A Room of Their Own by Rakefet Yarden (best summer reads of all time .TXT) 📕

“Yeah, I hope you’re right. It’s been a while now, and this time I really did go too far. I really didn’t intend to tell Omer about what had happened with his father, but is it really so terrible that a child who’s no longer really a child, understands that his father wasn’t a saint? It’s one thing for the whole world to continue believing it, but doesn’t he deserve the truth? It was during the shiva. Bad timing, and I came out tactless and embarrassing, as I always do. I realized that she didn’t have any extra energy left in her at that point, and I waited for her to get through it. I’m still waiting.”

“So why not go with him?” Yulia asked.

“What, and just suddenly show up there? She doesn’t talk to anyone. They have a new thing now of not getting in touch with anyone for a whole year, and just staying focused on the body of pain. Can you imagine that, not speaking to your children for an entire year?”

“She must have gotten quite a slap in the face. What do they do up there?”

“Vipassana workshops for the masses. Can you imagine Emily in hippie clothing? Just the thought of it makes me giggle.”

Since when have I been so judgmental? When you were born, I answered myself. That doesn’t skip over me, or, more precisely, it begins within me. In an attempt to shed it off, I turned to complain about something else.

“I can’t write. You’re so lucky to be painting. It looks so much easier,” I said.

“Then why don’t you, if it’s that easy? “Stop the speaking nonsense,” as Mama Yelena always says. If you stop writing about yourself, then you won’t get stuck. How many diaries have you filled since you learned how to write? Why don’t you try writing about something else?” Yulia suggested.

“How would I know how to write about something else?”

“Life always seeps in, no matter what we do. Take a step back from the big picture.”

“You’re painting a self-portrait, too,” I tried, knowing all too well that no one can really argue with Yulia.

“True, but I paint from the side, not from the inside. Try to imagine what you’d be without the disappointment towards your sister.” Yulia then went quiet and fixed her eyes on the painting, trying to capture a pensive facial expression.

“Do you have any idea how many canvases I’ve filled with images of seas and forests? Rotem, you can’t empty out the ocean - which is also something that my mother always says - so stop trying to do it. All you’re doing is draining yourself of your tears.”

Her decisiveness and self-assured statement irritated me. It also reminded me of Emily. I remembered why I hadn’t been in touch with her for all this time, and I also realized that I’d missed them both, and missed that aspect of them specifically. They never prettify or hide anything and say what they think even when it’s unpleasant for me to hear. All right, then argue your case, I told myself. If they can say what they think, then so can you.

“You don’t get it, Yulia. It’s been years since the last time I really cried. I’ve just been quietly weeping, without understanding what pains me and why. It turns out that it’s much easier to be angry than to ache. What can I do? I love her, and she’s totally shut me out. She just left, disappeared into herself. When faced with Omri, I’m a real big hero, explaining to him about acceptance and mourning, rambling on about the same clichés as she does.”

“Here’s an idea for you, Rotem: Instead of whining all on your own, why don’t you find yourself a partner?”

“Again with your partners?”

“Wait, don’t pounce on me yet. I’m not talking about a guy. I get it, ever since Yotam first looked at you with his sparkling eyes and said, ‘I love you, Mommy,’ no other man could ever touch your heart again. Here’s a writing assignment for you: a nighttime encounter with a jackal. I do this with my literature students, and they always come up with crazy stories. And here’s another idea: There’s no such thing as being totally shut out. You said that they do Vipassana workshops for the masses? Then go there and be silent for a while. It could do you some good.”

“After the army I traveled through Ladakh, and someone I’d met at a Jewish tent there asked me to join him for a Vipassana. I told him, “No way! I’m not going to sit down for 10 days without talking.” What I wouldn’t give for that kind of peace nowadays. . . But to be honest, it still scares me. If I’m already taking time off everything for 10 whole days, I’d prefer a hammock on the beach with a frozen margarita and a steak. Why do I need to sit on a mat and stay silent in order to find some peace?”

“Eleven days,” Yulia said.

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

“You have to take into account an extra day for settling in and practicing. Then you start, and you land back in the world again on the tenth day.”

“All right . . . Wait a minute! How do you know? Do you mean to tell me that you’ve done it and never told me about it?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I did it two years ago, after settling matters with my family and telling my mother about what had happened with her brother 200 years ago. I thought that I was able to put it behind me, and that I could sit with myself without falling apart because of what had happened. I didn’t want you to make me doubt myself and stop me. I knew you’d think that I was taking a risk, that I’d go back to the pills − or worse, that I’d be hospitalized, even though 25 years