Winter is a time for renewal.

When I lived in Israel, Palestinians taught me to forage for mallow, to roast the seeds, and to make khubeiza with its superfood leaves.

The Israelis taught me to weed this wild, non-native plant out of vegetable gardens by digging up the extremely deep taproot.

Being chosen heaves the weight of generations onto my shoulders like a thick, grey, wool cloak. An oath sworn to ancestors that being chosen is the ticket into a covenant between Me and You. Something I’m obliged to receive, and to bequeath. Had my Aunt shown up at my Bat Mitzvah she probably would have told me we were chosen for train or for work camp—pogrommed, branded, shaven, lamp-shaded.