Harvesting Gani

I am red…is it a sun burn? Or have I become a communist? Both, I am a kibbutznik.
I arrived, clean and naïve and within minutes they stripped me of my pretty dress handed me a patched up denim outfit and a pair of used work boots. Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the dining room getting the orientation.
“That’s where the new immigrants sit”
“That’s the goat cheese that was made in our own dairy”
“That’s where the retired old ladies sit…don’t let them see if you don’t finish your plate”
“That’s the mean French man, only sit by him if you are feeling confident”
“That’s the Rabbi of the community”
“Those are the Yeshiva boys, they don’t talk to women, so don’t even try”
“If you mix the chocolate powder with the coffee, it’s really yummy”
…………and so it went, I got all the survival advice I needed, a pat on the back, and a good luck bidding.

For those of you who do not know, a kibbutz is a type of collective community, original to Israel. The movement was born in the late 19th Century when Jews began returning to the land. Setting up small, self-sustained, agricultural communities was the only practical way to survive in the land when there was no central government or a grid to be on. Life of a kibbutz is very interesting and counter-intuitive for the self-interested capitalistic system us westerners are accustomed to since all resources are pooled and evenly distributed… the farmer and the lawyer make the same money (sorry). Everyone eats together in the community dining hall, works together, and governs together. The social experiment proved successful and was the breeding ground for the hard, tough pioneers that came back to resettle the land. Today the kibbutz movement has lost much of its fuel since there is an official Jewish State and many can’t find ways to generate enough income to support the tribe. Nevertheless, these utopian communities still exist and many people prefer this setup as opposed to cities and suburbs. Most kibbutzim resorted to tourism or operating industrial plants to generate income, however this kibbutz is on the cutting edge of large-scale organic farming and agriculture…back to my personal narrative…

Then I got my job assignment: harvesting grapes in the vineyard. Which sounds really romantic, right? Picture me, prancing about with a wicker basket, the hills are alive with music, the Gilboa Mountains to my left, the Jordanian Mountains to my right, me, in the middle of the Beit She’an Valley with grape vines in my hair, leopard print, the music to fantasia playing in the background, a Jewish Dionysus, goddess of wine, festivities, merrymaking, and ritual madness (insert maniacally laugh here)…well not exactly.

The work day starts at 5:30am. After a quick lesson in Torah and some black coffee, we dive into work. The sun has yet to make to make its appearance, although he’s the star of the show. We man our positions in the vineyard, armed with silly hats, scissors, and gloves, unified against our common enemies…the merciless sun and the territorial hornets (getting stung is a right of passage). The sun peeks over the horizon, casting a red glow on the grape vines, breathtaking at first, but then it keeps rising and the faucet of sweat turns on, perpetually leaking down your back…drip drip drip. Time passes but not so quickly and there is only one place to go…deep inside yourself.

When you are spending hours inside your head, it’s important that you enjoy your own company. I refer to it as: The Gani and Jenna Show. Talk about a mild case of schizophrenia, truly a jekell and hyde of sorts; the more refined self-aware version of me (Gani) versus the hedonist pleasure-seeker (Jenna). Man do they go at it. It’s quite humorous to step back and listen in. Both make valid and convincing points, they even switch sides sometimes.

After a while, everything starts to blur, life stories, all valid, equally vivid: standing on Northern Blvd. wondering why there is smoke coming from the Twin Towers, standing at Mount Sinai wondering why there is smoke coming from the clouds, memorizing Boyz to Men songs, memorizing the Shema, killing me softly with his words, building tree houses, salamander hunting, rebuilding New Orleans, ascending the steps at the Beit Hamikdash, standing at the foot of ancient pyramids in Mexico, standing on one foot in lotus pose, crying, laughing, dying, sighing, skiing, being, loving, dancing, telling secrets, getting high, getting low, getting back to the garden, WoodStock or Gan Eden? Lech Lecha, driving my pink Cadillac (plush velvet seats), billiards, Redemption Song, Memorial Day Parade with Grandpa Milton, parading around Jericho, recklessly jumping from cliffs into icy water, recklessly wrecking my car, Criss Cross will make you jump jump, Modah Ani Lefanecha, want to play the game? Is this life or was this the game all along? Am I loosing my mind or have I suddenly found it? Eureka!

And just when I am on the brink of insanity, the sound of the tracker interrupts my thoughts, drowning out the chirping birds and the melodic crickets in the foreground. I drop my scissors, drop my hat, drop my gloves and swagger towards the monstrously large hay covered machine which I ride to breakfast, gloriously, covered in dirt, stinking, barely recognizable.

Do not get me wrong, this work has been extraordinarily rewarding. I am so glad that I am here. So glad to be working in the land if Israel. So glad to be harvesting fruit after the most intensive year of my life. I am glad to have this time to sort out myself. Truly contemplate, meditate, germinate.

Plus the grapes are incredibly delicious and perhaps the most sensual fruit I have ever experienced. The bunches, they hide under the brush (interesting that in nature, the most precious things are tucked away and hidden from sight). I sweep the leaves to the side, exposing the large, supple, juicy clusters, dangling, sun-kissed and dripping with dew…and snip, they fall into my hand.
I have eaten so many a grape.
I am sick to my stomach and drunk, but tomorrow I will do it again.
They are so good.
And the variety of grapes is unbelievable.
Juice grapes, wine grapes, high end organic grapes, purple grapes, seeded grapes, raisen grapes… I could continue but I think you get the point.

I find it quite symbolic that I am harvesting grapes in Israel. I came here a year ago, my garden wild and chaotic, with the conviction to tame it a little bit. I came to Israel to grow, and growth is no easy process. I had to raze myself to the ground, up haul everything, weed it out, plow, relandscape, replant, water, tend, sow, and now…I am harvesting fat organic grapes. Now we shall make some wine and have a toast, will you please raise your glasses...L’Chayim.