The Olive Grove

Monica was sitting outside in the patio reading a book that she had long neglected. She sat there with a certain glow, which brought out all her subtle features. She was very focused on the book and for moment did not notice me standing there next to her. i startled her, when i asked her about the book. She turned towards me and though surprised was delighted to see me. The clouds were slowly closing in on us, and we decided than to move into the house. We sat in the living room, where there was a grand piano, more pictures of departed relatives, and even a picture of Antonio, only this time he was well dressed and still with the same half turned smile as well as the trusty workers hat that would never leave him. I told Monica about what i had seen at the grove, and that I thought it might have been the priest. In my hand I still held the Bible and handed it to her as she took a seat next to the piano. She gently caressed the book in her hand, and looked down with a sad eye, she seemed to have not been surprised by my encounter with the priest. She gave a light smile and with a slight sigh, said, " yes, most likely it was the priest". " he has been known to wander and no one is ever brave enough to ask where he goes" " I suppose you have inherited the task of finding him" " I think its best we leave things as is, and not mention anything, especially to grandmother, as Im not sure how she would take the news, and Dont worry, ill take care of the bible"

The Olive Grove

I saw the dark figure running down the hill with a slanted gait, which made his movement slow and heavy and somewhat burdensome, to the point where his ability to reach the bottom was questioned. It seemed almost un necessary to even make the effort. The black figure finally made it to the bottom of the hill and for a brief moment turned his head around to face me. From that distance I could not make a clear distinction, but for a moment I thought he looked like the local priest. He swiftly turned his head away and with a flash was gone into the next grove of trees that stood before him. I was about to turn back, when I noticed a black book laying on the ground next to an abandoned log. I picked up the book and noticed it was a Bible, who's cover had worn out its time. I thought to leave the old book there, but the sky was soon to turn gray and there was a chill in the air hinting rain.

The Olive Grove

The priest was a small man,slightly hunched over, with a tilted gait, so that he never looked like he was standing strait, nor did he ever look completely crooked. He just looked slightly off. I would sometime run into him on my daily walks, usually as he was coming out of the church onto his morning commitments, which always carried him with a quick step that was well directed towards some significant purpose. Most likely he was on his way to pay a visit to someone homebound and sick. He carried his black bible on his right hand as his left hand slightly extended towards his back. I thought it strange that a man so young would walk like that, but i was merely going for a walk and the priest was going his way, and what did it matter how he walked, so long as he arrived well and with good intention. I decided to take the left flank of the small village, and found myself on a small and beaten trail that veered into an un fenced olive grove, of which had recently been picked. The Olive trees seemed somewhat worn and tired and a rusted latter still remained suspended against one of the trees. There was an old gray bucket on the ground with its bottom torn and partly open. The stillness was in the air to the point I could here small birds chirping clearly, and the rustle of the remaining leaves could be heard as well. For a moment i heard a sound, but was not sure. I thought it might be one of the small birds that found its home there, or perhaps my own careless step on a loose rock. But there were no rocks around me and the birds were gathered on a distant tree. I heard the sound again coming from the edge of the grove. It was a rustling sound, but with vigor and intention, that I could not think it natural. I stepped slowly towards the sound. My feet crunching the grounded leaves as I neared the source. This time all was quite and still. Suddenly, There was an explosion of movement. The birds fluttered, and I saw a dark figure runing down the hill. He ran slowly and somewhat hunched towards his right side. He mumbled with anger and was pressed physically as he made his way down the hill away from the Olive grove.

Bad Water

This was in Bad Water. You could walk into the horizon and still not see the other-side for miles.

Antonio

There were times where i stayed at Monica's house. She lived in a two story country house with both parents, a younger sister and her grandmother. I usually stayed on the top floor, where a room had been set up for guests. The room was medium in size with a large oak bed that took up most of the space. On the walls were black and white pictures of family members long ago departed from this earth. There was one picture I recall of an old man holding a rifle. In the background an open field. He was wearing a worn workers hat, something out of an old spaghetti western. He had half a smile that could turn at any moment and his eyes seemed to be piercing the open land that lay before him. His skin was darker then his surrounding pictured relatives and there was something about him that stood out. I asked Monica about this Man. His name was Antonio. He was a hunter and a farmer. He never married and was known to wander the land for weeks on end. He was killed by lightning during a severe storm during one of his walkabouts. They say they found him flat on the ground with the carcass of a dear on his back, and when they buried him; they buried both him and the dear together.
Things were starting to feel strange in Monica's house. I found myself staying up late into the early morning hours. i could hear the grandmother fidgeting in the kitchen, making her daily coffee preparations. Than there was always the trusty rooster who finished up the job of getting everyone up. I would have wanted to sleep in, but felt obliged to be included in the household routine, as well as not come off looking like a flake to my gracious hosts. I knew I would be leaving soon and I never knew when I would return. I wanted to take in what was left. I decided to go for another walk.

The Rabbit

That night Monica and I decided to go for an evening drive. We ended up going to the near by town and to our favorite cafe. A warm breeze left over from the turning day hit my face as we sat down outside. The street was quite with the sporadic hum of a few cars making their way back home. There was an old man sitting across from us with his old world hat and a cigarette,peering into the shifting light. We decided on a coffee and sat there without much to say. The stillness seemed to calm our spirit and it remained more a moment of reflection. I was always the curious one, observing the street before me. For Monica this was nothing new. She knew this scene many times over. She even knew the old man, and there was no need to know more. We sat there, outside in the stillness of all that was buzzing around us. For a moment I felt like having a cigarette, and knowing that Monica had a reserved supply in her small bag, I asked her for one. After about an hour of this reflective moment. we decided to head back home. The full darkness of night enveloped our small car as we drove back into the country. The moon was hiding that night and visibility was poor. I felt a sudden bump as we were nearing the village. I asked Monica to stop the car and pull to the side. I stepped outside and noticed something moving in the middle of the road. We turned the car around to illuminate what was before us. A white rabbit was moving in its last moment of life. I new i needed to put it out of its misery at that moment. But Monica could not accept a second blow to the already dyeing rabbit. I picked the rabbit up and placed him gently by the side of the road. I was prepared to act and do what was right. But Monica who loved animals so dearly, could not accept more trauma to the already helpless animal. we left him there. I did not sleep that night. The next morning I went back to the spot. The rabbit died overnight and I knew then that it was time for me to go.

Israel

That year I had planned to go back home. The priest was good enough to bless me for the journey and I had almost forgotten that I am Jewish and who knows how far his prayers carried. At that point I needed all the blessings I could get, so I thanked the priest and went on my way. Monica of course did her best to keep me put. She pampered me with her country charm and hospitality. Even her grandmother tried hard to sway me with all her good cooking as well as the homemade wine presented at every table. Even the friendly cats managed to pull me in as they gingerly caressed themselves against my leg as I sat down for the afternoon meal. The whole house seemed to conspire against my leaving, and for a moment I almost consented. My afternoon walks did not help either. I seemed to want more and more to melt into that timeless place. Even the local church started to feel like home, especially the Sunday mass singing, and all the pretty catholic girls, who would come out of the woodwork dressed in their Sunday best. I stayed a while longer. Even the priest started to wonder about his stationary blessings. The food and the wine, the hospitality and the long walks, only seemed to pull me in deeper towards staying. But I had to remember that I inherited an unwanted gift called " The wandering Jew" and so there I was again falling back to an ancient dilemma; like a prisoner whose body escapes but his mind is still trapped in the confines of his cell.

Monica

Sometime in the distant past I think of Monica. She was once a lover, now a friend, distant and close and always with a familiar smile that brought me back to those early days in Munich. I had always been a traveler. Even now as my peers have settled in the comforts of domestic life, the predicted monotony and regularity that so many of us strive for. And yet I am still dreaming of places i must see. Monica was the one who reminded me of un lived journeys that even now need tending. She lives in the mountains in a small village now. She is married and has three children. She goes to church and has her meal with family. She is tall and gracious and still carries within her the spark of adventure and risk. I have come to know her family well. I have made journeys there. I walked the long and winding trails that surround her village, and even the local priest blessed me once with drops of his holy water. i even remember her grandmother, who sat every morning on the outdoor veranda feeding the cats and peeling potatoes for the afternoon meal. The cats were rather friendly and I do remember a dog as well. But why I kept on leaving? And even for a short time i took residence in the near by city. I always returned to that village and will continue doing so. It was a place of embarkment and an arrival, all at the same time. And there were moments when the country air made me restless and angry and short with those I loved. But i will never give up on that village, up in the mountains where the steps of my youth would not stop.

Coffin (Part three)

I met Monica some years back in Munich. I was passing through from a three month back pack journey through Europe and North Africa. We met on the main drag of Munich as she was coming out of a local ice cream shop. As we waited for a light to turn green, she opened the conversation and we hit things off. She was with a group of fellow Italian students who were in Munich for the summer learning German. She was tall and with red rolling curls that came down to her navel. We walked all night together, through the streets of Munich. It was summer and the evening palmy. We wanted to spend the night together and our imagination was stretched as she shared one room with her younger sister and a friend. In the end she offered me the pool-side bench in the apartment complex. She offered me a sheet and so I found myself sleeping on a wooden bench, next to a swimming pool in Munich.

The Coffin part two.

They laid him to rest against the background of verdant hills. The ropes struggled as the Coffin slowly came down, pressed tightly against the earth wall. The black veiled women gently placed her hand on top of the moving Coffin and murmured a silent payer. I stood in the back wandering who this man was, his name, his character, what he did for leisure, his adventures,his loves. The crowd started to disperse and move back towards the main road. Some remained to take in the last touch of a soul no longer here. I returned to my room. The blue sky slowly closing in for the day. A glass of wine in my hand. I felt I met a stranger; only he was not alive nor did i ever know him alive. My friend Monica called to inquire about my day. i told her about my little adventure. She was silent for a moment. "he was a good man" She said. "Well liked by the village" "A womanizer". "But a good man". I returned to my wine and felt grateful to have known a stranger, even if for a moment.

The Coffin

The coffin stood outside the church court yard as the villagers gathered to pay their last respects. The sky opened up to a glimpse of blue that would soon greet them on their journey to the local cemetery. The deceased was well known and many gathered to say goodbye. I happened to wander there by accident as I made my daily walk. I stood there in the gathering thinking that a parade was about to start. And than I noticed the coffin; simple and yet pronounced. There was a silence in the air, a murmur of sound, more of a shuffling of feet gathering. The coffin was lifted and carried by a group of men, some older than expected, and slowly carried towards the main road. The silence brought out the sound of our footsteps as we neared the cemetery. A slight warm breeze touched my face. Slowly our group moved on and the Men holding the coffin pressed on slowly and with a heavy step.

America

Your Freeways calm my restless soul, like rushing rivers destined to the unknown. Your open sky cries out for a slower pace, but the rush is too addicting and there is never enough of more. I am humbled by your vastness and how I cannot see the end of a road. I am watching out for trees and flowers and even better the smile of a child to know that sanity is everywhere, regardless of where I am.

The world according to Garp.

I had the opportunity today to see the World According to Garp, with Robyn Williams. It had a little of the overdramtic response of the early 80s. And a little of the predicted gestures that are typical to williams. But I was touched by the relationship of Mother and Son in the movie and perhaps because I have become overly sensitive these days, the loss of a mother resonates deeply in my soul. Though God willing both of my parents are living; I could not help but see a certain change in vulnerability in the the 6 months I was gone. And even 6 months is enough time to see changes, and the change in myself is also there. America, wounded and walking on one leg and rushing, always rushing to where only G-d knows. But Im attracted to her freedom and opportunities and the knowledge that age is only a number and even a car can make you feel well if for at least a moment.

Open Mic

I have been playing piano against the background of a roaring freeway. The sound filters in and becomes graced as a late winter stream flowing away from its source. Haydn is great for a rusty player. His melody drives the desire to practice. Than i play my own stuff and think of the next opportunity to play for the crowd. Yesterday I took a drive out to the mountains. The snow melted into blue ice patches, like drops of rain that would not budge. There is open sky here and freeways and a piano and its all really good and sane. Today is a new day, fresh and beautiful and the little dog who barks for love is awaiting my walk. And I am planing on playing soon for an open mic.

Covina

The magnet of America pulls you in when the storm of distant places rattle the soul. I find comfort in the empty streets, the sound of a freeway in the distance and a piano close by. The comfort and stabilty that i will soon have has no measure. But the journey will go on. Only now it might be towards a different direction, Towards personal growth and goels that need to be tended. Im blessed to have taken the journeys. To have ventured into the unknown, and more to come. But now im staying put. Im getting grounded and focused and willing. I have only to trust in my Higher Power