Hod B’Gevurah

I stand on Jaffa's boardwalk for a minute of silence as a national alarm sounds to commemorate the Holocaust. It's a new experience - this moment of sudden stillness when everyone simply stops, the walkers, and their dogs-

this silence to remember the truth that something happened for which there are no words.

And here we are. Alive and walking. Alive and breathing under the shining sun. In this moment,even the waves are silent to my ears.

Today, my late morning nap will count as part of my practice. Extra space to simply rest, to feel the weight of gravity's embrace. But at some point I must rise, and meet again the truth that would otherwise go unnoticed if I don't make space to listen.

It asks me to be honest: How hard it really is, sometimes. How fortunate I really am, sometimes. The incomprehensible beauty of this life. The incomprehensible tragedy of what's happened. The incomprehensible courage required to walk a path of healing. To become whole. To hold it all.

I am softening and softening, daring to unwind centuries of striving stitched and seeded in the fabric of my being. I am daring to travel even further back to source. There stands a woman by a fountain, serving living water to the weary.

Thousands of years later, I am called by her name.