I’m alone with Volcan Baru, a coconut, and my first glassjar. Back home, drinking water out of glass jars was a real joy for me. One ofthose simple things that made me so happy. I’d take a jar and go outside, withthe sun and the air tickling my water and glistening on the jar’s translucentbeauty. Just holding a cool glass jar in my hands is quite a spiritual thingfor me. It’s mine. I love being alone, to write, with a glass jar.
I had a jar in California. When I was on my little speakingtour, Karen, David’s wife, gave me a glass jar. Maybe she also loves them.Maybe she just knew that I was a glass jar sort of girl. Karen gave it to me asa gift and I left it in Houston before heading out for Central America. As abackpacker, I knew my glass jar would not fare life on the road well. It’s waitingfor me in a box in my mom’s guest bedroom in Houston. I hope to bring it backto Israel one day. One day, when I’m sitting in my backyard again, facing mymountain, I can hold my Karen glass jar in my hands. I will feel the energy andlove of all that Karen and David mean to me, and I will write.
We’re in a tiny cabin in Alto Boquete, Panama. For the firsttime in many months, we have settled down somewhere in a home that has ourstuff dutifully scattered in every corner. We’ve well marked our new territory.And after our week with David Barron, in which he introduced us to the magic of peanut butter andjelly sandwiches, I now have a Welch’s Grape Jelly glass jar, cleaned and fullof water, of my own.
Back home, every six months, Kobi would wisely send me outfor a week on my own. I cherished my semi-annual retreats. I would sleep, walk,drink water out of glass jars, and write. I’d eat all raw foods, and do tons ofdeep meditative soul work. I’d not speak to anyone and be in total silence theentire time. I would rise in the morning, go to bed at night, and nap whenevermy body felt like it. I would clean through the layers of emotional pain thatI’d managed to collect in those last months; and reach unresolved ditcheshidden away from my youth. I would cry, and clean, and laugh, and clean. Iwould walk for hours and hours and hours. Nowhere in particular. Just walk, insilence, with myself. And in this magical bubble, I would write. My finest book writings havebeen produced on those silent retreats.
And now, being on the road with our children all day, everyday; I believe exasperates my soul-cleaning schedule. Now, with the kids allthe time, I think my new schedule for reclusion begs for once in three months.I had my time, alone, in California. And though it was filled with meetings,speaking engagements, interviews, and radio shows; it was also filled withsite-seeing, and adults conversations well into the night and over nice, calmdinners in which (not even once) were my thoughts and sentences interrupted bythe needs of my children. How glorious it was. And now, again, I feel my soul,like the brake pads which wore thin and Kobi replaced last week, is calling meto go within.
“Gabi,” she says, “Gabi, come be alone with me”. “Gabi,” shewhispers, “we have work to do, it’s time to talk, you and I. Come, Gabi, comerest, come be silent, come write, come be, with me.”