We're leaving Tzfat where we walked through the old streets of a vibrant artists' colony. The art there is outstanding and full of life, like the glass works and colorful paintings. Everything was a bit pricey so I didn't get a chance to buy what I wanted, like the $3000 hand-blown glass coffee table. I love the color red and I love pomegranates, so I wanted to buy a small painting of a pomegranate to put in my kitchen, but the prices were too high.
Along the way, we stepped into a small shop full of delicate jewelry and silver-crafts. The shop owner asked where we were from and what we were doing in Israel. We told him we were studying the conflict. Almost confused, he asked why chose Israel over other places in the world. After all, he said, everyone has a conflict. We told him we honestly didn't know why we chose Israel. We were just drawn to it.
He looked confused again, but this time he smiled. Slowly, almost in a fatherly way, he told us there's an orthodox word in Judaism that means both God and coincidence. He meant that there's a reason why we were in Israel, beyond what we know and that coincidences are only God's ripples in the water, a destiny.
I left the shop casually and continued to seek out treasures in the nearby shops. Along my path I noticed a little boy sitting on a white chair, wearing black pants and a white, long-sleeve white shirt. He was orthodox.
When I passed him, he stretched his arm out with a handful of bright lanyards like the ones I used to make when I was his age. He only said "two shekels". I kindly smiled and slowly shook my head, whispering "no thanks".
I don't know why I said no. Maybe I'm used to rejecting sales pitches. Maybe I wanted to save my money. But this was a little boy. And he only wanted two shekels. And he probably made the lanyards himself.
I walked as I thought all this. After thirty seconds, I reached in my pocket and found two shekels, exactly. I quickly turned around and walked back to the boy with my shekels in hand. I wanted to buy a lanyard, maybe I'll give it to my little niece, I thought. I wanted to ask the boy about the lanyards. Maybe I'd make him happy because he'd know I appreciated his work so much I had to run back and buy one. Maybe he'd rush home after, feeling proud and talented.
When I walked back to the white chair he was sitting on, a deep lump of guilt rushed down my throat like a snake engulfing a dead, salty mouse. Then, a tiny speck of panic laced with sadness hit my chest. The storekeeper I previously talked to stood outside, so I asked him if he'd seen the boy. He looked confused, as in our conversations before, and said he hadn't seen any boy. Casually, he then responded with "maybe tomorrow he'll be back". I won't be there tomorrow.
I constantly looked back on my way out from the market, hoping to spot the boy. I never did. I had an opportunity and I didn't stop to think about it. Instead, I just continued on my way, only realizing what I really wanted after it was too late.
This is the story of my life. I always do this. I always want something after it's gone. What really kills me is my instincts, my habits kept me waiting. I scoffed off the little boy, rejected him, inadvertently told him his talent isn't worthy.
To tell is straight, I missed a chance. As the storekeeper told me, there are no coincidences, only God. What if I somehow broke that string, cutting off a coincidence in the making? I probably dislocated a series of events waiting to happen.
