The Beauty of the Lemon Tree Blossoming

The only thing I could think about was the damn lemon. It hung from our downstairs neighbor’s tree, swaying outside the living room window just next to our couch. Every time I passed the window, I saw it there, perfectly round and shockingly yellow against the dark green canopy of leaves. It had been there on the chilly October night we’d moved in, catching me by surprise: I didn’t realize lemon trees bore fruit in the fall (or perhaps we had arrived at the end of the lemon-bearing season). I joked with my roommate that he should stretch his arm out from the ledge of the window and grab it so I wouldn’t have to go down to the store and buy one. It clung to the tree through thunderstorms and sunshine alike, and it bore witness to every happening in our home.

That singular, peculiar, lonesome lemon.

Until it wasn’t so lonesome. Four and a half months later, after a particularly wet winter, I was home alone with Covid, growing bored and restless. With all the time in the world in my hands, I decided to stare out the window. And there it was- the lemon from the night we moved in, only now that lemon was joined by dozens more. Our neighbor’s tree had blossomed, seemingly overnight, and the view outside our window was dotted with bright yellow orbs and small, pale flowers. Was this a hint that spring was near?

And then it dawned on me: I have been in Israel long enough to see the tree blossom, to see one season pass to the next. Long enough to become so familiar with my surroundings that I notice when they change.

One of my favorite things about being in Israel is that I feel connected to the land, almost like the cells in my body turn themselves inside out from excitement of returning home. When I’m in Tel Aviv, I imagine my parents as young kids waiting for the bus or running on the beach. When I see the curve of the Haifa shoreline, I picture my grandparents on their wedding day more than sixty years ago. When I’m in the desert, the vision of the Israelites wandering amongst the rocks lingers behind my eyes. And when I’m in Jerusalem… well, that one speaks for itself. It’s not hard to understand how the landscape of this country- from its hills to the rocky desert to the crisp Mediterranean waters- evokes a deep-rooted memory in me, one that I myself did not live but instead that has been passed down to me.

And I have now been here for long enough that the connection to the land is my own: I feel tied to the grassy slopes of the field beside my apartment building, the gentle lapping of the water on the shoreline of Caesarea, and the views from the tops of the mountains I have climbed. In these last few months, Israel has become my own, and the reminder that I have been here long enough to see winter blossom into spring is not lost on me. Israel is just starting to bloom as spring nears (today is the first truly hot day of the year), and I am sure that as the days stretch longer and the landscape flushes with new growth, my connection will only grow stronger to this place I am lucky enough to call home.