From Beneath the Olive Tree

It was from beneath the olive tree that I found respite. It provided a shaded haven that offered me a special sort of peace. Peace was particularly hard to find during this time of my life. Joy and wonder were a different matter. I had plenty of both. The olive tree stood alone and drank from the banks of a narrow river. And the river ran through the sands of Israel. It was 1838. I was 16 years old.

Settlements were popping up everywhere in Israel at that time. My family had married me off. I came with a substantial dowry from a grand lifestyle. But I was in some sort of danger. I was a young writer, and the content of my writings had already brought serious trouble to my family. My new husband would take me far away. He was older and disinterested in me, except for the dowry. He brought me to the tent village where tents were emerging like spring water from the underground. These structures were made of a rough, light‐colored material, were spacious and provided a thermal effect that worked well to keep us cool in the heat and warm during the cold desert nights. All of our tents were pretty much alike in size, save for one. It was much larger than the rest, decorated with flags. We could see it from anywhere in the camp. Along with the tents and the sands, I found here in my beautiful Israel, mind‐bending sunsets, joy, the stars, and my first great love.

I delighted in the temperature fluctuations as the sun went down each day and when the cooling desert breeze crawled up my back and gently massaged the nape of my neck. I inhaled what was left of the sunset from across the narrow but adequate river. Watching those sunsets was like watching a hot shimmering jewel dip into the river’s waters… and melt. The sky would go insane with color amidst it all.

My olive tree, which stood several hundred feet away from my tent, would change color over and over again during the course of each day as if some stage flood light was set to create the effect. Greens and yellows in the bright of day—dark green and deep purple as the evening came in and blue in the misty morning. The shelter of the olive tree was a place offering a feeling of peace. But peace found outside of oneself is always temporary. Lasting and authentic peace can only be found within. Why does it take so many lifetimes for us to discover this truth?

We would make fires to warm the desert night. Full bonfires were not uncommon—and dancing. I liked the fires, the dances, and the chants that would evoke spiritual awakening and connection. Before the fires became bright, the stars and the moon would lend their natural glow. My God, this was a beautiful place!

As I consider myself and my life then, I suppose I should have felt lonely. My husband was absent a great deal, but instead of feeling loneliness, I felt grateful for his absence. There had not been time to get to know one another before he began leaving for months on end. He would return unexpectedly from time to time, taking what he needed from the village and me and then leaving again. Still, I was deeply satisfied by my sunsets and bonfires and walks along the river. There were nut trees, too—an abundant oasis in the middle of our kind desert that seemed to have no world outside of it.

I would hoard the meager bits of shade that my olive tree would offer just past midday. Its silvery green leaves gave decoration surrounding the deep purple fruit—olives the size of plums. The fruit felt smooth but when the light hit just right it looked soft like velvet. Tiny little white blossoms scattered themselves among the leaves promising more of the sensuous fruits. It was beneath that olive tree that I gathered together my deepest thoughts, desires and longings. It was from beneath the olive tree that I could see forever.

I can’t remember the first time he joined me there, under the olive tree. He just showed up and began talking one day. The way his mind worked fascinated me. The pace of his thinking mirrored the quickness of his walk. He always left as abruptly as he arrived, and I learned to measure my words for their relevance before sharing my thoughts. I could sense that he bored quickly by the verbose.

I enjoyed the lingering silences passing between us. It allowed for a connection that might easily have been interrupted by empty words. He talked to me about the stars, how they moved and what it all meant to him. He explained how each of us was meant to be in sync with their movement.

His clothing was made from practical, but fine cloth—finer than the rest of us wore. He wore trousers and a loose-fitting blouse type shirt, all tied together at the neck, waist, and ankles. I had seen him before, up at the tent on the hill—the one with all the flags. He was often together with a lovely young woman I assumed to be his wife. But I never knew that for certain. I had never witnessed any outward display of affection between them. He was the son of the family that resided there, I would later discover, and he lived in luxury.

I got the feeling that this place from beneath the olive tree with me was a unique place where he could open up and be more himself. His nature told me that he thought about the movements of the universe all the time. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn’t thought much about such things before he came along. For me, the stars were just there. Their dependable presence seemed like enough until he called on me, intentionally or not, to expect more and to look more deeply. A friendship grew. It was natural and comfortable. I sensed a mutual attraction between us that we never discussed.

As a people and as a village, we looked out for one another when there was a crucial need, but except for the community bonfires with the dancing and the chants—most nights and most days, we all stayed pretty much to ourselves. We cooked, we prayed, we played fairly sophisticated musical instruments. Some weaved. There were sheep and a few goats.

I don’t remember exactly when the fever set in. Many of us became sick all at once. We took turns caring for one another. It was morning, and I lay there on the soft cushion that was my bed, both hot and cold and wet from sweat. It appeared as just a shadow coming and going from the tent to provide extra blankets, sips of water and some sort of strong grass‐smelling tea. I felt tired—disconnected—but grateful for the shadow that came and went. As I began to feel better, the shadow slowly took form. I caught glimpses of the handsome young man with sharp features. I recognized him now. My friend from beneath the olive tree.

He continued to visit me at my tent long after I began caring for myself again. He brought new types of tea. And he brought a blanket for me made of what must have been a very expensive material. Its texture was different from the serviceable covers most of us used to keep us warm. The feel of that blanket was heavenly, and I spent a lot of time wrapped in it even when it wasn’t quite cold enough to justify the need for a wrap.

The last night he came, he wrapped us both in that blanket. Then he made love to me. Strangely, it wasn’t primarily about sexuality or lust. It seemed that he had something to show me…a way to get a closer look at the stars that I had begun to dream so much about. So that night, we traveled together. I was so very willing to go with him and not so willing to descend. After that, I found out how difficult it could be to ground myself. We would never travel together in that way again.

As much pain that would eventually come my way during my life in Israel, it was the magic, the stars and the complete spiritual union with my first great love that I would hold onto most tightly…lifetime after lifetime. Still, even that kind of holding on had its price.

We need time to process and let it flow through. Holding is not processing. Holding is the opposite of processing. Holding is like building a fortress around the heart to protect it. The price we pay for this sort of protection is our freedom. And so it was for me. In order to be free, I would one day have to let go of my beautiful Israel and the great love I had known there.

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I didn’t imagine that after just one physical connection with my friend, I would find myself expecting a child and trying desperately to hide my size and my shame. By the mid‐1800’s, public stoning of women for their moral infractions had become a thing of the past in Israel, though this form of punishment continued in other parts of the world. Still, adultery did not go completely unpunished. Since my husband had been absent for many months, it was clear to everyone in the village that I had broken the rules…broken the law, really, as it stood in those days.

They came in the night. A group of men, determined to make an example of me. To my initial horror, my friend was with them. At first, I assumed he was one of them. I was more horrified by that possibility than by the anticipation of what they might do. Then, I realized that I had assumed incorrectly. The others were holding him. It took six men including the one that had him by the hair, holding his head back, forcing him to watch what would come next. I tried to ready myself for rape. Whips. Beating. So the machete slicing down on my left breast came quick and as a total surprise.

There was relief in the mere fact that it was done. His cries of anguish faded. Later, as I woke, he was there. I saw that I was bandaged. He was still gently washing the remnants of blood and tissue from my skin. He was ready with some sort of drink that he said would take some of the pain. For now, my left side was mercifully numb. So was my heart. I was angry, still with child, and still deeply ashamed. I blamed him. He blamed himself.

After that day, he returned just often enough to tend to my physical wound. We didn’t speak of what had happened. I didn’t thank him. As soon as I was able to eat a bit and tend to myself, he was gone. He didn’t come again until the day our child was born.

I had never given birth before this in any lifetime. That was certain. You’ve heard it said that when a woman is pregnant, she just knows. And when the process of labor and childbirth begins, a woman who has given birth before knows that, too. I have given birth eight times throughout my history of lifetimes, and each time there was an instinct and a knowing about the process. But on that June morning in 1841, as I walked along the river at sunrise, I did not recognize the pain deepening through my lower back. I did not recognize the tightness wrapping itself around my lower pelvis. I began to pause involuntarily to wait out the vice‐like pressure that first gripped and then temporarily let go for regular intervals of rest.

The sun was just coming up, and I had been gathering small bits of wood from a few downed trees for the evening fire. A new level of pain sent me to my knees and the pieces of wood tumbled from my arms making little streaks in the sand in front of me.

I had seen many women give birth, including my own mother. I had helped tend to them. I heard them scream and writhe through it. I saw that as lack of dignity and control. Somehow, from that vulnerable place on my knees, my bare feet covered in sand, and my robe clinging to the sweat on my back, I began to realize what I was experiencing. I had to breathe hard, but I was determined to remain stoic and in control. I refused to give in to the agony or seek assistance.

The shame was still with me and weighed heavier now than the child inside of me. I sat and leaned against the stump of an old rotten tree and it felt good. I closed my eyes to wait for what might happen next. There was blood now—more blood than I ever remember seeing during a birth before.

Did I find sleep for a moment, or did consciousness leave me? When I came back from wherever I had gone, I found myself back in my tent and he was with me, and the beautiful woman was there, too. I was tired and my body was ripping in half and there was so much blood. He offered me a sip from a bottle that I knew was some sort of liquor. I refused, so he slugged down a good bit himself and for that moment my heart ached for him. Tears burned in my throat and hot on my cheeks. I knew in that instant how dearly he was paying, too, for our one night together.

These thoughts eked through during the short breaks between the pain. I wanted to give up, but he said if I gave up we would lose the baby, too. They would take care of the child, please, just don’t give up. It was a deep and agonizing plea, so I didn’t give up. I didn’t know just then that I was going to die. But I promised the child to them anyway. I had had enough of the shame attached to all of this. I was anxious to turn away from it and the damning isolation that I felt this child had brought to me.

Finally, she came. I wouldn’t look at her. The beautiful woman scooped her up and somewhere in the distance I heard her ask me if I was sure? Didn’t I want to hold her? There were more people in the tent now. Had they been there all along? Were they my neighbors or were they spirits there to help me move on? I never knew.

My world moved farther and farther away now as if everything and everyone around me was collapsing into a tunnel and I was staying behind. It was like life was leaving me—not like I was leaving it. His face was the last image to fade. I looked into his eyes as long as I could bear, and saw there his image of me. A good woman whom he had wronged badly. My last thought was that I should thank him. Her, too. I wanted to tell him that knowing the stars and him had been worth all of it. I died looking into his eyes, needing to say those words. Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.

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