Today is Tu B’Shvat here in HLC (Holy Land Central). It’s a minor, feel-good holiday: plant trees, eat dried fruit and bless the almighty for the wonders of soil-grown goods. Amen. Any minute now, I’ll sprout dates for arms and apricots for ears. Enough dried fruit already. I feel like my grandfather.
Next we head into Purim; the stores have begun stocking costumes, cans of silly string, make up, wigs, plastic hammers, noise makers, party poppers… Between the outrageous get-ups at last year’s Halloween in the Castro and the costumed, silly string-wielding young ‘uns running amok through Tel Aviv’s streets next month, I figure I’ll have hit my eye-candy/bonked on the head with plastic hammer maximum quotient by mid-March. Either way, fun is en route. I’m now trying to work out how to accessorize my way to four Super-Hero ensembles using multi-pairs of colored underwear, tights and various capes building on a base layer of body suit blue. After all, he can’t wear the SAME costume to preschool each day for two weeks, now can he? Updates to follow.
Now to tone things down a bit – Whew! It was almost getting a tad too lively in here – I had a strange dream last night which brought my subconscious up to a scary conscious level. In it I was outside the supermarket with 4-year-old Rapha and sensed we shouldn’t go in because a bombing was impending. As happens in the dream realm, moments later we were strolling down the fresh fruit aisle and I said to myself: How did we get in here? Did I ignore my instincts? And then we were outside again sitting at a cafe, safe and sound. End of dream.
But not the end of its message. Yes, I think about bombings (obviously). Yes, the prospects terrify me as a mother. No, I don’t think about it too much because it’s too overwhelming and I’d never get anything done, like supermarket shopping, for instance.
Even without television blasting a barrage of unfortunate tidings, the reality of the political situation and its implications constantly lurks in the background like an unseen virus. It slows everything down and intuitively you sense it’s presence but you convince yourself it isn’t so bad. That way you don’t have to call in a doctor. But doesn’t relief generally accompany a diagnosis, even if the prognosis isn’t too hot?