Not unlike the wilderness

Not unlike the wilderness,he found himself inside. The withering branch of his youth, melting into the abyss of desire and greed and into the lost art of his existence,where he would find himself again and again, among the last remaining soldiers of time.

His Brothers

His Brothers were waiting for him on the outside veranda,which was shaded by a tall birch tree,protecting them from the simmering heat. He arrived late as usual to the indignant stare of his brothers, who had become less tolerant of him over the years. Of course he was well protected by his mother Rivka,who always kept a hidden eye and ear as to his wear abouts,which was never too certain. This time his mother was not home,having gone out to the local market in preparation for the Sabbath dinner. His Brothers sat around the shaded corner table,sipping chilled minted tea and chatting among each other over matters pertaining to the angst of being a young Jewish man in provincial Poland. Of course the subject would begin on the lack of free spirited Jewish women,meander on family politics and usually end up on jewish women again,with a slight afterthought of the non Jewish possibilities,which would always cause a stirr,not without some excitement.

The Forrest

The forest,which lay before him, was not so silent. He could hear at times the still lurking memory of his ancestors,who meandered here among the trees and the brush. Sometimes he could still recall his mothers shout from a distance to come home which he was careful not to ignore. The forest thought him many things about life. It was here that he saw for the first time entangled lovers and the heaviness of their breath. He saw that he could lose himself there, and still find his way out into the open. But the greatest lesson was that he could go deep into the Forrest without fear, and trust his instincts, even when the trail came to a complete stop.

His River

He liked to think of it as His river,walking along its banks in the late afternoon with the flurry of mosquitoes in the air. He would go alone and keep himself distant from the others, so that he would have a moment to think about his affairs. He was still young, even for those parts where realities sword penetrates early,and perhaps overly assured having been the youngest in his tribe. His brothers would often tease him of being a momas boy, and his everlasting baby face was no help.
For now the River was his, and so he continued to meander its shores and consider his dreams.

The Narev,Ostrolenka Poland

You might call this place sacred ground for me. I know too well the ancient stories of where and when my ancestors came from. I know the story of Egypt and Babylon,slavery,Mount Sanai,The lost tribes and forty years in the desert. I know those stories. I came back here to know the real and personal stories of my granfather and his family, who not too long ago meandered here among the same stillness. What was this stillness all about? I wondered.

I walked along its shore, going against its restless current, trying to here my grandfathers voice, finding further on, the subtle chatter of children playing in the distance,only to discover that in some very deep place, I finally came home.

Leaves

He fell upon a patch of leaves, in the morning light, not knowing where his next step would go. He was well with that, so long as he could continue against the cemented gravel which he no longer felt under his feet, nor the gentle breeze which only slightly touched him.

Antwerp

I am a travelor,unlike my jewish ancestors.