Monday, March 19, 2018



I believe I am a kind person, but reading books on kindness, like "The Power of Kindness" by Piero Ferrucci, expands my scope of kindness. It broadens my realization of just how significant it is to make kindness be a way of life. To be patient, empathetic and attentive, toward myself and toward others. To give people space and safety. To appreciate people - and to remind them of my appreciation of them. To be generous with my thoughts, ideas and skills. To share them. To be genuine and sincere. This involves having faith that my true inner self can safely be shown in the world. It's having faith in humanity. It's being vulnerable, and thus allowing and accepting the vulnerabilities of others, and that of the world itself. It is realizing that life becomes richer when you focus on those you love and on what you love, with a full heart. Not running around, but focusing. Focusing on what is now. Focusing on unity and connection. Being kind means greeting a grumpy person with a smile, or replying with patience to an annoying customer. It means feeling that the world is literally becoming a better place with each good intention and positive reinforcement, or even with each speck of beauty that the world unfolds in front of us. It is appreciating the little things, and being grateful. It means not pretending to know more than we do, and always striving to learn more. It means that working toward spreading tolerance and compassion overrides proving to be "right" (and perhaps finding that there is no definite "right"), and it means always leaving room for reconciliation. Kindness means saying Good Morning and Good Night, and not forgetting an old friend's birthday.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Nonviolent Anarchy

Emma Goldman on Wikipedia
Anarcho-Pacifism on Wikipedia (nonviolent anarchy)

Just putting it out there, so that you can learn together with me about some radical political movements and ideas. I looked up the latter after reading about the former and wondering if there's a nonviolent form of anarchy - which I personally am more attracted to. I'm wondering if I've always believed in some sort of anarchy without knowing it.

Noam Chomsky on Wikipedia


I feel like there's a lot I'd write if I knew how to write.

Well, I'm improving on the guitar, and playing and singing brings me a lot of joy. I'm thankful for the ability to do those two things. I'm taking guitar lessons with the talented cantor of the synagogue. We're doing it with a barter system, where I babysit her children sometimes and she teaches me guitar other times.

Just another of the blessings of Bellingham.

Oh, and Springtime is finally starting!

Tuesday, March 06, 2018

Waldorf Education - Every parent should consider this

(Copied from a facebook post I wrote:)

" provide an education that enables children to become free human beings, and to help children to incarnate their 'unfolding spiritual identity', carried from the preceding spiritual existence, as beings of body, soul, and spirit in this lifetime." (From the Wikipedia page, about the holistic philosophy of Waldorf.)
I would like to share my impressions from my visit in all the classrooms at a Waldorf school this past week.
(In Israel Waldorf education is called Anthroposophic אנתרופוסופי, but it is essentially the same.)
In each classroom that I entered, I saw teachers talking quietly to attentive children. The classrooms are spacious, lit, and furnished with natural wood materials. The lower grades have high ceilings, large windows, pastel-colored window curtains, and handkerchiefs hanging over wooden structures against one of the walls which is their free-play area. In one fairy-land (that's how it made me feel) that I entered, the children were in a circle, chanting or playing a game led by the teacher, who sat with them in the circle and led the game in a soft voice. Another of the younger grades was sitting around a table, eating soup and bread they had baked the day before. The teacher was sitting at the head of the table, holding a fairy doll, telling a story or chanting a prayer before the food, again - is such a patient and lulling voice. No urgency. No anger. One child was not at the table, he was in the kitchen area, not wanting to participate. The teachers did not scold him (as would most likely happen in a regular school).
In another room, young children were in transition - from outdoors to indoors - getting their indoor clothing on again, comfy clothes. Transitions are a part of the routine. There is a lot of patience for transition. There is no need to hurry.
Another class was in the movement room, having their Eurythmy movement lesson, while their movements corresponded with a story the dancer-teacher was telling.
In the older grades the students were sitting behind pretty light-wooden desks, with each child's name written by her/him on the front of the desk. On the walls of the classrooms (instead of the regular brightly-colored posters in regular schools) was artwork by the students and teachers made out of natural materials. When I entered one of the classrooms, one of the students was in the middle of telling about some beautiful nature she saw on a family trip in Utah.
I don't know if I am able to really capture the gist of it in these words. My impression was that I had entered a safe and gentle space where children can be creative and can learn from teachers who sing songs and tell stories, from teachers who listen as well as talk, who don't try to squeeze a thousand words a minute in order to transfer as much information to kids as possible. (From teachers who are actually fairies perhaps?)
Every child knows the routine and structure.
Free playtime and imagination are sacred.
Kindness and gentleness are the way.
To read more about Waldorf education:
*On another occasion I was at that same school for a weekly assembly, each week led by a different grade, for the whole school and for parents (and friends, like me).
The way that assemblies work in this school is that every adult and student who enters the hall takes a chair for herself from the stacked chairs outside, and when the assembly is over everyone returns her chair to the stack. I thought this was genius. So simple and so sensical. Instead of having a third party come and set up chairs ahead of time, you have every person take responsibility for herself.

Thursday, March 01, 2018

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Time, 2

How do different people perceive time?

Do some people fill their time with as much action as possible
So as not to waste one moment?
While others do nothing - 
so as not to waste one moment?

Do some ponder how to be in a constant state of presence
While others are in a constant state of future - 
And is there a difference between those two?
(And do some people not ponder one or the other - and if so, what do they ponder?)

Future is just a lengthened presence, after all. There is no future, essentially.
(That seems so sad to me, but becomes more and more apparent to me as I grow up.)

I personally catch myself choreographing and narrating most moments of my bodily configuration in the world, as they happen.

But moments of happiness, for me, are those moments in which I simply AM without too strict or tense of a choreography and narration - a moment of "AHA, THIS IS A MOMENT OF HAPPINESS."

It happens often - Oh, thank Goddess for that! I am so grateful for that!
And those moments of joy, or contentment, or pure presence, give me hope that not all of TIME will be noticed by me. That sometimes I will let it go without feeling the need to wonder about it.

I don't like wondering about it. Better to not know that soon everyone will die and that there's nothing to make our lives "larger" than what they are.

There is a lot of beauty in the world. If you take a moment to notice it.

And how do you perceive time?
What do you want to accomplish in life - and are you already doing it?
How often do you have moments that bring you sheer joy, and do you believe it is possible to increase the moments of joy?

Thursday, February 22, 2018


I kind of figured out that I need a lot of home-time throughout the week, a lot of time in my safe places, to resonate with my thoughts, to write, to read, to drink coffee, to stretch out (physically and emotionally), and that therefore I really do not soundly take upon myself full-time jobs. I work at part-time jobs because it allows me the freedom to get the home-time I need, hence to be free of anxiety involved in spending too many hours out of the house which has been a part of my life in the past. I am currently looking for more jobs just because I really do not have enough money to fly and visit my grandfathers in other states or let-alone to visit my family and friends overseas, but I am a little anxious about this endeavor, and hoping I can commit to only one month, just until I have enough money for those flights I need.

Only lately I've become exposed to the phenomenon of many people - artists and others - who work part-time for reasons similar to mine. I have never met anyone in the past who has posed this idea as a way they conduct their work schedule on purpose, and so I kind of felt at odd with working part-time when everyone around me knows that a full-time job is the "right" way to go.

But now I realize other people work part-time as well - especially here in Bellingham, where living is affordable compared to other places. Not because they have children they need to tend to, but because they want time for themselves. 


But this does raise another question to me: If I am spending quality time at home for my thoughts and art, why am I wasting so much time on facebook? Why am I not creating much art? What is still stopping me from going all-out and coloring my life with more creation? This is a good question, and I tend on pondering it for the next while, and on working on implementing more of the ideas in my head...

And the question above that, encompassing that one, is: What is the best way to live out my life, with the frightening realization that I am stuck in my body, with the scariness of realizing that life is just one?

Sunday, February 18, 2018


I love my dog. 
When I put my head right up to hers
there is no distance between my heart and her sweetness
and I find serenity in the closeness to her.
I listen to her heartbeat 
and watch her breathe, And pet her fur, 
as each strand of fur comes out so miraculously from her skin 
and covers and warms her body. Her body goes loose with trust 
when she is sleeping, and her four sweet paws lay calmly 
on the blanket, with those little soft cushions at the bottoms of them. 
And her little black nosey
And her floppy ears
And those little dreadlocks of fur between her eyes
Going in every-which direction
But she doesn't care.
I love her so much. It is possibly the most unconditional 
and compassionate love that I have for any living being. 
I don't want anything bad to ever happen to her.
I want her to always feel safe and content.

Thursday, February 15, 2018


Some thoughts

War / sexual assault / conquer / power / patriarchy / masculine governance and rule

Sarah Sanders was asked about Trump's idea of having a military parade in a press briefing at the White House this past week, and she replied that Trump is exploring ways to show pride, support and honor for the military, "the people who have served and sacrificed, to allow us the freedoms we have."

I wonder. Is this age-old notion true? Are wars and fallen soldiers in fact the sole impelors of the freedoms we have, as conservatives believe? Or have there been/can there be more sustainable and humane ways in play to cultivate peace between nations and to grant freedoms to people? Why do we continue to praise war, and to conduct war (and then praise the fallen soldiers who have died in the name of the holy war we sent them off to)? Or - a better question is - why are we still ruled by patriarchal power-thirsty people? Why are we still ruled by men? When will the feminine side have a say in national and international affairs? When will we overcome the poisonous patriarchy that still runs our countries?

Wednesday, February 07, 2018


I'm learning so much and it's joyfully overwhelming.
I haven't got a single way to write about all of it.
That's why I need to spend more time with my new friend C'elle, practicing writing, in that spot in the forest.
That's why I need to just start somewhere, right here, with the simple things:
I'm sitting in front of the computer screen, Tal is talking to his brother on the phone, Nemo is asleep on her favorite armchair, my knee is humming as it jumps up and down tensely because of the words flowing between my brain and the tips of my toes trying to find a way out.
I'm learning so much -- I'd love to share it all.

I drink coffee in the morning and joy fills me.
I walk along the streets of Bellingham and joy fills me.

Moments of inspiration are amorphic, untouchable,
So delicate, so encompassing,
So full and so joyful,
And their vastness makes them almost illusive
Makes them unholdable

Except for the little end-tails
The exclamation marks at the end
The aftertaste of a sweet dream.

I feel the touchable things around me
And that's all I can possibly write about:

The coffee, the streets, the outline of an experience larger than the sum of its components,
full of exploration, illumination, realization, love.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Tiny Houses

I love Tiny Houses. I want to design the Tiny House we'll live in one day. I don't know if you know this but I have an interest in architecture and interior design. In my high school days I used to sit in class and sketch out blueprints of houses. I stopped at some point and hadn't designed any more houses for years, but recently, when I was on the plane back home to Seattle from my visit in Israel, an idea for a home popped into my head and I sketched it out on paper, the same way I used to do over a decade earlier.

We already got to live in a minivan for a few months, and now we're in a sweet studio apartment, and someday I want a Tiny House on wheels.

Anyway, here are a few photos of Tiny House inspirations:

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

The posts that I write reflect specific emotions I felt at the specific time of writing the post. Often I later reread posts and don't relate to the feelings, the wording, or the significance of the posts in general. In all the years of writing on my blog, I have essentially believed that by writing down different parts of me, eventually I'd get a whole picture. That never seems to formulate, though, since there is always more to tell, there are always many more emotions, speculations and understandings that I did not write down. Sometimes it seems that the better part of me is still in my head, even after spilling hundreds of thousands of words out in this virtual intimate diary. I wonder if the beauty, wonder, self-admiration and attempts of self-discovery and self-redemption ever pervade. I wonder if I am and always will be my number-one fan, and you know what, I guess that's fine.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Beautiful Things

I had an incredible birthday, abundant with the lovingkindness of the people I've met here in Bellingham. Without knowing what to do with all the gratitude, I made a little video with snippets of beautiful things I've videoed in the past two years, including me making my first steps on guitar about a year ago:

Cards and gifts from the sweet kindergartners I teach

Sunday, January 14, 2018

This January has been amazing

I'm so excited
Not really from anything specific
I guess just from all the specifics together.

We live in this amazing amazing city
I don't know how to define it well enough
But I'm just writing this so that later I'll remember
How wonderful Bellingham is for us.

And also happiness is so fragile
So I'm scared to pop it with these humongous words,
But I felt like I shouldn't forsake or underestimate
it, either. 
So here it is.
The greatness of happiness.

Saturday, January 06, 2018

Here and There

"The thing about dreams is that when I look at the dream - when I aspire to be somewhere - I am an observer. But then when I get there, it's me there. I just walked -- from here to there," and I get up from the wooden chair behind the small round table and walk to the side of the room. "I'm still here. It's still me."
I sit back down. I jot down the idea on the napkin in front of me. The napkin also has musical notes and my friend's name, and two spectrums, to try to understand if "connection" (closeness, intimacy, feeling good with someone) and "dependence" (the inability to see yourself without someone, the need of the person in order to feel good) are two separate issues or if one is the extreme of the other, in relationships.
The warm tea arrives.
Halitatea, it's called. The name of the tea house.
In the center of Jerusalem.

"I say 'wow, that life looks amazing'. But when I get there, it's literally me there. I really cannot escape myself. And in that sense, there is no 'over there'. There is no dream - once I enter it, it is life, it is me, still struggling, still functioning from behind two eyes. Jealousy of other people's lives or of dream-lives (or even just the desire to be somewhere else) derives from the notion that this will not always be the case. That I will in fact be able to go 'over there' without bringing myself with me."

I'm feeling so much gratitude.

Friday, January 05, 2018

A meditation


I sit comfortably

I relax my muscles,

Starting from the tip of my head

Until the tip of my toes

I relax my jaw muscles

The muscles between my eyebrows

My shoulders

My knees

I sit with my back straight, so that my chest and neck are open

My legs are folded

I take deep breaths

When words come through my mind

To tell me what I'm doing

Or to fill me with dread or other emotions

I intentionally wash them away

I wash away the words

With the river of my being

The current keeps going, flowing

I watch my emotions as they come and go

I watch them, I am not them.

They come and go, they wash away

The river keeps going

I breath



I listen to my breath

I listen to the sounds around me

I breath

With each inhale I welcome the air into my stomach

I bring oxygen and energy into every part of me

With each exhale I gently let the air out

I listen

I breath

Words and thoughts are streams in the current

I don't let them linger

I don't struggle, either

I let everything loose

I breath.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

(Almost) Twenty Eight

-"You're only twenty eight..."
-"I'm already twenty eight. When I was fourteen I wrote a 150-page book, and I thought 'if I'm writing this book at age 14, I'll surely do great things in the near future, like publish at least a few books...' And now I'm double the age, and haven't done anything! Some people do amazing things, and I know I could too."
-"Most people don't do earth-shattering things by age twenty eight... Society is always telling us to do more, but we don't need to."
-"I could've been a fruitful me, if I was given the tools to realize my abilities. I studied in the school system for twelve years, throughout which I was not given any tools for self-improvement or the skills needed to bring into action the ideas in my head. Schools need to be more hands-on. They need to be more based on experimentation, on doing things, on just doing and learning how to do, instead of memorizing information and doing tests. Dry knowledge like math equations and WWII-era history fill a certain intellectual need, but my passion for creativity has always been stagnant alongside that and has never gotten a chance to grow. When I was younger, that was alright, because I always felt that the little commas and semicolons of art and creativity that I was able to produce might eventually become something, and that in the future I'd acquire the tools to connect it all, so it was all fascinating. But now those little commas are still all that come forth; a short video, a little drawing, a short text, and nothing becomes of them, nothing connects them. I have never in my life completed a long-term creative project. Never in my whole life. I don't know how. Even if I tried right now, I wouldn't know how. When I entered art school, I thought 'finally now I'll be able to express what's in my head.' But that didn't happen, and I finished art school with nothing that I really loved. I realize I just don't have the tools to bring anything into action. I often sit and look at my mind and think 'it's all in there; the beautiful words for a great novel are in there.' But how do I put those words together? The potential is in me. I feel it. Everything it takes to do the greatest things is already in me. My brain is a jumble just like it was ten and twenty years ago. It's a jumble that's always desperately searching for expression. My passion for creativity is a never-soluble issue, it's always bursting and it's always there. I never found the right receptors for my thoughts. I don't think it's just Western-society's urge of 'success and fulfillment' that's making me feel less than satisfied and detached, but rather it's my own intuition, which knows - and always knew - that I have the ability, but I need the tools and the inspiration. Still today, at twenty eight, I sit in a chair with my brain in my hand and don't fucking know what to do."

Thursday, December 21, 2017

One year ago (facebook reminded me)

Copied from what I wrote on facebook:
One year ago I saw a video from Syria of a man telling the camera he may not live through the attacks on his city, and it didn't feel ethical to sit idly while these things were happening. I messaged my friend Shir and asked, "do you want to arrange a protest of solidarity with me in the center of Jerusalem?"
That's how it started. We found another female friend - Roni - to organize it with us. Within two days, I got the police permit for it, we started publicizing it on facebook and making signs, and it ended up being the first and largest protest in Jerusalem last year in support of Aleppo which was under attack.
I went into it not knowing many facts about the politics behind the occurences; my brain doesn't process politics in a sustainable way. My only asset was and always is empathy and compassion toward those who suffer. I know that many people (including myself) often see this as a setback, and acting without knowing the backstory may in theory cause more damage. But it was so important to me that I did it anyway.
After we did it, though, I thought: What next? What do we do from here?
I wasn't supported in some of my immediate circles, and in addition, I really didn't know what further to do for the suffering people in Aleppo, and just as I had risen quickly into it, I also disappeared swiftly from the public arena on this issue. I wondered what the importance of a sporadic one-time action was. I wondered what the importance of my own place in that action was - if I so quickly left it because of outer convictions. I never felt like I finished my job there, I kind of just left it all open. I could've gone up to the border with Syria to continue protesting, I could have done other things, but I stopped.
And until today I'm not sure what to think about it. But this photo does make me feel that it was right to stand there with that sign, even if I didn't know what to say to all the people who came to the protest we organized, or didn't know what to say to myself, or didn't really know how a small human being, who doesn't have much capacity for dry knowledge, can help end violence in the world.

Photo by 
Tamar Herzberg-Shoseyov

Wednesday, December 20, 2017


כשישראל חיה עשר שעות קדימה,
רק בערב
לפני שאני הולכת לישון
אני יכולה בדימיוני
לעבור ולנשק במצח
את כל מי שאי פעם אהבתי.
רק בשעה הזאת,
כשהם מרוככים מתנומתם,
יכול מחווה מרגש שכזה

Saturday, December 02, 2017



I looked out the aircraft windows toward the back wings, and they started distancing from me. The airplane seemed to be lengthening itself as the wings became smaller and smaller, and soon I realized my part of the plane was falling, and I could feel it now in my body too, falling fast through thin air. I thought of looking out my window to see more clearly, but the fear kept me bogged down in place, facing the back of my seat. I was quite aware we might die. Every instant of consciousness I wondered if there would be a next, and if there wasn’t – what it would feel like.

Then I woke up, curled up with my head toward the back of the seat, lying on my folded jackets. I rose with a start, and the man sitting next to me asked if I need to get out. I said, no. And I added, I just had a nightmare that the plane was falling.

I remembered my open palms under the shower faucet earlier that day, and those moments of watching them and the water pour around them; this is a form of meditation for me.

This was similar to the micro-staring I did in the kitchen, when my father came to sit down for dinner and I closely observed my fork as it speared the food and rose from the plate into my mouth, to let the meal happen without feeling a burden of discomfort.

The water came gushing through the tips of my body, around the creases and lines of my ten fingers. This will be my last time here, I knew. My parents are moving. And so I breathed. I breathed as I stared.

I said goodbye to my room. I sat in it with the Russian tradition (sitting with hands on lap, eyes shut, then opening eyes, clapping hands on lap, and getting up and leaving), and then I came back in and looked around again; this time I photographed the room. I looked around and didn’t know how to properly bid farewell. I thought there must be some sort of way to find closure through a precise summary of an idea, a thought, or a process that has happened throughout my life here, and couldn’t conjure a satisfying notion. But one came to mind: I have grown to be a fairly good person, so thank you, room, for being mine for so many years.

And I walked out again.

And back in.

I had one last idea: to touch the walls. I touch things to make clear contact with reality. So here, I walked around the four walls of the room and touched them, and touched the furniture (because maybe my hands will remember the exact look of the room more than my visual memory) and then stood in the doorway and gestured a namaste thank you, and threw a kiss, and even kissed the mezuzah. And then I shut the light, and left, and didn’t go back.

Being in that home is always a mixed experience for me: I connect to it so effortlessly, and on the downside - I slide too easily into the place of being a child. I don’t want to be in that place; I have grown. Something there pulls me back into my sticky and nauseating parts of childhood, and that’s what I try to avoid. I was there for two weeks, and that was enough. Words must be said about the upsides, too, so as not to take it all for granted. When I am in the home alone, or just with my mother, I feel safe. The kitchen is abundant in good food. I love my old room. It’s a shrine of my life. I love sitting in my room, with all of my stuff and remembering Me.

I realize that it was a good choice to live far away for now. It's good for me to live in a place where I'm not pulled back into my disarray, despite my disarray being my unequivocal home.

I missed Tal and Nemo a lot over the past two weeks, and now I’m on my way home to them.


Jerusalem was crowded, and its over-population streaming through the streets seemed to me in a sad and narrow-minded state of being. I even went so far as wondering how much a population can suck charity and wellness from governments without broadening their own selves by themselves. How awful of a notion, I reprimanded myself. But I couldn’t help thinking it…

I reunited with 11 dear friends at restaurants, street corners and their homes, sharing stories of being, and photographing each friend with the 1970’s Pentax SLR camera, with a 35 mm black-and-white roll of film I bought at the photo store in downtown Jerusalem at my first stop there. Two days before my flight back home, I finished the roll of film and went to my old photography school to develop the film. In the dark room, I pry open the film canister, unroll the film and roll it onto the wheel that then goes into the little Jobo tank, which I seal tightly. Then I go out into the light, fill the Jobo with developer, roll it around for ten minutes, then wash it out and then fill it with fixer, also for ten minutes, then wash it out for 20 minutes, and then open the lid, and slowly pull out the roll of film, revealing to me the product of my handiwork! I then scan the images digitally to the computer, and then leave the school and walk downtown, excited with my success in doing something I love.

I flew to Israel initially for a close friend’s wedding, which was a lot of fun. I got to wear a red dress which my sister sewed for me (the color scheme for close family and friends of the bride was red) and spend the day of the wedding with other red-dressed friends in the bride’s home, hanging around excitedly, eating pancakes and chatting while watching the bride have her hair and make-up done. At the wedding itself I danced like crazy, for hours. There were many old friends there, and fun music, and that’s a perfect setting for dancing my feet off :)

The fourth plane touched ground. 48 hours had passed since I left my parent’s home at 4 am for the airport. I was tired and hungry, and landed into cold and rainy Seattle. 

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

כל העולם כולו 
גשר צר מאוד 
לא לפחד, לא לפחד כלל

The whole entire world
Is a very narrow bridge,
And the main thing
Is to recall
Have no fear,
Have no fear at all

Just in case

This probably sounds pretty awful, but as always before a flight oversees, I'm scared, and think I should write a brief bundle of requests in the case of death: 

(1) Nemo
I want the best for Nemo. My heart is connected to hers, I have immense compassion and empathy toward her, and I want her to live with someone who will love her and pamper her and take care of her. It is up to the people mentioned hereinafter to decide with whom and where she will live, but Tal's opinion shall have the most weight and he shall be the first to decide if he will take upon himself the responsibility of being Nemo's owner, or if he will give that responsibility to someone else, and according to the following guidelines: Nemo shall live either with Tal, or with my parents, or with Dena, or with Gilad, or with someone who truly loves her whom I have forgotten (all of the above are not listed in order of preference, but just in random order). If she is to be flying back to Israel, she is not to be sent in a crate in the baggage compartment, but rather together with a person she knows and loves, who will get permission from the airline to do so. Nemo has flown with me in the past and is capable of lying at her caretaker's feet for the entirety of the flight (though she does need long walks outdoors on the day of the flight prior to the flight). If no airline is willing to allow her to travel on-board with her caretaker, I do beg that a special request is made, or a public outcry is made if necessary, to allow her to fly on-board with her caretaker. If need be, her caretaker will do what I did and get her registered with them as their "emotional support pet."
Nemo shall be treated with positive reinforcements, with love and with care, for the rest of her life.

(2) My stuff
I'd like for people who have an interest, a belief and a compassion for me, for sentiment, for feminism and for unbridled honesty, to go through my physical belongings and things in my parents' house and in other places where I might have things, such as all the papers with stories and poems and drawings and photos and ideas of mine, and decide what to do with them. On another note, I have started compiling blog posts from this blog for a book, on Google Drive. I have saved too many posts in that document and it needs to be edited more. Plus, I only got up to year 2011 I think.

(3) Me
You may mourn, but not too long. I do not want anyone to live in agony and sorrow, especially not the people I love. A person's death is sad or even tragic, but life must go on, remembering the deceased but also finding other sources of light. While our body may die, our consciousness still lives in the minds, energies, and particles of love in every being, animal and plant in the world. Our consciousness morphs and blends into all other ideas and thoughts inside all other creatures, contributing its own unique decrees and colors. My life was full of wondrous times with amazingly loving, talented and unique people. My life also had a lot of fear and remorse, but that is because I was always trying to find truth and love through pain and longing. I have lived with compassion, and if there is one legacy I'd leave, I'd want it to be the lifelong striving for compassion.
I've tried to write a lot throughout my life, and despite my many many words (some of which were published on this blog but many also not) I've never, in all my 27 years, been able to write one full explanation of my being. It is a lifelong process. I have tried my best, I wrote and lived honestly and genuinely, and I hope I have made people's (and animals') lives better.
Please please please try to love. Everyone and everything, of every color and every race and every species. Every sentient being is worthy of protection, space and companionship. Please do your best to give that to everyone who has a beating heart.

Sunday, November 12, 2017


This is not the "positive space" (the important material for the story to be shared), but in order to find that positive space, I need to carve out the "negative space." So here is the negative space, the stories which are non-stories; side notes which I'm chiseling through, to help guide me toward the important substance that will be eventually worth sharing:


She takes off, and me after her, following in the footsteps of her long dress and her unscreened livelihood, into the forest. We climb through tree paths with our feet clenching soggy earth, the smell of autumn surrounding us. The trees are so tall that when you look up it looks as if their tips are embracing each other. We tiptoe around the trees and make long whooshy "wow" sounds, like lovers of mother nature, and then we sit on a log, facing where the sun sometimes shines through. A man walks by and roars a mischief in our direction, and as he walks off the leaves tremble and shake off the vibrations of his voice until they calm back into silence. The leaves trickle through the air as they soar down slowly and daintily from the trees onto the ground. Sometimes you can't tell if it's the leaves pattering, or if forest elves are conversing. Who knows, really, what lives in there, inside these mossy dense forests!

On our way back from the forest a young man passed us by. "Good day, sir!" she said toward him. "Good day, ladies!" he replied. When we passed him I said to her, "don't you just want to hug people like that, and say - thank you so much for being nice!"?


We flip through files; old papers full of meaning and people who have died. The ideas in them are rich like soil that has simmered for decades. Her house is full of enchanted stories. Her carpets are mossy, and her old cat meows. She is a 1960's hippie fairy living in a little apartment in 2017. She laughs with a sigh, she smiles and she aches. She is an artist, a thinker, a sentimentalist. Ah, sentimentalists... Their piles and piles and papers and colors do not seem odd to me. I want to embrace them just as much as they do, perhaps. I want their stories to come alive and give meaning to mine. I never know how to thank them enough for just being who they are.


When I take a walk with Nemo we walk through a path at the end of our block, and the damp leaves and trees of fall are wondrous. My heart rejoices and takes deep breaths that are not dependent on anything, and are not followed or pre-iterated by anything.

But I do often wonder - when will I stop telling myself who I am, what I love, and that I am breathing a breath so fine... and will breath like a wolf, without knowing who I am, and maybe figuring it out anew from every breath onward... And not knowing that I love the forest when I go into it, and not knowing in advance (on every level of cognition) that I will or should be wowed by it... Not telling myself to shut my eyes and smell so that the camera external to me will catch me in that kind of Hollywood loveliness. Not telling myself anything, but just purely feeling and being, like an infant, if the forest can cradle me without me writing these odd words on a World Wide Web later on in the passage of time through the cracks of those age-old tree trunks and through my incorrigible bodily self...

But still, it was a breath so fine... of those maples turning yellow...


"Can you tell us a story?"
"I can't tell stories."

But let me try to write some, and we'll see how I do.

Like the time I returned to my Jerusalem first-floor apartment in October 2014 with Nemo on the far end of the leash and my bleeding hand on the other, with a cut too deep for me to look at clearly without fainting. I gently took off Nemo's leash, I lay on the couch in the sunlit room across the long back window-doors. I called the person still married to me whose voice was still the proteins of my consciousness, who would be home to help only in a few hours, told him I'd call S, the person not married to me, who was working nearby and with a looser schedule, and I called S, who soon came over to this home of mine, hugged me at the door, and helped me bandage my hand. He was my new love which I was easily morphing into after the long-processed termination of the love with the man still living with me. This love would last a while, would consist of lovely things like sharing precious time in a small and very clean hotel-like one-room apartment with large windows through which we watched rain and snow, sharing that space with many dogs, with meals of pasta-and-mushroom-cream-sauce, oatmeal with soy milk, and salads cut in the plastic salad-cutting machine, a life of AR protests and activism together, coming over by bus to his place after art school or walking over with Nemo the 25-minute walk from our place to his, snuggling and drinking hot chocolate. I would later sadly break his heart over the telephone one night, leaving him probably wondering why he didn't end it earlier and why he kept believing I'd be content. That night I'd take myself and my beloved Nemo, get on a bus to Be'er Sheva and land in a dear friend's house to cry all night long and sleep in her bed.

(Or two months earlier, when I went out to a corner cafe on our street in Jerusalem with my husband, and I ordered a vegan sandwich and he ordered some other sandwich, and we started a conversation with the barman because my husband said "he looks cute, maybe you'll be able to go out with him," and the barman asked where we live, and we said "well we live here now, but we're moving in a few weeks... Each to our own parents... We're getting divorced." We smiled. He exclaimed, "well I've never seen a divorcing couple going out and having fun like this!")

Or the time in the winter, at the turn of 2008 and 2009, I was out on a 5-day desert Survival Week with a group of 28 other young people ("mechina"), where we trudged up mountains and down slopes, and had no cell phones until we finished, at which point I saw missing calls from Gilad's mother and a voice message from her which I didn't listen to, because (my heart started racing) - maybe it's to inform me that Gilad was killed in the army, or that something else horrible happened, so instead called Gilad himself, who finally answered and gravely replied that he'll tell me about it later when he sees me, and this was all on a Friday afternoon, when I was about to go back home to my parent's house for Shabbat, and there were only a few hours left before Shabbat, but I hurried home, took the world's fastest shower, brushed through some of the hair dropping out after a week of being in a ponytail out there, which continued falling out hours later, too, pulled on some clothes and drove as fast as I could to his house 45 kilometers away, just to make it there at sunset. I was with his warmness, I was at home with him, we were safe now, whatever it was that happened. Gilad told me he was miserable, he had become so desperate in the army that he ran away... He walked out of the base, down to the highway and hitch hiked to his counselor's house, where he slept that night.


There is no physical pain in my life, in any of my decisions, or in any of my future endeavors. But I often suffer from the notion of how things are or how things will be. I suffer for things that aren't, for things that won't, for things unknown. I suffer and yet my body is content and free. How can one understand this paradox and free oneself from suffering, truly? And how come it is so hard to understand what it is the heart wants, and if the heart needs to be replaced or rather readjusted. Because readjusting can happen, if only we were not too afraid we would miss our misgivings. We can decide to be happy - but how scary and treacherous it is to leave behind our long-loved and deeply-deciphered friends called agony and regret.

Sadness and agony are so much more concrete than happiness. They have so many more reasons and explanations, while happiness is so swift, so abstract, like a cloud which holds no real content but whose presence you are glad to be granted for however long it will stay.

The being has not landed inside itself again. At some point in time it shattered into an echo of itself, and especially flying over the Atlantic to a new land has left the mind scurrying behind, pleading to be placed back into itself, to overlap the experience.


"You can't buy groceries with the ideas in your head," Tal mentioned when we had this really deep and long conversation going from hanging on a tightrope to leaping into the water. I was sitting on a step, he was standing, we spoke for a while and got deep into the truth of our beings. Truth: I live in my ideas. I am full of inspiration, imagination and thoughts that are always colliding, coinciding, subsiding and gliding in colorful streams and spurts.


I hate not having any money. I'd like to buy chocolate, organic oats in bulk, strawberries, and presents for all the people I love.

I also hate not having enough diligence to finish all the great things I've started over the past 27 years: stories, songs, artwork, ideas, sentences.


What I love most, though, are these things:
Our little home
Watching TV
Playing guitar

These things give me immeasurable pleasure and contentment, and I am very grateful to be free of physical pain and suffering...

מוֹדָה אֲנִי לְפָנֶֽיכם, מֶֽלֶךְ חַי ושכינה קַיימת, שֶׁהֶֽחֱזַֽרְתם בִּי נִשְׁמָתִי בְחֶמְלָה. 
רַבָּה אֱמֽוּנָתכם