Jerusalem

I’ve somehow found myself in a parallel universe. The apartment I landed in is close to 100 years-old, no one really knows. The buildings around me are old and rundown, but no one seems to care. That’s not what the focus is here. Faith seems to be the word of Jerusalem. Humility. Devotion like I’ve never seen before. I am definitely still adapting to this new environment, and my resistance to the stripping of the physical suggests this move can be only positive. 

Moving to Jerusalem has caused me to think about my relationship to my personal belongings. How lovely it can be to acquire personal property, to own something physical, call it yours. To curate the items we surround ourselves with, create our lives and our identities with and through them. In this way, we attach meaning to our belongings. Strange how things that are not alive can feel so incredibly comforting when we need them to be. This is has been especially true for me while living far away from home.

But sometimes too much stuff can weigh us down. Collecting can become avoidance, an escape from something we don’t want to, or aren’t ready to face. Like an addiction. What is it about collecting stuff that is so enticing? It’s quite a strange concept, hoarding. We accumulate so much stuff in this life even though we are consciously aware of the fact that we cannot bring anything with us when we die. Why is it that sometimes we place so much energy, time, effort, and value on these things that don’t really matter, that are all replaceable? When that which is not replaceable is the ‘stuff’ we often times need to be focusing more attention on, and don’t?

To my surprise, while unpacking my boxes from storage (something I have been looking forward to for a while), I had the sinking feeling that it did not feel as satisfying as I had anticipated it to be. Instead, I felt I had saved too much. Why did I try so hard to preserve my old life, one I was in the middle of actively giving up at the time? Why is it so hard to let go? This thought loop followed by guilt because Omri pleaded with me for very few things, one of which was a silly pasta strainer, and I told him no, what if I want to make pasta in my new apartment? And now I live in an apartment with at least 3 pasta strainers with no need for the one I paid to have sit in a storage locker for 11 months, unused and yearning for a purpose. 

In my reunion with the physical belongings that I packed away almost a year ago, I find myself in an undoing process: the undoing of my attachments. Causing me to wonder things like, why has it been so difficult to let go of the largely unimportant items I lost in my breakup? To be fair, I am a very sentimental person. And some of the items lost were valuable. A brand new mattress. A brand new dresser. Some of the items were one of a kind. A handmade mug I bought in Costa Rica. A money tree (my favorite of all my plants) that died while I was away. I took stock of them all as if having these items would even make that big of a difference in my life now. They wouldn’t. But I still held onto them for weeks, mourning their presence in my life. Upon reflection, I’ve realized that maybe I was actually mourning these physical remnants as artifacts of the life I used to have. The person I used to be.

But of course, all of this coming up now is showing me what I need to continue working on. Israel has a way of humbling you like that. Perhaps Jerusalem even more so than Tel Aviv.

In the end, the items I was most happy to reunite with were the simplest ones. The most perfect shell I found on the beach in Miami. Unused journals, patiently waiting for me to fill their pages. Precious books I’ve read and reread, the more they are falling apart, the more endearing. A sturdy and well-used yoga mat. A framed black and white photo of my family when we were all young and vibrant, memorializing the glow of our youth. The common thread is that all of these items are not about the items themselves, but what they have provided for me countless times over, and what they will continue to give me. The seashell connects me to nature, my awe for the natural world. The journals bring opportunities for creation, inspiration. The books bring solace, comfort, escape. The yoga mat provides a space to release and find inner peace. And the photo of my family emanates pure love, sustaining me during bouts of homesickness or despair. Maybe when we have less stuff we are able to really see and appreciate what each item provides for us. I am starting to truly understand the concept you read about in spirituality books, that true peace and freedom come from the ability to detach from the physical. 

Without meaning to, this move from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem has reflected a mirror of the things that the previous version of myself placed value on, things that seem much less important now. It’s taken time to pry each finger off, but the higher parts of myself yearn to be free of the attachments that don’t serve me. I have never been, and might not ever be, a minimalist. Which is fine. Some might say I love rocks too much. But my attraction to this concept at this moment in time is no coincidence. How can we continue finding ways to feel completely free? To stay in constant appreciation for the abundance we already have, instead of yearning for more, or holding onto things we’ve lost? Of course, there is nothing wrong with desire, wanting, or needing (shoutout Granny Franny). My goal now is simply pinpointing, narrowing, and refocusing what exactly remains important to me, and what I can do without. I am slowly shedding more of the things I feel are unnecessary to continue carrying. Both physically and emotionally. To continue making space for newness, surprise, and delight in my life.

I never thought I would live in Jerusalem, and I’m still figuring out how I fit in to this very strange, holy place. But here I am, having brought far too many seashells from the beach to the mountains. Seems like there is no where to go but up.