Some things never change

When I was younger my parents sent me to a Jewish summer camp every year for a four-week session in the North woods of Wisconsin.  From ages 10 to 16, I spent a third of my summer vacation far away from civilization, swimming in a freezing lake, doing ceramics and drinking bug juice, singing songs written by hippy guitar-wielding artists from the 60s and Debbie Friedman, and creating a family of friends in those back woods-turned-camper's-paradise.  Every summer was a rejuvenation of ruach (spirit), and I loved those strange, inexplicable traditions that I clung to with the strength and determination of a wide-eyed girl caught up in the current of generations of singing, tie-dye-sporting campers.  

Then every year in mid-July, I would step off the bus in front of the Holiday Inn in my home town after four weeks away, clutching my teddy bear and my backpack, and wave goodbye to the rest of the campers who had another hour to drive before they returned to their hometown.  And upon arriving home I would, without fail, find myself "campsick" - missing camp and all that I could only experience there.  Symptoms of this illness include mistaking strangers in public for campers or counselors; dressing only in clothes displaying the camp logo; and starting every story with "This one time, at camp" (which, despite the jokes, was not a reference to American Pie...honestly).  An additional complication associated with this illness is your friends' inevitable irritation and eventual choice to ignore any story that starts with "This one time, at camp."  Luckily, campsickness is closely associated with livinginthepasticitis, which can create a mildly skewed reality in which you believe your friends and family are truly hanging on to your every word.  Because, as we all know, summer camp is so awesome that everyone will undoubtedly understand its glory by simply standing in proximity to someone suffering from campsickness.

Right?

Thankfully I gradually got over my campsickness in high school.  Eventually those summers at camp became something of a distant but pleasant memory, something from my childhood (or at least my middle childhood, because there's absolutely no way I have graduated into the realm of "adulthood" - I shudder at the thought), and the subject of only the occasional story.

But y'know what?  It's baaaaaack. (DUN DUN DUN!)  And this time, it's mutated.

As most of you know I spent the last semester learning Hebrew and working on a kibbutz in Israel.  I've been home for a little over two weeks but as one close and incredibly insightful friend pointed out, I haven't quite come home yet.  Though I'd never thought of it in those terms, she's right.  My mind and heart is still back in Israel.  Would this be classified as "Israelsickness?"  Doesn't quite roll off the tongue, but you get the point.

The symptoms are nearly identical.  Why, just the other day I was sure I saw my Israeli friend Roni walking down the street in my town!  I could've sworn it was him!  And though I haven't been wearing strictly Israeli clothes (which aren't really all that different from my regular clothes), I am very fond of my Israeli Defense Forces t-shirt and wrap-around skirts.  Finally, despite my urgent desire to begin every story with "This one time, in Israel," I have a little more foresight and know that most people probably won't get it or enjoy it quite as much as I do, so I refrain.  A little.

Unlike campsickness, though, I'm experiencing this one as someone more closely resembling an adult complete with adult-like responsibilities and considerations such as The Future.  The big question here is: Where does Israel fit into the picture of my future?

I will warn you that this may be a recurring theme in this blog as I cogitate, ruminate, and debate the idea of Israel, my new found Love.  I'll try my hardest, though, to not let it consume this blog or all my thoughts.  After all, there is so much more to talk about!  And I don't want to let livinginthepasticitis get the best of me.