It keeps me.

This year, my mistakes have totaled into a collage of embarrassing stories, tearful moments with Rivka, and pains of apathy. As I consider the weight of my neglect of sleep and health, the distressful disagreements with others and my own pressure that I weave into my schedule, I ponder the waves of decision making that I swam with grace. Tallying up my goals that I can check off, observing Shabbat has towered over any other success. 

Every week, I await Shabbat; the rest day that I used to prioritize in my life when it was convenient for me, now with the excitement of a love letter flying its way towards me. I plan my introduction to amazing communities throughout Israel, testing to see where I could imagine living, what family values I would like to emulate, what unique stories and personalities tap me on the shoulder. The shivers from the wacky family in Elon Moreh during that stormy weekend in December, and beautiful songs from the following Shabbat at Mizpeh Yericho rustle in the pages of my Shabbat Siddur. 

Raising up Shabbat raises up the rest of my week. Beautifying and celebrating Shabbat motivates spirituality that otherwise would slip away from me. The dvar Torah that submits my thoughts to an audience summons new parshah ideas to be investigated. A lick of time away from my school allows the questions and knowledge I have acquired sink into my endless mind. Guarding the mitzvot of Shabbat unites my very distinct Shabbatot and bridges the gaps in my active memory with deep appreciation for Torah. Inspired by location, my surroundings speak a language of effort and commitment that probe my cognitive dissidence with sparks of change. By enacting the mindfulness of the the laws I learn in Hilchot Shabbat, the 25 hours dance with growing into the future I desire. 

When I light those candles, I not only see the years next to my mom and sisters, but also my national memory of generations striking the match to kindle an elevated existence. Conscious of the prayers that have accompanied this action since I was a little trouble maker, I feel the intimacy of marking time with my creator. Invested in the moment, I smile with empowerment to continue my path for the next week. Friday night discussions taste just as delicious on my lips as the meal that sets the stage. I am stringing the Tzfat shabbaton during Amud Anan speaking with IDF soldiers training to become officers, Tel Aviv Shabbat with Olivia, Emek Refaim with Emma and her parents, the Maaleh Rachavam carivans watching the same stars that maybe were glanced at by Avraham- all these Shabbatot on the same necklace dangling from my heart. 

A diverse education of experiences signify a personal success of my year and by continuing to ensure myself  of this practice, the connection will only strengthen. By walking around Eretz Yisrael in the many shoes I have come across, I can proudly dance in my own. While the specific books I pile in every Shabbat allow resting a stretched definition, the time always rested me into a recognition of constant learning. And as I walk next to Ilana sharing Shabbat at the Kotlers, I begin to believe that Shabbat holds transformative powers. I can daven Friday afternoon mincha with a conviction bouncing around within and find myself through a car wash of eternal time and by havdalah Saturday night, the world seems different. Someone once told me that Judaism is a religion of time striving to sanctify time on holiness by separating the essence away from the mundane. To further that notion, I believe that Judaism releases time from the confinement of the mundane by sanctifying even the simple smells and sips, the casual conversations and elevates the daily tasks that we turn on their heads. I believe in Shabbat because Shabbat becomes me and I unto her. As much as I keep Shabbat, she keeps me. And when I do accidentally miss a step in our relationship, she is there still knocking at my door every next week, beckoning me toward elevated time with the King.   

Pride grows in sacrifice.

Hatikvah, the Israeli national anthem sounds different here than it does in America. But so does Kaddish with thousands of others on Yom Hazikaron. The transition from Israeli Memorial Day to the following day of Yom Haautzmaut, Israeli Independence Day is an awareness very unique to this complex county. The pride and sadness embedded into the tears of remembering our fallen soldiers and victims of terror ignite the fire of celebration hours later. 

Masa Gap Year programs holds an annual commemorative service that deeply infuses personal stories into the start of Yom Hazikaron. Tears flood with awe of soldiers that made Alyiah to protect their home, that were killed while saving civilians in terrorist attacks, who donated their lives in exchange for saving their unit from a bomb, women whose leadership and joy of life reverberated throughout the battlefront. I shiver not from the cold of changing weather in Latrun, but from my understanding of nationhood pulsing through my body. The next day at Har Herzl, we silently stand for the siren along with the entire county. The tombstones read the Jewish names and young ages of the greatest people I will never meet. Their valor and strength tightens my love of Israel as I hear stories from their families of the lives they lived. 

If one were to play word association, I would bet American Memorial Day answers would include BBQing and huge sales. But in Israel, the prayer to elevate the memory of our bravest individuals wins. And it is no coincidence that the calendar accurately gives credit to the foundation of our country right before the celebration of what their accomplishments build.

The elation of Yom Haautzmaut brings on a different set of tears. I think back to how passive I felt in Poland as a Jew, needing to hold close to my Israeli flag for comfort. Here in Israel, in the streets of Neve Aliza, the yeshuv Rabbi Berglas and Vicky established, in the circle of my school, I dance with my flag; with my heart waving in the air. Dizzy from spinning with my love for Israel, I pause and simply hold up the flag, watching it dance in the breeze. Her movement does not depend on me, I am just the lucky one honored to uplift her in her splendor. We sing praise for the miracle of independence in our generation, enumerating the involvement of our creator reaching out to us, beckoning us to seize the purposeful opportunity. My gratitude blooming in understanding of our romantic relationship with Hashem twirls around my blue and white tie dye skirt and as I breathe in my first Yom Haautzmaut in the Eretz, I smile in excitement of many more to come. 

Being part of the chain of Judaism means that my segment is stronger than previous; not from my own merits, but from the sheer gravity of earlier sacrifices. I can casually sit on the walls of Chevron- the same exact stones that scared the 10 spies, punishing my ancestors in the desert to die out a generation and wander for 40 years before taking another look at the wall with a refreshed view- not because of my own trust in Hashem helping me conquer a land, but because they struggled to trust Hashem. My fortune in existing during Jewish independence crowns me with the fascinating question of what are we free to do. I yearn to live up to the gifts I am honored to inherit and giggle with excitement for my upcoming adventure working in a village for disabled adults in the Negev. Serving my home is the only way I can imagine starting my life here, singing my gratitude and working for future links. My tombstone will echo the Israeli pride in giving for the nation and my placement in history will dance in the songs of praising the opportunity. 

It is a struggle.

Growing up in a generation hungry to listen to Holocaust survivors, to go to the Museum of Tolerance, to speak openly and to learn historically what occurred, I grew to relate to the Holocaust as a weakness. I viewed the tagline of "Never Again" as a comforting lie we tell ourselves - "of course it will happen again; it's happening right now in Darfur!" My desire to be a strong and proud Jew didn't allow me to connect entirely to the inaction of stories told to me. I was affected, but at a shallow level that washed away within the hour. Even this year in seminary, as Vicky teaches us the specifics of the ghettos and camps, the residue of her words leave nothing.

But standing in a gas chamber changes everything. Feeling suffocated by my tears as I walk out of a room that my people didn't walk out of, wearing the flag of Israel as a representation of our survival, singing Hebrew songs crying out to the god that abandoned us; the complex array of emotions are impossible to tally up. 

The anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising claims the attention of tv and radio stations today: Yom Hashoa, the Remembrance Day for the Holocaust. Standing at a street corner in Jerusalem, I witness a city stopping- no a country stopping- every person standing next to their car, every conversation paused. The one minute siren at 10am doesn't just exclaim a mindfulness of history, it unites us in a conquest over Hitler's slashed plans, a pledge of faithfulness to this system of being a Jew, and a reconfirmation of our established state that fulfills our nationhood. 

Walking through Polish neighborhoods, I consider what the elderly people were doing at the time and who originally lived in their homes.The total destruction of Treblinka leaves no evidence of the mechanized death, except for the memorials and train tracks that we walk shivering in the snow. The  nameless 800 children smashed into the Zbilatowska Gora mass grave, the millions of shoes at Madjanek, the Warsaw cemetery that displays the life accomplishments and identities that were lived; my eyesight blurs with tears and my state of balance wavers from the information swimming around me.  

The question of how the Holocaust happened doesn't faze me. The same way I shoo the pidgin that was chilling in my dorm room out from the place he doesn't belong, so did the Germans. And the Poles were plenty happy to serve the cleansing process. It's not even why god let it happen. I think our relationship with our creator allows for excess free choice. The question that keeps me up lies in the definition of our covenant with god and our role as his people. Is this just the expected pattern and we should be waiting for the next one? If god has clearly walked away from being an overprotective parent, what do my tefillot mean to him, or for that matter to me? Are we born into this system of Judaism that calls on us to perform rituals knowing that even if I die as an individual, the nation will continue? 

During Shabbat at Krakow, I meet Malka. An adorable college international relations student at the University of Krakow, Malka doesn't "look" Jewish with her blonde hair and therefore she practices her Judaism hushed. As we get to know each other more throughout the weekend, our conversations hit intense notions of the beauty found through struggling in life. Yisrael does mean "to struggle with god" anyway. Malka understands the excellence in trying to be as Jewish as possible. She personifies the only true answer to my questions: live anyways. Live for the Jews that weren't able to question, to dance, to create a Jewish family. Our promise with god didn't say it was going to easy. Our agreement with god directs our survival through scraping by in these hardships and finding meaning in the daily tasks he laid out for us.

I have not figured out the Holocaust. I have not related to every story, nor detached from my love of strong Jews. I have however discovered the connectivity to the emotions of being a Jew in a nation of Jews. I am part of Am Yisrael and for the first time truly understand the definition of being a nation. I am never going to feel fulfilled by an answer to the Holocaust, but I will always celebrate the way those Jews lived holding onto Halacha and unifying. I will honor them by living a Jewish life and by continuing the work that was stolen from them. I will always struggle, but with pride. 

Love written to my parents.

The feet surrounding me start vibrating and the smiles reflecting back at me widen as the pump up music sets us 8,000 10k runners off. My overly exhausted iPhone gripped asleep in my palms allows me the freedom from media and my thoughts of gratitude motivate my stride. The Knesset looks behind me and the many Jerusalem hills wave hello as shouts of support rain from the crowds. 

Siting in the eloquently dim restaurant with my visiting cousins, I attempt to answer the reoccurring question of what on earth my parents did to raise us Herrings to grow up into the individuals we are today. 

"A whole lot of love and in the best kind of way" finally tickles out of my lips. 

Through allowing me as a kindergardener to choose my school, as a 8 year old to define my hobbies, as a teenager to form their blueprints into my reality, and now as a 19 year old to uplift my sense of Jewish nationality; my parents have imprinted an innate confidence in asserting self choice.

The walls of the old city welcome me as I run down to the 7k marker. The spring sunshine reminiscent of San Diego godliness beats down on us and I passing by a few students from my school, I exclaim euphoria at the glory of the view. Remarks of approval of a very "Talya" thing to say dance in my hair and I connect my general appreciation to my parents. By their stubborn perseverance to infuse self worth into our upbringing, the understanding of gratitude fell into place. Attention to global history and history of self guide me to comprehend the beauty in humility. And my parents' sacrifices for us ingrain an awareness of a forward thinking mindset. 

Shabbat at the Kotlers (my newly discovered third cousins) mimic the liveliness of Herring meals. Transport the location of my knowledgeable Pops and adorably snugly Momma into Jerusalem for the past 30 years and pretty much you get the idea. 

The joy of connecting to new family reminds me of the completely ridiculous level of love I have for my parents and siblings. I thirst for the phone calls; especially the Aliyah questioning bombardment. Their incessant dissection, probing the microscopic cells of my plan demonstrate that our love is plenty mutual. My parents' love for me whispers in their understanding of why I am traveling to Poland to connect to our heritage, how my hair will never calm down, why the words of the Torah spark self discovery for myself, that my love affair with the outdoors and adventure sweeps me in, and that the dichotomy between our physical distance and heightens our emotional closeness. 

To my parents who continuously inspire me to identify my growth in tangible pursuits, I love you beyond words. I don't know how exactly you raised us. I'm not sure what discussions of values and discipline you enacted. I can't fully comprehend the intensity of your sacrifices for us. I can't even dispute the fact that you guys had a whole history before my existence, an elevated narrative of the past years, and an insight into the future that I presume must be fed to you by aliens. Therefore, I only attempt to write about love that was funneled through my eyesight. My cognition contains a footprint of your efforts and I for one, am so thankful for that. I love you for how much you make me, me and how much you allow me to continue to find me. 

Time is redeeming.

Considering that time is relative to the viewpoint of the subject, my days are starting to fall into the previously camp defined time of miraculously packed full hours that disappear in a second. I look into the amount of pages highlighted, translated, commented, questioned in my Tanach. I review the pages of notes from my 27 classes, glance at the insightful books I have checked off. My binders fill up and my pens forget their ink. The buzz of the city welcomes me on my walks to town and I ponder the amount of times I my feet have led me down this path of familiarity. The halachic observances I have strengthened happily fit my freckled body as my lips murmur inspired ideas about the unity of klal Israel. I hike Nachal Og, breathing in the history of each step and proudly exhale with a teary eye my gratitude for being created in such a century. My mediation on that cliff reflects that tefillah for focus, and look right over there- that's my art, my letters, my lists of philosophical questions, my knitting needles snuggling into my realm of religiosity. 

Time seems incongruous with rational definitions because time lies in the journey of the experience. Judaism has a tough time differentiating time. Yeah, we got down the zmanim for tefillah, the lunar calender, the candle lighting times, and the allotted matzah baking limits - but we truly fail at the functionality of moving on past certain times. The spiritual realm can't yet grapple with time and since we are physical and yet spiritual, we too suffer the consequence of expanding past the confines of time. 

A holiday rolls around. Life is transformed. An ancient ruin welcomes new guests. A land promised thousands of years ago identifies new battles. A student of a great rebbe passes down the masora with renewed curiosity. 

In history books, it's clear that as events pass us, the specific details fade and the dramatic emphasis dilutes into the ponds of memory. In contrary, the fiery dedication to end our exile and redeem ourselves pulsates through the Jewish people as if the destruction took place the day before yesterday.  

It's no wonder that the month of Adar actually exits as an incredibly joyful month. Time might have been divinely created, but our leader left its constraints up to us. We hold the ability of actualizing the past in our present lives and simultaneously live the dream for the future. We are handed gifts and opportunities with the hope that we actualize our potential. By silencing time as a restraint, we liberate our journey into a mindful state and thus traditions are held to a promise and our cry for redemption becomes a personal revival. By living with emphasis on the moments, the ideals of the whole nation, and the seriousness of impacting our surroundings, we are able to define time. 

There will be reminiscing.

Today is Election Day here in this holy land. Israelis take off from work and select the parliamentary party that best reflects their complaints and angry yells of which issue to focus on. As I start to understand Israeli politics and the hilariously complex system, talks about how far the county has come dances into the conversation. The underlining question in past elections was always survival and peace with our neighbors. Now, as Israel's population expands and modern lifestyles take hold, the government transitions to dealing with securing a middle class, equalizing social benefits, and fulfilling the diverse religious needs of the 6 million Jews here. It's truly the distinction between the past and present that acts as a meter stick gauging Israel's growing maturity and attempts at learning from mistakes. Accepting one's identity and watching the mold take shape is no passive action. 

My sister Rachel just spent the last two weeks with me. As she shared about her two years living in this country, showing me around where she lived, where she studied, where she drank coffee, where there is the best bathrooms, where she liked to have picnics, where she remembered that hilarious story and where there is the best shakshuka, I tried to reason the nostalgia. Although I do enjoy a good reminiscing sesh every once in a while, I couldn't fathom why past tense words were Velcro-ed to all sentences. 

As I review my class notes and organize my binders for second semester, I smile at the pages of learning I have absorbed. I joke around with my roommates about my mistaken use of laundry softener as a detergent and that time I missed my bus stop in the beginning of the year. We breathe in the comfort of familiarity and glance over our shoulder at the person we once were. If one month gave us a bond, look at us now at 5. 

The old stone that encompasses the architecture of Jerusalem whispers history and praises the past. The new construction screams into the future, relating the broadcast of a growing country. The young children with more skills of independence than their age summons stand up on the bus for the elderly woman to sit. My rabbi and his son bounce ideas off of each other about the parshah to review their base of knowledge as well as to gain a new understanding of the questions they hadn't considered until then. 

Reminiscing isn't my go to game. But on a long walk, I start to throw the ball around in my mind. Where was I last New Year's Eve? I mean where was I; mentally, emotionally, religiously, intellectually and spiritually. I think about my high school accomplishments. In the moment, each club, each tournament, each swim meet seemed well in the moment. And now I struggle to define the details, to highlight the intensity of my feelings and my drive to always learn and improve. It already seems so long ago. Just this past summer feels unnaturally distant; welcoming me to reminisce about my campers and fellow staff members. It seems that as I make greater strides towards the future, fond memories of the past take a presence in my mind. It's my sister's stories of Israel and the understanding that not only are we who we are because of our past, but we are also who we are because reviewing the past and learning from the self inspiring growth or lack of change beckons us to refine our goals and answer or questions of purpose. Israel's political future stands at an open gate. But the gate is connected to a structure, a beautiful 64 year old foundation. My next Shabbat, my next 5 months, and my next year find their way to the door of my childhood, the walls of Chabad, the entrance to Mt. Carmel, and now to my interviews for Israeli National Service. 

There are disagreements.

A few days ago, I called my 92 year old grandpa for his birthday. Contained within this phone conversation, was the disbelief that my body stands in Eretz Yisroel, on the other side of the world, when my voice sounded like I was in the next room. Grandpa's pride rang through explaining to me that I am part of history. I will be sharing with my "children and grandchildren what Israel was like during this time; look through history books on Israel and share personal stories..." 

Yesterday, along with my David Project class, I ventured into two viewpoints on the very clear cut, factually driven conflict of the Middle East.... Jokes.

Step one: tour Har Hazaitim/Mount of Olivies and learn about Jerusalem history from an Israeli settler strengthening the Jewish land by backing up a presence. Step two: listen to a Palestinian man living in Ir David/Silwan explain the hardships of living amongst the settlers. 

I think it would be impossible to find someone in Israel who doesn't have an opinion on the truth (or a loud mouth seminary girl who doesn't have a problem yelling her opinion). This is because when looking at a slice of land with two distinctly different prescription strengths, the image becomes blurry. I listen to the two voices of defining the boundaries of Jerusalem, trying to silence my own biases, my desire for equal human rights, my previous knowledge of Israeli history. It's impossible. I come out exhausted and confused. Not confused on the details of the arguments, but the crazy distance between the two. Modern day Jerusalem following western philosophy and democracy can't relate to the small village ideology. Individual events of violence and hatred speak louder than the majority. Staged media events and out of proportion claims water down the pool of knowledge. Listening in order to rebut overtakes listening to understand and activism is seen as a threat. 

The process of dialogue doesn't happen overnight or within a view hours. The magic isn't found in the propaganda and anger, it's found in compassion and representing your voice. Seeing Yishai's home and hearing Achmud's stories, walking around a Jewish cemetery listening to the call to prayer from the minarets, and walking into another world just steps from the Old City; I feel the tension and the lack of context, but also the unifying characteristics of humanity and desiring peace.