© Betzy Lynch
LA JOLLA, California —
My cheeks are sore.
My facial muscles ache
from holding my lips tightly closed,
careful not to exhale.
When I first arrived at Hostage Square,
it was one hundred days.
One hundred days already felt too long
to hold my breath.
My soul’s silent scream
brought tears, fears,
and a weight of disappointment
Fear for what was being said,
disappointment for what was not being said,
tears for what was being done,
and tears for what was not being done.
When I returned to Hostage Square,
it was seven hundred days.
And after seven hundred days,
the only thing left to do
was hold my breath
and hope.
Hope is not a feeling.
Hope is not a thing with wings.
Hope is an action.
Hope is the way we move through the world.
Hope is not anticipation or yearning.
Hope is the act of returning
Returning to my intentions,
to my responsibility,
to my empathy,
to my compassion.
Returning without hope
takes me only to the place I have already been.
Returning as hope
carries me to a place and space
we have never been
Holding the fragile light of this year,
this moment.
At seven hundred days and more,
I am still holding my breath
for the right moment to exhale
like the temporary barriers
that hold back hope at Hostage Square.
Perhaps I am ready now
to exhale,
not with the breath of my lungs
but with the strength of my soul,
overcoming the inertia
that stands between me and hope.
And when I breathe out…from that place
it will no longer matter
what is being said or unsaid,
what is being done or left undone.
Only this will matter:
good intentions,
responsibility to my community,
empathy and love
for all the people of Israel,
compassion for all humanity.
May the Tikvah
that has carried the Jewish people
through thousands of years
now move within us,
inspiring action, breath, and return.
Bring them home.
Please God… bring everyone home.
*
Betzy Lynch is the CEO of the Lawrence Family JCC.