I remember a conversation about what it means to return Home.
I thought it made sense,
Aliya.
To become an Oleh,
To quite literally “ascend.”
Your soul rising and reaching to new heights.
Yet as I awoke that morning,
I felt nothing.
Maybe it was the odd flight time,
Or the crying babies,
The Yiddish?
There was some comfort,
Knowing they would all grow up speaking the language of their Forefathers.
And so I arrived,
Homeless and tired.
Is this ascent?
I went through the motions,
Swiftly in this soft landing.
Kama zman hayita po?
They asked.
Asiti Aliya hayom,
Etmol,
Lifnei yomayim
Shlosha yamim,
Arba.
I replied as the days progressed.
Then just before Shabbat clarity set in,
And I took a seat among the synagogue pews,
In the very place the modern State was declared.
I heard familiar hymns to bring in the Sabbath,
Only this time my body was engulfed.
The hairs on my arms rose,
My vision began to cloud.
Melting into the wood,
Every sense enthralled by the present.
My every word,
Thought,
Feeling.
Every letter pronounced around me burning with zeal,
Ascending to the heavens ever greater by the second.
So I sat,
Tears streaming down to my face,
It finally felt real.
Hineini.
I’m Home, my Lord.
