The Moon Listens, I think

Hey Everyone,

I hope you have been well. It has been a busy time with work, visitors, friends, and family. My father continues to be our hero and keeping strong despite unpleasant treatments, and my mother a hero also, for her never-ending support to all of us. I got to go to Israel for my cousin’s wedding and had a lovely time with family.

While visiting my grandfather in Israel, he told me that when I was little I used to ask for story after story. ‘After four or five stories I would get tired and just start reading the politics section to you.’ Perhaps, that’s the reason for my strong opinions, but for now, we’ll focus on the stories.

The story below is fictional, a random thought that came to mind during the song moon at an amazing outdoor Shlomo Artzi concert in Israel. Though I suppose, as often happens in fiction, you’ll find traces of me in the story, and, I hope also some traces of you.

I realize these updates have taken a turn for the more imaginative side, but I hope you enjoy, and if you want a less fictional catch up, I’m happy to talk, chat, email etc any time.

Thank you for being in my life.

Inbal

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The Moon Listens, I Think

‘You have a lot of time to listen to stories. Maybe, from time to time, you also listen to mine, I am not sure. You have a lot to choose from, sitting up there looking at all of us. Probably you listen to soldiers and thieves, lovers and the poor, fascinating stories I would think. But maybe sometimes you listen to mine, when you are trying to fall asleep and make way for the sun. It is not much of a story, really, at least nothing beyond the predictable text of middle class routine, but I hope you listen. You’ve always been my best friend.’

Hila whispers to the moon as she falls asleep. Her bed is positioned next to the window so she can see the moon as she drifts to sleep. Once a year ago, she moved to this new apartment because the window of her old room was blocked by a construction site. ‘The moon has always been my best friend,’ she tries to explain to friends who are concerned about her sanity. ‘The moon listens to me,’ she says when asked to explain, avoiding labeling the moon as he or she. ‘Without judgment,’ she often adds, pleading for acceptance.

As a small child, Hila is active and curious. She has the confidence of children who have recently mastered the art of walking and the world is theirs to discover. She picks up everything, thoughtfully, carefully, and examines all sides before putting close to her nose and then to her mouth. Sandy, the family cat, does not enjoy these examinations, but the scratches do not deter Hila; her curiosity, eve at this young age, is immune from attacks. Many evenings, Hila’s mother finds her sitting on the porch, reaching her hand up high, grabbing strongly at air and pulling back with full concentration. She glares angrily at her empty hand and tries again. ‘She’s trying to catch the moon, Hila’s mother might explain to an observant friend, ‘she will do well in life with this vigorous desire to learn and explore.’

By the time Hila is in middle school her parents are worried about her. She is quiet and does not have many friends. She does well in school, always, and although she has grown to need the ‘A+’ or ‘Well Done’ on her papers to feel some sense of self-worth, the satisfaction is more and more fleeting. ‘It’s easy,’ she explains to the moon at night, ‘I go to a good school, I have good teachers, and parents who help when I need.’ She tries to make friends, but finds it hard to talk about TV shows, clothes, and boys. She feels bad when the girls make fun of another girl who is out of their click, and when she sees this young girl cry in the bathroom, she stops talking to those friends. ‘I do not understand why they have to make fun of people? It makes me a bit sad, you know, that they don’t care about how others feel’ she tells the moon. She’s fairly sure they now make fun of her as well. She reads in science class that the moon is responsible for the ocean’s tides. ‘You do so much,’ she says in admiration, and here I thought you were just lighting up the night and listening to stories. I am not sure what I do, to be honest. I mean, what is the purpose of a quiet 13-year-old girl who likes to read and talk to the moon?’ When a teacher refers her to the school counselor, and Hila shares her uncertainty about her purpose in this world, she is diagnosed as prone to depression. ‘The records at school say I have a strange inner sadness,’ she laughs when she tells the moon.

In university, Hila’s ‘inexplicable sadness’ is transformed to a productive anger towards injustice in any corner of the world. ‘We all sleep under the same moon, and I don’t see why we should not have the same opportunities for self-actualization regardless of where we are born, our gender, or the color of our skin,’ she is known to say to her colleagues. Her frequent references to the moon, received an eye-roll here and there, but overall she is admired by friends for her deep, personal, and emotional level of empathy. She is fundraising money for schools in Africa, cooking food for a local homeless shelter, tutoring an inner-city student, and writing letters to newspapers on a variety of issues from racism to fair-trade and poverty. ‘You are my kind of revolutionary, a real dreamer,’ says a handsome guy she has been noticing in the student coalition meetings. She blushes and hopes the moon does not tell everyone her secret. ‘It is out of guilt, you know. I have not earned much in my life, there is not much I have had to struggle against. Do you think when you help someone, I mean really help them, instead of gratitude maybe you can earn respect?’

Five years after university, Hila feels unsettled. She has traveled the world working for different organizations, building schools, training teachers, counseling students, and mobilizing communities. She has visited 22 countries, flown 137 times, and has stories, recipes, and friends from all around the world. When she day-dreams, she still thinks about what she wants to do when she grows up: write a book, start a school, work with youth, inspire a movement of community service and peace. She feels a bit sad when she realizes she is grown up. At times, having pieces of her hearts all over the world feels liberating and she is tremendously thankful for the opportunities to love so many times. Other times she feels lonely; her heart stretched in so many places that she always feels alone, always missing someone, some place, some feeling. She wonders if the moon finds her story more interesting these days, but she knows this long-time friend well enough to know the answer is no. The places, the stamps in the passports, the spices in the food are all details in a story that has not changed. People often ask about her plans; what they mean is settling down. She is not sure what she wants, there is something deep inside that keeps her motivated. As years pass, perceptions of her change; those who admired her sense of adventure now think she is lost, her comrades in fighting injustice now think she is naïve.

When she is already a mother, Hila decides she owes it to her children to achieve one of her dreams. She wants to start a community youth center, when young people can interact in a positive environment and learn about local and global issues and their power to change the world. ‘The Imagine Project,’ she tells a friend. She writes letters, organizes bake sells, gives talks at high schools, lobbies to town council, and spends every hour of her day thinking about the project. The concept is gaining support. An amazing group of youth has gathered to work with her, and friends too have dedicated their time. They get a small room in an existing community center and the Imagine Project kicks off. Youth are organizing community meetings, volunteering in elderly homes and early childhood centers, and raising money for places far and near. The project is going so well, Hila resigns from her job to work fulltime with the youth group. She can’t imagine a greater happiness. Years later, when she looks backs, she still can’t understand how things fell apart so quickly. First, it was the budget cuts that closed the community center, but ‘things would be ok,’ they all thought. Meetings moved to her house, and some youth started to drop out because it was hard to get there. Then, schools starting canceling the youth group presentations, ‘not enough time these days, with the new standardized tests rules,’ apologetic teachers would explain. Soon, more and more members of the youth group got discouraged. ‘But, we’ll be ok,’ thought the remaining group, ‘we’ll come out of this.’ It took months before Hila realized that every meeting was spent discussing how bad things had gotten, that she and the remaining five members were holding on to a corpse. She promised the remaining five to keep in touch as their mentor, and together they ended the Imagine Project. ‘I had my dream, and I failed. That’s my story of ambition, dear friend,’ she would snarl at the moon. For years, she has felt pity in people’s eyes, they saw her as defeated.

A long time has passed, and Hila now feels she can hug her sorrow. ‘I did fail,’ she explains to her husband, who has processed these lessons with her for many years, ‘and I am glad I did. It is not that I am happy that the project ended and it was painful for many people involved. Yet, through the experience I discovered a trace of my ability to overcome, to fail and to wake up the next day. Deep in that sadness are hidden the joys of resilience and strength.’ Hila is not sure anymore what she will do some day. Today, she is teaching, and so far days are going well, one by one. Sometimes, students tell her stories, funny and sad, hopeful and frightening, and she hopes the moon is listening too. She’s still a bit unsure of her story; but after years of uncertainty, she is confident the moon is listening. ‘Neither you nor I know what happens tomorrow, and that, my friend, is the most exciting story one can tell.’