Pine trees. Unpaved paths. Raw stones.

We walked. And walked.

And talked.

She was already married. Her flowered silk scarf wound perfectly around her head made her face glow from inside. Her eyes were fire alive with the joy of a new bride yet now like her hair covered and secretive.

We were both at the same camp in the mountains.

She was Shira wife of the camp director.

I was a counselor.

I still remember the songs our bunk made up about mosquitoes. The smell of the wood cabins. The fear of bats. Towels from the lake not hung up in time. And the lines of half-sleeping girls patiently standing in the fresh cold morning mountain air waiting their turns at the three sinks

Till today mornings bring back that same hopeful expansiveness of youth.

Days full of opportunity excitement and growth.

There was one camper an artist who drew a picture of Shira surrounded by at least 8 children. At the time we laughed at the thought of it. Not a laugh like a joke but more of the laugh of Sarah Imeinu the laugh of: How could that really be? The laugh of daring to dream a dream you don’t want anyone to know how much you really want.

Two months ago Shira and I met up once again in Jerusalem. She actually had those children the artist drew way back when. She looked exactly the same. Same flowery silk scarves she had inherited from her mother and grandmother. Same burning fire in her eyes.

We talked about the days of our long walks in the forest.

The smell of the pine trees.

The holiness of the quiet.

I remind her of her miso soup mixes and she recalls my questions.

We are walking down an old street in Jerusalem in the fresh morning air. The street has two trees. I say “Hey there are the pine trees!”

She says “They’re not pine trees they’re palm trees.”

We laugh. And we cry a little.

We want to hear all about each other’s life the unpaved paths and the raw stones.

She shares about her life tells a story or two. I share a story I heard from one of the bochurim at our Shabbos table that week.

This bochur I’ll call him Daniel is about 23. Looks like any other nice Jewish boy. Only he’s had a little bit of a long off-the-beaten-path trip. He shares one of his adventures of how a special soul who takes the idea of davening alone in the forest very seriously wanted to share this treasure of closeness to G-d with him. This special soul took Daniel for a trip into the mountains of the Jerusalem forest in the hope Daniel would feel the same closeness.

He took Daniel three miles into the forest. And left him there.

“I sat there alone looking at the trees” Daniel told us. He paused. “I tried shouting ‘Tatty Tatty ’ but nothing came out.”

We all put down our forks. He continued in complete open innocence.

“Everyone thinks it’s so easy to scream out to G-d when you’re all alone in the forest.”

No one moved as he looked down into his plate.

“But for me” he continued “this was really the hardest thing to do because I’m embarrassed in front of myself.”

Later I ask myself “Why did I choose this story to tell my friend when there are so many?”

When I think about it for a while it comes to me. I believe it’s because she and I shared that same exact place in the forest.