I understand. Let's strip away the headings and keep the flow as close to her original storytelling as possible, while polishing the English to feel professional and mature.
Here is the translation, starting exactly as she did:
Let’s start from the beginning: My name is Leah, or Malka Leah Shayna.
I grew up in Moshav Mevo Modi'im, a community that gathered the students and followers of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach—many "hippies" who had moved from the United States, artists, and people dedicated to nutrition, yoga, health, and art.
Every child in the moshav took ceramics. We had a teacher named Bracha, a fascinating woman. God willing, we will dedicate an entire blog post to her; she truly deserves it. I started her class at five years old, and I don't think I ever really stopped.
From the age of twelve, I worked to afford everything I wanted. My parents didn't have much money; they had a factory that made natural peanut butter, but they were ten years ahead of their time and eventually went bankrupt. I never felt poor, but I paid for everything myself—clothes, classes, everything I dreamed of. It was important to me to continue my lessons with Bracha, so in exchange for the classes, I became her assistant, helping her with the younger children. I remember that anticipation of creating; I never missed a single class. It was sacred to me.
We also had a goldsmithing class at the moshav where I learned jewelry techniques. I began creating Stars of David, tribal designs, and patterns inspired by nature. This wasn't unusual in my world; many people around me made their own jewelry, and my mother sewed our clothes. We didn't have much money, but there was an abundance of creativity and productivity.
In high school, I majored in film. I loved telling stories then, and I still do. Even when I create an object—something seemingly static—there is usually a story behind it. This axis of Story – Object – Encounter is the path on which I move.
After my service, when I had to decide which direction to take, I initially chose the "Story" path and studied Visual Communications at Hadassah College. I worked mainly with video, but I left after a year. My father passed away, I moved back in with my mother, and I could no longer bear to be in front of a computer all day.
One night, I was sitting at the late "Abram Bar" with a guy I was dating. I had no idea what to do with myself. The bartender mentioned the School of Visual Theater. I saw they had entrance exams, signed up, and was accepted. They were impressed by my work, but they were hesitant about my religiosity—wondering if I could study there as a religious person and if they could accommodate me.
Still, I went. It was a fascinating time. I learned a new language of creation and expanded my knowledge of art criticism, history, and mythology. But it was also very difficult. I felt like a stranger. There were no people there who spoke the language of my soul, and perhaps I didn't yet know how to speak it clearly myself. It took a long time to find my place, and there were many crises where I almost left. I gained a lot, but it was a constant struggle to simply exist—to bring my true self, to feel loved and to belong. It took me several years after graduating to heal and return to myself and to the people who speak my language.
After my studies, I worked simultaneously at a "Khan" and a Judaica gallery in the Old City. At the Khan, I was a costumer and props designer, and at the gallery, I started in sales and spent my free time learning to weave tallitot.
This was a significant turning point where my two worlds lived side by side—theater on one hand, and Jewish art on the other. Whenever I arrived in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City, I felt a sense of cleansing. The gallery taught me how to manage a shop and how to weave. We wanted the space to function as both a gallery and a workshop, so I invited six artists to work there, each with their own corner. I helped several of them find their voice and "come to light." It reminded me of one of my strengths: I am a connector. I know how to build community wherever I am. I brought a spirit of sharing and an atmosphere where everyone felt they belonged to something.
Once I brought my interpersonal "treasures" into the space, I felt the urge to bring more of my own art. I began painting right there in the gallery. Sitting and painting downstairs drew passersby inside. Eventually, I brought in my jewelry as well. Suddenly, I was pulled out of that place of feeling worthless and began selling my art—at gallery prices. It was a wonderful feeling. it helped me return to my sense of value and my ability to give.
I eventually became the gallery manager for about six months. It was a good period, but then the "stabbing intifada" began in the Old City, and the gallery suffered financially. I was thirty years old, in the midst of a "singles crisis" in Nachlaot, and I knew I needed to move. I traveled to Spain for a month, and when I returned, they decided to hire a new manager. It was perfect timing, as I was already ready to leave.
Today, with Malchuta, I realize how much I learned there about management, tourism, and sales. I came back from Spain, signed for unemployment, and told myself: This is it. Now I build my own business. I didn't know how, but I knew the time had come.
It was July when my ceramics teacher, Bracha, called me. She told me she had cancer and was going to die. She said she could no longer teach and asked if I would take over her studio. She spoke with a simplicity and directness that shook me. I went to her home and asked to film her; she agreed, and that period eventually became a documentary about her life. I decided to teach in her place until she recovered.
She taught me everything involved in the "business" of ceramics—how to mix glazes and load a kiln. I taught children’s and adult classes in her studio. Suddenly, I had more freedom and time to create larger pieces, which I sold at a stall in the "Horse Garden" on Fridays.
Throughout this time, I visited her often, wanting so much to help. But eventually, she said goodbye to the world. I was called to her side at Hadassah Ein Kerem for her final moments. I entered a room of forty people singing with such intensity. We sang around her bed for hours, accompanying her to her very last breath. She was a teacher, a friend, and an inspiration. She used to say, "We came to decorate the world." I still have the very last piece she ever made.
I continued working in her studio for two more years, growing as both a teacher and an artist, until I knew I needed to embark on an independent path. I moved to Ein Kerem, took a loan, and bought a ceramic kiln. Within a month, a miracle happened: I received a massive order that covered the loan and left me with a profit. Having everything I needed to create at home gave me both "ground and wings."
While looking for additional work, the disaster at Mevo Modi'im occurred in 2019. My childhood home and nearly the entire moshav went up in flames. I was consumed with helping my family and recovering from the trauma. Somehow, a few weeks later, I went to an interview and was accepted to manage the "Kad VeChomer" studio in the German Colony. I learned so much there about finances, payroll, and vendors. I learned to manage with love and support, rather than control.
Then came COVID-19. We were put on unpaid leave just before Passover. A friend encouraged me to make Seder bowls, convinced people would buy them since everyone was staying home. I started creating like crazy. Two weeks before Passover, orders were pouring in. A few hours before the Seder, people were still trying to buy them, but I had nothing left to sell. It felt right—close and communal. I sold first to my Ein Kerem community and then delivered across the country. In the middle of a global crisis, I was at my creative peak.
When the legendary "Chocolate House" in Ein Kerem closed, Stav suggested we open a shop there. I thought it would be too expensive, but she insisted we check. We met the owners, consulted with a business advisor, and realized that if we could cover our daily costs, it wasn't much more expensive than running several stalls a month. With more faith than logic, we went for it.
We renovated the space, realizing that if we were going to do it, we had to do it right. Friends helped with interior design tips and graphic design. Within a month, the sign was up. Stav was eight months pregnant, and we were on a mission, building inventory and buying furniture from the flea market. I even made the sink myself. For that month, we were designers, managers, and contractors all at once.
It took exactly one month from getting the keys to the official opening. I used to joke that I had enough work to fill a whole store—and suddenly, I did. Once everything was in place, I found it hard to leave the shop. I felt like I was leaving my children alone.
It was a profound "expansion of the vessel." I finally felt I had a space worthy of me, and that I was worthy of it—a display that honored the full range of my work. We opened at the end of the first wave of COVID, and everyone who walked in was moved. I felt we had touched a nerve. We created a place with a high frequency. When people tell me the shop is "moving," not just "beautiful," I know we succeeded. I long to touch the heart through a tile, a vessel, or a painting.
When we first put our names on the sign outside, I was terrified. Who am I to put my name on a sign? Who am I to call myself an artist? But opening Malchuta was about saying: This is my story, and I am standing behind it. People who knew me but hadn't seen my art were shocked—they had no idea I created these things. It required my consent to finally "come to light," and it was welcomed with such grace.
For me, Malchuta is not just a physical place; it is a state of consciousness. It is a question I ask myself every day: Is what I am doing part of my Malchut? Does this belong to my center?
