guavas and war

Guava trees are in bloom.  Everyday, we pass a very special  guava tree and it makes my face tingly. My legs stop moving and I get stuck sniffing as hard as can as if the harder I sniff the more possible it is to store the smell deep in my mind to be pulled out and resmelled later.  It is hard  to believe that there are missiles being dropped when the world can stand still at the scent of a guava. I imagine heaven probably smells like a guava tree.


Although I know everyone at home is worried, which I can very much appreciate, my life continues as usual.  I am learning how to knit. This morning I repotted my basil and we are rooting a sweet potato and an avocado seed.  I am also eating cornflakes out of the box and remembering that I need to go throw our laundry.  I feel very safe.

Still, things are different now. With a war so close you can very much feel the tension.  I refuse to take sides or to contribute to the fear-mongering...except to say that I have a vested interest in Israeli success...and in peace.  

I am a naive american who hates the thought that people are dying as a result of ignorance and fear.  I was lucky to grow up in a place where conflict and war were not part of my day-to-day life.  Thus, I don't feel that I am equipped to make statements about the politics of it all. What I do know is that peace would be better.   I also know that Israelis are  wise people.  They are well-equipped, both in spirit and in strategy, to defend thier right to exist.

A few words of caution:  Think for yourselves.  Don't believe everything you see.  Dont let the media feed your fears and don't chose sides when you don't really know.  War and hatred are only fed by attention.  Follow your heart and remember that there are bigger things going on on this planet than war.

The world was once purely complex, then came the ego of man and it became bitterly complicated.

With undying love for knitting needles the size of drumsticks, black coffee in the morning, Koko, and Gingies,

I respectfully remain,
J. Michael Hess Webber

ההרפתקה הגדולה...וגמלים.

I awoke Saturday morning to the sounds of the rain falling on the mirpesset and the wind blowing our palm tree against the window screen. I love rainy mornings when you wake up warm in bed.  I was supposed to meet Urian, my boss, at the entrance to the kibbutz at 6:30am.  He had us scheduled for a mysterious pizza mission, the details of which he refused to divulge.

It was so cold that I got dressed in twos.  I piled on two pairs of pants, two t-shirts, two sweaters, two pairs of socks, annnd a scarf and a hat (I am really not prepared for cold weather).  An interesting sidenote about pants and socks... I have been working really hard at filling in the gaps in my vocabulary.  Last week, I learned all the words for clothing: sharvulim (sleeves), tzahif (scarf), chagorah (belt).  Now, every morning is like a very stimulating Hebrew lesson.

Anyway...

I climbed into the van which is soaked through and through with the stench of pizza dough and whose apolstery is covered in a millimeter of  baking flour.   I greeted Urian with a boker tov and asked him where we were going. South, he said.  And south we went.  We drove past Be'er Sheva into the desert.  I napped (a new English word for Urian) and awoke to sunshine and the dry, clean breeze of the Negev.

There is something unreal about the desert.  It is a solitary place, but not lonely. Being there is a similar feeling to sitting on a sailboat in the middle of the sea.  Surrounded by nothing but what is...nature yet untouched. The desert offers you the space to feel and the quiet to think.

Three hours later we arrived.  It happened that we were working a bat mitzvah party at a bedouin camel ranch.  What an awesome surprise.   This 13-year-old girl traded her huge party for a family camel ride and taboon pizza lunch.  I thought she was really special. Two people told me I looked Israeli.  That tickled me.  Urian said, while laughing, that he wasn't sure it was a compliment.

We left the ranch and stopped at an oasis park.  Urian smoked a cigarette and we trekked up to a lookout. I counted exactly 219 steps up to the top.   From the hill we could see Mitzpe Ramon and stretches and stretches of rolling sand and stone.   We drove a little farther and then stopped at the home of Urian's parents.  His mama fed us dinner...fried gefilte fish balls.  Her name is Rachel, she is Iraqi.  His father, Willy, is Romanian.  While Urian shaved I asked them to tell me the story of how they met.  57 years ago on a bus in Tel Aviv, Rachel was on her way to visit her boyfriend and Willy asked her to go on a date with him instead.  They gave Urian a happy childhood.  

Next, we drove to Ra'anana to work another bar mitzvah at night.  This one was more typical but the coolest thing about it was that the family choreographed and performed a step-dance routine as a gift to Amir, the Bar Mitzvah.  They dribbled basketballs to keep the beat.  It was pretty stupendous.

As we drove home in a happy silence it started to rain again.  Everything full circle.

With undying love for betzek, zaytim, tiras, batzal, petriot, and Shachar's borscht,

I humbly remain,
J. Michael Hess Webber

Tony Zusman

the world will miss you. i will miss you. 

Rest in peace, brother.