A blast of fresh air. Cold air. Frigid, New York temperature, in early December. Winter was coming on, fast and furious.
Exiting the subway steps, blending with the mass of people, Manhattan at night, the heart of New York.
The lights, the life, the sounds and smells. I stop walking, and just let it all wash over me. Feel the vibrations, the sensations. I feel like I'm living once again.
The subway filled with weirdos, and strange people, preaching, about the bible, their savior, and whatnot. The jostling, and shoving, and swearing. All part of the experience. It's MINE. It's home.
The spray paint, the garbage, the bleakness, and black. But MINE.
I look up at the sky. Snowflakes are drifting lazily down, settling in my hair, and on my coat. I open my mouth and taste the cold bits of heaven.
First snowfall of the season, and I am here for it. Home. Where I belong.
Ten glorious days, home from Seminary for my sister's wedding, I take it all in, embrace it. I've missed this! My country, my people, my language, my home-town, my friends. It's all so familiar.
Ice skating in Bryant park, sliding, and gliding, and falling, and grabbing on to people. Broadway, and Starbucks! Christmas lights, and trees covered in snow. I almost forgot how it felt, this feeling, the holidays coming, excitement in the air.
Chanukah is around the corner. Eight days of fun, and laughter. And food. Donuts, and latkes, and chocolate coins, and real coins. Dreidel, and family parties, and trips with friends. Curled up around the Menorah, absorbing its warmth, while telling the story of the miracle of the oil that happened long ago.
But my Chanukah will not be in snow. I won't be home, because I'm going back. Back. Such a strange word.
All good things must come to an end. It's time to go back. There.
To Israel, Eretz Yisroel. My people, my land. A place of Holiness.
Then why, instead of feeling like I'm going home, does it feel like I'm leaving, and going back?
New York, Israel. Going home, leaving home.
Where is my home? I don't know, it's so confusing.
I cry on the plane, because I miss my family, and the fun times I had at home.
As the wheels touchdown on the holy soil of Eretz Yisroel, the land of the Jews, my people, I don't feel home. I feel lost. Disoriented.
The life of the wandering Jew.
I'm back now. But this place still doesn't feel like home.
I'm waiting for Moshiach, a time of completeness, when this place, these people, will feel like my home, and my family.
But until then, I'm just back. And missing home. Wherever that is.
