Doing this

If you can dream it, you can do it.
–Walt Disney

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
–F. Scott Fitzgerald

The first time ever that I arrived in Israel it was September. 

It was hot.
It was dusty.
It was dry.
And there were lots of flies.

I was a volunteer on a kibbutz.
When I had applied to be a volunteer on a kibbutz - knowing little of the conditions - I was determined to fit in; to work hard, to get along with everyone - those I worked with or lived with or ate with. I was determined to not be forgotten when my stay was over.

This was not as easy as it looked. I arrived at a sparsely settled hilltop, with few facilities, and no air conditioning, phones, or private cars.

The water tasted like chicken pee.

I was lucky though. I was greeted very warmly by the volunteer coordinator who showed me my living quarters (with other volunteers) and was given a towel, sheets, work clothes, and a job assignment for the next day.

The next day began at 4:30 AM.
It was still hot, and the water now tasted like hot chicken pee that had not yet been strained for feathers.
The first words spoken to me that first morning after my arrival were: don't throw the grapefruits.

I can write books about those first weeks as a volunteer on a kibbutz in the late '70s, and encyclopedias on how much I learned there, and maybe I will, but right now I'm going to skip ahead about two weeks, to my first Rosh HaShana in Israel. 

It was still quite quite hot and dry and dusty. But I was getting used to the water tasting like chicken pee and I was learning to drink it (notably after a short bout of dehydration), especially when it was cold, which, unfortunately, wasn't as often as I wished. 

On Rosh HaShana, I attended prayer services in the kibbutz synagogue – then a small building in the middle, more or less, of the kibbutz. 

Prayers started early in the morning, and by 10 AM or so there was a break for kiddush. 

I clearly remember standing in the hallway of the shul looking out at the array of food. There were yeast cakes and dry cookies. There was yellow cake with chocolate frosting, which was very tempting. I can still see it in my mind, despite the years. 

There was also a thick layer of flies. Covering every inch of every slice. 

I was hungry. 

I was determined not to look like a spoiled brat. 

I was determined to fit it. 

I eyed the flies. The flies eyed me back, daring me to act.

"You can do this", I whispered to myself. 

"I can do this". 

I waved my hand over the yellow cake, dispersed the flies, picked up a piece, said a blessing, and ate the damn cake. 

I did it. 

It tasted better than the water. 

Since that morning – that first day of the Jewish year 5739 – you can do this has been my mantra. 

Registering for university in a bewildering multitude of lines, shopping in a crowded supermarket right before Passover, cooking for picky guests, 'you can do this' has usually been correct. Whatever the challenge, I did it - sometimes because I was hungry, sometimes because I was bored, and sometimes (most often) because there was no choice. 

"You can do this",  I would whisper to myself when I had to leave my crying toddler on his first day in nursery school. 

"You can do this", I told myself looking in the rearview mirror while waiting to have the car tested by a bunch of surly men who only spoke in grunts. 

Of course, there were times when I couldn't do it; when I didn't pass an exam; when I didn't get the job; when I couldn't get the basil plant to thrive. 

But hey. 

I'm only human, and life can be complicated. 

I don't know if it is the wisdom of aging and the challenges that have come with it, but lately - certainly since Corona took a hard hold - I have found that my mantra has, at times, shifted somewhat to "can I do this?"

Who knew punctuation could be so important?

Can I remember the names of all the flowers I planted on that kibbutz?

Can I watch a whole movie without falling asleep?

Can I amass enough energy to make chag for twelve people?

Can I still care enough to vote in yet another election?

Can I send my sons off for yet another round of miluim (reserve duty) with enough cookies and without breaking down?

Can I deal with people for whom I feel little affection?

And when I look back at the last year or two, I wonder "Can I keep doing this?"

We are, once again, in the month of September-Elul. 

The days are becoming shorter, even - dare I jinx it - cooler. 

A new season and a whole new year are upon us. 

It's the season of introspection, the season of self-reflection, and soul searching. 

And I wonder '"Can I ask for forgiveness?" and I wonder even more "Can I forgive?"

It is the season of determination and resolution. 

It is hot, and dusty, and dry. 

It's fly season. 

I remember that I could do it, that I did do it.  

I'm older now, perhaps wiser, certainly humbler. 

Sometimes, I can no longer do it alone. 

All that is left is to pray. 

"Help me to do this".