I keep bad news from the Middle-East stored in the only place that fits so much horror: the bulletin board inside my heart. I tack up headlines and hope.

Last spring, I was thrilled to be asked to be the female instructor for a breath and cold plunge workshop hosted by Our Generation Speaks. OGS is a Boston-based incubator program that supports young entrepreneurs from Israel and Palestine in working together to create a peaceful Israeli-Palestinian future. Their website is filled with words like hope and trust. Hooray, because the breathing techniques I teach alleviate stress, and doing challenging physical things like the cold plunge side by side builds trust.

Joyce Carol Oats said, “We tell ourselves stories to live.” The breathing might be awkward and the cold harrowing to people from Israel and Palestine, but if I can help them find trust, they might go home with stories to help the whole region. This will be great!

Weeks later, reality hit me on the drive to Brandeis University, where the workshop was held. In the face of the conflicts in the Middle-East, who was I to give instructions? Teaching involves reaching people; what did I know of their lives?

I shook my head at my own moral vanity, pulled over, and called my Rabbi. Unity without uniformity, let that be your teaching imperative,” the Rabbi counseled. Advice is what you make of it, and I was glad to have some.

For four hours, I talked, they listened. I emphasized geographic commonality and complimented them on learning speed, they teamed up and practiced breathing techniques like they knew each other's thoughts. When the ice bath was ready, they circled in silence. A tub filled with ice—even one with daises floating—intimidates. I was reverent too but towards them. I took the hands of the first woman. She stepped forward, put her toe in the tub, and stopped.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she wailed. I gripped her hands and thought of Vaclav Havel’s words: “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.” A woman in a full-body burkini rushed forward.

“Yes, you CAN, Zalika!! YOU CAN! Your breath. Do like this, like this,” she said, and taking a full inhale through her nose, she demonstrated the long, slow exhale needed to calm the nervous system. Zalika’s body twisted and I braced. A woman with a star of David at her neck pried one of Zalika’s hands from mine.

“Zalika, focus,” she whispered, “remember what she taught us. Think of our future! There will be hard things; that’s why we’re here. The breath and conquering the ice will help.”

I don’t understand enough to write big stories. I write only what I know. I know that when someone feels the power of breath, a door inside opens. Zalika inhaled and, on an exhale, stepped in, bent her knees, and descended. The hem of her headscarf floated on the ice.

When a person’s immersed in frigid water, there’s thoughtfulness, worry, or joy in their eyes. When there’s something else, I stand as a silent witness on the shore. It was like that with Zalika. A tremble passed between our hands; I don’t know where it began. Then she smiled, rose, and stepped out.

The afternoon went like that: head-to-toe burkinis alternating with tiny swimsuits; terrified faces turned to joy. Cold, wet hugs. Unfamiliar names like Aziza, Eluf, and Zalika; familiar ones like Rachel, Miriam, and Sarah. Cheers for places I have never seen: Ramallah, Nazareth, Bethlehem, and for places I know well: Tel Aviv, Haifa, Jerusalem. The women sang in Arabic and Hebrew; it was hard to hear the difference.

That was June 18, 2023. We held hands and sang, unaware that the world outside was waiting and plotting like wild beast while we laughed and danced and hope stretched above us, wide as the sky.

“Doria texted me,” Dan says. “For my address.”

I put down my fork and fumble for my napkin.

“Yea, it’s awkward,” he says.

I pour water from the pitcher into our glasses and ice tumbles into Michael’s. Droplets splash across his face. We meet eyes as he wipes.

“Doria wrote that she’s getting married, in Toronto, and wants to invite me.”

“Oh....well.... it's time. She's almost 30.” I say. I focus on picking up my plate and piling on the serving dishes. At the sink, I scrap off mashed potatoes and pieces of chicken, and suds the tines of a fork.

“Hey, what are ya doin?” Michael’s at my back. He reaches around and grabs a chicken leg.

“I’m not sure what to do.” Dan says, but I’m at the sink scraping off the gunk in the fry pan.

“These things need to soak.” I say, and fill the sink with water and soap.

I turn back to Dan, “What do you mean you don’t know what to do.”

“She’s not inviting you guys.”

“Oh,” I turn away from the table. I get milk from the refrigerator.

“Do whatever you want Dan.

I open the refrigerator to get the milk, but I already got it. So I stand there with my back to Dan.

He says, “I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

“I don't believe you,”

I close the regenerator door slowly to show how calm I am.

“Daniel, it’s tragic how my sister acts, what she does, we’ve talked about this. She wants me out of her life. If you want to go to your cousin’s wedding, go. Do what you want.”

“I want to forget about all this.”

“Ok, then do that.”

Dan grabs his phone and leaves the kitchen.

Michael watches silently. And then resumes eating. In between bites he says,

“You’re lying to Dan.

I slam my hand on the table. “I can’t bear it if he goes! I changed Doria’s diaper and took her to Broadway plays and gave her presents.I guess I didn’t do enough!”

“Lauren, it’s not about you.”

“I wrote her poems and took her on trips.”