A Path of a Tumbleweed
And why the word ‘tumbleweed’ is tattooed across the back of my dominant hand
On a part of the body I see most frequently.
Hey Tumbleweed, what a loaded thing you are!
Sun-drenched and earth pecked, your essence is only partially in the outer look of you and in the way you move, yet your ethos is mostly found deep in the center of you. Between intersecting sinuous lines, embracing each other with passion, unlocking and releasing simple truths. Seeds of burdens, daydreams and promises. Always treading a fine line between aimlessness and fierce determination. You are my heart’s surrender.
And Tumbleweed, how do I begin to unravel your woven threads? Perhaps I begin from the beginning, just as I start a day, tell a story, or anything I make. What I know of you so far is that you bring out everything that enlivens me, sets me free, as well as saddens and maddens me. That you propel all that is between us, between me and myself, other humans, and this earth. That you make it okay to give in to what I deem as nuisance, laborious, and to melt into what I see as easeful, sensual, and innately magnificent.
Growing up in the desert, dust storms made an indelible part of every end of summer. Upon their arrival, the only way to avoid airborne sand grains from entering my eyes and all other openings to the inside of me, was to stay in the house, which at the time was my least favorite place to be. Looking outside the window through the dusty veil of skies, oddly shaped but mostly round, nameless ‘beings’, would suddenly come into sight, yielding to sporadic gusts of wind, every which way.
They did vanish just as quickly as they appeared, leaving my mouth gaping, my heart pounding, mesmerized, astonished really. Peering through these muted heavens I would mainly ask: What are you? Where do you come from? Where are you headed? And why? Tumbleweeds. An aching desire to be just like them steadily grew in me. To be uprooted, to move fluidly from one landscape to another. Believing that it’s good and possible to be nowhere and everywhere at the same time, appeased me to no end.
A deep knowing that ‘resting’, ’not resting’, and then ‘resting again’ is life’s true and humble rhythm and the cadence of all magnificent undertakings and creations, to be internalized and revered. And when asked: What would you wish to be when you grow up? I’d say: A tumbleweed. I would now probably add: ‘Time and again, bursting wide open by life’s breaches of trust and love’s betrayals’. From childhood crushes, Tumbleweeds became lifelong role models. In more ways than this piece of writing can touch on.
I was born in Be’er Sheva, a city in the Negev desert of southern Israel, somewhere between the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. I was raised with a deep awareness not only of tumbleweeds and their fantastical nature but also of the intricate reality of mainly two peoples, Arabs and Jews, both claiming ownership of this one land. An underlying perpetual tension, a festering heartbreak, was a daily predicament. For some, more than others. Yet resilience, joy, and a sense of normalcy (false or not) was ongoing alongside those unimaginable hardships.
This particular daily awareness was brought to me solely by my father. And for this gift, I remain beholden. Speaking of gifts, his name was Natan, which means ‘Gave’ in Hebrew. Soon enough I started noticing how utterly different he was than any other father of girls like me. In many ways. Furthermore, I concluded later in my own journey, that I was the luckiest woman to have him inform much of what became of me, the workings of my heart, the stubbornness in which I love, the effortlessness in which I cry, and the ease in which I ’leave’.
My mother taught me more about the latter, about ‘Leaving’, about being able to abandon places and humans so as to not betray one’s soul. Back to my father, I now know that he was a true tumbleweed, in every sense of the word. That is, in the way I understand tumbleweeds. And not only that, but that my wish was granted and I myself have become one as well. Sadly, I have also witnessed my father’s relentless daily distress over the persistent anguish people like him, Holocaust survivors from east Europe, have inflicted on natives of this land.
Not a day went by without my father expressing a great disappointment. Witnessing inhumanity drove him mad. Yet his position was most complex, as well as confusing to me. You see, he, as I, was intrinsically still being part of a society enabling that same oppression he was so fiercely opposed to. Regardless of said complexity, it was clear to him that there was no such thing as ‘chosen people’. No such thing as ‘lesser beings’. And I now often hear myself say things like: There are no non-humans, no non-artists, no non-writers, no non-sufferers, etc.
Having to think otherwise provokes me to no end. Tumbleweeds and some fathers, they tumble, they disperse their seeds equally across the land. This is their job. It’s also the job of teachers, of mothers, of leaders, and of every single person here on earth. Always and forever and within all human contexts and configurations. Yes, we are here to spread all the good and fertile seeds, indiscriminately. And here I am, at 65, soon to be 66, as you are; at a certain age, soon to be at another, tumbling along, on many missions, also to see what tomorrow brings.
But more significantly, to see what we bring to tomorrow. With an insistence to always learn, course correct, and move forth comes the desire to open new worlds, for one’s self, and for others too. I know by now that every event in the present is drawn from past ancient events, and that new stories, visual, written, or spoken, are always beckoning. That we, like tumbleweeds, forever seek such balances between attachment and autonomy, surrender and rebellion. Yes, we seek, and we find. With you, on this particular dusty road, I am content.
And more practically, ultimately, it’s about gently carrying ourselves from one place to another, continuously placing ourselves right in the center of humanity, about caring deeply. I know, this is not the whole truth, it cannot be, but it’s mine, intimately. It’s about all that is between us, humans, earth and heavens. About being uprooted, then rooted, then uprooted once again, always examining how we grow, where our offshoots are headed, and how all this determines what we create as adults, and if we are able to make something new at all.
Whether we keep on tumblin’, hang on to chain link fences, or alternate between the two, we should always have the means to self determination. So should everyone else on this planet. No questions asked. And to the question: Why do I have the word Tumbleweed tattooed across the back of my hand? On a part of the body seen most frequently? It’s as simple as this: To remind me of all that I have written here, of my calling, to be a tumbleweed. And in the end I conclude that it’s always okay and good for us to reconsider everything, and to change.
Yes. It’s okay to change.
It’s okay to withdraw, then join back in.
To leave and never come back.
To leave and come back differently.
To tumble, dust off our souls.
To then get back on the vague road.
Over and over, like a tumbleweed.
To live, to leave, and to love.
Wholeheartedly.
It is New Year’s Day, and I am sitting in a bar, of all places. Not my normal place, but the only place I can be right now. So, as the football games play on the multitude of TV’s, the voices go from a loud chatter to a wild roar of reaction to the food known as football. I sit here, hearing your voice in my ear - making this location one of unexpected wisdom and discovery. As if, a Tumbleweed of Grace blew up to sit next to me. What a surprise! Thank you, Orly. I cannot wait to see what blows my way next week.
Much love to you and this new beginning!!
Love you so much.
Happy New Year. Thank you for sharing yourself so openly, yet still cloaked in the mystery and magic you bring to your art your writing and your followers.