.: We are the story collectors, keepers and tellers.

Shalom, my friends. I originally wrote this as an email update to my amazing creative imagination workshop friends. They have been my source of creative inspiration for the past year. They were the first ones to call me a writer. Without their love, and beautiful creativity...I would not be where I am today.

It's been almost a year since I met them, and I can't help but find myself reflecting on how far I've come. Imagine your life last year at this time. What were you doing? If the July 6, 2012 version of you told the July 6, 2011 version of you what you were up to now...would you believe your future self?

I know I wouldn't. I most definitely wouldn't. A year ago, I was a completely different person. I was afraid to take risks, but I spoke highly of the importance of taking one. My soul was yearning to bust out and explore, but I was afraid to let it. I wouldn't call myself a writer if you held a gun to my head. Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic. I wouldn't call myself a writer because I was so set on following the path I had determined for myself, and I was afraid to stray. Little did I know: straying from the path is exactly what led me to the one I'm thrilled to be on now.

I am preparing to embark on the journey I've always dreamed of.

As a child, I fancied myself a globetrotting storyteller...a woman with wild hair and a worn pair of hiking boots that travels everywhere and anywhere, collecting people's stories. This was a fantasy. It never seemed feasible. Never, ever in a million years would my parents allow that! Never, ever in a million years could I make money doing that. So, I kept it in the back of my head: a fantasy, and nothing more.

But every so often I would be visited by the image of a woman, a figment of my imagination. She was an old, old woman with wrinkles etched into her face that told tales of joy and love. Her eyes were deep set and as deep as an ocean--they told of her life. She had experienced pain and sorrow in her time...but she was happy. Her life was and still was filled with laughter and love. I have always striven to be like the woman my imagination created...to learn from my pain, to laugh and live as fully as possible. I found quickly that it came naturally to me...perhaps this woman was my mind showing me who I could be. A happy, happy old lady filled with love. I never (until this very moment, actually) considered this woman to be a part of me, but rather, she represented the stories around the world that I had to collect. She was the little old woman who owned a villa in Italy, and walked every day to get a fresh basket of fruit. She was the woman who came to America by herself, and figured out a way to make a life. She was the old woman with the hump back, who walked across Manhattan every day with a walker full of bags, newspapers and old photographs. She had a story...and I had to collect it.

Stories have always fascinated me...because I see them all around. Everyone has them. Everyone. That guy sitting across from you on the train? He's got a story. He's felt pain. He's loved, and lost. These are our shared human experiences...these are the things that connect us, regardless of where we come from or who we are. Our stories are what make us human. And that is why what we do as artists is SO important. Without us, everyone would be lost in a jumble of confusing technology...always looking at the bigger picture, instead of the precious, precious little details. Instead of capturing the stories that exist within the great web of life. Whether it be through written word, spoken word, music, dance, film, theatre, painting, sculpting, sketching...the list goes on! We are capturing, and creating stories. We are the story collectors, keepers, and tellers.

And that wild haired woman with a worn pair hiking boots...well...

This summer, I am moving to Israel where I will spend the next year of my life collecting stories. I am writing a book/memoir about the importance of the Shabbat tradition in my life, and the life of the Jewish people. At age eighteen, I had been through roughly 936 Friday night Shabbat dinners at my Grandparent's house--but on June 2, 2006 the chair at the head of the table was empty for the first time. The sudden passing of my invincible Grandpa showed me the importance of my family's weekly tradition, for in the midst of sorrow, observing The Sabbath held us together. I am embarking on a journey across Israel to explore the meaning of this tradition in all walks of Jewish life. Each weekend of the year will be spent with a new host, experiencing their Shabbat, and collecting their stories.

The first few months will be spent volunteering, hiking and learning. In October, I begin my year as a graduate student at Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I'm finally becoming the globetrotting storyteller I always dreamed I could be.

If you'd have told me THAT a year ago...I'd never have believed you.

So. I'll throw this out there for you...where are you in your life? Are you happy? Are you pursuing your passions and dreams? Listen to that small voice that dances in the back of your head...it knows exactly what you need to be doing.

Love,

Ariela