I’m a bit melodramatic, if you haven’t figured that out. I see things with my heart and feel things with my soul. It can be stressful at times, trying to dig the rationale out of heaping piles of feelings, but there are some rewards.
So I was a bit surprised when my husband, who can usually read all the emotions running through my words with an understanding (on the side of tolerant) eye, looked at me after reading my last post, A Song Of Fire, and asked me where the hell that came from. I figure if HE didn’t get it there must be at least some other readers, (ha! as if there are more than a few) who were reading quizzically, thinking I went over the edge.
Truth is, maybe I did. The source of that post might not make sense to you, but I feel at least a little obliged to explain, so as to hang onto whatever readership I’ve got.
See, I was sitting on my porch, looking out at the view. The big picture was gorgeous, as usual, with the hill used as a sheep pasture directly in my line of vision and my peripheral filled with rolling mountains and clear blue sky. Then I looked again and saw the details.
Any of you been in Israel in the summer? It’s brown. Different shades of dead, dry brown. The occasional green comes from useless low bushes that don’t offer any shade. And it burns. Literally. All summer long.
So there I am, looking at rolling brown terrain, naturally smelling some far off brush fire, when the land starting talking to me.
Okay – stop reading now if you just wrote me off as psycho. I already explained my melodrama, no need to add other labels.
Anyway, that’s what happened. The land spoke and I wrote what she was saying. I didn’t think it could be taken as anything else, doesn’t everybody hear it?
Oh right. You don’t.
And here’s my little Zionist pitch: that’s why you ain’t here. Cause if you heard her, I mean really really heard her, you would abandon all and join me on the dead terrain, screaming for redemption.
I know what I’m waiting for.
What about you?