Welcome to my Website
Ilana Haley grew up in a kibbutz in Israel. She went through the wars
which provide the background for her characters and their emotional
strains and conflicts--and their efforts to heal themselves. Hang on and
take yourselves into the exceptional visage of life’s journey.
“If I truly, truly wanted to, I could speak to the roots and watch the
flowers grow.” And when Father said, “Don’t put crazy ideas into the
child’s head,” you ignored him. But you see, I remembered about the
flowers, and I dug them out with the roots,--so I can plant them here
where the ground is fresh and damp…”
CITY SPRING
Yesterday, Sunday, I walked out my front door and Spring came and sat next to me on my front porch.
He was not Spring of my youth. He did not smell of blossoms and first fruit. He did not glow and glitter
under a cloudless sky. The air he brought with him was not transparent, not clean. Birds did not follow
him to nest in my soft maple tree. He put his dusty head on my lap and sighed sadly. He smelled of dry
concrete and acid steel. His eyes were glossy reflecting the cold marble of the city. His voice, like a boom
box sounded shrill and brassy. Pieces of dog-shit stuck to his feet. He apologized about his bad smell,
untidy appearance, and unpleasant voice. He asked my forgiveness for being ugly. And of course, I would
have preferred to sit with him under an olive tree, look at a bright azure sky, smell the fragrance of fields,
walk with him hand in hand on the beach, dipping my sore toes in warm sand, smelling the salt-spiced-air,
and watch with him the sunset over the sea - or perhaps, merely look for sea shells. But I didn't tell him
all that. He was so pathetic, I didn't want to hurt him. I patted his head and told him not to worry. He is
Spring and he is welcome: smelly or fragrant, dirty or pure, as long as he is Spring. He wrapped himself
around me in a hazy stench of cars fumes and blasting noises, and kept me company for the rest of the
day. I sat with him for a long time reading a book, and glancing from time to time at the tiny buds that
appeared overnight on the soft-maple-tree. I prayed for one bird to appear. Give me a sign. Welcome
Spring. A bird did not appear, but the neighbors' dog came and crapped on my front yard, smirked at me
and trotted away. I thought Spring would die from shame. Well, maybe another day.