An Israeli Evening of Giving – 28.11.2023
Last night I was jotting down some notes in answer to the question, “How do you cope and what gives you joy during the current times of war?” asked by a writer for their article submission to a Jewish magazine. So I wrote about finding joy in the small things – a flower, a pattern on a leaf, a gnarled stick, a baby’s smile, the beauty of the landscape, the perfectly baked biscuit; engaging in activities that lift my spirits such as dance and writing, talking with the right people who instill positive, warm energy in your soul; and finally, comedy – those video clips that leave you clutching your sides to keep them from splitting, to hold your breath in as the tears stream down your cheeks. That kind of laughter; the pure, deep energy of release.
As I completed my notes, I received a WhatsApp from my neighbour. Do I have some cat food for her cat? Just one cup. Thanks to our band of foster street cats, we have a plentiful supply. Chicken is the flavour of the month.
“You can have five cups, six cups,” I write. “Come on over.”
But in my endearing, childish little way, I don’t have the patience to wait. I grab two disposable cups, fill each with the cat food, and head along the wet pavement in my pyjamas and socked feet to Sigal’s house. The air is biting.
I approach the entrance and thump twice on the door, then gingerly open it. It’s just the end of November, but Sigal already has the heating on in her home.
“You didn’t have to come to me,” she says. “I would have come.”
“I know, but do you know how crisp and cold it is outside? It’s magnificent.”
“Stay for a cup of tea.”
“I won’t object,” I reply, “but just a minute. I need to rush home for something and then I’ll be back.”
I race back home and jot down: “Giving brings me joy.”
And I hop back over again.
But bringing over some cat food was just the start. It led not only to an invitation to tea; it gave way to a shower of gifts.
I suddenly received a message from the writer of the magazine article saying that the editor decided each contributor would write their own article instead of consolidating all responses into one. I got to write my own article, and I got to talk to Sigal in her cosy, heated home. Sigal is a joy. She is warm and wonderful and our conversation flows like a mellow stream. She made two large cups of steaming tea, and laid out special bread, butter, jam, and cheeses.
“I came for tea,” I said, “not for dinner.”
She told me where to get the freshest greens, and that there is a free dance chug for women every Sunday evening at the community club house. We talked about growing up with our parents and about work, about dance, different kinds of food, and about being Jewish.
And as we sat and spoke and tried the cheeses, the heavy cloud that had been hovering above me for weeks burst into a puff of gold dust and mingled with the bliss that filled her home.
Then Udi came home from his guard shift at the entrance gate to the community, and I greeted him as I sat cross-legged on the dining room chair, in my lightly damp socks and dressed for bed.
And when I was about to leave, she asked me whether I like ginger, because the homemade ginger biscuits she had were a bit spicy and no one will eat them. I took a bite. They looked like the South African ginger biscuits my mother liked – but they tasted a whole lot better, and I showed her a picture of the South African biscuits on the net, how they look exactly the same.
“I’ll take them,” I said.
So I got to take home special delicious ginger biscuits, extra special because they had been baked by an evacuee staying on our yishuv.
That was my evening of joyful giving.
Originally published in Times of Israel
