London carries with it an echo of my youth.
Arriving this time, I felt both a sense of closure and a soft familiarity—like returning to an old chapter, one already lived.
And yet, it is not my home, not the destination I am meant for.
I chose to live London as it is, not as a tourist.
I stayed at my friend’s house, sharing her daily life and supporting her in the challenges she faces. But on my very first evening, the city revealed something greater—something about myself, my path, and my way of being.
She had invited nine guests for dinner. None of them knew each other. I knew no one at all.
She prepared the salads, and I cooked the rest: beef, fish, rice, pasta, and more dishes than one table could hold. It was abundance, yes, but more than that—it was intention.
The evening unfolded like magic.
Strangers became companions.
Even the children tasted everything with curiosity and joy.
We began at 8:30, and by the time the last guest left at 1 a.m., the house was still alive with warmth, conversation, and laughter.
The people were so different my friend was not sure whether the evening would work.
But it did—beautifully.
The guests spoke of flavors they had never tasted before. Yet what they truly experienced, though perhaps without knowing, was unconditional love.
I cooked, prepared, and served as I do every Friday night with my own family—nourishing not just with food, but with presence. And I saw again what I have always known: that a meal, offered with love, can dissolve loneliness and awaken hope.
I arrived with a heart still heavy,
from storms of family,
from questions of who I am
as mother, as woman, as being.
The city greeted me not with answers,
but with a table.
Strangers became companions,
and love was served with every dish.
In their laughter, I saw my truth:
that the way I love my boys—
with food, with presence,
with open hands and no conditions—
is the right way.
London whispered back to me:
Belonging is born in the spaces you create.
This night was not only dinner,
It was a mirror—
reminding me of the strength I carry,
and of the book still writing itself
through my life.
A few days later, I met one of those dinner guests again—our Eaton chap. He said that I was interesting and inspiring. To hear such words from a 50-year-old, Eaton-bred Englishman carried its own weight. It was not just a compliment—it was a reflection, a reminder of the silent influence we hold when we act simply as ourselves, with love.
We met in Kensington at a beautiful Polish restaurant, very fancy and elegant, with good food. He was only two hours late, but once he arrived, he was good and interesting company. I learned something surprising about him: this refined Englishman buys his clothes from a second-hand shop.
From there we continued to Covent Garden Plaza, full of restaurants, a charming flea market, and excellent street music. Our evening ended at the theatre with a Shakespearean play, Born with Teeth—an exquisite performance. We returned home by tube and bus, London carrying us along its veins.
Yesterday afternoon we met again. This time, hand in hand, we wandered through the sparkling Cartier jewelry exhibition at the museum. We crossed ancient gates together, speaking of cultures, history, and transformation, imagining ourselves shedding old energetic blockages and entering new eras, fresh and alive.
In him, I discovered a man endlessly positive, generous, and cheerful—a soul filled with inner knowledge of how to live happily. Was he my mirror? Did I, in him, glimpse myself? The thought shook me, awakening hope that there are still people in this world with whom I can connect deeply, and enjoy, and most importantly—be fully me.
Later we dined together at a small tapas restaurant. Without hesitation, he ordered the entire menu, smiling as he said, “I have to taste everything.” And he did. I watched with joy as my companion absorbed life through every sense, as though savoring existence itself.
The scents of the dinner, the cool London air, the memories of my youth all pressed upon me at once. I wanted to absorb as much as I could, as though I were back in Manhattan, young and hungry for the world. We returned home overwhelmed yet content, resting before I must return to my present—and very temporary—habitat.
I also walked along Golders Green Road, and there, nostalgia struck deeply. Nothing had truly changed, except the people who pass through at different times. For a moment, I was in my twenties again. Returning home by bus, I felt very British—yet not at home. Not yet.
I gave a healing session during these days, which reminded me of a truth I have always known: people are the same everywhere, no matter what language they speak. All want to be loved. Love is the sum of all good events in life. Yet so many cannot obtain it, trapped in comparison—comparing themselves to others, and in doing so, killing their joy. Fear, anger, greed, dissatisfaction, and control take its place.
After one such healing session in the morning, Emily the dog asked to go for her routine walk. We stepped out into a wet, rainy London morning. Since my arrival the city had been unusually bright and sunny, but today it wept with rain.
We walked into the park near the house, the one Mia had first shown me—a wide meadow with ancient willow trees watching silently over the grass. As I debated whether to head home, the sky suddenly cleared. The rain stopped. (I smiled, for I know I can stop the rain with my abilities.)
Instead of turning back, I let myself wander. I was searching for the forest Mia had once mentioned, and suddenly there it was before me: Big Wood, an enchanted ancient woodland whose roots run back over a thousand years, first recorded in 704 as part of a bishop’s land grant. These paths have carried the footsteps of generations, from Anglo-Saxon times through every century since.
My joy was tremendous. Emily and I entered the forest, its old trees whispering stories of those who walked here before us—centuries of lovers, wanderers, seekers, and children chasing through its leaves. Oaks, hornbeams, wild cherries stood tall as guardians of memory, their presence older than nations, older than all our brief human struggles.
I felt as if I were being bathed in the forest’s embrace, rejuvenated by the music of its leaves, its scent of soil, bark, and dried foliage filling my senses. The absence of such vast nature where I usually reside pressed on me—how much I miss it, how deeply it heals.
Not far from the forest stood another wonder: a great rose garden, filled with blooms of every imaginable color. I walked among them, leaning close to inhale. Each rose had its own unique scent, as if each fragrance could open a door into another realm of existence. For a moment, I was traveling without moving, shifting between worlds carried only by the breath of roses.
The walk stirred nostalgia for the immense rainforests of Vancouver, which I still carry in my heart. It made me emotional, yet grateful—grateful for my dear friends the trees, the roses, and grateful to Mia, who opened not only her home to me but also her heart.
This journey in London brought me yet another surprise.
One of the guests from that magical dinner called and asked to meet me. He said he found me inspiring.
Perhaps this meeting will be another step in clarifying where I am meant to go next. Each encounter feels like a signpost, placed carefully on my path. And so, with curiosity and openness, I wait to see what London still has to reveal before I continue to my next destination.
And yet, part of me had hoped for another call—for Los Angeles, for figures who might see the value in my work and invite me to bring it across the ocean. That call did not come. And so, instead of flying westward into a dream, I return eastward into a storm. Back to Israel, to the pit of unresolved betrayals, to face the painful fracture between my son and my sister.
It is sad. It is heavy. It is not what I wished for.
And yet, I know: even the return to pain is part of the journey. The roses taught me—each scent is its own world, each moment its own path. This too is a path I must walk, however bitter its fragrance.
Because in the end, home is not a city, nor a house, nor even a country.
Home is the place where love finally recognizes you—
and stays.
And until that moment comes, I will keep walking—
guided by destiny, carrying love as my light,
toward the place where everything that waits for me
will finally be mine.
Leda Green
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