don't listen when they tell you that these are your best years

One year ago, I looked out an airplane window into a star-filled sky and lost the ability to breathe.

One year ago, I fought my way, alone, through Israeli customs and the Tel Aviv airport, finally spilling out onto a hot dusty sidewalk under a parking garage, where I was immediately approached by two or three eager taxi drivers.

One year ago, I sat in a sheirut and wept because I was tired and hot and overwhelmed by the gravity of what I was about to do.

One year ago, I watched the countryside of Israel flash past my window in the grey pre-dawn, and I thought, I am really and truly finally here.

One year ago, I paid the driver whatever he asked, out of simple relief that he took me exactly where I needed to go without trying to kill or rob me.

One year ago, I walked up to kabalah, dragging my suitcase behind me, and was shocked to find it locked and dark, with only one rather exhausted-looking man at the desk inside.

One year ago, I raised my hand and knocked on the wooden pine door.


And that . . . began it all.