A while ago, I was sitting on the Poodle‘s deck while we were berthed at the Latchi harbor, and two Israeli kids – very young, one 5 at the most, the other about 8 – came up to the boat, speaking Hebrew with their grandmoter. 

I greeted them with a “Shalom,” and the children were ecstatic. A Hebrew speaker! An Israeli! Here! On a boat!! 

I understood their excitement – I remember the feeling of wonder and curiosity I had felt at those ages when I met Israelis abroad, too, and was happy to indulge them. 

As a result, I was confronted with a very thorough investigation about my travels so far, my destination, and also questions about their parents and whether I know them somehow, and if not, why not, and would I like to. 

After a while, their grandmother (a colourful character herself, adorned with a huge, gemstone riddled necklace and draped in countless shades of turquoise, from her tinted straw hat to her flowing, tie-dyed dress and down to her hemp slippers) told them it was time to leave (though they would later excitedly return with their parents in tow, insisting I meet them. This didn’t, I’m afraid, result in the immediate bonding I think the kids had hoped for), and wished me a pleasant trip. 

“Grandma!” the older kid objected, slightly appalled, “He’s not on a trip! He’s on a journey.” 

I couldn’t help but smile. 

He was, of course, correct – though I would never dare to presume to use that definition without it being bestowed upon me by some external authority. In the matter of adventures and journeys, though, I don’t think there are any authorities higher than eight-year-old kids – thoughI feel that where I am journeying to, or what kind of journey this will be, has yet to be determined. 

Anyway, I can now say that I’m on a journey safe in the knowledge that I’ve received the most relevant stamp of approval for it, and while I’m not sure where I’m headed, I know where I’m coming from – or at least, I know some of what I’m leaving behind.

I recently told a friend this journeying feels like a cleansing, or a detoxification – I’ve left the clutter behind me, maybe to never return to it, and moved on to what feels like a cleaner perspective.

But I didn’t leave everything behind, either. 

The foldable bluetooth keyboard I’m typing this on is a loan from a good friend. The contact forms on this blog (did you check out the newsletter signup form on the About page, by the way?) were created by my cousin – and the site itself was designed and built while I was already on my way to Cyprus by one of my best friends from the job I left behind, Eliana Kovalenko Vardi, (who is more than just an extremely talented designer, by the way- she’s one of the best friends, hardest workers and even hardest partiers I’ve ever had the privilege to meet and get to know) just to name a few people and things that are anchored firmly in my past, but that continue to be major parts of my present. 

I think a big part of journeying has to do with being on the way to something or somewhere, but before you can talk about Point B, it’s important to remember Point A, your point of origin, which defines and determines any path you set out on. 

Without my point of origin – people like Eliana, and my cousin Shira, and my parents (and Noam and Avigail and Raz and Doron and Itamar and Inbal and Jonathan and Inbar and Nimi and Amir and Maya and Matan and Itay and Karen and Avishag and Meirav and Anat and Naama and Noy and Yativ and Omer and Shiri, and many, many others whom I won’t mention purely for the sake of brevity) – I would have nowhere to embark from. So while I tend to focus on what I’ve left behind, I also try to meditate on what I’ve taken with me whenever I can. It’s a lot, and this journey – and this blog – wouldn’t be possible without it, and them, and you. 

So this post is a thank you letter dedicated to everyone in my point of origin. You’re all weavers of magic that makes eight-year-olds imagine and wonder – including my inner eight-year-old, who’s the happiest he’s been in years. I love you all.