There is a certain kind of magic that happens in Israel when winter comes. The green is suddenly so green, so lush. If you come from Europe, you might not understand what the fuss is about. But in a region that is brown and yellow most of the year, this short period of green is a celebration of life.
Winter in the valley is the smell of my childhood. It's the heavy black soil that sticks to your boots and sucks them in, leaving you bootless, you'r foot dangling in the air and your boot down in the mud.
It's how the valley turns from brown, into the white of the cotton bales, into the green of wheat and other winter crops.
A boy and his boots
It's in the fields of flowers stretching in every direction. Those of us who've been here long enough can see how the flowers reclaim more and more land, as development encroaches on them.
It's in the smell of oranges, freshly peeled and eaten as we stand around the tree, our grimace at their sourness turns into smiles as the season progress.
It's going to the creek to hear the roar of the water. A middle-eastern kind of roar, small and insignificant to others, but to us, it's the sound of life.
It's hunting down daffodils in bloom, as they slowly return to the fields where they were once abundant. My parents tell of how they would return home with arms full of these strongly scented flowers. Swamp daffodils, they are called, a reminder of old times, before humans implemented drainage systems, eliminating malaria, but changing the landscape forever along the way.
It's the birds, so many birds, the large flocks making their way south, or stopping to feed for winter. It's in the ducks in the water reservoir. It's in the flamingos, not nearly as pink as they should be, new to the areas an oh so exciting.
It's the smell of fresh air.
How green is my valley.
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