Very late last Friday night I finally put the last of the bottled tomatoes up on the shelf and the last of the stewed apples away in the freezer and went to my bedroom to pack for Israel. To pack clothes and toiletries and craft supplies for three spring weeks on the other side of the planet in a country I hadn't visited for 20 years. A country I hadn't visited for 20 years but had at different times in my life called home.
And as I slowly started gathering and packing it occurred to me how little I had really thought about this trip. With the craziness of finishing my book, the autumn picking and preserving and the mothering, I hadn't really thought beyond the where we'll go and what we'll see. I hadn't really imagined how I would feel visiting a place that once upon a time I knew so well.
And now we're here, far, far away from our little farm in Daylesford,
I realise that I could never have imagined the tiny details that are
leading me tripping down my memory lane. Even if I'd had a second to
think about it.
Those tiny milk bar type shops dotted all over the place that sell nuts and seeds and cigarettes and newspapers and lollies.
The feel of a warm paper bag full of sunflower seeds in my hand. The crack of the salty shell and the taste of the fresh nut in my mouth.
The street food; the pita stuffed full of felafel, salads, humous, tahini and pickles and the cheese borekkas.
The air-conditioners hanging out from every window and the hot water units on every roof.
The Hebrew language, written and spoken, that once felt so natural and comfortable and now feels sticky and foreign but still so familiar and somehow comforting.
The geography, the names of the streets, the look of the streets and how it feels to be walking down those same streets again after all this time.
The culture. The fire drums in the street on the day before Passover for people to dispose of their bread products before the festival.
The memory I have of the best watermelon icy-pole ever that keeps me searching the freezers of every shop we pass just in case we can find it again.
The relief that comes with finding a wool shop, just in case. To be truthful I packed enough wool to knit for months, but that's not the point now is it.
The feeling I get when I watch my family, our family, our kids, running through the streets that we once ran through. Watching them slowly learning bits of the language and experimenting with the food. Seeing this world through their eyes. Introducing them to places and people and memories from our pasts. Feeling like this is a big trip, an important trip.
Looking forward to watching where our adventure takes us next and the memories it evokes.
Remembering where I have come from and who I was back then.
Enjoying being led on this journey. Being in the moment. Smelling and tasting and seeing and hearing.
Being aware that I may not be able to take a zillion photos and write a blog a day like I had hoped. Right now experience seems more important than capture and document.
Traveling.
Have you done this? Have you visited a place you once called home?
Do you know that familiarly different feeling?
Do you ever feel home when you're far far away?
Happy days friends,
Shalom. xx
