Sunday, November 9, 2008

Knock, knock, knockin’...

My departure from Stockholm had an eerie darkness to it—not just because it was five a.m. It seemed like one of those bookend scenes from a movie that sets up the flashback at the beginning and then returns to frame the ending. I could almost feel the credits rolling up the blackness of the road ahead as the cab driver switched on his radio to the strains of Dylan singing knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door.

After ten rich days of traveling with Debbie we had just said our goodbyes and wished each other well as today we journey independently for the next one week plus. She will fly with her sister Judi to visit Judi’s daughter and granddaughters in Nairobi this evening, while I (gulp) finally head for Israel. None of this comes as a surprise after months of preparations, yet embarking on this next phase of our travels is having unanticipated impact.

Last night was an event. When Judi learned that we would be coming to Stockholm—her home for over forty years, where Debbie and I had only once visited as a couple back in 1975—she immediately decided to host a party in our honor with the local mishbucha (family and in this case a few friends as close as family). She made quiches and cakes, set out candies and nuts, lit candles in every room—the place glowed as the guest punctually arrived as is the local custom. The room immediately became a din of conversation and children’s activity.

My brother-in-law, Chief Rabbi Emeritus of Stockholm Morton Narrowe, convened us in the living room for Havdalah—the ceremony marking the end of the Sabbath. He made it a teaching moment, presumably for the few gentiles in the room. The rite itself is one I have greatly enjoyed over the years, though inexplicably have rarely performed at home. I appreciate the way it distinguishes between the beauty and peace of the Shabbat versus the mundane work week. It bids farewell to Shabbat even as it allows it’s spirituality to linger like the fragrant aroma of the spice box that we use, and the wisps of smoke from the braided candle as it is extinguished by the wine. We always conclude with two Hebrew words—shavua tov, good week—which I heard last night with an intensity as never before.

The plans of the week ahead flashed in my mind the second I uttered those words, what a huge, huge shavua lies ahead. Shavua tov—I will leave for Israel before the rest of the house wakes up. Shavua tov—Debbie and I will find ourselves greatly separated after an unusually intense period of closeness. Shavua tov—she will head to adventures in Obama’s homeland, in an animal preserve, in the home of our niece. Shavua tov—I will at last set foot in Eretz Yisrael and begin the challenging trek that has been the focus of so much energy for so many weeks. Those two words—shavua tov—have never been more pregnant with meaning. In the instant that I sensed all of this my eyes welled up with emotion. Shavua tov—a good week—indeed.

With the complex mixture of emotions—elation, sadness, fear, excitement, bewilderment, joy—I slowly opened the door from Judi and Mort’s apartment house to see the cab waiting a few meters away at almost the correct address. When he saw me he pulled forward and helped me put my bags in the back of the vehicle. I entered the cab and sat on the clean, comfortable, leather upholstered seat, handed the driver my credit card as he took off toward Arlanda and the Stockholm airport. A gentle rain fell from the black sky. I felt uneasy, not sure if I were ending or beginning something, knowing ultimately that it was a mixture of both. I settled back in the cab, staring blankly beyond the sweeping windshield wipers at the dark road ahead. The driver extended his right arm and turned on an oldies station.

Knock, knock, knockin’, on Heaven’s door...

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