Ali and the Journey in the Garden
In the beautiful city of Mashad, young Ali embarks on an adventure in a big green garden with his parrot friend, Aqil. They face numerous obstacles while trying to solve a mysterious problem that requires great wisdom.
Ali, a curious 7-year-old with curly black hair, lived in Mashad, Iran. One sunny day, he found an old map in his garden. The map hinted at a hidden treasure buried somewhere in the garden. Ali was excited but also confused. He decided to find the treasure with the help of his green parrot, Aqil.
Ali and Aqil began their journey, but soon they faced their first obstacle. There was a big, thorny bush blocking their path. Ali tried to push through it but got scratched. Aqil flew around, looking worried. Ali felt stuck and unsure of what to do next.
After struggling with the bush, they encountered more obstacles. A deep, muddy puddle appeared next, making it hard to move forward. Then, they stumbled upon a giant stone that seemed impossible to move. Ali's excitement started to fade, and he felt overwhelmed by the challenges.
Ali sat down on a rock, feeling defeated. He looked at Aqil and sighed. - Maybe we should just give up, Ali said. - But we can't give up now! We've come so far, Aqil replied. Ali felt tired and unsure of himself. The treasure seemed out of reach.
Just then, an old gardener appeared. - Why do you look so sad, young one? he asked. Ali explained their problem, and the gardener smiled. - Sometimes, all you need is a fresh perspective. He showed Ali a hidden path around the obstacles. Ali's hope was renewed.
Following the gardener's advice, Ali and Aqil took the hidden path. They finally reached the spot marked on the map. With newfound wisdom and determination, Ali dug into the ground and found a small, shining chest. Inside was a note: 'Wisdom is the true treasure.' Ali and Aqil smiled, realizing the journey had taught them something valuable.
Ali, a curious 7-year-old with curly black hair, lived in Mashad, Iran. One sunny day, he found an old map in his garden. The map hinted at a hidden treasure buried somewhere in the garden. Ali was excited but also confused. He decided to find the treasure with the help of his green parrot, Aqil.
Ali and Aqil began their journey, but soon they faced their first obstacle. There was a big, thorny bush blocking their path. Ali tried to push through it but got scratched. Aqil flew around, looking worried. Ali felt stuck and unsure of what to do next.
After struggling with the bush, they encountered more obstacles. A deep, muddy puddle appeared next, making it hard to move forward. Then, they stumbled upon a giant stone that seemed impossible to move. Ali's excitement started to fade, and he felt overwhelmed by the challenges.
Ali sat down on a rock, feeling defeated. He looked at Aqil and sighed. - Maybe we should just give up, Ali said. - But we can't give up now! We've come so far, Aqil replied. Ali felt tired and unsure of himself. The treasure seemed out of reach.
Just then, an old gardener appeared. - Why do you look so sad, young one? he asked. Ali explained their problem, and the gardener smiled. - Sometimes, all you need is a fresh perspective. He showed Ali a hidden path around the obstacles. Ali's hope was renewed.
Following the gardener's advice, Ali and Aqil took the hidden path. They finally reached the spot marked on the map. With newfound wisdom and determination, Ali dug into the ground and found a small, shining chest. Inside was a note: 'Wisdom is the true treasure.' Ali and Aqil smiled, realizing the journey had taught them something valuable.
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The Overcoat
One day, I will tell you about the overcoat. The vintage brown artifact with epaulets and pockets stoically suspended from the stout wooden peg in the recesses of the hall closet. The coat no child would ever dream of wearing outside. That coat. You might come to love that garment one day, as I do; to value its heft and utility, to see it, perhaps, as an extension of yourself. One day, you just might. I brought the coat with us that Thursday to the hospital near Tel Aviv; or perhaps I intended to bring it but did not. I had been cherishing the garment since October and tossed it in the trunk of the Camry — on top of the ballistic helmets and vests — before leaving home to collect your older sister from preschool. Your grandmother, Auntie Bella, and I. "A Jew should always have a coat. Preferably one with pockets." Not that we needed outerwear that afternoon. The weather was dry and bright; the sun winking through enormous clouds as it tends to do in March after consecutive days of rain. Winter was still in charge, but Spring was teasing. The scent of seasons changing was such that you would savor — grassy, earthy, and engaging like a fine tobacco blend. With the moonroof open just right, to let in the sort of texture I prefer. One day, I will tell you about that Winter. How I was crafting these sentences in a writing workshop during your birth. One day, you will know how — by the time we were navigating toward the maternity ward — I had been stabbing my hands deep into the side pockets of the coat since October and shrugging my shoulders for comfort more than warmth. One day, you might hear about those ballistic helmets and vests. About The Day The Music Died, and everything that came next. “Tell us about the coat, Grandpa,” you might insist one day. A coat with many pockets; weighty, functional, and warm. Like the forest green U.S. Army bomber jacket your Zaidy Sam kept phylacteries in during WW2, when stationed in Burma. Like the woolen trench coat your Bubbie Bella hid gold coins in during that same war, when surviving in a Ukrainian forest. A coat well made keeps one snug and has pockets to store essentials. A Jewish coat also has pockets for necessities one often forgets. Pockets for conflicting emotions. Pockets for Worry and Sadness. Pockets for Gladness and Hope. That Winter I had been making use of the garment’s more practical hollows and neglecting others. That is how I remember it. I was rummaging for solace in all the wrong places and brought the allegorical coat along to reach into pockets I suddenly recalled were there. Pockets for Poetry and Prayer. Pockets for Loving and Light. Like your birth that March in Israel, your other Zaidy also emerged from such pockets in Poland during another period of Darkness. Our family knows about hardship and sorrow. Our family knows about hidden pockets, too. “Tell us again about that Thursday, Grandpa,” you might one day insist. Then, I might set aside my briar wood pipe and tell you about when the sun in March was grinning. When your Grammy baked sweet potato muffins for your mother — you know the ones — and we had to double back to the hospital from the highway after forgetting to leave important documents behind for your father. How the Fall holidays had not yet ended and the Spring holidays were unimaginably looming after 153 Days of Discontent. How you were a second — and also a first — in our family. How your arrival offered Light when we needed it most. “That is how I remember it,” I might one day tell you and your sister who devours stories like M&M’s. “Later, the coat was on its peg when your parents would finally bring you home.”