a black journal

October 7, 2024

At first, I instinctively wrote "October 7, 2023." Then I realized—an entire year had passed.

Around this time last year, I was writing in a black journal. I remember it distinctly because it was the first black journal I remember writing in. It stood out against the green shades of Portland’s rainforest, almost like a shadow from the trees and clouds.

I like thinking about the last page of a journal. I look forward to the end of the journal. Reaching the final page, flipping through the filled pages, catching glimpses of forgotten thoughts. The ink feels smooth beneath my fingers, and I can trace how my handwriting changes—speed, size, shape, a visual map of my thoughts, feelings, experiences.

Last year’s black journal had no end date, it never ended.

That black journal began at the end of September, beginning of October 2023. When I look back at pictures from that time, I see how seemingly carefree my smile was. I was just flowing through each moment— sights, smells, emotions— down the road of time. Every day, I wrote it all down. 

September 26, 2023 – Tuesday, 11:46 PM: I just want to get to sleep. I started drinking coffee again, which has turned me into an insomniac.

I wrote that in this journal I’ve been carrying around, traveling with me.

These days, I can’t stop talking about coffee. Not a day goes by without mentioning those magic beans.

September 27 2023, Wednesday , I made the decision to pause my coding and computer science learning. I had recently rediscovered making art through code, which is an almost impossible task. I remember hunching over in coffee shops, cracking away at esoteric pieces of code, trying to get the hang of it. I had enough, I needed to save my hands for making art, not this strange coding stuff. Maybe next year, I thought.  

Coding and Comp Sci are the two things that are always on my mind these days, right up there with a good cup of coffee. 

I don’t usually re-read my journals. In fact, I often toss them out when they pile up, about once a year. Books are heavy, and those moments are in the past. Why carry them around? One journal at a time feels like enough to carry, don’t you think?

I’ve been journaling daily for about four years. I count them on my fingers. Thank God. Truthfully, it’s just an amazing thing to have in the day. 

I have left them all behind, and I have no clue where they are now.

 That’s life. 

When the war started, I almost dropped everything to fly back to Israel. The first week, I was in shock. I barely left my apartment. I certainly remember leaving, that’s for sure.

I went to L.A. over shabbat to be with my cousins, intending to continue on to Tel Aviv the next day. But I stayed. My brother called from the army base and told me not to fly back yet. My older brother, looking out for me. What a blessing.

So, I lived in New York for the year—writing, coding, drinking coffee. I never went hiking, barely made any visual art, but I experimented with music. I stayed close to family, felt safe, grieved with a broken heart, and still somehow lived my best life. 

A year later, I’m in Tel Aviv, and I know there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

Life flows for me, especially when I’m being creative—when my hands, mind, and body are all in motion. That’s just how it is. In Israel, my life needs to flow. And I feel like it needs to have a sense of compounding meaning, if that makes sense.

Take, for example, walking with Elana, her musically brilliant roommate Shifra, her sweet boyfriend Effie, and kind Elisha, the flight attendant. It was Rosh Hashanah in Jerusalem. We passed my Aunt Hildee and her mother Shifra (yes, same name as Elana’s friend). 

As we stopped to say hello, a man with a shofar appeared. He asked me to say the bracha, and I gladly did. The shofar’s cry echoed through the air. Then, as if nothing had happened, we continued our walk, our conversation, our day. I saw Elana’s new home and then walked back to mine.

Moments like that feel like they flow together, one thing naturally leading to the next. Being in the right place at the right time feels like a blessing, a gift.

I’ve come close to terror attacks in my life, and I’m forever grateful I wasn’t too close. 

Last weekend, two men from Hebron, disguised as soldiers on miluim, committed a despicable attack in Jaffa, killing and injuring many. I was 15 minutes away, sitting on a bench, talking to my friend Benyamin on the phone. I saw people running, heard the ambulances and police sirens, and began walking toward it. But then I turned away and went home.

As soon as I walked in the door, I called my family to tell them I was safe. 

Then the sirens began—ballistic missiles from Iran. I went to my bedroom, which is a bomb shelter, and got comfortable.

I felt so grateful to be home, to be safe. Even today, I had just gotten home when the sirens sounded —missiles from Gaza and Yemen. Twice in a day, I just got home when they started. I’m grateful for that timing.

I don’t take those coincidences for granted.

Intuition. Guardian angels. Luck. I don’t know. But I’m grateful.

Each day feels like I create and work this machine that I’m calling life. 

And I know, any day can be your last. 

I remember thinking this way a lot when the war first started.

I could have been at Nova. I’ve been to festivals in the Negev. 

Had this happened a couple years earlier, it’s just crazy to say. This was on my mind a lot in the beginning.   

The fear stays with me. It could so easily have been me or someone I love. So many loved ones—gone. 

Torn away. 

It could be you. 

It could be me.

And yet, it isn’t. And I’m grateful.

Even though the world is broken, I’m grateful.

I could grieve all day, shaking my fist at the sky in bitter resentment and anguish. 

But I can’t. So I am grateful.

When I think I’ve written all I can for the day, I end my journal with a list of things I’m grateful for. Gratitude for the time to write, grateful to be alive.

 There’s always something to be grateful for, and this practice helps me stay in touch with that.

I think about the Jewish people wandering in the desert toward the promised land. When they needed water, the only source they found was toxic. Moshe, frustrated and angry, was told to speak to the rock for water. Instead, he struck it. Water came, but because he struck the rock instead of speaking, he wasn’t allowed into Israel.

 He had to die just outside the land, after leading everyone here. 

That story makes me think about the need to listen to intuition for sustenance. When I get angry and hurt myself out of frustration, I may get what I need, but it feels forced. 

For life to flow, there needs to be a conversation.

My journal now is black. 

A funny coincidence. 

The desert rock is paved by ancient waves.

layers of halva. Kind of.

Those ancient waters gathered in the Dead Sea.

These days, I’m a fifteen-minute walk from the Mediterranean. I go to watch the waves. 

Each one arrives, is experienced, and washes away. 

Like writing on a page, like moments in the day. 

Time doesn’t stop, even when we wish it would slow down.

Truth is, this piece has good flow, but it’s just a way to distract the deep anger and frustration I feel towards the evils of humanity. 

How it’s corrupted the very sense of morality, and dignity.

But ya, this piece flows much better than that one on like that.

The evil and terrible things people do, this chaotic evil, is not in my control alone. 

Getting angry all the time about this evil, will not do anything except cause me more anguish. A terrible waste of time. 

I need to create things, instead. 

I think my creations can bring a bit of justice to the terrible destruction these people do. 

I'll list all that I am grateful for, no matter how terrible people can be.