WELL, MY FRIENDS, IT’S MARCH, and I’m sure we all agree that Old Man Winter has way, way overstayed his welcome.
I thought I would be serving tea at a place in the city. Instead, I’m working in our office so my dad can make up for lost time in the fields, and my current occupation doesn’t involve traveling to anywhere except the post office. (It’s like doing laundry: you sort through the junk mail, code and file the invoices, try to decipher heavy Asian accents on the phone, empty the waste baskets and get everything tidied away for a little while, and then you start over again.)
I’ve always said that administration is not my thing.
So the joke is on me, as usual.
Anyway, I’m bored, and thinking of tea and travel makes me nostalgic, so I’m going to ramble about other countries and things that are none of my business.
I’m not a politician–just a farmer’s daughter. But Ireland and Israel are like strangers who keep crossing my path and bumping into each other, and I feel like they should be friends.
How are you? Had any visitors lately? How’s your new prosthetic working?
Yes, the trip was ok and everyone’s fine.
Flying with El Al afforded fifteen solid hours to get pre-acclimated to Israeli bluntness and the rich sound of spoken Hebrew. The gate at Los Angeles International Airport is very remote and hard to find (just like the Israeli embassy in San Fransisco is located in an unmarked building and, once inside, deliberately disorienting). The jet was roomy and clean, the staff professional, the food tasty. Most of the passengers were Jewish, and so there was a lot of camaraderie and sarcastic humor going on. There was also a lot of seat-shuffling, because some of them didn’t want to sit with members of the opposite sex.
The sophisticated young lady banker to my left chatted with me in a refreshingly candid way and shared her things as though we were old friends. The elderly lady to my right overflowed her seat like a big pillow and doted on me with shocking warmth. “We need people like you,” she sighed, patting my leg. A helpful lady in the row ahead taught me some fun Hebrew phrases (“Is my accent cute?”). She had a dark complexion and her traditional turban made her look like a Gypsy fortune-teller. “Be very careful,” she warned me, almost as if she were gazing into a crystal ball, “Stay away from crowded places.”
My best adolescent friend was a Gypsy girl from Romania. Do you remember her from when you were at our house, the last time you escaped? Her adopted grandparents were quite the globetrotters, if you remember, and I used to like to sit on a camel saddle at their house. So now I’m traveling and everyone looks like a Gypsy to me. Maybe one day I’ll see a Gypsy staring back at me from the mirror… Continue reading “A Letter To The Man In Orange: Uncensored”→
HE WAS CROSSING KING DAVID STREET, in Jerusalem, near the hip vicinity of Mamilla Mall. I noticed his distinctly Native American features and limber stride even before I saw the long hair dangling down his back, swinging behind him like a pendulum as he disappeared into a sweaty throng of pedestrians.
His head was high. There was a bounce in his step. No slumped shoulders and shuffling feet. No empty whisky bottle. No shame. No defeat. No Johnny Cash singing honky tonk…
Jerusalem is a colorful place. It isn’t Disney Land, it isn’t Paris, but it really is like the naval of the world. Here you might find a Baptist church led by an Assemblies of God pastor meeting on Saturday instead of Sunday, and I walk around humming It’s A Small World, because the world really does seem to shrink when you are here, surrounded by Jews, Arabs, Armenians, Druze, African refugees, foreign dignitaries, and tourists speaking almost every language under the sun…
Still, outside of the military, it’s unusual to see an American Indian so far from America.
I’M SORT OF ADDICTED to the exquisite 2014 dramatization of John’s Gospel, starring Selva Rasalingam. Watch the trailer and tell me it isn’t sublime.
I don’t love the Bible enough, but of the umpteen books I’ve read it’s the only one that I have occasionally tucked into bed with me.
The greatest thing about it is that it is prophetic as well as historical. It contains a preponderance of foretellings about future events, and it’s always right. But, also, just to study it from a literary perspective is something akin to walking barefoot through Eden.
When the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered, their words were still alive, thanks to the fanatical scribes in the desert who treated every jot and tittle as reverently as the Levites treated the Ark of The Covenant. The dusty manuscripts were unrolled, and Job clapped his hands over his mouth. Naphtali bounded on graceful words, like a doe set free. Judah’s eyes sparkled darker than wine. The Shulamite came up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved. David panted and poetry welled up from his soul. The little hills rejoiced, skipping like lambs…
Last winter I interviewed an intrepid young man who works as a language surveyor for organizations that translate the Bible. He told me stories about his adventures among isolated tribes in the jungles of Papua New Guinea (amazing stories like this). But the most amazing thing he told me was that languages are dying fast, due to globalization, and he predicted that soon there won’t be any more need for Bible translation.