Living in a country whose language is not your first means that, pretty regularly, you are going to find yourself feasting on a thick slice of humble pie. In general, I can understand what people are saying to me after a five-second delay, and with my third-grade Hebrew skills I can pretty much get across what I need to. However, the language barrier has made for some pretty priceless moments over the past few months.

Take today, for example. It is not a rare occasion for my doorbell to ring in the evenings with some person or other asking me for tzedakah (charity); here in Israel there is ALWAYS someone in need. However, the interesting thing is that the people who come are usually collecting on behalf of someone else: a poor family, an underfunded yeshiva, a couple about to be married. I’ve heard all kinds of stories on the other side of my intercom. At first I was taken aback by the whole arrangement, but now I’m pretty much used to it. In fact, I’ve even taken to dropping my loose change in a vase near the door so it’s handy when the needy come a-knockin’. Tonight, when I heard my buzzer around half past five I figured it was Shuie, keyless again. But when I picked up the intercom and heard a stream of Hebrew in my ear, my ears perked up.

“HebrewHebrewHebrewHebrewHebrewHebrew,” said the voice on the other end.

“Mah?” I said. What?

“HebrewHebrewHebrewHebrewHebrew,” was his retort.

“Od Pa’am?” I asked, buying myself time to figure out what was going on.

“HEBREWHEBREWHEBREWHEBREWHEBREW,” said he. Apparently he knew the rule that when you speak to someone who doesn’t know your language, all you need to do is talk louder and they’ll understand.

“Atah Rozeh Tzedakah?” I finally replied. You want Tzedakah?

“Lo!” came the voice, exasperated. “Dryer!”

Oh! He came to fix the dryer! Although I was thrilled to see him (we’ve had a two-month long washer/dryer saga that would make you weep) I left the door open, busying myself with Yonah so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with someone who clearly thought I was an idiot. In he went to our Machsan (storeroom) to tinker with our masochistic dryer, followed soon by Yossi, who loves to check out the scenery when fix-it people come by. While I was reading to Yonah I heard the dryer guy chatting with my landlord. “She asked me if I wanted tzedakah,” he chuckled.

Okay, I know some Israelis can be jerks. I know he’s a stranger and I will never see him again in my life (unless my dryer has another nervous breakdown). I also know his opinion matters naught in the scheme of things, but I was totally embarrassed. I guess today’s humble pie came a la mode. As a side note, just as I was writing this story a Chassidish man just buzzed, asking for tzedakah for a poor family. I should have given him my dryer.

Today was a bit of a whirlwind since we went away for Shabbat to Shuie’s childhood friend Zelig Barr’s in Ramat Beit Shemesh. By the time we got home last night I was too exhausted to do any prep (including giving Yonah a bath), so I was moving like a rocket from the time I got up this morning. Morning meditation was out the window as soon as I heard Yonah calling me (”Meema! Mommee!”) from his crib and before I knew it we were packed up and on our way to Ruchama’s. Thankfully, I was still able to get some quality quiet/me time during my walk through Nachlaot on the way to my art class. There is something invigorating about walking through a city first thing in the morning as everyone is getting ready for the day, like everything is brand-new and ripe with possibility. As I weaved through the merchants unloading trucks and wheeling their wares out for display and on through the winding stone alleys of Nachlaot, I caught myself in one of those moments when that “newness” feeling, the crisp air and the sun on my face make for unfiltered delight.

I hate to sound cliche, but I am really learning a lot about myself in my Veil Painting class. The whole idea of this type of art is that it’s a slow, organic process meant to unfold in tiny steps. I began today’s painting still in that “rush” mode, residue from the morning, and within a few minutes I was trying to coax some kind of form out of the painting instead of building a foundation and letting the form emerge. I wanted to get to the finished product, then end result, without going through the process. My teacher Miriam caught on pretty quickly and gently directed me to go back to basics. When I remembered to breathe and let go, I could relax into the process and just enjoy.

I hate to say it, but that little episode is typical me. I’ve never been good at waiting, and I would prefer to skip the process and the just get to the end result. Like, “I want to be more patient…RIGHT NOW!”. Even when it comes to my learning, I want to be able to learn independently today and move forward to be able to teach other people. I want to zoom through the grieving stages and just be used to not having my mother around anymore. I want to rush home so I know I have my ducks in a row before Little Bean comes instead of waiting to see what Gd has in store for us. So today’s lesson is a reminder to just breathe and be where I am, as hard as it is. If I can manage to let go and unclench every muscle in my body, I may even end up enjoying what the present moment has to offer.

Seriously, November is over already? I can’t believe how quickly time is flying. I’m already 19 weeks along in the pregnancy and Little Bean is apparently auditioning for David Beckham’s old spot on Manchester United. I try to remember to enjoy this pregnancy; it’s much different when you have another kid to run after. When I was pregnant with Yonah I could savor every single move he made in my belly; this time, I’m lucky if I notice anything going on. Still, just like every child is different, every pregnancy is different, too.

On that topic, as the result of a few horror stories I’ve heard about the midwives in Israeli hospitals, I’m strongly considering having the baby at home or in a birthing center. I actually wanted to do it with Yonah, but there were no birthing centers near where we were living at the time. There’s a huge movement of women who homebirth here as well as some amazing, loving midwives. I just wonder if I’ve been so indoctrinated by the whole “The Hospital is Safest” thing for me to actually be able to relax if I was laboring at home. It’s definitely something to consider, and if anyone has any experience one way or the other I am soliciting birth stories and advice.

Wishing everyone a happy rest of the weekend.