It’s a cool, grey-sky morning.
I’m sitting in our backyard deck, under the grapevine, drinking black coffee and listening to the birds sing their morning songs.
Belle, our new puppy is exploring the garden and chewing on anything she can get her little teeth around. Harley is still asleep upstairs with Chezi.
I speak the names of some of our many blessings out loud.
I think about how layered our lives are.
How much more nuanced our day-to-day realities have become; how often we bounce (sometimes screech) from one reality to the next.
180 rockets have crashed into the Golan in the last 24 hours. Yesterday morning, there were five direct hits in Katsrin (our local little “city”). The rockets hit and damaged several homes, cars, streets, front yards, and backyards. They ignited gas tanks. Started fires.
Miraculously, no one was killed. A thirty-something-year-old man was brought to the hospital in light/moderate condition from shrapnel he took when the rocket exploded inside his house. At least half a dozen people were treated for acute stress reactions.
Sitting here, writing this down, I feel Gd’s protection. I feel connected to the swell of resiliency so thick in these parts.
And.
These blasts leave physical and psychological wounds.
Blast injuries.
No matter how faithful and resilient I feel, I can also feel the inner price my adrenaline glands pay to keep me and us ready for whatever may come.
It’s a constant, low-grade stress borne of readiness and awareness that’s become a feature of this time.
Micro-tears of the heart and mind.
Not everyone bounces back.
I take a deep breath and notice the sounds of my neighbors waking.
I admire how much a new plant has grown.
I notice the sound of a drone or plane flying low.
No sirens, birds still chirping; that must be one of ours.
I trust the animals.
I finish my coffee.
It lands a little harder in my belly than usual.
It’s time for a walk.
It’s a bit after 10:00 a.m. now. I’m resting in the shade against the trunk of a big, beautiful eucalyptus tree. The dogs are playing in the dried leaves and dirt. There is a cool breeze. It’s wonderful.
We had a great walk down to a local water reservoir just outside our moshav. I saw a gazelle, a family of jackals, a couple of horses, and a bunch of big, fat, happy cows grazing and bathing in the water hole.
I also saw an empty tank shell and a few cardboard combat soldiers set up in the brush, like sci-fi scarecrows.
They were left behind from an army drill last night.
I smiled and saluted.
I’m thinking again about how much bouncing we do between the hard and soft realities of this time.
I remember two recent very vivid dreams I had – both involved floating and bouncing.
I guess that’s just what’s required right now.
From gratitude and relief when our soldiers recover the bodies of six of our stolen and return them home for burial.
To despair and anguish for the same reason.
The shift from joy and delight as we celebrate a dear friend’s wedding tonight.
While holding space for the heartbreak we all share with this couple, knowing that the groom’s two best friends won’t be there because they were both killed in active duty over the past few months.
Here’s to as much grace as we can muster as we bounce between the outer edges of these realities.
And to the sweetest, softest, most miraculous landings, safely with the ones we love the most.
