Finding myself in the Middle East



Sunday, August 12, 2012

Go, My Son

I break stuff.

Once, when I was pregnant, I managed to smash into tiny shards my entire set of fleishig dishes at the same time. I was only lifting half of the dishes into the cabinet, but when they slipped out of my swollen fingers, they landed on the other half waiting on the counter.

I break stuff. This year, I have broken the deep freezer by leaving the door ajar all night, I have broken my brand new computer by letting one of the kids drink a cup of milk while they were looking at pictures--which, of course, promptly spilled across the keyboard and fried out all of its inner workings, I have broken--well, had stolen--the garbage can. I left it outside for a few hours. When I came back, it was gone.

I broke the dryer by putting in a soaking wet load and snapping the thinga-ma-worly-thingy.

The air conditioner broke. It wasn't my fault--probably--but I was the only one home, the one who turned it on. So default my fault. Our phones hardly work--also, probably not my fault, but with my track record, who knows?

And I hope I am not breaking Princess. I pray that I am not breaking her.

And I've been thinking lately, about the Land spitting you out. Because we have lived in apartment after apartment and it always ended too soon and in tears. We laugh about it to friends--ha ha! We are nomads! We are free spirits! We are a segulah for landlords to sell!--

But you know? It's not funny, living in unrenovated fourth-floor walk-ups that are covered in mold and falling apart around my ears. That would be okay, actually. I Can Do. But then it's not even ours. The landlord is trying to sell it, and even doing my daily housekeeping seems futile and pointless, like I am already cleaning someone else's house.

 Last night, the tris to the tiny mirpeset flung itself down and  broke, and now we can't get out. We are stuck in our tiny box in the sky.

I break things.

But we are moving! I say, we say to each other. Everything will be different in our own place, in a big place, a place that will have room for everyone, a place that we will tailor make to suit ourselves. (Read:I am so buying the Ikea Bar Cabinet.)

Yes. But the morgage? Not going so well. At all. Yeah, going really bad, for No Good Reason. Really.

And it all seems so pointless and hopeless and a little bit broken. (and I probably broke it.)

So now I am thinking; how can one tell the difference between the yisurim of Eretz Yisrael--and being told to leave?

4 comments:

colloquiallyspeaking said...

Oh i know this one...I know it well...it's yissurim until it's too much. Then it's a not-so-gentle kick along with the searing pain of a limb dismembering itself from your body and the agonizing journey of trying to get it back. Sometimes you need to be far away to know what it is you're missing...and to figure out a way to be whole.

Princess Lea said...

Well, if I recall my history correctly, The Land doesn't go for subtle. When it kicks you out, it does so loudly, obviously, and painfully.

So this aggravation can be chalked up to butterfingers . . .

Cymbaline said...

Why can't you just be a clumsy mess?

JerusalemStoned said...

Colloquially-- How can you get far away, to see it? It's all right here with me...

Princess--that actually cheered me up. Thanks! Not subtle. More in-your-face. :)

Cymbaline--Hey! I resemble that remark!

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