In less than a week—

actually, in four days—

we will climb into a tube,

breathe recycled air,

and rise into the atmosphere

as the Earth spins beneath us.

It will spin the Sierras under us.

It will darken over the high desert.

The Rockies will sharpen into a line of dark peaks.

The plains will stretch like a quiet sea.

The cities of the Midwest will signal with light.

And still we’ll keep going—past the coast that is East.

The Atlantic will spin beneath us,

its whitecaps catching the moonlight.

Then the sun will rise.

It will light the coast of Europe—French, or perhaps Spanish.

And by the time we reach Asia,

the sun will be near setting over the Mediterranean.

After fourteen hours, we descend in our tube

and land in Tel Aviv, Israel.

It’s a lot of spinning.

For ten days, we’ll be in motion again:

Buses.

Hotels.

Deserts.

Sacred places.

We’ll likely return changed—

tired, sunburned,

eyes that have stopped blinking.

I’m looking forward to it.

Every year at Passover, we end the Seder with a prayer:

“Next year in Jerusalem.”

Well—this is that year.

It will be a packed ten days.

And I’ll try to document it—

with images, with words.

That’s the plan, anyway.

I’m bringing enough technology to require a camel.

And if that fails, I’ve got a sketchbook and pencils.

(If I remember to pack them.)

Maybe this is an odd thing to do at 70—

on the backside of a heart attack.

Meh.

I’m going.