two weeks ago i went to israel. it wasn't religious, or even particularly spiritual. i went for the occasion of my grandmother's 80th birthday. she, never having been known to be sentimental, uncharacteristically surprised myself and other family members by flying both my father and i to israel so that we might be near her on the occasion of this momentous day. being both unwell and clouded by painkillers and blood-pressure medications, my grandmother, who happens to be my only living grandparent, vacillates in mood as much as she does her location. having moved from cleveland to columbus to san diego to israel in the last decade, i think she is finally at peace with her final destination in the land she was born in and conceived my father. coincidentally, my sister lives there now too, mostly for work, but also to scratch a cultural itch i think she was carrying around for a long time.
so there we were in tel aviv, eating hot falafel and creamy plates of hummus. there were no walls to pray at and no holy mountains to climb, but there were decadent breakfasts with endless spreads and bowls of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, spiked with parsley and lemon and very good olive oil.
it was a relief really, to be in such a sacred place without having to think too much of it. in some ways, i was just somewhere, but with family. lots of family, most of whom i had never met before. this trip taught me a little bit about myself and a lot about my father. for one thing, i finally understood that he is israeli. to see him, through my adult eyes, speaking flawless hebrew and grasping hands with childhood cousins, barely recognizable now with their white beards and swollen bellies. they compliment my father, still dark-haired and svelte. a youthful glimmer is exchanged in their eyes, my fathers' shining with tears of memories, thinking of days when they slept by the sea.
i stand by and watch, not understanding their hurried words that are exchanged, but still, seeing how much joy there is. and how much pain there is too.
i am watching my father at his father's grave. what did he feel like, that day he learned his father had died at the age of 45?
i watch him remembering. complicated feelings are on display in his facial expressions.
the twists and turns on his mouth, the way his hand moves to his chin, pondering what it would have been like to have a father who had lived to see both his granddaughters be born and then grow up into women.
i stand next to him and feel him pull me in, sharing the weight of his sadness. i gave my weight back to him, reminding him of the joy of creation.
we go to my grandmother and push her in her wheelchair away from the cemetery. three generations feeling the weight of history while silently enjoying the cool israeli air in the afternoon light.
