On the plane back to Israel after my cousin Josh's wedding, there was a sentence stuck in my head:
"It's gonna be a banner year for Rydell High. A banner year."
For all of those contorting their faces in confusion and inability to identify, this is the pep-rally speech of the perenially defeated Coach Calhoun of the movie "Grease." And it is my mantra for the new year.
"It's gonna be a banner year, Yoni. A Hell-yeah, holy torah, hootenany, banner year."
Writing hopes and resolutions for a new year is a bit of a daunting task. Aside from the fact that there is a Wal-Mart sized amount of requests, you run the risk of boring people with a Christmas list (or I guess in my case, a Channukah) list of hopes. "Economy sized dreams of hope," in the words of the great Billy Joe Armstrong (Greenday for the perpetually-contorted faces). I hope that I can steer around the danger. Bare with me.
While lying on my back at my pre-Rosh Hashana massage session, my teacher/therapist/friend Matt began to investigate into the cause of my pain. Matt's theory was that the car accident (yes, three months ago I was hit in the left side, I'm fine other than some lower back stiffness) wasn't so much the problem as were the circumstances surrounding it.
"If you get hit in a game of football, while having fun with friends, you bounce back up without a problem. If you're head is filled with problems, your body won't heal well."
I began detailing the week before the accident; Noam's (of blessed memory) death, Tzvika's car accident, all of the shit-hitting-the fan that lead up to that Motzash where my head was swimming with tragedy.
Rewind five years. We had just moved to Israel from Memphis, after the shit hit the air-conditioning unit.I will never forget my discussion with my mother the week of our first Rosh Hashana in Jerusalem. The new year was a welcome event, covering us with so much hope we were nearly trembling with it. We were ready to put it all behind us, move on with the brighter and better future that the City of Gold, however painfully and annoying, seemed to promise us. To let the mikvah, the ritual bath, of G-d cleanse us not only of sin, but of the tears that we bathed in in the South.
This year was without a doubt one of the most exhilarating years of my life. I fulfilled what I once thought wad the impossible dream of being a mefaked in the IDF, taking care of my boys not for four or eight months, but for almost an entire year. Never have I felt more fulfilled or proud of myself than when I was in green, with three stripes decorating my arms, and the beautiful - but - ugly camo beret on my shoulder.
Today I realized though that it was a year of trials, tears, and fan hitting as well. As I lay there with Matt guiding me through the past, focusing on the presence of G-d in my life and in the room at the moment, I began to let go. Father in Heaven, take this crap and keep it for this year. There was too much death, first Noam and most recently my chanich in the Shalva center for the mentally disabled, Nachshon, who passed away from swine flu complications while I was in the States. There was too much stress with the soldiers and the missions. Too much anger because of all of the stress.
Tateh, make this a year of renewal for me and the Jewish people. Where we bridge the gaps within us and move onto bridging the gaps in the world. May we finally see Gilad at home with his parents.
On the personal side let me learn how to breathe properly, and improve my harmonica breathing techniques. Let it be the year where I get the guts to find Ashley, because just looking is never enough. Sit my derriere tight and properly in my seat in yeshiva and help me crack through the first layer Judaism. Help me to be happy with what I have, even when the picture is not complete.
Maybe this year you'll help me finish my unwritten songs, form a band and record them too. Maybe you can send me a guitar teacher who will inspire me to stop being lazy and learn to play the six string monkey. And maybe, just maybe, you can let the Indians win a World Series (ok, fine, I'll settle for a .500 season, but come on, it's just too painful the way it is).
The old year is closing, and with it the era of the restricted, though powerful, freedom of the army. In its place is the two year reign of freedom before the real world pulls me into its orbit. This is the first of are my banner years, the years that will give the extra shove into the tractor beam of the "grown up life" and send me spinning and smiling, although dazed and confused, for the rest of my time on the planet.
I don't think I ever got around to thanking the people who helped me out over the past year, I hope this will do you all justice (even though I know it won't). Thank you to my family, immediate and extended for reading every single long and graphic army update, and the ecouraging feedback afterwards. The week always started off better when I got to read one of your emails before going back. Thank you to my friends and their families for taking me in and loving me, as sad-eyed and puppy faced as I might have been. The laundry was clutch. You all know who you are. Thank you all for just being there, and letting me know you were reading my letters, even if that was the only bit of communication we had going between the two of us. It meant a lot to me to know that people were rooting for me.
So this is it. The closing of a window and the opening of the door. I am sure that the room that it leads to will have a fan in it and that it will be covered in feces. But at least they'll smell a little sweeter than the ones from this year. And if not, there's always the little blue thing that neglect to put in our toilet. those things work wonders in even the worst of our bathrooms.
Love you all, and may it be a banner year for all,
Yoni
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