top. Near the summit, Aydin patiently waited for the raging winds to cease, then stood alone on the top of the world, five minutes of victory. However, while climbing back down, his oxygen ran out and he fell in a stupor into the snow. The next thing he remembered was hearing Nadav’s voice, gently probing. “Aydin, Aydin, are you there?” 

Aydin wanted to give his Everest certificate to Nadav but the authorities would not permit him.

The two will remain lifelong friends. One is Israeli and the other is Turkish. And although relations between Israel and Turkey are cold, this Everest adventure is heart-warming.

It says in Mishnah Sanhedrin, "Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world."  For Nadav Ben-Yehuda, this knowledge was so ingrained in his soul, he did not think twice. And he rushed to save a world.

Where Prayer Is Clear

“Where are you from?”

Relieved to take a break from hiking up switchbacks, I shifted the heavy pack on my back, then answered, “Israel.”

Silence.  I looked into his eyes and saw tears.

He had been hiking the Sierra Nevada for six weeks. He started the Pacific Crest Trail in Mexico and would finish in Canada 2,700 miles later. He was alone. And this was his third time walking the entire trail. He said he had been looking for a sign to strengthen his resolve and when he heard the word ‘Israel,’ he found it.

My eyes filled with tears.

My husband and I had also been on the road for six weeks. We covered close to 5,000 road miles visiting red rock gorges, vast canyons, rushing rivers and glistening falls. We were in Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Nevada and California. We traveled in an RV, by car and now, by foot. We had seen sea otters wrapped in cozy kelp blankets and sea lions wrestling in sandy coves. And we had just watched a deer crunching ferns for breakfast. I missed Israel, but I was so caught up by superlatives, I did not give it much thought.  Widest, longest, highest, hottest, deepest: I was overwhelmed by nature’s beauty, dwarfed by her vast canvas and awed by her untouched peaks.

And now, one lone man on one silent trail brought me home.

We walked together and he shared stories of Israel and of Israelis he had met on the trail and I was reminded that I come from a special place. He told us that Israelis are not ‘casual.’ I was puzzled as I hardly ever see people in suits and ties in Israeli offices. He explained. When he meets an American on the trail, he is greeted with the words “How are you?” And the person smiles and walks on. When he meets Israelis, they ask him how he is and how much water he is carrying and if he knows where the next water source was and if his water bottle is secure.  They will walk by only when they know for sure that he is fine.  

I understood.

He told us that aside from Americans, the nationality he meets most on the trail is Israelis. I was astounded. Such a small nation, yet so adventurous. He told us a story of two young Israeli girls who helped rescue a group of lost boy scouts. It was dark and they were escorting the terrified boy along the trail. He looked up and saw a group of flashlights bobbing through the trees. And then he heard Hebrew song. These young girls lifted these boys’ hearts with their song and walked them to safety.

I knew it was time to go home and to walk my land. Our land. To put on my boots and hike the Golan with its deep valleys and cascading falls and cool rivers.

Before we parted, we asked him why he hikes. He answered that hiking makes his prayer clear. We had climbed so high, we were at the tree line, a place where snow still nestled in shady mountain crags.

We looked across an alpine lake, its dark blue waters shuddering in the wind and he gave a prayer of thankfulness. I too am grateful for all of these experiences.

I fly back to Israel tomorrow, to a place where my prayer is clear.