My first full time job was in Israel. I was living in Jerusalem at the time as an American immigrant. The lovely apartment that I shared with a friend, was situated right near knisa la’ir – the city entrance, only a few blocks away from the rolling hills of the Jerusalem forest. This location benefitted me greatly, since my job was in the city of Bet Shemesh, an hour-and-a-half bus commute away
Though Jerusalem winters are far less snowy than the long winters here in New York City, they are still dreary and cold. Middle Eastern busses aren’t known for their promptness, and I would spend many chilly mornings wistfully staring out over the Lifta valley leading up to Jerusalem from my bus stop on the city’s edge, searching for the first signs of the changing seasons. Most gloriously, and in classic Israeli fashion, spring would always appear in one fell swoop. Winter would creep away overnight, and in its place, spring would take hold. On the first spring morning of the year the valley’s groves of almond trees would be surprisingly bright with sweet, white blossoms poking up towards the sky, and the ground would be carpeted with red, purple and white kalaniot, the national Israeli flower. Somehow my coworkers were always happier that first day of spring; the clouds a little less thick, the grass the greenest it would be all year.
My friends and I used to hike the Jerusalem forest as often as we could during the spring. Kalaniot grew wild all over, and we would picnic among their bright blossoms, perched on little patches of sun in the forest shade. There was no need to pick them – the flower men in the Machene Yehuda shuk, the central farmer’s market, would sell bundles of the best kalaniot from the north for about a dollar. During kalania season I could split a few bundles of the flowers with my roommate and feel like a princess in my anemone-bedecked apartment, throwing open the winter shutters to let in the returning sunshine.
Once I made the decision to move to New York City, my departure happened rather too quickly. Within several months, I had sold my furniture, ended my apartment lease, and quit my job. I didn’t have too much time to think about what I would miss about my adopted country; instead, my mind was on the logistics of my move. On one of my last trips to the Jerusalem market, I paused, growing nostalgic for all the loveliness I had experienced during my time in Israel. It was quite a few months ahead of kalania season, but, on the shelf in a small pottery shop, I saw one of those sweet, bright flowers nestled in the bottom of a handmade ceramic bowl. I knew that this red kalania, painted in sure and flamboyant strokes by a Jerusalem native, was meant for me: I would bring this piece of spring back to the United States. I saw it as a talisman of hope for my future in an unfamiliar and daunting city. It would be hard to start anew, but, bright times were sure to unfold – with, I hoped, the same speed and warm surprise of a kalania after winter.
These days, I keep the kalania bowl on a special shelf in my New York apartment. On Friday nights, after the ritual candles are lit, my friends often stop by to share in the traditional Sabbath meal. Though the bowl doesn’t really match any of my other dishes, it still makes a frequent appearance on my table, the bright little kalania showing its face as soon as the food is finished. I often find myself lingering over the flower as I wash the dishes once everyone has left, remembering the Jerusalem forest carpeted in anemones, and appreciating the promise of a sudden, glowing spring.
A 360 degree view on Google Maps of the a picnic spot near my bus stop.
