This weekend combined, for the first time in 33 years, the Jewish feast day of Yom Kippur (the day of atonement) and the Muslim festival of Eid Al Adha. These important celebrations also fell on the Sabbath, and as one of the Dutch teachers at the Lozenge's school pointed out: 'It's alsho International Animalsh Day, which we take very sherioushly in Holland'.
Just to cap it all off - as if the mass slaughter of chickens (YK) and sheep (EA) wasn't enough, someone decided Jerusalem also needed a Formula One this weekend. The city went from ghost town to gridlock, with most people on holiday, and a few fear-mongerers suggesting that: 'now would be the time' for extremists to set something off.
J and I hadn't foreseen this weekend megamix, and had planned a little escape for three nights 'bidun al kazaam' (Arabic for: without the dwarves).
For some reason I always think it necessary to whip up a few home made ready meals for the dwarves when we're away, even though I know I could leave St Grace and her charges with an empty fridge and they'd be fine. But maternal emotions run high before departures, and somehow Rashimi also muscled in there as a sous chef. So having bolted to Jordan for a few meetings the day before, attended the school class reps meeting and got roped into organising half the Christmas fair; filmed a little girl in the hospital for most of the morning and rushed to get funds for St Grace for while we were away; I screeched to a halt somewhere near the cooker - with an eager Rashimi right there, stark naked with wooden spoon in hand. Small lasagnes were first on the agenda. Rashimi perched on a stool, his determined mits pushing mine away as he flicked white sauce all over the kitchen, minced the mushrooms with a blunt knife and ate mouthfuls of half-cooked mince. We lost three teaspoons in the bubbling sauces and had to fish them out with the tongs. And that was merely chapter 1.
Having thought we'd leave at 1pm, J and I were just getting around to packing at 6pm, and we drew out of the garage an hour later, leaving the dwarves watching Tom and Jerry and happily eating popcorn they'd made with St Grace. I banished thoughts of terror attacks in our absence, as calm descended on the car. The Lozenge has been getting inquisitive about the subject of death, and voiced his concern to me that morning: 'I weeeally don't want to die before my birthday Mummy, becauthe then I won't get to eat my cake and have my friendth to my party.' I concentrated on this not becoming a superstitious omen.
We were in the crusader town of Akka in northern Israel by dinner time and stayed in a magical renovated palace overlooking the Mediterranean, which has incorporated some of the original ceiling and wall frescoes and coated the rest of the place with marble, beautiful furniture and love.
It's nestled within the ancient city walls, with normal life going on very normally about it. From our window in the mornings we could hear the sounds of family capers in the street below, and from the roof watching the sunset turn the hills to blue and then purple, with swallows ducking and diving against the orange sun, we could also see the roofs of people's houses decorated with washing neatly slung, water tanks and satellite dishes. The festival day was so quiet as we sat up there. Nothing but the beat of a bird wing and a woman calling to her children to come and eat.
Normal life for everyone, but for us, the greatest luxury of revisiting that little preserved package of togetherness, which you don't get to pay attention to as much as you'd like within the hubbub of home life.
There's something deafening about that hubbub, yet when it's suddenly not there, you hear even the most subdued of sounds, and can for once meditate on them.
Nothing becomes everything.
I wanted to include this poem which the playwright, Harold Pinter wrote for Antonia Fraser. It sums up everything for me. Sometimes you need a little breakie from the 'kazaam' to hear those tiny reverberations.
'It is here'
What sound was that?
I turn away, into the shaking room.
What was that sound that came in on the dark?
What is this maze of light it leaves us in?
What is this stance we take,
To turn away and then turn back?
What did we hear?
It was the breath we took when we first met.
Listen. It is here.
Just to cap it all off - as if the mass slaughter of chickens (YK) and sheep (EA) wasn't enough, someone decided Jerusalem also needed a Formula One this weekend. The city went from ghost town to gridlock, with most people on holiday, and a few fear-mongerers suggesting that: 'now would be the time' for extremists to set something off.
J and I hadn't foreseen this weekend megamix, and had planned a little escape for three nights 'bidun al kazaam' (Arabic for: without the dwarves).
For some reason I always think it necessary to whip up a few home made ready meals for the dwarves when we're away, even though I know I could leave St Grace and her charges with an empty fridge and they'd be fine. But maternal emotions run high before departures, and somehow Rashimi also muscled in there as a sous chef. So having bolted to Jordan for a few meetings the day before, attended the school class reps meeting and got roped into organising half the Christmas fair; filmed a little girl in the hospital for most of the morning and rushed to get funds for St Grace for while we were away; I screeched to a halt somewhere near the cooker - with an eager Rashimi right there, stark naked with wooden spoon in hand. Small lasagnes were first on the agenda. Rashimi perched on a stool, his determined mits pushing mine away as he flicked white sauce all over the kitchen, minced the mushrooms with a blunt knife and ate mouthfuls of half-cooked mince. We lost three teaspoons in the bubbling sauces and had to fish them out with the tongs. And that was merely chapter 1.
Having thought we'd leave at 1pm, J and I were just getting around to packing at 6pm, and we drew out of the garage an hour later, leaving the dwarves watching Tom and Jerry and happily eating popcorn they'd made with St Grace. I banished thoughts of terror attacks in our absence, as calm descended on the car. The Lozenge has been getting inquisitive about the subject of death, and voiced his concern to me that morning: 'I weeeally don't want to die before my birthday Mummy, becauthe then I won't get to eat my cake and have my friendth to my party.' I concentrated on this not becoming a superstitious omen.
We were in the crusader town of Akka in northern Israel by dinner time and stayed in a magical renovated palace overlooking the Mediterranean, which has incorporated some of the original ceiling and wall frescoes and coated the rest of the place with marble, beautiful furniture and love.
It's nestled within the ancient city walls, with normal life going on very normally about it. From our window in the mornings we could hear the sounds of family capers in the street below, and from the roof watching the sunset turn the hills to blue and then purple, with swallows ducking and diving against the orange sun, we could also see the roofs of people's houses decorated with washing neatly slung, water tanks and satellite dishes. The festival day was so quiet as we sat up there. Nothing but the beat of a bird wing and a woman calling to her children to come and eat.
Normal life for everyone, but for us, the greatest luxury of revisiting that little preserved package of togetherness, which you don't get to pay attention to as much as you'd like within the hubbub of home life.
There's something deafening about that hubbub, yet when it's suddenly not there, you hear even the most subdued of sounds, and can for once meditate on them.
Nothing becomes everything.
I wanted to include this poem which the playwright, Harold Pinter wrote for Antonia Fraser. It sums up everything for me. Sometimes you need a little breakie from the 'kazaam' to hear those tiny reverberations.
'It is here'
What sound was that?
I turn away, into the shaking room.
What was that sound that came in on the dark?
What is this maze of light it leaves us in?
What is this stance we take,
To turn away and then turn back?
What did we hear?
It was the breath we took when we first met.
Listen. It is here.
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