Olive Picking: the preview

I had a genuinely surreal moment. I was sitting atop the Mt. of Olives, looking out over Jerusalem. The layer of dust clinging to the skyline brought twilight upon us early, so that two dozen internationals were leaning against pine trees drinking Taybeh beer (Ramallah area brewery—accept no less). It felt like having a dream inside of a dream, where I had fallen asleep in Grand Rapids and disappeared to places like New York, Chicago and Bethlehem. Then, I sank another layer deeper, going through the check-point with Jan and Tina in order to catch the bus. It was Shabat, so that West Jerusalem felt like a ghost town—an alien metropolis with signs in strange, boxy characters.

Between buses, I caught a short glimpse of East Jerusalem... or, sorry: AL-KUDS! القدس

It was the first day of the week in East Jerusalem and the area all around Damascus gate was swarming with the familiar of commerce: handmade good, clothes... and remote controllers were among some of the wares for sale yet to my right was the wall. Not the Apartheid Wall that Netanyahu and the other Likud skuz-bags are building but the one that Nehemiah came back from Persia to re-build. The Jerusalem Wall, a symbol of resilience and a sense of identity. I did not pass through the gate, though, or begin to contemplate what makes this wall so much different to me. We took another bus to the top of the mount and joined the other internationals. “Dang, this is a lot of white people. I haven’t seen this many white people together since I left the States.”

Jan and Tina suggested that we might get tea in the Old City. I bid them farewell: most of the people there were close to my own age. I was at ease and getting a higher quality of exercise, climbing into trees and popping off the hundreds of tiny olives. Olive picking is so much different, in that respect: they are all ‘good’ no matter their maturity but none of these olives are edible right from the tree. At the same time, I was experiencing my own body. Not in a sexual way but in the purely physical way of realizing the things it was made to do. My slightly wiry build allowed me to squeeze into places and assume positions that I had no idea could be so comfortable. It cast a new light on the John Daniel in the mirror. I know that looks do not matter most but occasionally I have wondered “what would it be like to be a genuinely good person AND a handsome beast? Some recent conversations, combined with my previously unknown comfort in trees, has led me to believe that all I need is some space to express what is already blossoming in myself. I do not mean just the physical things but in this case I appreciated being in the body I have and even saw it as something already beautiful rather than another area for remediation.

Sometime after lunch and before we found a dead-hedgehog I exchanged names with some of this new gang and made promises to visit them again. The next morning, I descended the stairs and joined Zoughbi Zoughbi for breakfast. We all got up early so we could go olive picking.

Palestinian olive picking would turn out to be a different and even more enriching experience... although the bag of frozen peas on my ankle is a good indication of its lowest point. Just the same, I need to show my body some respect and go to bed early tonight.