wrinkled

One of the things that I love about living in Tzfat is the clean air. That means we (and by we, of course, I actually mean me) can hang our laundry outside to dry. The only thing that stands in our my way is that the winds are sometimes so strong that our hanging rack falls down.

Yes, that’s one of the things remaining on my original to-do list from when we were moving into the house is to put up a fixed clothesline.

Moving on…

But one of the results of this wonderfully eco-conscious financially-savvy way of drying clothes is that they get quite wrinkled. I don’t have enough Martha Stewart in me to figure out a way to hang them so they don’t. But mostly because another thing I love living in Tzfat is that it doesn’t matter. I can be wrinkled and no one would say a thing.

Oh, you thought perhaps I meant something else?

Now that you mention it, it did cross my mind, or in fact, my mirror. I had looked at myself this morning after putting on a particularly wrinkled shirt, adding a particularly not-flattering headscarf that matches the shirt’s color and was good enough for a day at home, and I did notice that my face matched the shirt (but not the scarf) pretty well.

And I thought to myself that yes, here in Tzfat, I can be wrinkled and no one would say a thing.

I do notice, though. I pay attention, sometimes in the back of my head, and sometimes more in the foreground, of the others around me. I am cognizant of how old everyone is or how old they act. But not how wrinkled their clothing is! I wonder often if I’m the oldest in the room, which happens often these days, or I wonder how old that old person next to me in yoga is older than me, even as she moves better than I do.

Yes, I am still touching my toes. But I’m trying harder to do more.

We tried out a class in watercolors at the senior center. There is one mother and daughter team, along with some verified seniors who are very talented. We are novices, although we have played at it some along the years. I appreciate how much work it takes to do it well, and how much there is to learn. We went yesterday to a shop in a nearby town that sells art supplies at a good price (for Israel). The store was recommended by one of the participants in the class, with the added suggestion that we ask the shop owner for advice. And so we did. He spent a long time with us, suggesting which paints to get, what brushes, paper, etc. He looked to save us money, which we certainly appreciated. When we were finally ready to pay for our multiple purchases, ISHI asked him if he works in watercolors. No, he answered. He used to be a photographer, but not anymore.

Now he helps people like us become better, stretching out our wrinkles.

And I will work on using my mirror to see farther.

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