Dynamic Range
In photography, the “dynamic range” of a picture is the difference between its brightest highlight and darkest shadow. In music, dynamic range is the difference between the loudest and softest pitch.
I am astounded by Israel’s dynamic range.
Landscape:
Like many who have never traveled to the Middle East before, prior to the trip I had imagined that, if I were to choose a color palette for Israel, it must be brown. Maybe a tinge of grayish-green for the wispy desert plants, here and there.
What little imagination I had.
Standing on top of a hill overlooking Jerusalem, I saw trees much like Van Gogh’s swirling cypresses, scattered among swaths of green grass. Chilly Jerusalem winds rocked the trees back and forth against a stormy sky. Between them stood rows of hard-edged buildings, some ten years old, others over two thousand. All were united by the same cream-colored limestone walls, well-suited for the age and the gravity of the historical city.
Traveling south, we reached the Judean Desert. My podmates and I laid down on the desert floor in a circle. We looked up at the midnight stars, framed by a cradle of red-rock canyon walls. No trace of life could be found in the sandy, bare dry gravel of the ground underneath us. We hear the tumbling of dry rocks, rolling far into the distance…
But after just one hour of driving north, we were buried in miles and miles of lush, green fields. They were the “newborn” kind of green, the kind that sings the birth of spring.
Traveling east, we sat by the misty, cerulean blue of the Sea of Galilee. This was where Jesus walked on water two thousand years ago, and I tried to picture Him in the middle of the Sea, slowly walking towards me. The cooling air brushed my cheeks, and with it I felt a wave of serenity.
Our final destination was in the west, where we walked barefoot through the white, sandy beach of Tel Aviv, with palm trees and seaside resorts. A slow, relaxed vibe swam through the air. I felt as if I was in San Diego, back in my home state. How could that be? I was more than seven thousand miles away, almost halfway across the globe.
How all these worlds could be collapsed into one country, I don’t know. But I began to see why this was the holy land.
People:
It was Shabbat in Jerusalem, and the streets were empty. Swift winds tunneled through stone street corners.
But the moment we crossed into the Muslim quarter, the streets were filled. Vibrant headwraps and golden saris sparkled against the limestone backdrop.
I walked by a Jewish rabbi in a tall, black hat and a heavy black coat.
I walked by a sweating young man in white swim trunks, playing Matkot with his girlfriend on the beach.
In a five-star resort conference room, we listened to diplomat Tal Becker on the importance of compromise.
In an ambient-blue bar we listened to Rona Kenan confess her love story through the drumming of her guitar.
In Yad Vashem I saw footage of children in concentration camps. Days of starvation made it easier to count their ribs than count their fingers.
In the street markets of Jerusalem I watched a little girl drink espresso for the first time. She smiled at her father — It was good.
Against the intense Israeli backdrop of suffering and conflict, the vibrancy of life impressed upon my heart. Adversity is the one who hastens us to celebrate.
In whole:
It is the night of Purim. My heart is still rumbling over the atrocities I had witnessed in Yad Vashem. Yet now I am suddenly jolted into the nightlife of Tel Aviv. People in colorful costumes stream down the streets, funneling into pubs left and right. I see a grown man in a tooth fairy costume, holding a pink wand. His smile speaks of the boyish joy he had decades ago, when he lost his first baby tooth. He grins at me, waves his wand, and disappears into the rainbow blur of the night. I hear echoes of singing down the street, and faintly, the tapping of cheerful feet.
We rise from the dead. Everything is more alive than ever before.
And I am moved by the gravity, the magnificence of it all.
