Unsolicited Letter #1
Dear Old Man at the Dome of the Rock,
There are two kinds of old people in the world. The kinds that end up like jolly and happy, faces creased with laugh lines, eyes bluemy from crying over the small joys in life, and hands careworn from holding babies and getting caught on rose thrones and cleaning off scraped knees. Then there are the kinds that end up like shriveled raisins, eternally bothered by whoever walks by, crowlines worn in by squinting beady eyes. You, kind sir, are of the former, and give me hope for growing old.
The Dome of the Rock, gloriously golden and reflecting the blazing morning Israel sun, contrasting from the mosaic blues. Surrounded by olive green clad, no — olive green sounds too lovely and light — phthalocyanine green clad soldiers, who really seem to spend their days checking out how much is exposed on a young woman (I’m so sorry shoulders are so distracting, they must be moisturized with coconut oil.) much like middle school principals on a dress code tirade on the first day of summer but in a much sterner and scarier way. Surrounded by dry, dusty pavement, seemingly lifeless and parched with this glorious mosque plopped in the middle of it. Surrounded by the tension of thousands of years of friction between religions and peoples and politics. It is beautiful, but only in the way a beautiful woman is beautiful because of her blownout hair, perfect glossy made up lips, and tight dress, absolutely pristine and untouchable and forbidding, not beautiful in the way something you can kiss and touch and love is. There is no warmth, there is no life. Perhaps there was inside, but to me it was simply stressful.
You know that moment in a sonata when everything finally resolves in the promised key and goes to something major and familiar? Or when you drink something cold on a hot day, or take off a pair of 6 inch heels? Regardless, I’m talking about the incredible sense of relief and released triggered by a single event and so you, dear old man at the dome of the rock, you were the lovely breath of fresh air let into a crypt even though we were outdoors, you were the sun that blazed into a rainy Boston day, and it was amazing.
You were laughter and brightness and you moved fluidly, you touched our shoulders and hugged us. You used your arms to talk and you drew us close. You weren’t afraid to talk loudly and you preached a message about education and openness and acceptance and god and beauty. And then you told us to follow you through the gardens. And we did, so incredibly joyous with the diffusion of the tension, so invigourated with the way you approached life and people in the middle of this stifling place, and so in love with how you interacted with your world. And so we followed you.
Which, granted, is a lot of how religious cults get started, but that’s beside the point. I just wanted to follow you around the city and hear your stories, all embedded into the wrinkles in your hands, and bask in what you knew of life, of things you had seen and things you wish you could unsee, of Old Jerusalem the way you loved it and of New Jerusalem the way you love it now.
So thank you, for injecting humanity into that morning trek, for reminding me that the beauty of a life far outshines anything man could give his life towards building, that the soul inside one human is far more brilliant that any monument erected by humans, and thank you for being the gem that I found at the tomb of the rock.
Because you projected light and life at 7am on a hill in a holy city, more than any shiny dome reflect. Perhaps thousands flock to Jerusalem to see something in person they could find on Google Images, but I would’ve come to Jerusalem to see you.
With love, shalom.
