This photo was taken early in the morning, during one of my usual walks with my dog. It’s hard to believe that one third of April has already flown by—as if it were one long, continuous day.
I’m currently on a break that I wouldn’t really call a vacation, but rather a staycation. And perhaps the main thing occupying my days is listening to audiobooks by Daniel Speck. His duology is closely tied to Jewish history, and another book focuses on Italian immigrants in Germany. Both feel very close to me—I can relate to both Jewish history and the immigrant experience.
There are many philosophical reflections in these books—simple yet precise, deeply resonating with my inner state. I also truly appreciate that they are narrated not by artificial, AI-generated voices that misplace emphasis and read without understanding, but by professional actors. Because of that, listening becomes an experience in itself. I haven’t followed a story with such eagerness or felt such empathy for its characters in a very long time.
Meanwhile, Passover came and went—with its traditions, with the days without bread, which, surprisingly, did not feel difficult or burdensome at all. And thinking about the story of Passover—about the Jews wandering in the desert for so long—I can’t help but recall the wise words of one of my friends: each and every one of us is wandering through our own desert, trying to find a way out.
One can feel incredibly lonely, even while constantly surrounded by people. And this solitary journey through one’s own desert is different for each of us, yet in essence it is the same. We are all searching for a way out of our own desert.
Despite being on a break, it has turned into one long working week.
And yet, thoughts keep returning to me. Recently, after speaking with my cancer twin, I realized something clearly: I feel lost. When I was first diagnosed, everything in my life was directed toward one goal—to get through treatment and survive. There was purpose. There was clarity. Everything I had was focused on that single objective. Like in the song: “we need just one victory, no matter the cost.”
And now, when I am well again… I feel lost. The illness has changed me—perhaps irreversibly. On one hand, I survived, and it would seem that I should be making plans. But I don’t, because I’m still not sure whether I’ll even be here ten years from now.
And there is a strange truth in that contradiction: if every day is not guaranteed, then none of them should be lived in vain.
I try not to listen to the news—the turmoil of the world is often too much to bear. Instead, I focus on catching up on work that I can’t get to during regular weeks, and on gardening with my mom. I can’t say I love gardening, but it occupies my mind and helps me disconnect.
There is something grounding in simply digging the earth, trimming dry branches, wiping sweat from your forehead—and thinking about nothing at all.
There is something quietly good in that.
Just being alive.