Our Winter Discontent

I am like an autumn leaf, lying on the ground, below the tree that has discarded me.

Autumn leaves (Courtesy Times of Israel, photo credit: Doron Horowitz/Flash 90)

Disowned by the tree, I am cut off from the lifeblood from which I once fed and flourished. I gave the tree everything I had. Now, it no longer has interest in me, as if I am not worthy of its attention anymore. I may still look whole, but I am brittle; at any moment, I could be crushed by a boot and be broken into a thousand pieces – and the wind will scatter me in all directions. I lie on my back, looking up. Beside me are other leaves, abandoned, like me. I look at the tree which was my home, once proud and glorious, now nude and bare. Once, its fertile foliage gave shade to all who sought its shelter, magnificent and admired by all. Now, it is lonely and exposed. Its bare, bony branches reach out like skeletal fingers almost as if imploring in supplication, but grasping nothing but air.
A tree without substance. A parody of its once splendid self. But it is still my tree.

A tree, bare of leaves, its outstretched branches like bony fingers. (Courtesy Times of Israel. Photo credit: Nati Shohat/Flash 90).

I try to imagine what it would be like to be one of the 100 hostages.

I am like a light bulb. Hope is the electrical current which keeps the bulb burning; it vacillates, and I flicker between darkness and light. I am desperately hanging on, but it is a delicate thread, like the filament of a bulb through which the current flows; it could break at any moment. The days are growing shorter and it is getting colder. I feel it. Like Hanukah, if only I can hold on to this thready current to keep the light burning, I will emerge from the dark tunnel.
And then I can burn bright again.

I am an old guitar string that has been used for too long, and which begins to sound tinny and dull. After writing about the war for fourteen months, I am worn and stretched too taut. I am that old string which begins to lose its tension, after having been stretched to its limit. And like the old string, so too my capacity to feel the stab of pain and the flood of sadness when I hear of yet another soldier being killed, has dulled. I now take a deep breath, briefly acknowledge the loss with a sigh, and carry on. I used to agonize over the pain and feel a vicarious kinship with the grieving, but now there are too many, and my heart struggles to absorb any more. It saddens me deeply, that I cannot conjure up the same intensity of emotions I felt when the war started which vibrated in my heart, like the sound that a newly strung guitar makes – rich and reverberant; because what does it say about me if I let them fade? But, even if everything we write about the war has become clichéd and repetitive, and has begun to sound hollow and tinny, for as long as my voice can resonate, I will continue to write. It is the way I express my love for Israel and our pain, and feel that I owe it to the memories of those who have given their lives so that we could have the privilege to live safely.
I owe them that much.

I am like a root of the tree. Delving deeper into the soil, I absorb the rich minerals and the nourishing moisture in our land to provide sustenance for the tree. Because, together, we all are the roots of the tree, sunk so deeply into the soil that we cannot be uprooted. The tree can shed me from its branches, but it cannot sever my roots. The land and I are inseparable. And deep inside, we roots know that seasons inevitably change. And we will drink from the land its strength and sustenance during the winter, so that we will be ready for the spring to once again restore the tree to how envisioned it when we grew to love it, when the leaves will bud anew, and we will once again adorn the branches with fresh life and determination. So that the tree can once again thrive and provide shade and shelter for all. And once again it can become, with the strength of our substance, verdant, magnificent and something to be admired.

Old tree roots, exposed. (Courtesy Times of Israel, Melanie Lidman’s image)

From winter to spring. From darkness into light. From dull sounds to rich music, and from bare branches to blossoming foliage.