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. 

We are strong.

I am standing at Har Menuchot, a cemetery in Jerusalem. 

For the past week more than a thousand rockets and missiles have left Gaza and miraculous landed in unpopulated fields or have caused minor injuries and few casualties. 

To me, it doesn't make sense. I can't comprehend how Israel's air raids have been so effective and humane, not killing Palestinian civilians. I boggles my mind that in defense, Israel used its newest technology the Iron Dome to send mini tracking rockets to blow up the Hamas rockets mid air. Although each use of the Iron Dome costs upwards of $50,000, it's made all the difference protecting Israeli and Palestinian lives. In fact, the ratio of the 4 deaths over the past week speaks volumes about the miracle of this war. 

The discussion of the war has flowed into all my conversations, all my classes, all my prayers to God, and all of my actions to help my fellow sisters and brothers here in Israel. My school cried and sang together, rocking back in forth murmuring psalms and words of strength. 

The idea of Jewish strength is a bit misconceived. Because when I think of someone strong, the stereotype of a body builder clouds the true image of Jacob or King David. Rav Shvat points out to me that the ideal Jew is a healthy soul in a healthy body; a person who works hard keeping her feet on her land but her head toward the sky. It's only when we are distanced from Israel that we lose sight of our goal to gain not only spiritual muscle, but physical muscle. In Mishmar about Chanukah, Rav Teller examines the strength of the Maccabees to see past the obstacles in order to overcome them. Sometimes I feel so blind. Sometimes I feel weakened by boundaries, that my goals outweigh my might, that my day is too short and that my to do list is too long. 

Then I think. I think about where my feet are standing. I think about what other generation had this opportunity. I think about the women and men who paved the way by telling their fears to stand aside. I think about Danielle Van Dam, or Chelsea King, who never breathed as many breaths as me. 

I look down and see the graves. Yosef Partuk. 18 years old and accomplished life as the ideal Jew. I look to the right and left and cry with my friends, with Israelies, Jews, and Japanese journalists. 

This past week was a test, a wake up call, a nudge to push us closer to the ideal. To strength, together. 

There is adventure.

Looking through some TED videos, I discovered Matt Cutts. An engineer at Google, Matt decides to take upon 30 day challenges to add mindfulness to his routine. And so he goes: a photo a day for 30 days, biking to work, writing a novel... The themes deepen and expand. Inspired by this cute idea to incorporate into my days of learning, I challenged myself to go on an adventure a day for 30 days. 

Compelled to clarify my expectations of what an adventure entails for me, I chose to define adventure as choosing to explore an aspect of myself by stretching past my comfort zone. 

The striking details of the month that follows highlight the greater truth that Matt examines. By focusing on my goal of adventure each day, I distanced myself from distractions and therefore was able to make the most out of each 24 hours. 

I also find it easier to recall exact details of my days of adventure as well as my feelings intertwined with each mindful decision to accept an invitation for a day exploring Jerusalem with Danielle, running from my school in Beit Vagan to the Old City one Saturday night to feel the wind tickle my face and blast Eric Hutchinson from my headphones and to arrive at the Kotel an hour later with more love and inspiration than any previous visits. 

Timing also worked in my favor. Sukkot break welcomed me to use my days of freedom for adventure. Chana and I tackled Ein Gedi's sweatiest hike with a pep in our step by greeting Israelis and discussing our relationships to Judaism and to the individuals that inspire us. The next day, I took on the social adventure of joining a group of seminary girls of which I knew no one to go zip lining, rock climbing and crawling through damp, narrow caves... No biggie. I remind myself that the night before, social anxiety swarmed around my self assurance but a guiding force looked out for my karma because that spectacular day defied limits of what it means to get to know people and bond with close friends that I met hours before. 

My 30 days were merely a kick start, a raw appetizer to tease me into craving the rest of my year. The camping, hiking, poetry writing, rain dancing, friendship making, praying... It all just enhanced me. I love this land and love myself more now because of my internal arguments, because of my sight seeing and tense discussions, because of my steps in growing in observance, because of the expansion of my understanding of diversity, and because of the individuals that transformed my adventure. 

It all connects.

"It will feel like your bed." My brother's last minute words of wisdom and tidbits of Israel advise guide me as I wander through the airport during my Newark layover three weeks ago. "Israel is the only place besides your bed where you feel completely at home and comfortable being yourself." My recognition of Seth's aphorisms catch me ever so often. I smile and let this idea soak in. I follow the stream of skirts and black hats, Naots and guitars to my gate and find myself smiling uncontrollably. 

My joy is ridiculous and completely unashamed of this, I think of my homeland. I think of my parents' stories about their year after high school  living on a kibbutz, my siblings studies and travels, breaking in this country like a pair of shoes. 

A week later in classes, one of my teachers mentions that coming from Jewish educations, we should all be literate Jews, a tagline I hear my dad ofter claim about the growing separation between secular education and Jewish understanding. That night, the Mishmar speaker retells a  lesson from the Jews hiding in the forest during the Holocaust and I remember hearing it a few hours prior. I make eye contact with a few other students who recognize this and it hits me that there are way too many times, things just connect here. 

Maybe my bed of comfort is one of recognizing the commonalities weaved between everything here. A story from class is bound to relate to the moral of another. The skills learned in my morning classes are remembered in the afternoon. 

The shivers of excitement from the flight to Israel follow me on the light rail train to market of Machanay Yehudah to buy goods for Shabbat, on the bus to the Israel Museum to meet up with Ari and Vanessa, walking on the pier with Tal, sitting with Chelsea on the train to Sabrina's for Rosh Hashana. The Tel Aviv beach glistens in the dance of the sunset and Bat Yam reminds me of Rachel. 

In my class on philosophical issues, we overview how Rambam had the ability to view Judaism through a lense of  philosophy while Rashi in France was living through much persecution. Dejavu to the day earlier in my Shemot class mentioning this as we delve into the commentaries. The Zionism teacher shares about his parents influence on his Jewish education when he was younger and I feel like the words could be my own. Because my struggles match the girl beside me and my insecurities are shared by the Rabbi I look up to, because Sabrina's mom makes chicken with dried apricots like my mom does and because the one of my teachers reminds me of Ilana, because the new year allows me to refocus on my goals for this year and because we are singing at the Kotel at 1am, I miss home, but feel at home. 

The comfort of being here is overwhelming. My day is fulfilled by my walks through the Old City as much as the talks inside the walls of my seminary. I am enjoying the chagim as much as I am saddened to not have my classes. My bed is starting to feel like my own and I can't believe how lucky I am to be here. 

Bags are packed.

I am writing this blog with the foremost goal of keeping in touch with you. If you are reading this, you must be someone who I want to read this. You are someone who has helped make me the person I am today, and I thank you for that and your support. This blog is an outlet for my spiritual growth to expand past the confines of my expanding mind. This blog is a personal email to you, a handwritten letter delivered to your doorstep, a call home. This blog is my soapbox, my journal, my snuggles with you. This blog is a bridge between you in America and me in Israel and if you are less familiar with the complete awesomeness and complexity of the very modern and amazing country I will be spending the next 9 months in, this blog completes another goal of sharing Israel with you.