Staring at a blank page in Jerusalem

Now missing the coffee, but finding my words. Some of them, anyway.

At Tmol Shilshom, my favorite writerly spot in Jerusalem.

I should’ve written sooner. Please forgive me.

I’m still getting over jetlag, which feels more emotional than physical after spending two+ weeks in Israel — the first together with Miro and the second on my own.

We came to visit our son, who surprised us at the terminal. On the train to Jerusalem, he texted us from across the quiet car. “You just made it. Flights have been temporarily halted. They’re firing rockets at the airport.” G-d bless the Iron Dome. I stared for a while out the window, taking in the sweeping view of a place I love so much it hurts when I have to leave. Then my eyes lingered on him. I could not believe how lucky we were to be there.

We filled our days volunteering, seeing friends, and enjoying a beautiful Shabbos near the sea. We ate ice cream in flavors we cannot get in New Jersey. Also, knafeh, felafel, shakshuka, baklava. We walked thousands of steps each day so the stones would know our feet. We talked about the war and the hostages at each turn. At the Kotel night after night, we prayed for the country and the army and Am Yisrael and the people we love deeply, and for healing what’s on our own hearts.

We also had the privilege to meet family we did not know we had until October 7 of last year, when we learned of their tragic losses. The second week, I joined a trip down to the Gaza Envelope, including the Nova site, which left me broken. Though I was compelled to bear witness, to pay respects to the dead, nothing could have prepared me for the gut-wrenching experience. On the day before I flew home, I attended our son’s moving army swearing-in ceremony, the source of an entirely different kind of tears.

Lots of emotional highs and lows, and the intense, soulful — magical even — joy that comes from simply being in Israel, no matter what. From breathing the air and sipping the coffee and hearing Hebrew fill the atmosphere with its ancient-modern music. I checked in regularly with our stateside boys. Somehow, I managed to shut out the rest of the world. I didn’t think about work, ignored email, hardly checked the news. Sorry if I missed anything you sent me.

At the end of each day, I had so many stories to tell I thought I would burst. All the more so by the conclusion of the trip. Miro would ask, “Are you taking notes?” As usual, he relied on me to document for both of us. That way, we’d remember all of it later. Yes, yes, I assured him. In truth, there was no time. I was exhausted. Not that I didn’t try, staring at a blank page until I fell asleep with a journal and pen on my stomach.

“I’ll write next week when I’m here alone. When I’ll have the time, ” I promised him.

Yet even then, my pen hovered over an empty journal in a coffee shop. The words did not come. “I’ll write when I get home,” I promised myself.

Alas, it’s now a week since I returned and I’ve hardly written a thing. Instead, I’ve caught up on laundry. I’ve also found space around the house for the souvenirs we bought mostly to support local businesses hurt by the war.

But the stories remain inside me, awaiting their telling, some more patiently than others.

I’m working on it. This is a start.

Love,

Merri

*Today is Day 426. #bringthemhome #AmYisraelChai