Yom chamishi, 18 Elul 5768.
I love late summer mornings on this mountain.
One can sit outside as the sun is coming up, before the moon has quite gone to bed after another night's work of shoving tides around.
The air is cool. The quiet in the yishuv is so complete that the occasional dog-bark takes childhood memory to appreciate. Birds twitter. There are insects; but for some inexplicable reason, they leave me alone.
I am grateful -- for the peacefulness; for being allowed to live here; for my husband's willingness at last to let go of the notion that his family's security is shaped like life in Chutz l'Aretz.
I am hopeful -- that my family will be permitted to stay; that even more of my friends from America will come Home; that our Home will remain ours, through the strange and frightening decisions of our government.
In a half-hour, the Arabs will arrive, to start their day's work of building houses for more Jews. The air will fill with the jackhammer politics of life in Israel.
But for now, I still have this cup of coffee to take care of, and a bit more holy Jewish morning air to imbibe.