Becoming Jerusalem (a true story)

On my one day there, the streets of old Jerusalem offered to sell me souvenirs that might say:

                                “here was Jerusalem.” 

I handled the blue tiles and rainbow scarves, the jewelry and tea cups, but left them all behind to watch the pageant that had been walking this crooked street for a thousand years.

Into this ancient place came grizzled priests, long beards, high hats, prayers rising with scented smoke.

Nuns flocked by, dimple cheeked, smiling, nodding, prayer beads clicking.

Soft-eyed Hasid, fringes swaying, walked softly to an ancient wall to offer fervid supplications.

A muezzin called the many faithful to an appointment with God.  Those faithful held hands up to God.

Ragged children prayed, calling: “Lady, lady, lady. . .”

I, the Baha’i, claimed all this heritage, feeling for roots deeper than a Joshua tree.  Armed with one short lifetime of devotion I held this moment tight around me as history blew down my crooked street.

At a sudden corner I bowled into a group of saffron-robed men—their shaved heads gleaming in the Jerusalem sun.   I prayed forgiveness from my six foot vantage to their five foot selves and saw 

the Dalai Lama himself smiling up and nodding a cheerful absolution. 

I became one of many souvenirs that day—took myself home in a bag of pottery and ancient coin.  Learned to say—

                          “Here, here is Jerusalem.”  

                                        Rhonda Palmer