The Balance of Doing and Being

Dear Reader,

You take a trip to a place you don’t know to try and connect your religion to some sort of spirituality. Or maybe it’s the other way around. You go with your best friend who provides comical highlights with his jovial sense of humor and wit. It makes everything better during the 10 days. You drink, eat, and see a lot.

But instead of recounting every day, I’m going to tell you about the things that mattered. The times where I was left totally dazed, confused and finally clear-eyed. Imagine this:

· In the town of Tzfat, your group walks among the cobblestone streets and comes across a bearded Yemenite man named Ronen who is making hot lachuch (flatbread) with cheese, oregano, onions and spices. He welcomes you all with a warm smile and sad eyes, which look like they have probably seen too much.

As he flips over pita bread, he tells you, “that if you were to put Pangaea back together, you’d see that Israel is right in the middle. This is the essence of Judaism, my friends. Balance. Right in the middle. Doing and Being. So my friends, I want you to do, I want to you to be, and I want you to love yourself.”

We sprint through the streets after the tour to order food and shake his hand. Neither disappoints.

· It’s saltier than salt. It stings your eyes, nose and any open cuts you have. But the upside is you’re flying. Or floating. They’re one in the same, really. Gravity is absent in this cool, aquamarine cloud of blue. You drift and laugh and yell wildly with your friends and take pictures to treasure it because your feet are above the surface and there isn’t a thing to bring you down (literally). The Dead Sea is more alive than ever and not even that cliché of a sentence can take away how breathtaking it is to float above a white rocky floor.

· Heaven is the back of a hipster Tel Aviv bookstore that serves coffee and plays Iggy Pop amidst outdoor trees and tables where you can hear everyone’s conversation around you.

· Hell is being told your New Years Eve party is going to be dry. Until you smuggle in Vodka with all your friends and dance your asses off.

· From a far, it just looks like an old wall. Made up of ancient stones in the middle of a large outdoor plaza with Israeli flags blowing in the wind. So you walk a little closer. You see people praying in front, their heads gently pressed to the stone, silently rocking back and forth, whispering words to God under their breath. You get a little closer until you’re arms length away. It gets quieter. And then you see them. Hundreds — thousands of tiny pieces of papers sticking out in between the rocks. Notes piled on top of each other in between stones, crevices and hidden corners. And suddenly your legs begin to feel very weak and even though it’s raining you begin to lose your breath a little. And when the tears start to come, it becomes nearly uncontrollable. Because these are people’s prayers. These are their dreams and fears and hopes and wants and needs and desires and silent secrets. And they’re all buried in this wall. It’s so moving that all you want to do is cry and pray for a better world while standing in wonder of this Western Wall. This magnificent object of feeling.

So you put your prayers in the wall and the rain coming down turns to hail and suddenly little white water pebbles are falling into your mouth and despite the grey sky there’s electricity in the air. And you want to stand there for a little longer, but you have to go. So you touch the wall and begin your walk back to the bus. But things are a little different now.

· A group of Israeli soldiers share their stories in a cemetery with you. They are about the war and how it’s affected them personally, emotionally, and mentally. Trying to comprehend it feels impossible, because you’ll never be as brave or as bold as the younger kids standing before you. Their love of country surpasses all things and what they share with you may not last the year in your head but it will last a lifetime in theirs.

· On the first night out in Tel Aviv, you leave the group with an Israeli soldier and friend named Yair to walk the bustling streets of the city. You come to a bar called “The Alley, ” sit down outside, order drinks, and strike up a friendly conversation with two Israeli women named Yael and Maya. It’s nothing serious — you act as though you’ve been friends for awhile and you tell them all about Los Angeles and Yael jokes about how young you are and amidst the casual conversation under the glowing restaurant lights, you all promise to keep in touch in case you end up in the same city again. At the end of the night, there are hugs and goodbyes.

Two days later, in the middle of the afternoon, a man walks into the open street with a gun right in front of the very same bar and opens fire a dozen times on civilians. Two people are killed and more are wounded. The outside of the bar is destroyed.

I message Yael to see if she is ok and she is. I call her my last night in Tel Aviv to tell her she was on my mind all week after the attack. On the last day, as our bus heads to the airport, I feel myself breaking down a little, because the tragedy of what’s happened feels too close, too casual. I think about all those prayers in the Western Wall. And then I close my eyes and feel numb again.

But I remember Tel Aviv in all its chaotic energy, walking the main streets after a storm, the smell of rain in the air. Feeling relaxed for the first time in 10 days. Recounting the trip over and over again with the people around me, showing our memories to each other.

I remember saying goodbye to the Israeli soldiers, who opened up to us without any hesitation and who I miss more than they probably know.

Because this little story is dedicated to them. Yair and Oz and Rom and Liran and Eden and Roni and Moran, who are stronger than I will probably ever be, this is for you.

There are more stories to tell, of course. But they’ll come at another time. Believe me when I tell you, dear reader, there was so much laughter with these people I got to know. And enough pictures to last a silly lifetime.

And in finding the balance between doing and being, I realize I may need a place more than I know. Because I swear it was extraordinary. It was life in beautiful, catastrophic color.

And to Alex — thank you for being there for me at the Wall when I broke down and thank you for friendship. You make this neurotic Jews sadness vanish with a story.

And as your bus flies down the highway, with the windows fogged and the seats smelling like wine, a steadfast bus driver named Shlomo says, “I hope you only have good things in your life.”

So, dear reader, I hope you only have good things in your life.

Until the fucking wheels come off,

faithfully yours,

Matt