What is it about time that is so painful? I feel its cycles deeply—from within and from without. Each season, each turn carries its own weight. Some intimate longings and untold stories linger in the air. They are all that I know and miss, all that I cannot reach. And in between are the hours: the mornings and nights, the winds and the sun, the smell of cold air that signals a coming change. There are the longings for warm summer nights, for connection, for moments that feel just out of reach. A new wrinkle around the eye, a single grey hair—they are the markers of time’s passage, etched on my body. This season, with the holidays and the new year approaching, brings a peak in my longings for a home that is both here and there.
Where Is Home?
I live on a dual timeframe, caught between continents and between hearts. My life moves to the rhythm of two parallel worlds, two clocks that never quite sync. Every day, when it’s night in Israel and midday here, my heart feels the heaviest. The hours stretch endlessly as I wait for my family to wake up. This rhythm is engrained in my body; even when I want to escape it, I cannot. My phone reflects this duality, carrying reminders of my timeline to call, to connect. As my parents age, I feel time pressing against me, urging me to capture moments that are slipping by too quickly. The weight of it is constant, but so too is the gift of witnessing these moments while they are still here.
My Children
Watching my children grow is nothing short of a wonder. I follow each change like a detective: the tone of their voices, the movements of their bodies, the way their dreams begin to take shape. Sometimes, I look at them and still can’t believe they are mine. The word "mother" still gives me chills. It’s a role I step into every day with awe and reverence. I want to freeze time, to hold their hands a second longer, to rest my head on their shoulders and keep them here, just as they are. When they leave the house in the morning, I miss them instantly—the versions of them that have already changed and the ones that are still becoming. When everyone is home, I breathe easier. But I also feel the clock ticking, moving toward their high school years’ inevitable conclusion. Time is rushing toward the day they will leave for college, and I am both terrified and proud.
The Seasons
I didn’t grow up with four distinct seasons. Adjusting to them has been a lifelong process—a dance with time itself. Each season brings a new sensory language: the light, the smell of rain, the sound of snow underfoot.
The seasons guide my memories and longings, teaching me to collect moments: the sound of falling leaves, the sharpness of a winter morning, the first warmth of spring. My senses have learned to translate time into colors and light, shaping how I see and feel the world.
My Art
Deeply entwined with time, My art bridges the past and present, breathing life into those who are no longer here. Through my work, I trace the remnants of lives gone by—fabrics, wallpapers, shawls, and ceramics.
These fragments become vessels for honoring and reviving what was lost. I refuse to bury their stories with their unbearable endings. Instead, I bring them into the present, celebrating what they left behind and giving them a new voice. My art is my way of embracing the time I missed and all that I long to know.
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