All that was left was a poem on the wall.
The story behind the last photograph I took in Jerusalem.
All that was left was a poem on the wall.
The story behind the last photograph I took in Jerusalem.
Baby’s first TEDx. Fellow dorks, rejoice.
One of my last dawns in Jerusalem. Optimistically rosy.
Holding steady during the transition. Finding comfort in flowers, familiar flats and rosiness.
Old City alley aglow on the evening of Shavuot.
Nothing left, but the posters on the wall and our memories.
Moving is the sound of your voices echoing on the walls.
The five farewell parties in Guatemala have inflated the total to 14 in the past three years. Tonight marks number 15, and possibly the end of nomadism for a while. I’d promise some Guatemala-inspired dancing on tables, but the furniture is already gone…
The chair is leaving, and soon so are we. I miss the light on these floors already.
One last shuq trip. “We only have enough time left to cook two portions, I’m afraid” must be the saddest words uttered in markets.
*Brace yourself for a Goodnight Moon-esque series of nostalgia photos this week, as I pack up my life and prepare for (another) transition. As though there is any way to brace a soul for that.
We arrived with the pomegranates. We are leaving with the cherries.
The best meal we had at a restaurant in Jerusalem. And another item crossed off the wish list.
How I want to remember these days, this place, this era of life.
Protected by an evil eye and a hamsa, a doorway in Zefat.
Zefat wakes up with Yemenite breakfast and divine light.
And then he found the wet cement,
and a piece of us,
of E hearts R,
will stay in Banias forever.
